One very long, cold night for Cooper!

It’s Saturday night. The phone rings. The caller ID says, “Coop.”  No mom wants to hear the words that come next. Especially not on a very cold November night in Eastern Oregon during elk hunting season. Nothing prepares you for those words. So many nights, I’ve worried for nothing.  All those years of conditioning myself to never let those thoughts come into my mind when my husband and son are gone for a week in the mountain wilderness. All that positive self talk  I’ve learned to do. Stay busy. Know they are OK. Everything’s fine. I’m not prepared for what I hear next.

I answer the phone, assuming they got an elk. “Hey, Coop!”

“Mom, I’m lost.”  I can hear the intense fear. “The wolves are howling.”

I have to stay calm for him, but I want to throw up. It’s dark. I want to cry. It’s supposed to get down to ten degrees. I’m shaking. But I have to stay calm for him. Reassure him that everything is going to be fine. Remind him the first thing he needs to do is build a fire. Remind myself he’s not a little boy, he’s fifteen. Remind myself he’s got a gun. Remind myself he’s prepared. Remind myself he’s an excellent marksman. Remind myself he’s been hunting for many years with his dad. But the fear I hear on the other end of the phone is real. Very real!

I hear myself calmly say, “You’re going to be fine, Coop.” Where did THAT come from? I tell myself to breathe. There’s so much I want to say to him. Not much phone battery left he tells me. I just want to keep him on the phone. He’s my youngest. He’s my surprise. He’s my Coop. Just breathe I tell myself again. I somehow get the strength to say again, “Coop, just build a fire, stay put and everything will be OK.” I know I need to hang up to save his cell phone batteries. But those darn thoughts. It’s dark. It’s cold. The wolves.  The voice that must be someone else’s manages to say again, “Coop, just build a fire, in the meantime, I’ll call your brother, we’ll make a plan and call you back.” It takes all my strength to push that button and hang up.

The rest of the night slowly drags on.  Coop builds a fire and stays remarkably calm. Buster is sure he knows where he is, but the search can’t start ’til morning. No one sleeps, not down here, not up there. I desperately want to call him, just to hear his voice, just to check on him, but that low battery. I push out the scary images that continually try to invade my mind. I won’t let myself go there. Self talk. He’s safe, he’s warm, they will find him in the morning. He’s safe, he’s warm, they will find him in the morning. He’s safe, he’s warm, they will find him in the morning. My thoughts go instead to all those parents that have to wait through something like this with no contact at all. My heart goes out to them. I’m thankful for the phone, so thankful for the phone.

It’s finally Sunday morning. The phone rings again. This time the caller ID says, “Steve.” Every mom wants to hear those precious three words that come next. Especially after such a long, cold night in Eastern Oregon. “We found him.”  I can feel myself breathe again. Everything is going to be fine. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to feel his reassuring hugs. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hear the stories, there is no battery left now. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to let him know how proud of him I am. But for now, we can all rest a little easier and perhaps get some sleep tonight.