Between the Beeps

The first snow of winter falls softly against the outer cabin walls, a feeling I’ve come to recognize with both comfort and a touch of uneasiness that feels almost unnatural. Inside, the air smells of old pine and cold ash, and I move through the now darkened room by memory alone - building a fire, taking inventory of my supplies and listening to the forest settle into silence. Through the window, the dusk blurs the trees together into shades of grey, as if the world has decided simply to pause as it waits for something inevitable.

I chose this solitude.

This cabin is my refuge, and winter merely a season of introspection. Still, I can’t help but watch the narrow path out the window, waiting for what, I do not know. When night finally falls, I begin to wonder why the air feels so heavy: this cabin was never meant to keep others out; maybe it was created to make sure that I could never leave.

But as quickly as the thought appears, it vanishes to the sound of the American Pikas beeping outside the window. Funny, even when I want to get away, I’m never really alone. Though I’m reasonably certain that those curious little creatures that resemble adorable baked potatoes, both in appearance and size, pay me little mind, as they focus on foraging for herbs under a blanket of snow.

Beep. The sound interrupts the heavy silence of the cabin.

I am pulled from my reverie with the realization that there are preparations to be made. Winter can be unforgiving, and my body still aches from the piercing cold as I move closer to the fire to feel its warmth. While I often long for solitude, I still think it unwise to put myself in mortal danger for a couple weeks of bliss.

Refocusing my thoughts, I briefly open the front door and scoop some clean snow into my kettle and set it on the fire to brew some tea. As I wait for the tea to steep, I pull a few bits of homemade beef jerky from my duffel and sit on my cot in the middle of the room and exhale into my cuffed hands as I try to warm up faster than the small fire will presently allow.

Still, their beeping continues, becoming more insistent and disruptive.

The tea kettle begins to wail a woeful song, as I am once again pulled from my thoughts. Scrambling to the fire, I gingerly grasp the wooden handle and remove it from the flame, as the wail subsides to an agonal breath signaling the kettle’s dying gasp. I pour the fragrant liquid into a large blue mug and set the kettle down on the wooden floor next to me. Grasping the cup with both hands, I bring it up to my nose, relishing the warmth and the comforting smell of bergamot as tendrils of steam waft into my sinuses.

It’s moments like this that make me question my direction, and concepts of spirituality, God, and oneness with the Universe feel like impossible weights on my rib cage. I take my first tentative sip of the steaming liquid. The bergamot caresses my tongue with its bitterness, and my mood begins to shift as soon as the warmth hits my stomach.

Gradually, I feel the deeper questions giving way to the here and now. I’ve no idea how long I will remain here but must still prepare for the possibility of an extended stay. I notice the heat from the fire beginning to warm the small cabin, exorcising the cold and warming my old bones. I finish my tea and pop the last piece of jerky into my mouth, relishing its salty flavor as I lay down on my little cot and cross my arms over my chest in preparation for a winter night’s sleep.

Beeeeep, the Pikas screech accusingly from somewhere much further away, as I begin to feel my memories blurring into colors and my eyelids grow heavy. Still the persistent sounds of these rodents plague my mind. But why?

Reaching underneath the cot, I find a comfortable fleece blanket and spread it out over my body. The fire is the only light in the cabin, but I see well enough and begin to fixate on the almost unnatural shadows dancing around the room. There’s the younger me in elementary school being punched in the gut by my bully. A deep pain radiates through my core as the memory begins to subside.

Another shadow brings me back to high school where things began to get better, and I was able to finally move past the everyday childhood traumas that had been a fixture of my life for so long. Still another shadow reminds me of when I met my wife, Amy. Though I’m alone, I can still hear her voice in my head as I grow more tired.

I look to the fire and see the flames beginning to die down. Fortunately, the cabin retains heat well, so I will just lay here for a while as my mind takes me elsewhere.

Still further, I hear the continued beeps of the Pikas as they seem to grow gradually slower but remain insistent, as my breathing starts to slow in preparation for sleep.

But I can’t sleep, because something just doesn’t feel right. The weight on my chest begins to feel like electrical impulses coursing through my body. While not unpleasant, they are jarring, and within this tension, I once again hear the beep of the Pikas, this time pulling me back to wakefulness. And why am I hearing my wife’s voice again? Surely the bergamot doesn’t have any hallucinogenic properties, but I swear I hear her…

BEEP. BEEEEP! The sound drills into my head.

Sweat beads on my forehead as my body shakes, and again I hear my wife’s voice, this time I can begin to make out the words she is saying. “DO… SOMETHING!” She implores to someone I can’t see. “Somebody help him…” she pleads in near resignation as the briefest breath of cool air kisses my cheek.

Nothing makes sense but the need for sleep. Closing my eyes, the sounds and fire light fade into a blue dream and I exhale deeply, welcoming… oblivion.

No sooner had I slept than a resounding explosion shoots through the core of my being. I try to no avail to open my eyes, but it seems I am a victim of the cruelest sleep paralysis. On the verge of panic, I struggle to fill my lungs, but it feels as if a 100-pound weight has been dropped on my chest, and I am unable to complete the breath.

Beep. Beep. Beep. I hear the Pikas as they urgently call at my door, but wait, those beeps no longer sound like something living. They sound… mechanical.

All at once, my eyelids shoot open to a blinding light, and I can gasp deeply to fill my strained lungs. As my eyes begin to focus, I look for the details of my cabin, the comforting darkness protecting me from the deadly cold, and the waning fire warming my bones, but there’s nothing like that here. As sleep leaves me, I see the walls have turned white, and I am surrounded by people. From my best guess, I would say they are very worried, but I don’t know why. I look up and see my wife’s face, and she’s crying. But they look like happy tears.

Far off in the background, I begin to hear a beep, no, a series of beeps coming into strong focus.

Turning my head toward the sound, I see a heart monitor at the side of my bed sounding off in a sinus rhythm, and I exhale, turning my face again toward my wife with a questioning glance. She places both hands on my cheeks as I feel her warmth radiating through me, kisses my forehead and whispers softly to me.

“I haven’t left your side. I knew you’d come back,” she says as I feel a tear fall on my cheek.