Life is stranger than any of us expected,
There is a somber, imponderable fate.
Enigma rules, and the heart has no certainty.
― Richard Eberhart
When foxes eat the last gold grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I'll build.
But first I'll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands,
Making blind moons of all your eyes,
And muddy roads of all your hands.
And you may grope for me in vain
In hollows under the mangrove root,
Or where, in apple-scented rain,
The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.
~ Elinor Wylie
going far beyond the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has an inner light, even from a distance --
and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave…
But what we feel is the wind in our faces.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
I didn't really need to bring any food, as the shack was stocked with provisions both for man and beast -- dry beans and lentils, rice, flour, corn meal, canned veggies, milk and so forth for man, oats and hay for horse, and kibble for dog. There was a small stable and corral for the horse to keep her safe and out of the weather. Water was provided by a well operated by hand pumps -- there was one in the corral by the water trough and one inside the shack at the sink. You needed to keep a glass of water handy to prime the one in the shack. You could just slosh some water from the trough on the one outside. There was no electricity, of course, but there was a wood cook stove that also heated the shack, and a couple of kerosene lanterns and some candles.
Dad told me to keep the revolver on me at all times and sleep with it under my pillow. He was worried that a monster might rip off the shack door and come for me. Five point-blank rounds of .45 Long Colt would take care of the problem. I reminded him that Pup the dog would alert me of any danger in plenty of time for me to arm myself with the Winchester. At that, he suggested I take a Marlin .45-70 instead of the Winchester .30-30, but I reminded him that the one time I fired that stupid Marlin the recoil knocked me over and I had a bruised should for a week. Forget it. Then he started to explain for the eleventeenth time what I did wrong that caused that to happen but I gave him my patented, "Oh, just put a sock in it!" look and he desisted. The short barrel .30-30 weighs something over six pounds and has very little recoil. Perfect for me, should I ever actually need it, which I doubted.
The morning I left, my mom got up before me and prepared a hot breakfast. She sat with me as I ate and we listened to the radio, volume turned low, waiting for the weather report. We talked about things she would take care of for me while I was away. She gave me a hug at the door and told me to be careful and I promised I would. She would have come out to the stable with me but I told her not to.
Come,
come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the trees!
~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge
I was saddled up and on the trail by the beginning of astronomical twilight. The lightening of the cloudless sky was clearly apparent in the complete absence of human light sources and when my eyes had adjusted to the night I could see quite well. It was very cold with a gusting wind from the north but neither Pup nor Diamond seemed to mind, I guess because they were moving and burning calories. I rode easily, matching my body to the movements of the horse so that I did not become tired or achy. I wore an insulated balaclava and ice quickly formed around the nose and mouth from the moisture of my breathing and soon enough on my eyelashes, too. I had Little Hotties thermal insoles in my boots and was glad for their warmth. I almost hadn't bothered with them, thinking they would be too hot. But they kept my feet toasty warm. I'd also tucked a couple of Little Hottie packets inside the waistline of my pants where they sent heat into my body core.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.
~ Robert Louis Stevenson
There was no moon and the stars were very bright, their light actually casting shadows. The Milky Way was a nebulous band bisecting the sky. Now and then a meteor streaked across the sky, some leaving a persistent trail. A satellite crossed from horizon to horizon. Only the sound of the horse's hooves striking the frozen ground, the sound of her breathing and mine, the puffs of steam from our nostrils, the creak of saddle leather now and again, disturbed the endless silence. Pup trotted ahead of us, occasionally stopping to check something out, then dashing on. I thought about nothing at all. I was simply aware. At some point, lulled by the clip-clop and rocking motion of the horse, I drifted into a semi-somnolent state. I heard an owl nearby and I roused myself just as it flew, a black silhouette, across the stars. I could easily follow its path through them. It swung around and came back, circled around me, doubtless examining this rare intruder, then resumed its path.
I drifted back to sleep only to rouse myself with a start, briefly baffled as to where I was and what I was doing. Then I wondered what had wakened me. Diamond had stopped. I looked around for a reason why, then dismounted, stiff and cold to take a look at the ground. Holding her reins, I bent down and studied the trail. Was there a fork? No. I peered ahead, then back the way we had come. Nothing. Then I checked over Diamond, feeling her legs for swelling, examining her hooves, worried about a stone bruise. I walked her a few yards. She was not lame or limping. Maybe she had fallen asleep, too.
I took out my USMC tritium-lighted compass and checked our direction of travel. Yes, we were going in the right direction and had not gotten off on a side track. It was getting noticeably lighter in the east and I calculated that we had made a little better time than I had anticipated. I did some stretching exercises, got back on Diamond and started off again. Pup, who had been sitting, then lying, watching us, leaped to his feet and bounded off ahead of us.
Above the marge of night a star still shines,
And on the frosty hills the sombre pines
Harbor an eerie wind that crooneth low
Over the glimmering wastes of virgin snow.
~ Lucy Maud Montgomery
The blue-black night faded into gray twilight, the stars grew faint, then washed-out pre-dawn banished them. Finally, with a blinding burst of white rays, the sun rose above the mountains and I felt its heat against my back and side. In the bright morning sunlight the trail was easy to follow, leading mostly through snow-covered prairie, meadow and low foothills. Our route gradually led us up toward a forested ridge where as the sun reached its zenith we found a little sheltered dell amid pines and junipers. I dismounted, hobbled Diamond and let her graze, pawing through snow for still green grass, straw and fallen alder leaves. I fed Pup on kibble I had brought along and, preferring to stand as I ate, unpacked my own lunch of crusty homemade French bread, Swiss cheese from the local cheese factory, and a boiled egg. For desert a persimmon and an apple from our own orchards and some almonds and walnuts. I finished up with still piping hot black coffee from my thermos. After eating, I felt sleepy, so I spread the space blanket on the soft, dry, needle-covered ground under a pine tree, wrapped myself in my woobie -- that's a warm, comfortable poncho liner, by the way -- and dozed off listening to the wind soughing through the trees.
The line of clouds on the horizon became a wall of gray covering a third of the sky. The crescent moon sliding down the southwestern sky became visible as the sun, farther north on the horizon, sank low. Up ahead I could see that the trail was heading for a shallow pass that was heavily forested. Beyond it I knew that the trail began a descent that would take us down to and across the prairie on the far edge of which was the line shack, near the base of another mountain ridge. We were definitely not going to make it until well after sundown.
On this bleary white afternoon,
are there fires lit up in heaven
against such fading of quickness
and light, such windy discoursing?
~ Edwin Honig
The wind was not merely cold now, it was like ice and it slashed right through my coat. The Little Hotties had long since given up their heat and I looked longingly at the forested path ahead, imagining the surcease from the wind it would provide. At last we reached level ground and I paused to give Diamond a few minutes rest. Pup looked at me puzzled, shaking his head against the wind, clearly wondering why we had stopped. I dismounted and walked around swinging my arms and stomping my feet as I watched the sun touch the horizon. An upside-down half sun appeared on top of it, first appearing as horns, then a crescent, then a a half and finally a full sun. It was an optical illusion as the real sun had already set. As this false sun sank below the horizon it winked out with a brilliant green flash. A beam of white light materialized like an ethereal tower where the sun had set, gradually fading. The crescent moon hung just below Saturn in the purple and orange sky. It didn't shed much light and, a little warmer from my exercise, I took out the woobie and poncho from my bedroll and wrapped myself in them. I knew with the sun gone it was going to get really cold. I swung aboard Diamond and urged her into a trot heading toward the black gloom of the trees.
As we neared them, I slowed Diamond to a walk, peering ahead intently, making sure we didn't miss the trail. I wondered why it didn't occur to me to have brought along night-vision binoculars, or at least a flashlight. I didn't because I was certain I would have made the shack well before dark and others agreed when I had asked. But I was not as experienced as the men who used the shack in summer, riding well-conditioned horses that knew the trail intimately, and it was taking me hours longer than they would have to cover the same distance. Diamond was game to go on, but I could tell she was getting tired. She did manage a bit of speed as we entered the woods, eager to get out of the wind and the few flakes of snow that were beginning to fall from the over-arching overcast speeding across the sky.
It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops as they sway.
~ Wallace Stevens
Inside the mixed forest of pines, cedars and junipers the wind ceased, although I could hear it roaring through the tops of the trees. It was also as black as the inside of a cow and I could see nothing. Fortunately, the trees crowding the trail prevented us from losing it and Diamond plodded along, as if reluctant to keep going once she had reached shelter from the elements. Pup was no longer trotting well ahead of us as he had been but trailed a few yards behind. He was getting tired, too, and was probably wondering along with Diamond why we kept going now that we were in shelter.
Besides the sound of the wind in the tree tops, the swaying of tree branches made all sorts of creaking and groaning noises. Now and again there was a startlingly loud crack as a limb snapped under the strain. Did you ever see that old Disney animated short "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"? I began to feel like Ichabod Crane going home through the woods after the dance. I got the creepy feeling something was following us. Not a headless horseman, of course but something. I told myself I was imagining things. I thought about whistling but my lips were too cold. Then I thought I should sing, but I felt that would be dangerous. Best not let the monsters know I was here amid them. We plodded on, with me trying to think of how good it would be to reach the shack and close and lock the door behind me, when suddenly Pup, who had moved in close beside us, began to growl. Diamond stopped so suddenly I almost pitched forward and Pup's growl grew louder and fiercer. Oh, dear God, what is happening, I thought, a surge of panic rushing through me. I suppressed that with a flash of anger at my weakness and reached down and slid the Winchester out of its scabbard. I didn't bother with the Colt as I figured I couldn't hit a thing with it in the dark, but the Winchester I could easily point and shoot at a sound, holding it steady with two hands while still holding onto the reins to control Diamond when I fired.
I waited, the Winchester held in both hands at the ready. But after a while my hands grew cold and my arms tired so I rested it across the saddle, but still held it, ready to raise and fire. Pups growls had peaked and diminished and after a while they stopped and instead of standing rigidly, he sat down. Diamond seemed to relax also, sagging a bit under me, it felt like. I became aware again of the sounds of the wind and the tree branches. Nothing was happening. I urged Diamond to move on and she did so without hesitation. I still held my rifle ready but after a few minutes with no signs of alarm warning from Pup and with Diamond moving at an easy four-beat gait, I slipped it back into the scabbard and beat my hands together and worked the fingers to warm them up. Whatever had caused Pup to growl so fiercely and Diamond to stop must have slipped away. I thought that if it had been any creature who had ever been hunted, the business-like sound of a Winchester rifle getting ready for action had warned it to git, and it got.
In any case, in an uneventful half hour we were out of the woods and into a snow-covered prairie clear and bright after the gloom of the trees, the trail, clearly distinguishable even though covered with snow, trending downward. The wind, blocked by the ridge behind us, was not as strong here either, more of a blustery breeze that sometimes slacked off altogether. Diamond, sensing we were nearing our destination, picked up her pace, breaking into a trot when the trail straightened out so that we made good time. Pup was tired, though, and was content to follow along behind us. Of course, Diamond broke the trail for him and I'm sure he appreciated that.
I prefer winter and fall, when you
feel the bone structure of the
landscape -- the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.
~ Andrew Wyeth
Finally, we reached the bottom of the decent and the prairie stretched out flat and even before us and at the far end of it I could make out dark blots that were the shack and stable. I urged Diamond into a trot which left Pup behind. He was too tired to chase after us and Diamond herself quickly slowed to a walk again, she, too, just too tired. The half hour or so it took us to cross the prairie seemed to last forever, but the minutes did pass and there we were. Finally. It had taken three to four more hours than I had planned.
I wrapped Diamond's reins around the hitching post and took the two steps up onto the porch. I had been told there was a kerosene lantern hanging by the front door of the shack, with matches in a metal box on a nail beside it. It was so dark I had to feel for it, but finally my hand touched it. I held on to it with one hand while with the other I felt for the match box and found it. I opened the lid and fished out a match, the big wooden self-striking type folks on the ranch called a barn burner. The flare of the match blinded me but I was grateful that it lit on the first strike. I could feel its heat on my face as I lifted the globe of the lantern and lit the wick, adjusting it for maximum smokeless flame. By its light, I led Diamond into the corral, got her watered (I had to dump the leftover coffee from my thermos onto the pump to prime it.) The water, coming straight out of the ground felt warm, then led her into the stable where I rubbed her down, working her joints with lineament, checking her hooves, then fed her. While she was eating, I also fetched water for Pup and fed him with kibble stored in the stable. I covered Diamond with a horse blanket and led her into a stall, patted her head and whispered good-night and sweet dreams in her ear.
“One could starve to death on an enviable job — for mountain wind, for stars
among pine trees, or the call of a wood-thrush to his mate.”
― Barbara Newhall Follett
Pup trotted beside me back to the shack, as if, of course, he was not going to sleep in the stable but in the house with me. I found the key tucked away where I was told it would be, unlocked the shack door and stepped inside. As I did so, my whole body seemed to relax. I had made it. I set the lantern down on the table in the center of the shack, climbed up on a chair and lit the Aladdin lamp hanging from a chain from the ceiling. It was a mantle-type and put out a lot of light, about comparable to a 60-watt incandescent light bulb. The whole room was bright in its rays and I set about getting a fire going in the wood stove. There was kindling in a crate beside it, as well as split wood for fuel. A box of homemade firestarters (rolled-up newspapers tied with string and soaked in paraffin wax) was on a shelf behind the stove. With these and the kindling I had a fire going with just one match. The heat was wonderful and I stood with my hands outstretched over the stove enjoying the warmth and getting the chill out of my body. Pup also liked the warmth and lay down next to the stove, thumping his tail against the floor when I asked him if he was enjoying the comforts of home.
The stove had a water tank atop it that captured heat to make hot water. I filled it using the hand pump by the sink and a pitcher, then set a tea kettle on the stove to make tea. I found the tea bags in a can next to a jar of instant coffee and a can of ground coffee. I hesitated over which I wanted, but settled for tea. When it was ready I added a big scoop of sugar and lots of canned milk and drank the whole cup in three long swallows. It tasted so good and gave me some energy.
I unpacked the food I had brought, setting the eggs and butter on the counter. By this time the shack was warm enough that I took off my jacket, and filling a small basin, washed my hands and face with soap and warm water. Then, finding corn meal and other fixings in the cupboard as well as a cast iron skillet, I made a dinner of corn fritters and fried eggs washed down with canned grapefruit juice. I boiled a pot of coffee, country style -- dumping the grounds directly into the water and adding an egg shell, then when it was ready, pouring in cold water to settle the grounds. Rich and strong! I filled my thermos with what was left after I drank my fill so I could have it first thing in the morning.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit
~ Robert Louis Stevenson
After I ate, I was ready for bed after a very long, tiring day. But first, with ample hot water, I took a big tub hanging from the wall and filling it from the water tank, had a bath, also the old-fashioned country way, in the kitchen by the stove. Unfortunately, I didn't have anybody to scrub my back. Still, it was heaven. I needed to pee but I didn't feel like dressing again and trudging through the snow to the outhouse. If I were a man I could have pee'd in the sink, Irish style, as they say, but instead I found a pot to piss in, what my grandmother called a thunder mug, white tole with a lid.
Opposite the kitchen side of the shack was a curtained bunk bed. I unrolled the mattress on the lower bunk and made it up and crawled under the covers. Only then did I notice a painting of what looked like a wolf having sex with an Indian maid. I studied it. Not a wolf but more likely a coyote, although a big one. It wasn't pornography but a depiction of an Indian legend, the coyote being considered a trickster god. Coyote is always making fools of humans, exploiting their arrogance and stupidity. I had a vague recollection of some story about a coyote gulling a woman into having his baby, but I couldn't remember what it was about or what the moral was. Anyway, I was too tired to consider it further, but hoped the trickster god had no plans for me. Who had painted this picture, why this scene, and why hang it in this out-of-the-way place? While I was contemplating this, Pup Doggy Dog hopped up onto the bed. As I settled in to sleep I told him not to get any ideas from that painting and to behave himself. He wagged his tail and we both drifted off into dreamland, not waking until the rays of the morning sun streaming through the eastern windows wakened us.
I tramped through the country
To get the feeling
That I was not a separate thing from the earth.
I used to lose myself
By lying with eyes half-open in the woods.
Sometimes I talked with animals….
― Edgar Lee Masters
Over the next few days I enjoyed the solitude I had craved, not doing much, not thinking, not acting, just existing and being aware of the now. I didn't ride Diamond but instead let her rest and do as she pleased, loosing her in a fenced pasture. I explored the nearby area on foot with Pup, encountering deer sheltering amid the pines, spotting a herd of antelope trotting across the prairie as if they had an appointment that couldn't be delayed, once climbing the rocky hill behind the shack for a view of the surrounding countryside, watching a herd of elk through binoculars, listening to the wind moaning through the tamaracks and pines, being heckled by a blue jay and followed by a pair of ravens who swooped within feet of my head.
I cooked on the wood stove, cleaned the shack, made a list of the supplies I used that would need to be replenished. The shack had a small library of books, mostly of the kind you knew you ought to read and promised yourself someday when you had time you would read -- War and Peace, The Iliad, The Lives of the Twelve Caesars, The Decamaron, The Brothers Karamazov, Middle March, The White Goddess, The Peloponnesian War, The Anabasis, a one-volume abridgement of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and so forth. But some of the other titles were highly eclectic: Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man by Siegfried Sassoon, The Octopus by Frank Norris, A Son of the Middle Border by Hamlin Garland, The Gilded Age by Warner and Twain. All old hard backs, nothing very new. The most recent was a boxed set of the complete works of Stephen Vincent Benét. There was also a collection of paperbacks, everything from The Chariots of the Gods to The Pearl. There were also some old magazines, some dating back decades, even generations. I guess once somebody brought some reading matter to this out-of-the-way abode no one every threw it away. So there were magazines named Argosy and Adam, Sports Afield, Sports Car Graphic, Motorcycle Quarterly, Field and Stream, and Guns and Ammo.
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle bathe and dress.
~ Robert Louis Stevenson
The days were short and very cold. It often snowed and the wind seemed to be relentlessly from the north, so after I had gotten used to the vicinity and hiked to all the places that attracted me, it began to take an effort of will to spend much time out of doors. It was more pleasurable to spend an hour or so outdoors doing the necessary -- seeing to Diamond, fetching firewood, keeping a clear path to the stable and outhouse, than to merely tramp this way or that, wading through snow and getting wind-burned cheeks. So I began to spend much of the daylight hours exploring the stable and shack. I often found curious or unexpected things. There were lots of old hand tools in the stable, some of which I couldn't identify. I found empty cans of black powder and Mail Pouch tobacco, a bullet mold, an Iver Johnson .32 cal revolver with the initials "LC" carved in the hand grip, but presumably not the one Leon Czolgosz used.
As the sun set, often disappearing behind clouds long before it touched the horizon, I couldn't help but become melancholy and often a feeling of loneliness overwhelmed me. I wondered why I had come here and what I hoped to do for myself by being here. There was no sound but the moaning of the wind around the shack, cold air curling around the windows and door, sometimes a few snowflakes blowing in with it. I found a bottle of whiskey in one of the cupboards and sometimes added a dollop to my cup of tea. But all it did was make me sleepy. Cooking dinner was the high point of the day and I made sure to extend the time involved by making items that took time to prepare. So instead of just opening a can of baked beans I would make potato soup using some freeze-dried potatoes, carrots, onion flakes and canned milk. Or I would make baking powder pan biscuits and an omelet using the eggs and cheese I had brought and some canned tomatoes and spices. I made cinnamon rolls and pancakes and oatmeal cookies. Using peanut butter I made peanut brittle and peanut butter fudge. I made brownies and chocolate fudge. I could have fed an army. What I couldn't eat, which was most of what I made, I wrapped carefully and sealed in the empty jars and cans I found stored atop the kitchen side cabinets. I hoped the goodies would not go stale before some tired cowhand stopped by to get out of the weather and would be able to enjoy some unexpected treats.
― Anthony T. Hincks
Once I had eaten and cleaned up, there was nothing to do. The stove burned a lot of wood and I didn't want to keep feeding it through the long hours of the evening wasting the firewood that others would need, so after supper I heated water for a bath in the big metal tub, scrubbed off in a bit of water rather as if I were taking a Japanese ofuro, then climbed into the clean, hot water in the tub, steaming rising from it in the cold air and soak until the water began to cool. Then I had nothing to do but crawl into bed, piling it high with extra blankets and, by the light of the kerosene lantern, read, if I could -- sometimes the wind would be so strong it would keen and whistle around the shack distracting me. It seemed as if it were a monster, shaking the windows and roof as it tried to find a way in and seize me, hurl me into the sky. Once, there was even rumbling thunder that was sometimes so near and loud that I could feel it in my chest, and, irrational as I knew the thought to be, the thunder seemed the voice of some angry being trying to get at me. Had I been with others, such thoughts would never have crossed my mind, yet alone they sprang from some atavistic part of my brain that still recalled the ancient terror of the night and the demons that stalked it. One stormy night the wind kept up a constant roar high in the sky for hours. Fortunately the terrain and trees protected the shack from what must have been hurricane-force winds. It was impossible to read, and, to take my mind away from the fearful weather, I did chess problems in my head until I finally drifted off to sleep.
But other nights not even the wind stirred. Sometimes, though, I thought I heard stealthy footfalls outside the shack and was glad I had that old Colt stashed under my pillow. Once or twice Pup growled, waking me from sleep and I sat upright, suddenly alert, the revolver in my hand, waiting and ready. I remembered one of my uncles saying that the farther away from humans you are the safer you are, and I had always accepted that as true, but scared into sitting upright in a strange bed in the middle of an icy cold night, holding two-and-a-half pounds of 100-year-old shooting iron knowing that if I had to fire it hell would be upon me, and aware I was utterly alone and tens of miles from those who cared about me, I began to doubt. But nothing ever happened. I would chastise myself for being a silly 'fraidy cat and lie back down and, pulling the covers up to my neck, and, resting the revolver close against my side, stare up into the darkness until, without knowing it, sleep would come and then blessed daylight.
I thought I would read one of the heavier tomes to keep my mind occupied and feel I had accomplished something but instead began browsing through a collection of O'Henry stories. I'm sure they were funnier when they were first published than they seemed to me. Picking through the paperbacks, I found Peyton Place, a novel I'd heard about but never read, so I started in on it but soon lost interest. Then I found a novel by an author, Thorne Smith, I had heard of as the author of Topper, made into a movie and later a TV series. The novel, The Stray Lamb, was a delight and broke the morose mood I had settled into. When I finished it, I decided it was time to go home. There was nothing more to do here, no enlightenment from a further sojourn in the wilderness. Thorne Smith's charming little novel had kick-started my stalled life and it was time to get on with it -- whatever "it" proved to be.
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
~ Robert Louis Stevenson
The next morning I put the shack in order and packed my gear on Diamond, hitting the trail in the dark well before sunrise. I hated to face the day's ride through the cold but was anxious to get back. Diamond seemed to sense we were heading home, as did Pup, and both seemed in my mind to feel relief that we were and eager to cover the miles. It was very cold so I wrapped myself in my woobie and poncho for extra warmth. There was no wind. The sky was overcast and flakes of snow were drifting down. There should have been a westering gibbous moon to provide light but the clouds blocked it completely. A couple of times we wandered off the trail, I only realizing it when Diamond stopped and wouldn't go on. She knew the way better than I did, so after the second straying I let her have her head. She'd take us home.
As we entered the shadow of the trees Diamond stopped but I kneed her on. I just wanted to get through here as quickly as possible. I would have urged her into a trot if I had thought it safe, but I sure didn't want her to stumble or trip here of all places. Just keep going my friend, just keep going, I whispered to her. Don't stop. Please. My whisper sounded deafening in the absolute silence. The fresh snow muffled Diamond's hoof falls. Now "it" knows we're here, I chastised myself. Then I thought, oh, don't scare yourself, Wanda. There's nothing here, and besides it will be daylight soon and you will be off the pass and in the clear. But I listened intently for any sound and peered ahead willing my eyes to penetrate the darkness. Then I suddenly thought -- why didn't I make a torch? That would have been easy to do and I would have light and no wild creature would brave fire. I'd never even thought about it. Too late now.
"We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead for God to let this life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an ordeal."
~ Alexandre Dumas fils
Suddenly Pup, who was following close behind Diamond and the path through the snow she made, growled, the growl rising to a snarl then a bark that was quickly cut off by a piercing yelp. I swung around in the saddle, dropping the reins as I raised the Winchester and pulled back the hammer and, seeing a large, shadowing something, aimed and fired, immediately levering another round into the chamber. But as I did so Diamond, snorting, reared up and threw me off. As she bolted down the trail one of her hoofs caught me a glancing blow in the side, knocking the rifle out of my hands. It discharged as it hit the ground, sending the bullet snapping past my head. I landed heavily and lay stunned for a second, then, as I tried to get up, I saw a moving shape. Was it fighting with Pup, dragging him off, or was it coming for me? I couldn't tell. It was just a blacker blob in the blackness. I drew the Colt and, grasping it in both hands, fired at the movement, once, twice, three times. Then I held fire, waiting to use my remaining two rounds if the thing came for me. But no thing came. There was no movement. No sound. And no dark shadow. Where was Pup? I called his name. No response. I tried to get up and my leg collapsed under me. I tried again, putting my weight on the other leg and holstering the Colt, pushed myself up with my arms. I took a step toward where I thought Pup must be, then another. Then I fell. I lay still, beginning to feel serious pain in my side. My shoulder and knee also hurt. I crawled toward where I thought I heard panting, drawing the Colt again in case the panting was "it." As I did so, my hand touched metal. My rifle. I reholstered the revolver and, using the rifle as a crutch, stood up.
I can't write clearly about what happened next. The panting stopped by and by. Pup was dead. I found his body after I found that of the mountain lion that had killed him. At least one of my shots had found its mark. I carried Pup's body around my shoulders as I struggled down the trail toward home. I found a stick to use as a better crutch than the rifle, but still it took till almost sunset to reach the spot where I had lunched and napped on the way up. I made a fire using a bow drill I made using one of my bootlaces as the bowstring and slept beside it all night. I assumed Diamond had gone home and, seeing her arrive riderless, someone would come looking for me, but in the morning when I woke up I saw her standing beside the ashes of the fire. She must have sought shelter and rest here just the same as I did, but I was in such bad shape and so tired I didn't notice her. It took my brain a few seconds to realize that this meant that no one was coming to rescue me. I would have to rescue myself. I had her kneel so I could put Pup's body across the pommel and sort of roll myself into the saddle -- my leg wouldn't support my weight pushing up in the stirrup -- and I headed her down the trail and let her find her own way home. I was in too much pain and emotional turmoil to do anything else. I almost fell off on the steep descent sections but otherwise the return was just a matter of ignoring pain and enduring when each second seemed endless and impossible to endure.
When I got home, I was taken to the hospital, where it was determined that besides multiple soft-tissue injuries I had two broken ribs and a broken collar bone. While I was there, they buried Pup. I had wanted to do that myself. My foolishness had gotten him killed. He trusted me and paid for it with his life.
My dad flew out to the line shack in the ranch Aviat Husky, putting it down in the shallow valley on the south side of the pass and hiking up to the trail. He found the lion, dead with one through-and-through made by the Winchester and two entries made by the Colt. He congratulated me on my good shooting. When he did, I looked away and said nothing. My mom said he cut off an ear to give me as a souvenir but she told him that was not a good idea. It wasn't.
Maybe I will write more about what happened sometime later.
But probably not.
Murderous edges. They never avert
The gaze of calculation one degree.
But they are hurt, they are hurt, they are hurt.
― Richard Eberhart
