Wrecking Man

T rusting souls rode patiently as the ferryman escorted them across the bone-chilling river. At times, the ferry drifted at an angle as the current threatened to whisk them away but strong hands by the ferryman’s partner kept them on course. The passengers were a mishmash of sorts; old, young, women and men, all staring ahead with some nervously holding their hands in prayer. Others waited patiently for them on the riverbank, waving, calling out names. When the ferry finally docked, the commuters happily disembarked in a single file passing more travelers that waited their turn to come this way. My objective was to cross the waterway too and I waited for the next sailing.

As I dipped my canteen into the Colorado River, I stared into a pool of water and barely recognized myself. I saw a reflection of a weathered man with small wisps of gray enveloped around a mass of wavy, brown hair. Whiskers on my scraggy beard grew long and shared some of the aging colors. My cheeks were thinner and my eyes looked sad, somewhat sunken, with bags under them like I hadn’t slept in years. Sun darkened my skin and wrinkles were more prominent than before. I had aged, that much was clear. Five years of wandering and lack of skincare products would do that to anyone.

After filling my canteen with my sturdy mountain bike at my side, I stood up and moved along a path to the dock. The bike had been with me for a few weeks, found next to an abandoned house on the outskirts of St. George, Utah. I made my way south from there to the river in an attempt to cross on a ferry, one of the few that operated in the area.

To my right, I could see a small line forming for the ferry crossing that would take me across. I studied both sides of the river and saw no wrongdoings. The task was innocent enough. Get you from point A to point B. There was no hustle there it seemed, no thievery, just an enterprise taking advantage of a much-needed service. The river itself looked somewhat calm, the current slower than other spots. The ferry looked to be about twenty feet long with wood planks serving as the floor and small handrails on either side. Large logs were attached underneath, halfway in the water line. There were a few passengers making the trip south where my line formed. More people were going to cross with me.

I tugged on my clothes believing I still looked presentable. My black jacket was thin, but kept me warm. I wore a black t-shirt underneath. My blue jeans had holes over the knees. My hiking boots were mismatched. One black, one brown. Not even the same brand. I found what I could and wore it. It wasn’t like there were department or clothing stores. No discount racks or mannequins. A dead body was a potential gold mine for outdoor wear, minus the smells and stains.

A large backpack firmly held my trusty crowbar in place by an arrow quiver I stitched there. I still carried it after all these years. The backpack was green, canvas material. Army issue. Inside, essentials like clothes, knives, a small shovel, tape, bandages, water canteen, needle and thread, candles, books, a plate, canned goods, bags of sugar, condiments like salt and pepper, and some loose paper for bathroom breaks were stored. Plus, some plastic for my water gathering ventures that allowed me to capture dew each morning when an obvious water source wasn’t available. Attached underneath was a foil sleeping bag and a hammock, all neatly rolled up. I found the backpack next to a dead man two winters ago, he frozen stiff inside a mountain cave, curled in the fetal position next to a fire long burned out. His ID said he was from Atlanta, Georgia, and stationed at Fort Irwin which was north-east of Barstow, California. He was a long way from home and he wasn’t good company, being dead naturally. He also didn’t need the backpack anymore.

I was still searching for my family and no progress had been made. My recent jaunt into Utah was to see if my wife traveled to her cousin’s house up in Salt Lake City. That wasn’t the case; her cousin’s family was long gone, no one knew where, and I was just as confused. I was now making my way south but heading eastward a bit to go around the vast Grand Canyon to see an old friend.