The Rope

The Rope 



  It was late March and in the spirit of the west coast, the sky hung gray and heavily dripping, breathing, emanating moisture like a soggy sponge.  The tree hung moss and lichen drooped wetly and the silent towers of green appeared forlorn, branches seemingly held close in a silent attempt to ward off the chilly wind blowing off the white-capped winter waves. 

    We were camping.  Fools!  What pleasure could be gathered from this inhospitable spot in the center of a cold damp world?  No view to speak of.  The fog foiled any attempts to seek whale spout or sea lions frolicking.  One trail looked like any other from under the brim of my waterproof hat and over the high neck of my jacket. I could see just a slice of green, dripping wet into mud in every direction except, of course the view west: white gray nothingness, ethereal yet thundering with water action.  Activity seemed pointless but our muscles were seizing from chilly inaction so we braved the threat of disturbed branches releasing a deluge down the back of our necks and wandered a trail that led deeper into the canopy of green and perhaps to a sheltered spot beneath the rainforest giants. 

    We had been trudging, or should I say, mucking along for about thirty minutes and had begun discussion, my companion and I, about heading back.  We had just determined that it was pointless continuing in this direction when I noticed something ahead, strung in a bush.  An unexpected sight so I moved closer, another fifty feet.  A rope lay strung in bushes and small trees along the trail and seemed to disappear around the corner, following the trail.  It was a lovely rope, a boater’s rope, thick as two fingers and made of braided hemp it seemed.  Now, being of a thrifty nature and hardly likely to leave something so useful to rot in this forsaken place, I began to coil it pulling and following it. Around the corner it still continued fifteen feet then left the trail through a salmonberry thicket.

      As we arrived to this spot it became obvious that the rope was tied to something.  Considering it’s dimension and weight we arrived at the conclusion that it couldn’t be much longer for how could anyone have carried it here?  So, fools that we were, we thrashed through the prickly brush and continued to reel in the rope as we struggled forward.  Now, by this time the burden was shared between the both of us and any intelligent person at this point would have surely given up the quest or at least cut the rope, left the rest, and taken their booty home.  We, however, had somehow managed to direct all our previous inaction into this one effort and were strongly motivated to continue when, suddenly…. the rope pulled back!

      As if we were holding a leash, the rope pulled us gently forward and we followed, like brainless sheep, silently awed, for a short time I’m sure but seemingly out of time altogether.  There was a moment of hesitation.  We stopped and the rope stopped pulling.  Then, suddenly, like a towrope on a mountain side, it yanked forward pulling us off our feet, reeling us in through the mud while we clung like fools until my companion cried, “Oh my God!  What is that smell?”  and the rope went slack.  We stood up, awestruck, eyes watering from the noxious fumes; the beastly smell of something warm and hairy.  The rope now came limp into our hands and within ten pulls, the end, frayed and smelly. 

    We didn’t set one foot forward and left the rope entirely behind as we flew back along the trail.  I have ideas about the source of the smell and the pulling but…I’ll never know for sure and don’t care to revisit that place again.