Pain Less Traveled Chapter 1

Chapter 1. New Year's Eve

Motionless in the snow, Bob’s first thought was not freezing to death. His more pressing concern—why couldn’t he move?

Minutes earlier, Bob was warm and comfortable, sitting in an old recliner with his golden retriever, spending New Year’s Eve 2016 alone at his Centennial farm ten miles north of Harbor Springs, Michigan. He glanced up from his book to a football game on television. Clemson was rubbing the Buckeyes’ collective noses into the Bermuda grass at the Fiesta Bowl in Glendale, Arizona.

Like a litter of obstinate puppies, Bob thought, grinning.

Ohio State had squeaked by his Wolverines in double overtime a month earlier.

“Questionable couple of calls, too, eh Kelsey?”

Bob would not forgive the referees’ horrible calls from that game this soon.

Kelsey stared up at him from the floor, tail thumping.

“No referees up here, are there? Well, maybe the sheriff.”

The Pyrrhic victory held less interest than the need for wood. Bob lived a solitary life since a family tragedy years earlier. It was late and he needed a few of the logs that were stacked outside. They would fill the cast iron stove, burn through the night, and be coals when he woke eight hours later. Bob would then reload the firebox and let Kelsey out for her morning patrol—a routine perfected over their years together. Afterwards he would brew coffee in a French press beaker, a gift from his oldest daughter, Jenny.

It was cold that winter evening in Northern Michigan. Seven inches of new snow fell the day before. He glanced at the small screen of a remote temperature sensor hung next to the door; the business end of the gadget mounted outside on the fence post next to the gate.

“24 degrees, Kelsey. That’s your kind of weather, isn’t it?”

She would be rolling in the snow once her friend got out of the way, loving every minute of the cold winter evening. Bob knew these nights: dark, still, the icy air twinging the hairs in his nose when he took a deep breath. He wore long underwear, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and slippers. Looking at the coat hooks—his Carhartt jacket and knit wool cap a step away—he dismissed the idea as the logs were close, next to the bottom stair. The five-foot-high cordwood stack holding fourteen cords—enough to last through the long Michigan winter—spanned the home’s back wall but residents this far north kept a dozen pieces closer to their homes’ entrances for this late-night chore.

He knew his daughter, Jenny, would be calling any moment. Phone’s right there, he thought, I’ll leave the door open so I can hear it.

He stared again at the coat hooks and his jacket. Clemson scored on a post-pattern, interrupting his thoughts. Kelsey sat next to Bob, alert, with her tail swishing the hardwood floor and shooting downy threads of her undercoat into the air as he rose from the chair.

“We’ll vacuum tomorrow—after I give you a good brushing.”

Kelsey was familiar with these quick trips outside because Bob was a smoker, but never inside the house. The two of them always went out around this time of night. He switched off the lamp next to his recliner, knowing the television would be enough light when he came back in. He liked to conserve energy. Lights went on when you entered a room, and off as you left.

Bob stood in the open doorway listening to coyotes barking from the tree line past the apple orchard. The sound carried in the cold, dry air and gave Kelsey the impression the animals were much closer. Bob knew that look of rapt attention—her tail was still, but the situation did not require her intervention.

“They’re way out there, you crazy girl, fighting over a rabbit.”

Too soon to be a fawn, he thought, maybe a raccoon.

“It’s not a skunk,” Bob laughed, “They’re smarter than you, Kelsey.”

Over the years, three of Bob’s dogs, including Kelsey, endured ketchup shampoos following skunk encounters. Nonetheless, Kelsey would do her nightly perimeter patrol. He’d let her back in the house after he filled the stove.

There was no porch or covering. A rustic set of three wooden steps, often iced over, led into the snow. Bob didn’t think to look down as he stepped out—he never did. In that ordinary motion, he felt the ice, the slip, and the smack on his tailbone so quickly he had no time to break the fall. His spine took the impact, his body lurched forward clearing the final stair. Bob landed in the snow on his right shoulder, his right arm pinned beneath. A slipper flew off during the fall.

Behind him, Kelsey ran out of the family room and Bob heard the door slam shut after her. He couldn’t move. And he needed to get back to the warmth of the family room. This wild environment, which Bob had sought for refuge, healing, and peace, had now turned on him. The frigid winter weather had become the enemy—the fiercest adversary he had ever faced. It was 10:30 PM.