Bump



  Bump

  by S.J. Finch

  Copyright 2011 by S.J. Finch

  “Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” – Abraham Lincoln

  Chapter 1

  Pine. Dampness. Dirt. If there was one aspect of camping that came anywhere close to redeeming all the others, it was the crisp scent of the mountains. The air was cleaner here, free from car exhaust, cheap cologne, cooking grease, and all the other smells that Ryan associated with the city. He inhaled again.

  On either side of the narrow path loomed the forest. The trees were packed so densely that branches collided and interlocked into one giant wall of green.

  Ryan peered through the trees and from the darkness, a strange roar erupted. It took him only a moment to realize however that this was not the hunting cry of some ferocious animal about to attack, it was something much worse.

  Diesel.

  He craned his neck to see past the trunk of a large tree. In this small sliver, he saw the unnatural gleam of an eighteen wheeler as it roared about its business on the highway that ran occasionally parallel to the forest path. The footpath and the highway were less than a hundred yards apart and Ryan smiled inwardly as he remembered one of the goals for this trip: getting back to nature.

  He readjusted the waist strap on his old-fashioned, external-frame hiking backpack. The shift took some of the burden from his shoulders to his waist, but it did nothing to ease his other pains. His legs were sore and blisters were forming quickly on both feet, but the worst pain came from a cross-bar in the frame which dug right into the small of Ryan’s back.

  His father was cheap. “Practical” was probably a better term, but Ryan wasn’t in a generous mood at the moment. This would be the first and last backpacking trip for the men of the Fisher family, and Ryan’s father knew it. The other fathers had gone out and far overspent on brand new backpacks they had fooled themselves into thinking they’d ever use again. Ryan’s father however had gone straight to the thrift store, and returned with a pair of ancient canvas monstrosities that Ryan was certain had once belonged to Colonel Kurtz.

  The roaring truck was gone, and Ryan tried in vain to recapture the sense of peace and isolation he had felt before. It was no use.

  “You all right, buddy?”

  A booming, genial voice sounded from the trail bend ahead.

  Mr. Lowery worked in public relations at Ryan’s father’s office, and the excursion had been his idea. Lowery had seen no flaw in the logic that, if three fathers were friends at work, their three sons would become instant friends when dragged along on a weekend camping trip. Still, Ryan liked the man. He was large and loud and very pleasant.

  “I’m fine.” Ryan replied. “Just enjoying the scenery.”

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Lowery replied with a red-faced smile.

  Ryan wasn’t very good at small talk, especially with adults in white-collar jobs that held no interest to him. Fortunately, Lowery enjoyed small talk enough for the both of them, so Ryan barely had to say a word beyond the occasional affirmation or semi-forced laugh.

  They trudged along the path and enjoyed the changing landscape while trying to avoid the roots and rocks that poked out of the ground at odd angles.

  Ryan’s sneakers were out of their element, but they had served him faithfully enough so far. Now however, the terrain had changed from dry and level to slippery and inclined.

  He gingerly took his first step into a shallow ditch that had been carved out by a low, narrow stream. The side of the ditch was muddy, and against the worn rubber sole of Ryan’s sneaker, it provided no traction.

  The step went bad and Ryan’s foot twisted in a way it was not meant to. He pitched forward and couldn’t bring his other foot up in time to right himself, so Ryan landed face-down in the stream with a thudding splash.

  The landing itself wasn’t bad. The fifty-pound backpack that landed on top of him was. Lowery rushed to his side.

  “Whoa whoa, easy.You okay?”

  Ryan pushed himself out of the stream and nodded. He was embarrassed and he was soaking, but he hadn’t broken anything. His ankle, however, throbbed angrily.

  “Nothing major, just twisted my ankle.”

  “I can imagine. Spill like that, you’re lucky it was just a twist. Good thing this happened so close to camp, it could’ve been a lot worse. Stay here, I’ll run ahead and get Carl and your dad.”

  The last thing Ryan wanted was everyone staring down at him while he was helpless in the mud. On the other hand, the first thing he wanted was the Ace bandage out of Carl’s first aid kit, so he was willing to endure the embarrassment.

  Lowery shrugged off his pack and set off huffing down the trail as he yelled for the rest of the group to stop.

  A moment later, the man returned with Carl Burris and Ryan’s father. Joseph Fisher didn’t much care for Burris, and Ryan had heard many a complaint about the man over the family dinner table. Nevertheless, Ryan had been able to piece together that Burris had some clout within the office, so declining his invitation for a weekend excursion would not have been a wise move. Ryan didn’t care much about the wild world of inter-office politics; only when they forced him into a backpacking trip.

  “You okay, Ryan?” Joseph asked his son as Burris wrapped the ankle.

  “Never better.”

  Ryan’s father pulled him out of the stream bed and helped him hobble the last half mile to the place they were to make camp. Lowery, Burris, and their sons had gone on ahead, and a fire was already crackling in the stillness of the twilight. Its small flames cast flickering shadows on Burris who was busy cursing at his brand new, “easy-assemble” tent. Night was falling quickly.

  Ryan eased himself into a canvas camp chair and began to count the hours until he could go home.

  He had tried to do right by his father and play nice. He had introduced himself to Nick Burris, who had grunted an unintelligible reply without looking up from his phone. Then Ryan had tried to strike up a conversation with Eddie Lowery, who had pointedly put in earphones. Ryan had done his best, but he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen. The boys all went to different schools and lived in different neighborhoods; having fathers who worked together wasn’t fodder for riveting conversation. Ryan had resigned himself to a rather lonely weekend, and had instead begun focusing on the fact that the trip was almost over. He’d be going to bed soon and, with a little luck, his ankle would be well enough to hike out early the next morning.

  Their camp was at the edge of a large meadow, one of the few clearings Ryan had seen in the dense forest. The setting sun muted the natural colors of his surroundings and substituted its own vibrant yellows and oranges. The patches of pale grass at Ryan’s feet turned a nearly-transparent, flaming red in the dying sunlight and they cast long, spiked shadows across the dirt. Through the trees on one side, Ryan could just make out the shimmering reflection of the sun on a small lake. He knew that opposite the lake was the highway, but even the thin stand of trees between them was enough to hide the blacktop from Ryan’s view. On either side of the meadow rose the forest, thick and dark even at midday, but now as the sun continued to set, Ryan couldn’t distinguish shape from shadow more than a few feet beyond the tree line.

  He felt a gentle breeze pick up, and he could just make out the sound of it whistling through the countless branches. Much more audible were the sounds of Burris’ mild profanities, the crackling fire, and Ryan’s father constructing their small pup tent behind him.

  Even these sounds however, became muffled whenever a car roared past them on the nearby road. Ryan smiled.

  Joseph Fisher had their tent up in a matter of minutes, and he helped Ryan crawl inside.

  “Hav
ing fun yet?” His father asked with a smirk. “I think we’re going to play some capture-the-flag. Are you okay for me to leave?”

  Ryan smiled. “Yeah, I’m really fine. Go do your thing, show Mr. Burris who was CTF champ at Camp Maplewood four years running.”

  Joseph Fisher grinned back. “And here I thought you never listened to any of my old camp stories.”