Fiction: Montani Semper Liberi

[SteveB]

Again. only because of Einar's love for Liz did he make the right decision and find the motivation to endure. I sure hope their future holds many carefree seasons together and not just "a winter of warmth and plenty".

[FreedomoftheHills]

During the descent back to the deer, Einar worked to collect as much yarrow as he could, knowing that he would once again be relying on it to keep flies off of the meat, as he worked to slice it thin and dry it. The ideal situation would have involved hanging the dressed out deer in the rock “chimney” above his shelter, somehow hoisting it up high enough that the heat of his small fire would not speed up the spoilage too badly, and keeping the flies away with a steady stream of smoke from his fire hole. Not an option though, and he hoped that perhaps it might remain cool enough in the rock shelter to keep the majority of the flies at bay. It certainly never felt especially warm in there, to him; as the sunlight never reached very far down into the crevice, it seemed to retain the chill of the previous night quite well, as it retained the heat of his fire when he had been able to have one. With night time temperatures barely above freezing most nights, the chimney seemed a reasonably good place to hang the deer. If I could get the entire critter back there, maybe I would not have to worry so much about flies, once I start chopping it up. And it would certainly save a bunch of trips back and forth around that meadow, which as slow as I am right now, are just going to cut into whatever time I have here, before I have to move on or before the meat starts spoiling.

Wondering if he might as well wait to clean the deer until he got it a bit closer to his shelter, having plans for most of the innards and not wishing to get things all contaminated with dirt as he dragged it the deer, Einar supposed that, as long as it had sat already, little additional harm would come of waiting another hour or so. Ha! An hour’s pretty optimistic, don’t you think? This is gonna be one interesting afternoon. Lowering the deer, he removed the braided parachute line snare from its neck, wrapping and tying a couple of loops of the much wider diameter descent rope around the animal’s neck and up around its nose to create a rough “halter” that would keep the head up off the ground as he pulled, meaning that there would be one less thing to hang up on fallen trees and rough spots in the ground and impede his progress. Well, here’s one thing that would definitely have been easier in the winter with a bunch of snow on the ground…may end up losing a lot of the hair because of the dragging, but I guess that just means less work for me when I go to tan the thing! He wrapped the remainder of the rope—and there was quite a bit of it—around and around his hips to create a belt several inches wide, taking a loop up and over each shoulder, working to position them so that they did not come in contact with the burnt portions of his shoulders and back. He was pretty sure he would end up having to abandon the shoulder strap idea eventually, but considered it worth trying. Grabbing the lines in his hands, around which he had also wrapped the stabilizer lines for his pack basket, he set off for the rock shelter, knowing that he had a difficult journey ahead of him. The meadow with its flatter, largely obstacle-free expanse was a great temptation at times as he struggled through the brush, stopping far more frequently than he would have liked to stand nearly doubled over, leaning forward in the harness as he fought for breath, but he knew that the meadow must be avoided if he wanted to keep from being spotted and his chances at keeping the deer ruined.

Einar finally arrived in the aspen grove where he had set his rabbit snares, sitting down heavily on a fallen tree for the first real break he had allowed himself, quite worn out but encouraged that he had managed to move the creature that far. It had not been an easy go, dragging the doe across uneven ground that was in places heavy with undergrowth and having frequently to stop and roll his burden up and over fallen trees, and he knew the most difficult part of it was still in front of him, as the ground sloped uphill to from the aspen grove to his shelter. His chest hurt, his heart pounding sickeningly from the effort, and as he tried to stand and grew immediately dizzy to the point of falling, Einar began to seriously doubt his ability to finish the task. Got to finish it. Just drink some water, and you’ll be OK. The water did seem to help a bit, at least until he next attempted standing, at which point the dizziness returned with a vengeance to knock him off his feet. He rolled over, crawled back to the aspen log and got this upper half propped up on it. Try something else. What about that orange soda that you were saving? Is it still there? Rummaging in the basket he found that it was, and hoping that the sugar in the two or three remaining swallows of soda might give him the boost he needed to get on his feet again, he finished it off. The sweet sticky liquid did seem to have a immediate effect on Einar’s ability to maintain consciousness upon standing a good thing…that’s got to be a good thing… and he wasted no time in straightening out the tangled haul lines, getting into his pack and starting out on the long haul up the slope toward his shelter, knowing that it would be significantly easier to keep moving once he had started than it had been to begin, in the first place.

Some time later—Einar had lost all concept of time by that point, and knew only that he must keep putting one foot in front of the other, must continue dragging his immeasurably heavy burden up the slope until he reached the appointed place—he emerged from the aspen grove and found the deer to be sliding much more easily across a carpet of spruce duff. He stopped, dropped to his knees and freed himself from the pack basket. Not too far from the shelter now. This is as good a place as any to clean it. Which he did, positioning the deer so that its hind legs faced downhill and cleaning it there on the ground, doubting that he had the strength left to raise it up into a tree again. He attempted to bleed the deer by opening up one of the major arteries in a hind leg, finding it only marginally effective after the amount of time the dead animal had sat, but managing to collect a good bit of partially clotted blood in the two liter soda container that he had just emptied of its remaining orange soda. Finished with the task he jammed a stick between the ribs to keep the cavity open and let the carcass cool, curling up under a tree with the liver and his knife, totally spent, staring at it for a long while in a daze before remembering what he was supposed to be doing. Slicing off and eating small slivers of the rich, fatty, still-warm liver, thankful beyond measure and stopping frequently to say so, Einar began feeling after ten or fifteen minutes of that as though he just might go on living, after all. The past hours had left him with serious doubts. He was growing awfully sleepy, though, as his body tried hard to shut down and give him time to absorb the nutrients he had just consumed and begin rebuilding, and he knew that he must hurry if he was to get the deer to safety before the decision between sleep and wakefulness was taken from his hands. Come on now, up on your feet. You sleep here with this critter on the ground, the coyotes will have it for sure. Get up!

The liver had given him some energy but even so, those last few dozen yards up to the crevice were perhaps the most difficult part of the journey, as Einar was exhausted, shaking all over from the exertion, his legs and arms cramping up terribly as he tried to get them to move in concert. The fact that there was more food waiting for him when it was over over? Heh! This isn’t gonna be over for days, Einar… made the whole thing quite a bit more bearable, if not physically any easier. Finally dragging the deer back to the end of his crevice-shelter where the walls closed in and pinched off the passage, Einar collapsed on his bed of spruce needles for a while, curling up on his side for warmth, too worn out to be much concerned about his burned shoulder being in contact with the ground and watching the sky slowly dim above him, knowing that he needed to get the deer hung before darkness fell and he had to start worrying about defending his food from scavengers. Einar finally got himself back up with the promise of a few more bites of liver as motivation, fighting his stiffening muscles into some semblance of order and staring up at the rock chimney above him, seeking the best way to hang the deer.

Striving to keep his burned upper back out of contact with the rock but having a good deal of trouble due to his cramping legs, Einar carefully chimneyed up a few feet into the crevice above his head, firmly jamming a length of stout spruce branch between the two walls and testing it with his own weight before dropping down, finding that it held. Removing the improvised hauling halter from the deer and making two small slices just above the hocks on the animal’s hind legs, he strung the rope through the holes, threw one end over the jammed stick, and worked to raise the deer, finding the task no easier than it had been the first time, despite the deer’s lesser weight. He finally resorted to wrapping the rope around behind his back and throwing himself to the ground, wrapping and tying the rope around a protrusion in the rock to keep the deer suspended. Its front feet were brushing the ground, but Einar decided that the setup would just have to do. The scavengers would have to walk right over him to get to get at it, anyway. And then I can maybe add to my food supply. If I wake up… Which reminded him to grab his spear and set it nearby, before collapsing on the rocky floor of the shelter beneath the deer and sleeping soundly until the growing congestion in his lungs made it too difficult to breathe lying down, and he woke to creep over to his pile of pine needles and eat another bite of liver before again falling asleep.

[yortrengaw]

you have me addicted i look forward to each new post.

[Ammo]

I had about 1 1/2 months of reading to catch up on and all I can say is you keep getting gooder and gooder!
Really appreciate the info and how to's..

[Survivor44]

Please....post the next installment.....Freedom of the hills..... I need my fix

[SurvivalExpert209]

Go Inar hide in plane site

[OldBoyScout]

Alright now I am starting to shake with withdrawals, it's been two day and I can't wait for more. Please, please, please. It is so good.

[FreedomoftheHills]

Sorry for the delay in posting a new chapter, everyone, but hey....it's November in Colorado!

Here are some pictures of the places where I spent the last three days:










This fellow's trail crossed mine, early one morning. Anyone recognize this track?

[FreedomoftheHills]

The scavengers did not find Einar and his deer that night; perhaps they were content for the moment with the bits he had left them beneath the spruce where he had cleaned the creature, and Einar slept but not especially well, cold in clothes damp with sweat from the effort of hauling the deer, but at least out of the wind and with some food in his stomach. Sleeping too deeply at times to remain sitting upright with his head on his knees as he needed to for his breathing, Einar periodically slumped over on the spruce needles and lay there until he was forced by lack of oxygen to once again wake just enough to drag himself back into a sitting position, shivering and huddling against the cold of the night and plagued by frequent leg cramps. Despite the difficulties he managed to get a few hours of sleep that night, though his rest was punctuated by vivid dreams, including one in which something went terribly wrong when he went to retrieve the deer from the tree where he had hung it, and he ended having to climb the tree before falling from it and hitting his head on a rock in an attempt to get at the deer. Lying there on the ground under the deer, unable to move, apparently paralyzed from the fall, Einar stared up at the hundred and twenty pounds of unreachable fresh venison, terribly hungry and slowly growing unbearably cold but unable to shiver, knowing that he was to die that way, unless a bear or a few hungry coyotes came along first and decided to finish him off.

He woke with a start, freezing and hungry and staring up at the deer silhouetted against the blue sky above it at the top of the crack, tried to move and found to his immense relief that he could, sitting up stiffly and trying to push the memory of the dream out of his head as he worked to get his cramping limbs flexible enough to be of some use to him. Got an awful lot of work to do today, but first… He knew that the liver would not last long once the day began warming, knew that neither could he take for granted that he would be able to remain in the shelter long enough to take advantage of all of that venison, and he started the day with a large meal of liver. Knowing that he risked the digestive upsets that he had previously experienced upon beginning to eat again, Einar hoped the cattail roots and eggs that he had consumed over the past few days would have kept his digestive processes going to a degree that would ease the transition. In one of the glass bottles he had a few swallows left of the chokecherry bark solution he had been using for his cough, and he took a good drink of it, remembering that it was supposed to be a digestive tonic and thinking that such a thing might do him some good, as he enjoyed his plentiful supply of venison. Need to be making some more of that stuff, and the Oregon grape and tannin, too, but there’s no way I can have a fire here, not with those choppers coming in and out of the area several times a day. No way I can guarantee that there will not be the occasional whiff of smoke, and I’d always be wondering if they had seen something. Guess I’ll just have to set the bottles out in the sun, and see if that’s enough. His breakfast finished and feeling a bit warmer for having eaten, Einar got started on skinning the deer, finding that he had to lower it a bit more in order to reach the top portions, as the pulling and straining of the past day’s hauling had left him very nearly unable to lift either of his arms above his neck, and certainly not capable of doing much useful work with them, when he did manage. The right one he knew ought to be alright after some rest, but the left had shown little sign of improvement since he had injured his shoulder the past winter, and he supposed that he had reinjured it one two many times while it had been trying to heal, probably leaving him stuck with it. But hey, at least you can walk, sort of, and you got a whole deer right here in your shelter. Really, what could be better? Which question he did not allow himself to answer…

Rolling up the hide and setting the bundle in a cool, dark corner of the shelter to begin work on later, Einar started in on the meat, having to stop frequently to sharpen his knife and finding himself increasingly concerned at the toll his work had been taking on the little blade, which was beginning to show serious signs of wear after repeated sharpening on the smooth piece of granite and small chunk of sandstone that he had been carrying for the purpose. This is one thing that I cannot make out here, but I had better be seriously working on some alternatives. I have bone and glass already that I can work with, and maybe I’ll be able to find some chert or something up near some exposed rock on one of these high spots around here. Never done all that much knapping, but it looks like I’d better be spending some more time at it. When I get time. Pausing in his work, Einar jammed two sticks vertically between the rock walls as he had done for hanging the deer, approximately eight feet distant from each other, and just above head height, having tied four parachute lines to each of the sticks to create something like a clothesline system, for hanging jerky. It was hard work, and without the full use of his arms, he had to chimney up the crack each time he needed to adjust something. The system looked like it would work, though, and before long two of the strings were heavy and drooping with thin strips of meat, Einar pausing now and then to take another bite of liver or a swallow of water from one of his bottles. He was not sure how long the meat would take to dry in that dim, chilly place—he would have rather hung the strips out in the open air where the wind could help things along, but did not want to risk having someone in a low-flying chopper or plane see something that drew their interest—but hoped that the air was cool enough to keep it from spoiling, for as long as it took. Having so far seen no flies near the deer carcass, he was hopeful that perhaps the coolness of the place would prevent them from showing up, but did not want to take any chances as the day began to warm. I think it’s warming, anyway. Ought to be. Sun’s out. I’m kind of freezing in here.

Taking a break from his work, Einar stepped outside the shelter, standing for a moment with his face in the sun and deciding that, yes, it seemed that the day was going to be fairly warm. So I’d better get busy with that yarrow that I collected yesterday, in case the flies start finding their way down inside that chimney. First though, he took a minute to warm up—his hands had begun cramping pretty badly between the chill of the crevice and the fine work he was demanding of them—finding a little cove near the entrance where the sun’s heat was reflected by the rock so that it came at him from three directions and crouching against the rock wall, shivering and flexing his chilled hands and finally returning to his work when they had become a bit more limber. Ok. Get in there and eat some more, first of all, because it’s just ridiculous that you’re freezing like this in the middle of June on a sunny day. Even if you are up high. Got to put some meat on your bones so you can start making your own heat again, like any other reasonably healthy warm-blooded critter. On his way back to the shelter, Einar noticed a few bistort plants, their white clusters of tiny flowers just beginning to open up on long stalks, and stopped to dig a few of the roots. Bistort, the alpine version of which he knew grew on tundra like slopes even far above treeline, has small starchy roots that are tasty and somewhat filling, even raw. With a few minutes of work he ended up with a double handful of the small, twisted roots, wiping the dirt off of two of them and eating them without waiting.







Back in the shelter he tied sprigs and stems of yarrow onto several parachute lines every few inches, climbed up and hung them from the stick that held the deer to create almost a curtain of yarrow which he hoped might protect the meat from flies. If not, he knew that he could keep them at bay by rubbing the meat frequently with the plants as he had done that past fall with the bear, and was glad the he had seen plenty more yarrow in the aspen grove not far from his shelter, in case that became necessary. Even working as quickly as he could, he could see that it was going to take him a while to get most of the meat sliced thinly enough that it could begin drying. As soon as he had filled the first drying rack with venison strips, Einar tied a second one, climbing up with some difficulty to place the end-sticks and finding that he had to chimney up and over the first rack of drying meat in order to place the second stick. Sure hope I don’t fall and knock all that meat into the dust down there. Slicing another large pile of deer strips, carrying them in his pack basket which he slung around his neck and climbing up above the second set of sticks and strings, he jammed his knees against one of the rock walls, his lower back against the other, and proceeded to drape the jerky strips over the strings by reaching down between his knees. It was an awkward setup and rather difficult for Einar, who was still suffering the effects of the rather strenuous journey with the deer the previous day, but he managed it, and managed to get back down to the ground, too, without falling and destroying all of the work he had done. Making another trip outside to sit in the sun and sharpen his knife yet again, he debated whether he ought to take the time away from his work with the meat to retrieve the cattails he had gathered previously, knowing that they would provide him with a good, insulated place to sit and work, as well as a far more insulated and warm sleeping spot than what he had at the moment.

[OldBoyScout]

Originally Posted by FreedomoftheHills

Sorry for the delay in posting a new chapter, everyone, but hey....it's November in Colorado!

Here are some pictures of the places where I spent the last three days:

I can't imagine running around in those mountains with the lack of equipment that IA has at his disposal. Every time I get wet or cold, I think of him and realize I have it pretty good and I can make it just fine.

Thanks for the great story.

[EdD270]

"This fellow's trail crossed mine, early one morning. Anyone recognize this track?"
Yes, I've seen him before. When we lived in Colorado my kids and I would run across him occassionally while elk hunting. He's quite social with his own, but shy around strangers.
If you see him, say hi for us.
But don't go looking for him. Keep typing. Great story, can't hardly wait for the next installment. You sent me to my plant books--AGAIN-- to look up bistort.

[HaroldWayneHamlin]

Damm it boy.

i must be old. I enjoy looking at your posted pix more than I do the girls with guns pix on the other thread.

sad, sad, sad day when an old man realizes that.

later
wayne

[Ammo]

Sure enjoyed the pictures...Have to admit, I initially though the Bistort root was of the bacteria (?) that gave our hero the digestive problems.

[FreedomoftheHills]

Originally Posted by Ammo

Sure enjoyed the pictures...Have to admit, I initially though the Bistort root was of the bacteria (?) that gave our hero the digestive problems.

Well, it's like this.............

Giardia:


Bistort:



Clear as mud?

[FreedomoftheHills]

As the morning wore on with no sign of the repeated helicopter flights that had kept him scrambling the day before, Einar decided to take a break from his work with the deer to cross the high basin and retrieve the cattails that he had cut and left lying in bundles on the ground below the lake, as much out of concern that they would be seen by future chopper crews as from a desire for more comfortable quarters. Also, he needed access to the fast-flowing water of the little creek that descended from the lake, as it was the nearest creek that he had yet come across. Piling rocks up just inside the crevice where it reached its narrowest point, he hoped to further discourage large scavengers from entering while he was away, having struggled to hoist what remained of the deer carcass up higher so that it would be out of their reach, if any did venture in. A bear, of course, would still be able to get at the deer, but as the crevice was just wide enough at the start for Einar to pass through, he knew that only a very small bear should be able to enter, and that had been before he had piled up the rocks. Leaving the pack basket behind in the crevice, Einar rolled up a number of items in the drogue parachute and tied it around his waist, wishing to avoid further damage to his burns and knowing that the basket tended to seriously slow him down, anyway. Keeping to the trees as he skirted the meadow, he stopped to set several rabbit snares, thinking that he ought to start working to getting ahold of a couple of bobcats, also, so that he would have their fur to use for winter boot liners. The climb to the basin went without incident, Einar stopping once to gather pitch lumps from a porcupine-damaged spruce and again to strip a good thick coil of shreddy aspen inner bark from a large fallen tree.

Finding the cattail bundles to be exactly where he had left them upon the sudden arrival of the Chinooks, partially concealed from the air by a stand of willow brush, Einar watched the area for some time before convincing himself that it was safe to emerge from the cover of the evergreens to retrieve them. Hurrying with the job, he quickly dismissed an urge to spend a few minutes out in the open meadow searching for more of the speckled brown eggs that he had enjoyed so much before. You got food back at the shelter. Plenty of food. No going out in the open, for now. They may still have that drone thing up there taking pictures, and I expect all it’d take is one photo of some funny looking guy in a meadow gathering bird eggs, for the search to go active again. Give it a couple weeks, anyway.

Stashing the cattails beneath a spruce, Einar went down to the creek that drained from the lake, approaching it where it entered the evergreens and unrolling his parachute waist-pack, removing the deer intestines and bladder that he had stashed in it that morning and setting them on a large flat rock near the water. From a spot near the creek he collected a large pile of dark green, ridge-stemmed horsetail reeds, setting them near the flat rock. Also known as “scouring rushes,” the reeds were very tough and high in silica, having been used in the past for everything from scrubbing dishes to sanding cabinetry and other fine woodwork. Choosing a section of creek that was narrow and fast-flowing, he cleaned out the contents of the intestines, letting the water flow through them a bit before taking a small bundle of the horsetail reeds, dividing it and clamping the deer gut between the two bundles, wrapping some grass around one end as a hasty binding and slowly drawing the gut through to clean the outside of bits of fat and membrane that remained and would cause spoilage if left. He then began the tedious work of turning it inside out, slowly rolling from one end and allowing the flowing of the water to do some of the work for him, stopping partway through to warm his hands, which had lost all feeling in the icy water. Once the thing had been turned inside out, he took more of the reeds, again carefully clamping and binding them around the intestine before pulling it through to remove the slimy layer on the inside, which contained the digestive enzymes and led Einar to wonder whether he ought perhaps to be saving the stuff, drying it and keeping it to use one day like commercially-made rennet from cow stomachs, for making cheese. As if you will ever be making cheese out here… What? You planning on domesticating a herd of mountain goats and starting a dairy, or something? He laughed a bit at that why ever not? Sounds like a fine plan, once they quit looking for you and you’re able to get out on the rocky ridges some… picturing himself as an old man with wild white hair living in a high mountain cave near a ridge top somewhere, emerging in the morning to round up his herd of rock-skipping mountain goats for milking time. And don’t forget that wool! Incredibly warm, a good source of fiber for cordage, and you could get all you need by shearing one or two of the critters every year and felting the wool—think of it! Felt liners for your elkskin mukluks!—or taking one every now and then for meat, and using the hide. What a sleeping bag! Can’t wait to get started! Realizing that he had almost begun to take his little flight of fancy as a serious option to aid in his long term survival, he laughed at himself again, shook his head. Ok Einar, you’re getting goofy now. Enough of that. Pretty sure you will not be doing anything of the kind! And if it ever comes up—which it won’t—I believe you can use concentrated stinging nettle juice to coagulate milk for cheese. He returned to his work, squeezing as much water as he could from the cleaned intestines and rolling them up in his pack, cleaning the bladder also, for use as a small container. He knew that a salt and vinegar solution would probably be the best thing to soak the cleaned intestines in before drying for future use as pemmican wrappings, but having no source at all of that amount of salt, the best alternative he could come up with was to soak the guts in a very strong berberine solution to kill off any bacteria that would cause spoilage, until he was able to render down the deer fat and pound up some thoroughly dry jerky for pemmican. Don’t know if it’ll work, but it’s worth a try. Starting back for camp, he collected a good number of Oregon grape roots for his ongoing health needs, as well as for the new project.

For the return trip, Einar decided to skirt around the high ground that held the basin, thinking that it would save energy if he could avoid that climb and descent, and also that he might discover something useful by making the detour, which proved to be quite true. The second half, anyway. Thickly overgrown with brush and almost swampy in places, the route around the high ground did not prove to be a particularly easy one for Einar, especially carrying the long, cumbersome bundles of cattail stalks. At times, growing increasingly exhausted at the continual struggle through the tangled brush, he was certain that it would have been less work to go up and over the high ground. Rounding the shoulder of the ridge, though, he fought his way out of the grasp of a particularly tenacious willow thicket and discovered something that made all the extra effort worthwhile. Growing up the side of the ridge in front of him was a large thicket of serviceberry bushes, covered with small, under-ripe green berries that promised the arrival of gallons of ripe, juicy purple fruit within a few weeks. Despite the dryness of the spring on the plateau, the berries looked to be in good shape, near as they were to the runoff from the lake. Einar knew that if he could get to a good many of the berries before the bears did and dry them in the sun without having some animal eat them up, he would have added an important source of nutrition to his winter stores. Better get started making some more baskets to gather these things in, and thinking of the best way to dry them, too. As he pushed and wormed his way through the remaining brush that separated him from the aspen woods and clearing in front of his shelter, Einar got to thinking that if he could make his way down just a bit lower into one of the many canyons or smaller draws that cut the edges of the high plateau, perhaps he would not have to wait to begin gathering the berries. Knowing that the sugar they contained would be a good additional source of energy as he worked to process the deer, he decided to consider such a trip within the next few days.

· · · ·

Down in the valley the serviceberries were indeed ripe, and Liz and Susan were out every morning picking them from the bushes that overhung the long, snaking driveway up to Bill and Susan’s place, Susan showing Liz how to make serviceberry jam and syrup. Liz enjoyed the work; it helped to keep her occupied, kept her from wondering constantly about Einar and worrying that he might not be getting enough to eat, that he might be injured and in need of help that no one could safely give him. She knew that such thoughts were fairly pointless, that whether he lived or died out there, she would probably never know, that she should hope she never knew, in fact, because if she had any word of him, it would probably come in the form of news of his capture, and she knew enough of Einar to be well aware that he would prefer death to that, even if it was a slow and painful one from starvation or injury. Still, she could not keep the thoughts from her mind, and Susan noticed her frequently glancing at the nearby ridges with a far away look in her eyes as they worked quietly together, and had little doubt as to the nature of her thoughts. Hoping to cheer Liz up a bit, Susan promised to take her up into the high country in a few weeks when the berries began ripening up there, to show her some especially plentiful spots where in a good year a person could easily fill a two gallon pail in well under an hour.

[Ammo]

Good chapter and a good day, for a change, for Einar!

[EdD270]

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you. So glad poor old EA is having a stroke of luck. Stay alert, EA, good times are as temporary as the bad times.
And thanks to you, FOTH, great chronicler of EA's adventure and ordeal. I was beginning to go through withdrawal, this installment came just in time.

[FreedomoftheHills]

Removing the rocks that had blocked the passage into his shelter, Einar entered carefully, waiting to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness and keeping his spear at the ready in case he was met by a hungry lynx that had stumbled on his meat supply. The crevice was unoccupied, however, the meat appearing un tampered with, and Einar sat on the cattail bundles, relieved, and finished off what remained of the liver before getting back to work. Still hungry and craving fat, he carved off a few slices of it, thinking that while he would have perhaps preferred it melted into a nice stew, he had really hardly tasted anything better. Not that he could really remember, anyway. His memories of pizza and barbecued spare ribs and such had grown pretty dim of late, though at times they tended to return as vivid as life and complete with smells and the sounds of sizzling and cooking to torment him in his hunger. Not at the moment though, as the deer fat was quite satisfying. He shaved off another thin piece and let it begin to melt in his mouth before returning the flat rock that held much of the fat to its dark, protected ledge some three feet up from the floor of the shelter. Stacked up on the flat rock in solid white slabs, the deer fat was certainly not as thick or plentiful as it would have been in the fall, but was substantial nonetheless, and Einar knew that he would soon need to be able to have a fire and render it down, if he wanted any chance at keeping it from going rancid.

Reaching up and testing a piece of jerky, one of the first he had sliced and hung out to dry, Einar was disappointed but not especially surprised to find that it had hardly begun drying at all, except for a bit around the edges. If he had been able to hand the meat in the sun (and maybe I could, maybe I’m being too careful, but I don’t think so…) the first batch would have been done, or nearly so, by then. This is going to take awhile. But as long as it doesn’t rain and I do not have to leave suddenly for some reason, it should work out alright. It’s like a refrigerator in here. The stuff is not going to go bad, and it will eventually dry. He was encouraged to see that there was no sign of flies around the remainder of the carcass, their potential appearance being one of the things that had concerned him the most about his absence from the shelter during the trip over to the lake. Whether it was simply too cool for flies there in the recesses of the rock crevice—that certainly might be it. He shivered. Seems to be a good ten degrees or so colder in here than out in the open air, and it didn’t turn out to be that warm of a day—or whether the yarrow had simply been effective in deterring them he was not certain, but decided to collect more yarrow and refresh the supply, in case it was doing the trick.

Checking his row of brown glass “medicine” bottles before heading out he found that he had a bit of Oregon grape solution left in one of the them, and not wanting to give the deer intestines time to begin spoiling, he packed as much of the slippery mess as would fit down into the Spam can and poured the bright yellow liquid overtop, turning and pressing until everything was yellow. He hoped that by immersing first one half, then the other, he might be able to hold off spoilage and give them a good “preservative” treatment that would keep them good until he could prepare a new, even stronger batch of the liquid from the pile of roots he had collected in his way back from the lake. Hurriedly chopping and shaving up a number of the new roots, nearly filling the bottle before pouring water overtop and setting it out in the sunny little alcove in the rock that he had discovered not far from the entrance to his shelter. Glancing at the position of the sun, Einar estimated that three or four hours of sunlight remained, which would not be enough to turn the roots and water into a very strong solution, but it would be a start. Better see how much more of this deer I can get drying, and then turn the cattail stalks into a bit more of a bed, before it gets dark this evening. Better flesh that hide, too, so I can dry it. Can’t really think seriously about tanning until I get done with the meat. Before beginning on any of those projects, though, he retrieved his half-full bottle of tannin water and a few clean mullein leaves from their little ledge in the shelter and returned outside to the sunny alcove to clean and re-bandage his back, relieved to see that the burns looked a good bit less puffy and inflamed that day, and had nearly stopped oozing, in all but a few places. Those spots he paid special attention to, treating them several times with tannin and hoping that they would scab over before too much longer so that his continuing risk of infection would go down. He could turn his head just enough to see that the raw areas roughly corresponded to where his shoulder had been in contact with the rock floor of the shelter the previous night, after he had passed out in exhaustion upon finally getting the deer back to the crevice and hung. This will heal a lot better if I can manage to avoid that kind of thing for awhile… and he wrapped the fresh mullein leaves in place, hopeful that, for the coming night at least, perhaps he could. Wandering back to the crevice and collecting yarrow as he went, he stopped here and there to gather dry sticks and dead branches from the undersides of evergreens to add to his growing stash of firewood, still not quite feeling safe about the prospect of fire but hoping that the time might soon come when he could.

Removing the deer’s backstraps and setting a portion of the meat aside to be eaten fresh before he sliced up the rest for drying, Einar took some time to clean and scrape the long flat sheets of shiny sinew, having first cut them away from the meat in much the same way that he had skinned the deer. He carefully scraped and removed all of the remaining meat and the connective membranes that coated them, spreading and smoothing the cleaned sinew strips onto a long flat section of the shelter floor, whose smoothly fractured, nearly featureless rock he had previously cleaned to remove all debris and dust. Einar knew that by adhering the strips to the rock for drying, they would come out flat and smooth and ready to begin using once they were dry. Creating another drying rack with two sticks and several strands of parachute line, he chimneyed up above the two he already had in place, carefully wedging the sticks in between the walls and straightening the lines in readiness for their load of jerky strips.

After nearly filling the new drying lines with strips of meat, sharpening his knife and pausing to once again turn and re-immerse the deer intestine—which was by that time taking on a cheery if not quite uniform yellow hue—in its berberine bath, Einar turned his attention to the cattails. Removing the parachute line bindings that had held the bundles together for transport, he made a row of loose bundles, each of them thick enough that he could barely get his hand around it. Tying the bundles together with two parachute lines, he started with one on top and one on the bottom and wove up and down so that the small bundles were held together as a single unit, but also stayed a bit separate and retained round shapes that would provide a good thick layer of insulation. When he was finished, Einar ended up with a “mattress” that was about six inches thick in most places, just over two feet wide and approximately five and a half feet long—the average height of the cattails. It was perhaps not much of a bed by “civilized” standards—he would have to curl up a bit to be able to fit on it, length-wise, but then he always found himself curling up to sleep, anyway, due to the cold—but looked great to Einar in contrast to the freezing, rocky floor with its scattering of spruce needles that it was replacing. Now, if only I could lie down… That will come. And this will not be bad to sit on, either. Which he did not wait to test out, sinking down on the thick mat and carving himself a generous sliver of deer fat. This will definitely do. And I can always go back for more cattails, if I decide at some point that it could use work. Reclining on his elbows to keep his healing back out of contact with the cattail mat and relieved that he could, for the first time in days, actually relax in a semi-prone position without immediately feeling like he was drowning, Einar finished off the sliver of fat and stared up at layer upon layer of drying meat strips against the ribbon of blue sky far above him, finding himself immensely thankful and thinking that life was, at the moment, very, very good. Now get up and back to work, because you’ve got some daylight left, and that hide to flesh out before it starts going bad.

[elZ]

please, be gently to Einar for a while. the man can surely use a bit of rest :-)

[FreedomoftheHills]

In searching through his possessions for a tool to use in fleshing the deer hide, Einar came across the handcuffs that he had gone back to retrieve from the charred hillside after the fire to prevent their discovery by the fire crews. Turning them over and over in his hands for a minute he rubbed the raised white scars on his wrists where the cuffs had cut him during his escape after the blast, as he had struggled to free himself from the root where they had hung up and halted his tumble down the nearly vertical rock face. He supposed he would always have those scars, certainly did not need the cuffs to remind him what awaited if he ever let his guard down. But, instead of burying them beneath the rocky debris at the far end of the shelter and being rid of them once and for all as he was inclined to do, he quickly rose and hung them from a rocky protrusion in the wall opposite his bed were they would be in plain sight of his work area, and, most importantly, of the firepit. The extra reminder cannot hurt…

Finally settling on splitting a branch from his firewood pile to create a fleshing tool for the deer hide, he chose a fairly straight spruce branch that already had a split starting in one end from where he had broken it off the tree and he carefully widened the split by inserting a thin flake of granite, alternately pounding it with another granite chunk and pulling on half of the branch until it split cleanly with a series of little snaps, leaving him a thin half and a thick half. Wrapping some shreds of aspen bark from the coil he had been saving for cordage around each end of the split branch for handles, he carried the hide outside and found a fallen spruce trunk to work on, scraping until he had removed all remaining flesh, fat and membrane from the hide. Returning to the shelter, he hung the hide from one of the lower strings on his drying rack, knowing that once it dried, he could store it away in a dark corner of the shelter and not worry about it until he was ready to tan it. Which I had better be soon, just as soon as I get the rest of the meat taken care of, because I don’t want that brain to rot…or to tempt me too much as a nice filling meal, either! His stomach growled. No. Forget it. Going to be needing something to cover my feet with here pretty soon, and I already need a shirt, pretty bad. This one’s coming to pieces where the fire damaged it. And the jeans are OK for the moment, but the polypro pants are in sorry shape, so I better be thinking about another deer or even an elk, if I want to have anything to wear after a few more weeks. Picking up his half finished willow-wood atlatl, he used the remainder of the fading daylight to work on it, deepening the trench he had begun carving beneath the “hook” that would hold and throw the darts, and cutting a long strip from the deerhide to use as a finger loops. Better give this a try in the morning, start with some willow wands, start practicing.

The cattail mattress helped quite a bit that night, and Einar found that he could sleep much longer at a stretch without the insidious cold of the rock constantly creeping up into his bones to chill him and make his bad hip ache terribly, as it had done the night before. Even with the mat, though, he began getting pretty cold after an hour or two, and finally rose and fumbled about in the crevice, able to see his breath in the weak moonlight that made its way in through the chimney and eventually finding the deer hide, which he removed from its drying line and draped over his head and shoulders, fur side in. After that Einar was able to remain asleep for much of the night, waking cold and shivering in the early morning with the drying hide having hardened and taken on the shape of his back and head. Well. No matter. I’m gonna have to soak and soften it anyway for tanning, so it doesn’t really matter what shape it is, until then. Might as well use it to keep me a little warmer at night. Only a little, though. He shivered. Better get out there and check my snares, move around some and hopefully warm up before starting on the meat, or anything else. Wish I knew what that doggone Predator drone thing was up to, so I could have a fire. They might have taken it out of here by now to go to work on another wildfire, for all I know. Haven’t heard any choppers for almost two days now, so maybe they’re done for awhile with whatever training they were doing…but without knowing more about that drone, I just don’t know if I can risk fire. He glanced up at the drying meat. Got too much to lose, at the moment.

· · · ·

Einar, of course, had no way at all to know that the drone was no longer a threat to him, having crashed into a mountainside several days before due to the accidental actions of the pilot down in the control trailer in the Mountain Task Force parking lot, who had unintentionally hit the fuel cutoff switch while handing over the controls to the next shift. Nor did he have any way to know that a newer, “enhanced” replacement was already on its way, a MQ-9 Reaper surreptitiously on loan from Air Force, and equipped with far more than cameras and heat sensors.

· · · ·

It was a crisp, sunny mid-June morning, a soft breeze rustling the leaves of the aspens with a sound like gently flowing water as Susan and Liz worked to pack the bed of Bill’s 1988 Chevy Silverado King Cab truck with flats of comfrey, lavender and rosemary plants that the two of them had spent the spring tending in one of Susan’s greenhouses. Liz had been learning a great deal from Susan about the cultivation and use of various herbs, as well as about the business of growing them for a number of local landscapers and nurseries, and the flexible hours of her work with Susan left her available when her duties as a Mountain Rescue volunteer demanded her attention. Susan and Liz had recently sold a large load of the plants to a major nursery in Clear Springs with delivery promised by that evening, and Bill had spent part of the previous day creating a two-tiered timber frame for the truck bed that allowed them to stack the flats two-high, without harming the plants. Once they had loaded everything to their satisfaction, Bill covered the load with a white tarp to reflect some of the sunlight and prevent the bed from getting too hot for the plants, and they were ready to go, Susan joking that it looked like they were smuggling something. Bill parked the truck under the shade of the aspen grove in front of the house, and they went inside to eat lunch before heading down the hill to make the hour-long drive to Clear Springs.

As they enjoyed their lunch, Bill, Susan and Liz were completely unaware of a meeting that had taken place the week before at the Mountain Task Force headquarters outside of Culver Falls. Newly appointed FBI Director Terry Lotts was under a tremendous amount of pressure, having been threatened with the loss of his position after searchers in a helicopter, acting on his direct orders, had scattered embers from Darren Raintree’s fire and started a major wildfire, a situation that it had then become Lotts’ unfortunate responsibility to attempt to cover up. He had so far been fairly successful, doing his best to discredit the eyewitness accounts provided to local media by Darren Raintree and several other campers that his chopper had disturbed up on the plateau that morning, but he could tell that Sheriff Watts, for one, was not buying the story. Terry Lotts was worried, and was feeling increasingly backed into a corner by the Sheriff’s pending investigation of the fire. Hoping to quell a growing chorus of internal calls for his resignation and the threat of Congressional hearings into the “mismanagement of the search,” Lotts had, the previous week, outlined an aggressive new strategy that was designed to root out the local support that he was firmly convinced the subject of their ongoing manhunt must be receiving. By cutting off that source of aid, he hoped that he could force Asmundson to mess up, to take risks that would ultimately lead to his capture. And, if Lotts was lucky, he might even be able to catch a couple of the locals on the act of providing aid, leading his men to Einar and allowing them to arrest and show off the offending citizens, as well. To that end, Lotts had begin holding daily briefings for the agents each morning by teleconference from his office in Washington, reviewing intelligence old and new and going over lists of local residents that they believed bore watching.