bonked out in a haystack of blow overs

on an abandoned trail and looking for a way home

Bonked out, I had nothing left. There were at least ten miles to go. Fifteen kilometers for you metric types. My complaints were increasingly pathetic. I was on the verge of a meltdown.

Really? More of this bullshit?

I sat there staring at the nest of downed trees blocking the trail. We were in the middle of a hay stack of blow overs, the remnants of hurricane Fiona. This trail hadn’t been used in almost a year at best. The rotted out bridges seemed to indicated it had been even longer than that.

Zeke laughed. Jed gutted it out. I whined.

Ferry road should be around here somewhere. It’s just a hundred more meters from here

Zeke was trying to be reassuring. I was not easily reassured. The last forty minutes had been spent attempting to navigate a trail that was on the map, that should have been cleared but wasn’t. If you had attached a massive, long, bright pink ribbon to our asses, we’d have weaved a basket in the forest you’d see from space.

Pick up the bike. Chuck it over a tree. Climb …