Fork in the Road (Part 3)

I pulled my backpack off and felt the weight of it let go and slam on the ground unexpectedly. The strap hung loosely in my hand, testing my patience and resolve. I gripped the strap tightly, resisting the urge to throw it. I succumbed to the temptation and flung the strap through the treeline into the brush.

I needed that strap. The other would give way and break quickly without it, and I'd be left to carry the backpack awkwardly. The pack was more ergonomic with two straps, but the pack was getting lighter. With every meal I had and every day that passed it seemed to weigh less, almost nothing now. It might be possible to that. It might last long enough with a single strap.

Sighing, I relinquished the idea. I set the bookbag down with the pockets facing forward on the trail and went to fetch the broken strap. It looked just beyond reach. Laying down on the path with one arm supporting my head, I reached for the strap. It felt just out of reach. Willing it to move closer by any means, I started to beg. If only a bit of wind would sweep the frayed threads within my reach for a moment. If some creature would just bound across and scuttle away pushing the strap within my reach. Maybe a spell of rain would start on this dry day and swell the strap so that I could grasp it.

Frustrated, I let my head sink down beside the trail's edge and hoped I wouldn't have to resign to a life with a single-strapped pack. I slumped forward and I felt my hand brush against a piece of dry wood hidden in the dense brush. I waited a moment, expecting the worst. When nothing happened, joy and urgency struck me. I grabbed the damned stick, and used it to retrieve the strap quickly. Without a single hesitation, I picked up the pack singlehandedly with a force which threatened to break the remaining strap. I had to run.