The sun broke over the crest of Saw Tooth Mountain, it's warm rays a welcome sight after three days of blizzard-driven snow that piled drifts several feet high around the Carlson ranch house.
His backside to the warmth of the wood-burning stove, George Carlson stared out across the endless field of fresh snow stretching out as far as the eye could see into the distant stand of pines and sweeping up the craggy mountains.
Behind him the radio blared on with crisp reports on the beef market, spring planting, a smattering of local news and weather. George listened with a detached interest at the weather forecast as he tucked his flannel shirt inside his pants, then pulled up his suspenders. Another storm predicted; he hoped it'd hold off a day or so. "Breakfast is ready," came the shrill sound of his wife, Sarah's voice. "Come and get it!"
He shook his head, scratching at the thinning grey hair. The long winter months, even longer nights of darkness, and the ever constant snow had finally gotten through to her. She was depressed. The latest storm hadn't done one thing for her disposition; it was intolerable. They were constantly bickering, snapping at each other, picking, picking, picking.
"Pancakes and sausage," she called, sourly. "Last call."
"Thanks for the load of cholesterol," he replied entering the kitchen and taking his traditional seat at the table, looking disdainfully down at the food. "I thought you were making bran flake muffins."
"If you're going out, you'll burn this off. Besides, a good meal will last longer," she retaliated in kind. "And, yes, I did make bran flake muffins."
She was still wearing the same ratty housecoat she'd worn for almost five days now. Her face was drawn, lips tight, eyes dull, hair pulled back tight behind her head in a bun, not a touch of makeup. They ate in silence. The food was good; the one thing about her was her being an excellent cook and loving to cook. But he wasn't about to let her know it tasted good.
"I really don't think it's necessary for you to go out today," she chided in her whining way after several bites. "The stock can fend for themselves; you gave them enough feed for a month and, besides, they've got enough sense to know where to herd up when a storm hits."
"I said I was going to check on the cattle," he retorted, continuing to chew. "I want to be sure."
"You'll miss Becky. She's due in this afternoon."
"I won't miss her. I'll be back late this afternoon." He looked at her scornfully. "You sure as hell look like you're ready to greet her." He took another bite catching the instant anger in her eyes. "Besides, the storm probably forced her flight to be cancelled another day."
She sat glaring at him. "You're doing it to be spiteful. You don't want to stay here with me!" With that, she threw her napkin down and stalked away. As she passed the hall mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself; yes, she would have to prissy up for Becky.
Standing in the garage, George swore softly under his breath wishing they'd never met. In spite of being blessed with two nice kids, he found it difficult at times to be decent to her. Now, with the kids away at college, she had too much time on her hands, too much time to nit-pick and fault-find. And sex had gone by the board; how could you get excited over a woman who never thought about sex, never bought anything that could be even remotely thought of as sexy in the way of clothes or perfume, never initiated any action -- dull!
Then he sighed; he was equally guilty but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it to her. Sure, of late he found himself getting involved in anything and everything that kept him busy and away from her. And, too, there were days when he didn't shave, slopped around in his old clothes, only got dressed for church on Sunday.
Painstakingly, he dressed in layers of clothing, the better to keep warm, and easier to peel off as he burned off energy. In the background, the radio was playing but he paid scant attention to it, the raucous music his kids loved that drove him nuts, the same repetitive beat for every song.
Finally, dressed and wearing his new red and black Mackinaw coat, the one Becky had bought for him last Christmas, he grabbed his worn backpack off the shelf by the doorway next to the kitchen. He always carried it as it was packed with survival gear, first aid supplies, extra clothing; a survivor skill he'd picked up in the Marine Corps many years ago. His compass, too, was tied tightly to his belt with a piece of rawhide. You had to be prepared when you ventured out in the mountains. You never knew when the unforeseen would happen, when mother nature would turn on you.
The radio had droned on as he dressed but George had paid scant attention to it, barely noting the comment about a missing aircraft as he switched it off.
On opening the side door of the garage he found a two foot drift blocking his way. With shovel in hand, he quickly cleared a path through the drift, then took time to brush off the thermometer nailed to the door frame: 15 degrees. With the sun out it'd be warmer, possibly another ten degrees before noon, especially with no wind nor chilling wind factor to contend with at the moment.
With his snowshoes strapped tightly to his boots, he closed the garage door and started off through the powdery snow at a leisurely pace, pausing momentarily to slip on his sunglasses. The sun had risen higher reflecting off the brightness of the new-fallen snow. A person not wearing sunglasses could be blinded.
Within an hour George had reached the treeline picking up the old, familiar trail, one he knew like the back of his hand. As he shuffled along, he set a comfortable pace, snowshoes holding his two-hundred pound frame easily, slightly breaking the surface of the snow. He filled his lungs with fresh air; it was good to be out in the open facing the challenge of Mother Nature.
The cattle would most likely be holed up in Snowman's Valley, a name they had given the place when they bought the spread years ago. It was a place where the family had the best snowball fights and made the biggest snowmen. Hence, the affectionate name. There was also ample shelter for the cattle and plenty of feed.
As he moved along his thoughts reflected about problems, the price of beef, paying off a loan, marriage, the kids. Becky, the image of her mother, Sarah -- and Sarah was a beautiful woman. Becky was only two semesters away from graduating with a nursing degree, while Todd, his likeness, was beginning his master's program in business administration.
The kids were well-adjusted, could handle themselves in the event of a divorce. They'd have to face their problems head on one day, anyways, and that day was fast approaching. But then, there'd never been divorces on his side of the family, or hers. Ahh, to hell with it, he thought, pushing such thoughts from his mind. Divorce wasn't the answer.
The going was getting tougher as he moved into the pines forcing him to concentrate harder at the task at hand. The pine boughs were heavy laden with fresh snow. George picked his way through them carefully, not wanting snow dumped down his neck. As he neared the last of the pines where the trail bordered on the edge of a narrow ledge along an open-faced cliff, he slowed his pace using extreme caution so as not to slip over the edge.
The snarling screech of an animal startled him. As he turned, he caught the fury of a bobcat as it pounced on him, claws slashing, sharp teeth tearing at his clothing. The momentum of the striking cat threw him off balance and, in a flash, he was tumbling, bouncing and skidding down the angled face of the cliff fighting off the cat, becoming a huge, tangled snowball that came to an abrupt stop against a large boulder.
Shaken, George looked about for the cat, catching a momentary glimpse of it as it streaked off up the side of the cliff to safety. It was then George felt a numbing chill; he was sitting in the frigid waters of a small mountain stream where he had broken through the ice.
Cursing loudly, he jumped to his feet, then screamed. Excruciating pain wracked his body, every breath an agonizing torment causing him to double over clutching at his ribs. At the same instant he felt searing pain in his left ankle. Glancing down, he saw it was twisted, the snowshoe barely hanging by its strap.
Through gritted teeth, he forced himself from the frigid water pushing his twisted ank
le and snowshoe before him. Stepping onto the mantle of snow bordering the creek he stopped to collect himself. Tears of pain flooded his eyes. Wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand he felt flesh laid back above his eyebrow, his hand coming away bloody. Whipping off a glove, his fingers gingerly examined his face. The damned cat had done a real number on him ripping his face open, leaving the flesh slashed like a razor blade. A flap of skin hung loosely away above his right eyebrow. He'd have to hold it in place with a bandage until he could get stitches. Worse, he'd have to watch for infection.
Glancing up the side of the cliff, he realized he'd fallen and tumbled down the sloping incline for about one hundred feet. He was damned lucky to be alive.
A sudden chill ran through him. He was soaked to the skin from the waist down and wet clothes would freeze quickly in this weather. He had to get moving quickly, had to get home or find shelter in a hurry.
On taking a deep breath, he felt a sudden spasm of sharp pain. He gasped, crying out, his upper body pained with every breath; he must have cracked one or more ribs.
His ankle needed immediate attention. The pain was intense. Prioritizing what had to be done first, he bore the discomfort of his breathing, bent, and carefully removed his snowshoe, untied his boot, then slipped it off. With both hands he gently moved the ankle back and forth, rotating it, testing the joint. To his relief there were no broken bones, nothing more than a badly sprained ankle.
As he tried to shove his foot back in its boot, he realized the ankle was swelling; he could hardly get his toes inside his boot. He knew he had to have his whole foot in the boot in order to wear the snowshoe; it was that simple, no boot, no snowshoe. He had to walk out of here, had to step on it and each step would be unbearable. But it had to be done!
Cursing at his turn of bad luck, he forced his foot into the boot, fighting the pain, gritting his teeth as he pulled the laces tight, then strapped the boot back onto the snowshoe.
Standing, he willed his mind through the pain. It was the only way he could survive. It was then he noticed the sun had disappeared behind the clouds, new clouds, dark, ominous clouds with bellies swollen with fresh snow.
He reached for his compass only to find the rawhide broken. The damned thing was lost somewhere in the snow. He swore loudly at this, another stroke of bad luck, but his curses were lost on a hostile wilderness. His eyes covered every bit of the area where he had landed. He pawed in the snow where he had landed. Nothing. After several seconds, he shrugged; move out! At least his backpack was still intact in spite of having taken the brunt of his sudden stop against the boulder. If he found shelter quickly, he could get into dry clothes, but he had to find shelter in a hurry.
Already the chill wetness on his legs caused uncontrollable shivering. Wiping at his right eye with his handkerchief, he cleared away the mushy redness in order to see. Using dead reckoning, he forced himself forward, limping, moving slowly on his icy, frozen snowshoes, every step on his sprained ankle bringing shooting pain, every labored breath gasping pain.
He started up the canyon climbing ever higher knowing he had to find shelter soon. He could never make it back home; it was too far. If he could get to the valley there was shelter, an old windbreak. He could build a fire and dry out his clothes, tend to his wounds and get out of this freshening wind.
Shivering, cursing his luck, he stumbled onwards pushing his exhausted body ever upwards finally coming across what looked like a familiar trail. Again, he wiped at his bloodied eye clearing his vision. A sense of elation came over him. It had to be the trail leading up to Snowman's Valley.
Invigorated with new hope, he pushed forward hoping against hope to find the cattle and the windbreak. Just a little farther he cajoled his stupored mind, just a little farther. Soon he'd be there, could build a roaring fire, could get out of these damnable wet clothes -- and get warm.
To his muddled thinking, he swore he heard the familiar bellering of cattle. "Yes," he called out. "I'm coming!"
With furtive effort borne by the sense of urgency of his predicament, George pushed on, stumbling forward, falling, screaming out in pain, regaining his footing, then pushing onwards again.
His snowshoes seemed a hundred pounds each, two slabs of snowy-white concrete that he could barely move forward. Already his pants legs had stiffened with coated ice, as had the back of his Mackinaw.
Stopping after a while to wipe at his eye once again, a puzzled look came to his face. Why did everything look so unfamiliar? Why was his brain rebelling; didn't it realize this was no time to stop and rest? He needed to seek shelter. Sleep. His brain told him he had to sleep. Yes, sleep was the answer. His eyes closed and he stood still, resting, breathing as shallow as possible.
Becky. Her face suddenly appeared in his mind's eye. She was coming home today. He had to be home to greet her. He had promised his wife he'd be home. No! He'd not disappoint them; he'd be there. Shelter. He had to find shelter.
With herculean effort, he forced himself forward. His whole body shivered uncontrollably now, his brain so numbed it accepted as normal the constant pain from his ribs and ankle. All he knew was he couldn't stop again or he'd freeze to death. It was that simple: find shelter or freeze to death.
Rounding a large snowdrift, he suddenly croaked a cry of thanks for before him stood a small, weathered shack dimly outlined in the shadows of a stand of snowy pines. It was an old line shack, one cowboys once used during roundup, and George remembered the word was they kept the shack stocked for any emergency.
Using fingers numbed and stiffened by the cold, he jerked at the simple door latch several times before it popped free. Then he pounded against the door forcing it open. Inside, he took a moment to thank the Lord for his safety.
Tired and pained as he was, he worked off the snowshoes, then looked about the shack. His gaze came to rest on a small pot-bellied stove and, beyond it, a pile of kindling wood.
Dumping his backpack on the one small bunk in the room, he fumbled through it finally retrieving his waterproof match case. With hands shaking from the coldness of the room, he wadded up an old piece of newspaper and threw it in the stove, then covered it with kindling wood. After four matches he got a fire started.
Before long, heat radiated out across the room from a crackling fire. With heat came a sense of safety. Turning his backside to the stove he let the heat melt the ice from his Mackinaw and pants, still stiff as boards.
More kindling was added to the fire. With an effort, he eased his swollen foot from its boot, then shucked off the other boot. The ankle was badly swollen. Pulling his socks down he could see the mottled black and blue flesh of his ankle.
When he felt his steaming clothing loosen a bit, George carefully, painfully, stripped the jacket off, and then his pants. He hung them on a couple of old nails as close as possible to the stove.
At this point, he began a careful examination of his body.
Aside from the scratches on his body there were a ton of bruises along his trunk, legs and arms. He kept his breathing as shallow as possible in order not to aggravate his ribcage. Gingerly, he felt his ribs sure that several were cracked, hopefully not broken. From his backpack he pulled his first aid kit. Taking out an Ace bandage, he set to the task of wrapping it tightly around his chest and back holding his upper body more erect, allowing him to breath better. His swollen ankle received the same treatment. Merthiolate was dabbed generously on his many cuts and into the lacerations about his eyebrow. Using a couple of plastic bandages, he taped the flap of skin in place.
Dry socks and dry underwear were quickly extracted from the backpack and pulled on. To his delight, he found several freshly baked muffins. Bless her heart, she had slipped a half dozen in to the pack before he left. She did love him after all.
The crackling of burning wood in the old wood stove radiated warmth about the room. George sat on the edge of the bunk munching on one of the muffins thinking about his wife. Sarah was really a good wife; maybe after this he
'd take her on a trip to Hawaii, a fun week for the two of them.
Within an hour his clothes were dry and toasty warm to the touch. His attitude had improved tremendously as he dressed. Using his knowledge of sports medicine, he immersed his bandaged ankle in a covering of plastic filled with fresh snow, knowing the cold would help reduce the swelling. Sitting back on the narrow bunk, he rested against the wall, thoughts of the crazy events of the day hazily flitting through his exhausted mind as sleep overcame him.
The banshee wailing of the wind snapped him out of the lulling sleep he'd slipped in to. He was suddenly aware of the coolness within the cabin. Quickly, he hobbled across the room and put more kindling wood into the stove. Before long the room was toasty warm again.
Night had come swiftly on the wings of darkness as he'd slept, the storm increasing in intensity, wind-driven snow sifting through the many cracks and warped boards around the window framing of the old shack. The next storm had arrived in full fury and he was trapped.
Cat-napping, awaking time and again to the howling winds, he realized the gravity of his situation. He was running low on kindling wood and there was no food, save what Sarah had packed for him. Of greater concern was the possibility of infection on his face from the scratches.
Hobbling about in the shack he came to a shelf on the other side of the stove. Suddenly he erupted into laughter. Beans! There were several cans of beans on the shelf. Beans were a staple of the cowboy. His guess was right; this had to be an old line shack used by cowboys during roundup; funny he'd never run across it in all the years he traveled his ranch.
Cold beans and another muffin sufficed for a late dinner. Keeping the fire going, dozing on occasion, and swearing at every scratching noise he heard thinking it was mice, or even worse, rats, he endured the night and persistent pain from his ribs and ankle.
By the first light of morning, George could sense the storm had lessened. Peering out the door he saw wind-swirled snow about the cabin with drifts tapering off into the woods. The storm had abated enough for him to make a try for home.
A new danger was upon him, though, for as his fingers touched his forehead, he felt puffiness; infection. Not only was his face quite puffy, he felt feverish. He knew he had to get medical attention as soon as possible.
Surviving another night in the cabin was "iffy" at best because of the danger of the infection spreading. Worse, only a smattering of kindling wood was left to stoke the fire. No, he had to go.
Gingerly he tested himself applying more weight to his weak ankle. He could walk fairly well on it and his taped ribs weren't as troublesome as they had been last night. With strength born of the urgency of his situation, he forced his foot into its boot. It pained, but so be it.
Up to the moment he started dressing he hadn't noticed the condition of his Mackinaw jacket. It was torn and shredded from his tangle with the bobcat and tumbling fall down the side of the cliff. Becky would be upset, she had bought it special, a bold, black and red plaid. It made him stand out from the crowd. She had laughed saying she could spot him a mile away. She'd understand.
His gloves were also the worse for wear. With a shake of his head, he scavenged through his backpack knowing there was an extra pair of gloves in it along with rawhide shoestrings, a belt, knife, flare and the first aid kit. There were also a couple of muffins, one of which he voraciously ate at that moment.
Dressed, standing outside the shack, his snowshoes snuggly tied on and with his backpack in place, he glanced about trying to get his bearings. The loss of his compass left him at a disadvantage as he was not familiar with the surrounding territory. There were no familiar landmarks. Drawing on his knowledge of the land, using the faint angled shadows of the sun, he headed off in a direction he felt would take him home.
Within a short time the sun faded and, so too, the shadows he depended on to guide him. There was no way to know if he was headed north, east, west or south.
Still, George struggled forward, limping, feeling increased pain on his ankle with every step, and increasing pain in his chest with every labored breath. Yet, his spirits were bolstered by the fact he was sure he was headed in the right direction.
The sound of an airplane's engine interrupted his thoughts. He stopped and listened. Were they looking for him? Of course they were! His wife had called the sheriff's department when he hadn't shown up, and they'd sent out a search plane. Good old girl. He had to get to a clearing so they could find him. They might even send a helicopter to pick him up.
Just as quickly as it came, the sound of the engine faded, lost to the increased intensity of the wind. "NO! I'm here!" George screamed. But his pleas were lost to the howling wind. He was alone, again, in the swirling snow.
Panic was something that started as a seed in the back of your mind, a seed that grew and grew with the plight of the situation until it overtook and controlled your mind and body. George knew he had to fight against it; panic could kill him if he let it get the best of him. No. He wasn't going to panic!
He forced himself onwards, moving faster, enduring the pain, ignoring the buildup of sweat under his clothing, ignoring the dangers of hypothermia. His thoughts focused on rescue, on seeing his wife, his beautiful children and on doing all the things he'd left undone.
Squinting through vision blurred by sweat and freshly smeared blood, he detected an opening in the forest, an opening that seemed to have magically appeared before him. Again he heard the faint sound of a plane's engine. The plane would circle around; it had to! Hurriedly, he tracked a great big S O S in the snow. Now, when they flew over they'd see the signal and realize he was down there. They'd save him; he was sure of that.
Stripping off his backpack he feverishly ripped it open and pulled out his one flare. Snapping the tip, it suddenly broke into flame with a trail of smoke billowing off above the trees. They'd have to see it; they'd just have to!
As he stood awaiting rescue, his blurred vision caught sight of several ghostly figures emerging from the edge of the tree line moving toward him. A rescue party! A tremendous wave of relief swept over him as he rushed forward; they were here to rescue him. Hooray! He was saved!
One of the figures rushing toward him was a woman with arms outstretched, a joyful look on her tear-stained face. To his muddled mind it looked like his wife. Was it her? Was it Sarah? Had she come looking for him?
She was stumbling through the deep snow toward him, falling, rising, plunging forward. "We're saved!" she cried out, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. "We're saved!"
"Saved?" croaked George. "Saved?"
It was at that moment that George saw beyond her, the tail section of a wrecked aircraft nestled back under the pine trees, the huddled figures of other survivors. Of a sudden he realized they thought he was their rescuer.
And then his daughter Becky was in his arms. "Oh daddy...I saw your red Mackinaw and I knew...I just knew it'd be you who'd find us!" she cried happily.
At that moment a noisy, huge helicopter settled on the snow right in the middle of George’s SOS.
The End
A SPECIAL PROM DATE
by Buzz Harcus