Day 214
An Explorer's Journal
Day 214:
Johan has once again defected upwind of our camp. We sit, days, perhaps hours, if the tracker is to be believed—though his affinity for the seemingly endless supply of opium he finds in his pack has led us astray before—from the coast. As the wildflowers sway in the morning breeze, salty with the promise of the nearing sea, the encouraging scent of conclusion is tampered by the foul stench of Johan’s bowels. The beast that I suspect is of source was the manged coyote with a rotted leg that he brought back to the fire pit yesterday’s eve. Despite our repeated attempts of deterrent, he carved and cooked the meat into a stew nearly as putrid as this morning’s draft. We spend the day reorganizing our packings, anxious to complete our journey, though, once again hindered by Johan’s gastrointestinal necessities. If twas not for his relation to our benefactor, I swear to the Lord I would leave him feet up in a river so that the wolves would lose our track in the haze that emanates from his rear end. I ridded myself of the unpleasantry of oder by an early morning stroll South and out of the contaminated air. The mountains behind us still bring me shutters. Their jagged teeth haunt my nightmares, their snowy peaks chill my bones, and I often have to advert my eyes forward towards the future. Three weeks later, I can still hear the cries of Gregor as he lay there with his legs broken deep in the spontaneous ravine. We tell ourselves the night air took him quickly though I know what runs through those cliffs. And yet, in times like this, his early come peace relishes at the favor of never waking to a canvas tent impregnated with the smog of Johan’s poor decisions. I write this in the afternoon sun, perched upon a convenient boulder seemingly shaped to cradle man’s design, another gift from God to which I dedicate this long and strenuous journey. Perhaps I will honor the Lord’s wishes and rest in this stoney hammock, surrounded by the sparse trees, the enthusiastic petals that reach toward the vow of the sun. I can close my eyes and dream of running my hands through the sands so near I can taste it on the wind, feel it in my beating heart. But alas, I am called again to another interventional lesson on game standards and anemology. Until tomorrow.
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