by Terry Sanville
Chester squeezed his eyes to narrow slits against the actinic sun. Overhead, ice clouds stretched across a piercing blue sky, pushed by frigid upper-level winds. He lay stretched out on his back. With great effort, he tried to move. A lightning bolt of pain shot down his spine. He couldn’t feel his feet, or much of anything below the waist.
“Joe, where are you?” he called. The effort made him suck in a breath and hold it, blinking away black spots with yellow centers that floated in his eyes.
A gravelly voice answered. “Joe’s . . . not here.”
“Is that you, Aaron?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Joe?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yeah. Not here.”
“Where . . . the fuck . . . is here?”
“Don’t you remember?” Aaron croaked.
“No.” Chester opened his eyes wide and pushed himself up on his elbows, his groans muffled by the wind. To his left, a slick granite wall gleamed in the morning light, so close he could reach out and touch the warming stone. With his right hand he reached in the opposite direction, felt the edge of their narrow ledge and the abyss beyond. He stared past his immobile feet to where Aaron lay, rolled into a ball, shuddering. Their eyes met.
“Where’s Joe?” Chester asked again.
Aaron pointed.
Chester twisted his head and looked, at nothing but space and distant snowcapped peaks on the far side of the deep canyon.
“Is . . . is Joe dead?”
“Yeah. Musta fell two thousand feet.”
“Shit.”
A coughing fit struck Aaron, low wet-sounding rumbles from deep inside with bloody spit running down his chin. Groaning, he tried to roll off his right side onto his back but gave it up.
Chester closed his eyes. His memory returned in flashes. This side trip had been his idea and it could likely kill them all.
***
Chester, Joe, and Aaron worked for the same company in Fresno, developing software for agriculture-based applications. They had worked from home during the Covid pandemic and returned to the office after a two-year absence. Chester suggested that they take a long-weekend trip into the Sierra, to renew their twice-a-year tradition. They’d been camping together for fifteen years.
With Chester driving, they pushed eastward into the mountains, not talking, letting the landscape suck them in, help dissolve the tension from working long weeks with looming deadlines. The grind had reinserted itself into their lives. None of them took it well, and Aaron had the worst case of early burnout.
After driving the two-lane winding road for more than an hour, they approached a horseshoe-shaped curve. At the apex of the curve some sort of dirt track cut steeply uphill. Without warning, Chester jammed the brakes, locking up the wheels, then turned onto the side road.
“Where the hell are you going?” Joe asked, his hands braced against the dashboard.
“We’ve been driving this highway for years and passing this turnout.”
“So?” came from Aaron in the back seat.
“So, didn’t you ever wonder where it leads? It could be beautiful farther up the mountain with views few people ever see.”
“Yeah, it’s ‘the road not taken,’ ” cracked Joe, “and for damn good reason. Look at this thing.”
Chester pulled his Toyota 4Runner to a stop. Ahead, the narrow lane bumped uphill, with major washouts on the downhill side and rock falls on the mountain side. Just ahead, a rusted gate stood open with its “No Trespassing” sign full of buckshot and bullet holes.
“Come on guys, take a chance on a little adventure for a change. God knows we don’t get it at work.”
Aaron grumped. “You should have let me fly us into Bishop. We could have rented a car and have scored a campsite by now.”
“Come on, guys,” Chester pleaded, “we’d miss all of this.” He pointed out the window at red-shouldered hawks soaring above the deep canyon.
“Yeah, it is beautiful,” Joe said.
They drove on, climbing higher and higher and rolling precariously close to the road’s edge with steep drops.
“How much farther you gonna go?” Aaron asked.
“To the top . . . or at least to a place where I can turn the car around. I don’t wanna back this thing down the mountain.”
“Shoulda thought of that before you started,” Joe muttered.
The air grew cold and Chester’s ears popped as they climbed toward the summit. But just short of it they came to a sweeping bend, wide enough to maneuver the 4Runner around.
“We’d better stop here,” Chester said. “We can walk the rest of the way.”
“Walk? Are you nuts?” Aaron complained.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “We’re supposed to lay around and drink this weekend, away from work, kids, and the wife. You know, savor the good life.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll have plenty of time for that.”
Chester pulled the car over and the trio climbed out, groaning. They put on their jackets and slung knapsacks onto their backs. The air had grown frigid, the trees sparse and stunted. Chester figured they must be near the tree line and pretty high up, maybe 8,000 feet. All those hours on the treadmill or stationary bike during lunch breaks at home wouldn’t help much at this elevation.
They moved up the road, not talking, their breaths steaming in the early morning air. Within a quarter hour they reached the summit, a broad clearing with the concrete foundations of several demolished buildings bleaching in the sun.
“Some sort of ranch or private retreat?” Aaron asked, hands on knees, chest heaving from the hike.
“Maybe,” Joe said, “or some abandoned Forest Service fire station. I think they now use Landsat satellite images to watch for wildfires.”
They explored the grounds but found nothing, not even the ubiquitous beer can.
“It’s beautiful here,” Aaron admitted. “You can see all the way to the far ridge before the Sierra drops into the Owens Valley.”
“Maybe we should camp here for a night?” Chester suggested. “The decomposed granite’s not bad to sleep on.”
“Forget that,” Joe said. “I ain’t walkin’ back to the car then hauling our gear up the hill.”
“All right, all right. Jeez,” Chester griped. “Let’s at least take a few selfies. Come on, gather close. I wanna catch the canyon and peaks in the background. That’s it. That’s . . . ”
***
With a shudder, Chester relived the last memory flash, the falling, the screams, bodies and rocks sucked into the abyss, then blackness. Still propped on his elbows he stared at Aaron. His friend had stopped shuddering but his breathing sounded ragged.
Aaron attempted a smile, exposing bloodied teeth. “How far you figure we fell?”
“Thirty feet, maybe more.”
“That’s survivable, right?” Aaron sounded hopeful.
“Yeah, maybe. Is that how you landed?”
“Yeah, my right side . . . is crushed. I might have a punctured lung . . . taste blood. How ’bout you?”
“Landed on my back. I can’t feel anything below my waist. My head’s slamming like a damn jackhammer.”
“Mine too. Have you tried calling?”
“To whom? We’re on the wrong side of the mountain. Nobody can see or hear us.”
“Great,” Aaron muttered.
Chester lay back and closed his eyes. The pounding in his head increased. He reached up and touched the back of his skull. His hand came away bloody.
“How long ya think we’ve been here?” Chester asked.
“Not long.”
“Do you have your cell phone?”
“Probably doesn’t matter . . . checked it coming up here . . . no service.” Aaron’s breaths came in hisses.
“But the GPS locator should work, right?”
“Yeah, sort of. Phone’s in my knapsack.”
“Can you get to it?” Chester asked.
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, well mine’s at the bottom of the canyon. Wouldn’t count on it sending out signals. Nobody will start looking until Tuesday at the earliest. Probably Wednesday or Thursday. We’ve played hooky before.”
Aaron didn’t answer.
“You in pain?” Chester asked.
Yeah, lots. It’s the ribs and arm. How ’bout you?”
“I think I broke my back and gave my head a good whack. Can’t feel anything south of my belly button. But my head hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. Making me sick.”
Chester turned his head toward the abyss and vomited. He lay with his eyes closed, breathing hard. A series of shooting pains ran down both legs. Gritting his teeth he asked, “Can you get your knapsack off? I’ll try with mine. I’m already thirsty but we need to ration our water.”
“Yeah, let me try.” Aaron waved his left arm in the air and managed to slip out of the pack’s shoulder strap. Reaching across his body he pulled the right strap down and struggled to get it out from under his crushed arm and shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he shoved his body with his good leg and clawed the ground with his free hand, moving a few inches closer to Chester.
Meanwhile, Chester pushed himself up to a sitting position and wriggled his way out of his knapsack’s straps, almost losing the whole thing to the abyss. With much gasping and cries of pain the duo worked inside their knapsacks and withdrew their partially-crushed water bottles.
“Mine’s about half full,” Aaron said.
“Yeah, I’ve got about the same. We need to be careful. It might last us three days.”
“I agree,” said Aaron, breathing hard from the effort.
They settled back and tried not to move. Small stones kept dropping from above where the cliff edge had collapsed. The morning and afternoon sun warmed them but did nothing for the pain. They took sips of water. Chester shared an orange with Aaron, its juice stinging his cracked lips. As night came on, they managed to zip up their jackets and pull knit caps down over their ears.
Aaron found a pair of gloves and tossed one to Chester. “Here put it on and keep your other hand down your pants.”
“Reminds me of the Army in Afghanistan,” Chester cracked and Aaron started to laugh but stopped abruptly because it hurt too much.
Their first night seemed to go on forever, the temperature likely below freezing. A stiff wind took the chill factor even lower. In the morning they ate part of Aaron’s banana, Aaron struggling to swallow, his lips, tongue and throat dry and getting worse.
They didn’t talk, it being too painful. By the time the sun rose on the third day they had consumed two thirds of their water. Both suffered from dehydration and hypothermia.
The sun burned hot, the temperature rising to almost summer levels. Chester’s head stopped throbbing and the gash across the rear of his skull stopped bleeding. Aaron lay very still. If his splintered ribs had speared his lungs he didn’t want to worsen the damage. He took shallow breaths, and when he coughed, which sounded to Chester like the beginnings of pneumonia, he followed it with a scream and clutched his ribcage.
In the late afternoon, the wind died.
“Hey, we gotta talk,” Aaron said.
“’bout what?”
“Water.”
“What, you gonna do a rain dance?”
“No, I’m serious,” Aaron scolded.
“Sorry.”
“We don’t have enough to make it another day.”
“I know,” Chester whispered.
“But if . . . if we pooled our supplies . . . one of us could survive for two, maybe three days.”
“What the hell you saying?” Chester muttered, knowing what was coming but needing to hear it.
“I’m saying . . . one of us making it out of here alive is better than neither of us.”
“I agree with that but . . . but who deserves to live? I mean, you’ve got two kids and a wife, a family that depends on you.”
“Yeah but your new wife is pregnant and will need you. It’s your first child.”
Chester groaned, his head starting to ache. “But even if I make it back, I’ll probably be in a wheelchair, no teaching my kid how to play ball for this dad.”
“You can do all of those things with help,” Aaron said. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I won’t survive these injuries. Everything on my right side is smashed. And I know I’m bleeding internally.”
“Hey, Evel Knievel broke more bones than that and lived a nice long life.”
“Look, sure I have a family. But my wife makes more money than I do. She and her mother will spoil the living hell out of our kids and make sure they succeed.”
“Yeah, well you have done more for the company in the last two years than I have in the last ten. They like you there, depend on you. I’m just another geek that writes code – ya know, a dime a dozen. Plus you . . . you volunteer as a pilot for the Sheriff’s Search and Rescue Team.”
“Big deal. You volunteered to serve our Country in Afghanistan.”
The duo lay quietly for a few minutes.
“Chet, this . . . this is weird, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, we’re arguing about whose life is more valuable to save.”
“Do you wanna die, Chet?”
“What kind of stupid question is that? Of course not.”
“Neither do I – but we should decide. One is better than none, remember?”
“Yeah, one’s better than none.”
The two go silent, the conversation having exhausted them, both physically and mentally. Finally, Aaron spoke.
“Let’s save our water for tomorrow and decide in the morning.”
“Yeah, sleep on it. Good idea.” Chester felt relieved.
Chester pulled his jacket tight around himself as the sun dropped below the ridgeline and the temperature plummeted. Darkness closed in. He could hear Aaron’s teeth chatter, broken by an occasional cough and followed by a muffled cry. He laid perfectly still, one gloved hand in his pocket, the other down his pants. He could feel the warmth in his hand but not the touch. Shit, I’m a frickin’ rag doll, he thought. Even those shooting pains have gone. Not good.
To the east, the moon rose over the ridgeline and cast its cold blue light on the two broken men. Chester drifted off to sleep and dreamed of flying with Aaron in his plane, circling above the mountains and looking down on himself and Aaron, stranded on their ledge with poor Joe in pieces at the bottom of the canyon. Then he was in the plane alone. It nosed over and dropped toward the granite peak where the bone-white foundations of long-demolished buildings awaited its impact.
Chester woke with a start. The sun had just peeked over the ridgeline. His breath smoked in the morning air. He pushed himself up and stared. He was alone. Bloodied drag marks revealed where Aaron had departed on his last flight, leaving behind next to Chester his water bottle, knapsack, and jacket with a single glove draped across.
Chester wept, felt the tears run down his face and tasted their salt. He lay back, pulled Aaron’s jacket over him, and took a swig from his water bottle. In a while he calmed, sucked in a deep breath and shuddered. From above, a cascade of tiny stones pelted his ledge. He stared upward. Two men wearing orange vests and ranger uniforms stared down at him and waved. Chester began to sob.
About the Author
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been accepted more than 550 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated four times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.