Beyond the Envelope

Author © Scott D. Zachary

In the vernacular of the fighter jocks during my Air Force days, my virtual F-16 had previously rocketed into the immediate vicinity of the envelope on numerous occasions. I had even cockily tested its elasticity every so often, dabbling in its ineffable euphoric effects while striving beyond reason to achieve the seemingly impossible. The superlative elixir of the envelope becomes a progressively enticing drug. Skirting this side of the murky boundary is highly applauded by all but the faint of heart. I have attributed many names to this extreme phenomenon since the first time I feasted on its joyfully blissful transcendence, but I most often referred to it—and still do—as “the sparkle.” I would soon learn, however, that thrusting through the envelope’s threshold to the other side is invariably met with admonishment, ridicule, or even outright rejection.

Any way you look at it—as long as you don’t burst through the envelope’s mentally protective shield—it is pure, unadulterated fun!

Up to this point in my naively oblivious experimentation with the envelope’s tolerance, I had never experienced any negative side-effects. Well, maybe a generous measure of what Aunt Marvelene used to refer to as “a good tired.” Some might point to the break-up of my first marriage as one causal result of my accelerated vertical spirals in proximity to the envelope; however, I wouldn’t classify that as negative. I assure you, though, I had never espoused the idea of thrusting beyond the point of reasonable control; furthermore, my experience had never given me any reason to think that the envelope could—or would—snap. Nevertheless, here I am with the ailerons aboard my metaphorical F-16 flapping in the wind. This sortie was very, very different from all the others.

Entirely unaware that the envelope was disintegrating before my eyes, ordinary objects began to impart intelligence. The inconsequential promoted to paramount, my mind began to convey significance to the wispy, tiny flecks of cigarette ash that were lazily buffeted to and fro by the soft breeze passing through the cab of my truck. Their ordinarily random motion became directed. Their intelligent animation didn’t seem particularly strange at the time. Considering that the folks at Boeing and I configured aeronautical radar and communications software enabling the weapons controllers to remotely pilot fighter jets from their computer terminals aboard the AWACS surveillance aircraft, it would undoubtedly be a trivial exercise for the Creator of the Universe to implement aeronautical control over a speck of dust—no doubt. Some unknown entity—most likely God—was communicating to me via these usually capricious iotas. I applied my astute ability in unraveling complex logic to this eccentric language, quickly becoming fluent in its unique verbiage.

One of the minutia’s charades instructed me to have unquestioning faith that Mark Lovelady, my personal assistant, would eventually arrive on site. Thus, I obediently waited here alongside this sparsely traveled country road in front of my newly purchased six acres of thick—often impenetrable—pine, cedar, and briars surrounded by the Ozark National Forest.

Some hours passed. Sure enough, Mark pulled up behind my pickup truck in his irksome jalopy. I had never seen him so upset and out of sorts.

       “Why didn’t you come back and get me?!” he lashed.

“I didn’t know you needed to be gotten.”

“My car broke down way back there.”

“I had faith that you would come.”

“Had faith?! If it hadn’t been for that man who happened along with his tow strap, I’d still be stranded along the road.”

“What’s the fuss? You’re here as foretold.”

“Foretold?! The water pump busted.”

“You obviously got it fixed, and you’re here. Be happy!”

Mark muttered his scorn throughout the numerous treks that were required for us to transport the cooler full of steaks, a second cooler full of sodas and juice, boxes of groceries, gallons and gallons of water jugs, and all of my camping gear to a secluded spot nestled in the forest. My campsite wasn’t much more than 200 yards off the road as an arrow flies, but then arrows don’t fly straight through dense forest and thick briar-tangled underbrush, do they?

The numerous dry gullies added to our difficult journeys back and forth. Broad daylight didn’t seem to be much help in finding my campsite on each incursion. That was the point—I wanted to be totally and completely incommunicado. I threatened Mark with immediate dismissal if he came back out to my camp or told anyone where I could be found. I was desperate for an extended consummate rest. I intuitively knew that my F-16 would crash and burn if I didn’t.

Mark helped me gather several days’ worth of firewood. We cleared the pine needles and leaves from a large area around the camp to prevent a forest fire which would have finished me off mentally, if not physically.

The weather was ideal for my reclusive holiday in the woods. Anxious to begin my retreat in solitude, I hastened Mark to pitch my tent willy-nilly. With nary a whisper of wind intruding through the tens of thousands of trees that formed a seemingly impermeable windbreak, I carelessly tossed the tent’s rain cover over the top, asserting, “That can wait till I’ve had at least twelve hours’ sleep. You better get going, Mark, while there’s still enough light for you to find your way out.” A little while later, I heard the faint sound of his motor starting, and then its rumble faded off into the distance until it was quiet.

The only sounds to be heard were the sizzle of my campfire and my enfeebled exhales. Not even a cricket mauled the stillness as I sat by the fire, thoroughly content in the knowledge of having done everything humanly possible to get my little software business up and running.

“Rest!” Three days of total, absolute tranquility!

“Rest.” I’ve streamlined my clients’ manufacturing companies dramatically through my custom software. They’ll have to do without me for three days.

“Rest.” I’ve intensively trained my employees, and now they’ll have to manage my clients’ increasingly voracious appetite for efficiency on their own.

“Rest.” I trust my employees will amply substitute for my continual round-the-clock nurturing and coddling of my clients’ computer systems.

“Rest.” For three days, anyway.

“Rest.” I couldn’t have chosen a more ideal night to begin my sabbatical.

“Rest.”

I scrutinized the well-versed choreography of the violets and oranges as they collaborated to indulge me with their serpentine lullaby.

Rest…finally. My F-16 taxied into its canvas hangar. I zipped the hangar door closed and snuggled into my sleeping bag, warm and cozy. The orchestrated pop and crackle of the fire outside soothingly serenaded me into a deep, deep slumber.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“WHAT THE HELL!!!”

I shivered uncontrollably.

Where am I?

“I’M SO COLD!”

I wormed my way out of the ice-cold, wet cocoon and stood up in ankle-deep freezing water, naked. I put my hands together.

       I can’t feel my hands!

       I felt the slick material of the tent roof slide against my head and remembered where I was. I fumbled for the door zipper. With no feeling in my hands, I can’t find it. I futilely try to poke my way through the canvas door. An old memory of ice climbing in the White Mountains many years ago summons me onto my knees where I swing my arms like helicopter blades until the warm blood begins to circulate into my fingers, enabling me to feel again. Moments later, I can feel sufficient sensation in my fingertips to find and manipulate the zipper on the door. I step through the opening, and I’m now standing outside in a torrent of rain—cold, cold rain.

I can’t see anything—nothing at all.

Where are my pants?

I feel around in the mud and find them. Sloshing into my jeans, I lose my balance and fall, slopping into the mud. The dirty slime squishes between my butt cheeks as I wriggle into my jeans. I stand up barefooted in the mud.

Now what? Shoes?

       Groveling on my hands and knees, I grope in the oozy, frigid muck. A distressed voice blurted from my mouth. “Just go, Scott!”

I realized that in my haste to go camping, I forgot to bring a flashlight. I remembered my cigarette lighter. I reached into my pocket and retrieved it. Snap, snap, snap—not even a spark! I took a couple of steps and felt the tent cover under my feet.

I’ll make a poncho out of it.

       I pulled my Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and extracted the blade. Without any light whatsoever and shivering violently, I nearly slashed my wrist struggling to cut a hole in the center of the tent cover. I threw the tent cover down.

I suddenly stopped shivering. Had I known what I later learned in EMT training, I would’ve realized that I was transitioning into severe hypothermia. Nevertheless, my intuition told me that I was in serious trouble.

How can I find my way out of here? It was difficult to scout our way back to the truck yesterday evening, and there was light then, and it wasn’t raining, and I wasn’t freezing to death! The odds defy my choosing the right direction to my truck. If I choose the wrong direction, I go deeper into the Ozark National Forest, and I die.

A sinister voice blared out of the darkness. “Are we having fun yet?”

“Who are you?!”

“I’m your best nightmare. From here on out, it only gets worse.”

“How can it get any worse than this?”

“Just wait; you’ll see.”

“Screw you!”

“You’re the one who’s screwed! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Another voice—a deeper, more rational tongue—intervened. “I told you I have plans for your target.”

“What plans?!” I shouted. “And who are you?!”

At that moment, I heard a car come into earshot on the lonesome country road that bordered the front of my property. Grasping for that life ring, I pointed in the direction where I began hearing the distant whirring of tires. I waited until its last whir faded, and I pointed in that direction with my other hand.

Now I have my slice of escape from this nightmare!

I remembered an old movie in which a plane crashed in the Sahara Desert. The survivors chose a British army man to walk a straight line through the dunes to a distant town to get help. He reasoned that his disciplined marching skills would enable him to maintain a direct path to the destination. If his course bypassed that town, they would all die. My lot, precisely.

That’s fine, but he didn’t have to deal with densely packed spruce and cedar trees! Or barbed wire bulwarks masquerading as blackberry bushes! In the dark! Freezing!

“You guys find your own way out—I’m going this way!” And I set out, one foot in front of the other, toe-to-heel, and heel-to-toe. Each time I encountered tree branches or jagged snarls of thorns, I side-stepped until the path ahead was clear, and then stepped forward again. A stout tug on my numb ankles, stomach or forearms often served as my only clue that I was ripping my skin free of entanglement.

The dry gullies that crisscrossed my property now funneled raging rapids. I wasn’t expecting the first one, and I slipped, plunging down the bank into the freezing water. My sudden immersion in the icy water took my breath away. I gasped for air. The angry current toppled me over and over. My arm hooked around a tree root. I clawed my way up the steep muddy wall. I slid back down again. After several tries, I surmounted the muddy bank, not entirely sure I had gotten out of the torrent on the correct side. I stood up, facing away from the gully and put one foot in front of the other, toe-to-heel. Never had I felt this helpless. I blindly baby-stepped through the black night.

I was mentally prepared for the next raging gully as I listened for the gushing water’s nearness, but that didn’t make it any easier. Unable to see anything whatsoever, I still had to slide down the muddy bank into the ice-cold water and jab my fingers into the abrupt incline on the other side to grapple my way out.

Stomping my way through the blackness, something sharp speared my right foot. I screamed in anguish as I ripped my foot free.

I began to succumb to this hopeless quagmire when I detected a faint light overhead. I never wished so hard for anything as I hoped that I’d found the open area near the front of my property where the loggers had set up their saws. I tripped over a pine tree stump and gouged both shins to the bone.

I cried tears of deliverance.

       What a delightful pain!

I tripped and fell headlong several more times as I stumbled to my pickup truck in the murky darkness. I couldn’t feel my fingers to extract the keys from my pocket. I again swung my arms propeller-fashion until I felt enough sensation in my fingers to get the keys out. I crawled into the seat of my truck with the last of my energy and started the engine. I looked at the gauge on my dashboard. The temperature had dropped from 68 to 35° since yesterday evening when I parked here. With the heat and fan on high, it took a long time before my body could shiver again. I sat there warming in my truck—the glorious warmth—and looked down at the blood trickling from my tortured foot. Exhausted, I smirked.

       I don’t care—I can spare a pint or two. I survived the impossible!