When I go hiking by myself, I'm certain to take four things: water, flashlight, compass, and—lest I die of exposure and Outdoor magazine canonize me—a means of dying with dignity. I'd very much like to avoid the headline Lone moron breaks leg, eventually dies of dryrot.
In a heavy Saturday morning rain, I repeated the five mile hike I'd done just last Tuesday. At about the 2/3 point of the loop, I was stunned to come across a man sitting, unsheltered, with his foot in a stream. This is mountain runoff water, mind you. It can't possibly be more than 34 degrees. Soaked, the man was 70ish but in incredible shape. He had the whole Jack LaLanne thing going on. It was a while before I realized he was injured.
"You okay?" I called, forgetting momentarily that I hate people.
He was startled and went straight to rage. "It's about time!" he snarled.
His name was Sheldon. He'd been hiking by himself the day before and broken his ankle, and he'd been one-hopping it as best he could since. He'd spent the night out there without shelter, which contributed to his foul mood. Still, though, in my situation one might expect to be well received, if not showered with kisses like the liberators of Iraq were to be. Alas. Sheldon was more like the Iraqi insurgents. He despised me on sight.
"You can't go forward," I said. "I was just there the other day, and a bridge is utterly destroyed by a tree. It's kindling. You need to go back the way you came."
"Piss-fuck."
It's not often I come across a combination of profanities that I have never heard. Like my father and his father before him, I am a pureblooded Vulgarian. But I had never heard of "piss-fuck," nor its even more dubious derivation "piss-fucking." Over the next few hours I had ample time to ponder the etymological origins of "piss-fucking." I was at a loss.
Sheldon argued with me. He did not want to turn around, and for whatever reason, he didn't believe me about the bridge. I showed him cellphone-photo I'd snapped of the bridge four days earlier. He glared at me. "How do I know that picture was taken here?"
I had to spell out his options. I would call for help when I got back to my car, I offered, or I would help him retrace his steps, but under no circumstances would I help him go forward. Enraged by my petulance, he opted for Plan B. And for the rest of the morning, Sheldon's massive, veiny arm was wrapped around my shoulders, and his right leg bobbed uselessly between us.
He passed the time by making wry observations in my ear about every 30 seconds. "Piss-fuckin' rain never stops," he'd snarl, or maybe he'd just moan about the pain in his urethra-boinking ankle.
Three hours of pure bliss later, we finally arrived at the trailhead. In a movie, Sheldon would have been revealed at this moment to be an eccentric billionaire who, grateful for the assistance, showers me with riches out of the trunk of his waiting limo. This is the thought that had kept me from killing him during our trek, anyway. This, however, was real life. There was no gratitude, no handshake sealing an arduous shared experience. He was as glad to be rid of me as I was him. Sheldon simply climbed into his car, broken right ankle and all, and drove off.
"You're welcome," I said to his exhaust fumes.