After consulting the map, we determined General Sherman was naught but 50 miles away from our current location. We were stationed at a quaint creamery—Reimer’s to be exact—while the medic of our group was receiving telecommunications from Mother Base. The development came a day earlier than expected, an unavoidable monkey-wrench cast into the works. Making the best of the delay, we broke our fast upon frozen dairy delights and were delighted by the local stray feline, Rupert.

Mother Base’s transmission would end in T-minus 20 minutes. To keep the unit’s morale high, pilot Kevin, crewman Jarod, and I surveyed the surrounding area on foot. Leaving medic Jalen to his devices, we sauntered around, fording a river that would pour its heart out into Lake Kaweah downstream. On the other side, standing lone in a grassy field was Ol’ Saint Nick, manning none other than his famous tactical truck.

“O Holy, Holy Saint Nick, stem the evil tide. Deliver us unto the great General Sherman.”

“O Father Christmas, grant us safe passage through thy treacherous mountain switchbacks, whereupon the lone wayward slip would plunge our party unto the sweet, cold grasp of Death.”

“O Gracious Kris Kingle, if you please, grant a swift end to Jalen’s interminable nursing school orientation which he mistakenly thought was tomorrow but was actually today.”