Mike Braush slowly made his way through the winding path in the woods. He was a 21 year old college student from Iowa. He was on summer break, and had decided to travel up to Canada, for hiking through the deep, and vast woods. He was about 5'7", with a well built body from playing baseball all through high school. He had jet black hair, and scattered freckles, which his mother had referred to on occasions, "human sprinkles" (he let his mother call them this, but inside, he found what she called them to be in a way cannibalistic). His eyes were a light, creamy blue, which he found made most girls who were talking to him actually try not to look directly at his eyes. That day, he was wearing grey sweatpants, and a light blue tee.
He was a hiker, all right. He went on his first hike in the first grade with his teacher Ms. Daggel. She had taken them on a nature walk, and had asked them to draw with a pencil everything they found that was in their mind beautiful. But instead of Mike finding something to draw, he found a stick. A thick, bark covered stick. And for some reason, he fell in love with it, instantly. It was taller than him than, but he didn't care, he used it. He used it as a walking stick, for the rest of the walk. When Ms. Daggel asked him to leave behind at the end of the hike, he broke down, and begged to keep it. She couldn't bear to let this first grader cry like that, so she let him keep it.
Mike used that stick for another five years, up until the sixth grade, when he realized what a hiking stick should be like. So using the pocket knife his father had given him for Christmas, he whittled off all the remaining bark on the stick (all the rest had been worn off, from the constant use). He finished the whittling within five minutes, for his skill came from his repeated practice in Boys Scouts. After he finished whittling (the stick had a perfectly cylinder shape, and had a groove engraved in it, for a hand-hold), he used sandpaper to make it unbelievably smooth. He then considered boosting the stick's grip, so he mounted a small, metal spike on the bottom of the stick, when he was in eight grade.
And that stick, was the one he was using this day.
He soon opened into a clearing, where the ground was all rock, with scattered dead grass, pine needles, dirt and pebbles. The clearing over looked a wide area of woods, where a low fog hung in the air, because it was still around 8:45 am. He walked over to a large rock, and sat down. He first set his hiking stick on the rock, and then swung his black Camelbak pack around to the ground, where he unzipped it. He took out a ham sandwich, and a large bottle of water. He sighed and looked out to the forest below the clearing's ledge. He smiled, thinking that he'll be able to conquer any trail he wants. He unwrapped the sandwich from the cling wrap, and took a bite, and swallowed. It was a simple sandwich, but it was good enough for him. Mike didn't need much to please him, only his family, friends, and his hiking.
He went to take another bite of his sandwich, but stopped when he heard a rustle in some brush behind him. He turned around, and saw nothing. So he went back to taking in the amazing view, and took another bite of his sandwich. He heard a stick snap, and this time he stood, and turned around. Still nothing. He went to finish his sandwich, and maybe eat the extra one, when he realized, water. That was what he needed first. He picked up the bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and he lifted it to his mouth. He started to drink, when he felt a discomfort. He continued drinking, but slowly turned around. He started to stand, and turn, but all of a sudden he felt like a freight train had just ran him over.
He went flying backwards, off of the large rock, and onto the rocky ground, stomach first. His water went flying as well, spinning around, water flying in all directions, soaking him. He landed extremely hard, and felt something jab into the front of his right shoulder. He grunted and winced, as something deeply clawed into his back. Mike rolled around quickly, and saw what was on him, a cougar. It growled at him, and swiped its paw at him, ripping his cheek open. He tried to knee it in the gut, but it did almost nothing, and only growled louder. It lounged it's head with insane speed at him, but he raised a fist, smashing into its head, right above the eyes. It blinked quickly, and then continued it's attack.
Mike had almost no clue what to do. He had studied nearly every way to get out of a hiking disaster, but he had not yet started to read about one topic. Animal attacks. Before he could think, the cougar ripped it's claws through his stomach, while it lunged at his face. A cold pain went all throughout his body, and he winced. He raised his hand in front of his face, and grabbed the cougar's throat. The cougar tried to push forward, but Mike put his other hand out as well and began to choke the cougar. And as he chocked the cougar, he pushed it away with as much as his beaten body could handle. He looked away for a moment, to see if there was something to grab, but he made a wrong choice.
The cougar turned its head violently, and chomped down with great force onto Mike's left lower arm. He screamed as the cougar's teeth sliced through his skin as though it was butter, and ripped backwards. He let go of the cougar, and crawled over to his walking stick, and grabbed it. The cougar lunged at him, but he swung the stick, and it hit the cougar square in the face. But the spike had hit the cougar as well, ripping open its forehead. It backed away slowly, growling. And then it turned, and ran back into the brush.
Mike slowly, and painfully sat up. He waited with his stick for a few minutes to see if the cougar was gone, and relief flooded through him as he realized it was gone. He reached out with his right arm to grab his pack, and look for anything to help him, but instead screamed in agony. He looked at his shoulder, and saw that a sharp rock, the size of a gum ball had went stabbed him in his fall. The rock was still there, and he wanted it out. He reached over with his other arm to take it out, but saw what happened to that hand. Where the cougar had bitten him, a fist sized piece of flesh had been ripped off, and blood was pouring out like mad. He looked away and almost hurled. He realized what the cougar could have done to the rest of his body, so he scanned over himself. He was caked with thick, dark red blood. And stuck to all the blood was dirt, and dead pine needles.
He gasped at the damage the cougar had done. He knew had to some how stop his bleeding, and wash the wounds. But moving was extremely painfully, and he was already feeling lightheaded and tired, undoubtedly from the blood loss. He slowly took off his shirt, and wrapped it around his lower left arm, and tightened a knot with his mouth. He needed water. He wanted it more for drinking, not as much for washing, for that would take up too much water. He scanned the area, and saw the water bottle, but it had all spilled out onto the rocks, forming a small puddle. Mike didn't hesitate to try and drink it. He crawled over using his left arm only (it was the only one he could move properly, yet it caused him a great deal of pain). He reached the puddle, dipped his lips in, and slurped it up. Dirt, and grass went down his throat along with the water, but it was better than nothing.
He crawled back to his stick, and picked it up, then using it to help him stand up. He felt a light breeze flutter across his chest, stinging him bad. He looked down to see scratch, after scratch, after scratch on him. He still couldn't get over how he was literally covered in blood, it was something from a book. He then started to use the stick as a crutch and slowly limped along the path. He knew at this rate, it would take him maybe fifteen minutes to get to the truck (it was a rather short hike for him, he could have jogged it in five minutes). So he sped up his pace a bit, but it caused more aches and pains than before.
His thoughts were focused on living, yet he knew that any animal could smell his blood, and if he were to be attacked, he would have no chance of living. He continued his steady limp down the path, but it seemed like a year to him. His blood continually streamed down him, as if it would never stop. In about five minutes, he had a large headache, he was extremely lightheaded and dizzy. He ached all over, and felt like killing himself would be best. He felt stupid to come alone, yet he preferred to hike alone.
When Mike was feeling like he was about to give in, he turned a corner in the path, and saw his red Toyota. Hope instantly gave him more speed, but in a moment it was all gone. In an instant everything faded to dark, and he felt his body fall to the ground, limp. He felt lifeless, and he wanted so bad to be able to say good bye to his loved ones. He tried to crawl further, he was ten yards from his truck, but he went still, fading in and out, dark, to light, back an forth. And soon, he knew nothing more.
Because Mike Braush was dead.
I will start out with the nit-picks of grammar then give you an overall impression of what I thought of your piece. Now on to the meat of your review: 
