In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,98
contemptuous scientific establishment. The literal monster the Sasqualogist must slay, apprehend, or capture on camera is a much greater Goliath, in physical and mental acuity, than the biblical giant of that name.
Bearing this in mind, I wonder: Can there ever be victory for this sort of heroism—a seemingly futile kind propped up by hope? One in which all previous heroes on the same path have fallen by the wayside—self-sacrificed, beaten by the beast, like warriors at some indefensible Thermopylae. Beyond the nobility in superhuman effort against insurmountable odds, what could possibly goad a would-be hero into that sort of quest (especially when there are so many others to choose from)?
It may be that its prize is like no other: the capture of a supernatural being.
And so here I am now, among them—yet have always been among them—lost in the mythical landscape of imagination from which I derive my personal significance: another kind of Noble Beyond. But now that I’m awakened to it, I’m less than sure that this is the kind of hero I want to be—or that Sasquatch is the prize I want to spend my precious days failing to attain.
Our journey down the avalanche chute begins as a sluglike procession, as I, Daniel, and a whimpering Josie inch down what feels like a 70 percent incline on our backsides, while straining with Herculean effort to keep from gaining velocity and becoming flying objects. For a while it seems to work—until the ground gives way.
In that moment, the entire hillside comes alive in an animated rippling of dirt and rock that gathers momentum, moving faster and faster. I look behind me to see Daniel and Josie, wide-eyed with horror, being pulled down the mountain in a rip-roaring cloud of dust. I slide faster and faster until my desperate efforts to stop cause me to lose my balance and tumble over and over.
Time slows and all becomes gray, as I endure what feels like head-to-toe rug burn—and the terrestrial equivalent of being dragged under a huge wave of cresting seawater.
After who knows how long, and how far a fall, I awaken to the sound of rushing pebbles and dirt coming to a standstill beside me. I’m lying on my side facing downhill. Standing maybe twenty feet in front of me, with the lake behind him, covered in the fine dust that bathes people pulled from collapsed buildings, is Leonard. He’s holding his shotgun and pack and has a satisfied grin on his face. I hear Daniel cursing bitterly just above me, as Josie, now a gray Lab, steps on my head to get to Leonard’s side.
“Told ya we’d make it down,” he says. “Leonard Ellis doesn’t give up.”
The final push to the cabin, through a spacious grove of Douglas fir, is desperate and incoherent, a race against darkness in free fall.
Because of his knee, Leonard can no longer shoulder his heavy pack, which Daniel now carries in addition to his own. Even though we wear head lamps, visibility in the woods is frighteningly low. It is a shadowy, monochrome world of forms—one of those malign forests from fairy tales. To make matters worse, Daniel and Leonard are sparring about which of the many crisscrossing trails that have suddenly appeared leads to the cabin. But just as hope begins to fade, perhaps for good, we start to see evidence of human activity: piles of wooden planks, fences, hand tools, pieces of machinery.
“Stanley’s unfinished projects!” Leonard says, trying to hide his relief. “We’re almost there.”
Ordinarily, after an ordeal of this sort, the homecoming, the arrival at relative comfort and shelter, is sweet enough to negate what has been endured. But when we finally get to the old enclosure, my heart sinks to depths I had no idea existed. Our head lamps and the last light of dusk reveal a thin shell of a cabin totally at odds with the rustic comforts I’d held out for: it is a patchwork log-and-plywood shack, with open windows covered in tarps, surrounded by homemade wooden scaffolding and ladders. A renovation work in progress! As Leonard and Daniel drop their packs and dust themselves off, I peer around back, hoping to find the “real” cabin. Instead, I discover three partially completed shelters interspersed in a large clearing.
“Jumpin’ Jeezus!” Leonard yells.
I return to the cabin and step inside to find Leonard and Daniel, with their head lamps on, standing between some bunk beds and what appears to be the kitchen area. The place looks as if it has