All three men looked around as Barry pointed to the thicket surrounding them, which seemed to be growing everywhere. “Just look around,” Barry said, sweeping his hand in a hundred-and-eighty-degree arc.
The poison oak was dormant in a leafless state during most of the winter months. The sticky urushiol oil could still be collected on a person’s clothing, skin or anything else that came in contact with the plant’s stems. The winter months were oftentimes considered the most dangerous period for poison oak exposure due to the plants lack of identifying leaves.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” John barked in an irritated voice.
“I just had my head down and was following you,” Barry lied. The truth was Barry was very familiar with poison oak and knew he wasn’t greatly affected by its oils. He might have a tiny rash in the morning on his wrist where he’d pushed through the plant’s vines, but it wouldn’t be any great imposition. John, on the other hand—like most people, Barry hoped—would feel the plant’s wrath, and Barry could sit back and enjoy John’s misery.
Jared knew of poison oak but was never much of a hiker, so he hadn’t even realized the plant was present until Barry pointed it out. He also had a feeling Barry had seen the poison oak and intentionally failed to warn them about it, which angered him greatly. The thought of Barry exposing John and him to the plant’s irritating symptoms was not only reckless, it was an intentional assault. He opened his mouth to question Barry but then stopped because Barry would certainly never admit to engaging in nefarious conduct. Then there was the John factor. If John thought Barry did something to him purposefully, the former Marine-turned-soldier might kill the son of a bitch.
Jared couldn’t have that—not today. Maybe tomorrow when he wanted to scratch himself to death after the rash took hold, he might feel differently, but, for now, he would keep a lid on his suspicions.
“Okay, so is it like ivy—the oil gets in your pores?” John asked, already starting to feel itchy.
“Yeah, if we had a cold shower and soap, it may help, but—” Barry shrugged.
“We don’t have enough fucking water to wash up.” John swore.
“I’m pretty sure you can get it from rubbing against gear that has the oil on it,” Jared added.
“Dirt,” John said as he grabbed his pack. “Rub the dirt into your clothes and gear. It may absorb some of the oil, like they do in auto shops with oil spills. They use sawdust, but this is basically the same concept.” The three men spent the next fifteen minutes dusting up their gear along with their clothing and exposed flesh. When they were finished, the men set to eating a meager meal and taking in some water.
“We’re gonna need water soon,” Jared said, holding up his water bottle, inspecting the waterline.
“Tomorrow we should start to head downhill into Portola Valley. We can find a pond or a swimming pool pretty easily there,” Barry reminded them.
The trio spent the next several hours speaking in hushed tones about how they planned on getting through the more populated area of Portola Valley and into Woodside. John used every ounce of discipline he’d acquired over his life not to start scratching every time he felt an irregularity on any area of his flesh. He knew it was mental at this point, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like there were a thousand ants trekking about his body.
Chapter 15
Jared drew the short stick during their evening ritual and was predictably relegated to stand the last watch. When the time came for Jared’s watch, he dragged himself out of the warm sleeping bag and pulled on his shoes. He didn’t walk around for fear of making noise and stumbling through more poison oak. Instead, he opted to sit, shiver in the cold night air, and listen for any sign of danger. As the sun crept up and over Mount Diablo and Mission Peak off in the distant East Bay, he rousted the other two sleeping men. When John sat up in the dim morning light, Jared nearly gasped. John’s face was swollen on the left side from the corner of his lip to his left eye. His left eye looked as though he had been punched and, for some reason, had only swelled and not turned black and blue.
As John extracted himself from the sleeping bag, he began tearing away at different body parts. Jared could see the reddish rash on his face and neck and could only assume it continued down to his nether regions by the way the poor soul was acting. John stopped and looked up at Jared just as Jared tried to change his expression.
“Bro, it’s on my balls,” John hissed. “Did you get it?”
Jared nodded his head as he rubbed his wrist where a two-inch reddened line ran towards his forearm. “Yeah, but not like you, man.” Jared cringed, a guilty look washing across his face.
Barry climbed out of his sleeping bag and stretched as he looked over at the two other men huddled close and whispering in hushed tones. His eyes stopped on John’s face, and his mouth dropped partially open. “Oh boy, you got it good, man.” Barry chortled.
John looked up at Barry with a look that meant he needed to leave it alone. “This don’t change a thing. How are your feet?”
Barry gathered himself, licking his dry lips. “I’ll change socks and redo the moleskin—should be good to go.”
John’s jaw jutted out, showing his determination as he moved his head in agreement. He was putting on a good show for the boys, but if he were honest with himself, he was about to lose control and scratch himself to death. He was inclined to take his pants off so he would have unfettered access to every part of his body that was begging to be scratched and torn at.
Instead, John remained internally frantic while maintaining an air
