by Aborn, A. L.
The weapons bag is on my right side. My handgun and rifle are beside me, one hand resting on top of the rifle butt. I feel a little safer and calmer than earlier, but still, I don’t like to feel so unprotected. My body is exhausted; every muscle aches in turn as I force myself to relax. Mentally, I tally up my injuries from the last few days: my left knee is still sore from my fall off of Beau, my face is sore from being thrown onto it last night and then punched today… the pain in my face drowns out most of the others, but it feels like I should be one giant bruise.
Gingerly, I touch my face, exploring the damage. My lips are swollen, and my left eye is puffy. Bits of dried blood still cling beneath my nose and mouth. Not wanting to disturb Meekah, I feel around in the truck around me until my fingers feel the straps of my backpack. Blindly searching the bottom, my hands brush up against my first aid kit. A bit of gauze soaked in a little rubbing alcohol should get the blood off easy enough. Gently dabbing the wounds, my eyes scrunch closed involuntarily at the sting. Finally, as clean as I’m going to get, I dry-swallow a few tablets of ibuprofen for the swelling.
The night sky above me is a deep navy framed by the black silhouette of the trees on either side of the road. A myriad of stars shines brightly around the pale face of the moon. It really is beautiful without the lights from town marring the details. Blocking everything else out, I focus on the pinpricks of light until I eventually fall asleep.
***
A wet nose nudging my hand drags me toward wakefulness. The sky is a light grey; all signs of the stars gone. The songs of the birds are loud in the early morning silence. Sitting up, I stretch my arms over my head and look around. Beau’s head is lowered to the stream, his lead still tethered to one of the nearby trees. I can hear the chickens and ducks thumping around in their crowded quarters. If for no other reason than them, I need to find a more permanent place today to release them from their cage.
Rolling out of the sleeping bag reminds me of all my injuries. My head feels heavy and cloudy; I think I could sleep for another twenty-four hours. Well, time enough for that later.
I hate to use up my supply, but I shake a few more ibuprofen out into my hand. Meekah hops out of the truck bed, following me over to the stream. The water is frigid. It makes my teeth ache with the biting cold as I swallow the pills.
Feeling a little more awake, I throw some food to the chickens and ducks and put some of Beau’s grain into his bucket. Meekah gets the last of the chicken stew from the night before, my stomach protests at the thought of food right now.
It doesn’t take long before everything is repacked into the truck. With Beau tied up behind the little trailer, Meek and I hop back into the cab and press on. Just like yesterday, the going is slow. I can only push Beau to go so fast, especially with him stopping every fifteen feet to try and grab anything green. The road itself is rough; washboard-like ripples in sections and giant potholes in others. The winter and water have been hard on the packed dirt.
After a few hours of the slow-going stop-and-go pace, the forest starts to thin. It feels strange; like I don’t recognize this area. I swear that the trail used to go in another direction at one point. Still creeping forward, I spy a flash of yellow through the trees. Meekah rocks forward on the bench seat at my abrupt stop.
Idling in the road, I keep my eyes locked on the section of yellow. When it doesn’t move, I shut the truck off and open the door. The squeal of the metal latch seems ridiculously loud. Meekah, excited to be out of the confines of the truck, jogs ahead of me, eager to stretch her legs. I am more cautious than her, but I try to trust in her relaxed demeanor that no one else is out here.
It feels good to be standing, but my sore knee twinges at the uneven ground. Picking my way through the underbrush under the trees, I take stock of my surroundings. The trees are much thinner ahead and to the left. The bright greenery is behind us in the sunshine; spring hasn’t yet arrived to this gloomy section of earth under the canopy.
Finally, I can see through the trees. There is a large clearing up ahead; the faded grey flesh of the tree stumps is broken by the darker felled trees lying every which way. In the center of the clearing, the sun is shining down on a bright yellow piece of heavy equipment. It has patches of rust scattered over the body of the tractor. I don’t really think it’s a tractor, but I don’t know what it’s called. Something huge that takes trees down?
I hadn’t realized that they were logging this area. That must be why after a certain point it seemed unfamiliar. The logging roads probably had seen more traffic than the old trail and I must have taken a wrong turn. Not that it matters much, since I don’t have a specific destination in mind.
Obviously, no one has been here since before the power went out. When I try the yellow door on the tractor, it’s locked up tight.
The clearing with the tractor only has one road and it’s heading away from where I walked in. This clearing must have been as far as they had made it before wrapping up for a weekend or something. Glancing around, nothing useful sticks out at me, except perhaps all the potential firewood. I’ll worry about that later. Calling for Meekah, we slip back through the trees.
Back in the truck, we resume our steady creep along the one lane road. If you could even call it a road at this point. Not long after stopping, we round a long curve to the right before reaching a fork. I think that if we were to head right, we would end up with the tractor in the clearing. No point going that way.
After heading left, the road gains some elevation before leveling out once more. The trees are steadily thinning, and the sun is shining brightly. A warm-ish breeze can be felt as we pass through some of the more open areas. In the distance, I can just make out some of the taller buildings in town. They’re tiny from this vantage point.
Once again, the road forks. I decide to shut the truck off to walk around a little. Both Meekah and I are getting a little fidgety from sitting in the cab for so long. The chickens are still being loud, and Beau is still contentedly ripping at the spring growth wherever he can find it. Satisfied that everyone is okay for the moment, I decide to make the short hike up the hill in front of us. The fork splits at the base of the knoll. Hopefully I’ll be able to decide which way to go when I can get a better view; I only have the vaguest impression of where I am.
My knee protests repeatedly at the effort of stepping up and over rocks as I make my way to the top. Meekah bounds ahead of me, lost to my sight in seconds. Scraggly trees offer convenient handholds as I pull myself up the last few feet. The top is fairly flat, with a collection of rocks and long, yellowed grass, left over from last year. The wind is much stronger here. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I turn to face the view.
I know where I am.
My throat tightens as a memory from my childhood flashes through my mind. In the third grade, when it had become obvious that my parents were getting divorced, my dad took my younger brother and I for a hike. It was up a small local mountain and wasn’t too difficult, even for elementary-aged kids. At the top, we sat with my dad on an outcropping of rock to see the view. The rock was slightly lower than the peak, requiring us to kind of squat and slide down onto the granite. I made it just fine, but as my brother slid down to join us, a blood-curdling scream had ripped through the quiet, late afternoon. Apparently, there were a few porcupine quills on the ground; my brother had slid over one of them, causing it to become lodged through his jeans and into his butt. Nine-year old me had found it hilarious, until my dad had had to pull his pants down, snip the end off and rip it out. We left right away, my dad carrying my brother over his shoulder all the way down. Needless to say, my mom had not been impressed.
A smile breaks through my tears at the memory. It’s still kinda funny.
Looking around, I pace around the edges of the flat area on top of the hill. In one direction, the ground drops off sharply for hundreds of feet. The woods are thick at the base of the mountain before giving way to fields that look like a patchwork-quilt from here. Each bloc
k is separated by a road that looks little more than a piece of thread.
That way eventually leads to town, to people.
Looking down, I finally see the rock that we had sat on to see the view with my dad. It’s smaller than I remember. My eyes sting with tears again; how strange to be standing so close to a place that I had shared with my family such a long time ago.
Shaking it off, I turn to look in the opposite direction. The drop off on this side is much more gradual and shallower. The descent leads to a sort of valley, set between two ridges that lead back to where I’m standing. We had driven across one of them to reach the most current fork in the road.
Now that I know where I am, it’s easy to figure out where I went wrong. I took a wrong turn shortly after leaving the house yesterday. It has been so long that I just hadn’t recognized it anymore. The crisscrossing logging trails had confused me, leading me to drive up the back side of the mountain, just short of the summit.
Still surveying the landscape, I decide that this is a good thing. The valley will make a nice area to set up a more permanent camp. It’s high enough to be off the beaten path and the ridges of the mountain should hide any campfire smoke from someone passing through. I like it.
***
Back in the truck, I choose the left fork. The road curves around the side of the mountain and immediately starts sloping down toward the valley. This section of the road has suffered far more than the rest that I’ve seen today. The ruts have turned into huge holes and some sections of the edges are missing completely. The pitch of the road becomes steeper. Looking in the side view mirror, I see Beau hesitating at the end of his lead. Mashing the brakes to the floor, the truck skids to a halt, sending dirt and rocks skittering down the hill in front of us.
Maybe this road wasn’t the best idea.
Throwing it in park, I hop out, leaving Meekah in the cab. Peeking in at the chickens and ducks as I pass by sends a pang of guilt through me. They glare at me from their tight quarters; they look dirtier than usual, which I guess is to be expected. I have to get them out of that crate as soon as I can.
Beau has both front hooves planted firmly, the lead rope stretched taut between his halter and the trailer. It takes a moment to unravel my knot from the back of the trailer, especially with the tension that he’s putting on the line. Finally untying it, I click my tongue at him to get him to come closer. He snorts at me instead, refusing to move.
Of course. Because why would he make this any easier?
It takes a minute for me to pick my way around the potholes to reach him. He again snorts as I draw close. Dipping his head, he nudges my middle with his big head. I almost lose my footing as he pushes me back. Trying to comfort him, I scratch the side of his face with one hand and his neck with the one holding the rope. Coaxing him over to a sturdy looking tree, it’s easy enough to loop the lead over and tie a quick knot.
The sound of something behind me makes me pause. What was that? Glancing over my shoulder, I don’t see anything out of place or moving. Warily, I turn back to Beau to ensure the knot is tight.
There it was again. Kind of like a… skidding noise… or something.
Still, I don’t see anything. Hurrying past the trailer, the source of the noise finally dawns on me: the truck! Facing down the steep hill on the loose dirt; the truck is starting to slide! As I pass the hitch connection to the trailer, the truck slides again. This time, it doesn’t stop after an inch or two.
Meekah! The birds!
A loud clang of metal against metal echoes loudly through the trees. The back-passenger tire of the truck has slammed into a pothole, causing the trailer hitch to twist and hit the back of the truck. Thankfully, the hole has stopped the forward momentum of the vehicle. I heave a sigh of relief as I reach the cab door and get back in.
Jesus Christ. My heart is pounding in my chest. Nothing is ever easy.
***
Finally, the angle of the road levels out. My pulse has returned to some semblance of normal, though I am really not looking forward to limping halfway up the mountain to fetch Beau. I don’t think I can ride him down; I might fall straight over his head if he decides to stop suddenly.
I let Meekah out of the truck this time after I’ve shut it off for what feels like the tenth time today. Checking the hitch, it looks like it’s hanging on by a thread. I don’t think it’s going to make it much further. Sighing, I decide to worry about that later.
The walking up is much harder than the driving down. The various potholes and ruts do lend some sturdy footholds that provide a little more security than the loose dirt and pebbles. Of course, the dog has no issue racing up the mountain ahead of me. She runs straight to Beau, wagging her tail and giving him a few shrill, excited barks. Nervously, his head is bobbing up and down. His hooves dance back and forth, further exciting her. “Meekah!” I scream. “Meekah! Come!”
I am envisioning having to watch her be crushed by the horse.
Scrambling to move faster, my left leg slips under me on the loose shale. I can’t peel my eyes away from my only friends as I fall to one knee.
And then, something amazing happens.
As Beau rips his head back and forth, the knot in his lead rope comes undone and it slithers to the ground. Trying to get away from the barking dog, Beau trots down the hill toward me. Bits of stone and sand bounce down ahead of him, showering my face with the dry earth. Meekah gallops to me; half of her body is wiggling in excitement. At what, I’m not sure. Maybe just the three of us being together and the glee of stretching her legs. “I could kill you,” I croon to her as I ruffle the fur around her neck and ears.
At least this time, her shenanigans benefited me.
Beau is still heading downhill, so I turn and carefully pick my way back to the truck. To further entice him to come to me, I climb up into the bed of the truck and scoop out a handful of his grain. Meekah sits like she’s getting a treat. Well, better there than running between his feet, I suppose.
He trots up to me and gently nibbles the grain from my outstretched hand with his velvety lips. Picking the rope up from the ground, I retie it to the back of the trailer. Only a little farther now, whether it be from the trailer falling off or finding a suitable place, we’re almost there.
***
The logging trail meanders through the trees after leaving the mountain slope behind. This section looks old and unused, like it hasn’t been travelled in years. The edges are undefined; the underbrush and grass creeping in to retake the path. It’s actually kind of beautiful. The sun is bright overhead, leaving a dappled pattern where it shines through the trees. Greenery is much more prevalent here in this sheltered, sunny valley. I even see the tops of daffodils in one area.
Further on, the road is hardly more than a goat path. A wall of trees, evergreens mostly, have grown thickly together to my left. Eventually we come to a small gap in the trees where some of the taller have reached up toward the sky and created an archway. It immediately catches my eye, like a doorway into a secret garden.
On impulse, I turn the truck through the narrow pass. It opens into a small clearing with trees all around. It’s large enough so that the sun can reach the ground without being blocked by the ring of pines. On the far side, in one corner, I can make out what look to be two big boulders.
Once Beau has passed through the clearing opening, I turn the truck to the right and pull it all the way up to the tree line. Cutting the engine, I hop out for what I hope will be the last time today. It’s afternoon and the sun is shining brightly overhead. This place is giving me a good feeling; besides, I’d rather be out here than cramped in the truck any longer.
Taking a quick walk around with Meek, I’m thrilled to hear the sound of rushing water. Stopping in the center of the clearing, I turn to survey the whole place. Decently far from anything of note, water nearby, enough space to be open enough for what I have but still private… I think this is it.
I think we’re home.
Chapt
er Four
Settling In
I’m not the only one excited about this spot. Meekah is following her nose through the yellowed grass, absorbing all the new scents. Beau has his head lowered, pulling at the stalks of old grass.
The squawks of the birds interrupt my momentary distraction. I think the first step should be arranging an area for the chickens and ducks. They really need to get out of that dog crate. My eyes run over the truck, trailer, and Beau. What options do I have?
The trailer is roughly four by six feet; Brad had really only used it around the yard to pile leaves and grass clippings to get them off the lawn. Could I somehow… create some sort of mobile coop from it? I had thrown a few odds and ends in it in passing while packing up the house, but there was really no need for it, not with the truck. Even if this isn’t where my permanent camp ends up, I can sacrifice the trailer space.
Carefully, I lower the tailgate and drag the shrieking dog crate to the edge. Locking my fingers through the wire crisscrossing the open spaces of the crate, I lift and slowly lower it to the ground. It’s intimidating, letting the birds loose. What if they run away? What if I can’t get them back into some sort of shelter and predators get them tonight? There are a lot of what its, but the only definite is that they can’t stay in this crate any longer.
Mentally crossing my fingers and every other part of me, I squeeze the latch and open the crate door. Immediately, the chickens press through the opening and spill out onto the grass. Flapping their wings and voicing their displeasure at me, they quickly scurry away. Eyeing me sideways, they eagerly start pecking the ground. The one duck stands apart, wearier than the chickens.