It was the middle of April, and the branches of the surrounding trees filled in their leaves. Sunlight dappled across the wooded ground. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimmed environment. Puddles of sunlight scattered about my feet. If I didn’t know where I was or how I got there, it would have been a lovely walk through the woods. I appreciated having my tall boots on to protect my legs from the underbrush. Although, there wasn’t as much as I thought there would be. Before the day was over, I would have to check for ticks. I could feel the temperature in the woods drop from the sun-drenched open field. The blazer was doing little to keep me warm.
I like to be prepared for whatever may come my way, but this was one of those times when I would not have been able to foresee a kidnapping that dropped me off in the middle of nowhere. I thought my over-packed suitcase would have saved the day, but it sat in my missing car. Where is that damned car?
I crossed my arms and tucked my hands in my armpits, to keep my fingers from getting too cold. Why would I need my gloves going into the log cabin? I regretted leaving them in the passenger seat of the SUV. The sound of a burbling stream was getting louder than the leaves that crunched under every footstep. I hoped my sense of direction was not too far off from the path towards the smoke. I weaved through the trees. It was highly likely I set off in the wrong direction.
When I would go hiking, I knew not to veer from the trail. That is how people get lost in the woods and a family member would end up reporting them missing. There would be a large rescue team to search in the last known area. If they were lucky, they were found alive and well, usually cold and hungry. I didn’t even want to think of what would happen if I got lost in the woods and there was no rescue team. I hoped to not become a missing person statistic. I had to believe in myself and that I could find my way to the camp or to whoever had a lit the fire. I knew I was navigating purely on luck and not skill. If I survived this, I was determined to take a land navigation or survival course. I would not be a victim of terrible navigation skills again.
I weaved my way through the trees for about five minutes–I could only guess the time; my phone was dead, and I was terrible with guesstimating time–when the sound of the water dancing over rocks got louder. “Cheese and rice! How am I supposed to get across that?” I threw my hands on my hips. The stream looked to be at least ten feet across and deep enough to get me wet up to my thighs. Water bubbled and gurgled over rocks and mossy branches. The stream would have been lovely if I didn’t have to figure out how to cross it. It didn't matter how wide nor deep it was, it was early spring in West Virginia. The water would be cold from the melting snow of the nearby mountain tops. I was not looking forward to getting wet in the icy water. I stood an inch over five feet and a shallow stream could be deep for me.
I walked back and forth along the stream, in search of a shallow location to cross. Further down appeared to be shallow, but the stream had widened to at least double in width. I would not jump across a stream that wide. I would be in the water longer trying to cross it. It felt like a no-win situation. I walked down, which seemed to me to be about a quarter of a mile and back up, afraid that I would lose the path towards the campfire. The banks towered over the stream by about four feet. I needed to figure out how I was going to cross.
I looked from one bank to the other, sizing up the distance between the two locations. I scrunched my face, bit my lower lip, and spun my ring around my finger. The water was darker in the middle than it was at the shallower and wider location. Light filtered through the tree canopy and dotted the stream here and there. It was difficult to determine if the dark water was from being deeper than the other part of the stream or the lack of light. Would I go back and trudge across the stream about a quarter of a mile from here? Or would I take my chances at that location? In my most brilliant of ideas, I decided to jump across the stream and hope that I would not fall in. It couldn’t have been over four feet across to the other side. Five or six at the most. Maybe seven. Could I jump over eight feet with enough momentum? It could not be too deep. What was the worst that could happen? I would get wet to my knees instead of my waist. It didn’t matter. I would find my way to people, get to my hotel, take a long warm bath, and sleep in a warm and soft bed. It would be worth it to get out of here.
I flung my satchel to the other side of the stream. The possibility of my body and clothes getting wet was forefront in my mind, but I would be damned if my notebook, dead cell phone, key fob, and everything else would get wet. I would need them in good shape by the time I got back to civilization.
I backed up to give myself a running start. Starting line was thirty feet away from the bank, hoping to pick up enough speed to launch myself over to the other side—in my desperate attempt at avoiding the stream and getting wet. “I’m athletic. I got this.” I tried to convince myself of my athletic prowess. I stretched my neck from side-to-side. I needed to be limber.
I ran for exercise occasionally. It helped clear my head and keep me in somewhat decent shape. I started after an eventful trip to Scotland. For some strange reason, Todd kept telling us we needed to run to the next location we were going to visit. We ended up running from one end of Edinburgh to the other. I hoped my ability to run would help me clear the stream. I was curvy and swayed between a size eight and ten, and currently wearing somewhere in between the two sizes, maybe I inched up to a twelve. However, I thought I would be light enough to launch myself over to the other side of the stream. Perhaps I was not fast, but I was certain I could gain the momentum needed. I readied myself and brought my arms up and tucked them close to my sides. “This is a stupid idea, Murray,” I said to myself. I wasn’t as convincing as I thought.
I took a deep breath and set off for the bank of the stream. The leaves crunched beneath my boots. Closer and closer to the edge. My short legs went as fast as they could. I imagined myself as quick and graceful gazelle. The jeans I wore might have been comfortable for traipsing in and out of museums, but I could have used the extra movement and flexibility that my running pants would have given me.
Twenty feet.
My feet slipped a bit underneath me, but I caught myself before I took a tumble. The boots certainly were not helping for traction. They were designed for fashion, not running through the woods. I prepared my mind for the jump. “You got this. Gazelle. Gazelle.”
Huff. Puff. Pant. Pant. Crunch of the leaves. Sound of my heavy breath.
Ten feet.
I couldn't afford to hold back. I had to go full force if I was to make it across. Heart pounded in my chest. I picked up more speed.
Five feet.
Three feet.
Get ready.
One foot.
Screeched to a sliding halt. I nearly slid over the edge of the embankment into the stream below.
What was I thinking? Clearly, I had overestimated my athletic prowess. There would have been no way my short little legs could make it across that stream. I would not have cleared it. Crashed and burned. There is no way I would have been able to get hold of the edge of the embankment. As I looked over the edge of the embankment and heaved for air, I realized I would have landed in the middle of the stream and possibly twisted my ankle or broke my leg. Safe and wet are better than broken and wet.
My lungs begged for air. I folded over, hands on knees, from exertion. Head above your heart. You don’t want to pass out in the middle of the woods with no one around.
With a shrug and a deep sigh, I accepted my defeat and headed down the stream to cross at the shallow part. It would take a little longer and I would get at least a little wet, but I would make it across in one piece. The stream reached mid-calf; however, the larger rocks would offer a respite from getting too much water up my legs. The rocks wobbled under my feet and tested my balance. I knew it was a desperate attempt, but for the sake of staying out of the water as much as possible, I had to try.
The exhaustion from earlier, coupled with the run, did not help me with my trek across the creek. My legs continued to shake under me. The icy water from the springtime thaw soaked into my socks.
The sun kept the temperature mild, and I was dry—except for my feet—and I would not die of hypothermia. At least, I hoped I wouldn’t die of hypothermia. Would I get hypothermia? The socks continued to act like sponges and soak up the icy water. I made it halfway across the creek. The next rock was not far away. I just needed to give a little jump. With whatever energy I had left, I jumped. My right foot landed on the rock. The moss-covered rock wobbled and offered no traction.
With a scream and a large splash, I landed on my back in the frigid water. My head and shoulder hit a large rock below the surface of the water. My shoulder caught most of the impact and would be sore tomorrow. I gasped, sucked in as much air as I could before my body submerged under the slow-moving current. The exhaustion from passing out and the attempted jump over the stream left me drained of energy. I hit another rock with my hip. I grasped for anything to help stop my journey down the creek. I need to slow down and keep myself from being pulled further downstream. I came across a felled tree limb, pulled myself up, and walked across the rest of the stream, soaked to the core. My head and shoulder throbbed from the impact. I limped over to the side of the embankment. My hip ached from scraping up against the rock. I was sore, cold, wet, and exhausted, but I survived.
I climbed up the small embankment and headed back to grab my satchel. My teeth chattered and my body started to convulse from the cold that settled into my bones. I hoped to find that campfire sooner rather than later, or I might get hypothermia after all.