My weary body found rest immediately, but it took much longer for the mind to arrive. Sleep came in fits and spells. I drifted in and out of a dream where I looked down upon a pair of scuffed boots, walking a trail without end. Over paved sidewalks, muddy paths, and jagged stones, they plodded along to unknown destinations. Those boots became a pair of cycling shoes, spinning rapidly. They were nearly a blur as they raced toward a finish line, or maybe they were just escaping what was arduous and mundane. The air whistled past my ears as I sliced through it like an arrow flying fast and free. But then, I found myself there again, peddling across that same bridge. And she was there, just like before, a young woman, too absorbed in her grief to notice my approach. Silently, I slipped off my bike, just like before. As quietly as I could in those cleated shoes, I eased up behind her. Almost certain I would be a step too late, I lunged. Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her in tight, catching the steel railing between us and pinning her arms against her sides. She stiffened with shock.

"Let me go!" she screamed and tried to fight, but I held her with all of my strength, as though her life depended on it because it did.

"Let me go!" she screamed and tried a different tactic. I lowered my center of gravity. My heavier mass more than countered the weight of the woman's petite form. Her body went completely limp, and we both would have fallen except for the support of the railing between us. She surrendered completely, leaving her fate in the hands of a perfect stranger. 

"Let me go," she pleaded, but there was no strength left in her voice. "It's my fault,' she said. "It was all my fault." She sobbed uncontrollably. Her musty, dark hair covered her face, and one foot dangled over the edge of the pedestrian walk that extended beyond the railing, but I had her securely positioned. Although I had no clue what she was going on about, no idea about the pain that had driven her to be there, I could feel the weight of her despair. 

 "This is not your day to die," I said, placing my cheek against hers. "That's why I'm here," and I meant those words. 

On that bleak and blustery day, buffeted by a dispassionate wind, I held on. A hundred and eighty feet below, the mile-wide river continued unimpeded and without concern. Behind us, the sound of heavy traffic forged on. The City's skyline to the south was barely visible through the low-hanging clouds. It may as well have been a million miles away. Still, I held on to the young woman. I would hold on as long as necessary. Cameras were monitoring the bridge. I knew the watchers were watching, and eventually, someone would come.

 Although it had been weeks since the incident, I continued to relive it in my dreams. Still, this time, I woke to find my senses reaching out into the night, straining to lock onto something. The night stirred. It was not so much a sound as the sensation of movement. The confusion of sleep passed in a flash when I heard a distinct ripping sound. One hand went for the large kukri knife stashed beneath my stuff sack pillow. The other hand felt around for the flashlight in the tent's corner pocket. Something was out there, a raccoon, perhaps. Determined to keep the critters away from my gear, I pulled back the tent flap and flipped on the switch. A beam of light cut through the night, but what I saw made me shut it off and lay back down again. A set of glowing eyes were staring back, and they were much larger than the eyes of a raccoon. My hand tightened around the kukri's handle, and my body tensed, ready to fight or run. Praying that neither option would be necessary, I lay perfectly still. The next sound I heard took my breath away. Just inches from my left ear, I heard a sharp intake of breath, a pause, and then two more. I was being sniffed out. Knowing that only a thin sheet of fabric separated me from several hundred pounds of muscle, claw, and teeth made me feel tiny and vulnerable, like prey. There was the sniffing sound again, on the opposite side of the tent this time. Everything I'd ever read about bears came flooding back, like a human could not outrun a bear in a sprint or outclimb a bear up a tree. Some sources said to play dead and hope the bear will go away. Others said to make noise and try to scare the bear off. However, this bear knew I was there before it walked into my site. The chances of scaring it off were slim. The knife in my hand would be useless if the bear attacked, but I kept it ready anyway. I was armed with one valuable piece of information, though. I knew the bear was foraging, and there was no food in my tent. Human meat was not on the menu. So, if I didn't do anything stupid, like panic, I would survive. I repeated that thought over and over, trying to believe it. Eventually, the night became still, and I began to breathe again. 

There wasn't much sleeping after that. I stared up at the darkness, contemplating the weight of it. My eyes were open, although I couldn't be sure. Had I been home in bed, there would have been the lights and shadows of city traffic crawling across the ceiling. I'd spent many hours watching those of late, but in the wilderness, in the dead of night, I was alone with my thoughts.

I dreamed the dream again. The incident on the bridge likely continued to haunt me because there had been no closure. In fact, I never saw the woman's face. Her jeans, sweatshirt, and tan boots, I remembered vividly. The smell of her hair, hair that still covered her face when the authorities placed her in the back seat of a squad car and took her away, I remembered. Sometimes, I wondered who she was and what became of her. I questioned whether she was grateful for what I had done or if she resented me for interfering with her plan. I hoped it was the former, but still, I did what had to be done. I could live with that. 

That incident was one of three that filled my thoughts that night. Several weeks before, I was at the bedside of my dear friend Bree. On one hand, there was Bree, who wanted very much to live. On the one hand, there was the would-be jumper, who wanted to die and would have, had I not intervened. The fact that I could save a perfect stranger and do nothing but watch as my dear friend died was an irony that I had not yet come to terms with. The season ended with my battle to survive against a gang of thugs. The confluence effect of these three seemingly unrelated events had me re-evaluating the meaning of this mortal existence.  

The wind screamed in my ears as the river rushed upward. This time, we were falling. No, I alone was failing, and as I plunged headlong towards my death, it wasn't fear that I felt. It was an overwhelming regret for the things I had not yet accomplished. 

I woke with a gasp. The image dissipated before I hit the water, though the feelings of remorse remained. 

A flash of light cut through the gloom, and the din of rain pelted my tent. A strange crackling commotion compelled me to unzip the fly and peer skyward. Through an opening in the tree's canopy, I saw lightning. It was not the usual cloud-to-ground electrical discharge. This lightning crawled along the bottom of the clouds. It crackled with many tiny flashes that disintegrated into filaments that lingered for several seconds before fading away. I knew a little about rare and unexplainable lighting events, like ball lightning and anvil crawler lightning. Still, I didn't know what to make of what I witnessed that night. Mesmerized, I lay on my back, watching until a tremendous crack of thunder echoed through the mountains and reverberated deep within my chest. The wind shifted, forcing me to withdraw into my protective shell. It seemed as if the entire storm came down on top of my camp then and raged on all night long. It was only the beginning of my sojourn. I was already wondering if it was wise to remain. Anxiously awaiting the arrival of dawn, I made myself a promise. If I managed to survive the night without a tree falling on me, I would pack out at first light. 

Eventually, the thunder and lightning ceased, although the rain continued to fall. 

Twilight filtered in through the haze, and all was still. There was no breeze to disturb the leaves, and birds were silent in the trees. In the aftermath of the storm, the air was fresh and cool. 

By a force of habit, and certainly not because there was anywhere, in particular, I had to be, I glanced at my wrist. It was 6:47 when I crawled out into the crisp morning air to inspect my gear. My Tadpole 23 tent held up, and although I was relieved about that, I was not surprised. The previous tent I owned was inexpensive and prone to leak. Once, while camping with some friends, I returned from a day hike to find my sleeping bag and spare clothing soaking in several inches of water that pooled inside my tent. Needless to say, this made for a very uncomfortable night. After that frigid incident, I only carried the best quality gear I could afford. Sometimes, a tent was an outdoorsman's only refuge against hostile elements. My tent was called the Tadpole because of its shape, I assumed. It was narrow at the foot end and broader and higher around the head and shoulders. It kept me dry on wet days and the pests away while I slept. Sleeping in the open beneath the stars had a rustic appeal. Still, in the perpetually damp and buggy forests of the northeast, it could only make for a night of misery. 

A clawed paw print in the mud next to the Tadpole confirmed the identity of my nocturnal visitor. I went to the edge of the clearing where I'd hung my pack. A four-inch-long tear in a side pocket and the mangled tube of toothpaste on the ground reminded me bears were attracted not only to the scent of food but to anything that smells interesting. The backcountry protocol was to hang food and toiletries at least fifty yards from a campsite, suspended between two trees, fifteen feet above the ground, and eight feet from either tree. In my rush to set up camp, I'd hung the pack, forgetting the toothpaste in its pocket. It was an oversight that I would not be repeating.  

By 7:16, a fire was blazing, and the pot was simmering over the flame. Fully intending to make good on the promise made during the night, I proceeded to break camp. By 8:07, I was standing with one hand in his pocket and a cup of fasting brew in the other, trying to get a read on some curious-looking clouds. 

"Rain or shine, I wondered aloud, "What's it going to be?" It was too soon to tell. If it were to rain again, the lean-to would come in handy, and I would do well to stay put for a while. I had plenty of time to get to town and find a room in the small town. So, I decided to wait for a while. 

At 8:22, I crouched on the upper edge of the lean-to roof. The perspective always seemed better from a higher point of view. I was still trying to determine the best course of action when a few glistening strands on the ends of my locks caught my eye. These were humbling reminders of the prior evening's bumbling incident when I plowed face-first through a giant spider web, proving why it was unwise to stumble around an unfamiliar forest after dark. As I meticulously picked the sticky filaments from the ends of my hair, I recalled the incident that likely brought on my aversion to webs and spiders. He

I could see clearly a twelve-year-old version of myself one autumn weekend, lying in the crawl space beneath the living room floor of my family home. I had been assigned the task of installing insulation around the inside of the foundation. My father and I had agreed that my compensation for completing the job would be the English Racer I'd seen at the department store. It was a white, ten-speed bicycle with drop handlebars called "The Spirit." I wasn't thrilled about the work I had to do, but I wanted that bike more than anything else. So, there I was, lying on my side, with a staple gun in hand, unrolling pre-cut strips of insulation and securing them in place, just like my father taught me to do. The pink fluffy stuff looked like cotton candy, but it was made of fiberglass. So when I forgot to put on the work gloves, as I had been instructed to do, sharp particles lodged in the skin of my fingers, turning an unpleasant task into a miserable one. However, the faster I worked, the sooner I would be finished, and the sooner I would be riding The Spirit around my neighborhood. So, despite my discomfort, I continued to unroll the strips and staple them into place, pushing further into the crawl space beneath the house. After a few hours, I was making slow and steady progress but growing increasingly miserable in the cramped and cold environment. Just as I was starting to doubt that my reward was worth the trouble, the lantern I was using flickered once, twice, and then winked out altogether. Unable to sit upright in the tight space, I rolled onto my back, shaking the light and smacking it against my palm. The bulb flared once more before dying out for good. The flash was brief. Still, it was long enough for me to see. Just inches above my head, between the beams supporting the living room floor, was a mass of webs, egg sacs, and hibernating spiders. I don't remember the details of my escape. I assume my father completed the insulation project that Fall because I never crawled back into that space. We never spoke about it again.  

It was 9:43, and whether those clouds would blow over or not, it was still too soon to tell. In another hour, I decided, I would be on my way no matter what. So, to kill time, I swung the backpacker's guitar on its strap from back to front. After a quick tune of the strings, I ran through a few riffs and progressions while taking in the scenery from the lean-to's rooftop. A chipmunk scoured the clearing below, but the site was clean, and there were no scraps to be had. 

A melody took shape, a prelude to something haunting and familiar, though not yet within my grasp. Both the song and the artist eluded me. Still, I plucked at the melody, distracted by the distant sounds of encroaching humans beyond the ridge. Soon, I was humming as a portion of the lyric came to mind. Then, with a flash of recognition, I realized the song was one of my own. 

"Mysterious." I sang the chorus and the hook quietly. It was one of several songs I had written back when music had been at the center of my world, but I never got around to recording it. In those days, songs were being written faster than I could remember. Eventually, the excitement of countless performances, musical collaborations, and late-night recording sessions was overshadowed by numerous empty promises, broken contracts, and heartbreaking disappointments. Along the way, there was a solo project left uncompleted. The song Mysterious was one of my favorite tracks. It was hard to believe I had almost forgotten it. In those quiet moments, it returned to me in bits and pieces. As I fit those pieces together, remembering was like being teleported back in time. The lean-to became a stage, and I was once again a performer immersed in the music. Pacing along the upper edge of that slanted roof, I played and sang the parts of the old set I recalled, reconnecting with that lost part of my soul.

10:31 a.m. and the smell of breakfast permeated the air, stimulating my olfactory nerves and twisting my empty gut into knots. Sounds of the neighbors echoed through the trees. Although I could not see them, the campgrounds were feeling much too crowded already. 

It wasn't that I didn't care for people in general. But at the onset, I wanted to escape the noise and distractions of humans for a while. At first, I thought I'd be content to be where there were fewer people. But at that moment, I knew I'd rather be where there were none.

By that force of habit that seemed beyond my control, I glanced at my watch for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. My gaze lingered there as I thought about what I would have done if I were back in the City. It was a thought that I didn't want to have just then. That watch didn't only measure time. It tracked speed, distance, and altitude and made several other calculations I had yet to learn to use. It was a helpful tool, but suddenly, it seemed like a tether to the very thing I was trying to escape. Hours and minutes were the preoccupations of that other world. The only time that mattered in the wilderness was daytime and nighttime. There was an uncomplicated beauty in that simplicity. 

When next I looked at the sky, I wasn't thinking about clouds at all. I was thinking of my two options. One path led to my old, familiar world. The other one led to uncertainty and mystery. I could not deny my intrigue when I looked in that direction. To the west, I could hear the commotion of backcountry enthusiasts who had, no doubt, arrived at their weekend destinations. The breeze from the east, though, carried the scent of pine. It smelled like an adventure.

The wait was over. In a flurry of motion, I slipped the watch off my wrist. I dropped it into a pocket, hopped to the ground, kicked dirt over the smoldering ashes, and hoisted the backpack onto my shoulders. There was no need to rush, but I was anxious to be on my way before I changed my mind. 

Up the steep ridge and down the other side, I moved swiftly and quietly around several other camps. A couple of large groups were getting settled in. One was a troop of Boy Scouts that made me think of my first camping experiences. No one seemed to notice my passing, which was exactly how I wanted it to be. In short order, the sounds and smells of the busy campgrounds were receding behind me.