Words: Stephen Zakur 2017-06-26 18:15:10
There’s a spot in the brain that viscerally responds to the sound of a man crying for help. I’ve been told it’s tied to the fight-or-flight instinct. Most folks flee from the sound of danger. It’s understandable. A self-preservation thing. Some folks run toward it, ready to do what needs to be done. It’s not a choice, it’s wiring. Half a year at Fort Sam Houston and two tours in the foothills of the northern Afghanistan had wrung the flight instinct from me. I dug out my trauma pack and leapt into the scrub. I wished I had my M4 carbine.
The air among the willows and aspen was calm and warm. Charlie’s sobs steered me. Ahead a form moved away, massive pale brown yielding to green. Charlie lay on a patch of ground that looked like a bloody tornado had torn into it. His gear was scattered. The willows were broken. Charlie lay on his belly, one hand grasping his mangled ass and the other in front of him, clearly at his crotch. He gasped for air roughly but it didn’t seem to be an airway problem. The wild look in his eyes. The blood. This was shock. Charlie was wounded in several places, including those that are dear to a man, though most of the damage was to his glutes. It seems being fat-assed had provided a better target for the beast than what set in front. Months from now, jokes would be made at Charlie’s expense.
The scent of the forest had been replaced by the heady stink of bear and blood. That metallic smell is the thing that sticks with you. It’s the thing that tugs at memories. It took a few moments to get Charlie calm enough to let me look at his ass. It was bleeding good. I pieced it back together, packed the worst bleeder with QuikClot and applied a compression dressing. There were multiple lacerations along his back and thighs, but nothing that was going to kill him anytime soon. I cut away the rest of his pants. Up front, I tenderly laid a good wad of Kerlix and wound a bandage tightly.
Just outside Yellowstone is a part of the Gallatin that splits into a few braids. Most folks slide down the bank along the highway and fish the closest water. The far braids are fishier. The water is deeper and slower. To get to them, not only do you have to cross the fast water, but you also have to wade a hundred yards of willow and aspen scrub. Smart anglers let the bears know they’re coming. I’ve never run into a bear in that stretch, but I’ve seen the matted rounds where they’ve slept and stepped in their prodigious dumps. I hate walking through those willows. It doesn’t stop me from doing so, I just hate it.
For now, the willows were tight and quiet. I spoke to Charlie. He was more lucid than before. He was worried about his wounds. I told him the bear was gone, even though that was just a hope. There was a well-traveled bridge about a mile away. If we didn’t get a cell signal before then, I was certain we could flag someone down.
Charlie’s run of luck had been poor since he got out in 2012. A divorce and foreclosure within months of each other set the ball rolling downhill. Steady work didn’t come, and for a guy who had developed a body style suited to an office, daily labor for the oil companies or around a construction site helped to fuel nightly pain killing. Charlie was a happy drunk. It wasn’t awful to have him around, but it was sad. We fished whenever I didn’t have anyone booked.
I wasn’t sure I could carry Charlie out. Rowing had kept me in reasonable shape since my discharge, but I wasn’t at my prime and Charlie wasn’t at fighting weight. I told him he was going to have to help me get him to the boat. He wailed, rising to one knee, his arm flailing for mine. In a miracle of perseverance and character that I wasn’t sure existed, he was on one foot, his arm around my neck.
“Mondays are rundays,” he said.
“High speed,” I said. A shriek gurgled in his throat with each step as we hobbled toward the river. I wanted to look back for the bear but I dared not. Like all bad news, if it was gonna come, it would come. No sense finding it before it’s time.
I grabbed the gunwale to steady it and before I could give any thought as to technique, Charlie went in headfirst, flopping onto the floor in front of the rower’s seat. A rod snapped. Charlie made unnatural sounds. Blood mixed with water.
Charlie lay on the anchor cleat, so I slipped into the backseat and pulled the anchor line hand-over-hand. This was just wasting time. I pulled the line taut and cut it. The boat slid free. I tried not to step on Charlie as I took the oars. The current took us down.
My phone showed no signal. I took a picture of Charlie. He looked bad. Minor Bridge was just above where Willow Creek flowed into the main stem. It’s a good spot to anchor when the water is high. Fish love the big eddy that forms. I’d beach us on the gravel bar, pull the boat high and scramble up the riprap to the road. They’d probably need a rescue team to evac Charlie, but at least a medic could get down to him quickly.
There was less gravel bar at the bridge than I remembered. Maybe the water had come up or my memory was wrong. I hopped out and led the boat from the current. Leaning hard, I pulled it up onto the bank as far as I could. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. The road to the north was empty. Southbound, the road disappeared at a bend. Beyond the bend, I heard the whine of tires on pavement.
The man pulled the brown delivery truck to the side. Charlie’s blood on my clothes explained the look he gave me. He understood my short explanation and reached for his phone. I hadn’t checked for a signal. I was about to launch into my long explanation when movement at the river caught my eye. Charlie was trying to sit up and had rocked the boat off the bar. It wasn’t in the current, but it would be soon.
I skipped down the rocks to the gravel. The boat was just at the seam. The current grabbed the far oar. I ran, splashing. The gravel dropped off sharply. I swam. A yard from the boat, my hand found the anchor line. I grabbed it and searched for purchase.
I knelt at the water’s edge. The boat swayed and bumped below me. Charlie lay quietly. My tears mixed with crystal clear snowpack. I looked west to the mountains. That storm would be in the valley soon.
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Evac Charlie
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