Fairies of the North

Fairies of the North: Part 2

A while back, I wrote the first part of my friend Paradox's treacherous journey into the "Torngat Mountains" in Labrador, Canada. On the second day of his trek, the hefty explorer suffered a terrible fall while setting up his tent. This caused him to smash his head against a rock. Other then, what I believe to be a concussion, Paradox walked away unharmed.

The fall did slow him down. He returned to camp early. Afraid to go to sleep – Paradox also suspected a concussion – he decided to dig into his Elk Jerky and consult his logs, maps, and update his journal. How he managed all of this with a minor head injury and snow pants frozen solid with urine, is beyond me. If you didn't catch the first part, Paradox's body did not react well to the fall, the poor man soiled himself.

Paradox suffers from what I would consider overly obsessive compulsions. Once he starts something he has to finish it. His journey had only begun, and nothing was going to cut it short. A good example of his dedication, would be the time he stalked a Big Foot expert for two months straight, to expose the man as a fraud. He found the evidence he was looking for, but something else as well. The hoaxer was a CIA agent who was already investigating Paradox. The watcher was watching the watched as the watched watched him. Paradox wiped the agent's hard-drive and his servers. He also left a sex tape on the man's desktop; it contained Paradox's affair with the agent's wife. Paradox doesn't like being watched... I suspect his alias, Paradox, is starting to make sense to you... or maybe not.

Back to the mountains. After a night of forced insomnia and drying his crotch with a flip-up lighter, Paradox was good to set out again. Lucky for Paradox, the subzero temperature and the pounding headache were enough to keep him awake in spite of no sleep.

The early morning was looking bright... it was summer in the arctic, so I suppose it's always bright. Paradox was in good spirits. He spotted a lone polar bear in the distance, and he also identified seven unique varieties of lichen. Paradox was in paradise. He fished in a creek and drank from it's clear waters. He ran free in the grassy valleys. He felt a renewed connection to his inner spirit and a connection to the land. Despite the increasing intensity of the smell emanating from his pants, Paradox was sure that the worst was behind him.

That night Paradox set up camp in the glow of the low hanging sun. He climbed into his still salvageable tent, and wrapped himself tight in layers. The gentle hum of the creek – and his exhaustion – lulled him to sleep. The banshee wail of a sudden storm jerked him awake. His head pounded with renewed vigour. The fabric of his tent shook and rippled like a beluga's stomach after being paddled by a fisherman's ore. Paradox fought agains't the blankets and furs, as they tightened around his body from uneasy sleep.

A hole in his poorly stitched tent – from the previous accident – whistled a high pitch shrill in the wind, like a lost soul desperate to be heard and found. Paradox has a rare inner ear condition, and is sensitive to high pitch sounds... which only served to acerbate his migraine. The man groaned out loud as he struggled against his furry blanket prison. The whistle was driving him mad.

After moments of agony that stretched on for eternity, as described to me by Paradox, he managed to free a single arm. He reached out with great speed and purpose, his finger on a collision course with the hole in the tent. With the aim of a master archer, Paradox's finger entered the hole in the tent plugging it up... but for an instant. By reaching out with such force, Paradox had propelled his large form into a roll. His finger shot through the hole, followed by his arm. In an attempt to regain his balance, Paradox's arm tore through the tent wall with a vengeance.

The man sighed at the site of the large hole in the side of his tent. At least the whistle was gone, but hell was it cold. Paradox began to pry the layers away from his body as a massive gust of wind forced its way into his tent. The tent inflated like a plastic bag full of dry ice. Paradox held his breath, as the ground lost its solidity.

In frantic desperation, Paradox thrust off his covers and dragged his body over to the hole. He stuck his head through. Whether it be evil spirits or the worst storm he had ever seen, Paradox's tent was now airborne. He was five feet off the ground and climbing. The flight was short lived as Paradox's tent, and his body, slammed into the ground. Another gust, and the tent was airborne only to once again slam into the cold ground. This repeated time and time again, as Paradox scrambled to find his knife.

With knife in hand, Paradox slashed away at the fabric.

Freedom came, as Paradox fell out of his tent. He lay flat on his back, as he watched his tent rise up into the white sky and out of sight. It was at this moment that Paradox made a profound life decision, he was going to invest in an RV.

The man stood – head pounding, furs torn and pants reeking – in the howling haze of the storm and screamed at the top of his lungs. He would not turn back, and he would not be defeated. There was a strange hum in the air, something beyond the snow and wind. Paradox heard, and he followed.

-Bear Hunter