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The Prelude to: The Night Hike
Now you know my friend Karl was inclined to story telling, a master at it. Looking back after the incident, I recalled one story he told us. It goes as follows... Two lone adventurers were we, wandering down a dustkicking road twards camp. The sunflowers grew in abundance on the slopes off the road where rain collected. An endless valley stretched before us, whose end was found in the slopes of mountains off too far in the distance. These faraway hills rose imperceptibly to us who walked, rising as the western horizon does every morning to reveal the sun. The sky was a blue that bordered on black, so dark from proximity to the heavens that the stars could be felt if not seen. And we, pilgrims both, felt them. The pastnoonish sun, in settling, made the mountains blinding to look at, and when eyes grew bored of the dust there was the prairie, the scrub and reluctant green of the American southwest. Ahead, the road commodiously swept itself into the mountain running, so it looked, all the way to the peaks named and otherwise before us. But this was illusory, for a few minutes past saw it again swerve to a break and the beginnings of trees to the south. We took the branch that dove most readily southwards. Soon enough, the red roof of Clarks Fork appeared through the pines, and the rest of the building flowed from the breaches in the coniferous screen. The porch was huge, and sprawled upon it were the forms of some fifteen scouts in ill-concealed exhaustion. A few members of the camp staff occupied some of the chairs, decked out in the idealized western garb, looking like cowpokes between rides. We were greeted by the nearest of these, a pretty girl in a straw hat and bluejeans. ?Howdy?, she says, to which we replied. ?Staying the night, or passing through?? she wanted to know. ?Sleeping here, ?f?s alright with you? Julian said. ??course it is, we love visitors. Campfire is at sundown tonight, you?ll want to see that. Make yourselves at home, I?m sarah.? ?sparks? ?julian? ?pleasure? We made ourselves at home. There was a wellworn horseshoes sandpit and Julian and I kept at that for a while. We didn?t talk much, we never did. The horseshoes dug in the sand, clinking on occasion. We played without real passion, but enjoying the game greatly. Neither of us was very good, and the score (what we remembered of it, both of us were constantly forgetting it) stayed even. Eventually a pair of scouts came over and occupied the pit next to ours. They paid us no mind, but they both knew the game so well that it took the fun out of ours, to see them play so well. We went to the porch. There were now some open seats, Julian took a stump, I took a half of the porch swing that already held a grizzled old camper. ?You fellas Rangers?? ?Na? says I, ?they stuck us in the dining hall? ?Ah? says he. ?D?you like it?? ?The hours are rough, y?know, but they give us off three days a week and we?ve got the backcountry open to us for all of it.? ?Oh!? exclaims he ?that?s a fine setup? I assent. There is a pause. ?this campfire they?ve got tonight, is it worth seeing? The boys are all pretty whooped. Do them good to sleep, but I don?t want them missing something grand either.? ?Depends,? I reply, ?The campfires are different each camp, they all try, but some can some can?t. Y?know? Is tomorrow your last day?? A lateral shake of the head ?then I?d go for it, sleep on the plane ride home as they say.? He nods again. There is again a silence. The horseshoes of the skilled rang. A troop of scouts, loosebound, wander up to the porch. Sarah sets them up for horseback riding, and under her direction they all march off in the direction of the corral. The day, unnoticed, begins to ebb, and an hour of haphazard timekilling sees the call for dinner. We eat in a cabin impressive for its comfort, with a crowd of college kids killing summers out west enjoying all about life. As such compatriots we talked, and ate, and ate well. Afterwards, per the customs of the ranch, Julian and I were put on the dishes, and the crew prepare for their campfire. Fifteen minutes sees a crowd of dirty scouts anticipating on the porch. The staff, instruments in hand, rally them all to follow down a dark road to a bonfire already roaring. Julian and I walk up front with the staff, and when we reach the flames that flicker neck high we sit on the ground in front of the log benches the other observers sit upon. The staff initially burst into lively song, a sort of welcoming jig that set everyone keeping the beat. A melancholy song about the tragedy of the west follows, and sarah in the afterwards tells a joke or two. Two more songs, and then a tall boy in a black hat too big for him began telling us of a ghost story. ?Urraca Mesa?, he began, ?Is considered by most who have been there to be haunted. Now, when I say haunted, you all certainly are thinking of horror films and Scooby-doo. When I say to you that I have a ghost story to tell, you will not believe anything I have to tell you, raise in the modern tradition of skepticism. This is all well and good normally, most ghost stories are invented to raise the blood and give you a good scare when you turn out the lights. But I have been to Urraca Mesa, and though perhaps the stories told are mostly just that, there is something about that place. If you pass through there, notice, it almost tastes otherworldly. Things seem slightly more vauge on top of those rocks, and compasses, I will personally attest, do fail to point due north. And so, although I doubt that this tale is literally untruthful, there is nonetheless something true about it, a truth that somehow is more real than any statement that could be made about that God-forsaken place.? ?Once, a few years back, a troop was hiking over the mesa into Urraca Camp, which is situated at the base of the cliffs. A scout, like any of yourselves, was the last in the group. Walking at times nearly out of sight of the others, he was more or less alone, something that the ranch does not condone. But he was within hailing distance and he liked to be alone on the trail. Hiking up a brief slope, he completely lost the others for a short moment, and as he hurried to catch the others, he saw, from the corner of his eye, something small and black dart through the underbrush. He turned to look, but it was no longer there. Hiking on, it happened again. Now, this does not sound particularly frightening, remember, this was in the bright sunshine of the hiking hours of the day. But this scout, no less easily spooked than any of us, suddenly grew inexplicably afraid. He called for the others and ran ahead to them, chills running up his spine as he so did. Of course they were just around the bend, and he felt a bit foolish for his fear as soon as he saw them again, but he stayed in the middle of the pack the remainder of the hike. He tried to justify what he saw as a cougar perhaps, or a deer maybe, but somehow these animals did not fit at all the black shape he?d seen. And indeed, even amoung the crew, he thought he saw the thing again. But eventually they reached camp. The remainder of the day passed without note. They all were too tired to go to the campfire, and so, as the sun set they all retired to the tents. The scout was the odd man in the crew, and so slept alone in his own one-man tent.? ?In the middle of the night he was awakened by restless dreams in the middle of the night by a terrible weight on his chest. Opening his eyes, he saw that the small black creature was sitting on him. Although it was small, it weighed easily ten times what its size would suggest, and closer now, he could see the creature. It had noticeable lack of eyes that exposed a terrible emptiness. A smile of impossibly sharp teeth complemented the arms with claws that clicked together. The scout was terrified, he tried to scream, to move, to shake the imp off of his chest, but besides his eyes, he found himself completely unable to move. After a few minutes of abject terror, the scout passed out from his labored breathing.? ?Upon awakening the next morning, the thing was gone. The scout was done, though. Scared beyond what anyone should ever have to be subject to. So, before any of the others woke up, without his backpack or taking down his tent, he ran the four miles straight into base camp. A few minutes later, the rest of the camp woke up, and when the scoutmaster was unable to find the scout, he went to the Urraca cabin to radio in that a search and rescue was needed. Preparations were begun immediately.? ?Eventually, the scout reached base camp, hysterical and exhausted. Unsure what to make of him at first, he was sent to the health center, where they calmed him down and he told his story. As confirmation he lifted his shirt to reveal two deep bruises on his stomach, two imprints that looked remarkable like cloven hoofs. Of course, the search and rescue was called off, but not before much of the ranch had been mobilized. And if you ask the health center, they still have on file the records relating that scout?s admittance some twenty years ago.? The story was over. I was impressed, it had been well told by the darkhatted boy. Julian, however, seemed completely enthralled by it. He looked ponderous for the remainder of the campfire, and indeed the rest of the night. We sleep on the roof of the cabin, below a sky so starbright it was hard to sleep for wondering. And when at last I did feel myself drifting into the forgettable tides, a voice at my ear woke me up again. Julian, awake now that no-one else was, whispered to me. ?Get up? says he ?Wha?? says I, groggy from sleepheavy eyes. ?Get up,? he repeats, ?We?d best be off for Urraca now, we?ll get there by morning if we leave now.? I was baffled. He explained quickly, quietly, that in his consideration of the stars he had decided that our destiny this night was to take us to Urraca. At my protests, he did say he would go alone, but I eventually could feel the adventure he did. We gathered our sleepstuffs and went for the ladder. A tired voice hailed us from behind. ?Going for a drink? Julian hisses. The silohette sank back to outline. A few minutes saw all our gear gathered, and now excited with rule breaking, we sallied forth into the darkness, waiting unnessisarly till the trees to turn on headlamps. The night was stillquiet, no sound besides the creak of my pack and our footsteps. The path was uphill, rough, and from memory we knew it only steeper grew. Julian switched off his headlamp. It was nearly bright enough from the newrising moon to see from it alone. I switched off mine. Our eyes adjusted, and now as shadows alone we hiked through the silence. My tiredness had worn away with our leaving, and it was nimble that I took that path. An hour, perhaps, passed. It is difficult in the night to feel time passing, but suffice to say that we crested the pass and would soon descend to the far edge of the ridge when we there stopped to breathe. In the sudden silence, air divorced from the tremors of our footfalls fell so still it encased us like newfrozen ice. That night was impossibly silent, it was silent in the way that caves are dark, a darkness the mind refuses to believe and sets itself up with phantom lights. My ears buzzed, the silence ebbed and flowed although it never changed. Voiceless we considered, and it was to me as though everyone else in the entire world were dead and I was so very alone. We began again. Downhill now, but in the shadow of the mountain we turned on headlamps. To darkness we hiked, to the heart of the valley obscured by trees obscured by shadow. The path ran lightly under our untired tread, and soon we crossed the stream at the bottom. It was dark, and only the spectral lights, the ugly flourescene of our headlamps, lit the way. Uphill again. Without the moon, the night bent slightly away from us and this took real effort. We paused midway again. Onwards and onwards deep into spectral night. It was in emptiness that we hiked, eight miles of incorporeal landscape. Only once did I grow afraid, for my companion was fearless so it seemed to me, and we took confidence in each others disaffect. Crossing the Mesa itself, though, I felt as though we were being followed, and in every shadow I saw a malicious movement that would turn out to be the trees. Perhaps I shivered, but I kept it to myself and took comfort in our movement. We did not stop until we were clearly away from the top, and then only for a few minutes. The Urraca Camp, on the far side below the mesa proper, was just ahead, and with a few hours of darkness remaining, we reached it to unroll sleeping bags on the porch and quickly fall asleep. I dreamed, restlessly, throughout the night. Vivid dreams of falling and terrible eyes. We were woken up by the first of the crews tromping onto the porch to sign in and up for activities. Groggily, we moved our gear off the porch and made small talk with the staff for a few minutes until we both fell back asleep. The sun was out by this time, though, and no more than an hour later saw us both back awake. Eventually we wandered back to the porch. The camp staff asked when we got in, where we came from, why we had come, why we had come (again), and who we were. They did not seem to like the answers to any of these questions. Eight miles in the dark on a whim did seem somewhat absurd in the light of day and as droopweary as we were, but here we had come. Julian changed the conversation to the mesa, and we heard a few new stories. This camp, though, had told them so many times that the novelty had been entirely lost. Still, Julian ate up every word. Apparently today would not see any crews coming through besides the one that had woken us up, so the staff was free to do what they would. One of the younger ones offered to take us on a night hike to the eye of the mesa, the supposed location of the portal, come nine or so, and sensing that this was really what we had come for, I assented. The day was spent in anticipation. The staff seemed to be enjoying a rare moment of real boredom, and sitting in the sun making light conversation saw us through until dinner. Julian and I washed the dishes following the excellent meal. Nine o?clock rolled around. Stan, for so our guide was named, donned a headlamp gave us a few words and went outside. We did the same. The night felt thick, expectatious, perhaps. It was a night for great things, for anything, really. We hiked out of the camp under a cloudy sky, and a few minutes saw us to the edge of the mesa. Hiking, I felt strange. Afraid, really. It was a smallish sort of fear that knotted in the pit of my stomach. Onwards. I began to see things moving again, sinister shadows that concealed fell things that darted away whenever I brought the light to bear. The night fell close and tight around us. It was suffocating under the trees, oppressive. The trees gave way to a small little meadow, no more than twenty feet across. Here something was amiss, and I could not name it. ?This,? spoke our guide, ?Is the eye of Urraca Mesa.? I shivered, although it wasn?t cold. I could tell that our guide felt the same way. Curiously, Julian seemed just as excited to be there as before. I did not want to stay, but I was not about to be made a coward. We sat. Silence, empty and terrible, settled. In the lack of lights I imagined I thought I saw, always out of the corners of my eyes, faint blue lights that seemed unnatural. I shivered again. I did not like it there. We only stayed a few minutes before our guide stood up, and I was glad he did and I was not the first to turn back. Julian got up slowly, only once it was clear we were leaving. We hiked back noisily, I sang snatches of song out of key with our guide, and it was with great relief we saw again the lanterns of Urraca before us. I couldn?t wait to go to bed, but Julian wanted to stay up and talk. So we did, I almost falling asleep, and he calling meaning from the humble air, talking of greatness, of ambition. Of what he wanted to do with his life. ?For,? he said, ?In my life everything has been given to me. I could become a Doctor with no effort. I could become president if I desired that above all things. My life is nearly perfect. What do I have to want? What dreams have I worth dreaming?? The allowed aspirations are too easy for me? I fell asleep to his ramblings. I was too tired to understand. I woke from uneasy dreams in the middle of the night to discover his empty sleeping bag. I was out of the cabin in roughly twenty seconds. The run took longer than the walk had, much longer. I felt, as I walked alone, that I struggled through water waist deep that ran against me. There was something of the place that held me back, but also, I did not want to go. And yet, my fears, my friendship, kept me onwards. I wandered for a day, two days, sleepless I wandered towards what I hoped was the proper direction. Sleepily, I half dreamed fell things around me, clear on occasion, that faded when I focused, oh, such eyes. I pressed on, pushed by fear that I could not understand into fear even more incomprehensible. Every step was a battle. It was the bravest thing I had ever done, and impossible to understand now, thought over in the daylight when company is a door over or so. I was more alone than I had ever been in my entire life. I was alone in ways that drive men mad, that will force a man into quiet desperation. I walked, marked as Cain, through the primordial forest. Eventually, I found him, as I knew I would. He sat lazily leaned against a rock, where a small fire burned devilishly. There was beside him a dark shape. My heart rose to my mouth. My stomach dropped to hug the strange earth. I stopped. The two were talking. If I had been afraid, now I grew terrified. Panicked, for I saw that which could not be a dream of mine. Ah! The memory of it alone gives me shivers. The thing, oh, the thing whatever it was, it looked at me, I could tell it saw me, it looked at me and I saw those eyes those terrible, terrible eyes, of red emptiness that saw through me and laid me for what I was, frail, mortal man. There was a movement off to my left. A blue light, vivid and martian, stood in the shadow of a tree. It was irresistible. I took a step to it. And another. I was drawn faster and faster from my friend, and always, the light stayed behind a tree, the same distance away from me. I walked faster and faster, the light stayed where it was in perspective. I began to run, falling into a sort of dream as I did. The world whirled around me. I was falling, running towards that light. Suddenly, my foot was caught by something, and let me say that I am sure that what caught me was no root, no stray branch. I fell, in terror, and before me was a face that I can no longer remember, for God is merciful in some way. The face was madness, and in falling, I blacked out. I hope I did not dream that night. I cannot remember anything of the blackness, except for maybe?ah, I cannot, I will not remember anything from that blackness. I came to being shook by our guide from the night previous, sun shining hallelujah on a grassgolden slope beneath pines. He was white from fear. ?Are you alright? What happened? Where is Julian?? I could not find my voice for a few minutes and he kept repeating these questions again and again. Finally I managed to mutter groggily I was I didn?t know I didn?t know. He helped me to my feet. I was amazed at how beautiful the world looked by the light of day. I felt newly alive, brushed with death and confirmed invincible. I walked, slowly, back to the trail, just a few steps that took me so many hours of fearful running in the madness of the previous darkness. Our guide explained he?d seen us missing and had assumed we?d camped in the eye, something he?d always goaded himself to do but never enough. Coming up the trail he saw me first. We walked to the eye together. There, by the remnants of a nowcold fire, lay Julian, stonestill and whitelipped. I feared. So did our guide. He rushed to him and I walked to him and we shook him. He did not stir. And then he did. His eyelids fluttered weakly and suddenly he was back to us, his eye unmasked and burning brilliant in the reflected new dawn. He laughed. I laughed. Our guide laughed. We laughed from relief, god only knows why Julian laughed, for he laughed as if the world had at last rolled to plant him on top. He laughed for what the night had been, and for what the day would be, and for all the works and days of hands that now stood leaning against the past twilight. He gave no explanation, and neither did I. This peeved our guide, and later our hosts when at last we wandered heavyfooted but gay into camp. We told them nothing, and it was a befuddled reception, a slightly amused look that said they knew, they knew we were kidding in our silence. The next day we had to be in camp, and so we did not stay long. Five o?clock saw us hiking in the summer sun that had forgotten dawn away from the rest. Julian and I, if we had not told the others, had not talked to each other either, and I was terrifiably curious of what he would tell me. For the silence of our hike was pregnant, surely he felt how much my questions unasked went unanswered. We reached a ridge, and finally he stopped. He sat on a rock that overlooked the beautiful skyline of the ranch, and I, standing next to him, gathered the courage to ask what I so did and did not want to know. ?What?? I began, ?What did you?? I hoped he would interrupt. He did not. A few seconds passed. It was as though he were staring at me past what was socially acceptable, though he faced away. Finally he spoke, and the sudden voice so long held back cut the space between us to ribbons. He grew as he spoke, filling the sky with echos and the ripples of his footsteps past. ?Do you see that? That beautiful tracing?? He pointed towards the skyline. The ranch lay before us, all the peaks, all the valleys I had so come to love. ?It was? he said, ?traced by my hand. I have re-writ the mountains.? I did not understand. I stood looking out where he had gestured. A minute, perhaps, passed. ?I know,? I turned to him at last, our eyes met ?what Greatness is. They showed me power. I can show you what he meant, I know fear in a handful of dust?. His eyes. I suddenly understood. For his eyes shone brilliant with power, with ambition. Yet, when the light failed to catch them, as it did now, I saw what he had done. His eyes were empty. There was no soul in those cold mirrors. Black holes in the sky, as it ran. Ah! The camp sprawled before us. My friend was gone. What drives a man to greatness, to an ambition so irresistible that nothing is so holy it cannot be traded? Ah! Those empty eyes. My friend was gone. We reached camp eventually. We still talked, but he was not there. He?d loved the ranch before, and now, I could feel him aching to get away from it, to see what he bought so dear on the rocks. When the summer ended, I lost touch with him. And yet, sometime, when it is dark or I am afraid, I can still remember that night, remember what he sold. I know I shall meet him again, and I do not look forward to that recrossing of paths. I'm not sure if this story is true, or one he used to cause interest in the Mesa. All I know is that these creatures do exist, and that because of them I stay far way from the Mesa. more