A Man of the Mountain - The Falls

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5. The Falls

The sound of gnashing metal blades filled Jonas’s cabin as he ground the beans for his afternoon cup of coffee. It had been a long and uneventful week. Each night, the snows had been heavier than the last, leaving him to shovel a path out of the cabin each day just so he could keep track of where it was. The trail he traveled was very specific and missteps couldn’t be afforded. It was hard work, but the weather kept hikers away, leaving Jonas completely alone on the mountain, just the way he liked it.

     Though his excursions were difficult in the more extreme weather, the solitude had allowed him to travel farther down the mountain than normal without being noticed. On the nights he was able to get out, he roamed as far as the lower family trails, leaving samples and marks anywhere he could. The storms would likely blow away all his hard work, but even for the slightest chance, the effort was worth it.  

He knew that the heavy snows wouldn’t last much longer. The temperature still stayed well below freezing most of the time, but Winter was clearly in its final push before Spring. Not long after that, people would arrive. As the days grew longer, hikers grew more adventurous, meaning he would have to be extra careful. There were always more ‘accidents’ during Spring and Summer. He shook off the thought and poured coffee into a plain brown mug that read Protect Our National Parks.

     Outside, the shadows were beginning to grow long. The mountain was currently in between two stormfronts, leaving clear skies for the rest of the day and into the evening. With the weather breaking, Jonas knew he would have to head out soon. His body ached from shoveling, but there was no getting around it; he had to use the opportunities he was afforded.

     A nagging feeling began to tug at the nerves behind his temples. It happened every time a piece was published. While he had tried not to get his hopes up, the lack of response to the article in the Local Eye was disheartening. Rick Mansen still hadn’t announced where he was going next, but Jonas now believed it was anywhere but Clearwater. The thought of it made him want to stay in the cabin and drown his sorrows, but the weather was fair and he had a job to do.

     As he passed the kitchen to deposit his coffee mug, he spied the cabinet that concealed his last bottle of whiskey. He passed it reluctantly, knowing that the mountain was dangerous enough without it. A twinge of nostalgia and darkness played in the back of his mind as he double checked his supplies. He was thankful for it as it pushed the nagging self-resentment away. This particular darkness had a clearly identifiable source, and Jonas knew the solution to ease it.   

     He put on his snowshoes and opened the cabin door into the blinding afternoon light. White mounds of snow came up to his hips on either side. Ahead, he could see the results of his hard work in the form of a small trench leading into the forest. Above, the sky had just begun to tint with orange as the sun made its way toward the horizon. If I hurry, I can make it before sunset. With renewed resolve, Jonas set out towards one of his favorite places on the mountain.

     Clearwater Mountain, another clever name for a local landmark, was snow-capped in the winter, but melted almost entirely during the summer, giving way to a series of massive waterfalls fed by the glacier just below the summit. Fields of flowers spread out beneath, giving a spectacular and picturesque appearance for visiting tourists. Unlike most, Jonas preferred the winter form. As the mountain grew cold, the falls would freeze, turning sparkling blue and sending jagged spikes of ice tumbling down to a great snowy field below.

     The spot held a special significance for him, and on days when he thought he might give up the job altogether, he would make the climb. To get to the top of the falls was no easy feat for everyday hikers, but with even a little climbing experience, it was a quick ascent. To the right side of the base was a rock chute, narrow and easily scalable with the right equipment and skill.

     At the edge of the main trails, Jonas donned his gear. Climbing would be more difficult in the suit, but he couldn’t risk being seen. He looked up at the deepening red in the sky and hurried through the deep powder toward the base, grunting and howling. The sound echoed off the falls and reverberated a hundred times back across the field. It was intimidating, even to him.

     He reached the bottom of the chute and looked up. A series of handholds were still in place from the last climbing season and looked stable. There was a stash of rope in a crevice nearby, but Jonas had always preferred to go without it. Taking away the lifeline made him careful and reminded him just how close the other side could be. Hand-over-hand, he began to climb. He had made the ascent dozens of times, and before long was clambering over the top onto the hard-packed ice. His arms burned, but he was otherwise unscathed, having arrived just in time to see the sunset.

     Further down the mountain was a viewing platform with coin operated binoculars for those who didn’t want to make the climb. Jonas had purposefully scuffed all the lenses long ago to ensure no one would ever get a clear look at him. There had been a few grainy photographs taken by amateurs, but no one wanted to believe, making them easily dismissed.

     Silhouetted atop the falls, Jonas stepped to the edge and let out his mightiest roar, beating his chest with his hands. It would have been a fear-inspiring image, but as he suspected, the viewing platform was empty. On the horizon, churning clouds signaled the beginning of yet another storm. The sun cast them in sharp relief, painting the image of what was to come. The world descended into a hazy twilight as the last light went out of the day.

      A bitter wind blew across the top of the falls, sending tiny motes of crystalline ice skittering across. Even through the suit, Jonas could feel the chill. He walked to the edge of the falls and sat down. Thousands upon thousands of frosted white pine trees stared back at him, keeping sentinel on the slopes below. He thought of the hiker from the week before and his stomach did a slight turn. It seemed he had come to the falls for more than one reason. The view was beautiful, but also held history.

     He stood and walked away from the ledge, following the curvature of the ice towards the steep ascent to the summit beyond. He didn’t need to go far. Still standing, same as the day he had placed them, were three large stones heaped into a pile. To the passerby, the site wouldn’t appear intentional, but Jonas would always be able to find it.  

     He stared at the stones, remembering the man he was before and after he had placed them. So much had changed in a matter of a few seconds. His first year had passed without incident, but as with most fatal encounters, he was overconfident and miscalculated. The famous Clearwater Falls were pictured on promotional material at every rest stop for miles and he had wanted to get a look for himself. It was late into the summer, and most of the crowds had left the mountain. In short, it was the perfect time, but one climber had decided to make a final summit bid before fall…

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Jonas had set out from his cabin in the late afternoon, walking strictly in the brush, barely visible from any of the main trails. He had been so careful. Even picking his way across the flower fields, he had kept low and listened for hikers. All signs pointed to the perfect evening: an empty mountain and a beautiful sunset to top it off. He reached the chute without incident and climbed.

It was at the top of the chute that he made his critical mistake. Rather than waiting to check, he had simply popped right out with no effort towards concealment. That’s when he saw her. The sight must have been comical at first; a man clearly masquerading as a furry mess climbing out of a crag. What little humor there was passed quickly. The joy of climbing the falls turned to ash and settled in his throat. The climber had seen him and there was no room for negotiation on what had to happen next; his employers had made sure of that. For the first time, he felt the weight of the blades concealed in his gloves.

     In that moment, Jonas learned what it was like to become a killer. There was no choice in the matter, only bitter certainty. He wanted to turn around, to run, but knew it would be no use. Leaving a loose end behind would make him a liability and end his tenure on the mountain. Beyond that, he sensed a part of him that wanted to stay. In that moment, he wasn’t Jonas, he was a beast of legend staring down prey.  

     The climber hesitated, frozen in the red glow of the setting sun. For a minute, neither of them moved. Then, throwing caution to the wind, she ran directly at him. The only route down was through the chute and Jonas was standing right at the top of it. He panicked and swung hard right as she passed him. There was a horrifying tugging sensation as his claws found their mark. Then just as quickly, they were free.   

     Three red streaks splattered the grey rock. The hiker continued to run, stumbling and grabbing at her chest. Jonas reached out to stop her, but she went right over the edge of the falls, plummeting to the field below. For a moment, he could do nothing but stand there, watching gravity do its work. Seconds passed like hours and eventually he heard a sound he would never forget as she struck the rocks below.

     I need to move. Most of the tourists were gone, but if anyone had been on the viewing platform, the climber’s dive would have been hard to miss. The journey back down was difficult and he nearly fell several times due to the numbing sensation in his fingertips. All he could think of was the look of surprise on her face before she had turned to flee. He continued to move, knowing that every second he wasted could mean his freedom or his life.

Jonas had stayed in the cabin for days, waiting for the banging of local authorities on his door, but time passed and no one came. Eventually he received a small package with a note and a rolled-up newspaper. While it could not lift his spirits completely, the tabloid headline featuring ‘Bigfoot Strikes on Clearwater Mountain’ roused something inside of him. In that moment he was alive, maybe more alive than he had ever been.

     The night after receiving the headline, Jonas had gone back to the top of the chute and erected his memorial. Ever since the accident, most people had avoided the summit. Most of them didn’t believe a legend had done it, but they weren’t willing to risk it either.

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Looking down at the stones, he could not believe how much had changed. Years had passed, more had died, but the legend had grown. “Fuck it,” he said to the wind. Even if monster hunters didn’t come this time, they might the next. He wasn’t going to give up on the only thing that gave him purpose so easily. Bending down, he let his gloved hand run over the stones, remembering that night. Eventually, he turned around and walked back toward the edge.

     As he descended, he left several samples of fur, wedging them in the crags. Most of the time climbers were too busy to notice them, but there was always a chance someone would get curious. When he reached the bottom, it was nearly full dark and a pale moon had risen into the sky, causing the frosted layer on the field below to twinkle like an ocean of stars. Jonas looked over it, admiring the beauty. His heart skipped a beat. At the edge of the clearing was a blinking red dot.

     Jonas’s reaction was immediate. You imbeciles and your fucking cameras. Without a moment’s hesitation, he charged, heart racing in his chest with each thundering step. The light was not moving. Huge plumes of snow kicked up in the field behind him. Fucker isn’t even recording from a good angle.

     As he got closer, he noticed something odd. There was no hiker. A wave of relief hit him, followed by a greater wave of excitement. The blinking light was attached to a tree. He approached and saw a small yellow pyramid with a microphone mounted in the middle. Jonas pried it from the bark with ease and couldn’t help but grin like an idiot when he saw the label.

     Painted in bold, black letters was: Property of the History Channel, do not remove.