Ray Gorham - 77 Days in September

As Kyle came around the back of the trailer, he looked up and stopped dead in his tracks. The vehicle he had pinned his hopes on for survival was a delivery truck, not a full semi, and the cab, which was even smaller than the pickup he had abandoned, had its passenger door wide open and was filled with snow. Desperate, he staggered to the back of the truck, unlatched the door and rolled it up, exposing an empty trailer. As the icy fingers of the storm clawed furiously at him, Kyle climbed stiffly inside to escape the wind and reconsider his plan.

Too tired to cry, Kyle looked out at the sky. “Why?! I want to live! I need to live!” he pleaded. Cold, hungry, and weak, Kyle dropped to the floor of the trailer and crawled to the side. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, picturing his wife while the wind shook the trailer. “Jennifer, I’m trying, honey. I’m really trying…but I don’t know…I’m so cold,” he whispered the words as he held his frozen hands against his cheeks, trying to warm his skin.

Kyle stood up and leaned out of the back of the truck. The house to the west was on a hill that was much steeper than it had looked from a distance. To get to it, he would have to continue north and then hook back around. The house to the east looked like an easier journey and the better choice, especially since he was sure it would be his last chance for survival.

Kyle climbed down from the trailer and stepped into the wind. A gust caught him and pushed him to the side, almost knocking him down. Weak and unsteady as he was, he still maintained his footing and laughed defiantly at the storm, then tightening his grip on the sleeping bag he still had wrapped around his body, he pressed on. He climbed clumsily over a barbed-wire fence that lined the edge of the road, tearing a hole in his pants and gouging his leg, but the pain of the wound barely registered. The drifting snow almost came up to his knees in some places, and the soil underneath was uneven and slick, making his progress difficult and slow.

A small creek, about seven feet across, interrupted the way to the house. He couldn’t tell how deep the water was, nor see an easy way to cross, so he backed up a few steps, lumbered as fast as he could towards the creek, and leapt. Under normal circumstances, jumping the creek would have been easy, but stiff with cold, he could barely get up to a run. His foot slipped on the bank as he jumped, and what little momentum he had wasn’t enough to carry him across the water, landing him instead in the shin-deep creek a foot from the opposite bank. He took a quick step up the bank on the far side, but slipped and fell on his stomach, then slid towards the water. Frantic, Kyle clutched the soft, loose snow, which did nothing to halt his slide into the shallow creek. When he finally came to a stop, the right half of his body was submerged in the water, which felt warm compared to the bitter cold of the wind. As he sank into the creek he considered rolling all the way in to escape the wind. The image of his dead body, frozen in a sheet of ice, flashed briefly through his mind and he was roused back into action.

Clinging to tufts of grass buried under the snow, Kyle pulled himself up the bank and collapsed on the frozen ground, his spent body covered in mud, snow, and ice. He turned back to the creek and watched, not caring as his sleeping bag slowly floated away. On top of the bank, Kyle gasped as a fresh gust cut through his wet clothing, sending sharp pains through his chest, like a knife being shoved between his ribs. He staggered to his feet once again and headed for the house, stumbling desperately across the field. He was aware of nothing but his goal — a house that was quickly dimming, both in the fading light and in his fading consciousness.

A hundred yards from the house, Kyle fell to his knees, exhausted. His clothing was nearly frozen stiff, hinging just slightly at his elbows and knees. He crossed his arms across his body and rested briefly, then, with enormous effort, got back onto his feet.

Kyle teetered unsteadily, pausing to gain the balance to put one foot in front of the other. The only thought in his mind was to get to the house in front of him, now maybe ninety yards away. Like an infant learning to walk, Kyle moved haltingly across the field, losing his balance and falling repeatedly, each time forcing himself to get up.

With just a driveway, a short rail fence, and a small yard separating him from the house, he fell again, too tired to rise. On frozen hands and knees, Kyle crawled across the road to the fence and used the horizontal wooden rails to pull himself up and over, where he fell to the ground completely spent.

Kyle eyed the house, which was now less than a hundred feet away. He needed to rest, he thought, just to regain a little more strength, and then he could make it. Sheltered from the wind by the fence and a few small shrubs, Kyle felt warmth spread slowly through his body. He looked down at his shirts. They were dirty and frozen, so he stripped them off and set them on the snow beside him. He leaned forward to untie his boots but gave up when his numbed fingers wouldn’t grab the laces. Leaning back against the fence, he felt warm for the first time in three hours. In the shelter of a row of trees, the snow fell more calmly, almost peacefully, and Kyle watched as the flakes landed on his stomach, melting upon contact with his skin. Kyle, comfortable and warm, closed his eyes. He was tired and just needed a few minutes of sleep, then he’d have the energy he needed to be on his way again.

Friday, October 21 st

Deer Creek, Montana

The sun had barely cleared the eastern horizon. Jennifer stood at the living room window, shielding her eyes from the brilliant glare that reflected off the snow. Snow had fallen most of the day Wednesday, and now everything was covered in a thick, soft, as yet undisturbed, blanket of snow. She stared at the snow, fighting to breathe normally, her throat aching from suppressed sobs, streaks of tears staining her cheeks.

“Kyle, where are you?” she whispered haltingly. “I’m so worried about you, and I need you. I don’t know if I can do this alone.”

She heard a door open at the end of the hallway, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Emma appeared around the corner, bundled in sweat pants, thick socks and a robe. “I’m cold, Mom. Can we turn the heat on?”

Jennifer wiped the tears from her face. “I’ll go turn on the fireplace, doll. Did you sleep okay?”

Emma swung her head emphatically from side to side, a perturbed look on her face.

“Why not?” Jennifer asked. “I thought the three of you’d be warm in there?’

“It was kind of warm, but Spencer squirms around too much and kept pulling the covers off me.”

“Sorry, doll. We’ll try and come up with a better plan for tonight.”

They walked into the family room together, and Jennifer turned on the fireplace. She pulled the couch up close and laid a blanket over their legs after they sat down.

“Are you okay?” Emma asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been crying again. What’s wrong?”

“Well, I guess I’m just worried about your dad. He’s not home yet, so I worry. It’s what moms do.”

Emma looked at her mother and smiled. “I think he’ll be fine. Grandma always tells me that I can pray about stuff, and God will take care of things. Every night I pray for dad to get home, and I think God’s going to hear me.”

Jennifer gave Emma a hug. “You’re sounding better. I think maybe I need to start asking, too, just so God knows I want your dad home as much as you do.”

“Grandma said you don’t like to pray too much, so I need to do it for the family.”