Page 2 of Holly's Grizzly

On my next step, my foot slides and my knee buckles. I barely stop myself from going sprawling onto the ground, but can’t do anything to prevent the terrified sob that rips out of me.

It’s loud enough to startle me, the depth of my frustration and anxiety cresting over the top of all the mental guardrails I’ve put in place. Over my focus and control, over the calming breaths and rationalizations.

Losing control is only going to make all of this even more dangerous, and I do everything I can to push it back down.

I breathe in, then out.

I focus on the trail, and picture the safety of my car waiting for me at the trailhead.

I’m not thinking about the way the frigid winter air bites my nostrils.

I’m not thinking about the way it curls down my throat and into my lungs, putting an icy stab of dread squarely in the center of my chest and threatening to unravel my control completely.

“Enough,” I mutter, biting down on the inside of my cheek to ground myself back into reality. “Focus.”

I press on, over the rocky, icy, snow-strewn ground. My feet stay under me and my legs stay steady. No more of that overwhelm escapes from the place I’ve got it buried.

At least until I get to the river crossing that marks the approximate halfway point back to my car.

The “bridge” over this section of trail is nothing more than a fallen tree with one end resting on each bank. It’s wide and sturdy enough that in good conditions it would be no big deal to cross it, but right now its worn bark is coated in a thick layer of ice like everything else in this forest.

Below, the river it crosses runs swollen and fast from late-season rains.

I pause on the bank, watching those waters.

My eyes blur on the churning, dark, freezing depths, and I almost lose my nerve completely.

But finding another route would add hours to my journey, and even now I’m at least two hours from making it back to the trailhead and my vehicle.

So I make another judgment call.

Dropping into a crawl, I get my bearings on the log. Arms and legs wrapped awkwardly around the thick trunk, I inch forward. I probably look like a graceless mess, but there’s no one around to see, and I’m not taking any chances crossing on foot.

Inch by inch, I make my way across the trunk, growing more and more confident with each bit of distance gained.

That confidence, however, lasts only as long as it takes my eyes to stray to the river below.

In the middle of the log, over the deepest, fastest portion of the river, the black water roils angrily, and my heart leaps into my throat.

Letting that panic get the best of me is my first mistake.

My second is trying to speed up my slow, awkward crawl.

Suddenly overcome by the desperate need to be anywhere in the world but on this log, I make a mad grab to move faster. The other bank is my salvation, and every single second I’m not on it feels like my lungs are getting smaller and smaller. Muscles shaking, another broken sob climbing the back of my throat, I reach forward to drag myself closer to safety.

But it’s not enough, and my haste makes me reckless, careless, abandoning all those carefully laid plans and all the caution I’ve spent so many months cultivating.

My hand slips from the gnarled knot I meant to grasp, and the fumbled momentum throws me to one side.

The next few moments happen in slow motion.

On my back, the heavy pack I’m wearing wobbles to the side, pulling me right along with it. My hands scramble over the ice-coated tree trunk, flailing uselessly. There’s absolutely nothing for me to grasp to keep myself from sliding off the log and into the icy river below, and I let out a scream of pure terror as I fall, the churn of the river rising to meet me.

The water hits me like falling into a bed of knives.

Stabbing against my face and throat, rushing in through the top of my jacket and up the legs of my pants, over the tops of my gloves to engulf my hands. It sucks all the breath from my lungs, though I get a few gasped mouthfuls as I surface, then plunge, surface, then plunge.

Instinct takes over completely.

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