Under the Northern Lights(8)

While that was a fear that filled my stomach with icy dread, I had to ignore it. There was nothing I could do about it, and there were too many other things that needed to be done. I needed to gather wood for fires and find a way to keep it dry—staying warm was essential. I’d need to add to my food stores if I was going to make it here long term, and considering I couldn’t blindly walk home, I’d say I was going to be here for a while. The search for food might have to wait until my leg healed somewhat, but considering that the grizzly had probably devoured every piece of nutrition that wasn’t in my bag, I knew I’d have to go out while injured. And like everything else, that would make hunting a thousand times harder. I hated what I was going to have to endure soon—what I was enduring now—but it was what I had to do to survive. Giving up wasn’t an option.

But first, wood and maybe a more substantial shelter . . . something a little more bear proof. Unwrapping myself from my blanket, I began the process of sitting up. And it was a process—everything was. Breathing was still hard to do, and I wished I had something to wrap tightly around my chest. Any form of support would be a comfort. Letting out short, unsatisfying huffs, I unzipped my bag to find breakfast—dried meat and protein bars. I figured I had about a couple days’ worth of “real” food in there, and then I’d be on to the emergency freeze-dried food.

I’d planned ahead when I’d prepared my plane, but the crash and the bear had changed all that. I’d have to supplement my stash with wild meat—fish, deer, rabbits. Life here was abundant, if you knew where to look. Of course, this wasn’t my normal stopping area, and I had no idea what the geography was like, where the lakes and rivers were. Fear and doubt started crowding the edges of my brain, fighting for dominance, but letting those emotions take over would only hurt me, and I was hurting enough.

Shoving them aside, I focused on what I knew. I was good at tracking, and I understood animal instinct. I was positive I could set some traps and find some food. After foraging for wood and fortifying my shelter, of course. God, I had so much to do, and I was so weak, so tired . . . in so much pain. But I had people waiting for me . . . I had to keep going. Just keep going.

Gnawing on my breakfast, I tried redirecting my darkening thoughts by thinking about what I would have been doing right now if I’d made it through the storm and my plane had landed normally. I’d be eating the same food and staying in the same shelter, but I’d have full use of my body, and I’d be excited about the day’s possibilities. I’d be looking for tracks, preparing my camera. Oh God, my camera. It could be anywhere in the woods—finding it would take a miracle. Not that it really mattered if I did happen to stumble across it . . . my camera was most likely broken, if not completely shattered. A surge of grief struck me like a physical blow, and tears swelled in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. On the list of things that I’d lost, my camera seemed trivial, but a part of my soul was wrapped in that glass and plastic, and it killed me to know it was gone. Wiping my cheeks dry, I reminded myself that objects could be replaced. My life couldn’t be.

If I hadn’t crashed, I’d be snapping my favorite animals, capturing photos that would sustain me for months, if not longer. Foxes, hares, moose, bears, wolves: I’d be eager to see them. But now . . . a lot of those creatures I hoped to never see while I was here. Everything was different now that my life was on the line, and that made me want to weep. The very animals I’d come here to see might be what destroyed me.

If I hadn’t lost my plane, I’d be returning to Idaho in a few weeks. That was the hardest what-if to think about, and my eyes stung with tears again as home floated through my mind. My dogs would cover me with sloppy kisses. Mom would hug me like she’d been sure she’d never see me again. Then she would tell me I shouldn’t go out into the wilderness alone, and I should stay and work at the diner with her full time. But right after that she would give me a small, relenting smile and ask to see my pictures. Dad would agree with Mom’s every word about me staying home; then he’d contradict himself by excitedly telling me every fact he knew about all the animals I’d photographed. Dad’s passion had fueled my own—I’d learned more about the natural world from listening to him than from National Geographic. Patricia would listen intently to all my stories, then start psychoanalyzing why I’d chosen such a dangerous, antisocial career. Shawn would hover, not-so-subtly watching over me, making sure I was truly okay. Then he would tell me we’d made a huge mistake and beg me to take him back. But I wouldn’t, because I knew we were only ever meant to be friends.

That was what should have been in my future, but now . . . the odds of me getting back to that life were so slim I might as well have been planning a trip to the moon. I was never leaving these woods. I would never see my loved ones again, and they would never really know what had become of me. They’d miss me; they’d mourn me . . . for ages. And in their hearts, they would believe that they’d been right—that I should have shelved my dream and lived a life of safety and certainty. That wasn’t what I wanted . . . but neither was this.

Despair started settling over me like a wet blanket, dragging me down deeper and faster than I could resist. Despondency cut off the light, the oxygen—the love—until all I felt was cold, alone, and in pain. I was going to die here. The wolves would feast until my bones were the only remaining trace of me.