Faceplant gliding, we crawl out of the spit — primitive creatures that are one with the spit. One with the frozen watery dribble tundra seeping into goo brains; psychedelic thought particles melting human bodies into reptilian sludge, full-frontal, hands and knees caked in mud.
I am Swamp Thing. Legs non-operative. System shut-down. Walking is not. Mechanical. Ice cavern brain, instead — says to limbs they are diamond strong. Nay. They are jello putty, numbed for too long. Bones could break, come sprinkle-shooting out of soft flesh tissue like hard bursts of confetti… to no reaction. Only after defrost. Only after passing the great survival shock.
We’re trying to return to our campsite, and the conversations are either non-existent or absolutely non-sensical; nonsense icicles of giggles and physical bumbling. Our neurons fire in slow-motion, never the same again — mutated, maybe; obliterated forever, likely. Even in the height of summer, swimming under waterfalls can frostbite the brain. Frigid water, which snakes far distances through vegetation and dirt, still comes from snowpack > to snow melt > to body melt.
Rose ties a scarf around her head, stripped down like a Rambo loin-cloth Jane of the Jungle, dominating the terrain with a gigantic staff in hand. Not much to see here, kids. Just a bunch of savages. Probably laughing hyenas your parents want you to avoid. Probably failure drop-outs from etiquette school. It’s cool. Today we see through reptilian eyes and breathe through reptilian gills, saying, we’ll damn well swim cold-blooded if we must.