The instant he heard the cry, distinctly feminine, a moan of pain soften with a sigh, perhaps of acceptance, he knew his plan might be shot to shit. He had frozen at the sound, right artificial knee painfully pushing against the fern covered ground, left leg descending the steep decline braced again a long dead pine. Rolling to his back, he extended his right leg grunting at his own pain and listened carefully; a pileated woodpecker called in flight at a far distance. That was not what he had heard; the cry was human. Listening so carefully now, he heard water, a gentle rush; no wind, nothing more. He relaxed his unconscious, painful grip on his hiking staff and his fingers tingled in thanks.

The water below, hidden by verdant foliage, would be Bobcat Creek. According to the Bear Claw Mountain Wilderness map the trail he had left hours ago was the closest one to this point. There were no official trails this far up the creek, but maybe it was paddleable? He continued to listen. He had left Carter’s Ridge trail and descended at an angle heading further to the north planning to cross the creek and again ascend at an angle up to Bear Claw Ridge, the most remote acreage of the wilderness; trail bare supposedly. There! It came again, yes, from below toward the creek, maybe to his left a bit! This time it was a sharp grunt; an indication of effort, of movement. Shit! He didn’t call out or make a sound. He had to rest a bit. This stopping, this sudden freezing of movement allowed fatigue to catch and mock; punish him. This was not going to be the end of his final walk! He would persevere. He would not be that yellow-skinned, yellow-eyed man with the oxygen tank strapped to his wheelchair, tubes in his nose, pushed by his caregiver through the waiting room, followed by dozens of eyes including his, not yet jaundiced, staring at their own same perceived destinies. Fuck cirrhosis!

His end would be of his choosing; the time, the place, the circumstance. Over the past few months he had let go of most things including possessions, which had been surprisingly easy; almost joyful at times. He felt he had lived a good life; been a good person, but friends and family, passion and the years had gradually seeped away of their own accord. He had never craved trophies or accolades; he knew his worth. He had been so careful. No one knew or, for that matter, cared where he might be; far away from any acquaintance, no cards used for weeks, no records, nothing. All he wanted was one last walk, no matter had steep, to a final resting place in the wild. A burial performed by creatures wild and roaming; a scattering. Ha! Maybe this dying shit does affect your brain, I guess! There! Again, the plea, which wasn’t a plea, sounded from below; a mumbling….maybe names said, not called. A song? If he could find her; what help could he be? He could never pull her out of here. But, if there was a canoe, it might be possible, but…she might be on her own last walk. A twin soul! He knew that if he stopped now and did not make it to Bear Claw ridge by tomorrow, that he probably never would. They, he and the voice, might survive for a while; be found. Rescued! Bullshit! He could die here near the creek, perhaps with the voice calling from below, but they would be found and he would eventually be interred with a monument stone that would eventually tarnish and fall aslant and birds, and wind and falling rain would never hold his memorial.

“Are you coming? I am here….waiting for you! Please!”