Thanksgiving

I lie in the bushes that hid the old rusty bear trap which grabbed my leg and bound me by chain to an old oak tree. The mechanism is damaged, the trap won’t release. There is no escape. I was only looking for a place to pee.

I am a rugged man. My knife is sharp. I will be fine.

I am fifteen feet from an unmarked trail in the Appalachians, on a cold Wednesday in November. I walked on that trail for two hours and saw no one. Three hours of lying here haven’t changed anything. So much for getting some time to myself.

I am a strong man. My knife is sharp. I should be fine.

Red light filters through the trees, the night birds begin to sing, and there is still no one. My only means of calling for help is my voice, and all that does is scare the birds away. I brought nothing else. I wanted to escape from the outside world, not bring it with me.

I am a clever man. My knife is sharp. There is still hope.

Night is here now. The day birds have gone to sleep, the night birds have relaxed their songs, and an owl vomited a pellet on my lap. I used to like birds. There is no hope of rescue until tomorrow, and it is slim then. I have taken out my sturdy old Swiss Army Knife and gone to work. It is not hard, but it will take time.

I am a brave man. My knife is sharp. I can do this.

An orange dawn is coming toward me through the trees and calls echo from the birds that my anguished shouts have kept away. I did not sleep last night, and I will not sleep now. There is work to be done.

I am a desperate man. My knife is sharp. I must do this.

The shortening shadows tell me it is almost noon. My seventy dollar watch with its compass, leather wrist strap, and phases of the moon sits safely on my dresser, at home, where I may never go again. A thought occurs to me. I drink the last of my water and eat the last of my jerky. It is Thursday now. Happy Thanksgiving.

I am a pained man. My knife is sharp. What else can I do?

The shadows are lengthening again, the wind is picking up, and my work is nearly finished. My leg hurts worse than when I was first caught. It throbs through me, sometimes sharp and fiery, sometimes dull and cold, sucking my will to go on.

I am a desperate man. My knife is sharp. I must go on.

My work is finished. I pull my knife, dull and worn and worthless, from the gash it tore in the rusty bear trap. With all my strength, I rip the bear trap apart and free my leg. My leg is cut and mangled. It will need stitches, maybe surgery, but I can walk on it, for now.

I am a free man. A stick is my crutch. I’m going home.