Twenty years had passed since
Sharon and I were married, and I had grown to resent the silver
in her hair. Along with my middle-aged eyes and knees, her seasoned
appearance was a constant and distressing reminder of the years
we had lost raising children.
For the first time in ages, we had
planned a vacation not based on school schedules. Our son was a
college senior now, our daughter a freshman, and both were away
at universities in opposite ends of New York. We had escaped—at
least for two semesters—the adolescent clutches that had restrained
us for so long. I looked forward to having my my wife all to myself
for a few months.
At long last, we would have no slurping
straws or kicking under the table to bedevil us. We would eat where
we pleased, heedless of who did not like what, and shop in stores
that would have bored our offspring to death. Of course, we mapped
our fall foliage tour to include visits to the kids' respective
campuses.
After treating our daughter to a Long
Island shopping trip, a few dinners out, and a train ride into Manhattan
to see a Broadway show, we headed west to Syracuse. I did my best
to hide my smug elation at driving away with an empty back seat.
Our jaunt through Pennsylvania's mountains,
with wonderful, impromptu visits to Valley Forge and Gettysburg
along the way, rewarded us with panoramic views of colors I had
thought existed only in New England. Another spontaneous stop for
a scenic hike sweetened our newfound freedom, especially when we
parked beside a busload of senior citizens out for a day trip. The
pageant of oxygen tanks, walkers and wheelchairs shook me with yet
another disturbing reminder of our place in time. Some day Sharon
and I might be on such a bus. Today, however, we were healthy and
unfettered. We had graduated to a new level of parenting, and as
we ambled over thick carpets of pine needles, we exchanged "the
secret smile" with several couples our own age.
We strolled down a wood-railed path
just to see a waterfall, then wandered along one of several inviting
tracks. Pennsylvania's woodlands were different from New England's.
Shrubs that could not survive in our northern climate grew wild
all around us. The birds were different too; their song enhanced
our illusion of visiting an enchanted world where we were again
young and invulnerable.
Then Sharon slipped her hand in mine
and said, "Let's hike up the day trail, Tom. The view will
be spectacular."
I squeezed her fingers, loving their
softness. The crisp October air and pine-scented woods transported
me back in time. Before we had become parents, we had hiked often,
and had even climbed a mountain or two.
"We don't have real hiking gear,"
I said.
"It's just a day trail. There
are colored markers. You can take different colored loops to shorten
the trip if you want to get back sooner. Come on, let's go!"
I was game. Sharon's sense of adventure
was one of the things I had loved when I'd met her in college, and
I was falling in love all over again. I stole a kiss. "Which
way?"
We set off down the yellow trail in
our new walking shoes and belly packs. Soon we reached a lively
stream and laughed our arm-spinning way over the log that served
as its bridge. No rowdy children were with us to frighten off the
small forest animals. Chipmunks and squirrels graced us with their
scurrying endeavors. To our delight, a hummingbird followed Sharon's
red sweatshirt for several yards, its tiny, iridescent body glittering
in the speckled sunshine.
Perhaps because it was a weekday,
few other hikers roamed the woods. We exchanged cheerful greetings
with an older couple who were making their careful way, canes in
hand, along the gentle yellow trail. Their seeming indifference
to their age cheered me. I wondered if the magical setting had sparked
youthful memories for them, as it had for me. Further on, an athletic
young man, redheaded and pensive, passed us with a silent nod. His
bulging backpack and hand-carved walking stick pegged him as a serious
hiker.
A quarter hour later, we turned onto
the more difficult blue trail. I found its gradual slant and toe-stubbing
tree roots more exhilarating than arduous. Before long, the trail
narrowed. To our left lay a deep gulch littered with boulders; a
flat ledge jutted above us to our right. The fine weather and glorious
scenery prompted me to clamber onto it. Ignoring the bouncing stones
I had dislodged, I pointed to an even higher outcrop.
"I'll bet the view is great
up there."
We hadn't done this for years, and
Sharon's face was flushed. She was breathing hard, but smiling.
"All right, here I come!"
Her first step sent more stones tumbling
into the ravine—and then the ledge groaned. The trail cracked
and collapsed. Sharon screamed. An avalanche of scree and soil swept
her into the ravine.
Slipping in debris, I shouted her
name until spreading clouds of dust choked and blinded me. After
several terrifying moments, the dust began to settle. The trail
was gone. In its place stretched a hungry, forty-foot-wide chasm
that left me trapped on the narrow ledge.
I scoured the airborne grit until
an arm of Sharon's red sweatshirt appeared in the rubble two hundred
feet below me. Her bloodied face came into focus. I couldn't tell
if she was alive. She was too far down, and I couldn't reach her.
Fighting panic, I fumbled for my cell
phone and pushed the emergency numbers. The maddening "Out
of Service Area" message flashed on the display. I squinted
at the rocky outcrop above me. It wasn't far. Maybe the phone would
work up there—and maybe I would launch another avalanche if
I climbed. I swallowed a sob of frustration and screamed for help.
My lonely shouts faded away, and I realized that even if anyone
had heard me, they wouldn't know where the shouts had come from.
The outcrop drew my attention again.
I had just plotted the careful steps I would take to climb when
a man behind me hollered. Overjoyed, I turned to see the red-haired
hiker standing on the other side of the crater that loomed where
the trail had been.
"Hey!" he called. "Hey,
are you okay?"
"I'm okay," I called back,
"but my wife's hurt."
His eyes widened as they followed
my pointing hand. "Oh my God," he said, and then his emergency
training kicked in.
"My name's Ben. What's yours?"
"Tom. My phone doesn't work up
here, Ben. Can you get help?"
"Yeah. Stay put, Tom. Don't move."
He unstrapped his backpack and started tossing things at me. "Here's
my canteen! And this one has food." Two small bags thumped
near my feet. A third followed. "That one has a flashlight
and a whistle. I'm going for the rescue team. Don't move! The weather's
good, and we have plenty of daylight. I'll be back as fast as I
can."
And he was gone. His use of the word
"we" heartened me. Mumbling a prayer of thanks to anyone
who might be listening, I focused on the wisps of hair blowing around
Sharon's unstirring face. "Hold on, baby," I whispered.
"Help is coming."
I sat with my back to the rocks and
rifled through Ben's bags to keep busy, though nothing I found could
allay the dread that tormented me. Still, I probed the contents
of the bags, knowing that I would need calories to fight the falling
temperatures. So would Sharon, I thought, and left Ben's mysterious,
foil-wrapped bars untouched.
Every few minutes I called her name,
hoping that she could hear me. Between shouts, I found some solace
in memories: the big events, the little joys, the intimacy and the
back-turning coolness. Even the echoes of little digs and arguments
over kids and money made me believe that sharing so much had made
us too strong to succumb to a little bad luck.
The sun was setting when the roar
of an approaching helicopter jolted me from my reverie. Arms waving,
I jumped to my feet, but I couldn't see the helicopter. When I looked
behind me, Ben was trotting at the head of a dozen rescue workers
whose orange shirts were the most magnificent sight I had ever seen.
In a flash, they uncoiled nylon ropes
and lowered themselves into the ravine. One man guided the helicopter
in by radio. Moments later, the aircraft hovered above me. I squeezed
against the rocky wall to escape its downdraft. A paramedic whose
name I later learned was Eddie tossed out a cable and landed like
Tarzan on the ledge beside me. He helped me into a harness, and
the helicopter winched us up.
The stench of diesel fuel in that
helicopter's roaring cabin was perfume to me. After Eddie checked
me over and sat me down with a flask of hot coffee, he slipped on
a set of headphones and talked to the rescue team.
Minute after agonizing minute, I waited
for someone to tell me about Sharon. I wept when Eddie said she
was alive.
"We're going to airlift her out,
Tom," he yelled over the engine racket. "She's lodged
in the rocks, a good thing. If she wasn't, she would have fallen
all the way to the bottom."
He slapped my shoulder and disappeared
down the winch cable with his medical gear and a stretcher. I crawled
to the opening to watch, but the winch operator shook his head and
pointed to where I had been sitting. Meek and obedient, I returned
to my place and waited. And waited.
At last, the winch operator alerted
the pilot that Eddie and the litter with Sharon strapped inside
were safely aboard. Eddie smiled and gave me a "thumbs up,"
and we took off for the trauma center.
I called the kids from the hospital.
They raced from their opposite ends of New York. Tired old man that
I was, I was never more happy to see them. Their loving support
and fussbudget scolding did wonders for Sharon, who had suffered
a concussion and a broken arm.
Before we left Pennsylvania, I tracked
down my red-haired friend Ben and bought him a beer—and a new
canteen and whistle. I spoiled Sharon silly on the long drive back
to New England. Once we were home, I wrote letters in praise of
the volunteer rescue workers and the helicopter crew whose dedication
had averted a tragedy.
Sharon was more worried that the stitches
in her forehead would leave scars than she was about her injuries.
She has no memory of the fall, though I will never forget it. Every
day I tell her that I can't see any scars—and that I love every
silver hair in her beautiful head.
