His boots, hanging above the fire, still had his legs attached. Any possible rescuers had disappeared up the mountain. Mark knew then that he’d made a serious mistake. His bladder was demanding an immediate visit to the long-drop outside, but without his legs, he couldn’t reach the back-country huts firmly closed door handle.
Under increasing pressure, Mark searched for anything that might help pull his boots down from the metal rail they were strung over. A tramping stick offered the only hope. As Mark jabbed at his boots with the stick, heat licked his arm, searching for fresh fuel. A single drop of sweat trickled down his nose. His bladder urged him to try harder.
Moving away from the fires hunger, Mark pushed at the cup end of the rail. Focusing on the physics, he was able to push the end up and…damn! On the fourth attempt the rail slipped out of its cup, but Mark couldn’t hold the weight, and the whole thing dropped. His boots slammed into the blaze, scattering embers across the floor.
As he dragged his boots, and the rail, out of the flames, the burning hair on Mark’s arms shouted down his bladder.
At that moment, the loveliest angel Mark had ever seen opened the hut door. She paused, halo’d in the evening light. Every part of him was awed into silence.
Seeing Mark’s predicament, she rushed to his aid, and soon had the rail back in its cup, with his wet boots hanging above the fire, his legs still attached.
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