Ch 3 P.2. Hitting The Trees

Marle was skimming the tender tops of massive conifers. The sound above them was like hearing one's voice filtered through an electric fan. He had circled wide and approached the edge where smaller pines faced an open meadow. Zero-moment was seconds away.

The trees were coming up fast, and Marle had to decide how he was going to grab a pine. If he grabbed head-on, his wrists would be strained, and he would go over holding on in a way that could hamper a smooth release. He would need to retract his arms, double over, and take hold in passing, but there was a problem with that. Timing. It would be a split-second maneuver with a zero chance for do-overs.

At best, the tree would hold under the pressure; at worst, the pine would snap under his weight. In a hopeful scenario, Marle might only break an ankle, and that was a good place to stop considering scenarios. He didn't want to think about what else might go wrong.

Marle spied the upcoming pine top, retracted his arms, and contorted, reaching back to grip the pine in both hands, and Marle's feet flew over his head as the pine bent forward. He thought he had been successful, but soon discovered his oversight. Marle had been dropping in a broad arc, leaning into his left. That left-ward momentum took Marle and the pine left, whipping him back into the forest. His hope of landing on a grassy plain disappeared with the snapping of the pine top.

The slingshot trajectory sent Marle hurtling into the larger pines. He hit the upper limbs feet-first, crashing through the upper boughs and into a neighboring conifer. Marle threw his arms over his face to protect himself from slashing limbs, cones, and needles. Then, a limb caught Marle mid-section and threw him into a painful spin. At a guess, Marle figured that he hit every limb on the way down. Every possible surface of his body made contact with a limb, and Marle knew that once the adrenaline faded, the physical pains would present themselves, vying for his attention.

Marle tumbled, rolled, and stopped suddenly to dangle and swing. Peeking past his hands, Marle discovered that the wingsuit was impaled over a broken branch on a large lower bough. He might have laughed to survive, but Marle looked down first and discovered he still had about thirty feet to fall. The place where the branch went through was the right bat wing sleeve. There was a tear in the seam where it connected to the bodice beneath the armpit.

As Marle reached up for the limb, the fabric tore along the seam. It ran quickly along the arm and came free, dropping Marle into an odd, dangling position. He was swinging back and forth, his heart racing, and he saw below his position a mossy mound at the base of the pine.

Marle placed his palms together and said out loud, “I suppose I should thank you for this much, God, but I'm not out of the woods yet. Please don't drop me on my head. If you let me fall on my back, I'll get religion. I swear. Hell, I'll learn to chop trees and build a church.”

It was on his last word that the wingsuit tore free, and Marle plummeted. He did not finish his prayer with an 'Amen' but with a descending bellow. He writhed as he fell; he did not wish to fall on his head, but he could not imagine that landing on his back would be much better. What if the mossy mound was actually a moss-covered rock? He would break his spine and lie there paralyzed until the critters came out to feast.

He managed to look up before he hit. The wind was knocked from his lungs, and he felt as if a giant hand had slapped his bare back. Marle saw stars; he saw the universe spin. He tried to draw a breath, but everything hurt, and the dark clouds of impending unconsciousness billowed at the corners of his eyes.

Marle gasped and took air into his lungs as he opened his eyes to the pine above him. It was so tall; how had he managed to fall so far? He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He was expecting to feel pain, but surprisingly, he felt numb. Then, the itching set in; his back was on fire, every nerve screaming. They asked a single question. Why? Next came the pain; bona fide card-carrying pain. Marle rolled to his side, drew in his knees, and groaned.