If you have not read part 8 yet, you can check that out here. 

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Finding Your Personal Hell

Somewhere on this same hater of a mountain, my good bud P-Mac toiled through the laurel in his own slice of personal hell. Finding an impostor of a tree, he pulled himself up to get a look around in hopes of spotting a vestige of a terrain feature to orient him. He suddenly lost his footing and fell from the tree, landing on his back. Below him, he felt a struggling movement. He sat up immediately. He had landed on a black bear cub. Rather than marvel at nature and the beauty of flowers, he was keenly aware that where bear cubs were found, bear moms lingered. A quick scan of the laurel tops revealed the tremendous head of a mother bear, her eyes driving daggers into Mac’s heart. For lack of anything better to say, Mac waved and called out a nervous, “Hi….” Rifle and ruck, Mac was the fuck out of there.

print
Never come between a mother and her cubs…or else.

The ground beneath me inched toward horizontal once again. The laurel thinned and even gave way to patches devoid of the pernicious plant. There appeared paths and corridors through the laurel, and even something other than laurel, thank God. My compass squirmed in my breast pocket, entreating an exit so it could be put to use. I could certainly see on my map where my next RV was, but where was I? That was the million-dollar question.

The (10th) Mountain Man

I zigged and zagged toward the summit of Mozark, looking for footprints or tire tracks, any sign of something other than myself and laurel. Then I saw them—his footprints. He was hands-down the fastest and best cross-country navigator in the class. We had all seen his footprints throughout the course because he was always out in front of us. He never saw our footprints and didn’t care because he was the fastest and best navigator in the class.

He came from Camp Ethan Allen in Vermont. He was from the elite 10th Mountain Division. He had a special customized sole on his high-speed mountain boots that were far superior to any of our boots. They left a unique print in the soft soil as he blazed from RV to RV. The “Mountain Man” had, in fact, blazed the fastest 40-mile path that day and was first at the coveted end-of-march traditional fire pit.

The Mountain Man, though composed of superior physical genetics, was afflicted with a minuscule personality flaw. The specific pathology was assigned the clinical term Flamingassholeitis. He was a profound asshole. The commander’s board was lightning-fast at detecting his disease, even without a blood test. I envisioned the Mountain Man in an old western movie, sauntering before the commander’s board through the double swinging saloon doors, spurs ringing as he slowly swaggered in…only to moments later come flying fully airborne through the swinging doors as the bosses tossed him out on his ass.

Now I was faced with a dilemma: continue to zig and zag, or follow the prints. I had about one pound of energy left in my gizzard before I would collapse and turn on my emergency radio. I gambled that one pound on the footprints. I paused for my eyes to obtain my target lock, turned on my afterburner, and introduced myself to the sound barrier as I fixed my gaze on the prints in the dirt. The prints passed by faster and faster until I almost rammed headfirst into a military pickup truck with a stone-faced Delta operator in the driver’s seat.