Down Under
Plunging unexpectedly into the heart of darkness
By KRISTOPHER KAIYALA

Snowflakes gleam like tiny stars in the headlights and spin away into the truck's quiet wake. It's dusk, normally my favorite time in these mountains, when jagged peaks become a monstrous silhouette, a black cardboard cutout against the ever darkening hues of twilight.

It's quiet here after most have left for home, when fir boughs shiver before cooling breezes. The sound of traveling water is amplified and playful, and a single rockfall calls your attention skyward. The greens and blues and purples over the Earth always remind me of other times, happier and youthful times, when even the Earth seemed younger.

I cling to these comforts now as Micah and I head down the narrow road toward the freeway entrance. Micah grips the wheel with two hands, sitting upright and alert. We're quiet and absorbed in the ambient hum of tires plying freshly fallen snow. We're now two hours and more than a half-mile away from what happened. The distance grows larger, but the mental swords still strike in swift, sharp vectors. We keep quiet, as if our voices could shatter glass or jinx a tenuous outcome.

A tan Explorer passes us on the left and Micah steers slowly toward the shoulder to avoid its spray, then repossesses the center of the road. Normally we speed down this canyon, but not tonight. He tugs on the wiper switch and the frozen rubber blades jolt from their icy holdings and squawk loudly against the windshield. We both jump in alarm.

"Think we should have reported it?" Micah asks looking straight ahead. He adjusts a heater vent and then switches into third. The tires slip briefly on the road with the added horsepower.

I stare out the side window watching the tall firs, their branches bent and heavy with moisture brought down from the Gulf of Alaska and Vancouver Island. "They probably don't record close calls."

"I meant so no one else falls in. It's going to keep snowing, and it'll barely be covered." Micah taps the brakes before steering uphill to the left and past a village road, where tiny cabins glow on the forested slope like Christmas tree ornaments.

Before I needed silence, but now I feel the urgent need for words. It's like our words anchor us to the present. They keep us from slipping back down the slope. They hold at bay the chilling black void pulling at our feet and eyes and skin.

"The whole lower hill is full of traps," Micah continues. "Too much light snow all at once in those drainages. It's like sand in an hourglass. Did you see how fast he slid in?"

See it? Hell yeah I saw it. I was right behind him. There was no way not to see it. I grope for the armrest handle.

"Anyway," he says, "It's gonna go back up to 6,000 feet tomorrow."

"So a lot of stuff will come down when it warms up," I add, stating the obvious. A sharp spike of dread knifes through me. It's still too soon. My legs are dangling over a dark expanse. Keep talking, I tell myself. "Those holes should get filled in naturally."

We drive beyond the freeway entrance toward the Summit Inn. I focus on a triangle of cyan sky between cloud layers and there I see myself and Micah and Carla on the beach buried up to our necks in sand, like kids. We're laughing and her hair is pinned up in layers of curls that tease her tan face. Why remember this now? I hate this recurring dream. I close my eyes and cover my face, but I can't stop the outcome. The tide washes over us and we're gone. I shake my head and start to feel nauseous.

"Nate," Micah says firmly, and we look at each other. I know my eyes are red and he scans my face. After a few seconds his gaze softens. "We need gas," he says, and I know he means that we'll stop at the summit to refuel before driving home. We'll stay as long as necessary. It's fine with me. I'm in no hurry to go. No hurry to move or to get anywhere at all. And yet I can't sit still or stop squirming in my seat. I can't stop seeing Jason wave his arms as the snow gives way; he swims frantically to keep his head above the rim of the rapidly widening snow funnel. I see the snow hole opening like a giant mouth, the crystals sinking downward around his waist. And then he's slipping, god he's slipping! His arms are flailing for purchase and we can't get close because the ground is falling between us. And beneath him is...what? What's down there in the creek hollow beneath the snow? A horrible blackness? A grotesque darkness without shape or image? A hollow nothingness beneath an iceberg-thick layer of snow where light won't penetrate and the air is rotten and sulfurous? He's dropping and he's going in and we can't stop him...


"Nate." We're at the gas pump and I see Micah get out of the car and stick his credit card into the reader. The halogen lights are bright, and I fish for a ten to pay for my half of the ride. All he wanted was an escort through the backcountry. He looked the part—helmet, mirrored goggles, Gore-Tex from the neck down, backpack, shovel, fat skis. He asked if he could join us. Said his name was Jason and he was transmitting. We'd been there before. We'd been him before. We'd refused others, but he seemed alright.

Micah gets back in the car and checks himself in the mirror. The goggle tan is almost gone, replaced by stubble and dark bags under the eyes from too many late nights of studying. I imagine I look much the same. "What do you think Jason's doing right now?" I ask.

"Probably still shitting his pants," he responds and starts the rig. "Good thing that right ski followed him in or he'd be a goner."

We leave the station and return to the road. The bright, tiny arc of a new moon shimmers beyond the treetops. It's the kind of new moon whose slit is narrow enough to render the rest of the charcoal-colored orb visible. The dark side of the moon.

"Lucky bastard," says Micah. "That ski saved his life, wedging between his legs like that. 'Course it could have given way when he stood on it and climbed out. I thought it would give way. I was scared, dude. That creek bed was deep last week. You should have seen it. One more wrong move and he'd have been gone." He pauses and looks at me as we roll onto the freeway. "We should have stayed to one side."

It's the first admission from either of us. Then I hear another: "That hole was meant for you. That makes two lucky bastards today."

I feel the sickening dangling feeling again. Jason bolts ahead of me in a moment of excitement and lands right on top of it, right in front of me. I cut left at the last second to avoid spearing him. Then Micah and I stand and watch as the mouth opens and the snow sinks and swallows his body and he flails and we can't do anything and we think: he's gone. I'm not in the hole, but I should be.

"If he hadn't gone in front of you..." Micah's words trail off. I can only guess what I must look like. Why is this bothering me so much?

"Nate." Micah casts me a wary eye. My legs hang over the airy abyss and I am kicking with my boots for something, anything to stand on. My stomach is reeling and drips of moisture roll down my cheeks and neck.

"Nate." The ski gives way and I am sliding swiftly down, abruptly, and I'm underneath. It's quiet like underwater. I look up at the hole, at the fading light. Am I still falling?

"Nate!" I reach for the surface with both arms, holding my breath. I'm swimming in something dark, half-frozen. I want to breathe but I can't!

"Nate!" I hear Micah’s voice calling from somewhere, but there's too much water, the hole is filling in. The hourglass is emptying.

"Nate!" I feel a hand grab my jacket around my chest and lift me up. Then it shakes me violently. I ram my feet into the floor of the truck and grab the arm rests. I feel along the underside of the iceberg with my hands for an opening, a way back to the surface.

"Nate!"

The truck has stopped. Micah has hold of my shirt with his right fist. We're on the side of the freeway and my eyes are streaming wet. "Look at me, Nate!" God, I don't know what's happening!

"Keep talking to me!" I shout, and Micah looks startled and uncomfortable.

"Alright Nate," he says. "It's gonna be okay." And we stare at each other and he repeats his words again and again and I cling to them for life as dearly as a man overboard holds to his life preserver.


Kristopher Kaiyala is the editor of Aspect Journal.


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