It feels like it’s been hours out here ¬¬— long hours of a biting cold and the inescapable torment from the stark absence of stimuli — but it’s hard to tell how long it actually has been. Maybe not long, not at all. The cover of the trees bearing down on us makes it feel harder to keep track of the time as it passes, if it passes. This is not to even begin to mention the sheer force of the monotony on the span of time here, assuming it like a thick fog.
When you think ‘wilderness’, you’re encouraged to think adventure, aren’t you? And adventure implies something interesting, maybe exciting, maybe enthralling.
But, in reality, it isn’t that. It’s just dirty, and cold.
As we speak, clouds of dust, dirt and seeds from the canopy above are drifting on the wind, almost forming a literal tumbleweed bounding its way through the clearing.
I wish this were a Western movie, and this was a frontier town, but it isn’t. It’s just trees, trees, and more trees.
The only fun I’ve had out here so far was the half a second of interest I had in seeing for the first time the wall of trees that surrounded me standing in the clearing.
“Wow,” I’d said.
But then, it was over, and I realised that the trees never change. They’re always just there, standing there, doing nothing. Like I am right now, thinking about them, and I wonder for half a second if maybe all of these trees were once people just like me — and in their boredom they sprouted new arms and leaves and bark for skin. Am I just surrounded now by other bored people, destined to soon join them?
“Jake?”
Tom says my name with the slightest inflection to suggest it as a question, but we both understand without saying so that he means it more as an expression of impatience than anything else. This isn’t to say Tom is typically an impatient person, or ill-tempered, but I suspect it’s only beginning to dawn on him now how much I really hate camping. He’d tried to wave it off when I had first told him, playfully dismissing it like I was just fooling him and wanting him to coddle me. Now he hopes maybe he can placate me by asking me to head off alone into the woods in search of twigs, branches and other crap he can use to build a fire, like we aren’t literally surrounded by things we could burn.
Maybe he’s testing whether I’ll commit myself to the trip, or spontaneously decide that I actually I love it. I think maybe he’s hoping for too much. I think maybe I’m tired, cold, and already sick of this.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I quip, dismissing him over my shoulder with a Queen’s wave of the back of my hand.
If he says anything in reply, I don’t hear it, as I’m already encouraging my mind to set sail for the distant shores of Anywhere-But-Here, where it’s nicer — warmer, less dirty, maybe surrounded by ocean instead of trees.
Trees, trees, and more trees.
But I’m not there, of course. I’m here with the trees, walking, pretending to earnestly search for something I’m surrounded by, like a man adrift at sea and dying of thirst.
Sure, it’s tired cliché after tired cliché, but I think that maybe if I walk just far enough, I can at least avoid the awkwardness of having to stand around and watch Tom set up our tent.
He’d give me a half-look like I should be helping him, and I’ll return that look with a glare telling him that he should already know I have no idea how, and the uncomfortable silence will just linger there for a while like a really bad smell.
Tom’s idea of a romantic getaway is already fast turning into a trip to Splitsville, and for once I’d rather it didn’t. So maybe I’ll at least try and be conservative with expressing my irritation. Hell, maybe I should pretend to enjoy it, at least for Tom’s benefit.
I’m lost in thought thinking about this when I feel a sudden tug at the hem of my pant leg, causing me to stumble forward. I wince at a dull pain just above my ankle, as twigs and dead leaves crumble and crunch beneath me to meet my clumsiness with an uproarious round of applause.
I turn back to search for the culprit, hissing various expletives under my breath.
There’s nothing.
I tripped over my own damn self, and hardly for the first time. Tall, thin and gangly, with an eldritch gait, I’ve always been clumsy. Maybe that’s half the reason why I hate camping so much in the first place, knowing I’m surrounded by so many things I can trip over or fall on, and how likely it is that I’ll manage to find a way every time. Still, I can’t quite shake the feeling that this felt like something else.
I pull up my pant leg to glance at where I felt the pain, expecting to find some kind of hideous gash overflowing with a steady stream of blood, and I’m only half-relieved to see that there’s nothing.
“Damn it, Jake,” I curse, fixing my pants, and dusting off their front.
I hear a nearby tree audibly groan in the wind, probably stifling laughter at this clumsy oaf, and I can’t say I blame it. Following closely behind, a distant knock echoes out from deeper among the sea of trees. Something falling down, maybe?
I hear another, then another and several more, forming a rhythm of steadily approaching sounds. Now just as suddenly as I’d heard them, they stop and the forest falls silent, leaving me alone with only the sound of my own heart beating hard in my chest. And why should I be panicking? There’s nothing out there but trees, trees, and more trees. I haven’t even been walking that long, or gone that for. Barely enough for Tom to even start missing me, I think.
“Miss you?”
What was that? Was that a voice? I could have sworn it was a voice. No, just the wind. It has to have been the wind — I hope it was the wind.
I can feel my muscles begin seizing up, and my throat tighten. Chills grip me, goosebumps shooting up my arms, as a sting of fright begins snaking its way up my spine. All I can think to do is turn back to look for any signs of Tom and the campsite between the trees in the direction I’d walked from, but from here I can’t see anything.
Just trees, trees, and more trees.
How long have I been out here now? Ten minutes? Maybe twenty? Longer?
However long it’s been, I feel like it’s been too long, and I have to get back. I have to go back, find Tom and crumple into his arms. I’ll confess everything, tell him about how scared I am, and how that’s the real reason I’ve been such a pain in the ass. I’ll tell him I’ll go where he goes, I’ll stay with him where it’s safe, but I’ll hope he’ll take us home. But I can’t go back empty-handed, I tell myself.
Half-heartedly I bend down to scoop up a bundle of twigs and branches from the dirt, holding them out in front of me like they’re a prize, or a dinner plate. The scattered leaves still clinging to their corpses brush against the underside of my chin, and I can’t brush them off without a free hand.
Over my shoulder, I think I hear more knocking, but I’m determined that I’m not going to wait around to find out for sure. My hurried steps become more like strides, and it takes every ounce of restraint in me not to break out into a sprint. But there’s just so many trees, so many obstacles, I’m bound to trip and fall if I do.
And I still can’t see Tom or the camp through the gaps in the trees.
The daylight is beginning to fade now, as the shadows of the trees begin drawing much tighter to the ground. How far had I walked? Shouldn’t I have seen the camp by now?
I’m hurrying for at least a few more minutes before I finally do, as I spot the yellow domed roof of the tent in the near-distance. I feel awash with relief, and my cheeks hot with embarrassment, as plumes of dust from my hurried arrival chase me into the clearing.
God, I’m an idiot. What was I — scared of trees now? It was just trees, trees, and more trees out there. I hadn’t heard a voice, I hadn’t heard anything. It was just my imagination.
I don’t see Tom anywhere, but think he must be waiting for me inside the tent. This was our romantic getaway, after all, and the tent is all set up with our things packed away inside. He’s probably been lying there for God knows how long just waiting for me to return.
I drop the bundle of twigs to the ground, and they offer me an admittedly satisfying clatter. I clear my throat, maybe to get Tom’s attention, maybe to try and shrug off the panic still turning knots in the pit of my stomach.
“Tom?” I struggle to spit out. “I’m back.”
I try to say it confidently, like nothing is wrong, but instead I fumble with the words. My mouth is bone-dry and my hands clammy, even the dirt on them is soaked through to now mud. Still, I’m trying to calm myself down. Maybe I should try and be, I don’t know, romantic.
I reach with a trembling hand for the entrance flaps to the tent, pushing my fingers in to grip and pull them ajar.
“I’m gonna find you,” I sing out, shakily.
“Found you.”
“What the fuck?!” I scream, involuntarily lunging forwards to tumble through the tent flaps, crashing to the floor. There’s no doubting it this time, that was definitely a voice. Louder this time, too, so there can be no confusing it for the wind or anything else.
A voice. Definitely a voice.
“Tom!” I scream, now noticing his absence inside the tent. The sleeping bag is dishevelled slightly, peeled back like someone was preparing to crawl into it. But no Tom.
I turn quickly to face the tent’s entrance, scooting backwards to get some distance from whatever might be behind me, and think I spot something through the opening. Maybe a face. A round face, pale, and painted with dust and mud — or, maybe, dry blood?
Is it—
I blink and it’s gone, leaving only trees in its wake. I scream again.
“Tom!”
I feel the tent buckle slightly on one side, possibly bowing in the wind. Or beckoned by a hand pushing in. I inch across the tent floor to get away from it, and the tent wall returns to normal, snapping back.
“Jake?”
A familiar voice this time. His. Tom’s. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Tom, you— you asshole,” I stammer. “You scared me half to death.”
I hear his laughter.
“Only half?”
I feel my heart still beating out of my chest, and I want to be angry. I want to shout, and scream, and cause a fuss — but instead, I’m just relieved. I prop myself up with one hand to my haunches and lean forwards, pushing my head out through the tent opening.
“Damn it, Tom. Where are you?” I ask. But still, it’s only trees that greet me.
“Come on,” I say. “Fun’s over.”
I wait in silence for a second then, expecting Tom to emerge from somewhere doubled over in laughter, tickled pink by having managed to scare me so badly. And I’ll let him, I’ll let him just for the chance to wrap my arms around him.
“Jake?”
I freeze.
That voice, not Tom’s — the first voice.
“Tom.”
Tom’s voice again this time, followed closely by the sounds of those knocks again amongst the trees, though much closer. Maybe at the edge of the clearing?
“Tom.”
Not Tom’s voice.
I slump back, the fear gripping me even tighter than before. I feel like my eyes are about to burst from my skull, and like my mouth is full of cotton balls. I think I feel my throat closing, my spine recoiling.
The sounds of the knocking are definitely much closer now, almost above me. Or maybe they’re below me? Now the distance has narrowed, I find it harder to tell. Is it the trees? Or the Earth?
I think I see movement through the opening as something dashes behind a tree, and gasp. I think I see something big.
I blink, and then again a second flash as whatever it was darts back out from cover. I think it’s smaller now. Faster, too.
“Jake?”
It’s a different voice — a woman’s. Maybe my mother’s?
I’m trying not to cry, or to choke as I heave deep inhalations that I expel only in short bursts.
“Jake?”
I’m trying not to make a sound. I’m trying to shrink and to curl into a ball, I’m trying to hide.
“Jake.”
I’m trying to—
“Found you.”