“Likely a bear,” Pops said, seeming unconcerned about our camp intruder. “He probably smelled our food bag and wanted a taste. Most of the bears up here are harmless; there’s plenty for them to eat. So as long as you don’t startle a mother with cubs, they’ll give you a wide berth.” He was cutting thin strips of fatback into the skillet. “You boys go get canteen water to boil, then scout some wood for a courtesy pile. Let’s leave it bigger than we found it.”
We walked to the edge of the clearing and down the ridge into the forest toward the spring. “You think Pops is right about the bear?”
“I got no idea, but I don’t know which’d be worse, a bear or some creepy mountain man stalkin us.”
“Whatever it was, I don’t want to be meeting it again. Sooner we get out of here the better.”
We made it down to the spring, which spewed out of two rocks pushed together against the ridge face. It ran to a shallow pool ringed in mud. In the soft ground near the water was a clear, fresh boot print. Buzzy saw it first. “Look at this. You see it? Tole you it warn’t no bear.”
The boot print was so clear we could read the make and size—Timberland, eleven. “It could be an old one,” I offered. Buzzy said nothing. I filled the canteens and we dragged fallen branches back into camp for the courtesy pile. “Pops, we saw a man’s footprint in the mud down by the spring. Buzzy doesn’t think it was a bear last night. He thinks it could have been a man.”
“Well, this is a popular camping spot, what with the spring and the protection of the boulders.” He turned a piece of fatback with a fork. “Could’ve been a hiker or a poacher.” His confidence gave me comfort. If Pops, with all his wisdom, experience, and courage, wasn’t concerned, then neither was I.
We wolfed instant oatmeal and coffee and a few strips of the fatback, then packed up the tent, overfilled the courtesy pile, and broke camp, careful to haul out all our trash. It was eight thirty and the sky was bright blue, with a few billowing clouds to the south. “We’ve got thirteen hard miles to do today if we’re going to make Glaston Lake by nightfall. Kevin, why don’t you lead us?”
“Do I get the walking stick?” I put out my hand and smiled.
He picked it up and appraised it with obvious affection. “This is one you have to earn, son.” He turned his palm up in an “after you” motion, and I took off down the trail, Buzzy behind me, Pops bringing up the rear.
We followed the trail for another few miles across the ridgetop, then down into a beautiful wooded valley, stopping halfway in to snack at the Pancakes, an outcropping of four flat table-size rocks nature had stacked on each other.
The trail took us to the edge of a raging river, mud infused and swollen to flood from the weeks of rain. The jet roar of white water as it crashed down a thirty-foot cliff to rocks below.
We stood on the bank, watching the powerful torrent throw itself over the edge. “This is the Blackball River,” Pops said, as if reading my mind. “Very dangerous water, especially now. There’s a footbridge about eight miles up for crossing.” We followed the trail riverside for most of the afternoon, past screaming rapids at first, then miles of lazy curves, until the trail ended abruptly at the bank, then continued ninety feet across the other side, the rope tatterings of the old footbridge streaming into the water like abandoned fishing lines.
Pops stood on the edge, hands on hips. “This is an unhappy complication.” We looked up and down the stream for a narrowing or a fallen tree to help us cross, but there was none. “All this water’s coming off Glaston—unlikely it’ll let up anytime soon. Looks like we’re gonna have to get wet.”
“Yahoo! I could use a swim,” I said with mock levity.
Pops took his pack off and dug into it. “Kevin, I appreciate the humor, but this is a dangerous situation. This river is full of boulders and undercuts that can suck you down and not spit you back for days. Frankly, I’ve half a mind to turn back rather than risk it.”
“Sorry, Pops,” I said sheepishly. It was the first time he had ever admonished me, and it stung.
He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a thin smile. “We’re fifteen miles into the wilderness with no chance of help. Don’t be sorry; be vigilant.”
Just then, the carcass of a drowned deer raced past us as if to punctuate Pops’ warning. Its head was submerged, its belly down, with hind legs pointing to the sky. It looked like an outsize duck diving for fish. We watched it pass and continue down the creek, turning belly up on the turbulent edge of an eddy. It circled, as if two-stepping with the current, then disappeared under the surface. We all stared at the space where the dead animal had been.
“Let’s not be that deer,” Pops said.
Chapter 27
THE CROSSING
Buzzy and I shook off our packs and Pops brought out a long measure of nylon cord. “We’re gonna work this just like a clothesline with a pulley on each end—only the pulleys are us.” He unfurled the rope and tied the two ends together with a square knot, testing it twice. He tied a loop in the middle, then put it over his head and under his arms.
“I’m gonna swim across with my end of the rope; then we’ll work this loop back clothesline-style. Send the packs over one at a time, then the first boy puts the loop under his arms and swims it while we hold the ends and feed him across. The last boy loops in and swims while we two pull him as fast as we can from the other side. You got that?”
We nodded solemnly and moved upstream about a hundred feet. I looped the rope around a boulder.
“Good thinking, Kevin. How else can we cut our risk in this operation?”
I thought for a moment. “Don’t fight the current so much. Swim diagonally with it.”
“That’s exactly correct. What else?”
“Swim like you got prahanas bitin at your ass,” Buzzy said to break the tension. Even Pops laughed at that.
“It’ll be easier for us because you’ll be on the other side pulling,” I offered. “We just can’t get loose of the rope.”
“Under no circumstances can you get loose of the rope. At all costs, don’t get loose of the rope.”
Pops took off his hiking boots and shirt and put them in the top of his pack. We did the same. He stepped off the bank, letting out a yell about the cold water. The current took him immediately ten yards downstream. He quickly recovered and cut across the water with powerful strokes.
The current kept pushing him downstream, but with each stroke he made good headway. He was three-quarters across just as the rope lost the last of its play. He reached up and grabbed an overhanging limb and pulled himself half out of the water, then jungle-gymmed to the far bank. He scrambled onto the shore, dog-shook the water off, then walked back to the crossing point. “Go on and send the packs over,” he shouted above the racing-water sounds.
Buzzy picked up Pops’ pack. “This sucker ain’t gonna float. Weighs a frickin ton.” He tied the rope to the aluminum frame.
“Wait just a second.” I opened the pack and pulled out the cooking supplies and Pops’ clothes, which were encased in extra-large plastic ziplock bags. I opened the first just a crack and blew air into the top. It expanded like a balloon. I sealed it and did the same with the four other bags and repacked everything, barely fitting it all into the space. “Great thinking, Kevin,” Pops shouted. Buzzy eased the pack into the maelstrom. It went under for a moment, then bobbed on the top. I held the rope, feeding it as Pops pulled the pack across quickly. He grabbed it from the river and shook the water off. I pumped up the clothes bags in our packs. Buzzy tied each to the rope and Pops pulled them one by one to the other side.
“You want me to go first?” Buzzy asked.
“I think I should, since I’m lighter. I’m gonna need you holding that rope hard. When you get in, bring the line with you and we’ll pull you across, like Pops said. The current will swing you most of the way, I think.”
Buzzy nodded. “All right, let’s go.” I put the loop over my head and secured it under my arms. Buzzy braced himself against a rock. I stepped off the bank into cold river water.
The force of the current immediately knocked my feet out from under me. I regained footing and moved off the sandy bottom into the deep water. The rush of it pushed me downstream until the rope tightened. Buzzy braced against the pull and fed the line to Pops, who was pulling hard and fast. I swam as best I could, but most of my progress was due to him.
I was halfway across when I heard Buzzy yell above the din. “Tree comin!” I looked upstream and saw a huge tree stump with a ten-foot root spread, half submerged and bearing down on me from fifty yards away. Buzzy hesitated for a moment, then took a running dive into the water. The rope went slack and Pops turned, slung it over his shoulder, and pushed away from the bank like a draft horse. I reached the overhanging tree and grabbed the branch, slipping the loop off my shoulders. Buzzy was still in the middle, swimming hard, but the giant stump was nearly on him. I scrambled up the bank, grabbed the rope, and pulled with Pops.
Buzzy’s head kept bobbing in and out of the water as he tried to swim and watch the stump at once. As it came near, he flipped over to fend it off with his feet. The stump parried and the sharp roots turned to him. Pops and I heaved once more and pulled him clear just as the stump rushed past. A few more pulls and he was up on the bank, on hands and knees, heaving for air. Pops and I collapsed on the ground.
We stayed catching our breath for a few more minutes. Finally, Pops stood. “Buzzy, that was quick thinking. No way we could have held on if that stump had hit.” He walked over and put a hand on his back. “You okay, son?”
Buzzy nodded and coughed.
“We all best get on the trail,” Pops said. “The hardest part of the hike is still to come.” We put on dry clothes and affixed the wet packs to our backs. The woods were in the first brush of evening as Pops took off up the trail.
“You saved my ass!” I said to Buzzy. “Thanks.”
“You tole me this was gonna be a vacation. That was no fuckin vacation.”
“Look, man, from here on out it’s gonna be great. Pops said Glaston Lake is unbelievable.”
“Then let’s jus get our asses there.” A tired smile flashed the gap in his two front teeth.
We hiked a few hundred yards through the trees, then paused at the base of a huge mountain. Its foundation shot up sharply from the valley, as if it had been driven out of the earth by some cataclysm deep in the core. Its sides were thick with pine and oak and ash that caressed the rise like a thick green beard. And rocks. Strewn rock bowling balls, beach balls, VW Bugs, sedans, trucks, trailers, houses, that all seemed to have been tossed casually from the granite top to alight at the pleasure of gravity. I could see a twisting murmur of trail drawn brown on the green and gray, snaking the face like a scar.
“This is Old Blue, one of the highest mountains in Kentucky and the hardest part of the hike. Three miles of uphill switchbacks, but once you see the lake, you’ll know it was worth it.” We stood with our packs, looking up the long, steep climb. “Buzzy, why don’t you lead this last leg?”