Yellowstone

“Yellowstone”
A short story by Ed Dobbins

         I glanced around – absolutely nothing familiar.

         Lost.

         Stopping to catch my breath in a little clearing, I wondered how I managed – how I allowed myself – to get so far off course. Dark was approaching now, and I’d be left to fend for myself tonight against the bears, wolves, and whatever other predatory creatures might be lurking here in Yellowstone National Park. The thought didn’t scare me exactly – it took a lot to scare me, adrenaline-junkie that I was – but the thought of being ripped apart by a four-legged carnivore didn’t quite appeal to me, either. As fearless as I was, even I thought that grizzly wrestling might be a bit of a stretch.

         I inhaled deeply. The air carried a scent of pine, algae (maybe moss?), and a hint of burnt hickory. I was no outdoorsman for sure – this was obvious from my current predicament – but I gathered that these latter scents suggested both the presence of water and of fire nearby. The first implied sustenance in the event that I might be out here awhile, which hopefully wouldn’t be the case. The last of these implied either a nearby campground (a very good thing) or possibly a forest fire (a very bad one). I hoped for the former.

         Now that I was resting, the sound of the forest became much more noticeable. No longer obscured by my labored breathing, the swishing of my pants, or the trampling of the branches and soil beneath me, I could actually hear quite a bit of my surroundings. The call and response of indigenous birds, the rustling of leaves, the buzzing of insects: all were in abundance if one concentrated on them closely enough. But the sounds that I really wanted to hear: those of running water, of human voices, motor vehicles, maybe a helicopter or two hovering above, all of these were annoyingly absent.

         Beside me lay a felled tree (from vines, a lightning storm, a logger? I didn’t know). To my other side a wide stump. I sat upon the latter heavily, considering my options. By my estimation, it was approaching eight o’clock now. Soon, I wouldn’t be able to see much of anything, so any further hiking would be useless. It looked like I’d have to spend the night here, somewhere.

         I contemplated lying right where I was. In my small backpack, I had a poncho I could always sleep on, or at least place over me if it started to rain. Also, tied around my waist was a decently heavy oversized fleece which I could always use for warmth if need be. Both would protect me from the elements at least. But then I recalled the possibility of bears and wolves lurking nearby. Weren’t most predators nocturnal? This made me quickly nix the idea of spending the night on the ground.

         Next I considered climbing a tree. This at least would provide the protection of altitude. True, I’d heard bears could climb trees, too, but I figured that up above everything, I’d be less conspicuous than just lying out in the open, right? The more I considered it, the more it seemed a good plan. Provided that I didn’t fall out and break my neck, of course…

         More time passed while I weighed the alternatives. Above me the sky turned increasingly gray as the horizon changed from brilliant red to dull orange and eventually to tepid pink. It was only a matter of fifteen minutes or so before total darkness arrived, I figured.

         I began picking out trees to sleep in. This plan still seemed the most reasonable to me as far as safety was concerned, so it was just a matter of locating a good one. It turned out to be more difficult than I figured, though. After attempting to climb a few evergreens, I found their boughs too weak and their needles too sharp. Something sturdier and a bit less prickly became my new ideal, but I was failing miserably at locating one. Apparently, I was smack dab in the middle of a grove of Douglas Firs or Spruces or whatever other types of trees they use to hang Christmas ornaments upon (again, I wasn’t a nature-person). Just my luck, I thought.

         It grew darker still, maybe ten minutes of light remaining. I had to hurry.

         Dashing between more felled trees, I nearly brained myself upon a boulder after falling head over heels across an outstretched vine. Lying awkwardly on my side now, my hip throbbing, I could see the rock mere inches from my head, with the vine tied snugly around it. One foot further and I’d have been knocked cold for sure.

         As I examined the vine and the rock to which it was tied, I contemplated its purpose. Was this some kind of trap, a trick to lure game? If so, I’d better be careful – there was no telling what other snares might be about. Gingerly, I hoisted myself up, brushing myself down. My hip still radiated pain, but I was otherwise okay.

         Glancing around in the ever-dimming light, I couldn’t see any other traps around, but then again, they weren’t exactly designed to be noticed. My best bet would probably be to retrace the path from which I came – that should be safest. By this point, I had all but resigned myself to sleeping on the ground now. No tree around here seemed fit to support my weight, and it was almost dark.

         Well, I thought, chuckling – looks like I have an adventure here, after all. Lost in the middle of an enormous park with no means of calling for help (I’d foolishly left my cell phone at camp). Oddly enough, I had originally almost backed out of visiting Yellowstone because the place didn’t seem high-impact enough for me and my high-flying daredevil lifestyle. To put it simply, geysers and a few wild game didn’t cut it. They seemed dull and passé.

         In the end, it had been the Level 5 rapids that eventually swayed me. Few things in this world got my heart racing like whitewater rafting, and Yellowstone had it. True, here they may not have been as storied as the ones I’d already visited in Colorado and New Zealand, but Level 5 was Level 5. There was no denying it.          

         Turning about, it was at that very moment I heard a cry. Whatever it was, it was obviously one of distress. Perhaps there was some game caught in a nearby trap. I supposed I was lucky not to have joined it.
         
         Listening more closely now, I recognized the call as not one of any animal. No, it actually sounded human. Too high-pitched to be an adult, it had to be a child, likely a very young one. It was faint, but loud enough to be discerned for what it was.

         My God, I thought – a child. Stuck in a trap! By this point, almost all light had disappeared, but I knew I had to act quickly. Who knows how badly the kid might be hurt? Disregarding the potential danger – as always – I walked forward again, following the source of the call. When I reached the rock, by some weird trick of acoustics, the sound appeared to shift to the left, following the path of the same vine over which I had originally tripped. I traced its path: ten feet, twenty feet, thirty, until it stopped abruptly.

         It led down into a hole.

         Despite the darkness, I was able to discern that the opening was six or seven feet in diameter, certainly wide enough for me to climb into if necessary – provided that I’d want to, of course. There was no telling how strong this vine was, how far down the pit might be, or what else was down at its bottom. As if in response to the very last thought, though, I heard the wail again, this time quite clearly.

         There was no mistaking: it was the cry of an infant. And it was directly below me.

         Well, that settles it, I thought. I’m going down. There would be no way I could allow a defenseless infant to stay by itself down there in the middle of this potentially dangerous wilderness. Besides, even if it weren’t attacked or consumed by exposure, it was just a matter of time before hunger would overtake it. I’d have to get the baby out of this hole and out of it fast, no matter how little light there might be remaining. And if nothing else, this would at least end the day with a nice adrenaline rush.

         Grabbing the vine and giving it two sharp tugs to see if it would hold, I dropped down feet-first and descended carefully, probing with my soles for anything solid. Nothing was, save for the increasingly slippery rock face that I continued to slide slowly down and along. The further I went, the more the infant’s cry grew in intensity, but despite all my efforts, the helpless babe was still vexingly distant. I bit my lip in annoyance – there was still a long way to go.

         Despite the now total absence of light, I continued to rappel downward at even greater speed. It was hard to tell, but I must’ve descended forty feet by now. Where was this baby?

         Again, as if in response to my thoughts, it let out another wail. This one was much louder, much closer than before. I slowed my rappelling. It was just a matter of time now, which was good – I’d been growing rather fatigued after a full day of being lost. Another ten, maybe twenty feet, and at last I reached (in rather jarring fashion) solid ground, my left ankle stinging even worse from the awkward landing than my hip from before. Groaning, I let go of the vine and reached behind me for my backpack, feeling around for my lighter. Holding it between my fingers, I clicked the spark. It wasn’t much, but some light was better than none.

         The pit was much wider down here than above. There was actually room to walk – or in my case limp – around. Carefully, I did just that, groping about for any sign of the baby. Even though the space was probably no more than twelve feet in every direction, I amazingly couldn’t find the child, despite combing every inch of the ground. I searched for an opening, some passageway into and out of this pit, but the only entrance seemed to be from above.

         I couldn’t figure it out. Where was this kid?

         Again, as if in reply to my thoughts, the baby made another noise, although one much less shrill and distressed than before. This sound almost resembled a coo. It originated directly across from me, at the furthermost point from the vine, and appeared to be coming from above my head.

         I walked across the pit and held my lighter as high as I could, scanning the walls above me. I waved it back and forth two, maybe three times, when I finally caught a glimmer of what I thought to be moisture. I moved the lighter closer, and sure enough, there they were: the baby’s eyes.

         The child said nothing and lay completely still, other than the occasional blinking of those eyes. I wondered how and why the baby seemed to hover over me like this, until I realized that the wall of the pit jutted out noticeably above me here. Apparently the child was lying along some sort of ledge. Dropping the lighter back in my bag, I reached out in vain to grasp the infant. It was just out of reach.

         My hip and ankle still smarting, I nonetheless sought to find a foothold in the slippery wall to better get to the child. With some effort, I hoisted myself up and awkwardly grasped the corner of the ledge upon which the infant lay. Hanging there uncomfortably, I pulled myself up so that my armpits now rested upon the edge of the outcrop. The baby lay directly before me, close enough now to touch. Straining and reaching for it, I could actually feel the soft, damp skin of the child’s uncovered hips and chest. The poor thing must be freezing, I thought. I strained some more, reaching further, trying to get enough of a grip on the kid so that I could pull it toward me. I finally succeeded, or at least I thought I did at first. Despite my gentle tugging, the baby wouldn’t move. It appeared to be lodged in tightly.

         Wonderful, I thought.

         Dangling awkwardly like I was, I didn’t have the best of leverage to alter my approach. I’d have to get more traction. Flailing my legs about below me, my arms already weakened from the journey down here, I again sought a better grip upon the slimy outcrop. The only way I’d be able to pull this baby out was to somehow get my waist even with the ledge, I realized. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so.
         
         It was at that moment I reconsidered my approach. I was getting nowhere from clumsily trying to pull my weight up upon this slimy ledge without a foothold. Perhaps if I propped my ankle – my good one – against the wall, and pushed against that, I’d be…

         This was my last thought of the evening. Seconds later, after losing my footing in the ill-fated attempt, I slammed my forehead against the very outcrop I’d been trying to scale, rendering me unconscious. I remained that way for hours.
         


         I dreamt then, of clouds the color of crimson. Through the red haze, a single band of broad bright light sliced perfectly down, terminating abruptly at an altar. Upon the shrine lay an infant – a child with an unearthly cry, as the howl of a wolf. Surrounding it, an abundance of fur, living and breathing: bandits, scavengers. From these the babe was suckled, nuzzled, given warmth.

         It was then I awoke.




         Or did I? For all I could hear now was the howling of a wolf.

         I opened my eyes slowly, temples throbbing, vision blurred in red. Blood, I realized. I lifted my hand to wipe it away but my forearm met me with a searing response – my right wrist would not budge. I must have sprained it during the fall.          

         I tried my left – this was better. After clearing away dried crusts of blood from my eyes, I could see clearly again. Tentatively, I reached further and ran my fingers softly along the gash on my forehead. I wondered how much blood I’d lost. I wondered how much peril I was in. Briefly, I wondered if I was going to die.

         Gratefully, as consciousness returned, so too did practicality. No, I was not going to die; the idea was ridiculous, I thought, chuckling. I’d endured far greater trials than this – the bungee cord incident in Arizona being the worst – and I’d come out of them long-term with nothing more than a few noticeable scars and the occasional aches in my joints whenever the weather turned. The human body was capable of handling quite a lot, I could say in all truth. I was living proof of it.

         That said, this whole being-lost-in-the-wilderness situation was still quite a novelty – I’d never experienced exactly this before. It was at least somewhat unsettling, I found. And that howling I’d heard – there it was again. It came from above, far above me. From the opening of the pit, I surmised – although now it seemed to be fading in volume.

         With my good arm, I propped myself up. I was still woozy from the fall, but other than my injured wrist, everything else appeared to be in relatively reasonable working order. Thank goodness for small favors. It was daylight now, and surprisingly bright in here, considering the depth of our location. I glanced up, squinting, and looked directly into the sun. I quickly averted my eyes.

         Almost exactly overhead, I thought – it must be near noon. Even a city slicker like me knew enough to say this with some certainty.

         With the sun directly overhead, the upside-down funnel-like shape of the pit caused an eerie lighting effect, creating a broad band of bright white light that draped down and along the rock wall ahead of me. The beam reflected squarely against the shiny crystal-like boulder jutting before me, the same slippery outcropping I’d fallen from the night before. I guessed it to be a type of quartz (I was never much of a geologist, either). The light reflected against this stone in every direction, illuminating the confined space around me far more than one might expect in a place so far underground. It was at that moment, I remembered again with a rising sense of alarm, that above this shining crystal ledge still lay the abandoned child.
         
         The light was so intense now, and my eyes so unadjusted to it, that I had trouble locating the infant that lay only a mere few feet above me. Placing my good hand over my face and squinting through the cracks in between my fingers, I could at last make out its visage in the same position atop the ledge. It turned its head and stared at me.

         The baby appeared to be all right, but I imagined that it had to be starving by now. And though our temporary dwelling was reasonably warm, it was still undoubtedly drafty enough to chill the kid’s newborn bones.

         But how I could help the child now? How would I get it down? I couldn’t manage it last night with two good arms, how could I possibly do so with one? True, I at least had the lighting to my advantage now, but what good was seeing the child if it was too far to reach?

         I reached out and touched the wall. It was as slippery as before. If anything, it was downright wet, dripping – trickling, actually. It appeared a small flow from somewhere close above was continually and lightly pouring down onto the floor below. I hadn’t noticed it the night before, possibly in my haste to rescue the child. My stare followed the path of this water to a small pool off in the corner, no more than a foot in diameter. Assuming that the baby was safe for now – it hadn’t moved all night, after all – I left it where it lay and instead knelt down by the pool, lowering my good hand into it.

         It was shallow, no more than six inches deep. And noticeably warm, comfortably so. I traced the bottom of the pool with my fingers, approaching the rock wall. Interestingly, the pool did not end there. Instead, it continued to run beneath the wall, as far beyond it as my arm could reach. This simple trickle led must have led into another larger underground reservoir somewhere else.

         It appeared I had found a natural well. I figured it could be of some use until my wrist healed. If nothing else, it would stave off thirst for a while.

         Of course, there would still be the matter of food. The box of saltines and jar of peanut butter I’d packed (and thank goodness I did) were certainly not what one would call an abundance. But they would likely last me, if need be. After all, how long did it take for a sprained wrist to heal? Surely if I rationed my supplies carefully enough, they’d last at least until I was able to climb back top again. And from there, even if I was out of food, I could forage from the forest a while. It was only June, after all. Chances were quite good I’d be rescued before winter came. True, Yellowstone was big – but not that big.

         Recalling the provisions in my bag, I became acutely aware of the pangs of hunger gnawing at me this very moment. And no wonder, I realized – I likely hadn’t eaten in eighteen hours. Opening my backpack proved tedious and cumbersome with the use of only one good hand, but I managed it successfully enough. It would get easier with practice.

         After finishing my meal, I considered again the plight of the child above me, who emitted a watery gurgle from time to time. Here I had been stuffing my face for the last few minutes, when who knows how long it had been since this poor thing last ate? I tried to devise some plan again for how to remove the kid from the ledge, but with only one good arm, and the slippery rock face, I just didn’t deem it possible.

         Resigned to the situation, I resolved that if nothing else, I might at least provide the child with some warmth, some shelter. I reached around my waist and unknotted the fleece. This would make a suitable blanket, I figured. In mock-lasso fashion, I swung the fleece up and upon the ledge, unfortunately missing all but the infant’s feet. One sleeve still hung far enough down from the ledge that I could at least grasp and re-toss it. As I took the garment in my hand again, however, I found the other end of it to be soaked. And not only was it wet, but also warm.

         The thought made me nod. I even cracked a small grin. Perhaps the child had some hope, after all, I realized: it appeared that it lay in the path of the warm trickle from above. At the very least, this might provide it some protection from the cold, and possibly even serve as drinking water. I wasn’t sure of the nutritional value the flow would provide, but if it came from a mountain spring, maybe it’d have some minerals, at least. It would be better than no nutrients at all. It might even be enough to hold the baby over until I was able to get it out of here.

         “Don’t you worry, kid,” I said confidently. “Everything will be fine.”

         It only gurgled in response.




         Sometime shortly after, I had to laugh at my predicament. No, not about getting stuck in a natural well in the middle of Yellowstone National Park – this was typical enough, if anyone knew my past history and temperament. What amused me so much about this situation was the fact that I was stuck in this natural well with a newborn baby. I, the antithesis of the father figure.

         Imagine me, I thought, with a child. Imagine me raising one. Ha! I’d never be able to discipline them! How could I, without being a hypocrite? Everything I’d tell them not to do, I’d have already done. Cigarettes? Check. Drag racing? No doubt. Pot? Every day. Illegal gambling? You bet. Fornication? My livelihood.

         Now, it wasn’t that I didn’t necessarily like kids. I just didn’t understand them, is all. And what’s the point of raising something you don’t understand, particularly if you’d make a lousy role model for them? For all my good points, I also know I can be an irrational, irresponsible, and impulsive person. In no way do I consider myself parental material. For that matter, a lot of people aren’t. At least I can admit it, though.

         This attitude has caused more than its fair share of misery in my love life, that’s for sure. Well, not so much for me, but rather for the women I’ve been with. “How can you not want kids?” they’d invariably ask. To this, I’d always answer honestly, “I’d be a lousy dad.” Hearing this, some of them would laugh, some would scoff, some would even play hopeful and tell me they’d be a great mom to compensate for my lack of interest, but it didn’t matter: once kids came into the equation, I was soon out the door, whether by my choice or theirs. Love is complicated enough as it is, without the specter of offspring to further confuse things.

         To be sure, I’d had my share of acquaintances (almost exclusively female) that judged me badly for these beliefs. I didn’t think this very fair. It’s not like I ever volunteered my thoughts on the subject of children – they would always be solicited from me. What was I supposed to do? Lie? True, I might’ve been lousy father material, but this didn’t necessarily mean I was a bad person. I wasn’t dishonest. So I’d always answer truthfully, without pretense.

         Inevitably they’d then ask, “How can you be thirty-four years old, yet have the mentality of someone half your age?” This I found, quite naturally, to be highly insulting, and I would tell them so. As if not wanting children were a sign of immaturity. If anything, I would argue that it takes more maturity to not want them. All around us is this intense pressure to pro-create, whether it’s from our church, our parents, other people’s parents, or even the simple mechanics of intercourse (ever notice that no form of birth control is completely without its drawbacks and/or fallibility?)

         Of course, I quickly realized that this argument was completely lost on most people (the brain-washed breeders, I liked to call them). So after a while, I reverted to sarcasm. I would counter their question by asking, “If I have the mentality of someone half my age, how do you explain the fact that my annual income is twenty times what yours is? That I became the youngest CEO in Silicon Valley? That I had my own consulting business before the age of thirty, and that I now have so much money that I can basically take off whenever I want for however long I feel like to go wherever it is my heart desires? So I take it as a compliment if I have the mentality of a seventeen year-old, because I’m apparently the smartest damned poontang-chasing seventeen year-old man-child to ever grace this planet with his presence!”

         At which, my disenchanted accuser would typically huff, sigh, or quietly slink away.



         A baby, they’d ask. Ha! As if…

         “Listen, kid,” I said, glancing above me, chuckling. “I like you and all, but don’t go getting too attached now, you hear? I’m going to have to give you back to whomever it is you belong when we get out of this. I’m happy to rescue you, but let’s leave things at that, okay? Don’t worry: we’re square.”

         No reply. Must be sleeping, I thought.

         



         Day turned to night. Above me, the infant was cooing softly again. “Hang in there, kid,” I called. The baby didn’t seem to notice – not that it would give me any indication either way.

         I shifted uncomfortably against the wall, on the dry side of our grotto. I had made three main observations by this point. One was that my wrist hurt. A lot. The second was that I was extremely bored. The third was that it was difficult to get comfortable in a place where every surface is hard and jagged. Most of all, I found that observation numbers two and three seemed to intensify the effects of number one. At no time did you feel pain more acutely than when you were bored and uncomfortable.

         I contemplated this awhile. You’d think that pain, like most things, would be something you’d be able to tolerate the more you experienced it. That you could build up an immunity of sorts. This was a good idea in theory, but in practice not so good, judging from the pulsing heat originating from my lower forearm. Unfortunately, the only items I had to brace the wrist were my aforementioned poncho and fleece. Plaster of Paris isn’t so easily found when you’re sixty feet underground.

         Hey, I thought. That rhymes. I’d have to make a mental note – anything to alleviate the tedium a bit.

         My makeshift brace kept my wrist mostly immobile now, but I wondered if I’d tied it incorrectly. It seemed to pinch. But making a sling with my weak hand wasn’t the easiest of chores. Every misjudged motion and action I made caused me to yelp. So once I had the brace around the wrist, I decided I wasn’t going to screw around with it anymore. It was good enough for now.

         Above me, the baby began crying – a short, petulant sob, one of annoyance. I sighed. “Yeah, I hear that, kid,” I said, struggling again to get comfortable. “I hear that.”

         Idly, I tapped my thumb – my good thumb – against my thigh, creating a makeshift beat. In time I sang along. This is what I said:

         Plaster of Paris isn’t so easily found when you’re sixty feet underground.

         I sang this for what seemed like hours until at last I, and the child above me, had fallen asleep.

         My version of a lullaby.
         
         

         I awoke again the next morning. My wrist still throbbed and I heard a funny ringing sound in my ears. I also seemed to have developed a heightened awareness of everything around me, as if I were partially detached from myself. It was strange.

         Instantly, my thoughts turned to the baby. Was he okay?

         “Hey kid,” I called, my voice coming out weaker than I’d expected. “You all right?”

         No answer. Only the faint whistle of birds far above.

         I began to panic, and tried to stand. Oh God, my head. I tried to shake it off, craning my neck to look over the ledge.

         “Hey kid! You all right? You all…”

         He began gurgling again, cooing. Thank goodness. Everything was fine – he was still okay. Relieved, I slumped back down, far faster than intended. Man, my head throbbed. Maybe I’d take it easy for a while.

         Trying to get comfortable again, I looked up at him one more time. If nothing else, at least he was okay.

         Me, on the other hand…




         The rest of the day was a blur. The room seemed to spin, I threw up constantly, and it felt like my head was being crushed in a vise. Chills came and wracked my whole body, down to my very toes

         I lapsed in and out of wakefulness. Almost invariably, when I felt the worst, it seemed the baby cried the loudest. What are you crying for kid, I thought – I’m probably more helpless than you now.

         I don’t know what I had caught, but it was brutal. It laid me up for so many days that I actually lost count. And all the while, the baby cried and cried and cried.

         But at least he kept going, I thought. Crying was good. Crying meant enduring.




         It was during one of these lost days that I figured out the miracle of his survival.

         After waking again, my throat burned. I dragged myself over to the pool – even three feet was a struggle – and stuck my hands in to drink. Finally, my thirst sated, I slumped back down on my side, my good arm outstretched below to serve me as a pillow. I glanced back up at the kid. He was sobbing again.

         “Shhh… it’s alright,” I said weakly. Even this simple movement of my jaw caused my head to throb. I began to groan.

         At that moment, the child’s wail exploded in intensity. He was practically shrieking now. Alarmed, I lifted my head – much too quickly, judging from the searing white heat between my temples – and saw a sight that nearly stopped my heart.

         Perched atop the corner of the ledge on which the baby lay were three fur-covered creatures, their slinked-over forms approaching the child. Even from my position on the floor, I could see the glint from the prowlers’ needle-sharp teeth. My God, I thought – predators!

         With all my strength, I willed myself upright and staggered over to the ledge. Even in my weakened state, they wouldn’t get him without a fight! Placing my good hand upon the outcropping, I attempted to hoist myself up. Unfortunately and predictably, though, within seconds I was back on the ground.

         “Leave him alone!” I shouted, as the creatures were now within inches of him. “Get the hell away from…”

         And then, in mid-sentence, I was struck dumb. One of the three creatures had just placed its claws atop the baby’s head. Oh God, it’s going to rip his face clean off, I lamented. For one of the first times in my life, I had to actually turn away from a sight I was about to witness. Adrenaline-junkie or not, there was no way I could possibly watch or endure the heinous event about to unfold.

         Abruptly, the baby’s crying stopped. And mine had begun.
         
         Blankly, I stared at the floor, tears streaming down my face, collecting in puddles below. From above came me the sickening noise of smacking lips, of slurping. Bastards, I thought.

         I blamed God, Mother Nature, Darwin. Survival of the Fittest, indeed. Nothing could ever justify this.

         And then, at last, it ended. Only a soft sucking sound, a contented sort of purring, remained. Moments later, I was finally able to bring myself to lift my head, to at last view the carnage that I was now doomed to co-exist with until leaving this wretched place.

         I braced myself for the abundance of blood, for the sickening sight of torn flesh and gnawed bones. Instead, what I witnessed, my eyes widening in disbelief, was:

         Suckling?

         It was true. From the haunches of the very creature that had placed its claws atop the baby’s head, the child suckled. It visibly drew out the teat from the animal’s pink underbelly and was sucking intermittently, in a now almost-dreamlike state. The creature continued to patiently rest its paws atop the baby’s head, waiting for him to finish. In the meantime, the other two creatures nestled in a ball against the baby’s legs and torso, presumably keeping him warm.

         Amazing, I thought. Indeed – it was beautiful.

         For how long I watched, I didn’t know. But at last, the baby had finished. The three furry creatures, nuzzling him gently, appeared content he was asleep. Taking one last look behind them, they quickly scampered back up the rock wall, to wherever it was from whence they came.

         I listened closely to the baby’s soft snoring. Still alive. Still well. Still sustained by… something.

         Nightfall soon followed. It was quite some time before I was able to sleep again. Or even wanted to.

         

         Slumber did eventually arrive, though, and when it did, it was hesitant to leave. For what may in fact have been the next several days, I slept for lengthy stretches, only waking intermittently for a few cupped handfuls of water, for the occasional crunch of saltines.

         The creatures may have returned during this time – likely they did – but I had no way of knowing it, lapsing in and out of consciousness as often as I was. All I know is that whenever I did awake, I could still hear the baby, still surviving, still cooing and gurgling.

         Eventually, at last, my head cleared, and my normal sense of consciousness returned. Thankfully, the worst of the sickness appeared to be over. The dizziness, the nausea, the headaches, the bone-rattling chills: all of them gone. All that remained was a thorough sense of physical exhaustion. Though my brain appeared to be working well enough, my body appeared to need some more time to recover.
         
         I had a lot of time to lie and think now, to consider this baby above me. I began to identify with each of his cries. I could tell when he was hungry, and when he was tired, when he was colicky, or bored. I delighted in all of his coos, his babbles, his gurglings. When he felt discomfort, I felt discomfort. When he felt joy, I felt joy.

         Most of all, and most importantly, I began to think of him as he. All my life, I had always thought of babies as objects, as toys (to be played with primarily by women, of course). If a baby ever giggled or gave a funny expression, I simply thought of it as being an amusing toy. If it shrieked or made a particularly nasty-smelling mess, I thought of it as being an annoying toy. To me, a baby was something that was simply there, something that had no true value, identity, or spirit unless you attributed to it some portion of your own. To me, a baby was simply an it, a thing to be regarded no more highly than, oh, the daily newspaper.

         But this baby above me, no, he was no it. He was a he. In time, I even began to think of him as Stevie, Jr., and I’d call him as such. I thought about all the things little Stevie and I would do together when we escaped this place, how I’d someday teach him to throw a ball, to tie his shoelaces, make a knot in his tie. Later, he’d become a teenager, and then I’d have to teach him to shave, to mow the lawn, and most importantly, how to impress the ladies.
         
         Yes sir: Steven Stone, Sr. and Steven Stone, Jr. – we’d be the envy of every dad and son in town. I truly believed it.




         I really began to think we could do it, that I could actually pull it off. After all, I had probably been down here for at least a couple weeks now, so Stevie had been down here just as long, and who knows how much longer. And it was likely he was abandoned – after all, how else would an infant end up at the bottom of a well? That kind of thing doesn’t happen by accident. The thought made me boil with rage, in fact – the idea that someone could throw this precious being so callously down a hole like this, to discard him like nothing more than the evening trash. It was monstrous.

         But this monstrosity, at least, had a silver lining: namely, that this wonderful blessing was unwanted by his original caretakers. Thus, he belonged to no one now, since no one could claim him. I could raise him as my own.

         I would have a son.



         More time passed, and with it, my strength grew. The long period of rest had also allowed my wrist to fully heal. It appeared I was ready now to bring us back to the surface, and a good thing, too: my ration of saltines and peanut butter were almost completely diminished.

         Unfortunately, even now, though, little Stevie and I were still cruelly separate. After regaining my strength, my first intended act was to extricate him from the ledge above, in order for me to finally hold my new son in my arms. Alas, it was not to be: even with the midday sun shining directly down from above, I could still not find a firm enough foothold anywhere to prop myself up upon the ledge. And the slipperiness of the rock face precluded me from getting a tight enough grip on it with my hands to solely use my arms. Inevitably, I’d always slip off. In effect, it was the ultimate stroke of poor fortune: here I was, fully healed, and I simply could not get to my new son, who was lying there just inches out of reach.

         I resolved that the only way to bring Little Stevie to safety was to come back for him, to find rescue personnel who had the tools to help me remove him. And for them, I could even begin composing our future story – yes, sir, my son and I had been walking about in the Park when we fell down this pit. Miraculously, neither of us was hurt, other than my sprained wrist, of course. The tale would only continue to display that noted Steven Stone bravery, that famous Steven Stone gumption, only add to the Steven Stone legend – the same man to endure cliff diving in Acapulco, rappelling down a thirty-story condo in Chicago, and being gored by a bull in Pamplona. Not only that, but it would be a fitting beginning to the legend of Steven Stone, Jr., too. What better way to start a biography than to survive a fall down a sixty-foot well in the middle of Wyoming, after all? Like father like son, people would say.

         These thoughts made my impending separation with Stevie at least somewhat bearable. Just keep focusing on what life’s going to be like when you get out, I kept reminding myself. Don’t focus on leaving – focus on rescuing him. Thus this is exactly what I intended to do.

         Despite the fact that I was undoubtedly weakened by the illness and by eating nothing more than crackers and peanut butter those last two weeks, I didn’t think I had ever scaled a rock wall faster than I did that afternoon. When I arrived at the top, however, I realized for the first time that I was now back in the exact same situation I’d been in before I found Stevie – lost. My preoccupation with leaving the well had been so great that I hadn’t yet entirely considered what I was going to do when I had arrived on the surface.

         Fortunately, I remembered that stuffed in my backpack was a blue felt-tip marker, so I devised a plan. Calling down to Stevie one last time, I assured him that I would be back in no time at all. In the meantime, I knew the three furry creatures would continue to sustain and nurture him while gone. Indeed, this miracle alone proved to me that the child was a gift – Stevie was obviously meant to survive. We were meant to be together. I was utterly convinced of it.

         I took out my marker and scrawled a broad blue star on a nearby tree trunk, then inscribed the numeral “1” in it. I figured that I would do this at intervals of every hundred yards or so, numbering each trunk, that way I’d be able to provide the rescuers with a trail with which we could easily get back to the well. Appraising my work, I decided that the star displayed brightly enough. I set out on foot.

         I hiked for three days, through all types of brush, over all types of streams. All the while I continued to scrawl my blue stars. Occasionally, I would stop for some berries, peel some fruit from a tree, just to sustain myself until I found help. I was growing tired and weak, but nothing could stop me in my zeal to press on.

         On the fourth day, I began to grow despondent, though. I must’ve hiked close to sixty miles by now and hadn’t seen anyone during this trek. Was I going in circles? What made this even more frustrating was the fact I’d recently noticed the scent of hickory growing stronger. Surely, I had to be near a campground by now?
         
         My thoughts were interrupted then when I heard a twig snap behind me. Turning around, I recalled again the presence of bears and wolves, the same predators who had concerned me during that first day of being lost. Back then, the idea of being attacked was only mildly distressing. Now, it utterly terrified me. After all, if I were to be mauled by a bear, what would happen to Stevie? Nobody one would ever find him! The thought made me sick, and I actually doubled over and vomited when I considered it.

         No longer was this about me, I realized. I had another to consider. And he was lying by himself at the bottom of a well right now. Standing motionless for a moment to determine if anything was indeed pursuing me, I heard nothing. Probably my imagination, I thought.

         I continued my hike.

         

         Thankfully, nothing had been pursuing me. Or if there had been, whatever it was must’ve lost interest, because many hours later, I was still hiking through the forest, unencumbered.

         Again it was growing dark, and despite my reluctance to do so, I figured I should stop. I nestled in between two large boulders to camp for the night, my back pressed against their smooth surfaces. Looking up, I discerned the occasional star twinkling through the treetops. Their appearance, and my realization of their distance away, only reinforced the feelings of smallness I’d been having lately. Once, the world had been about Steven Stone, and only Steven Stone. But now there was so much more.

         In fact, it was such a dramatic change in mindset that it soon caused me to question my old ways. Why had it been that I’d been so opposed to having children? What was it about me that caused me to be so reckless, so willing to seek thrills in the most dangerous of situations? Whether it involved the death-defying feats of my travels, or the near suicidal 120-hour weeks that I worked, I realized that I seemed to possess a need to always press my life to the most wrenching of limits, and often for what were arguably questionable and quite often ephemeral rewards. At the time, I simply saw this as living life to this fullest, and I justified it as such. In my view, I was willing to do it. Others weren’t.

         I always used to rationalize my obsessive drive to live in this manner as bravery, as a case of me simply being more highly evolved than most. I was Steven Stone, and I was better than you. Stronger, faster, braver, smarter, more handsome – these were the reasons I lived my life in such a carefree, chaotic manner. The fact was: I could handle it. You couldn’t.

         But now, here, sitting below this vast expanse of stars, I knew at last that it really wasn’t about me living life to the fullest, about me being able to handle anything. All of the death defying stunts and behaviors I had pulled off over the years in the guise of living life to the fullest were actually more about me not being able to handle something. They were all about me not being able to handle the very something that was haunting me at this moment, seventeen years after it had occurred – half my lifetime ago.

         Because for the first half of my life, leading up to my seventeenth birthday, I had been a very different person. Raised in an all-too-perfect Ozzie and Harriet sort of household, my life was too good, too pure, too secure. I was loved and fed and provided for, and I had many friends. I was safe and reserved. To others, I probably seemed the All-American boy. It began to sicken me.

         So I rebelled. Instead of the usual college-bound Student Government types that I usually dated in high school, one day at lunch I asked out Ginny, the most trashy, infamous girl in school. At first, she raised her eyebrows at me, but then she happily accepted. We agreed to meet at eight that evening. I went to my class, and she went to hers, nothing more exchanged between us until then. I simply wanted one thing and one thing alone from her. And that night, in the backseat of my second-hand maroon Oldsmobile, I got it.

         Afterwards, I rolled off of her. I wondered what one does next, after screwing the school slut? I didn’t know.

         I could see what she did next, though – and it surprised me. She cried.

          “What’s the matter?” I asked, completely surprised.

         She smiled through tears. “That was beautiful,” she said softly. Then taking my face in her hands, she whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

         I swallowed hard. “Um, thanks,” I said. “I guess it was nice.”

         She nestled her head into my chest, and I knew I had a problem.

         The next day, she came to my table at lunch. I did everything I could to avoid her, making up every excuse in the book. This pattern continued for weeks. Whenever she appeared, I made myself scarce. Finally, one day in the hall, about a month later, she cornered me between classes.

          “Look, Ginny,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m not interested, okay? I’ve been trying to be polite about this, but you can’t seem to take a hint.” I sighed in frustration.

          “I know,” she said, bitterly. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

          “Then what do you want from me?” I asked. By this point, I had resolutely determined that I would never again have a one-night stand. They clearly weren’t worth it.

          “Listen, I don’t want anything from you, okay? I just wanted you to know that…” She stopped, her cheeks flushed, and took a deep breath.

          “Wanted me to know what?” I pressed. “I’m late for class already. Can you get done with it, please?”

          “Fine,” she said. “I wanted you to know that I’m pregnant. Okay?”

         She turned, and stormed down the hall.

         I watched her, unable to move or speak, or even think. Finally, as she approached the stairs, my faculties returned, and I ran after her. I caught her at the bottom of the steps.

          “What do you mean you’re pregnant?” I asked. “How is this possible?”

          “I think you know how it’s possible,” she said, avoiding my gaze.

          “But we did it just once.”

          “Apparently once was enough.”

          “But… but… It can’t be mine,” I said. “It’s impossible. It’s got to be someone else’s.”

         She looked like she’d been punched in the gut when I said that.

          “It wasn’t someone else,” she answered, narrowing her eyes. “You’re the only one I’ve been with since two summers ago.”

         My jaw dropped. Two summers ago? But what about her reputation? About everything that people said?

          “Yeah, I know what people think about me,” she said. “It isn’t true. I made one mistake once, two years ago, and I’ve never stopped hearing about it. And now it seems like I’ve made a second one.”

         Then, spinning on her heels, she marched down the hallway to class.



         At first, Ginny wanted to keep the baby. She didn’t believe in abortion, she said. But I harped on it over and over, telling her how much a baby would ruin her life, how it would never allow her the chance to truly live, to be young and free, to care just for herself and only herself. Besides, I’d sometimes remind her subtly – and cruelly – it’s not like the kid will be born out of love. You want it growing up in a household where the parents don’t love each other?

         Not that I ever intended to live in a household with Ginny. Or even cared the slightest bit about how the child would affect her life. What terrified me, after all, was how the child would affect my life. How it would affect my plans for college and afterwards. I was about to enroll in Cal Tech this fall – as far as my future was concerned, until now, the sky was the limit. But now, with a baby, I’d have to worry about birthdays, about child support, about responsibilities that I had no desire – and doubtfully even the ability – to undertake. Above all, simply put, the thought of having a baby scared me shitless. I wanted no part.

         But Ginny didn’t need to know that. I made sure that all of my persuading solely concerned her.

         So finally, after all of the prodding, coaxing, and cajoling I had done, it had worked. I’d convinced her to abort. Pretending to be supportive (but really ensuring that she followed through), I held Ginny’s hand as we walked into the clinic. Within an hour, the deed was done. No more baby. My future restored.

         I never saw her again.

         Several years later, while at Cal Tech, a friend from home called and mentioned that Ginny was dead. Slit her wrists, apparently. I reflected on it briefly then went back to studying for my final. I had a scholarship to maintain, after all.

         I graduated from Cal Tech, top of my class, the envy of all the other students and even some of the faculty. I gave my valedictorian address, and talked about the importance of living life to the fullest, of not settling for less, of never taking the safe route with anything. To cite evidence of this, I talked about some of my increasingly risk-filled recent stunts: the mountain climbing trip during Spring Break, last month’s sky diving expedition over Fresno, and the previous summer’s trip to the Red Light District in Amsterdam, which caused the Provost’s face to flush in alarm. But the crowd loved it, and I claimed to love it, and life continued to roll along.

         Yes, bravery was everything – that was my theme. Meet life head-on. Do so with gusto. Fear nothing. It’s what I had done.

         Right. Fear nothing. I closed my eyes, feeling drowsy. It’s what I had done.

          “Good night, little Stevie,” I whispered before falling asleep.

         

         Three days later, I did eventually locate help, exactly one week after I’d left the well. Unfortunately, when I arrived, the park rangers were already occupied with the fires that were raging eighty miles away. “You’re lucky to have gotten out,” one of them told me. “From the sound of it, they’re spreading right in the direction you came from.” He also said it wouldn’t be safe to begin rescue operations for my son until the fires were contained.

         I felt as if I’d taken a punch in the gut. “You mean there’s nothing you can do, then?” I asked.

         “Well, sure, we can search along the perimeter of the blaze, but to actually go into the midst of it, that would be suicide. The best we can do now is alert the fire crew and notify them that there’s a child missing in the area. They’ll be able to search for him after they put out the flames.”

         “But he’s underground,” I said. “How could they possibly locate him without knowing where he is?”

         “I’m sorry, sir. It’s the best we can do.”

         I nodded, crestfallen.

         Stevie, I thought.

         My son.



         That evening it rained hard, in torrents. I was never so relieved to see precipitation in my life. The longer it rained, the better chance of extinguishing the flames, I figured. Thankfully, the very next morning, the ranger said the fire had been contained in the section from which I came.

         Immediately, a search party was formed. I led the way, showing them the blue numbered stars I had created along the way. We rode a number of all-terrain vehicles that made the tracking incredibly easy and quick. My spirits grew.

         Onward into the forest we went, twisting this way and that along the raggedy trail I had followed out. Far from direct, in retracing my path, it was obvious I had traveled in a number of loops and curly-cues – virtually anything but a straight line. The ranger told me that this was normal for an inexperienced hiker without a compass, and that if anything, he thought it an ingenious idea of me to at least mark the trees the way I did, considering I wasn’t an outdoorsman. To this I only shrugged.

         We drove further. By the ranger’s estimation, we were probably within five miles now.

         Then, all at once, everything went black. Where once hundred-foot trees had stood, there now lay nothing but ashes and rubble. The devastation was unfathomable, complete.

         The rangers stopped their vehicles. I glanced around. They all wore pitiful expressions.

         “What are we going to do now?” I asked.

         One of the rangers turned to me. Slowly, he responded, “Well, ain’t much we can do. You see what happened to those trees up ahead.”

         I looked again at the wreckage, shaking my head in disbelief. No, we couldn’t stop now – we were so close. There had to be a way.

         I devised one.

         “What if the trail continues along further up, beyond these ruins? Maybe we can pick it up from there.”

         The ranger shook his head. “Negative. That fire took out at least sixty square miles of woods, and this is just the edge. If your trail was anywhere, it was lost well within the perimeter of those flames.” He said this all with a sympathetic expression, indicating that I’d obviously lost much more than the trail.

         Still I couldn’t accept it. No. We would have to press on.

         “Well, we’ll just go in, then,” I said. “We’ll just search around until we find him, even if there’s no trail remaining to track.”

         “Negative again,” the ranger said softly. “From the amount of smoke in the distance there, it appears there could still be some active embers here. Best to let the place cool down a bit before going inside.”

         “So you mean you’re going to just leave him there, then? My son? To… to… die?” I finally said, my voice cracking.

         From their expressions, I could see they were all already certain of his demise. “Come on, sir,” the ranger said. “We should head back to the lodge.”

         I didn’t. I couldn’t.

         “No, I can’t,” I finally said. “I guess I’ll just stay out here and look for him by myself, then.”

         His brow furrowed. “That’s really dangerous, sir. I wouldn’t advise it.”

         I stared at him blankly, and he nodded. I guess he could tell I had no intention of leaving, because within minutes, he and the rest of the party had gone. They took their vehicles with them, so I was left to search on foot.

         I looked around me for what couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. Finally, in the midst now of nothing but ashes and soot in every direction, I slumped down into the still-warm soil, and wept. I cried out in agony for what once had been, and for what never could be. I cried out for the last seventeen years, as well as the next.

         “My child is gone!” I wailed, into the earth.

         Again.