Jack of all Trades

The sun blazed through the pines, the heat radiating off the dirt path. The eerie silence of the woods surrounding Jackson was deafening. Seventy years old, out of money, and ready to die, he had one last wish: to return to the old water hole he played in as a kid. The only problem was, he was lost.

He knew the water hole was somewhere in these woods, now part of a sprawling hunting club, but so much had changed. New trails crisscrossed the land, and years of overgrowth had transformed the place into something unrecognizable. Jackson wondered to himself how he never got lost as a kid when he came back here to fish with his buddies.

Jackson had managed to drive his truck deep into the farthest part of the hunting grounds, but it got stuck in thick, slick red clay—common in these parts. He used to be a jack of all trades, able to fix anything in his own backyard. But now, he was an old man who barely knew where he was half the time.

Truthfully, Jackson was disoriented by more than just the unfamiliar landscape. His hands trembled and his mind played tricks on him. It got so bad that he swore someone was stealing his food. His family believed the lingering pain from an old accident kept him on pain pills. Truth was, it made him feel invigorated with youth again, which was one reason he thought he could venture into these woods alone. He got careless, thinking he was still in his prime, and came with nothing to drink or eat. Nobody knew he was even here.

Certain he was close to the water hole, Jackson pushed his truck to its limits, spinning the tires in the mud until the engine overheated. He was really stuck now. He got out of the truck, kicking the tires in frustration, then nearly slipped in the clay mud mix. Time to get walking. Maybe he could make it back to the main trail he came in on.

It was midday, and the humidity made the heat even worse. At least the tall trees offered some shade. Jackson glanced around, hoping to spot the watering hole, but his vision blurred. Sweat poured down his face, and his throat was dry. Every step made him lightheaded. After walking at a slow pace for thirty minutes, he was maybe a few hundred yards from the main trailhead, but he was starting to see double. He dropped to the ground and began crawling on his hands and knees in utter exhaustion, then happened upon a dip in the road that collected muddy water. He desperately cupped his hands and began to drink the brown water. He finally lay down on the dirt road—just for a minute, the dehydration finally taking its toll on him. 

When he woke with a jolt, it was in the dead of night and had turned bitterly cold. His body shivered as he tried to look around. The sweltering day gave way to a frigid darkness. Jackson slowly got up, his back aching from laying on the hard ground, hoping to find the truck, but there was no light—not even a sliver from the moon. All around, he could barely make out the shadowy trees. A chill went down his spine as the wind howled and drove a bitter gust in his face, now numb. An owl hooted in the distance, the leaves in the trees bristled with the cold wind, and a faint smell of smoke seemed to linger in the air.

As he wandered, his feet slipped, and he tumbled down a steep hill. The entire way down he tried to stop with his feet, grabbing wildly for anything to hold to. It felt like he slid all the way to the bottom. Where was he? There weren’t any hills when he'd been walking before. He needed to get back to the road, but he was too weak. He tried to pull himself up with a branch jutting from the edge, but each time, halfway up, he slipped back down. There were roots and weeds, but none strong enough for an old man.

He began to panic, his heart racing as he thought about dying at the bottom of a ravine in the woods. Nobody would ever find him in this mess. Calm down, Jackson, he told himself. You gotta get out of this mess. You got to. Get a hold of yourself, old man! His stomach turned, and he began to feel sick at the thought of what might happen if he didn't get up to the road.

After a few attempts to try to crawl up the hill, he realized it wouldn't be easy. If only he had brought a damn flashlight or something. He checked his pockets, and sure enough, he lost his wallet at some point. No pocket knife, nothing. His stomach grumbled like a monster, aching from hunger.

Somehow, Jackson clawed his way up the hill, dirt clumped under his brittle nails. With every movement, his muscles screamed in protest. He grunted as he tried to lift his body over the ridge. As he reached the road, the loose soil crumbled beneath him, but he made it. Exhausted and breathless, his whole body ached from the fall. Disoriented, he looked one way then the other, feeling as though there were eyes in the woods watching him. His heart raced as he gasped for air, trying to catch his breath. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and his knees felt like jelly.

His foot throbbed, and standing up wasn’t an option. He crawled away from the hill, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him. He remembered now—World War II, the trenches, cold wet mud, and German bombs falling all around him. The memories flashed before his eyes, loud booms from the mortar shells and the screaming of men about to die for their country. The flash of light from a gunfire nearly blinding him. The crack of grenades detonating nearby left ringing in his ears. He didn't want to go back there. He thought for a moment about the good ol' days with his childhood friends, hiking and fishing. He could feel the cool water running over his feet and hands, the soft gentle breeze of spring and the birds singing sweetly. Then he snapped back into the horrible reality of his situation.

Finally, Jackson reached a small clearing that felt safe. He gathered fallen leaves and covered his frail body with the dead foliage. Panic-stricken, he closed his eyes trying to force the situation out of his mind. The noises at night were nerve-wracking; trees rubbing against each other in the wind sounded otherworldly, and the snaps of branches gave way to fear of something lurking in the dark. Leaves were rattling nearby, slowly something was moving around in the edge of the woods, and his stomach turned yet again. 

A noise startled him. He suddenly held his breath, trying to listen for anything, though he had terrible hearing and wasn't even wearing his hearing aids. He'd heard rumors of mountain lions, and knew there were bobcats, but he never met either in person and didn't want to any time soon. After a few minutes of nothing happening, Jackson laid back down into the cold and dry dirt, his body shivering. Then he heard it, emerging from the woods, walking towards him. Curling into the fetal position, he hoped whatever it was wouldn't get him. One ominous step after another, then a whistle. He jumped from the startling sound then heard the animal gallop away. Yep, it was a deer. He curled back up into a ball and tried to stay warm, blowing into his hands repeatedly until he fell asleep. Would he live to see tomorrow?