How Far the Mountain. Robert K. Swisher Jr.

laughed. “You want to try out some of my camping food?”

      “You mean that dried stuff that costs so much and should be fed to Marines?”

      “You’ve got it.”

      “No thanks, I just came by to see how the explorer was and see if I could talk her out of her madness.”

      “You can’t.”

      By the door the two women hugged. “Don’t let me harp on it, but you’ll break all your nails,” Sylvia said with an understanding smile.

      “Thanks for coming by,” Sheila said.

      “You’re a case,” Sylvia told her. “You’re a case but I love you.”

      Sheila listened to the click of Sylvia’s heels as she walked down the sidewalk. After she heard the car drive away she went to the bathroom and cut off her nails.

      Back in the living room she shut the curtains and crawled into the tent. She rolled out her sleeping bag on the sleeping pad and took off all her clothes before she got into the bag. The nylon was cool on her skin but in a few moments she was warm. The warmth felt good, a deep warmth. “I’m so alone,” she whispered as she zipped the sleeping bag up to her chin. “Why did you die and leave me?”

      The Mountain Where The Demons Rest

      On one side of the small clearing is a thick stand of aspen trees. The green and vibrant leaves chattering like chipmunks in the June breeze. Coming out of the aspens is a seldom used trail, carpeted with last year’s rotting yellow and orange leaves. On the north side of the clearing, a thick stand of pines grow, so thick the sun never reaches the pine needle covered earth. Around the pine trees, patches of snow cling to their last gasps of life. During some winters the meadow is under twenty feet of snow. After these winters, the summer sun will not completely melt the snow in the pine trees.

      On the eastern side of the clearing, a spring bubbles out of the ground at the base of a car sized red rock that was left behind eons ago by a glacier that grew tired of its burden. The spring forms a clear pool no more than four feet across and six inches deep. The top of the rock is covered by droppings from gray camp robbers that sit on the rock waiting patiently for bugs to hatch from the swampy earth. In the rich wet ground by the spring, delicate pink elephant’s ears sway in the breeze. In the drier soil, red and orange fire brush bloom.

      A trail cuts directly through the center of the meadow and exits through a stand of virgin growth spruce, their silver edged needles glistening like frost during all seasons of the year. Here, deer hide, listening and smelling the air, before cautiously tip toeing to the spring to drink. Here, also, elk rest on their yearly migrations up and down the mountain. Occasionally a black bear skirts the meadow, never brave enough to show itself in the open. There have been too many close calls—safety is only in the dark heart of the trees.

      In the middle of the meadow, not far from the trail, the bones are scattered—white, sun bleached bones, bones now devoid of any flesh or hide, showing the teeth marks of skunks and badgers and porcupines and mountain lions.

      The skull rests in a clump of blue mountain iris, several yards away from the spine and leg bones. Tiny blue flowers, no larger than a baby’s fingernail, bloom through the eyeholes of the skull.

      The spine, leg bones, and other bones are covered by tall swaying grass. A person walking or riding through the meadow would not easily see the bones.

      At times the camp robbers sit on the bones, even roll over the smaller rib bones and disjointed back vertebra to look for grubs or worms, or maggots. At one time, when the flesh still clung to them, the bones had been feasts to hawks and buzzards. Now they are merely bones; dry, white, bones—bones like old and weathered headstones in graveyards.

      Not far from the bones, on the side of the meadow that catches the morning sun, and back in the trees, are cut pine poles over twelve feet long. Poles used to erect a wall tent. There is also a round grill used to place over a fire and support a heavy coffeepot. Partially covered by tall grass is a fire pit with its circle of rocks. Now, tiny white flowers, the size of ice crystals, poke their way through the charred earth. On the edge of the trees is a half rotten stack of cut and split firewood, piled up for another planned trip—a wasted effort, as though one had kidded himself and felt he could foretell the future and plan.

      It is a beautiful mountain meadow. But there are the bones. The white, dry, gravestone bones.

      The Man The Beginning Of The Quest

      It was slightly past midnight when Bill reached the trailhead. He had not left his house until after the sun went down, not wanting to see the mountains as he drove toward them, although he had loaded his gear in the early afternoon. Bill turned off the lights to the truck, feeling as though he was stranded in a life raft in the middle of the ocean and there was no hope he would ever be found. Gypsy whined softly and poked him with her cold nose. He patted the top of her head, enjoying the feeling of her thick hair. “I guess I have to move,” he said to the dog.

      Getting out of the truck, Gypsy barreled past him and dashed into the darkness. The small bell Bill had attached to her collar tinkled like a tiny wind chime. He got his flashlight out from behind the seat. When he shined the light at the trailer window, the horses neighed and stomped their feet. Taking out the first horse he put a set of hobbles on her front legs and turned her out. When he had done the same thing with the second horse, he tossed two wedges of hay by the rear of the horse trailer. The horses waited for him to leave before coming to eat.

      Bill could hear the stream that was no more than fifty yards away. He liked the sound of the stream. It had been a long time. He could no longer hear the bell, but he did not worry, Gypsy would be back. He never had to worry about Gypsy, she knew what she was doing. Bill had never tied up Gypsy. He would never tie up the dog.

      Taking a canvas tarp from the back of the truck he spread it on the ground and put his sleeping bag on top of the canvas. From the back of the truck he took out an arm full of wood. After stacking the wood, he sprayed it with kerosene from a plastic bottle. The fire danced to life with one match, illuminating the trees around him. For a moment it reminded him of flares, but the thought of flares no longer bothered him—the war no longer bothered him. The tall, dark, imposing trees, illuminated by the fire made him feel small. Standing by the fire he shined his flashlight on the trail marker, ‘Designated Wilderness Area Beyond This Point.’ “Wilderness my ass,” he thought.

      Wilderness to only the soft remnants of mankind that most people had become. He got larger pieces of wood from the back of the truck and put them on the fire. When they caught, he got his thermos and sat down on his sleeping bag. He noticed several burn holes in the sleeping bag he had forgotten to fix. Pouring himself a cup of black coffee Gypsy tinkled in from the dark and sat down on the end of the canvas. She was wet from the stream. Bill went to the truck and returned with several packets of moist dog food. After unwrapping them he tossed them to the dog and burnt the wrappers. She sniffed them, looked around casually, and lay down to eat. Gypsy was not a dog to show thanks.

      When the fire had burned down to embers, Bill removed his boots and got into his sleeping bag. He did not take off his clothes, sleeping in the nude in the boondocks was an old wives’ tale. He rolled the canvas tarp over him, making the dog move. “Go find yourself a bush,” he told Gypsy.

      Shutting his eyes he could hear the steady grinding of the horses jaws as they ate the hay. The stream seemed to get louder as though he was lying by the bank. For now, everything was fine. It was dark and it was fine.

      He was about to fall asleep when Gypsy curled up on the bottom of the tarp. He did not kick her off, but moved his legs to give her more room.

      Waking, the horizon was a light crimson. The sun would clear the mountains in less than thirty minutes. A heavy dew covered the tarp and the grass. He sat up and Gypsy stretched and yawned. The horses had not gone far during the night. He tossed out a small wedge of hay and they crow hopped