"It's broke, man."

"No, it isn't."

"It looks bad, dude."

"It's just a sprain."

"How do you know? You a doctor?!" Eric yelled.

"It's not swollen and black and stuff," Tom said.

"It is swollen. I see it!" Eric yelled again.

"Not like if it were broken. My brother broke his ankle in football. It swelled up like a balloon. It was black and blue and purple and nasty."

"Okay, guys, please shut up," I said. Tom and Eric looked at me. "Arguing isn't going to help. I don't know if it's broken or sprained, but boy . . . it hurts."

"Sprains are worse than breaks," Tom said.

"How do you know, stupid?" Eric asked.

"That's what I've heard, stupid!" Tom shot back.

"Guys, please! You're not helping. We gotta figure this out. It's a long way back," I said.

Tom and Eric thought about this.

"About three miles," Tom said.

"Are you kidding me?" Eric asked. "You're kidding me, right? More like, four or five miles, at least. We've been hiking for five hours."

"Not really," Tom said. "By the time we loaded everything and got ready, I'd say we hiked for maybe three hours."

Eric gave Tom a death stare. He looked like he was ready to explode. "You know everything, don't ya?" he finally asked.

Tom just shrugged his shoulders.

"I need you two to help me to the stream," I said.

The water in the mountain stream stayed ice cold, even in the dead of summer. Tom and Eric grabbed me under both arm pits and helped me hobble to the creek. They lowered me onto a rock to sit on. I took off my boot and sock, slowly. I stretched my leg and placed my poor ankle in the cold water. After a few minutes my whole foot felt numb and the pain eased.

"With your help, I think I can make it back to camp," I said.

"You think we should try to splint it"? Tom asked.

"With what? Did you die and come back as a wilderness survival expert?!" Eric yelled.

I looked at my watch. It was 4:15. It would get dark in about four hours . . . darker faster in the deep woods. We had to get going. "Let's do this." I said.

"We'll take turns carrying your back pack," Eric offered. "You first," he said, handing it to Tom.

"Figures," Tom muttered.

I found a small, sturdy branch and tried to use it like a cane. I limped slowly down the trail. My ankle was throbbing and felt hot. I was so stupid for allowing this to happen to me. I knew the rule of hiking was to never step on a rock or a log unless you tested it first to make sure it was sturdy and secure. I had been too excited to get to the end of the trail. There, we would come upon the great Bridal Veil Falls. I had only seen pictures of it, and it had looked amazing.

In my haste, I'd stepped on a large rock. It had been loose and rolled. My foot became caught between it and another large rock. I went down hard. Eric and Tom were able to move the rock enough for me to remove my wedged foot. That's when the pain had hit.

Eric and Tom had both looked at me with concerned and confused expressions. I knew they must have been wondering how I could make such an amateur mistake.

I wondered it too.

This was on me.

We then walked, or they walked, at least, while I hobbled and limped for what seemed like hours. Really, it was only thirty minutes. The pain in my ankle became too great at that point, and I told them that I had to sit down. It was 4:45. I knew we had to keep going. We couldn't be stuck out here in the dark.

"One of you is going to have to go ahead and get help," I said. "I'm holding us up. I don't want all of us stuck out here at night. We can't make this trail in the dark. Too risky."

"I'll go," Eric said. "You and Tom keep moving as much as you can. I'll bring back help."

For once, Tom didn't argue with him.

"Okay, Eric, be safe," I said. "I'm sorry about all this."

"It's cool," Eric said.

"See ya in a little while," Tom said.

"You will," Eric said and started down the trail.

Tom let me lean on him with my arm around his neck. The trail was starting to slope downward and was getting quite steep. We came around a bend to where the fast-moving stream was parallel to the trail.

"I think you should soak your foot a bit," Tom said.

"Good idea," I said.

We made our way down a small bank to the water's edge. I sat and let the icy water soothe my ankle. Tom sat beside me, throwing pebbles in the stream. The water was so clear. We could see the pink streaks of the rainbow trout as they swam by, glinting in the lowering sun.

Tom looked deep in thought. "You know," he said,"I've never known anyone who has actually seen Bridal Veil Falls. Sure, everyone's heard of it, but I don't know anyone who's seen it. Not even my Dad. He wasn't even sure how to find the falls, and he knows everything about these mountains. Do you know anyone who's seen them?" he asked.

"Come to think of it, I don't," I said. "I've seen pictures of them."

"How did you find this camp, Wyatt?" Tom asked.

"Actually, I found a map for this camp in an old atlas at my Grandpa's hunting cabin. I've got it with me. Let me see my pack."

Tom handed over the heavy pack, and I pulled the map out of a side pocket. The paper it was scrawled on was yellowed with age.

"See, there's old Highway 50. There's the logging camp road that we took. Here's the place we veered off, by the old Henson place. Remember passing it?" I asked Tom.

"That old, broke-down, haunted-looking house? I remember," he said.

"Here's the X for the camp. We sure found it," I said.

"Yes, we did," Tom said and took the wrinkled bit of paper from me. "Look, it's faded, but here on the bottom, it says something," Tom strained his eyes. "It says, Property of Eldread Frizzell. It says something else . . . but it's so faded." Tom held the paper up to the sunlight. "It says, Damned . . . What is that supposed to mean?" Tom asked.

"Eldread," I said, "That was the name of the old man we met coming in today. Must be his grandfather or father who owned this land."

It seemed like days ago but was only this morning when we pulled into the remote camp. We'd ridden a couple miles on what looked to be a cattle path of grass and dips and rocks. Dad's old hunting truck had squeaked loudly at every dip and bump. There wasn't really a sign to announce that we had arrived. Instead, the road had ended at a small wooded plot.

We'd slowed and driven in.

The first campsite we came upon, we found a man sitting in a rocker whittling a chunk of wood. An old hound dog lay at his feet. He'd worn faded denim overalls and heavy black work boots.

It would be difficult to guess his age because of the thick gray beard that had hung down to his chest. It'd masked his features to where all you could see were his coal eyes and ample nose. He'd been a big man. Not fat. The kind of big a man gets from hard work. He was broad and tall.

He waved to us, so we'd felt obliged to say hello. He'd stood but didn't walk to the truck. He spoke loudly from a small distance. "Howdy," he had said. "Where you boys from?"

"Just down the mountain, in Bethel," I had answered him.

"I'm Dread, Eldread, but people call me Dread, and this here is Sheba," he said, pointing to the hound.

 I answered him with polite words and a smile.

"A great night for camping. Full moon. You boys be careful out there. Them woods are dark and deep."

"Yes, sir, we will. Thank you," I said.

We drove past him, and Eric said something to the effect that his type is what gives us mountain people a bad name. "He looks like something straight out of a movie about hillbillies," he said.

The next campers we had encountered were a couple, probably in their twenties. They sat in fold out camping chairs. The man was preoccupied with tying a fishing lure, and the lady sat swatting at gnats. They didn't seem to notice us drive by.

The road curved, and we saw another campsite. A well-tanned middle-aged man sat in a small hammock. He wore sunglasses and gave a rather creepy grin as we drove by. His camp looked as if he had been there a while. He had cooking pots hanging over his fire, a clothes line, and an ample stack of wood. We had drove past him to find a more secluded spot.