Chapter One


Friday, December 17

(9:13 PM)

     I am sprawled on the floor of a one-room cabin, constructed of logs, that rests near the summit of a low, wooded mountain.  Snow is falling heavily on the mountain, and a fire is blazing within a stone fireplace that is located perhaps five feet to my left.

     I have inspected this small structure -- which looks to be a hunting cabin -- and have estimated that there is enough cereal, oatmeal and dried fruit present within its pantry to sustain a human life for two or three months.  That is good news -- for two reasons.  First, I have been told that the winters in this remote portion of upstate New York can produce 200 inches of snowfall annually; secondly, my right leg has been hurt, and is, at least for the moment, utterly useless.

     Since arriving here about two hours ago, I have been on the floor, near the fireplace, trying to warm myself by the flames.  After consuming a half-box of wheat flakes and emptying my canteen of its final drops of water, I did what I have always done when confronted with overwhelming circumstances in my life -- begin to write.  I brought no laptop computer with me for this adventure, but did manage to tuck three notebooks and a few pens and pencils into my backpack before leaving New England this morning.

     Ironically, I have, at many times over the last couple of decades, told myself: "When my teaching schedule at the university calms down, and I find a block of undisturbed time, I want to sit down and write in an unhurried fashion, as I was so often able to do during my younger years."  That long-anticipated block of undisturbed time has now come, although in a rather rude fashion.

     Considering my leg injury, the intense winter weather and the fact that this mountain is comprised of many sheer bluffs and cliffs, it is not hard to conclude that I will be here for a long stretch of time before being rescued or making my way to safety.  I suppose, to be realistic, I must face the possibility that I will not survive this experience, and this thought spurs me to place onto paper every thought and memory that I have.  As a result of my injured right leg, I am forced to write while lying on my left side, and as a result, my penmanship, always legendary among my students for its appallingly poor quality, is now almost illegible.  But I will plod onward, and commit my thoughts to paper.

*    *    *

     About 32 hours ago, I was standing before my Advanced American History class at the university, closing out my last class of the fall term, and explaining to my students why I would not be back in the spring.  "I've made a rather spontaneous decision," I told them, "to leave here and head west for a while."

     I was a bit disappointed by the reaction that I received from my students.  Perhaps I had expected a few passionate exclamations of, "Oh, no, Mr. Weathers -- you can't leave us!"  The only noticeable response that came forth was the voice of a young lady near the back of the room, asking with an attitude that barely rose above indifference: "You mean out west, like the Old West?"  "No," I replied.  "I mean west of New England -- or the wilderness of Quetico Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada, to be more precise.  You see, as of this day, with the closing of the term, I have closed out my 30th year in the History Department here at the university, and my 15th year as Chairman of the department."

     At the mention of my years of chairmanship, I found myself pausing, awaiting something -- an expression or two of admiration would have been nice -- but caught only a look of unmistakable restlessness flitting across the faces of my students.  Now resolved to wrap up my little farewell speech as tidily as possible, I plodded onward:

     "Last night I made the decision to take a plunge and embark immediately upon a one-year Sabbatical.  By tomorrow evening -- assuming that I am able to finish packing tonight -- I will be hundreds of miles from these hallowed halls, on my way to Quetico, one of nature's most pristine areas of wilderness, and a place that I have not seen since the summer of 1972.  There will be no computer, no cell phone -- you know I have a thing about cell phones -- and no television.  And if all proceeds according to plan, about 13 months from now, at the outset of the spring semester, I will be back among you, picking up where I am leaving off today."

     After writing the last paragraph, I found myself, even in this stressful situation, falling into my old habit of perfectionism, pausing to carefully proofread each letter of what I had written.  Writing while lying on one's side is an absurdly slow process, and a crude one as well.  But even under these circumstances, lost in the mountains and injured, I cannot resist the urge to produce the perfect manuscript, and am employing the eraser every few moments.

     I want to keep writing, and commit to paper the events that have led me to this place in the woods, but cannot do so now, as I am exhausted.

(10:24 PM)

     I have spent the last hour or two dragging myself around this cabin, doing what I could to create a bed in one corner of it.  I discovered, in a decaying wooden trunk, three faded, but thick, blankets.  The trunk collapsed as I was removing the blankets, and I plan to use it for kindling wood.  I am relieved that the cabin is warm, even in the midst of the blizzard that is still raging outdoors.  In fact, it is actually too hot in here at the moment.

     I have spent almost 10 minutes this evening shaking out the blankets, hoping to rid them of any spiders or other creatures.  I was halfway through the project when I realized that any insects thrown clear would simply land in another part of the cabin, and would eventually find their way back to the coziness of the blankets -- probably throughout the night, during my sleep.  Surprisingly, I haven't seen any bugs of any kind here.  Perhaps they all live in the thousands of cracks that are in the walls, ceiling and floor of this place.

(11:04 PM)

     The snow continues to fall outside.  I cannot sleep.  For the first time since finding this cabin, I have thoroughly taken stock of my situation, and for the first time, have actually begun to shake with apprehension at what might rest ahead.  My right leg has grown so stiff that when attempting to scoot around the cabin floor, I must drag it along as dead weight, and navigate with the other.  As I was doing this very thing, my left knee -- the one that is uninjured -- pressed down through a loose floorboard -- or, rather, caused an unsecured board to see-saw its way up and off of the joist that rests beneath it.  There, in the cold space that lies below the floorboards, I found a Bible, heavily-bound and completely covered with dust.  It looks as if it is easily a century old, and probably older.

     The old book bears some faded writing on its flyleaf, but the light is too dim for me to read it.  Were it not an antique, and of potential historical value, it would join the broken boards of the trunk on the kindling pile.  As every student I have instructed over the last 30 years well knows, I have a particular disdain for belief systems that speak of an intelligence that controls the universe, and I have always regarded the Bible as only a fascinating literary and historical phenomenon.

     As I finished the previous sentence, my memory swept back some 40 years, to a simmering summer day on my grandparents' farm.  I was spending the weekend there, performing some chores outdoors, when I was stung by a bee.  My body was immediately seized by some kind of allergic reaction, and my throat began to close.  As I sat on the dusty ground, clutching at my throat, Grandpa ran into the house to find the keys to his truck, while Grandma, almost bowling him over, came rushing out into the yard.  "I'm here, Joe!" she called to me.

     She knelt down next to me, placed a palm against my chest, and began to pray.  First she talked to Jesus, but then she talked to my body, telling it to be made normal and whole, in the name of Jesus.  At that very moment, I felt a rush of breath come back into my lungs, and my windpipe began to open again.  At about that time Grandpa came bursting out of the house, yelling, "Mae, I can't find the truck keys!"  Grandma, who knew that the main part of the crisis had passed, kind of smiled, and said, "Henry, have you checked the deep pocket in your overalls?"  Grandpa stopped in his tracks, placed a hand into one of his pockets, and pulled out the truck's ignition key.  Grandma laughed, then Grandpa, and finally me.  Then they drove me into town, where I saw the doctor, who pronounced me fit.  An hour later, after a stop for ice cream at the corner drugstore, we were all back to work on the farm.

     It's strange that I would remember that incident now, and absurd that I would take the time to write it out, with the stub of a pencil, into this notebook.  The memory of Grandma's prayer has always made me feel uneasy, as it flies in the face of all that I have stood for over the last three decades.  The books that I have written contain carefully-crafted -- and, with no one here to accuse me of egotism, might I even say brilliantly-crafted -- arguments against the existence of a personal creator or god.

     Over the years, I have spent endless hours attempting to "set straight" students who have described themselves as committed Christian believers.  Yet, throughout my life, during times of crisis, the memory of the bee sting and Grandma's prayer has bubbled to the surface of my mind and emotions.  After all these years, I cannot explain what happened to me that day, and have told no one of it.  I feel uncomfortable dredging up the memory of it and committing it to paper.  If I feel myself fading over the coming days, I might rip out this page and burn it, lest someone finds this notebook and reads about what happened at Grandma's house that day.

     Since emancipating myself from any belief in a god or personal creator during my own university days in the late '60s, I have made it my mission to liberate as many young minds as possible, particularly those that were keenly intelligent and packed with potential.  I have always taken pride in the fact that many of my students, following their graduations, have gone on to fill very influential positions within the culture.  I know of at least seven who are employed in the movie industry, either as writers, casting directors or actual performers.  At least two dozen have followed my own footsteps, and entered the world of academia.  Three have managed to win elective office, and at least six have been published as writers.  Perhaps a hundred have taken jobs in journalism and in the wider media.

     It has always been satisfying to me that most of the former students that I described, to the best of my knowledge, left our university as true intellectuals, unfettered by any irrational adherence to a so-called god or creator.

*    *    *

     It has taken me 90 minutes to grind out the last eight paragraphs, and after doing so, I crawled over to the pantry and ate some more cereal.  I am now back on the floor, near the fireplace.  It is about 1:30 in the morning.

Chapter Two

Saturday, December 13

(3:21 AM)

     I must have fallen asleep for a few hours by the fire.  When I woke up, my head was only a foot or so from the flames.  I'll have to be more careful.

     Sunrise is perhaps four hours away.  The snow is steadily falling, but the wind has died down almost completely.  The depth of the snow looks to be about nine inches.

     Writing is so difficult, that I am going to try to create shorter sentences and paragraphs.  My students -- and the readers of my books -- know that I have a long-standing tendency to use too many words.  My hand, strained from the climb up the mountain, and aggravated by all of the writing that I have done while lying on my side, throbs with every stroke of the pen.  I am being conditioned by pain to learn the lesson of brevity.  I wonder which will win -- the drive to remain pain-free or the passion to create the ideal sentence.

     Despite my discomfort, I feel compelled to write, as if doing so will furnish proof that I had a life, if this is to be the end of that life.  By leaving a written record of my arrival in this cabin, those who find my body here, should that be the outcome of this crazy adventure, will know the events that brought me here.  I have nothing but time on my hands, and am going nowhere at any point in the near future.

*    *    *

     Until arriving in this area from New England on Thursday, I had not fully realized that New York State contained such areas of utter wilderness.  I have lived on the Atlantic coast all of my life, and when visiting this state over the years, have spent most of my time in New York City.  I had always heard about the mountains, hills and lakes of upstate New York, but had never before explored them.  Nor had I planned to explore them during my Sabbatical.  Yet, I somehow find myself stranded in a hunting cabin during a snowstorm.

     About seven hours have passed since I walked away from a Greyhound bus during a late night refueling stop along the Southern Tier Expressway, which meanders its way, in an east-west direction, across some of the most rugged hill country that can be found in this state.  I had been slumbering in the rear of the bus since the New York-Connecticut border, and was jolted into an alert state when the driver abruptly pulled the vehicle to a standstill at an obscure truck stop.  As I was waiting for the passengers who were ahead of me to file out into the parking lot, I looked sleepily out of the window, and caught a glimpse of the night sky.  The moon was nearly full, and stars were pulsating everywhere.

     Within a minutes I had gathered up my backpack and stepped outside.  I walked into an open meadow, and then dropped my backpack onto the ground, and spent several minutes gazing up at the sky, berating myself for not bringing my telescope along for the upcoming trip to Quetico.  A few minutes later I heard myself suddenly calling back to the bus driver, "This is my stop."  He nodded back at me, and I turned away, picked up my backpack, and began walking deeper into the meadow.

     The weather last evening was somewhat mild for December in this part of the country; the temperature couldn't have been much lower than 40.  I felt invigorated from the nap on the bus, and ready to begin my Sabbatical.  My original plan, upon leaving New England early yesterday morning, was to travel west as far as Niagara Falls, spend the night there, then continue my journey to Quetico Provincial Park the following day.  Yet, sparked by the same kind of spontaneity that had led me to take the bus trip in the first place, I had abruptly decided to pass the first night of my Sabbatical right there, in the heart of the state -- in the woods, if necessary -- figuring that the hotel room in Niagara Falls could wait another day.

     I have visited Quetico only one time in my life, in August of 1972, during a week-long canoe adventure that five friends and I abruptly embarked upon one summer day.  I was a graduate student at that time in my life, and like many of my contemporaries in that era, was spilling over with idealism and zeal in regard to the various problems that were rocking the country.

     As I reflect back upon the summer of 1972, I realize that it was my visit to Quetico, and its pristine tranquility, that somehow ignited, into full blaze, my already-simmering sense of rebellion against what we then called the "Establishment."  Two weeks in the Canadian wilderness convinced me that mankind itself -- and mankind's greed and selfishness -- was the culprit in regard to all that was wrong with the world during those tumultuous times.  I became, during that trip, an active -- even rabid -- environmentalist, population-control advocate, and all-around hell-raiser.

     It was during that wilderness trip that I turned my back on any childhood notions of God, and decided to live free, live for the moment, and live large.  But, like most '60s idealists, the desire for shelter and food came into play, and I willed myself toward two Master's Degrees, one in American History, the other in American Literature.  Yet, I never lost my edge of rebellion toward that which is phony, hypocritical, materialistic, and superficial.

     In writing this diary, or journal, I am wandering all over the place, blending recollections of decades ago with accounts of what happened yesterday.  Under ideal conditions, I would edit and organize all of this before it would be read by anyone.  But my purpose now is to simply put onto paper whatever comes to mind.

(3:45 AM)

     I tried to stop writing for a while, but soon found that I have nothing -- absolutely nothing -- else to do in this place than to think.  But thinking brings anxiety, and fear, and panic, so I am going to write again, and attempt to reason my way out of the pit into which my emotions are sinking.

     The tough part about the situation that I am in is the fact that I did not talk to any passengers on the bus, and only briefly to the bus driver.  He would remember the highway exit where I departed the bus, and if a search party were to be formed, it would probably begin there -- but only if my acquaintances back in New England would discover that I boarded a Greyhound bus and only if they happened to locate this bus driver, and only if he happened to remember the exit where I left everyone.

     No one back at the university would suspect that I am in the hills of west-central New York this evening, as I intentionally did not divulge my specific travel plans to anyone, wishing to truly lose myself in the Canadian wilderness during this long-awaited Sabbatical.

     In addition, I announced to everyone back in New England that I was shutting off the utilities to my house, terminating my cell phone service, and leaving the state for what I described, half-jestingly, as "a year or two."  I made a point of leaving behind no forwarding information.  I suppose the only clue to my destination was the cryptic "out west to Quetico" reference that I shared yesterday with my students.  So I suppose that any search for me -- assuming, again, that no one could locate the bus driver -- would be concentrated upon the vast expanses of Quetico.

     To complicate matters further, after saying farewell to the bus driver, I walked for about an hour through the fields and forests, finally arriving at a rural railroad crossing, where a very slow train was just pulling out of a factory yard.  Again, in rebellion against all of the professional restraints that I have had to endure over the past few decades, the Chairman of the History Department threw his backpack -- and then himself -- into an open boxcar, seconds before it and the rest of the train were carried off into the darkness.

     By that point in the evening the sky had grown overcast, and the temperature had begun to plunge.  The railroad tracks twisted and curved their way through increasingly steep hills and valleys, and by midnight a light snow was falling.  By that time I had no clue of the direction in which the train was travelling.  After two hours of being jerked and jostled along, I found that the romance of boxcar travel had evaporated, and made preparations to disembark.  About 20 minutes later, as the engines were straining their way up a steep, curving incline, the train slowed down to perhaps 10 miles per hour, and I was able to easily leap out of the boxcar and onto the soft prairie grass that bordered the track.

     After the train had rumbled into the distance, and silence had returned, I took stock of my surroundings.  The snow by this time was perhaps four inches in depth, and the wind had begun to whip its way across the landscape.  I was woefully underdressed, as I had originally planned to take the train to Niagara Falls, check into a hotel, and then visit a camping supply store before striking out for Quetico.  My spontaneous departure from the Greyhound bus, and the corresponding arrival of a winter storm, had placed me, over the space of two hours, into a perilous situation.

     When I stepped off of the bus, my backpack contained nothing but a blanket, some matches, some gloves, and a few books.  I quickly pulled out the blanket, and promptly stuffed it into my jacket, mainly around my chest and neck areas.  After pulling on the gloves, and then the backpack, I decided to make a sprint toward the thickest wooded area that I could see.  By this time the snowflakes were half-dollar size in diameter, and were accumulating swiftly.  I began to trudge up a steep incline, and found, much to my growing alarm, that it was surrounded by rocky crags and sheer cliffs.  Visibility had been reduced to perhaps five feet by this time.

     I travelled for a full hour under these conditions, groping my way up the incline, feeling for the presence of any drop-offs, shafts, or the like.  At one point during my climb the flashlight beam revealed the fresh imprint of puma or panther tracks, and I found myself, from that point on, beginning to eye the surrounding woods with greater alertness.

     Suddenly, as I was ascending the incline, one of my feet slipped on an ice-covered boulder, and I crashed fully to the ground, and then began to tumble, or topple, headlong over a cliff or bluff.  I felt myself being flung into space, and had time to wonder, in a flash of thought, how long of a fall awaited me.  My curiosity was satisfied immediately, as the right side of my body impacted the earth at a point perhaps 12 feet below the top of the bluff.  Surprisingly, the dirt upon which I landed was quite soft and loose.  Additionally, it was covered with a layer of fallen leaves, and with a deep area of drifted snow.

     When I struck the earth, my right leg, in the area of my hip and pelvis, bore the main portion of the force.  After landing, the force of my momentum carried me in a downward cartwheel, and I found myself being thrown, in a head-first fashion, against a large rock. 

     I cannot remember passing into unconsciousness, but am sure that I did, for at least some period of time.  The proof of this was the fact that my next memory was that of shaking myself free from a cocoon of snow that had completely enveloped me, at a depth of perhaps two inches.  I have no idea exactly how long I was blacked out, but would guess the time at about an hour, considering the rate of the snow accumulation during the storm.

     After becoming alert, I instinctively began to rise to my feet, but found myself completely unable to place any weight upon the right leg.  I immediately realized that my only mode of travel would be that of crawling on my hands and knees, which I immediately began to do.  By this point my mind had become entirely alert, and I had come to the conclusion that the chances of my survival were growing somewhat dim.

     I began to crawl and roll forward, and soon realized that my right leg was leaving a blood-stained trail behind me.  It did not take long to realize that the injury that was causing the blood to flow was only a superficial one, and that the more serious and crippling problem rested somewhere deep in my hip or pelvis area.

     It was during this time, as I was groping my way blindly along the forest floor, with the wind slashing snow into my face, that my mind swept back to my grandmother, and her prayers, and the bee sting.  Before I could squelch it, a cry to the God in whom she believed bubbled up out of some deep place within me.  This prayer was so raw, so guttural, that it could more accurately be described as an involuntary grunt or moan, consisting of a single word: "Jesus!"  Even more jolting to me than my half-formed utterance was what occurred a microsecond later -- a sudden, irresistible urge to swing my course to the right, an impulse that I immediately obeyed.  One second later the truck of a towering tree snapped abruptly in the wind, and came hurtling down to the earth in the precise location that I had just vacated.  The ground beneath my feet shook violently for a moment, and I could feel an icy spray of snow, displaced by the crashing tree, driving itself into the skin of my face.

     My frame, already numb from the cold, was now shaking wildly.  "He saved me," I heard myself mutter.  Yet, within seconds, the more rational part of my mind immediately censored that thought, and a more defiant one strode in and took its place: "Jesus, even if you are real, I don't believe in You!"

     Less than 10 minutes later, as I was crawling unsteadily forward, my shoulder collided with a hard wooden surface. I realized, within seconds, that I had literally crashed into the rough wooden surface of the cabin that I now occupy.  Within a minute or so I had located the door, and, with much effort, had managed to jar it loose until it swung inward.  I collapsed forward into the front room of this structure, and for two or three minutes lay sprawled on the floor, unable to summon enough strength to close the door.  Finally, by rolling myself about the floor, I was able to reach the door and push it into a firmly-closed position.

(6:09 AM)

     I spent two complete hours writing the previous section, and after completing it, had to let myself fall back onto the blankets and sleep away the exhaustion and weakness that was coming over me.  The fire is growing low, and for the first time since coming into this cabin, I am violently cold.  There are three logs remaining near the fireplace; there were nine when I arrived here.  When daylight comes, I will have to venture outside and see if there is any more cut firewood stacked around the cabin.  My hope is that the hunters -- or whoever occupied this cabin before my arrival -- sawed and stacked some wood in the autumn, so that it would become seasoned over the winter.  If I do not find wood, my situation could become quite bleak, as I have no saw.  Of course, even if I did, my lame leg would make it almost impossible to use it.
     I am going to put down this notebook, roll over to the fireplace, put the last few logs on the flame, and wait for the sunrise.