A Way Through the Storm

1

The evening sky had been clear when Mark Bolton turned his Volvo sedan onto the NE extension of Pennsylvania’s Turnpike. By the time he passed north of I-78, light from a winter moon was swiftly fading behind angry dark clouds. It was beginning to snow. When he reached the small town of Thornhurst, the storm continued to build. Large flakes passed through the car’s headlights, silently transforming the lonely mountain road into an endless blanket of white. Weather was becoming a real concern. Mark estimated his destination to be less than four miles ahead. He continued on.

Tracks from previous vehicles were no longer visible; his only guide was to keep centered between ditches filled with snow which now were simply vague depressions on each side of the road. It had been dark for nearly two hours, and near white-out conditions made seeing beyond a short distance in front of his car increasingly difficult. Mark was thankful the Volvo 280 had four-wheel-drive as the storm showed no sign of letting up. He wasn’t sure how much longer his car would be able to continue. His speed was down to less than twenty-miles-per-hour when he saw two reflectors on a post marking the turn off to his friend’s cabin.

The one-lane road, an old logging trail, was narrow with no ditches to help keep him oriented. Mark’s only guide was to stay between rows of tall pines lining the way ahead. He drove cautiously for some distance when the trail suddenly took a sharp turn to the right. A soft spot caught his front left tire and pulled the car off to the side. Mark carefully increased the engine’s speed while he eased the steering wheel back toward the road’s center but the car, mired in a wet, slushy depression, failed to respond and came to a stop.

Hoping to break out, he tried rocking the Volvo, but it wouldn’t budge. The tires gave out a high-pitched whine as spinning wheels settled the car even deeper.

Forcing the driver’s door open, he stepped out into a knee-deep drift. Damn it! he bellowed in disgust, but his angry outburst was lost to a quiet, dark forest.

Back in his car, he sat for a time and weighed his options. The gas gauge showed the tank was nearly three-quarters full. Well, at least I’ll manage to keep warm for now, but then what? he asked himself. Mark knew it wouldn’t be light before seven the next morning. He had two choices—stay in the car or walk to the cabin hoping its distance was no more than ten minutes away. There seemed to be only one logical answer, so he began to prepare for the hike ahead. From the trunk he pulled his parka, insulated ski pants, waterproof hiking boots and a six-volt Coleman flashlight. Inside the Volvo he managed to change into his heavy clothing. Then, he locked the car and began walking. Snow was still coming down, heavy as ever.

After a short distance, the narrow road began to rise and further ahead, the hill moved up a short but steep grade. "I don’t think the car would have made it," he mumbled while plodding forward. Moving up the incline became increasingly difficult. Near the top of the grade, Mark lost his balance and slipped. Falling forward he tumbled face down, losing the flashlight as he fell. Grumbling, he struggled to regain his footing. Before his eyes could adjust to the near total darkness, a sense of panic grabbed him. Then, a few feet away, there was a faint glow. Kneeling down, Mark pawed at the snow in a desperate attempt to retrieve the precious light. Once again in his hand, he held the flashlight firmly with a feeling of relief.

Taking time to catch his breath, he checked his watch; it showed only eleven minutes had passed. It seemed much longer. Mark tried to remember back to when he had been here with his friend, but that had been more than a year ago in the daylight. Now, nothing seemed right.

As he continued on, the road leveled out and Mark was able to pick up his pace. Some distance ahead, the trail seemed unending. There was no sign of Tom’s cabin. Mark stopped again to check his watch; he had been walking for a total of twenty minutes. It’s got to be here somewhere. I’ll keep going for a little more, he thought. Again, Mark moved forward into the snowstorm.

Some time later, there was no sign of anything other than rows of tall pines blending into the night and occasional large boulders that had been pushed aside when the road was originally cleared. Now his watch showed more than thirty minutes had passed since he left his car. The realization he was not heading in the right direction washed over him. With a heavy heart, he turned and began heading back.

As the snow deepened, walking was becoming increasingly difficult, especially where wind formed drifts across the road made by gusts that swooped low between gaps in the trees. The conditions were making it a challenge to stay focused. Any sign of his original tracks began to fade and were soon lost, blown away by sudden gusts of wind and covered by freshly falling snow. In the dark, he failed to notice the place where he had fallen and where the old logging road had split at the top of the rise. Completely unaware, Mark continued straight ahead in the wrong direction.

Cold was finding its way through his heavy clothing, and hope of ever finding his friend’s cabin was beginning to fade. Some time later, he faced the realization his direction was not right. He was lost.

Exhausted, he brushed snow from a fallen tree trunk and rested. Mark turned off the light and sat quietly thinking about what to do next. He remembered his cell phone was still plugged into the charger back in his car. What good would it do? Mark had no way to explain where he was, and by now the mountain road was most likely closed.

The wind had died, and the woods had become strangely peaceful. Could this be how my life ends? He thought. Here, alone, on this desolate mountain? Strangely, he didn’t feel the slightest sense of panic, as if all this weren’t real. Now, surrounded by the dark, his thoughts drifted back to the traumatic events of the last six months.

Mark recalled the haunting words of his wife, Sara, when she quietly told him one evening at dinner about accepting a promotion as head of marketing for Alco Cosmetics in Denver. A week later, at the end of July, she was gone. Less than two months after her departure he received a letter from Sara’s attorney initiating their divorce. Mark couldn’t believe his marriage was over. He tried not to hate the woman he had loved for eleven years. Losing her was hard. Ever since she left he had spent restless nights searching for answers. Why had their relationship fallen apart? Mark felt there was something more to his wife’s leaving than her career. As always, the answer eluded him.

A second shock came early in October when Mark’s boss, Tom Welter, entered his office and closed the door. The senior executive quietly lowered himself into one of two leather and chrome chairs facing the desk. Right away he knew the president’s visit was not bringing good news.

The board has agreed to sell the bank to a European consortium at nearly twice the stock’s current value. While share holders will be elated at the news, it seems our days at Eastern Trust are about over.

His words still resonated in Mark’s memory. There had been rumors the bank was looking to grow, perhaps through a merger. But sold? After fifteen years, fate had dealt him one more painful goodbye. Even with a generous termination package, giving him plenty of time to find another position, the loss of his job was another shock he didn’t need following his agonizing divorce from Sara.

By the first week in January Mark was gone from the bank and wondering where his future would take him when Tom offered the use of his cabin in the Poconos. It seemed like the perfect chance to get away, launder his mind in the isolation of the mountain forest, and think about his life. He gratefully accepted. Late one afternoon the first week in January, Mark finished packing his car and headed north.

2

Mark’s thoughts quickly faded as he sensed something in the air. Like a woodland creature checking for a scent, he raised up and tried to focus. Then the feeling was gone. He slumped back down. I must be delusional from the cold , he thought, trying to ignore the growing numbness as the freezing night air slowly stole warmth from his body. But soon the impression was back again, and this time he knew what the sensation was. Smoke! Somewhere out there was a wood fire, and he was sure that would mean people!

Mark was on his feet again as excitement filled him with new energy. He moved the flashlight’s beam upward, but falling snow blocked much of his view. Still, he continued to scan with his light aimed near the treetops. A few more steps and he was able to discern the slightest hint of pale blue haze winding through the upper-most branches. He quickened his pace and moved forward, stopping every few feet to check once again. As traces of smoke became more evident, the smell of burning wood filled him with anticipation. When after a time the light could no longer detect any sign of the elusive blue haze, and the odor was no longer there, Mark’s hopes faded. With no other option, he plodded on into the darkness.

Struggling in ever deepening snow was taking its toll, and Mark was forced to stop every few steps to catch his breath. Suddenly he saw a flicker of something through the trees. Then the trace of light was gone. He shifted slightly. There it was again, another shaft of dim light. Then it too disappeared. Mark began to think the brief glimmer was something his mind had created out of desperation. He kept moving. A short distance ahead there appeared to be some kind of opening. In the darkness seeing anything was difficult. A few steps further exposed a break in the line of trees revealing a split rail gate. It was open. His heart raced, fueling new energy to tired legs as they struggled to pick up the pace. Then he saw it—a large cabin in the center of a clearing.

A soft glow was visible from the front windows. The only other sign of human life was the strong scent of burning wood. Shining his light toward the cabin, he could make out smoke rising from a rough cut stone chimney.

Thoughts of safety and warmth flashed through his mind as he stumbled toward the newly discovered haven. He was still some distance from the front porch when blinding light flooded everything to the tree line. Instinctively, he held up a gloved hand to shield his eyes and stood motionless. Then, the quiet night erupted with a loud crack of gun fire. Instantly, a puff of snow kicked up close to his left foot.

In a moment of panic, afraid to move, he cried out, Christ, don’t shoot! I’m unarmed and lost! Mark held his breath as he waited for another volley from the shooter, but there was only the silent glare of lights and falling snow. The next few seconds seemed endless.

From the dark of the porch a voice called out, Lose the light and keep your hands where I can see them.

Mark didn’t move.

I said lose the light!

Mark dropped the flashlight.

What are you doing here? the voice demanded.

I was trying to find a friend’s cabin. My car ran off the road. I was forced to walk and lost my way in the dark.

Again there was silence. Mark prayed his story sounded convincing. What have I