Wild Grave
Waking up to the sound of chirping birds partially compensates for the fact that I am lost. As I awake, I crush the brittle, dry leaves which lie beneath my body. The rays of light which bleed through the thriving autumn leaves blind me momentarily as I begin to stand up. This tells me it is morning. Don’t be mistaken, for this was no accident. I proceed forward without caution.
I have placed myself somewhere deep in the Jefferson National Forest. I can’t say for sure where I am, but I know why I’m here. My mother passed away eight days ago, which was even more tragic considering it was my eighteenth birthday. She was a strong woman who had a serious passion for fishing, and this she passed on to me. I am more lost without my mother than I am out here, and honestly, I feel closer to her now than ever. I know this is what she wants and where she should be put to rest. Her dream had been to live out here, and that is exactly what she will do.
It is my third day of walking, and I’m thirsty. I don’t give a shit about mountain lions, bears, bobcats, rattlesnakes, black widows, or fire ants. At this point, I feel like I’d rather just die than trudge along this thirsty and exhausted. I haven’t located a source of drinkable water for the past forty-eight hours, and my mind begins to ramble; I think I’m losing it. I’m starting to lose all hope when I see a beautiful, soaring bald eagle. As I admire the beauty of this creature, I notice something hanging from its talons. I begin to pay closer attention, and see it is a fish. There is water close. I have read just about every book there is about fishing, fish types, how to fish, what to fish for, where to fish for it, what bait to use, how to cook the fish, and fish identification. Even from the distance I am at, I can tell that this is a rainbow trout. A person can only live up to seventy-two hours without water. I am now at fifty. The realization that I have one day to find water has hit me. There is no time to waste.
As I walk down the path, I listen to all of the birds chirping, wind blowing, and the crunch of the leaves as I walk on them. Then, the sounds stop, and there is complete silence. Not a bird is chirping, not a lizard crawling, or even a fly buzzing. Nothing. I take a step and the quiet sound of my foot makes an eruption compared to the silence around me. Something is close. As my thoughts start to ramble, my heart starts to pound, and I begin to walk faster and faster. All of a sudden something bursts out of the bushes like a bat out of hell, and I run. I have a head start, but for every step I take, it takes two. Though I am running from something, that cannot change my destination. I remember when the eagle flew over my head, and what direction it was coming from. Sticking on the imaginary dotted line I have plotted out in my mind, I continue in what I believe to be the direction of water. There is a sound of flowing water near, but it is difficult for me to tell where or how far away it is. A clearing of light shines through the trees up ahead, and now the sound is roaring. I find myself standing on the edge of a raging, thirty-foot waterfall. I have been given no choice.
I still am unaware of what was chasing me because I never looked back. Whatever it was, it definitely did not follow me down the thirty foot fall. It is also possible that I have begun hallucinating due to my extreme dehydration, but either way, I am safe now. As the day goes on, my shadow begins to dissipate, and the temperatures begin to drop. There is a shady area created by a tree which hangs over an eddy at the bottom of the waterfall. This is where I decide to set up camp, not only due to the large fish I have seen in the water, but the extreme beauty of the area has caught my eye.
First, I boil large amounts of water from the stream to drink and cook with. The feeling of the warm water flowing down my throat is the feeling of success. I take out my mother’s old fly pole which she had caught hundreds with before, and get snagged on my first cast. I am pissed off, until my pole jerks again. What I believed to be a snag has turned into the largest fish this pole has ever hooked into. The weight at the end of the pole feels like a weight comparable to my own. I watch as the end of my rod pulses up and down, clicking against the ground with each yank. After slipping, tripping, and stumbling over debris, I finally get the fish in close enough to see its tail flop once out of the water. Coming up on thirty minutes of battle, I am starting to tire out. My back has now begun to cramp, and I don’t believe I can continue to fight this beast. I give my pole one last aggressive jerk, risking either breaking my hook, or unhooking the creature. As the pole rotates behind my head, the fish jumps from the water, and flies through the air right past me. The combination of the fish jumping from the water and the timing of my final jolt have come together to slingshot the animal. After a few moments, I retrieve the fish from the tall grass behind me. During this retrieval, I discover a pathway which leads to an opening. I follow.
I have found the spot. Beautiful ivy layers natural rock walls surrounding a bowl of wild blue water. Flowers are blooming from the crevices of the rocks, dragonflies are dancing on and off the surface of the ice cold blue liquid, frogs are croaking, huge rainbows lurk in the depths of the water, and the beautiful sound of the wilderness plays the song my mother has always wanted to hear. I open the metal canister which I have protected with my life, and let my mother flow through the breeze of cool air. I watch as her ashes stick to the calm water like snowflakes falling onto concrete. My mother’s dreams have come true.
