by T.W. Lycan
think there was about three of them. I always had a bad reaction to poison ivy so I wasn’t very excited about catching it now far away from help.
As I continued on the day passed. At this point in the journey I still had no idea where I was going. I just had to follow the creek. I constantly pondered on the idea that I was running from all of my problems. I had no intention to go back but doubts crossed my mind. My body was beginning to feel exhausted and I was not sure if I could grip this longer than a week. The overall fact about having these thoughts lead to my disbelief in myself and to a new stage of depression I could repress better than the others. I just had to bite the bullet and keep moving on. To top everything off I was very aware of four crows following me. They did nothing to hide the fact.
The sun began to settle on my face, blinding me as I walked. I stopped to look in my bag for my polarized sunglasses. Inside I found all the supplies I took with me. This bag was massive but my compound and my arrows took up most of the room. I could hardly get it to fit! I had a coat to throw on, pair of extra clothes, and pair of gloves, toothbrush and paste, first aid kit, fileting knife, hunting knife, a small 32. Caliber revolver, and at the bottom was my pair of polarized sunglasses. My sleeping bad and a trap hung on the outside of my bag. The trap was a model 330 conibear that I can use to trap beaver so I can sell the fur for any cash I can use to buy supplies.
Trapping was another thing I was taught as a child by my grandfather. I remember as a boy he would take me to a great beaver dam that used to stretch across the creek. He would have me stand on it while he would walk through the creek in his hip waiters checking all his water based traps. I remember how good it felt to stand upon it. I always wondered how many six year old boys were standing on top of a beaver dam at that very moment. My grandfather was something fierce about trapping. He would dry and stretch all of his furs so he could get top dollar for each pelt. He never did make a gold mine out of it. He did it for the love and passion of it. It was his hobby and he seemed to love it more than any of the fishing or hunting he showed me. I was always grateful for the times he took me and everything he showed me. Memories I will always cherish. My only regret is I never started trapping. Now I will get my shot with this one trap.
The night was becoming on me. I knew it was time to stop and make a campsite. I dropped my bag and began collecting brush and small branches to make a fire. I found the driest brush I could to use as a kindling to feed my little fire. Pulling a matchbook from my pocket I lit a match and made that little brush pile burn. The little embers burned into the brush and the smoke bellowing into my face felt good. As the flames rose I turned away to get my pole together to try some late night fishing. My hope was rising that I could catch some late night dinner. Before I had the pole ready to cast I noticed my fire died out. Cursing myself, the fire apparently needed more kindling to burn the bigger branches underneath. So I ventured out to find more. It died again, and again. After the third try and many cuss words later I gave up.
I climbed up into a large tree that overlooked the creek. I guess I was going to bed without any food and a fire. To make matters worse the scenery was depressing. An overcast came over the sky that night blocking out the moon and stars. I was dirty, sticky, and itchy and I did not archive success with trying to get the poison ivy off my arm because I could already feel it taking affect. My stomach growled, my back hurt and I was sure sleep wasn’t going to come easy. It didn’t come at all. Every time my eyes closed I could hear loud the squawking coming from the tree branches around me. This flock of crows had been following me all day, growing by the number as the day progressed. There was probably more than a dozen now, watching me sit in this tree. I didn’t want to sleep on the ground without a fire, but now I was beginning to think unknown bugs crawling in my sleeping bag would be safer than some birds trying to knock me out of this tree.
I never left the tree. Growing fearful of myself I sat on that branch the entire night criticizing my choices in life. It was the same problems every person you know has, but they all were hitting me at once. Now, the option of leaving it all behind to live in great outdoors seemed like a terrible decision. The image of the cloaked figure and all the crows in my dream were starting to make sense to me. I don’t think I have ever hated myself more than that moment. Wishing to live off the lessons learned from my grandfather I thought I could take to the outdoors like any mountain man. How pathetic and stupid I was. I didn’t want to go back home either. The pressure would be the death of me. I’d rather let these crows pick my flesh clean than return to that life. If I had to die it was going to be right here.
Another sleepless night and I once again watched the sun rise. The crows squawked all night, but they began to die down when the morning song birds took to their song. Sore and stiff, I climbed out of the tree and moved back on my Journey. I had now been up for over twenty four hours without food and limited water. I could feel death happening already. Weak and scared I ventured on and tried to make myself lost in the memories of my past. I thought of a memories of the past, of hunting with my grandfather. I knew those would cheer me up. The crows, an uncountable number were following me. I decided to tell them a story out loud since they seemed to be the only thing in this world that was interested in me.
“When I was about fourteen my grandfather took me deer hunting. I was real excited! Getting to be taken out of school to go hunting was awesome to me. We went out on the edge of a hayfield where my grandfather used to hunt all the time. An old tree was sitting comfortably hidden behind smaller trees and brush. A fresh deer trail crossed right on the edge of the field and right into the sights of our guns. He had bought a two man stand so he could sit with me as we hunted. We got up in that tree and watched the sun come up. The cold air was getting to me and I was falling asleep here and there. My grandfather kept his eye on me. I was carrying a youth model 20 gauge shotgun. It was a tiny gun but I could bulls eye any deer that stood directly in front of me. The distance from the stand to the trail was about thirty-three yards away. After a while a
small buck appeared right in front of the stand. My heart was screaming! I held my gun down on the gun rest and was about to take aim. The buck looked up, smelled the air, and took off! I was a little upset, but I didn’t get let it bring me down. Later another buck was walking across the hayfield away from us, a small 8 point buck. Grandpa used a doe grunt call and it worked! The horny buck came trotting up the trail in front of us. He stopped right in front of my gun sights. I can still see him clearly, the sun shining off his brown fur. I aimed right behind his shoulders, hoping to hit the heart, lungs, or liver. I pulled the trigger. The buck took off and it was all slow in my head. A dark hole was in his side and I knew I hit him. Grandpa was sure I did to, he never said it but I could see it on his face. He basically had to hold me down in the tree stand, because I wanted to chase after it. The rule is you wait awhile so the deer can bleed out and I was going crazy. Finally he let me get down out of the stand and we went looking for signs that I hit him. Grandpa found it. Lung tissue and a little blood was found on some hay. We followed the direction of the little bits of lung and blood. Slowly, the trail grew bigger, blood spraying the hay in the direction he ran. Grandpa saw his white belly before I did. He was laughing and so was I. We cheered over to the fallen prey and he congratulated me. We hugged long and hard. He told me how proud he was. I will never forget that day.”
The entire time I told this tale I was digging in my bag while walking. I pulled my revolver out, turned, and shot blindly at the crows. They scattered off, squawking angrily. Draining the last of my water I had, I continued to feel sorry for myself and that is when the rain came. It started as a sprinkle while the sun was still out. I looked around occasionally for a rainbow and then the dark clouds came in washing away all the light.
Thunder roared to life, and lighting cut through the air, wind blowing the branches off all the trees back. The rain poured down drenching me. Taking cover under a tree, I curl
ed into a ball, cursing at my luck. I heard a loud squawking. A sound I wished I could erase from my mind. I looked and saw a large fat crow staring down at me. When I say a large fat crow I mean a huge obese crow. He looked to stand about two feet tall, and was wider than two footballs. He had the blackest eyes. Evil eyes. The crow seemed to be mocking me. The squawking became a cackling. The crow was mocking me!
I remembered my hunger and opened my bag. Instead of the gun, I went for the bow. Never liked killing with a gun as much. The accomplishment was never the same. A bow was much harder, quiet and peaceful with a dose of death at the end. I took the bow and nocked an arrow. The crow seemed amused as I drew the bow back. I thought back to the old memory of the first deer I killed and I smiled. This would be my inspiration. I would kill this wretched crow and feast upon his large body. I never ate crow before. I bet grandpa never did either. The last thing that went through my mind was the cloaked figure from the nightmare. Lighting flashed and the crow vanished from sight a quick second before I released the