Chapter 26

It takes maybe forty-five minutes, mostly on dirt road to get to the trailhead, then it's about a two mile hike to the lake. Walking out there, together and alone, we're the way we used to be back before all the trouble. We're actually talking.

The trail crests about a mile and a half in, and then we descend into a bowl created by the surrounding mountains. It looks like a fall scene in one of those snow globes with it's perfectly placed trees and boulders and a small emerald lake in the middle.

At the shore, we find a grassy spot and we put our blankets down. We're at around 6,000 feet, and it's noticeably colder than it was just 1,500 feet lower at home. Rufus excuses himself to explore, and I pull my down jacket out of my pack. I put it on with a knit beanie, and Walt buttons up his sheriff's coat.

We sit on the blanket, looking out at the lake, eating the sandwiches and drinking the coffee, which gives me a slight buzz. When we're finished, Walt moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean back into his chest.

He kisses my ear.

I twist around in his arms to look at him. "I love being with you, too, Walt."

Then, of course, it starts.

We reposition, lying next to each other, bodies touching from head to toe, and we embark on a serious twenty minute make-out session, despite the forty degree wind coming at us from across the water. When he rolls me onto my back, though, and moves on top of me, I sense we're about to repeat our late-night romp in the office, and I say, "We came here to fish. We should fish."

Looking a little sheepish, he sits up, slips a hand down his pants, and adjusts himself in a way that gets me tingling in all the important places and very nearly changes my mind.

"That might have been a ploy," he says. "But fishing would be fun, too."

I put my collapsible fishing rod together, and lie it down on the blanket.

"That's an interesting fishing rod you've got there," he says.

"I got it when I was in Girl Scouts and it's totally functional," I say, standing up. "I'll tell you what—don't make fun of my rod and I'll try not to make fun of yours."

He laughs. "Fair enough."

"I better round up Rufus before we start. I'd hate to have to explain how he got eaten by a grizzly the day before they got back."

I walk along the squishy grass at the water's edge, calling for Rufus to no avail. When I reach the rocks, I go around them, up towards the tree line. Still no dog. At this point, I'm maybe a hundred yards or more from where Walt is baiting the hooks, and I'm starting to get a little worried.

The sky is completely clouded over, which is good because the temperature shouldn't drop as fast, but bad, of course, because it could rain.

When the bank becomes grassy again, I return to the shore, still calling.

Just as my imagination is beginning to formulate a gory scenario detailing Rufus' demise, I hear what can only be described as the grunt of a pig, but much deeper and in reverse. It's coming from behind me, from where the tree line is closest to the water. I turn just in time to see Rufus charging out of the trees much faster than I have ever seen him move, followed by a cow moose, kicking her front legs forward and sort of trotting, but covering a lot of ground quickly.

Panicking, I look for the nearest tree, but somehow, with all the trees out here, I'm in a pretty open area. Then I look at the water, not an ideal option, but probably better than getting rammed by a determined mother moose.

Rufus is now running in a zigzag like he can't decide which way to go, and apparently that's unappealing to the cow because she slows down considerably.

"Here, Rufus!" I yell, taking the opportunity that has presented itself, and hoping she doesn't shift her focus to me. "I'm right here."

But as soon as he sets his homing device on me, I realize the mistake I've made. He's tearing across the landscape, getting closer every second. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Walt standing at the shoreline maybe a hundred and fifty yards away, watching us.

Honestly, I don't even have time to escape. Rufus flies over the rocks like they're nothing, and he's got his eyes trained on me, tail tucked under, ears back. I point to the side and yell, "That way, Rufus!" because apparently I have no memory of this dog's limited mental agility.

The moose has now stopped, and her babies are hiding behind her, watching the horror unfold. Rufus clears the last rock, and when he hits the squishy, grassy bank, his speed seems to actually increase. Before I can even plan for the eventuality, he slams right into me. For the physics nerds among us, that's a 75 pound dog mass with a 20 mile per hour velocity creating an impact force of really fucking hard. As in I'm-lucky-it-didn't-break-my-femurs hard. I am launched into the lake, and a split second later, Rufus lands on me.

The next thing I know, I'm standing in chest deep water hyperventilating. My head is dripping, and my ears are throbbing, so I know I've been completely immersed, but I don't remember it. I'm a hundred times more aware of the cold wind than I was five minutes ago, and the shivering starts. Alarmed, but unable to move my body quickly, I realize Rufus is missing. When I'm finally able to turn myself around, I see that somehow he's ended up maybe twenty feet out into the lake, and he's swimming around in circles like the dog that he is.

I hear Walt's voice, but I can't tell where it's coming from. He's yelling, "Vic! Get out of the water!" like I'm some sort of idiot.

My teeth start chattering, and then inexplicably, he's there on the bank.

"D-don't g-get w-w-wet," I say to him. Fortunately I know he's just as aware as I am of how counterproductive two people with hypothermia would be.

"Then come on," he says, holding his hand out to me. "Get out."

"I have t-to g-g-get the d-d-d . . . ."

"Dog?" he says, totally exasperated. "No."

"Yes."

At this point I'm stiff and shaking violently, but I do manage, even with my feet sticking to the silty bottom, to wade out towards Rufus.

"R-r-rufus!" I try to yell, but I'm not getting much volume, so instead I try to speed up, which doesn't work, either.

When I finally reach him, he's still swimming around in circles, like he's in shock. I have very little control over my motor functions, especially in my hands. I reach for his collar twice before I'm able to sort of grab it, though closing my fingers is virtually impossible.

"Come, Rufus," Walt calls.

"G-g-go, Rufus," I say, and he does. I hold on as best I can, and he manages to pull me most of the way to shore.

When I get within reach, Walt grabs my hand and pulls me out.

"D-don't g-g-get w-wet, W-w-w . . . ."

"I know," he says, all serious and annoyed. "We have to move fast." Then he looks up at the sky, and I know what he's thinking.

It's this right here that gets people dead out in the wilderness. A perfect storm of unfortunate circumstances builds, and they're not prepared either physically or mentally or both because they operate under the assumption that stuff like this doesn't happen to them.

"Start up the trail and move as fast as you can," he says. "You feel okay?"

"I'm r-r-really f-f-cold, and my h-hands d-don't w-w-work." My teeth are chattering like one of those haunted house denture sets.

"Okay. Don't talk, just go. I'll catch up with you in a few minutes." He points up the hill. "You see the trail, right?"

I nod.

"Okay. Go," he says.

I start up the hill, heading towards the trail, and I feel like I've got cold steel poles in place of my bones. I'm slipping on the loose dirt and rocks so it's literally one step forward, two back, and the shivering has now spread so that every inch of me seems to be convulsing.

Rufus is walking next to me, but he looks like he feels completely normal, if not maybe a tad guilty.

Walt doesn't catch up to us until the crest, and he's breathing really hard. He's got both packs on and both hands full. Up on the ridge, the wind is whistling through the trees. He stops me and wraps both my towel and his blanket around my shoulders, and shows me where to hold them in the front, though holding them with my numb fingers is challenging.

"Let m-me carry the p-p-pack," I say.

"No," he says. "Just keep going."

It took us forty-five minutes to hike to the lake, and it takes over an hour to get back to the car because I'm so slow and uncoordinated.

I'm starting to feel sleepy, too, but I don't tell him because he already seems worried that I keep tripping over roots and rocks that really shouldn't present a problem.

As soon as we get there, he starts the engine and blasts the heat, then moves me into the doorway.

"You have to take your clothes off," he says.

I'm not paying attention, though.

He shakes my shoulders. "Stay awake, Vic," he says. "We have to get the wet clothes off."

I'm only even remotely aware that this should be a total turn on, but isn't.

I try to unzip the jacket, but with no feeling in my fingers, it's taking way too long.

"It's too hard," I say.

He takes the blankets and the towel off me, and he actually looks like he feels bad.

"Your lips are blue, Vic. You're going to be fine, but we have to get you warm and dry."

He unzips my jacket, and I'm able to slowly pull it off my arms, but I'm taking too long even with that, and he starts helping me. He pulls my fleece over my head, then my shirt, and then he helps me get my boots and my pants off. I'm just in my underwear and bra when he stops, and he says, "You have to finish this fast."

I'm able to get my underwear off, but the bra is another story, and he has do to it. I'm aware that I should be embarrassed, but I don't really even care.

It's only then that I notice he's just in a T-shirt. He reaches onto the seat behind me then starts putting his black shirt on me. He buttons it all the way up the front quickly, then he puts his coat on top and buttons that up. He lifts me onto the passenger seat and puts his socks on me then the seatbelt.

He puts two Indian blankets over my legs and a wool beanie on my head, then closes the door and goes around to his side.

The cab is warm, and the shivering is waning slightly. I must be recovering at least a little because I suddenly feel terrible for ruining our date.

"I'm sorry, Walt," I say.

He puts his hand up to my cheek, and I feel a little warmth from it. "It's okay. We just have to deal with this. You know that."

"I do," I say.

"Don't go to sleep," he says.

"I won't."