As he took a look over his right shoulder, he coulndnt and didnt want to go back. In front of him the river, which shores he had encountered since he stepped out of the car. No rocks in sight to cross it with. The trees on the side had fallen silently and were too heavy although too short to bridge the heavily thrusting stream. Icecaps scaping in the beyond lying mounted outspan of humanlessness had melted into the river, making it impossible to reach the other shore alive. By force and temperature it would devour his efforts. It must have been hours and hours since he'd stopped walking. Further away from it all, the aim of his journey. As he was drawn away from the hopeless situation he was in, unable to find any comfort of finding a sheltered place where he could find some peace. At his right it would lead upwards, beyond these branches, apparantly sympathising with his continuing recalling of what he had just left behind. His car, his phone - he had nothing on him but his clothes, that normally would have had a washing by now. His black, slightly endured pants were showing signs of repairing need, so was his shirt, not revealing anything of the small injuries the branches had made on his chest. Not even to mention the inceasibly bleeding wound on his right shoulder - as filthy as it is now, would never heals scarlessly, if not infected. He thought to himself he'd better camp up, as the sun descending hinted him of the soon falling night. "And it will probably will be a chilly one." He needed a shelter. Soon. . . . next?