Jim wakes up to darkness and a wet bottom. It is raining hard; there is a flash followed by thunder. He wills his aching knees to lift him and bumps his head on a pine bough. He grabs it and continues to rise. The tree is soaked, the ground is soaked. It is dark.
"Control, what time is it?"
No answer.
"Control?" He pauses longer this time. "Just like at the avalanche. This helmet must be failing when it gets too wet."
Jim struggles out from under the pine. It is not pitch black yet but the dark storm clouds and high cliffs have created a dim twilight that soon will fade to black. Jim starts briskly down the trail, ignoring the lightning flashes and thunder rolling about in the canyon.
The trail is full of water and the rain is coming down hard when he rounds a bend and comes to a steeply descending section. He is using the lightning to guide him, so his head is up when the flash comes. Below and stuck in a tree in the flooding creek is the body of a deer. Two wolves are splashing in the water trying to reach it. Three are sitting on the edge watching.
Jim watches them and considers. He should be able to sneak by the wolves. The storm will mask his sound and the deer meal will satisfy them. Jim starts down but his footing betrays him and he slides most of the way. It is not pretty and it is not graceful but he arrives at the bottom with injuries only to his pride -- and an audience of three wolves six meters away.
They watch Jim rise and walk away from them uninjured. They don’t follow; there is an easy meal in the stream to attend to.
Jim moves on but not far. It is just too dark. He climbs about six meters above the trail, paces off a spot in the pines where water is mostly going around it, and pitches his tent. It is cold and damp inside but not as cold and damp as outside. He shivers violently as he places his shirt and pants where they will dry, then climbs in the sleeping bag. It takes a while but his body heat finally spreads through his limbs and the shivering subsides.
<<<*>>>
It is still dark when he wakes again. He hears the wolves howling. The rain has stopped. Jim feels rested. He looks out. The sky is crystal clear with a quarter moon riding high. It shines on two inches of snow and visibility is much better than it was during the storm twilight. Jim is cold but not deathly cold like he was in the storm. His clothes are still cold and damp and it is like diving into 40 degree water putting them on, but the material doesn’t hold much water so the discomfort lasts only a few minutes. He puts on his helmet.
"Control?"
He folds the tent and packs it.
"Control?"
"Is that you, Jim?"
"It’s me. This helmet is cutting out in wet weather."
"Good to have you back in contact. How’s it going?"
"All right. I saw some wolves earlier."
"We saw them too with Tinkerbell. In fact, they’re still around. Tink spotted them snooping near the tent about an hour earlier."
"What time is it?"
"4:15. You’re starting early."
"I’m rested. The light’s good. It’s time to make tracks."
Jim climbs back down to the trail and follows it. Soon he reaches Moon Lake and follows the trail down the west side. Moon Lake would be considered small to modest-sized in a place like Minnesota but it is a giant in the Uintas. It fills the canyon it is in from cliff wall to cliff wall, and forest covers those cliff walls from top to bottom. As Jim walks the trail the moon’s reflection sparkles at him in the lake and once again he’s struck with the stark beauty of the wilderness.
At the south end of the lake Jim crosses a wide meadow filled with young aspen. The lake shore is easy to reach and there is a touch of blue in the sky. Jim stops to fish for breakfast. He is putting his line in for the third time when the bear comes lumbering out of the woods.
"I guess this is still a popular fishing spot," muses Jim. He retreats up the hillside to prepare his catch and watch the bear work the same hole. It is a sight! Half the bear’s technique seems to be splashing so much water out of the hole that the fish have nowhere to swim.
The sky brightens. A second bear shows up. The two bawl at each other a while before they each settle in their spot.
"Jim, off to your left."
The wolves are watching him from the other side of the meadow. Jim keeps eating.
"Send Tinkerbell."
As the floater moves their way, they move into the woods. A glider appears skimming over the west ridge line. Tinkerbell beats a hasty retreat back to Jim.
"Park Service has you on a tight leash, Jim. The Zero Population Group is filing suit accusing the Park Service of negligence because of Celeste. Claims you doubled the amount of trash left in the park this year and it was irresponsible of the Park Service to let you bring a horse in."
"As I recall they’ve been waiting for something like this."
"Uh huh, and the People Second group staged a rally at the Lincoln Memorial. And they had a skit where a person gets a stroke and the horse cuts the person’s throat. The horse says to the person, ‘If you can’t think, what good are you?’ It’s getting ugly out here."
"Political entertainment at its best."
"Truly, but I don’t think Richard Moonan’s enjoying the show."
Jim finishes breakfast and, giving the bears wide berth, heads south.
"Jim, the old National Rec trail heads west from where you are."
"I’m not taking that, I’m coming out the way I came in."
"This is a switch. Care to explain?"
"I’ve visited Kings Peak and Kamas is an awful long trip from here without a horse. I’m headed out."
"I didn’t think you liked traveling with Celeste that much."
"I didn’t, but things have changed. There’s one more thing I need to do, then I’m out of here. Do me a favor, will you? Guide me to a set of coordinates. Put me right on the money. OK?
"The coordinates?"
"110 degrees, 22 minutes, 32 seconds west; 40 degrees, 23 minutes, 27 seconds north."
"Mighty precise."
"Put me there on the money, OK?"
"OK."