The tules will be his cover-that perfect patch out there. Just you wait! His grin crackles the ice in his nose. He squints his lashes, can just make out the black threads of the tules. Is that scar on the edge his boat? Yes-it’s there, it’s all okay! The black path snaking out from the boat to the patch of tulegrass is the waterway he broke last night.
It looks small, everything looks small from up here. The lake below shines emptily, its wide rim of ice silvered by the setting moon. He is in a bare bleak bowl of mountains just showing rusty in the dawn not one scrap of cover anywhere, not a tree, not a rock. Cold rushes into his young lungs, his eyelashes are knots of ice as he peers down at the lake below the pass.
Deliverance quickens, catapults him into his boots on mountain gravel, his mittened hand on the rusty 1935 International truck.
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