All-Natural Nightmare, Part 2

“There is one thing we can do, I guess…” Spa began, clearly having racked his brain for the type of action-oriented precautions I prefer.  “There’s a thing called lightning position.  Hands and knees on the ground.  Keep your head up so when we get fried your brain won’t explode.”

“Like a plank?” Schill tried to clarify. 

“No it’s more like a girl push-up.” I explained.  I tricked myself into believing that when our tent was struck by lightning a half-assed yoga pose would leave me unharmed.  And able to hike 3 miles to the nearest road.  And thumb a ride.  From a car driving by at midnight during a thunderstorm.  On Easter.  Copacetic. 

That morning, the group’s spirits were downright festive.  Schil had pointed out the bearbox first.  He certainly needed its contents the most– the previous day’s 11 mile hike had carved bloody teebox divots into his heels, and more egregiously drained most of his water supply.   

“There’s at least 5 quarts in here unclaimed,” I said unnecessarily.  My companions were gainfully employed college grads.  I reckon they had mastered the art of counting on fingers. 

“What about the emergency stash?” Schil pointed out the gallons of cached water thusly identified.

“We already have 4 quarts per person per day.  The rest is just bonus.  We’re rich.  Leave the emergency stash for someone who needs it.”  Spa came close to showing real human emotion as he summarized.  Spa’s intense focus, sharpened during a month glacier hiking in Alaska and years as a strategic consultant, gave his words authority which could not be argued against.  This stoicism defined Spa, making him perhaps out of place at Austin City Limits, surrounded by drug-addled festival folk losing their mind to “Sex is on Fire.”  This trait also rendered him indispensable on a hiking trip which would, much to our surprise, wind up with us trying to determine the least compromising position for our bodies to be found in.

Thirty pound packs strapped on, we marched through the arid mountain paradise, making great time.  Silence proved an unspoken law during the many climbs and steep descents.  Air was thin, packs were heavy and focus was critical.  During straightaways, however, all the world’s problems were ripe to be solved. 

“I wonder if you could compute exactly how much hotter a chick we’d meet out here would be compared to meeting her at Ice House or whatever,” I pondered.

“I think it’s a solid plus-two.”

“You’re dumb.  That would make a two only a four, but by your own statement you wouldn’t touch a four with a ten foot pole.  If you’ve been wandering out here for two weeks you’d get halfway through hearing her first name before you very politely propositioned her.  ”

“So the Mountain Nymph Factor is multiplicative or exponential?”

“So it’s a flat rate boost, but with a ‘time since civilization’ factor recalculated hourly. MNF equals sum of raw score plus two, raised to the power of 1 plus hours doing this shit divided by 100.”

“You lost me.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“So I think the path came out of this dry drainage creek before we did.  We missed a cairn.” Spa cut us off, rudely not contributing. 

“What?” Schil and I responded identically.

“Yeah.  We’re lost.”