The Cold Descent

When Emmett’s truck plunged into Tawney Pond that February afternoon, you could have flipped a coin whether the blue 1995 Ford Ranger would smash through the ice or bounce right off of it.

It was snowing that morning when Emmett stuck his axe into a stump, wiped his forehead, and strolled away from the lumber site. He removed his gloves slowly and deliberately and retrieved a crumpled pack of Camel Lights from his brown Timberland jacket. As he smoked his eyes wandered to a grey squirrel bounding and leaping up a frosty birch tree. Clara loves squirrels. She particularly loves red squirrels as evident by the fridge scattered with her crayon renditions of them. For a moment they’re both on the living room floor, the smell of chicken casserole wafting in from the kitchen. Lorelai’s voice is like a song as she reminds them both dinner’s almost ready. Clara declares this squirrel her best yet before she wonders out loud why Emmett has drawn a dog. Emmett ruffles her wavy amber hair after he defends his moose, repeating it’s exactly like the one he saw while fishing on Winnipesaukee. The memory reminds him he only has a few hours until the shift ends and he can head home. Lorelai, Clara, and hopefully not chicken casserole. But he does love the smell...

It was a grueling shift and Emmett’s shoulders were already sore. Usually it’s a good several hours before the hurt sets in. It might be a four-advil night, possibly followed by two Harpoon IPA’s. The thought of beer reminded Emmett of celebrations and then suddenly he was struck with the realization his anniversary was coming up in a few days. Before he met Lorelai, each night was at least eight Harpoons at O’Cleary’s, followed by a morning with bruised knuckles or a black eye, and usually both. Emmett’s temper was as quick as his laugh was infectious. Night after night punishing his body at O’Cleary’s, he was never wanting for friends, old and new.

The sun was just starting to set when Emmett pulled out of the logging site. He toggled the radio stations. Pearl Jam. Emmett blasted it.

Coming up on Milford Bridge, it was immediately apparent things were out of place. Even from a distance, Emmett could tell the guardrail off to the right side of the bridge was freshly gnarled. Emmett sighed heavily as he began feeling the icy road betray his tires. Approaching the bridge, he saw below a green sedan, nearly the whole front half submerged through the ice of Tawney Pond. His eyes scanned a smattering of blood on the guardrail and the remains of a buck scattered between the road and the embankment. Emmett’s breathing quickened. His eyes darted from the road to the car, calculating the speed the sedan had taken, the steepness of the embankment...the fact the car was slowly being swallowed by the pond. Leave the truck and climb down the embankment on foot? Easily a few minutes. Driving down would save time but could mean rescue crews needing to choose between the occupants of two crashed vehicles. Emmett blinked and dialed 911, the phone on speaker as he fired off a few quick words to the dispatcher. Milford Bridge...pond...accident…The green sedan was now half disappeared beneath the ice. Emmett took a deep breath and stomped the gas.

As Emmett and his Ranger soared into the pond, he saw Clara and Lorelai waiting for him in the kitchen right before the truck stopped and his body jerked forward violently. As he expected, the front of his truck punched straight into the ice, smashing the front in an explosion of glass and ice shards. Upon impact, the seatbelt burned through Emmet’s neck and wrenched his gut in a way he never imagined his body would be contorted. No airbag. With Emmett at a 70 degree angle to the pond, the pressure on the seat belt rendered the button entirely useless. He reached for his knife in his center console and freed himself with a few deft slices. His back on fire, Emmett reached across the cab and managed to snatch his axe before shouldering the driver’s side door open. Emmet staggered and slid his way across the ice to the nearly submerged sedan. Liquid dripped into his eyes and clouded his vision. His head must have banged the dash, he realized, as he wiped away the blood and approached the car. It took one whack for Emmett to make quick work of the back window.

The blue and red lights came after Emmett had ripped a small boy, 5, out of the back seat and heaved him onto the ice, breathing and terrified. The lights came after Emmett and the driver lay blue in the front seat of the green sedan on the bottom of Tawney Pond, Emmet’s hand tightly on the driver’s seatbelt, his knife sitting on the front seat of his Ranger.

Clara is stirred by a hand slapping her knee.

“You ready, Tawney?” Her partner shouts over the whir of the chopper blades. She can only speculate every detail of that day, but the story plays out in her mind on each mission. Each time it rolls through her head, a small detail changes. What her dad was thinking about at work that day, what he listened to on the radio, how bad he was feeling the shoulder pain... Clara taps her helmet twice. Ready.

It’s dark and visibility is terrible as the snow swirls thicker and thicker and the helicopter reaches its mark. They are hovering 100 feet in the middle of nowhere above the White Mountains as Clara checks her personal equipment.

“Looks like one of the hikers is worse off than we thought,” She hears over the radio. “We’ve got a snapped femur and possible spinal injury.” Clara secures the rescue stretcher as she prepares for the leap out of the chopper.

“Let’s get another one home!” Clara shouts to her partner. She grasps her harness firmly and disappears into the white void. Her eyes searching below, Clara Tawney briefly pictures a Harpoon IPA on her kitchen counter before gliding swiftly to the summit below.