6 Miles With Courage (3 page)

“Dad, will you listen to me?” you’re not going to die! I’m not going to let that happen to you!”

Ryan
is thinking. If only
mom
were here!

Mom
is a no-nonsense, tall, big–boned Irish woman that has the strength and common sense of
two
men. Mom always has a “can-do” attitude. If she knew where there were right now, well let’s just say that she would march back through the swamp and rip that cockpit apart with her bare hands and pull Ryan’s dad out! Oh, yes she would!

Another thing about
Ryan’s mom, she is always catching his dad taking the long way about things. It seems like every time his dad has a travel plan or picks a route to take; his mom comes up with a better one that takes half-the-time.

Ryan continue
s to listen to his father. But he knows that when the time is right he would have to ask himself, and his dad. “What would
mom
do?”

“Son
, inside the duffel bag you will find a waterproof backpack. Take it out.”

“I got it
,” Ryan said.

“Good
, you’re going to put the supplies you need for the journey inside of
it
, and you will carry the GPS unit in one hand, and with the machete in the other you will clear a path.”

“Ryan, there is an old saying that, the longest journey—
”

“Begins with but one step
, yes I know, I heard that one before dad.” Ryan packs the backpack with everything he needs from the duffel bag. It is a tight fit but he manages to cram it all inside. He looks at his watch, it is almost three o’clock.

“So you’re telling me that I have to make
Forest Road 77, flag somebody down for help and bring them back here by—”

“Sunset tomorrow
son, but you cannot take the chance that someone will just happen to come along after reaching Forest Road 77. After reaching it, you must make a right turn for two miles to Highway 19. You must be at the Forest Road 77 and the Highway 19 intersection by one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why
at one o’clock?”
Ryan asked.

“Ryan, that’s the time that the ranger passes through that intersection. He
will be on his way up to the ranger station near the boat ramp. I know this because I would talk to him every day at lunch while we were performing the survey of the river. If you can get that GPS receiver in his hand he can organize a rescue party and by-boat; they can motor up the Oklawaha River and reach me by dark tomorrow. Son you can do this. It’s the only surefire way—but you got to get going. You must make camp on the banks of the Oklawaha River tonight, and then cross the river in the morning and meet the ranger as planned.” Ryan’s dad waited for a response from his son. He got one.

“Dad, what would
mom
do?”

“
Mom
?—what does
mom
have to do with any of this?”

“Well, I mean how would mom handle this situation—if she were me?
I’m thinking mom would only go as far as the Oklawaha River, and then try to catch a boat west. That’s only two miles away and that would cut four miles off the journey! What do you think? Sounds good does it not?”

G
lancing out the window at the strange world outside, Ryan patiently waits for an answer. He knows his father is an analytical thinker and that he was
chewing
on the idea, comparing all the possibilities. His father responds.

“What time is it?”

“It’s a little after three o’clock,” Ryan replied.

There was m
ore silence as the wheels kept turning in his dad’s head. Finally an answer came.

“It won’t work.”
His dad said plainly

“Why?”

“That is to say it could work, but it’s too
risky.
It’ll be a Monday and boat traffic will be slow. The window of opportunity will be small. You can wait no more than fifteen minutes and then you have to cross the river and move on. Besides if a boat does come, they will have to be able to see you and hear you and that’s going to be tough. I can tell you that many times I drove the boat right past my helper standing amongst the trees near the banks of that winding river. He would yell, and be waving his arms, but the banks are so far into the tree line I
never
saw him. We have to stick to the original plan but if the opportunity arises to catch a boat going west—you will have to make that call. Just remember Ryan, not everybody out there on the river is your friend. There are many shady characters—up to no good—on the river. I would not hop into just-anybody’s boat. Pick the wrong boat and you and I are as good-as-dead son!”

“Well alright then dad, we will stick to the plan.”

Ryan readies the backpack over his shoulder and putting the GPS unit on his wrist cinches the strap tight. He pops his door open and taking the machete in his hand looks back at his father one last time.

“Wish me luck dad, I’m going to need it
.”

“Good luck son.”
     Ryan turns, and steps out of the cockpit to face a strange unknown world.

His stepping out of the cockpit door was a lot like Dorothy stepping out of the farm house and into
The Land of OZ
. The swamp land beneath the canopy is blistering with colors and intoxicating with its sounds. Sunlight dances on dusty beams of light piercing through the canopy openings above. There is a dank smell in the air. Long vines hang from sweet gum and cypress trees. Trees that stand like giant sentinels—upwards to a hundred feet tall—waiting to forbid his entrance. This is a place that does not require nor welcome his presence. It is the afternoon and the swamp was a-buzz. He was truly a stranger in a strange land.

For
the inhabitants of the swamp his presence is just as strange. To the Great Horned Owl peering down from his perch Ryan gives the appearance of a gangly space traveler, crawling out of his broken and wayward spacecraft. It did not matter the origin of this stranger. It was daytime, a time to sleep, and the owl turning his head burrowed it into his downy feathers and minded him no further.

Ryan
—adjusting his backpack—held up his GPS unit for a direction to travel.

“Ryan
, you should tie a piece of that survey ribbon on a tree once-in-awhile. That way if your batteries die, you can still find your way to my location.”

“I sure will
dad,” Ryan said. And he began to walk in the direction of the arrow as shown on the handheld GPS unit. Ryan had gone only fifty-feet when he felt the cool and eerie sensation of the swamp water filling his shoes and rising up to his knees. He had walked off the dry tuft of land where the cockpit had landed. He turns now and looks in amazement at the little airplane’s fuselage suspended above the swamp. A ray of sunlight bounces off the cockpit lighting it up. It looks as though it was being
held
above the water—perhaps by the hand of God.

Ryan—star
ing down at the arrow on the GPS unit for direction—continues his slow walk.
Ka-splash, ka-splash, ka-splash
went the sound of Ryan’s shoes as he awkwardly tried to walk, while watching the GPS unit for direction. A more skillful outdoorsman—like his father—would quietly slip their shoes into the swamp so as not to bring attention to one’s presence. Ryan would eventually get his swamp-legs, but for the time being he moves through the swamp with all the prowess of a wounded minnow swimming circles in a pond.

The little GPS meter ticked-off its first increment of distance. It now show
s 4.0 miles instead of 4.1 miles to Forest Road 77. That means Ryan had gone one tenth of a mile or 528 feet more or less. He sighs with a sense of accomplishment. Looking back towards the plane, he can see only a tiny portion of it through the enormous trees. Somehow the path has been very good to him. His footing is good. The water never rises above his knees. He ghosted past the giant sentinels of the swamp without even noticing them. Of all the hanging vines, he has yet to raise his machete. Looking ahead however things are different.

Directly in his path and twenty feet ahead
is a large cypress tree with vines protruding left and right. Ryan would have to do a little chopping to get around it.

With less s
plashing in his step now he moves towards the tree. Something bangs his shin and it hurts. Reaching down to give it a quick rub he notices an oddity. There are cypress tree
knees
sticking up out of the swamp all around the tree. In fact looking back from where he came, the
knees
went back as far as he could see. It was a wonder he hadn’t banged his shin earlier. They are nothing more than roots, but to Ryan (as it is with anyone who sees them for the first time) they seem odd. Stepping around them carefully, he continues towards the tree.

Cypress trees have a cauliflower
-type base. The base looks as though it has fins. Farther up the tree it becomes well rounded. The bark is very smooth and reddish brown in color. Rubbing it, he looks up along its towering height. From the forest floor to tips of the highest branches this tree is
home
to a multitude of life. There is more life in this one tree than on the entire planet of Mars.

“Wow,” Ryan said
aloud. Ryan did not feel alone as much when he talked aloud. It was a practice that he decided to adopt. So long as it brought no danger.

Ryan step
s to the side and pulls the machete from its sheath. He has a whack at one of the vines. It goes through like butter. Water pours out of the top portion of the vine like it pours out of a garden house. The vine is as big around as his wrist, and the hole in the center where the water came out, was as big as his little finger. Ryan is amazed at how easy the machete slices the vine. His father always said. “A dull blade is more dangerous than a sharp one.” Ryan cut another vine with just as much ease and steps through the wall of vines and around the cypress tree. He is mindful now, not to bang his shins on the cypress-knees.

He look
s down the projected path. It is darker due to the change in tree cover. There are more sweet gum trees ahead. They have a denser leaf-pattern which filters out more light than a cypress tree. He looks back one more time at the fading cockpit. This is the last he would see of it.

He tie
s a ribbon like his dad told him to do and decided that he would tie one every so often. Often enough to look back and always see the one that was tied before, leaving a connect–the-dots trail of ribbon just in case the GPS batteries were to fail. He had only taken a few steps when a strange sight caught his eye.

Tied across his path—directly in front of him—a bright yellow taught fishing line.

“That’s odd,” Ryan said, “why would a fishing line be out here?”

He place
s the machete in the sheath and tightens the wrist strap on the GPS unit. Slightly adjusting his backpack he pulls on the string. It stretches for a little ways, and then it
snaps
, sending a ball of string into Ryan’s face. Only it wasn’t string at all! It was the web of a giant banana spider, and the spider is still in it! It clings to Ryan’s face like a catcher’s mitt with the spider
on his nose!

Ryan release
s a guttural scream, “UGHHHHHHHHH!”

It echoe
s through the swamp like an ancient Seminole Indian war cry—it startles a raccoon—in turn knocking a hawk from his perch. Arms flailing, hands clutching at his face, he falls backwards and lands face-up in the swamp. Half-in and half-out he sees stars from knocking his head on a knee. He tries to focus—trying to stop the swirling kaleidoscope of colors and stars.

The swirling ha
s stopped but the stars are still there. Squinting he realizes—he’s not looking at stars; they are spiders, slung throughout the trees by the dozen. He shudders at the sight turning his head away only to see—next to him on a cypress knee—the spider that was on his face!

He notice
d that the spider’s body was the size of his thumb. It had eight spindly legs the length of his little finger. The entire spider was as big as his hand. It has a colorful—yellow and black—hard shell body. The Banana Spider has been known to eat small birds. She possesses an evil beauty. I say she, because the males—three maybe four—were hung out like ornaments in the webbing that draped off of her. Male spider bodies long since drained of life’s sustaining juices.

She move
s a leg.

Something move
s in the background.

Ryan focuse
s his eyes on a fern sprout. Lying on top of it was a snake.

In an instant the snake lunge
s forward, grabs the spider in its jaws recoiling back; dragging the spider, the web, and the lifeless male spider bodies back to its lair. It was all that Ryan could take.

He
rolls to his feet and assumes the stance of a runner in the starting blocks. He looks at the snake like it’s the starting pistol, and with one crunch of the spider he’s off.

Splash! Splash! Splash! Splash! Splash! Ryan cover
ed the same distance in one minute, as what took him fifteen minutes to walk. Exhausted and covered in mud he hopped up into the plane and shut the door. Panting he looks out the window. His father spoke.

“It was a Spider,
am I right son?”

“Yes
, and I watched
a snake eat it!
” Ryan gasped.

“Wrapped around your face, did it not
son?”

“Yes, how did you know?” Ryan a
sks, turning towards his dad.

“Because I
recognized that type of scream,” Ryan’s dad said, “it runs in the family.”

“Happens to me a lot, and when it does, that is exactly how I sound.”

Ryan turns his head to look at the world outside and says, “I don’t know how you do it dad, I just don’t know how you do it!”