J.T. Warren: Blood Mountain

The east ridge of the mountain gleamed like the shining blade of a knife. He could almost see the bloody tears bubbling from the trees. Those trees were like something from a Greek myth. On days like today when the temperature was expected to spike out of the cold and into the surprisingly warm, the blood would gush out, form puddles like little tar traps that could suck the shoes off your feet.

A lot of people didn’t like to hike up there. They said the mountain was one giant trap.

TWELVE

A guy in his twenties hefted a large hiking bag on to his back and connected several straps across his broad chest. His sweatshirt was snug against his shoulder muscles and biceps. He did not glance her way while he readied himself for a hike.

Maybe they would run into him somewhere in the woods.

Dad was bent over in the trunk, assembling the supplies into four different piles: his stuff to carry, her stuff to carry, food, and first aid supplies. He had spend the night meticulously packing their bags and now, parked at the foot of the mountain, he had emptied those bags for a final check of supplies.

The guy in the snug sweatshirt was the only other hiker. His car was parked on the other end of the gravel lot near the metal HIKERS ONLY sign.

The man latched a thermos onto the side of his bag and then adjusted his iPod so the cords were tucked behind the bag straps. Maybe he would want to begin the journey with them. He could be a lonely guy who was only out hiking because he had no girlfriend to roll around in bed with.

God, she was pathetic.

The man headed toward the well-beaten path. He never glanced in her direction.

When she turned back, Dad was weighing the options between a travel-size first aid kit that was a small flat box and a home-sized one about the size of a tissue box.

“We’re not performing surgery up there, Dad.”

“Right,” he said and smiled, but the smile faded into that uncomfortable place between cheer and sorrow.

After another minute of debate, he placed the large kit back in the trunk and put the small one in a side pocket on his bag. The piles had dwindled and their bags now bulged like two alien seed pods.

Dad strapped the bundled pop-tent to the top of his bag and hefted the whole thing on his back. He sagged with the load, steadied his legs and straightened. He opened his arms as if to say, Well, whaddya think?

“You look like a tourist,” she said.

He did a stupid back and forth tap dance and pretended to doff a hat.

“That’s great, Dad.”

Mercy slipped her hands out from the sleeves of her sweatshirt and put on her bag. It was as heavy as it looked and her legs wobbled for a moment. The slight chill the morning air brought would soon be gone in a gush of sweat.

Dad held out his arm like they were about to enter an elegant ballroom. “Shall we?”

She smiled. “Sure, Dad.”

She took his arm for a moment and was surprised how well that helped steady her legs, and then they were headed toward the dirt trail. After a few feet, Dad turned around, clicked LOCK on the remote for the car. The confirming beep was reassuring, civilized.

Mercy gazed up at the mountain hulking before her. In a few weeks, all the trees would be lush and green but for now they were barren and steadily bleeding.

THIRTEEN

Victor had been up the mountain this way many times. The first time had been shortly after his discovery of the desolate lot behind the garbage company. He’d traveled an hour or two up the trail, always expecting the way to peter out or to come upon some unscalable rock or collection of fallen trees, but the way had been clear. Like he was meant to find it.

He knew the way very well, knew many hiding places, knew where a bear sometimes liked to wander.

He walked with the eight-inch hunting knife swinging in his hand like he were a carefree kid on a morning stroll. He slid it across the grey bark of several trees. He marked a few of the trees in case he had to find his way back quickly, but he was confident there would be no rapid escape from Blood Mountain.

Unlike the trail most people used, this trail ascended rapidly into a steep slope. Victor leaned forward and maintained a good pace. At times, he grabbed trees for leverage or leaned against one for a momentary respite. He wasn’t stupid enough to scale rapidly without pause. He had to conserve his energy. There was no rush. He was well ahead of the woman and her father.

A squirrel darted across the ground and leaped onto a tree. It stared at Victor. It was big and grey, its legs splayed out across the tree. It sniffed at a glob of red sap bubbling from a tiny hole. Victor stepped toward it. His boots crushed dead twigs and leaves in little munching noises.

When he was six years old, Victor found a tree near his home filled with squirrels. There might have been ten or more. Running up and down the huge maple, across the yard, and back up again. He charged after one of them, laughing at how they scattered. But when he got to the tree, one of them had not fled very far. Victor went for it and it lunged onto Victor’s back. When he fell, three more squirrels joined in. He screamed and cried and rolled around. By the time a neighbor came to his rescue, his shirt had been torn in several places, his back streaked with blood.

This squirrel froze, held Victor’s gaze. A small six-year old was one thing but a full grown adult was something else entirely.

Victor raised the long blade.

His next step cracked a dead branch and the squirrel launched up the tree. It scurried toward the top. An urge to follow after the damn thing rushed through Victor for a moment but it was ridiculous as well as impossible. The closest branch was well above him, at least fifteen feet high.

The squirrel stared down through a tangle of barren branches.

Victor slashed the trunk of the tree in one, fluid swipe. The blade went in nearly half an inch. A little sap bubbled from the middle of the gash.

The squirrel jumped onto a neighboring tree, way up high.

Victor continued on his way.

FOURTEEN

Mercy’s legs started to cramp less than an hour into the trek. Dad wanted to push on, even though he was panting.

“We’ll find a good spot to rest soon.”

There were plenty of spots to rest, plenty of trees against which to lean.

But she trudged on. The wide path began to narrow and the slope got steeper. The trees remained straight, of course, which was funny even though it made perfect sense. Trees didn’t emerge off a mountain like quills on a porcupine; they grew toward the sun. Each tree fought for its little spot of light.

Mercy had taken an environmental science lecture course to satisfy the general education requirement and the professor had been this young, skinny guy who gave twenty-minute diatribes about pollution and the mystical power of mother nature. He had once discussed how violent trees were, how plant life was constantly at war with the environment. The battles were too slow for us to notice. And plants never surrendered. Ever. It you cut down a tree, it would immediately start re-growing. The only way to kill it was to rip it from the roots. Trees had endured for millions of years. They were nature’s true fighting survivors.

The trail finally got too steep for them to continue without a breather. Mercy leaned against a tree and hoped her legs would stop shaking. Dad unhooked the canteen from his bag and gulped down some water. Mercy spilled a lot of the water across her cheeks and down the front of her sweatshirt, but she swallowed enough to make her feel better.

“We’ve got plenty of water,” Dad said. “Drink up.”

From this spot, the diner was a tiny building set a far distance off. It looked like a plastic model or child’s toy. Beyond the diner was a lot of nothing, some farmland and an occasional house or two. Far off, though it really wasn’t, was the town of Stone Creek. When you were in town, it felt like the mountain was right on top of you. Up here, the town was far off. She couldn’t even see her home.