I chose a good spot under the trees and made a large pile of the abundant small dead twigs and branches. Then I shredded some of the tinder fungus with the sharp chert flake and piled the tiny, dust-like shreds in a hollow in a large piece of tinder fungus.
To strike sparks to start a fire, I needed not only the chert, but also a piece of steel, or marcasite as the Indians had used. My chances of finding any steel or marcasite in the next half hour were approximately zero. I needed another way to start a fire and I didn't have the hour or two it would take me to make a bow-drill fire starting set, especially since I had never made one before. I just knew about them from watching online videos.
Then I thought, why not make a magnifying glass from some of the three-inch thick clear ice on the small creek? I broke a piece of clear ice free and, using the chert flake started shaving it into the shape of a large bi-convex lens about eight inches in diameter. I was greatly hampered by intense shivering and freezing fingers, but, under threat of death, persevered. When I was done, the surface of the ice lens was too cloudy to pass light effectively. I needed something to polish the surface. I tried rubbing the surface with my hands, but my body was shutting down the blood flow to my extremities and they were cold. I knew I didn't have long left now, so I held the ice against my stomach and used what little remaining body heat I had to melt the surface ice. In about ten minutes I had a passably clear ice lens.
I carefully held the lens, bracing my shaking arms against a stick, and focused the light beam on a small pile of shredded and powdered tinder fungus. In about 90 seconds, a small tendril of smoke rewarded me. By blowing carefully and adding larger shreds of tinder fungus, I soon had a small fire going. I huddled over it as I slowly added larger twigs and then small sticks. Soon, I was warmer, but by no means warm. At least though, as long as I had the fire, I was in no danger of freezing.
As I sat naked by the warmth of the fire, my butt on a pile of bark and my back almost against my small lean-to made from dead branches, weaving strips of bark into crude boots and a robe, another fire in my belly hardened my determination.
It might take me a while, maybe a year, maybe even three, but I promised myself that I would one day kill the president, with my bare hands if possible; if not, then maybe with a drone. The president was a man who lived by the drone and I thought it fitting that he might die by the drone as well.
Also on Amazon
Flaming Cows, Watermelon Love, and Blackbird Stew
by
Mike Whitworth
This is a rip-roaring, coming of age tale that spans the years from about 1955 through 1974. It is a wild, and sometimes irreverent, ride that includes flaming cows (really), shooting rats with a tommy gun, a swimming cat, a pet mocking bird, blowguns and spear throwers, saxophones (have you ever stopped a tugboat with a saxophone?), a watch mule, turkey dogs, Vietnam, and many other stories; mostly funny, but some that will deeply touch your soul—all woven tightly together to tell the story of an unusual boy growing up in the Deep South. Available here
Drone Wars 1: The Beginning Page 28