Seven Day Story Part 3

It’s dark now and the fire is going pretty steady. There’s a good coal bed forming and if I can find some small game it’ll be easy to cook in the camp pan I brought. I’ve been sitting here complaining about my situation when the truth is, I’m way luckier than others that have been stuck like this. I have professional gear, a first aid kit, a lighter. Things we take for granted in the city. I am fully aware that I could be stuck out here with none of those things, so I’m trying to do better about being positive.

Part of normal positivity, though, is adequate sleep, and I won’t be getting any of that out here. The forest is so loud. I thought traffic in the city was bad, but these crickets and birds are something else. They talk to each other all day and all night. I might be different if I could tell what they were saying, but it’s like going to Chinatown to get herbs; you might be able to find what you’re looking for, but not without some work. I sure would like to be able to tell one of these birds to fly out and get help.

My next plan went off without much of a hitch. I heated one of my climbing hooks in the fire until it was red-hot on one side, then used gloves to hold it against me and cauterize the bone’s evacuation point through my leg. The pain was immense enough that I felt light-headed and unstable, even sitting down, but it had to be done. All I can smell is burnt flesh and hair, but I’m not bleeding as badly anymore. That’s the kind of thing you see in movies but don’t ever think you’ll have to experience yourself. Never say never.

I’m moving into day eleven, so I have three and a half days, give or take, to make it to the extraction zone. A six-mile hike through the woods with a broken leg. Why couldn’t it have been my arm instead? Hand? Wrist? Shoulder? Anything but the legs or ankles. Maybe not the neck, either. If it was hand or finger I might not be able to write this, but I wouldn’t feel like I have to if I could walk. I’m talking myself in circles again. Hopefully, I can lie back and get a little bit of rest.

I managed to sleep quite a bit, even though it happened in pieces. I would sleep for an hour or two, wake up for thirty minutes and then repeat. It at least afforded me the opportunity to keep feeding the fire so it wouldn’t die out in the night. I heard something that at first I thought was a squirrel, but it turned out to be a raccoon. When I saw it I remembered sharpening a couple sticks to hunt with and got lucky enough to spear it. I think it came so close because it thought I was sleeping and probably had food. Tough break, brother.

It’s early morning, close to seven o’clock. The fire is still good so I’m going to skin and cook this kind soul that has died so I can live. Not like he really had a choice, but I appreciate it nonetheless. Once I finish cooking it I’ll eat some and store the rest for the trip. I’m going to need all the energy I can get to hobble that six miles. I’m really not looking forward to it.

I’ve never skinned anything myself, so I’m kind of nervous. I went hunting with my uncle once when I was about eleven. Shot a deer but it took off and we couldn’t find it. My uncle got one, though, and he asked if I wanted to help prepare the venison. I wasn’t really interested in helping, but I did watch him go through the process. All that blood is something you don’t think about until it’s right in front of your face. What I remember the most from it is the blank stare the deer had as it hung from the ceiling of the garage. A husk with no driver made me question my stance on the existence of the soul.

When I nabbed this raccoon I speared it through the shoulders, but as soon as I had him I used my knife to sever the head. I wanted its pain to be over as quickly as possible. I could feel bile rising in my throat as I cut through tendons and muscle. It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing, but sometimes we all have to do things we don’t want to. I feel as if society would be a much different place if people had to hunt and kill their own food like we did in the old days. Taking a life because you value your own over theirs does something to you.

I just made a makeshift spit to roast him on. I used a little rope to the two sticks together in a teepee shape on each side so I can rest a stick in the middle. The spear went through him pretty easily, but seeing the tip come out through its mouth almost ruined my appetite completely. I won’t back out now of course, but I don’t have to like it, either. In about a half hour we’ll see what happens.

It’s pretty safe to say I understand what people are talking about when they say something tastes “gamey.” Very little meat, but it was lean. I can’t think of another word to use to describe it other than gamey. It’s one of those things you have to experience to really understand. Now that I do, I really don’t understand how people choose to live life this way. I couldn’t do it. Well, I’m sure I could if I had to, but I wouldn’t choose it. What could happen in someone’s life to make them want to eat critters?

The food is settled now and I’ve just finished taking down the tent. Everything is packed up and ready to go. I’m going to go as far as I can while it’s light out and listen for water along the way. I didn’t see or hear any on my way through from the other direction, but I wasn’t particularly looking, either. I’m hoping that with the help of my walking stick I’ll be able to cover some good ground. And stay away from bears.