Since I was a child, I have
always found peace in the outdoors. It began when my father took me camping at
a National Park for my eighth birthday and it is a passion that stayed with me
all through my life. Growing up, I would read Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet novels
and imagine myself in the North American wilderness alongside Brian, captivated
by the wonders of nature around me. Even now, as I begin to enter my 30s, it is
still my preferred means of escape. Each and every winter, I clear my schedule
nearly half a year in advance and I ask for time away from work, and begin to
prepare. I ready myself to escape the cramped confines of the city, to leave
all the noise and people behind me as I make my return to the wild, but no
more.
Never
again will I venture into the untamed wilderness, whether it be a national park
or something a simple as an RV park. For nearly two decades, I have deluded
myself into believing that I could handle any hardships the natural world threw
my way, all because I read some books and subscribed to outdoorsman magazines.
Years were spent trying to persuade my husband to join me on these trips,
coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t as passionate as I about the
outdoors, but no longer. Still he asks me why I refuse to return, but there are
just some things I can never tell. Some things even a husband would dismiss as
hallucinations or madness.
It was little more than a year
ago when I embarked on my final journey into the wild. There was a national
park I had come to love over the years, a place I once considered so beautiful
that I took no issue with the hour-and-a-half it took to travel there by air.
It was blessed with numerous hot springs, many of which were too hot to bathe
in, yet breathtaking to admire, especially when the snow had freshly fallen and
all was frozen save for those pools of near-boiling water. There was one hot
spring that I loved in particular. The fact that it was nearly a two-hour hike
from the campsite never deterred me. It was nestled neatly away in the middle
of a small valley where I would sit as close to the edge as I deemed safe and
gaze out into the winter wonderland, music playing softly in my ears as I found
a peace I was certain few had ever known. Upon my last visit however, peace was
fleeting.
It wasn’t until the second day
that I was able to trek into the valley. The deciduous forest was absent of
leaves, the winter winds weaving through withered branches with its biting
chill attempting to force its way beneath my winter clothes, all to no avail. The
hike itself was uneventful, almost uncharacteristically so. There was no sudden
movement of a rabbit diving for cover or a fox chasing its quarry, not even the
tracks of deer that I had long since come to expect to find dotting the snow.
My arrival at the hot spring was as unceremonious as ever and the first hour
was spent drinking hot chocolate from a thermos, reading a copy of Brian’s
Winter with music playing softly in my ears until I felt a sudden chill.
Whether it was the wind or some other sense I do not know, but something called
my attention to the other side of the hot spring. Looking out across the water
I caught a glimpse of colour, out of place in this world of white. Was it an
animal? Another camper? I did not know, but I was drawn to find out. It
scarcely took me more than a few minutes to circle the waters edge, yet when I
came upon the site, I froze.
Frozen
blood stained the snow, highlighting the carcass of a grey fox at its centre.
The body of the animal was stiff and ice had begun to form around the corpse,
clearly having been there for some time. I found it odd that no scavengers had
stripped the corpse, as there was no shortage of raccoons, and coyotes in the
area, but my question was quickly answered as I stepped closer to investigate.
I felt my boot collide with something solid, disturbing something not too far
beneath the snow. As I knelt down to examine the item I found that I felt much
colder than before, until I exposed the object beneath me and my breath caught
in my throat, all thoughts of cold suddenly leaving me.
It was the body of a coyote, dead
like the fox and just as frozen. Beside it lay the buried paw of another animal
and I suddenly found myself quickly moving to dig out more snow. Another coyote
corpse lay beside the first as well as what looked like the frozen form of a
dead raccoon. All three bodies had what seemed to be large wounds on the back
of their necks, deep enough that I could see what I can only assume to be their
severed spines. It was then that I became aware of a sound in the distance,
through the trees in the higher parts of the valley. A haunting sound that
sounded impossibly beautiful, alluring and terrifying all at once, the sound of
singing.
--------------------------------
Hurrying
back to the campsite I spent most of the journey looking back over my shoulder,
listening out for that eerie, wordless song. Upon my return I sought out the
first park ranger I could find and relayed to him the things I had seen and
heard. He assured me that it was nothing to be concerned about, that coyotes
would usually fight over food and that once the snow melted it revealed all
manner of animal bodies that would begin to decompose in the springtime. As for
the singing, he excused it as either an animal call or howl, possibly some bird
late in its migration, reassuring me that there was nothing to worry about.
While I admit that his words did put me at ease, I still did not return to the
valley for three days.
When
I did return it was after much internal deliberation coupled with periodical
pep talks whereupon I would tell myself that I had been coming here so long,
camping most of my life knowing full well the risks and taking care to act as
responsibly as possible. Even with all of this motivation I still did not
depart for the valley until after noon, arriving later in the afternoon than I
would usually like to.
Looking
back on it all now I realize how naive I really was. I wasn’t behaving
responsibly, I wasn’t aware of the risks; I was just some city-dweller who’d
fallen in love with a story, a romantic idea of what nature was. I’d spent so
much time pining for an idea that I ignored the reality held within the pages
of the story I treasured so dearly. The dangers of animal attack and of traveling
alone, unarmed with no reliable communication. I was no outdoorsman; I was a
tourist with a high quality tent nestled cozily on the camping pad of a
National Park out who was out for a walk. I was a fool so blinded by my own
fantasy that it was through my own folly I found myself in that valley under a
setting sun.
The
moment I first realized my dilemma was when I noticed that the words upon the
pages of my book were becoming difficult to read under the dimming light. To my
credit I’d had enough sense to carry a flashlight with me for no other reason
than “just in case,” yet the light was still rapidly vanishing in the valley.
It was as I was turning to leave that I heard the singing, coming from the
other side of the hot spring like before yet growing closer, descending into
the valley. My first instinct was to stay and listen to the song while a
deeper, much more primal part of me screamed to run, to hide from the
approaching sound. For a moment I was frozen in the vanishing light of the
valley, unable to commit to any one decision until I saw a glow beyond the
trees. Faint yet unmistakable in the darkness of a rapidly approaching night
sky and causing me to first take a step backwards, followed by several more
until I found myself backed against a tree, instinctively ducking behind it,
only to peek around its trunk in an attempt to see the approaching glow. To
this day I still cannot fully believe what I saw as it entered into the
clearing and made its way to the spring.
I
saw God.
A
glowing, winged form traveled along the treetops, descending into the valley
and glowing just brightly enough in the moonless night that I could not make
out much else besides its most basic features. Feathered wings carried it
through the air from branch to branch, supporting a slender human form as it
stood atop a circle of light. Watching it fly to each new tree branch its
massive wings seemed to have trouble carrying it very far, as if it were unused
to flying through earthly skies or was too heavy to take to the skies, yet it
had no other way means of travel. At that moment I thought it to be injured as
its arms and legs hung unmoving, supported first by the branches it landed upon
them by the circle of light at its feet as it took flight. It glowed with an
otherworldly radiance, singing with a jarring, haunting series of notes, like a
series of clicks woven into the song of some sea creature, like a dolphin or a
whale.
As
it left the final branch I watched it settle into the waters of the hot spring,
water far too hot for a human to endure, resting atop that circular glowing
platform where it remained perfectly still until I noticed more glowing forms
descending into the valley. More glowing beings, carried on wings struggling to
give them lift came to settle in the waters of the spring. I wasn’t witnessing
God, I was seeing His angels, coming to rest in the waters of my own personal
paradise, their wings struggling under earthly forces so vastly different to
those of their heavenly home.
In
awe I stepped away from my hiding place, allowing my flashlight to light the
way down to the hot spring while listening to the chorus of the angels as they
sung in the steam as it rose from the spring water in the cold winter night.
Drawing closer, one of the heavenly beings noticed me and began to fly closer
towards me, its massive 15-foot wingspan carrying it several feet at a time as
it came to rest momentarily within the waters of the spring before continuing
in my direction. The angel grew larger as it drew closer, standing nearly eight
feet in height and bathed in that heavenly glow. It wasn’t until it made its
final leap into the air towards me until I realized something was wrong.
There
was no hair to speak of anywhere on its glowing body. The feathers that adorned
its wings were coated in some manner of oily substance and they spread down
over its shoulders, partially covering its abnormally large pectoral muscles
while the circular pad that supported it in flight seemed to distort in shape
while airborne. As it drew closer I realized that the circular pad was not the
solid platform of light that I had first mistaken it to be, but was instead a
series of thin, glowing, hair-like tentacles spreading out from what I
incorrectly thought were its feet. From there, a single limb, like two legs
fused together, met with an armless torso, all of which supported a completely
featureless face. It had no mouth, nose, eyes, or ears to speak of; just that
slick, oily skin emitting a light bluish-glow.
Before
I could react, the creature was upon me, those thin tentacles at its base
impacting against my chest and wrapping around me as I felt something grab hold
of my jacket, hearing the fabric tear. For a moment its song halted as it
knocked me screaming to the ground. I found myself grabbing at the thing’s
“legs,” trying to tear it off of me but finding it difficult to manage to grip
the thing, its skin feeling impossibly soft under my grip, the oily substance
covering its flesh hampering my efforts as if I were trying to grab the body of
a worm yet still I persisted, an animalistic fear overcoming me as I struggled
against my attacker until finally I felt something give under my grip followed
by a shrill series of clicks.
The
false angel fell away from me, attempting to fly away but faltering, falling
backwards onto my legs and pinning its wings beneath own form. I suddenly found
myself face to face with that circle of tentacles, looking into the maw of
madness itself, for beneath the tentacles, where its feet should have been, was
a mouth. No, not a mouth, a beak; one that appeared to be two beaks fused
together side-by-side yet sporting rows of razor-sharp teeth. Circling its
mouth was a ring of numerous tiny eyes, no bigger than an infant’s, each eye glowing
a lifeless white under the glow of my flashlight, like that of a corpse.
Looking down at my chest I saw where it had torn into my jacket in its attack
and I now have no doubt that, had it been able, it would have preferred to
latch on to the back of my neck, severing my spine and leaving me to die in the
cold.
Looking
into that piercingly clicking beak a panic overcame me as I struggled to throw
the creature off from me. Expecting an unreasonable amount of weight I was
shocked to find the creature to be impossibly light, though in hindsight that
could have been thanks to a sudden surge of adrenaline. Tossing the creature
off of me into the snow, I scurried backwards and onto my feet, looking out
over the water of the hot springs in time to see the other “angels” fleeing
into the trees, abandoning their injured companion as it struggled to right
itself, green blood spilling from a wound torn into its legs, the blood forming
a slowly reddening pool in the snow.
Without
a second thought I turned and ran. I ran until my lungs burned and my head swam
from the exertion, my consciousness threatening to leave me at any moment. I
ran into the night with nothing but my flashlight and instincts to guide me. I
do not know how it is that I managed it, but I eventually found myself back at
the campsite, unaware of how much time had passed and frantically dismantling
my things. I never tried to warn anyone or to find a park ranger. How could
I? Who would believe me? Glowing angels with the bodies of feathered worms
in the hot springs, whose flesh was so fragile that it tore under the panicked
grip of a gloved hand? They would call me mad, say that I’d been attacked by
some wild animal and imagined the experience out of fear. No, I knew then that
I needed to leave that place, to never speak of those things I saw lest I be
committed or dismissed as someone seeking fame.
I
packed my belongings and I fled that same evening, throwing my jacket out the
window as I drove for fear of the questions it would raise and taking the first
flight home. I spent the remainder my vacation in a hotel, unable to face the
questions of my husband attempting to drink those memories away for eight
consecutive days until finally finding the strength of will to compose myself
enough to return home, telling my husband that I had caught an earlier flight
home because I had missed him. He will never know this truth that I shall take
to my grave, yet still I awaken in the middle of the night drenched in sweat,
unable to breathe. For if I truly intend to take this tale to my grave, what
angels will await me when I get there?
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