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camps and cult initiations.You can
feel your character traits scurrying for the corners, leaving a
spacebehind.Ifallgoeswell,somethingworthywillmove in,
likecourageorempathy.Butcunningandcravennessarealsoin
contention.Aswepreparetohaulourselves,onebyone,along
ahighand impossiblyflimsywire,ImakesureIamamongthe
first todo it.I think this is because I’m aware,on some level,
that theconnectionsmightgetprogressivelyweaker.
But thedeath-defying stuff is onlyhalf of it.It’swearying
to expend somuch effort on the simplest of tasks. It occurs
tome that this coursemight be less about survival andmore
about copingwith the aftermathof survival, the absence of
comfort.Moreandmore,our campfireconversations revolve
aroundwhat itwouldbe like tohaveashower,aburger,apair
ofdry socks.
Then,on themorningofday four,Jeffpullsup inamini-
bus,and the real ordeal begins.
We are in theBig Indian
Wilderness, at the base
ofDoubleTopMountain,which rises3,868 feet andwhose
“RiskyAnimals”are listed as “Bears (High).”Ourmission
is to climb themountainoff-trail,our shoulders gnawedby
packs containing a tonof gear (but no foodorwater). Josh,
WillandClairewill followatadiscreetdistance,justtomake
surenoneofusactuallydies,but this isn’tmuchofacomfort.
This isgoing tobehard.
First off, there’s aworldof differencebetween following a
trailandmakingyourwaythroughtherough.Branchessmack
you in the face.Thorns claw at your extremities.Rocks and
crevicescauseyouranklestobend inoddways.Youfalloverso
muchyouforgetyou’reevendoing it.Your legsscreamforyou
tostop,butyouhavetokeepgoing.Andthere’sanotherbloody
incline,another river tocrossviaglistening rocks.
Andwhenwe finallymake it to the top,wehave to finda
spot tosetupcamp,buildashelter,lighta fire,start thinking
about food.Paul and I setoff in searchofwater,and Inotice
thatthere’sa lotofscatonthetrail,thickandblack.Itappears
we’ve settleddownbesideaMainStreet forbears.Great.
Whenwe return,we find thegroupporingoverascrapof
paper,presumably leftby the food fairy,bearingcoordinates
that eventually lead us to another dead rabbit. I don’t like
this.This is bait.And, for once, I’m not the onlyworrier.
Jonathan,themostruggedpersonamongus,suggestswepee
around the edges of the camp tomarkour territory.We eat
in silence,passingaround the rabbit,taking turns tognawat
thecarcass,thencarefullybagup the scraps andget themas
far away from campaspossible.Bed time.
Our shelter is a lean-to,openonone side. It’s not as large
as itcouldhavebeen,sowehave topackourselves in,like fish
sticks.Sleepdoesnotcomeeasy:Thereare rootsdigging into
myback,acoldwindonmy faceand,from the looming trees,
theunmistakablesoundofbearssharpeningtheirclaws.Idon’t
believeI’veeveranticipatedanythingaskeenlyasIdotheend
of thisnight.
Earlier,we’dagreed thatnoneofuswouldgetup torelieve
ourselves,whichwouldrequireclimbingovereachother,but
bydaybreakmybladder is innomood tohonoragreements.
Creepingthroughthetrees,Icomeacrossanoutcrop,looking
out over a range of pink-tingedmountains. I stand for a
while,mesmerizedby the beauty, themajesty, theARGH!
Joshwalksupbehindme,almost causingme to jump tomy
death.“Comeon,”he says.“Time to clearout.”
We break down the shelter, pack up the bags and head
downhill.Oh, happy day! Or not. I’d heard that climbing
down amountain is harder than climbing up, but this is
ridiculous. I stagger and stumble,wobble and flail.Hardly
a step is takenwithout some kindof painful incident. I can
tell the guys are losingpatiencewithme. I’m slowing them
down.Everybodywantsout.
Aroundmidday,I sitona logandannouncemy intention
to quit.As if bymagic,Claire appears. “Stay here and you
willbe testingyour survival skills,”she says,“becausenoone
is coming to get you.”Besides, she adds,we’re nearly there.
“We’ve got a treat for you at the end!”A picnic?A beer? I
dragmyself upand lurchon.
The treat turns out to be an unusually scary climb to a
point beside a hugewaterfall,maybe 75 feet high,where
Jeff awaitswith a clutter of clips and ropes.We’regoing to
rappel down. Surprise! I take stock of the situation and,
for the first time since Iwas achild,shed tears fornoother
reason than I am afraid.But I forcemyself todo it.I allow
myself to be buckled in by this jokingman. I lean back. I
stepover the edge.
Itwouldn’t be sobad if thiswere a sheer cliff,but it isn’t.I
keep swinging intocrevices,stumblingon ledges,spinning in
midair.Then theBadThinghappens: I losemy footing and
swinghelplessly into the falls,aviolent,noisy,terrifyingplace
tobe.“Aaaaaah!”I remark.“Nooooo!”
At thebaseof the falls,thebraveandwonderful Joshyanks
theropeandpullsmeout.I’mOK,anda little laterIamdown.
There isno relief,noeuphoria,justdull shock.I sitdownand
watchtheothersmakethedescent,whoopingandhigh-fiving
at thebottom.All Ican thinknow is,Ineedabeer.
A fewhours later I amhavingone, sitting in a cozydiner
withmy new pals.The previous night,we sat around the
campfire and fantasized about sweet, sticky cinnamonbuns,
and I seenow that theyhave them at the counter.I buyone,
andwepass itaround,breakingbitsoffandstuffingthem into
ourmouths.
Later,whenpeopleask if theexperiencehas changedme,
Ikeep returning to the samemoment,standingoutside that
diner with a bit of bun I’d squirreled away formyself. Just
beforeIpopped it intomymouth,asmall flygot its feetstuck
in the icing.Ipopped that in too.
InkGlobal international editor,U.S.,
ChrisWright
didnot see
anybearsduringhisCatskillsadventure—butheheardthousands.
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