Uncharted

A hand brushes aside his scarf, and Brewster McWhirtle feels the softness of two warm fingers nudging their way toward his windpipe for the rhythmic beat of life. He stirs and slowly liberates the young lodgepole pine that has anchored him through the night. His arm is locked, maybe frozen; it hurts to uncurl his hand. His free arm, folded above his head, is stiff, the muscles beyond feeling. His cramped fingers rest on the smooth, flat rock he’d poked a few hours earlier under the low branches between the trunk and earth. Melanie, the laser etching says on the underside, Blue Aster. A slight nudge to his left foot. What’s that? A nosy coyote? Brewster lies still, half-frozen, half-asleep, facedown in dirty, slushy snow. How do I get out of this life? Again, a tentative tap-tap.

Let me die.

His leg twitches from the stiffness of the hours he’s been lying there. Cold, so cold. He turns his head a degree or two, licks and spits the muck from his lips.

I should be unconscious by now. With no more pain. With no more daylight. Let there be peace.

“Hey, fella, you okay?”

Not a coyote, just the toe of someone’s boot.

“Hello-o. Can you hear me?”

Brewster inches out from the tree. His groan from the pain in his arms is nothing compared to the howling he did during the snowstorm in the early morning hours. The blood starts to run as he stirs—a severe case of pins and needles. Slowly he twists onto his side, lifting his dirt-smeared face toward the leaden sky.

“I’m fine, just fine. Just wanna lie here, meld with the earth.” He gives a croaky laugh.

Fresh, wet snowflakes decorate his dirt-smeared cheeks. He blinks. Through half-closed frozen lids, he squints at the shadow leaning over him.

Just what I need—Ranger Rick to the rescue. Why can’t I just disappear?

“Man, you okay? Looks like you’re in pretty bad shape,” the voice says. “Wassup? Name’s José. I’m with the parks service. Let me help you outta this wet snow and get you warmed up. Maybe go see if we can find a coffee.”

“S’okay. I’m fine. Just wanna lie here.”

“Nope. Can’t do that, buddy. You been drinking or something?”

“No, no. I’m okay. Just got caught in this spring snowstorm. Then I figured, what the heck. Maybe it was meant to bury me here.”

José interrupts, reaching for Brewster’s arm. “Now, that’s taking winter just a bit too personally, my friend.”

Brewster, now half-sitting and resting on one very cramped arm, twists and gently shakes the snow off the pine branches. “This tree here …” He bats another branch, and snow falls on him. “See? It’s for my wife; we claimed it for her. She was killed. Year ago today.” Brewster mumbles to himself, “Just wanna …”

“Here, lemme help you up.” José picks up Brewster’s numb, ungloved hand and pulls him to his feet, away from the partial covering of the little tree. “Think you can stand? How’re the legs?

Pretty stiff, I bet. Easy does it. Steady, steady. Man, you’re a mess!”

“I thought I was in the very best place when I started to feel drowsy. Lying here stretched out in a snowy blanket of silence. I don’t want to go on. I just don’t. She’s not here. This symbolic tree. Why am I here?” Fresh tears ripple down his muddy face. He stumbles as if blind as José leads him down the snow-covered hill.

“My truck’s over here. I was looking out for who might belong to the SUV in the parking lot. No tracks around; looked like it’s been there all night. Just as well I spotted you. I actually cruised past and then thought, well, I haven’t seen that mound before. Might’ve been your black boot that caught my eye. Supposed to snow even more today, and if you’d stayed there much longer, you’d’ve been a goner, I reckon.” José keeps up his patter to encourage his stumbling, mumbling invalid. “Think I should maybe get you to emergency. Bit worried about hypothermia. You been there all night?” “’M okay. I’m fine, fine.”

“The field office is not far. Let’s get you inside and see what you look like.”

José’s truck is idling, the heater running. A shivering, shaking Brewster sighs deeply as he slumps into the enveloping warmth. José helps him with his seat belt, steadies him and closes the door. “Don’t wanna be a bother,” Brewster mumbles. “Car’s down there somewhere. I’ll just head …”

“I like my idea better,” José says. “We’ll brush you off, clean you up a bit, and go for coffee. I’ve got all the time in the world.” His chatter keeps Brewster from nodding off during the short two-kilometre ride to the field office. “Yeah, I hear you, about your wife,” he continues. “My wife, she died from cancer five years ago now. I miss her. I still look for her, thinking she’ll just turn up. We had the advantage of talking about my life without her before she went. Still a huge shock, though. Bit of a vacuum now. Kids have grown and gone on with their lives. Now it’s just me and the cat. Got too much baggage for anyone to be interested in me now.”

In the cosiness of the portable field office, warm water takes the dried tears and mud from Brewster’s stubbly face. The mottled backing of the aging mirror admits a still-presentable face—no frostbite. He hears José on the phone. “Found a fella in the snow. Yeah, he needs some company for a bit, so we’ll go find a coffee. No, not much happening down my way. No cars and no people. Yep, been right round the park at this end, and all is as it should be.”