Missing Carolina--Chapter 2

MISSING CAROLINA--CHAPTER 2

Mighty eagles soar and bank
Far above our lives below.
None in heav'n above them rank;
Perhaps to them our thoughts we show.

Far and wide our footsteps trace,
Climbing paths to unknown ends.
Frightful vistas we embrace,
Hoping we can make amends.

Dry leaves rustled beneath Harrison Beckman's feet as he trudged along the trail between sets of plank steps, a few hundred feet away from Eagle Peak. Earlier in the day the sun had been shining, but now it was cloudy, although still warm. Beckman wondered how Nancy was getting along with Paul's kids. Beckman had been a grandfather for three years now, and usually he enjoyed it, but today he had urged Nancy to go to Rockport alone; he felt like had to do some thinking. It had been thirteen years since their last attempt to reach Eagle Peak, and after their adventure he hadn't gotten up the nerve to take the boys back. Now Paul was grown up, and Dan was in college.

He was unsure of his feelings. Was he just trying to prove something to himself, or was there some other reason? Nancy had objected strongly when faced with driving to Rockport alone, and Beckman had felt wrenched--Nan had been such a devoted wife and satisfying companion, but something in him had caused him to dig in his heels. He felt guilty now. But something was still drawing him toward this lonely mountaintop, even as a sense of impending danger permeated the air. Though the Huntsman had not reappeared (how could he anyway?) Beckman would never forget the ashen faces of his boys as they had rounded the bend in the road, running for their lives. The first rumble of thunder interrupted Beckman's thoughts at the precise moment he encountered the next plank stair; concentration lost, he stumbled. Hurtling toward the rough-hewn wood, he stretched out his arms just in time, but as he picked himself up his wrists hurt, and a sharp splinter was embedded in his left palm. "Stay calm," he told himself. "Time to get those binoculars out and have a look around." He dug into his canvas backpack--the same one, albeit a bit frayed, that had accompanied him on his Great Adventure--miraculously, the lens caps were still on the binoculars. Enough leaves had fallen from the trees to give him a fair view of the lake below, now appearing so tiny--his two hours of hiking had brought him a lot higher than before. The sky above the lake was an angry, turbulent black, but hardly a breath of air was stirring. Feeling his pulse quicken, Beckman tried to regain his train of thought as he plodded up step after step, but the insistent impact of the first few large drops of rain drew his mind astray; sooner than it should have, the thunder increased in volume and frequency. He looked around for shelter, but saw none. Perhaps there was something at the peak. He broke into a run; he could make out some sort of roof through the tree branches ahead. As raindrops came harder and faster, Beckman realized that he was getting wet. Whatever stamina he had gained on his visit to Earthwithin had long departed, and his lungs were burning.

Skidding around the last corner, he checked himself at the sight of... nothing. A small, smooth area of brown grass, carpeted with now-damp fallen leaves, ended abruptly at a thin, uneven rim of rock. A vastness of mountains and valleys, rocks and pine forests, spread out beyond the rim. "See seven states from Lookout Mountain," he thought wryly, "And I am going to have a magnificent view in my last few seconds on Earth." The unlimited space made Beckman dizzy: his sides were already heaving, and his headlong motion seemed destined to go on forever. He grabbed at a stout pole which extended up to comforting eaves. An unprotected nailhead dug into his right hand, and his left knee impacted the column with blinding pain. He collapsed on the ground as the windows of the sky opened wide. The rain fell straight down, drenching the mountaintop. Beckman's fingernails shrieked as he hoisted himself up the creosoted wood, pulling himself beneath the overhang. Disappointment spread throughout his frame as he came to the unwelcome realization that this was no shelter--just a fancy bulletin board with a little roof to protect it from the elements. Beckman pasted himself against the smooth polycarbonate protective surface, embracing the grudging inadequacy of its covering. Endless multitudes of huge drops hurtled against the ground like tiny bombs, plastering his legs with bits of leaves and stems of grass mixed in with the mud which was being dredged up from the earth.

The rain seemed to go on forever, its slackening barely perceptible from minute to minute, although after half an hour had passed it was undeniably less. Beckman's joints ached as he tried to squirm into new positions without extending any more of himself into the fabric of rain which hung from the eaves. But it was no good. He could not escape the unwelcome "shower curtain," and his muscles knotted as he tried to maintain equilibrium in the half world which extended from the face of the signboard.

At length Beckman began to survey his surroundings through the lessening precipitation. He heartily wished that he had not tried. "Im-POSSIBLE," he said out loud, but checked himself. That is what he had said before. And it all happened anyway. He was certain that he had taken shelter behind the sign, out of sight of that dizzying precipice. But there it was now in front of him, mists rising from the depths, distant mountainsides vanishing in the rain. And peering around the sign, he saw that there was no trace of the trail. Nothing but tree trunks and tangled branches could be seen. Heart hammering, he ran around the edge of his small prison, but there was no way out. Except down. "Go up, by no means down," the Voice had said. The Voice! Beckman's heart stopped momentarily. "Go down. There is a Way," it said. He shook his head. This couldn't be happening. Yet he knew better. His sons had gone on adventures as well, in the years following his Great Adventure. He had gone to Earthwithin. They had come back telling him stories of Placebetween. He didn't want to go there himself--not the old man. His adventure was all well and good, but wasn't once enough? Besides, he had been able to encourage his sons--to tell them that there was a purpose for what they were doing. And it hadn't taken any time from their lives. But this was too much. Mouth dry despite the rain, he replied, "Where is the trail? I want to go home."

"Someone else wants to go home, too," objected the Voice. "He needs your help."

"But what about my wife?" Beckman argued. "She'll be expecting me home. She'll be worried."

"You should have thought of that before you left," scolded the Voice.

Beckman looked over the edge, searching for some sign of a bearded hippopotamus. "But I can't help anyone," he parried.

"The Creator will make that decision," the Voice intoned. "You were expected, and you are here."

Beckman groaned.

"The Way is to your right."

Beckman hesitated. "I know Nan is very capable, but this is going to be very hard on her."

"Time will not pass," the Voice reminded.

"All right. But I don't know how to fly. At least not how to fly and have a soft landing."

"There is a Way."

"You said that before."

"And I meant it. You do need to hurry. He needs your help."

"Who is he?"

"You don't need to know that now. But hurry."

Beckman walked toward the right edge. He saw only sheer space. "There's nothing here," he pleaded.

"You must have faith," replied the Voice. "Remember that you were kept safe last time."

"What if I don't go?"

"Then who will help him?"

Tired of arguing, tired of being wet, and just plain tired, Beckman reluctantly assented. He took one more look at the view, and extended his right foot over empty air. His stomach protested as he felt the loss of balance, the beginning of his trajectory toward the bottom of the cliff. But then his foot encountered solid rock. Spinning his arms wildly, he narrowly regained a sense of equilibrium and dragged his left foot along. A crude stairway descended, disappearing around a corner to the right. The rain had stopped, but everything was soaked. Beckman scrambled downward, feet slipping on wet rock. Around the turn he saw it again--the Threshold, sunlight shining through the open doorway--the doorway into another world.

"Will I get dry?" he implored.

"I make no promises," replied the Voice.

"Oh well," Beckman thought. At least there was no chanting this time. He stepped across the line, into the sunlight... or so he thought. The light vanished. There was the sound of roaring water. Spray drenched him. Solid rock was behind him. He turned frantically in search of a door to open, but there was none. "I should have stayed against the sign," he thought. "At least it was smooth, and I had some protection from the rain. This is insane. Insane!

"World-man!" The Voice thundered. "Your way lies up!"

Beckman peered up toward the source of the spray. Cataracts of water were falling onto a large rock which was directly in front of him. Most of the water was striking somewhere in front of the rock, or he would have been drowned. The noise of the water and the chill of the spray made it impossible to wait. He leaped up and grabbed a little outcropping of the rock, clawing his way to the top like some demented spider. There was little time to think as he reached his jagged destination and looked down the other side. Between torrents he could glimpse a dark pool edged with broken rock. With clumsy motions he hoisted himself over and was swept down the slippery slope, propelled helplessly toward unseen depths. The waters closed around him.

Go down
There's a way
Your path is chosen

First step
May seem hard
Harm will not come

Long bath
Stone cold tub
The brink of death

Get dry
Much later on
You'll not catch cold

CHAPTER 3

The Mileposters Web site has information and many pictures about this tandem bicycle club, which has made several trips over 300 miles as well as many shorter ones, on bicycles built for two, three, four, and five riders.