The Baptism of Pip Scurry
I was currently making enough noise to wake a hibernating locust. My oversized boots—thick-soled hand-me-downs from an uncle who had died of a sudden, mysterious case of "getting-too-close-to-a-mother-elk"—slapped against the muddy bank of the Allegheny with the grace of a falling chimney.
"Hush, you lummox," a voice rasped from the shadows of a giant hemlock.
Hogarth "Hoag" Mossback didn't step out of the brush so much as he materialized from it. He was a man made of oak-bark and old leather. His beard was a tangled thicket that looked like it might house several species of migratory birds, and his eyes had the sharp, unforgiving glint of flint striking steel. He’d been in these woods since before the mountains decided to settle down, and he viewed "civilization" as a temporary affliction that could be cured with a sharp knife and a long walk into the pines.
"I’m trying, Hoag," I wheezed, hitching up my trousers. They were held up by a piece of frayed hemp rope that was currently losing its battle with my waistline. "The mud is... adhesive."
"The mud is tellin' the whole valley you’re comin', Pip," Hoag said, not even looking back. He moved through the tangled laurel like a ghost, his buckskins silent against the leaves. "If you want to see the sun go down, you’ve got to learn that your feet are for feelin', not just for smashin'."
We were headed for the Great Bend, a place where the river narrowed and the shadows grew long even at noon. Hoag was looking for a specific cedar grove, and I was looking to survive the afternoon without losing a limb.
The "gripping" part of the afternoon began when we reached the limestone ledges. The ground dropped away into a ravine so deep the bottom was lost in a permanent green twilight. A single, ancient pine had fallen across the gap, its bark worn smooth by years of wind and ice.
"Walk it," Hoag commanded.
I looked at the log. I looked at the ravine. "Hoag, that’s a long way to fall for a boy who hasn't had breakfast yet."
"Gravity don't care about your stomach, Pip. It only cares about your center. Keep your eyes on the far bank. If you look down, you’re invitin' the earth to come up and meet you."
Hoag crossed it in three strides, his hickory staff tapping the wood once for balance. He stood on the far side, as unmoving as a rock.
I stepped out. My boots, which had been merely annoying on flat ground, now felt like two buckets of wet sand. Halfway across, the wind—a spiteful, Kinzua wind—whistled through the hemlocks. I made the mistake. I looked down.
The ravine seemed to yawn open like the mouth of a giant. My left boot slipped on a patch of wet lichen. I didn't fall off—not entirely. I ended up hugging the log with a grip that would have crushed a bear, my legs dangling into the abyss, my heart hammering against the wood like a trapped bird.
"Hoag!" I squeaked.
"You’re talkin', Pip. Talkin' uses air. Air is for breathin'. Breathin' is for stayin' calm," Hoag said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "Now, you got two choices. You can stay there until you turn into moss, or you can scoot. The log ain't gonna get any wider, and the ravine ain't gonna get any shallower."
Just as I prepared to scoot, a low, guttural rumble vibrated through the log. It wasn't the wind. It wasn't my stomach.
On the far end of the log, just behind Hoag, a black bear the size of a coal wagon stepped out of the brush. It wasn't interested in the view; it was interested in the log—the very log I was currently decorating with my terror.
The Baptism of Pip Scurry
I froze. Hoag didn't move a muscle. He didn't even reach for the long knife at his belt.
"Don't... move... boy," Hoag whispered.
The bear huffed, a sound like a bellows in a forge. It looked at Hoag, then looked at the strange, trembling lump of a boy hanging off its bridge. The bear took a tentative step onto the log. The wood groaned. I felt the vibration in my teeth.
"Hoag!" I hissed, my eyes bulging.
"He just wants to get to the berry patch, Pip. You’re just a knot in the wood to him. Be a knot."
The bear advanced. It was close enough now that I could smell it—a mixture of wet fur, old blueberries, and swamp mud. It reached the middle of the log, where I was clinging for dear life. It paused. I could see the individual hairs on its snout. It sniffed my hair. I decided, right then and there, that if I survived this, I was going to become a shoemaker and never leave a building again.
Then, with a bored grunt, the bear simply... stepped over me. Its massive paws landed on either side of my white-knuckled hands. It walked across my back as if I were nothing more than a particularly lumpy piece of bark.
I heard its claws click-click-click the rest of the way across the log. I heard it crash into the brush on the side I’d just come from.
Silence returned to the Kinzua.
I pulled myself up, my muscles screaming, and scrambled the rest of the way to the bank, collapsing at Hoag’s feet. I was shaking so hard my rope belt nearly came undone.
"You did alright, Pip," Hoag said, finally offering a hand that felt like a piece of sandpaper. He hauled me to my feet with one effortless tug. "Most folks pay good money for a back rub. You got yours for free from a four-hundred-pound sow."
"She... she walked on me," I gasped.
"She was in a hurry. The huckleberries don't wait for nobody," Hoag said, turning back toward the trail. "Now, quit your shakin'. We’ve wasted ten minutes, and the trout in the Great Bend ain't gonna jump into the pan by themselves."
I followed him, my legs feeling like jelly, but my eyes wider than they’d ever been. I realized then that Hoag Mossback wasn't just a man; he was a gatekeeper. And if I wanted to see what was on the other side of the gate, I’d have to get used to the smell of bear fur.
Hoag’s Hard Truths
"In the woods, you're either the hiker, the bridge, or the snack. If a bear decides you're the bridge, don't argue with it. Just be the best bridge you can be until it's on the other side."