(...the dramatic conclusion...)
My family huddled together for warmth. Where had this freakin' storm come from? The blue sky had been replaced by an angry grey, the large flakes whipped around our faces like a swarm of crystalline bees. It was easily 30 degrees colder here than it was at our "base camp". Most of us were wearing shorts. Our bare knees felt the bite of the cold.
"Hey, look at this," yelled my cousin Jolly from a handful of yards ahead of us. We trudged upward into the wind that was coming down the mountain in waves. Suddenly, we were standing in front of a beautiful lake, its glassy surface painted ominous shades of grey and black, its frozen edges stretching out a few feet from its shore. Of course, Mark wanted to be the first to test the strength of the ice. Ignoring the adults' protests, he eased his 100 lb. figure gently onto the frozen liquid, creeping like a thief, his hands out to his sides, their fingers splayed.
He made it three steps.
"Crack!" went the ice. "AHHHH!" went Mark.
He had fallen through. Mark now stood knee-deep in freezing cold lake water, wearing an expression that was half frantic and half bemused, as if he had planned it this way all along. We dragged him out of the lake, his shoes squishing on the snowy ground as he clambered up the small embankment. He must have been freezing. I couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.
We now had a serious problem: Mark was going to lose his feet unless we could somehow warm him up. [Why just "going down the mountain" wasn't an option for us then, I'll never know. I think, like me, my family has a flair for the dramatic; we all like to have a good story to tell. Mark having his toes amputated would make a fantastic story.] So, as quickly as possible, we began gathering kindling to make a small fire, our numb fingers snapping dry twigs from trees and pulling up browned grass. Soon, we had what resembled a respectable fire - only without the actual fire part.
We now had another problem.
"Does anyone have a lighter?" my uncle said. Nobody in my family smoked. One of my cousins, remembering something, began tearing through his bag and produced a box of matches...the contents of which were: two matches.
Jack London laughed from somewhere in the wilderness.
"Okay, we only get two shots at this," my uncle said, "so we gotta find a way to make a wind-break or they won't stay lit." We huddled our bodies close together, spreading out our arms to expand our personal surface areas. Even with the wall of humans surrounding our tiny would-be fire, the howling wind managed to leak through our arms and legs, changing direction sporadically. We didn't stand a chance.
Two matches lit, two matches extinguished. My uncle didn't even have time to light the box before the final one blew out. His hands were shaking from the cold as he shook his head, resembling a doctor who has just lost a patient on the operating table. We had failed in our attempt to make a fire. Mark would surely lose his feet, if not both his legs. Some of us would probably die. My dad laid down on the ground, hugging our fluffly golden retriever for warmth. [To this day, he claims that Tex saved his life on that mountain]. We had dared to challenge nature - our puny bodies vs. the elements of God - and we had failed.
"I guess we should head back down," said my Uncle, actually worried for Mark's toes by this time. We were giving up; a fate worse than death. I looked over at my dad, who appeared to be drifting into a hypothermic sleep on the way to death, his fingers buried in Tex's flaxen fur...
* * * * * * * * * *
Needless to say, we made it down alive. Mark retained his toes, and though we did not reach the summit we still considered the expedition a success. The rest of the camping trip went well - the RV failed to catch fire, the marshmallows were successfully set ablaze, and some memories were made. When the books have all been written, it shall go down as one of the best family reunions ever.
Epilogue:
However, this story - like any good story - is not without tragedy. Our feathered woodland friend, which we had found injured by the stream just the day before, was not long for this world. It died shortly after our return, never to grace the forest with its song again.
Mark knew just how to honor our friend. He placed its delicate body in a small cardboard box, soaked the box in lighter fluid, and held the box in the river with his left hand while lighting the box with his right. As the flaming box carried our friend out of sight, we observed a moment of silence, our youthful minds momentarily considering the impermanence of life before rushing off to set something else on fire.
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