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He tried to settle his mind. It's already been established that you definitely aren't John Muir. Just walk erect, don't slump, steady stride. It's not that fucking hard, you idiot. Thanks for the kind words, he thought and had to grin.
    He concentrated on keeping a steady stride. Doug was right, that did work better. But then Doug was right about everything. Backpacking-wise anyway. Life? A little different.
    Odd how the forest, which had seemed exquisite and inspiring before, was now beginning to take on the aspects of an ominous entity around him. The tall, thin pines looked like spears, their foliage thick and gray-green, large, scaly cones on the ground beneath them. The huge leaves of the maple trees now looked like random splashes of yellow amid the dark green canopy. Was the green really that dark or was the light starting to fade? That would be all he needed: to be alone in the forest in the dark. Wonderful, he thought. He tried to visualize the possibility with amusement but his involuntary shiver belied it. Great, he thought. Alone in the forest in the dark. And I don't even have my sleeping bag now! he suddenly realized. I'd goddamn freeze to death! They'd find my skeleton twenty years from now, lying under—
    Oh, shut up! he commanded himself. And straighten up for Christ's sake, you're slumping! "Oh," he muttered gloomily. He fought away anxiety. Just— follow— the— goddamn— path; that was all he had to do. He wasn't in the great North Woods. This was a national park in California and he was on a trail. A trail , Hansen, he reminded himself.
    No, wait. Goddamn it, I am slumping again! There must be some way to control—
    Yes! His face lit up as he moved to a fallen tree and found a branch on it with the right thickness. Taking out his hunting knife, he started to saw away at it so that it would be about five feet long. Oh, great, he thought, the knife was just about sharp enough to slice its way through butter.
    He hacked and pulled at the branch until it broke off, then cut off the twigs (sure, those the damn knife can cut off, he thought) and did the best he could to level the end of the branch.
    He began to walk again, using the branch as a staff. Not bad, he thought. It did help keep him more erect. Now just move at a steady pace and you'll—
    "Jesus Christ!" He stopped and jerked around as something rustled noisily in the brush to his left. Just before it vanished, he saw that it was a fleeing rabbit.
    "Oh . . . God." He swallowed dryly, then opened his bottle and took a drink of water. His heartbeat was still pounding. Is it going to be like this the whole time? he wondered. I thought it was something big, something dangerous. A rabbit, for chrissake. He groaned at his vulnerability. Just keep going, will you, Hansen? he suggested. Yes, by all means, he replied politely to himself.
    He started walking again. It did seem easier to stay erect and keep a steady pace using the staff. For a few moments, he visualized himself as a proficient woodsman striding through his familiar wilderness. After all, he had only to follow the very obvious trail. Soon enough, he'd reach the campsite. Doug would be waiting there, a cozy fire burning. Dehydration or no dehydration, he would partake of one of his little bottles of vodka.
    He seemed to be going uphill more now. At least the strain of walking seemed to be increasing and it was becoming more and more laborious to breathe. Well, he could manage that. If only it wasn't getting so shadowy. The more shadowy it became, the more menacing the silence seemed.
    Ordinarily, he loved silence. Where Marian and he lived in Agoura Hills, it was deathly silent, far from the freeway noises; and he enjoyed it immensely, they both did. Sitting on their deck at sunset, having drinks, they often commented on how quiet it was. There, quiet seemed peaceful and comforting. Here . . .
    Well, it's the unknown, he tried to reason with himself. Just . . . keep moving and stop worrying