Wednesday, September 12: The plan is to hike to the Elbow Lake campsite, this time dead-reckoning our way through uncharted woods in order to shorten the longer route shown on the map.

We are finishing breakfast and about to break camp when out of the mist a lone hiker appears. "Any of you dudes from New York?" he asks. When we answer in the negative, he says, "Well, then, I guess I should tell you what I just heard.

"I don’t know whether to believe it, but I ran across a hiker with a satellite phone who says he talked to his girlfriend in New York, and she says that yesterday terrorists hijacked four planes and flew them into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. The buildings came down."

Sitting amidst great natural splendor, among friends, in peace, with chipmunks scampering by, this news does not register easily. It is very difficult to navigate the transition between our surroundings and this disquieting and still-not-quite-fathomable news.

"Did you notice yesterday there were no contrails in the sky? That’s because they’ve shut down the airlines, dudes. Well," he concludes, "I hope I haven’t bummed you out." And just about that quickly he disappears, but not before telling us his nickname. It is Tombstone.

This is pretty much the last place one would expect to learn of World War III’s commencement. For a long moment we can only look at each other. Most of us have cell phones, but they are useless out here. If anyone owns a satellite phone, they’ve not thought to bring it. The will to disbelieve the hiker’s story is strong but the part about the contrails rings true. For all his dishevelment – let’s face it, we’re rather unkempt ourselves – he doesn’t appear the least demented. It is fair to say we are unsettled by his story and want to know the facts.

And then I remember the CD player. The night before, I had idly scanned the FM band to see if anything could be picked up. At the time I was gratified to learn we were so far into the wilderness that no station could be found. Made me feel that much more like a backwoodsman. Now I decide to try again, only this time I work through the bandwidth frequency by frequency.

It doesn’t take long to pick up a faint signal, a talk show. From the jittery jabber it is clear something is up, but unclear just what – until the top of the hour, when NPR news dispels all hope that the hiker’s astonishing tale is a bizarre fabrication. Play-by-play, while standing on a boulder, I relay the news to my compatriots, holding the antenna high as if to emphasize the horror, mouthing a mini-simulcast to the mini-assembly. Dan Rather on the rocks.

The appalling tale – made all the more unreal by the natural splendor in which we absorb it – changes everything, including how we look at the scenery. In short order most everyone’s homing instinct surfaces. There are wives and children and families who will want to talk with us as much as we want to talk with them. A decision quickly emerges – get out of the woods and make contact with home. Already it is clear that we won’t be boarding an airplane anytime soon.

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