Hopeless Case

"The truth is that I'm self destructive, I'm insecure, I'm out of focus. The truth is that I've had enough."

Less Than Jake, Hopeless Case

Days of windblown snow swept around the trunks of the densely packed ponderosas, firmly gripping them to the frozen soil beneath. With each step I took, the snow became deeper, denser. In some places it rose almost to my knees. It was like an arctic quicksand slowly swallowing me into its frigid depths. In a merciful twist of fortune the wind finally subsided, which was a great relief as my sparsely packed cotton jacket and soaked blue jeans only seemed to amplify its chill. I don’t remember exactly when it stopped, but I am grateful it did.

As I approached a clearing I stopped walking for a moment and gazed up through the piney canopy into a grey, lifeless sky. The uniform tone that blanketed the treetops provided no aid as I tried to determine the time of day. All I could do was continue walking. I’m unsure why, but I knew that if I stopped I would not be able to start again, and this battle of will would go to winter. Each painful step gave me a hint of strength to continue on, but also drained from me nearly every bit of energy I had left. I kept moving.

Amongst the evergreens, occasional groves of aspens decorated the rolling landscape. At times they almost camouflaged themselves into the snowy backdrop, their only discernable features the black spots on their slender trunks where the elk had eaten away the bark. Their baron branches yet sturdy vigil were inspiring as they stood guard over the solemn clearings.

Between the aspens, a pair of squirrels darted back and forth, weaving in and out, flirting with each other as they floated over their snowy dance floor. One carried a tiny pinecone that he must have been fortunate to find tucked away from the winter under a bush or a sapling. The second would chase after him, gently bumping him but never challenging for their serendipitous discovery. It was a celebratory scamper back to their nest where I can only imagine them warmly huddled around a little squirrel fireplace, peacefully lying next to each other, their recently gathered bounty proudly resting on a miniature squirrel table. Everything in their tiny squirrel lives was in order. No worries or cares in the world.

As I watched them happily dance off into the forest leaving a faint trail of tiny footprints as a sort of mocking reminder of how seemingly perfect and simple their lives were, something about the snow caught my eye. Alongside the winding trail of squirrel prints were a set of much larger tracks. Tracks that sank deep in the snow. They were made by an animal of some sort, and judging by the crisp edges and clear definition, they were fresh. I was not alone.