DAVIS L. BIGELOW - A lighthouse keeper, an author, a photographer, an adventurer...

Photography Tips - Part 1

2011-07-26T21:38:00.001-06:00

The other afternoon I met Suzanne, a photographer at the beginning of her creative photography career. She had a tripod, a decent camera, a good eye for a photo, and a few questions - which I tried to answer. And that got me thinking... I realized that I have never posted about photographic technique. So... here are a few tips and tricks. Thanks for the inspiration Suzanne!

I'll start at the beginning with the basics and then proceed to the more complicated.

STILL PHOTOGRAPHY 101 - Part 1

Theory: Let's begin with a question. What is still photography? My definition is this: Still photography is the process of capturing and preserving a small slice of light with the intention of having that slice be pleasing to the eye. What do you think?

I like the medium of still photography because it allows me to do what no physicist can do... stop time. A small bit of light enters the lens of my camera and I fire the shutter. If my shutter has stayed open for the right amount of time, I have a properly exposed photograph.

Let's talk for a minute about exposure. There are three components or factors to photographic exposure: 1. Shutter Speed, 2. Aperture (often called f-stop), & 3. ISO (often called ASA).

1. Shutter Speed - Cameras can open their shutters for whole seconds and for fractions of a second. Professional camera shutter speeds range from 1/12000th of a second to 30 seconds to BULB. The BULB setting means that the shutter remains open for as long a time as the operator wants it to be open - and that can be as much as several hours or as little as 31 seconds. If you were to take a two hour photographic exposure, for example, the light levels would have to be less than you could see with your naked eye or else the photo would be over-exposed.

In order to hand hold an average camera with a standard lens (I'll talk more about lenses later) and have the shutter speed last for a short enough duration so the photo will not show camera shake, the shutter speed needs to be faster than 1/60th of a second. If you want to take a longer exposure or if you want to use a telephoto or closeup lens, then a tripod is recommended. In the absence of a tripod, leaning the camera on a ledge, a knee or a sturdy upright support might provide enough stability to get the shot.

Shutter speeds are offered in such a way that there are full jumps and then either half or 1/3 jumps in between - all for the purpose of controlling the light more precisely. Beginning at 1 second, full jumps are as follows: 1sec - 1/2sec - 1/4 - 1/8th - 1/15th - 1/30th - 1/60th - 1/125th - 1/250th - 1/500th - 1/1000th - 1/2000th of a second - etc. Each full jump in shutter speed, 1/30th up to 1\60th for example, cuts the light reaching the film plane (or digital sensor) in half. As an example, a shutter speed of 1/15th allows 8x more light to reach the film plane than does a shutter speed of 1/125th of a second.

2. Aperture - Aperture, or f-stop, is the measure of the size of the light's pathway through a lens to reach the film plane or digital sensor. Aperture is like the pupil in your eye - it gets bigger or smaller depending on the light intensity.
As a general rule, the bigger the diameter of the lens, the more light that is available to make the photograph and, as a result, the better the photo quality. The farther away the lens is from the back of the camera the bigger the lens needs to be. For this reason, tiny point and shoot cameras are thin with small lenses and SLR's are thick with big lenses. (SLR stands for single lens reflex, or cameras that show in the viewfinder the exact scene that the lens sees.)

F-stops are expressed in "f" numbers. Expensive zoom lenses may have a maximum f-stop of 2.8, while cheaper models might be limited to f4 or f5.6. These numbers may sound confusing, but the learning curve isn't all that bad. The rules are easy enough.

a. The larger the f-number, the less light the lens is able to gather.

b. The smaller the number, the more light the lens is able to gather.

c. The larger the f-stop, the more depth range of the photograph that is in focus, or in photographic lingo, the more depth of field there is.

d. The smaller the f-stop, the less depth of field.

e. There are full f-stops (f1.2 - f2 - f2.8 - f4 - f5.6 - f8 - f11 - f16 - f22 - f32) and there are half stops or even 1/3 stops, depending on the camera. The important thing to remember is that every time you change the setting by one full stop, you either double the light reaching the film plane or cut the light in half. For example, the difference in the amount of light getting into the camera at f2.8 as opposed to f8 is 8x less at f8 than it is at f2.8. Switching from f8 down to f16 means that 4x less light will reach the film plane. If you measure from f2.8 to f16, the difference in the amount of light reaching the film plane is 32x more at f2.8 than it is at f16.

a shutter speed of 1/125th and an f-stop of f-8 will still be perfectly exposed when shot at 1/60th and f11 or at 1/1000th & f-2.8. The difference in the photographs (assuming all three shots were taken in focus with the same lens and without camera shake) will be in the depth of field - the amount of front to back area in the photograph that is in focus.

3. ISO (often called ASA) - ISO is the measure of the film or digital sensor's sensitivity. Common ISO settings are 100 - 200 - 400 - 800. Each of these sensitivity numbers corresponds to one f-stop or to one full jump in shutter speed. Consequently, ASA (ISO)100 requires twice as much light to expose the digital sensor properly as ASA200 would, etc, etc. Now you may be asking the obvious, "If I can use a much faster shutter speed at ISO800 than at ISO100, then why wouldn't I just shoot all my pictures at 800"? A good question! The answer is that the higher the ISO, the more the image quality degrades. If you want a grainy look in your picture, like you might want to create in a soft, close up portrait, then by all means shoot at ISO800, 1600, 3200, 6400 or even ISO12800. Your shutter speeds will be higher, and if you are outside, your aperture will have to be a high f-number too (resulting in a lot of depth of field).

In conclusion to Part 1, manipulating ISO, Shutter Speed & F-stop allow you to create different effects of the same image that you are looking at. If you want to freeze action, for example, then use a higher ISO and a faster shutter speed (a shutter speed of 1/1000th of a second will freeze most action). If you want to take a panning shot with a kid on a speeding bicycle going past you, for example, (panning is when you swing the camera and track the object you are photographing), and as a result, streak the background but keep the object sharp, then you will want to use a slower shutter speed and a lower ISO. For pan shots, 1/15th of a second up to 1/60th usually work well, depending on how fast the object is moving. When you pan, just try to keep the part of the image you want in focus in the same place in the viewfinder as you snap the photo.

Photography is about effect, expression and creativity, so have fun. Don't be afraid to experiment - especially if you have a digital camera. If you have a happy accident, remember what you did so you can do it on purpose the next time. Just remember that shutter speed, f-stop and ISO are all related and can be combined like cream, sugar and butter to make the perfect icing for your carefully prepared masterpiece.

In Part 2, I'll talk about either composition or lenses - or perhaps both. Composition has my heart, but lens choice can make all the difference. Knowing how to use a cheap lens can make your photos very good with just a little know how. Stay tuned...

And thanks for tuning in this time.

My 29th Wedding Anniversary Remebered

2011-07-17T09:00:00.000-06:00

It is with great fondness and joy that I recall that fine summer's day when I married Diana, the red haired girl of my dreams. Even though it’s been 29 years, the scene seems like only yesterday. Since that wonderful, life changing moment in 1982, my life has not gone according to plan, but overall, it has gone pretty well. Sure, I’ve had ups and downs both great and small, but through it all, Diana has been there – an anchor in a hurricane, a Popsicle on a hot day, a voice of reason when I was unreasonable, a sweet and delightful companion in both sickness and in health, a friend always. Yes, I'm still in love! Marrying Diana was the best thing I've ever done and I'm often amazed that as a naive 22 year old I chose so wisely. If I hadn't had God's help in the choice, my life would be not nearly so nice!

The hopeless romantic in me recalls the words of a favourite song. It's by Jud Strunk and was written and released in 1973. Sadly, Jud died nearly a year before Diana and I married but I appreciate what he left behind. The song is called “Daisy A Day”.

Daisy A Day
By Jud Strunk

He remembers the first time he met ‘er
He remembers the first thing she said
He remembers the first time he held her
And the night that she came to his bed
He remembers her sweet way of singin’
Honey has somethin’ gone wrong
He remembers the fun and the teasin’
And the reason he wrote ‘er this song

CHORUS
I’ll give you a daisy a day dear
I’ll give you a daisy a day
I’ll love you until the rivers run still
And the four winds we know blow away

They would walk down the street in the evenin’
And for years I would see them go by
And their love that was more than the clothes that they wore
Could be seen in the gleam of their eye
As a kid they would take me for candy
And I loved to go taggin’ along
We’d hold hands while we walked to the corner
And the old man would sing ‘er his song

CHORUS

Now he walks down the street in the evenin’
And he stops by the old candy store
And I somehow believe he’s believin’
He’s holdin’ ‘er hand like before
For he feels all her love walkin’ with him
And he smiles at the things she might say
Then the old man walks up to the hilltop
And gives her a daisy a day

CHORUS

Jud Strunk performing “Daisy a Day” live on stage
Jud Strunk - wikipedia article

Davis L. Bigelow's Writing Tips

2011-07-03T20:59:00.000-06:00

Writing Tips

Over the course of many years, I have read and analyzed a lot of different writing styles. I think that if you, as a writer, are happy with the words on your paper then your words are probably good enough and your style is probably good enough too. Being overly critical can stifle creativity, and honestly, I’ve seen some rough writing that was sculpted in such a way that the roughness worked in sweet harmony to produce what I thought was a great result. I recommend that you just write and then think about your writing later. In school, not every English teacher I had liked my style, but that was an expression of their personal notion of what they thought my style should be. I have found that one style does not fit all readers. Opinions are usually free – even educated and credentialed opinions, and sometimes they are worth that price and not a penny more. If you are a creator of sentences, lines and prose, then you have the right to decide what words live or die in your original work. Rules in writing are nice, and often helpful, but they are only guidelines.

As for me, I began earnest writing in 2001. I completed grade 11 English in high school and winged it from there on. During that final semester of school, I took an English placement test and made it into the 98th percentile of all 12th grade students in the province of British Columbia, Canada. I’ve done more than OK. Since 2003, I have authored two books - one autobiography and one adventure novel, with a second adventure novel in the works. As I wrote, my style slowly changed into something I was happy with.

Here are some things that work for me:

When I read, I pay attention to the writer’s style. Do I like or dislike the writing style? Could the style improve? How? Do I like the style enough to try my own version of it?
When I hear awesome words, I write them down & try to use them in my writing.
When I think of or hear cool names, I write them down. I think that character and place names can make or break a story.
When I think of good story lines or complete plots, I write them down. Sometimes I dream good stories & sometimes I think of plots out of the blue. The important thing I do is to write my thoughts when they're fresh because if I don’t I only can remember that I had a good idea – but what was it?.
Another thing I do is to consider the styles of other writers, but when I write my own stuff, I just do what feels right to me. After the words are written, then I go back and edit and hopefully improve the flow of the work.
I write nearly every day, but sometimes it is just in my journal.
Often, I have only five or ten minutes to work, but I write anyway. I carry my net book with me as often as is practical, but sometimes I use my I-Pod and email my files to myself.
When I edit, I always read out loud to myself. Using this technique, I tend to catch 99% of grammatical errors on my first edit. I find that "grammar check" doesn't always know how to write. (I use MS Word. I find its grammar/spell check is mostly accurate, but not always.)
On my second edit, I look at the flow. How long are my sentences? Are they all the same length? How long are my paragraphs? Does each paragraph convey one complete thought? Long paragraphs tend to slow the story, so I try to ensure that the paragraph and sentence lengths match my intended flow pattern.
On my third edit, I look at my characters. If the story is long, I try to edit the entire manuscript all the way through - one time for each main character and look to see that their voice is consistent with their personality from the beginning to the end.
On all my edits, I listen for words that don't flow smoothly together - unless I want the words to sound rough for effect. I also look for words that are used too often and find appropriate synonyms to replace them. I pay attention to the mood the work is conveying and adjust as needed. Finally, in my latest writing, I use an outline and build my stories from that framework. I never used to do this, but recently have found it quite useful – especially in light of the fact that I often write for just a few minutes at a time with major interruptions between times. I find an outline helps me get back to the story faster.

O Canada! July 1, 2011 marks 144 years!

2011-06-25T17:06:00.000-06:00

In my fast paced life I appreciate taking time to pause to consider my well nourished roots. I was born in Canada - quite probably the most war free country in the world, and I am grateful for the peace and safety I enjoy living here. I suppose there will always be those immature and socially dysfunctional folks who try to give a country a bad name (like the demonstrators who recently threw violent temper tantrums following the
Vancouver Canucks' loss in the last game of the Stanly Cup final with Boston), yet most of us who call Canada our home make an honest effort to be good citizens. Along with England, France and Germany (and perhaps there are more countries that should be in this list), Canada is and has been a very immigration friendly destination in the global village. It has been said that "Immigration is the sincerest form of flattery" (John Paar), and I tend to agree. Before the global economic downturn, Canada was right up there in the top two or three best counties to live in, but today, Canada stands alone at the top. We enjoy the best standard of living in the world, the most stable economy, and I think we also enjoy the lowest crime and murder rates. And at least some of our politicians are honest! Throughout the world, nearly everywhere Canadians travel, they are welcomed as friends. One can walk downtown in Toronto or Vancouver (without getting mugged) and hear a myriad of different languages - within just a few minutes. In fact, even among the people I see and speak with here in rural Alberta, at least ten different languages are represented. Canada is truly the ultimate melting pot for the whole world. Canada is where friends live with friends. Canada is an awesome place to live!

Here is our national anthem, "O Canada" (all the verses of the song).

"O Canada! our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide, O Canada,
We stand on guard for thee.

O Canada! Where pines and maples grow.
Great prairies spread and lordly rivers flow.
How dear to us thy broad domain,
From East to Western Sea,
Thou land of hope for all who toil!
Thou True North, strong and free!

O Canada! Beneath thy shining skies
May stalwart sons and gentle maidens rise,
To keep thee steadfast through the years
From East to Western Sea,
Our own beloved native land!
Our True North, strong and free!

Ruler supreme, who hearest humble prayer,
Hold our dominion within thy loving care;
Help us to find, O God, in thee
A lasting, rich reward,
As waiting for the Better Day,
We ever stand on guard.

Refrain
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. (by Stanley Weir - with slight changes)

Happy 144th birthday Canada!!!

For more info on our national anthem and Canadian heritage.

My Father, Lyle Dean Bigelow – The Leader of the Band

2011-06-19T10:03:00.003-06:00

Father's Day Tribute - To My Dad

I’m grateful that I remember my Dad. Sadly, that’s more than some can say about their own fathers. On August 2nd, 1995, at the end of 69 years of life, my father passed away peacefully, leaving my mother and six children to go on with life. I was 35 years of age at the time and felt much too young to be advanced to the front line of our family’s male generation, but there I was anyway, reluctant and feeling old before my time. It’s been sixteen years since that sad summer day, and I still miss my father.

I recently visited Dad’s grave, located in Cardston, Alberta, and spent a few quiet minutes contemplating the life of a man who, thou human, gave me life and raised me the best he knew how to. When Dad was three years old, his mother died in childbirth. When he was nine, his father died in an accident. Dad’s childhood and subsequent youth were filled with turmoil and an abundance of uncertainty. My father’s early life was a bumpy ride, and Dad bore those early scars for all his life. Some of those scars made him weak and other scars made him strong and wise. Considering Dad’s rocky early years, not to mention his ongoing poor health, I’m proud that he made as much of himself as he did. I’m not sure I would have done so well. Dad sacrificed for us children. Dad tried hard to set a good example to us. I’m grateful that he was as good a father as he was to me and my five sisters. And as the years passed, just like most fathers, he got better at being a Dad.

In July of 1957, because of his poor health, Dad took my mother and three older sisters to the lights on the rugged and remote wet, west coast of Canada and became a lighthouse keeper. Little did my parents appreciate how their move would affect their posterity. By the time I was born in 1960, my family was living on their third lighthouse, a tiny, oblong dot of land called Pointer Island. Their move to Pointer Island Light in 1958 would be my parent’s last move until Dad retired in 1984 - and by then I was grown up, moved away and married.

As I stood by my father’s grave, I shed tears of sadness and tears of joy. I smiled as I remembered the story Dad often related about his birth – how the doctor had told his mother that she shouldn’t get attached to him because he wasn’t going to live long. Dad had greatly outlived both his parents as well as the doctor’s expectations. After 69 years of dodging death, Dad now lay at rest in the family plot – and I was left to continue on his legacy... The chorus of a famous 1981 song came to mind – a song written by Dan Fogelberg, called “Leader of the Band”.

“The leader of the band is tired
and his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument
and his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt
to imitate the man
I'm just the living legacy
to the leader of the band.”

More tears flowed. Dad hadn’t been perfect in life, yet he had tried – and over time, as I watched the years flow by, Dad became more and more the man he wanted to be. “I’ve seen the light... Have you?” Dad’s oft spoken words sounded again in my mind, accompanied by my memory of Dad’s easy smile, but this time I finally answered the question. “Yes Dad. I think I have finally seen the light. I think that getting life right is about making sustained efforts to improve myself over time – lots of time. I’m not sure I’m as far along as you were at my age, but I will keep on trying – I’ll keep struggling forward. And because I saw you succeed, maybe I can too. Thanks Dad! Thanks for being the leader of our band!”
:)
P.S. The six seagulls soaring in the beams of the light shining from the skeleton tower on Pointer Island represent me and each of my five sisters. My older sister, Sharon, drew the sketch for Dad's fittingly unique headstone.

Dan Fogelberg in Wikipedia
Dan's live, 1982 performance of "Leader of the Band" on youtube.

Product Review - Salomon Trail Running Shoes – Model: X-Trail 1

2011-06-12T16:47:00.002-06:00

A few months ago, I dropped in to a Camper’s Village store in Edmonton (the capital of the province of Alberta) and discovered a big clearance sale in progress. Happily, I found a pair of trail runners in my size and in my price range. When does that ever happen!! The Salomon X-Trail 1 shoes fit my narrow foot perfectly, but I found that I needed a ½ size bigger than I normally wear. I liked the breathable uppers, aggressive tread, the very light weight but tough design features and quick lacing system. The colours were awesome too.

The lacing utilizes a one pull system. When tight, the lock and excess lace tucks up into an concealed, elasticized pocket in the tip of the tongue where it never comes out until called for. The lacing system is very well thought out and I love it. Now I should confess that I’m a hiking boot kind of guy, but since the price wasn’t too high, I decided to give the Trail Runners a try. I figured that even if they weren't all that great to hike in that they would still do well in the car, at the mall or on my treadmill.

Finally, on June 4th after a nasty cold and wet spring, I put the Salomons to their first test – the Wishbone Trail in Waterton Park. How did they do? The initial wilderness trail was mostly grass and dirt with the occasional brittle deadfallen stick to snap under my weight. The Trail Runners were stable and responsive and didn't transmit an excessive amount of force into the sole of my foot when I came down on pointed rocks or bumpy branches. As the 8km hike progressed however, I felt the pointy underfoot objects a little more than at first, but not too much more. We’ve had an excess of rain here in Southern Alberta and the trail was soupy in numerous places. I tried to skirt the temporary water holes, but soon decided that I should change my name to Davis Bogtrotter! So long as the water level was no more than a half inch deep, my feet remained dry, but some bogs were unavoidably deeper and soon my socks were soaked. The shoes were definitely breathable – at least everywhere except the soles! I tramped about 6km with wet feet before I saw my car again, but I got no blisters – and I liked that part! And the water seemed to leave the shoes as quickly as it came in. Near the end of the trail, I jogged a few hundred metres (they are trail runners after all). Their light weight was a welcome break from my usual hiking footwear, but I still raised my heart rate! Go figure. I did find that the Salomons allowed me to maintain a faster walking pace than my boots ever allowed me to – and I liked that very much. Greg, my hiking partner for the day, complained that even though I was 11 years his senior that he could hardly keep up with me. (It was just the shoes Greg!)

At home, I pulled out the wet insoles and thoroughly rinsed away all the dirty bog-water (with warm water in the bathtub). I set the insoles out to air dry and put my shoes in the dryer with four dry towels (to absorb water and shock). I set the dryer on the air only setting. After about an hour of banging around in the dryer, I let the Trail Runners dry for a day and then tried them on again. They fit just like they did in the store and seemed to suffer no damage whatsoever. I’m impressed! Even wet, the shoes felt good and I was pleased with their overall performance. I will definitely use my Salomons again! (Sorry Greg!)

For more info, visit Salomon USA or Salomon Canada

The Four Tests Of Life

2011-06-04T09:22:00.002-06:00

I'm a thinker (and that's not an apology), and in this weeks post I want to drip a few more drops of ink from my overactive mind. I hope you will find my thoughts interesting - and perhaps even personally beneficial.

In considering life, its meaning and its progression from birth to death, I believe that each of us will be forced to take a stand, from time to time, on some jugular issues. I don't mean superficial stuff like the house we want to buy and live in or the clothes we wear (although those things may have great impact on us), but I am thinking deeper. I am thinking about the way we each approach and deal with life and its vicissitudes.

We all make decisions, some tough and some easy, but I believe that some of the decisions we make are like the oxygen we breath - if we are to live, we are forced to make them. For example, I walk down the street and see a fat wallet laying right in front of me on the sidewalk. Am I surprised? Yes. Am I forced to make a decision? Yes. At that moment, I have power over that wallet. It may contain a large amount of cash or some other valuable commodity. What do I do? Do I pick the wallet up? Do I steal what I find? Do I turn it in to some authority? Do I walk past the wallet and leave it behind me? No matter what else happens, I am forced to decide something. The only way I would not have to make a decision is if I had not seen the wallet - but it's too late for that now. Because I was there at that moment in time, I'm forced into making a quick decision in regard to that wallet.

Now this principle of forced decision making is probaboly not new to any of you. It seems that I live in a stream of continual confrontation with the opportunity to decide. I hear a joke, I see the cover of a magazine, I stub my toe, I get a paycheck with lots of overtime paid out, I am put in charge of someone - the stream of life never stops washing over me and I expect it never stops washing over you either. The stream just keeps flowing and I am left with only one option - to make numerous quick decisions - whether I want to make them or not.

So, you may be wondering... what are the four tests of life? Well, I will tell you what I believe they are. As I have pondered the seemingly endless stream of forced decisions, I believe that every ultimately significant decision can be categorized into one of four groups: money, power, pain and sex. I believe that the real tests of life are how we personally handle the forced decisions within those four groups - especially the forced quick decisions.

I may not be rich, but I do have enough money to live. I may only have power over ants and mice, but I still have power. I may not feel pain at this moment, but I will eventually confront physical or emotional pain. I may wish that I hadn't notice well photographed cleavage on a magazine cover in a store checkout line, but I am now forced to decide to either stare or look away. And I believe that the sum total of how I handle money, power, pain and sex will determine, yes, determine who I really am today and who I will be tomorrow. How I do in making my forced quick decisions tells me how I'm doing today. My carefully planned decisions are much easier to get right, but the real me shows true character when I make quick decisions that are forced upon me without warning. If I am to find and fix weakness in my character, I must examine the moments when I am at my worst. I find this painful, but I believe that I deserve to do better, therefore I must take a hard look and ask myself the hard questions. How am I doing with money, with power, with pain, with sex? And since I deserve to succeed in life, what can I do differently so I can succeed?

I believe that we are all created equal in importance and that we all deserve to succeed in life - but not at the expense of others. I believe that we all have challenges, but I also believe that we all have the power to choose positive responses to whatever comes our way. I believe that none of us can get it right all the time, but I believe that practice makes perfect, so hang in there and get up each time you fall. I hope I do well, and I hope you do too! To quote Andre the Giant from the movie The Princess Bride, "I hope we win!"

The King’s Speech – Movie Review

2011-05-28T22:53:00.000-06:00

It was a real pleasure for me to witness this modern portrayal of a lesser known, but very significant historical event – an event that profoundly influenced the world in which I now live.

On September 1st, 1939, as the inevitability of World War II rolled across the British Empire like thick English fog, King George VI was preparing himself to utter perhaps one of the greatest speeches of all time – a speech he was ill prepared to make. Because of the sudden abdication of his brother, King Edward VIII, the new king unexpectedly found himself on the throne. King George would obviously have to speak in public but his life long speech impediment stood firmly in his way. The new king’s faithful and determined wife, Elizabeth (mother to Queen Elizabeth II and grandmother to Prince Charles) had previously hired several speech therapists, but King George’s progress was non-existent – until she hired a man named Lionel Logue.

An ordinary man, Mr. Logue was anything but common. Lionel immediately went to work trying to help the king – using unorthodox methods to change the course of history. This movie is about the ultimate triumph of King George VI, a real life reluctant monarch thrust into the spotlight by circumstance beyond his control. “The King’s Speech” is the story of a man who rises to meet his obligations – even when those obligations felt like climbing Mount Everest without oxygen support. This story is about determination and determination and more determination – and I liked it a lot!

In the United States, “The King’s Speech” was rated R (14A in Canada), and I will tell you why. The movie has no sex or violence, but it does have a few scenes when the struggling king uses profanity to help him in his speech therapy. As you may already know, I’m not a fan of profanity and wish it had been omitted. I did, however, brave the occasional swarms of foul language masquerading as acting, and enjoyed the movie anyway.

The movie stars Colin Firth, Goeffrey Rush, Helena Bonham Carter, Guy Pearce, Jennifer Ehle, Derek Jacobi, Michael Gambon, Timothy Spall and Anthony Andrews – and they all do an awesome job of portraying this “based on true” story.

Visit “The King’s Speech” official website.
For more information and support materials for children and adults who stutter: The National Stuttering Association provides educational and support resources for children and adults who stutter, educators and speech therapists. Over 100 local chapters provide additional support. Visit www.westutter.org for more information.

Here's the real speech His Majesty, King George VI delivered on September 3rd, 1939

Gardening in Cold Alberta - Green Peppers & A Micro Greenhouse

2011-05-21T08:25:00.000-06:00

Southern Alberta is not really cold in the summer, but the winters can get nasty. Here, we enjoy Chinook winds in the winter months - warm winds that melt the snow and raise the temperature as much as 40 degrees C in 24 hours. In the spring however, the Mother Nature provides us with a variety of conditions. We can have great weather for days, followed by one morning of frost. What to I do in the garden to keep the plants going? Cover them with plastic.
Typically, Southern Alberta will not be guaranteed frost free until June 1st, but most of us who plant gardens here put our plants and seeds in the ground on the Victoria Day long weekend (about the 23nd of May). We usually get a frost the morning following the full moon, and that occurred May 17th so we are probably out of the woods as far as frost goes until the end of September - if we are lucky.
I started my peppers and tomatoes from seed in early March. The plants grew in our kitchen window until about the end of April when I put them out in our most protected greenhouse. The thriving plants are definitely ready to be in the ground and most of our greenhouse dirt is already planted with flowering tomato plants and soon to flower green, red and jalapeño peppers. Outside, Diana and I prepared a special place of protection for additional pepper plants - since we had too many for our two greenhouses.

We selected a plot about 24 inches wide and 11 feet long. Then we dug a trench about 6 inches wide and 4 inches deep, all around the rectangular perimeter of the plot. Next, we planted the pepper plants - 7 of them in the 11 foot row. With each planting, we used liquid fertilizer 15/30/15 to prevent any transplanting shock. (Miracle Grow or RX-15 are two 15/30/15 fertilizer brands I know of.) We added about 4 cups of fertilizer water (1tablespoon per gallon) to each plant. Next, we placed the drip irrigation hose against the stems (we use the kind of drip irrigation hose that weeps from micro pores everywhere along the hose). With the hose in place, we took 2 large plastic garbage bags and cut them down the sides to form long rectangular sheets of plastic. We folded the bags lengthwise, covered half the plot lengthwise and placed big dirt clods in a few strategic places to hold one edge of the plastic. With the fold against the stem of each plant, we cut a + shaped hole for each plant, about 5 inches each way. We then carefully pulled the plants through the holes, overlapping two garbage bags to reach the entire length of the row. We smoothed out the black plastic and I then pushed 6 curved wires through the plastic and into the ground such that the wires entered the ground at the edge of the 24 inch wide plot and along the inside edge of the 6" x 4" trench. Each wire hoop is 88 inches long and about 1/8 diameter and is the kind of wire used for farm fencing (non rusting and fairly bendable). We pushed the wire hoops into the ground about 8 or 10 inches at each end. (Please note: the two end hoops are pushed in at about a 60 degree angle and the bottoms are less than 10 inches away from the first perpendicular hoop. This helps support the end of the clear plastic when it is stretched. Also, the hoops are placed so that none of them pass directly above any plant.) Next, we cut a piece of 2mil clear plastic 6 feet in width and 16 feet in length. (The plastic is not UV stable, but it really only needs to last about 4-6 weeks to accomplish its magic so this isn't a problem. Thin and cheap is the name of the game.) With the clear plastic cut to length, we draped it over the hoops, centered it and piled the dirt from the trench all along its edges. Approximately 4 - 6 inches of plastic was available to sit in the trench, and the piled dirt tightened the plastic nicely.
The result? A perfect micro greenhouse. Now there are a few cautions I need to tell you about before you try this at home...
First, this micro greenhouse is a closed system - meaning that no air is flowing in our out. Inside the tube, humidity levels are high and the plants use and re-use their own oxygen and carbon dioxide. This is OK for a while.

The plastic is nearly all buried. All that remains to be done is to finish covering the closest edge and sweep off the patio blocks. (It the background, you can see two of the drip irrigation hoses.)

Second, if the ambient temperature gets too high, the plants will cook
So... We'll leave our micro climate alone for about a week or so - until the hottest daytime temperatures get up to no more than 78 degrees Fahrenheit. (80 degrees is the maximum upper limit if there is full sun.) When the days are warm enough, we'll stick a knife into the clear plastic and cut 3/4 circles, leaving the top 1/4 of the circles intact so they act like a flap. The circles will be about 4 inches in diameter. We'll cut one circle in each end and two along each side for a total of 6 vents. After about another week or two, the plants will be getting tall. We'll then cut holes directly above each plant so the leaves can get out of the tube. The holes will be about 11 inches across which will mean that there will not be much plastic left on top. At this point, we'll also cut out and enlarge the 3/4 circles along the walls of the tube so there's better ventilation. We'll add a few more holes to the walls too. Eventually, the clear plastic will come off, but it can remain on until harvest - and a nice harvest it will be!!!

Small Stuff - 1440 Little Things Each & Every Day

2011-05-14T15:21:00.001-06:00

What do you think? I bet you have an opinion. Some say, “Don’t sweat the small stuff”. Others say, “Everything is small stuff.” Well, I agree and I disagree – all depending on how I look at the definition of small stuff. Today, I’d like to talk about ‘time’ – you know, the small stuff that prevents one thing after another from becoming everything all at once.

Let’s first consider the math and then we’ll move on to more pleasant considerations (unless of course you're a math aficionado and then this is a bonus situation of desert first).

In every 24 hours, there are 1440 minutes. That sounds like a lot, but for me, those daily increments can go by very quickly or very slowly. For example, I can hold my breath for well over two minutes, but each minute passes by pretty slowly! Without my accustomed steady supply of oxygen, two minutes seems like an eternity! And how about when I’m sleeping? Eight hours (480 minutes) seem to pass by in less time than it took me to hold my breath without passing out. This phenomenon of time distortion has always fascinated me – and sometimes scared me. In my short life, all 26,928,000 minutes of it – give or take, I have been both efficient in my use of time and wasteful.

In spite of my seemingly endless supply of minutes, I really ought to consider the reality that my minutes have a finite limit – I only have so many minutes allotted to me before my mortal life concludes. The thought might seem a little morbid, but if I’m to get done what I want to get done in life, then I need a plan that fits my parameters – or at least considers those parameters. So... since I don’t have any inside information about the exact number of minutes I have allotted to me, I seem to have only one of two choices. I either live each minute without regard or notice of its passage, or I pay attention and try to maximise the efficiency of each one of those minutes.

Even though any given minute may be my last one in mortality, should I be fearful? I think not. I think that I should embrace and employ and enjoy each minute that I get. Do I always do that? Sadly, no, but I believe that awareness is the first step to creating good habits. My future is going to happen no matter what I do, so I might as well try to push it in a desired direction.

Here is a personal example... About a decade ago, I began writing my book, “Three Seconds On, Three Seconds Off” – my book about growing up on the lighthouse. I was working full time and after work I built up my home-based photography business – as well as fulfilled all my obligations with my growing family. I had no time to write – or so I thought. Then something great happened. I got a Palm Pilot and a compact, folding keyboard. I began pulling the system out on my breaks at work and typing while I ate and rested. In the four years I did that, I wrote over 80,000 words – mostly about 4, 5 or 6 minutes at a time. Occasionally, on my 30 minute lunch breaks, I’d get in over twenty minutes of writing, but not always. What did I learn? I learned an important lesson about using time. I learned that if I did a little bit of writing when I could, that my writing would add up to a lot – eventually. So, what did I do? I took that Palm Pilot & keyboard everywhere. If I had to wait to see the doctor, I wrote. If I had to wait in the car, I wrote. I didn’t read unimportant stuff just to pass the time. I did spend time pondering and thinking – because I found those things important to a balanced life, but I looked for small windows of opportunity and appropriately seized them. I learned that some minutes needed to be sacrificed in order to help other people and that I should not scar my important relationships with the tip of my pen (so to speak). I learned that some minutes, however, were ‘fair game’ and those minutes were mine to gainfully employ as my obedient servants in the pursuit of my creative writing.

Today, I use my small laptop – a Samsung N210 Netbook, to get my words in order. It’s not quite as portable as was my Palm Pilot, but I can input a whole lot more words in a document than I could in the old days – and it has spell check! Today, my battery lasts longer and my data is easier to move around. I just plug in a flash drive to back up my precious files and I can easily transfer data to my archive. I enjoy the onboard thesaurus and the much bigger screen. I can even upload posts to my blog from this nice little computer. All in all, I still try to write whenever I have a few free minutes. And when my computer is not handy, and I have a creative surge, I use a paper, a Post-it note or even a dry erase board (old fashioned I know, but they work in a pinch).

How about you? What do you do to maximize your precious minutes?

I invite you to visit Stephen Covey.com for lots more time management inspiration.You can even join up and send me a friend request. Have fun!!

Who Do You Write Like?

2011-05-07T08:37:00.000-06:00

This morning I found a fun place to start my day. I visited Deirdra Eden Coppel's blog and found a very cool widget! I followed the link to a program that analyses a person's writing style: http://iwl.me/
Rather curious about comparing my own writing style to the styles of others, I posted a small sample of my new novel, "Treasure of El Grado Escaso" and the analysis said that:

I write like
Ernest Hemingway

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

I then posted a much bigger sample of the "in progress" novel and it still said that I write like Ernest Hemingway.
I next posted several excerpts from my yet unpublished book, "Three Seconds On, Three Seconds Off" (about my growing up on a lighthouse on the west coast of Canada) for analysis and it said:

I write like
Edgar Allan Poe

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

.
For my third and final post, I uploaded some of my novel, "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" and it said:

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

I'm most definitely flattered!

Consequences - A Moral Dilemma!

2011-04-30T09:02:00.000-06:00

Consequences - A Moral Dilemma!

I seems that one of my biggest challenges in life has been to accept the fact that when I pick up one end of a stick, I also pick up the other. When I jump off the diving board, no matter how high I spring into the air, I’m always going to fall and I really hope I planned ahead and made certain that there was water in the pool. Sometimes, I look ahead and make choices based on getting their projected consequences – consequences I want. I lock my car so my stuff will remain inside. I tie my hiking boots correctly and confidently expect my laces to remain secure until I untie them (and they have always stayed ties up for me). In spite of the fact however, that over the years I have made several very valiant attempts to alter the consequences of my actions, I have always been unsuccessful. 100% of the time. Perhaps it’s a good thing? Perhaps being able to accurately predict and count on a particular outcome is a wonderful thing? Why then do I sometimes want to manufacture inconsistent outcomes – inconsistent consequences?

I should be able to get what I want – right? At first glance, getting what I want sounds to me like the embodiment of the “Canadian Dream” (Of course, in the USA, it’s called the “American Dream”). After all, don’t I believe that I should have freedom? Who is it out there in this big old world that has the right to deny me of my personal right to get whatever I want in life – and out of life? Why do consequences often block my personal pursuit of happiness? Why can’t I just do what I want and have it be OK with everyone?

I have pondered these questions, as perhaps you too have pondered them. I find the questions to be intriguing. And I sometimes find them to be much more complicated than I’d like them to be.

A great many years ago, my associate Wade B. and I were discussing consequences, personal choice and religion. (A brain-full to say the least!) At the time, I was only 20 years old and Wade was 21, but we had a mature, adult moment that seemed to go beyond the wisdom of our young years. Wade and I talked about how all religions, when considered in combination, promoted a vast variety of beliefs – some the same, some only similar and some very different. We considered how some people felt that religion was restrictive, mind numbing and even claustrophobic. Some people seemed to be saying, “We want to keep on doing whatever we want - but we want to be able to get different consequences”.

Wade expressed concerned discouragement over the fact that there seemed to be an undercurrent, in some members of society around us, of opting out of formal religion and following their own personal belief systems – a personal, informal religious affiliation of one if you will. I agreed. The problem I saw with this personal religious affiliation of one idea was with the practice. After all, how do I settle on an appropriate personal code of conduct if my exclusive creative force is to allow me to do whatever I want and have it be OK? Even at age 20, the notion sounded rather selfish and self serving - not to mention arrogant.

Wade and I agreed, as you may also agree, that every human being will eventually settle themselves on a personal belief system and then at least try to live by it. Wade then, in complete facetiousness, offered a funny idea, but in the thirty years that have past since I heard it, I have often thought that he was onto something quite thought provoking. Wade jokingly suggested that we start a new church that would seem to meet the needs of all the folks who wanted to do whatever they wanted to do without the associated consequences – a personal religion outside of formal religion – a personal religious affiliation of one. Wade called his make-believe religion “The Third Church of the Stillborn Again”.
“And what is it‘s doctrine?” I innocently asked.
“If it feels good do it.”
“Wow!” I said. Does this church believe in baptism? Wade grinned and said, “If it feels good do it.”
”How about repentance of sins?”
“If it feels good do it.”
“Loving your neighbour?”
Wade grinned some more and said, “If it feels good do it.”
I laughed – we laughed together, but in the years since, I have often reflected on that day – sometimes with a smile and sometimes more seriously.

As my life has progressed, I have learned to like consequences more and more. I have learned that each and every action has a predictable reaction – a natural consequence that I may or may not like. I can always count on consequence. I have learned that while I can defer the arrival of a consequence of one or more of my actions, I will eventually have to pay the piper his full due – and if I defer, the price is usually higher. I have learned that my life goes better if I stop resisting natural law and just make choices based on their consequences. This is a no-brainer for some of you, but it took me a while to get to this spot in life – and I’m still working at staying here.

And so I return to my first question, “I should be able to get what I want – right?” My answer is “Yes!” - but I must make the choices that will ensure I arrive at my wanted destination. I have to base my focus on the results I want, not on whether something feels good at the time, or whether something is convenient, or whether taking the course of least resistance beckons to me with fair promises of success. Easy Street, in reality, is an overgrown dirt lane with vacant, weed-infested lots and not one liveable house in sight. If I am to get what I want, I have to think ahead. I have to plan my work and work my plan. I have to consider the complete consequence, not just the parts I like. I cannot cheat my way to a permanent positive result – no one ever has and I personally think that no one ever will (except on television - of course). A temporary high sounds more like an addiction than lasting happiness – you know, live for today and who cares about tomorrow. I think that it takes work to be happy – no surprise for some of you, but it was for me.

And here’s one final thought from the peanut gallery… I smiled a few days ago when I heard a friend’s definition of insanity – “Insanity is to keep on doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome.”

Now all I have to do is live by this wisdom!!! I will try, but it might be a while before I get my life to work as perfectly as my faithful bootlaces.

Review of the Samsung Netbook Model N210

2011-04-23T08:35:00.000-06:00

Samsung N210

I bought a Samsung N210 Netbook about a year ago and I love it. I’m an author on the move and really appreciate the very long battery life. I often sit in bed and type while my wife sleeps in beside me. In the dark, the lowest screen brightness setting is plenty bright. Even in daylight, I rarely use more than a 50% brightness setting.

I’m not a trackpad kind of guy so I immediately purchased a folding wireless mouse – which I love.

I’ve done slideshows on my big screen – the netbook plugged into the TV and the mouse on the couch. The system works great.

In all fairness to heavy Internet users, I do not use my netbook much online, but in the limited use it gets, the performance is acceptable. I’ve never seen a wireless laptop / netbook that could compare to the speed of a wired connection, so if I need to do big updates or downloads on my N210, I just plug it directly into my router.

The N210’s processor is a little slower than my Windows XP desktop with 4Gb RAM and a Pentium 4 processor. I recently upgraded my N210’s RAM to 2GB and that sped things up some. I installed Dragon Naturally Speaking 11 on the N210 and it works well, but it is a bit slow. MS Word and Dragon NS running together are real RAM hogs! The best way I’ve found to use Dragon is to record on my Sony IC Recorder, download the Mp3 file onto the N210 and then tell Dragon to transcribe the recording. The transcription process is silent and I can leave the computer to go do something else while it chugs away. The transcription is pretty accurate and I can then compare it to the recording and tweak any errors. The best part of recording my voice is that I can do it nearly anywhere and do not have to carry the computer – even though the computer is not very heavy. In this way, I get more out of my spontaneous thoughts.

Someone asked about how loud the N210’s keyboard is. In response, I visited the four keyboards in my house: my Samsung N210, my Sony Vaio Laptop and my two desktops. The desktop keyboards are two different models made by Microsoft.
What I found: the N210 had the quietest keyboard out of the four I compared. The N210′s keys have a very soft sound, not a distinct clicking, but not perfectly quiet either. As I mentioned earlier, I use the N210 beside my wife while she is sleeping and Diana doesn’t even hear the keyboard. (Diana is not a heavy sleeper.)

I always use a hard surface between the netbook and my lap, so the cooling fan (which I have never heard) isn’t restricted. I’ve been told that one of the fastest ways to wear out a computer is to let them get too hot inside. (My Pentium 4 desktop has lasted well over 5 years now probably because it has an extra cooling fan.)

In conclusion: I got my Samsung N210 to compose words, not to play games or surf the web. So far, the N210 is all I imagined my dream netbook should be. I definitely recommend it. I love the long battery life, the great look of the pure white case, the high resolution screen and the ease of it’s use. The keys are very comfortable to my touch. The only thing I don’t like is that the right ‘shift key’ is not quite in the right place and I had to teach my right pinky to reach out a bit further to activate it. (Good thing I can be taught!)

All in all? The Samsung N210 is fantastic and if I had to buy another netbook, I would get another N210. (And the red model would look very nice beside my white one!)

Read more reviews.

Hiking / Backpacking / Camping - Dehydrated Ground Beef Recipie

2011-04-16T04:00:00.002-06:00

In my backpacking adventures in 2009 and 2010, I used this recipe and loved it. I've never seen a recipe for dried ground beef, so I invented my own and thought some of you out there might like to try it. The dehydrated ground beef reconstitutes in boiling water in just a few minutes and is a great addition of protein and flavor when added to other dried foods in making soups and stews along the trail. If you are a fan of Oriental packaged soups like Ichiban Noodles, etc, then you'll be pleased when you add a little of this recipe to the mix. Enjoy...

Ground Beef – Dehydrated
Original recipe by Davis L. Bigelow

Ingredients
1kg Extra Lean Ground Beef (1kg = 2.2lbs)
½ tsp Garlic powder
1 tsp ground pepper
1 Tbs onion flakes (or 1½ tsp powder)
2 Tbs water
½ tsp sea salt
½ tsp ground thyme
1 tsp marjoram
¼ tsp ground cayenne pepper (more if you want the beef to be spicy)
1 bouillon cube (enough to make 1 C of broth)
1¼ tsp cornstarch

Instructions:
1. Cook meat
2. Mix in water, spices and bouillon (not the cornstarch)
3. Cook for 5 minutes
4. Drain juice
5. Cool juice and keep meat hot
6. Mix cooled juice and cornstarch
7. Add juice to meat and brown meat for at least 10 more minutes. Mixture will be dry, so stir constantly.
8. Cool for 20 minutes
9. Spread 1 C on each dehydrator screen (while loading screens, place a paper towel under the dehydrator screen to catch any juice that my drip through) and then dry until brittle - about 14 to 24 hours in a low humidity environment – longer if the ambient humidity is high. As an alternate to using a dehydrator, use an oven set to 150° F. Prop the door open slightly to allow moisture to vent.
10. Seal without air in the bag. Stores well in the freezer.

NOTES:
* 1 kg of fresh, extra lean ground beef equals 2 C of dry meat & 1140 calories
* 250 grams raw equals ½ C of dry meat & 285 calories
* When dry, ½ a cup of meat weighs 45 grams
* 454 grams = 1 pound
* Backpacking Chef has a great website with many more dehydrating ideas and tips. Enjoy...

Treasure of El Grado Escaso - My New Novel

2011-04-09T04:00:00.005-06:00

OK, OK, enough serious blog posts. Several weeks ago, I mentioned my new work of fiction, and here I am, as promised, to tell you about the excitement.

It all began in November 2010, when my wife Diana and I went to Mexico with some friends. I went scuba diving 13 times and was awed at the sights and sounds of the southern Baja Peninsula, or "Baja Mexico Sur" as it is locally known. Before the trip, I wondered if my holiday should include doing a little research for some future writing, but when I was immersed in Mexico, my decision was obvious. How could I be surrounded by such an awesome place and not put pen to paper?

During the vacation, one of our group coined the name of a perfect Mexican fictional character for my future writing pleasure - Rico Suave. I liked the name and as our time ticked by, I took more and more photographs to support my future creative writing. As our trip drew to an end, one of the group proposed a scenario where each member of our group randomly picked five numbers from 1 to 1500 (the number of photographs my wife and I had taken). I would then match the random numbers to the corresponding photos, put the photos together and then craft a story based on those photos. (I've included 12 of the photos in this post.) And who was to be the star of this crazy story? You guessed it, our fictional Mexican, Rico Suave. I even got a title suggestion, "Los Aventuras de Rico Suave" - Spanish for "The Adventures of Rico Suave".
Well, the challenge was accepted and the story begun. I identified the 25 photos, added 5 of my own (not picked at random), and began to write. But the lessons I learned from writing "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" quickly rose to meet my excited efforts. Where is your plot? How do I incorporate these 30 photographs? Who is Enrico Suave? Who are the other characters? What do these people look like? What motivates them and drives the story forward? What kind of story is this anyway?

With these questions and more bouncing off my cranium like a surrounding barrage of attacks in the 1980's video game of Asteroids, I stopped writing and began preparing. First, I decided what kind of guy Rico Suave was. Then, I created a back story to support him. It took longer than I imagined it would, but when I was done, I had a deep rooted character of substance - a character that could last for a series of books - if I wanted him to. Next, I developed a plot, followed by a character arc for Mr. Suave. I then began filling in the other characters, giving them life and personality-fuel so they would add to the story. Next, I decided that because I had multiple story lines, that I needed a chronology to keep the lines separate in my head and to be able to mesh the contemporary story lines at the appropriate moments - you know, "we interrupt this exciting story line with another exiting story line". And somewhere in the middle of all this process, the title of the book changes several times. I finally settled on the perfect title, "Treasure of El Grado Escaso".

As I was working on the chronology (which I still am), I made the decision to incorporate as many actual facts into the story as I could. I am capable of making things up, but why do that when there are so many awesome things in the world of reality. And besides, when I read a fiction novel, I assume that a certain portion of the book is factual - and I very much like that. So I researched and researched and researched! I sent out emails to people who could expand my understanding of certain tools my characters would use (Like the versatile Foldspear my heroine will defend herself with or the very cool SOG pocket knife sported by one of my bad guys). I enjoyed researching, but was anxious to begin writing. As I worked on the chronology, I would catch myself writing expansions of the notes. I mean, how could I not. The scenes were just begging to be written - twisting my arms!
And so, here I am, my larger-than-it-should-be chronology is nearly done. My major characters are mostly complete (I've made character reference sheets for each). I have 30 great photographs, a great title, great back stories for my major characters, great locations for the plot to unfurl, great land and sea adventures in southern Baja, great gadgets, great bad guys, exciting treasure, great twists and turns, great romance, great heartache and of course, a great hero - and so far you only know the short version of his name, "Enrico Suave".
Stay tuned...
The adventure is only beginning...

Siamese Twins, World Peace & Homosexuality - The Davis Bigelow Test

2011-04-02T04:00:00.008-06:00

Siamese Twins, World Peace & Homosexuality

Last week, I talked about world peace and offered my thoughts on how we can achieve it. In last Saturday’s post I said, “I think that tolerating and even encouraging reasonable differences in others are the twin keys to world peace.” I feel that these two keys are like Siamese twins that cannot be separated without the result being death. I believe that when world peace is finally achieved (and yes I think it will be one day) that it will be the collective and simultaneous embracing of the principles of tolerance and respect that will make it happen.

Last week, I also promised to tell you all how I think we can accurately determine what behaviours in others are reasonable, and should be tolerated and encouraged. The test I am about to propose is a two edged sword that cuts both ways. The test not only cuts through the rhetoric and emotion and personal preference and past tradition to reveal what behaviour is good and what behaviours should be encouraged, but it also clearly highlights behaviours that are not good and what behaviours should be discouraged. Are you ready to hear the Davis Bigelow Test? It is really quite simple and works best when applied to the jugular issues of life - especially moral and ethical issues.

Here is my theory: Take a particular behaviour – any behaviour, and by imagination, apply that behaviour (action or inaction) to every person in a society who is of the appropriate age to be included in the hypothetical test. (For example: 1st Grade education to 100% of all normal 6 year olds, or Marriage of 100% of all normal adult men to 100% of all normal adult women of similar age, or Homosexual relationships for all 100% of all normal adult men, etc, etc.) Then, in your imagination, project the result of the behaviour if 100% of the study group did it – or didn’t do it. Then, ask the tough, open-minded question. “Are the results positive or negative?” If the results are positive, then that behaviour should be encouraged and enhanced and incorporated. If negative, then the behaviour should be discouraged and quickly gotten rid of. It seems that the entire debate over what is right & wrong could easily be solved with this technique. What would happen if 100% of adults never told the truth? Or how about if 100% of all drivers displayed road rage? Or what would happen if 100% of all adults played video games for eight hours for each and every day? The list of behaviours that can be plugged into this test is vast, but each imaginer must follow some basic rules:

1. The projected result must not be influenced by a personal opinion.

2. The projected result must be founded in fact and ideally should be based on actual, available data. (There are thousands of empirical studies to choose from.)

3. Some behaviours, such as, “Which side should we part our hair on?” (at least for those of you who have hair), are not significant enough to matter and should not be plugged into the Davis Bigelow Test. The categories of questions that will trigger the best responses from the Davis Bigelow Test are very toughest questions of religion, morality, sexuality, honesty, etc.

Let’s take the traditional marriage/gay marriage debate as an example. If 100% of all who wanted to marry, engaged in traditional marriage, what would be the result? How about if all we had was gay marriage – for 100% of all adults who wanted to marry? What would happen in either scenario? Would society benefit or not? The questions are not, “Would I benefit?” or “Will the result be what I personally want?” When I ask these last two questions, and I’m going to be blunt about it – I am showing my yellow belly of selfishness. I do not live alone; therefore, every choice I make in public or in private makes some difference to society, either large or small, and therefore all my choices are the business of everyone else. I have an obligation to tolerate and to give willing respect to others. And I have the right to be tolerated and respected by others. How about world peace? I think the 60’s song got it right, “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me!”

Sounds like the ultimate extreme adventure to me – and you know how I feel about adventure!

World Peace, Gay Marriage and Every Other Tough Issue

2011-03-26T04:00:00.001-06:00

World Peace, Gay Marriage and Every Other Tough Issue

In a previous blog post, I promised that I would soon take a leap into controversy. And here I am. Not only am I making good on my promise but I’m diving right into a very volatile area of current affairs. This week, come with me while I begin to take a hard look at world peace, gay marriage, straight marriage and so much more.

The fact that I haven’t brought controversy to my past blog posts is not because I don’t feel strongly about things. I do feel very strongly about a great many issues. Religion, morality, ethnicity, sexuality, music and greed all sit more or less at the top of my list of most-opinionated-subjects.

If Davis Bigelow is anything, he is a man who’s not afraid to speak up. What I am afraid of is speaking up before I consider my words. My parents used to tell me, “Davis, first put mind into gear before putting mouth into motion!” Good advice! So in all fairness to my candid, open mouthed lifestyle, I should tell you that in the past I have offered several opinionated comments on the posts of a few others out there on the World Wide Web. I hope my past comments have not offended anyone. I hope that this blog post is equally inoffensive.

So let’s get right to it shall we? How do we have world peace?

I think that tolerating and even encouraging reasonable differences in others are the twin keys to world peace. Tolerance and respect seem to be absent from any war I have studied. I’ve never seem contention and tolerance together in peaceful coexistence. Have you? Now, as you may have already noted, there’s also the matter of reasonable differences that I think should be tolerated and even encouraged. Who, you may ask, defines what “differences are reasonable”? Well, I have an opinion on that too – and I’ll post my opinion next Saturday morning. I have spent the past 25 years or more using a failure proof test whereby any open minded adult in possession of their full faculties can determine, yes, determine the appropriateness of a particular behaviour. Any guesses as to what the simple test is? (You have a week to guess before I spill it – and the April 2nd post is already uploaded and scheduled.)

See you next weekend!

Movie Review - “True Grit” - Starring Jeff Bridges, Hailee Steinfeld, Matt Damon

2011-03-19T04:00:00.011-06:00

Movie Review - “True Grit”

John Wayne, or “The Duke” as he's known to us old guys, was a masterful cowboy actor. He could put on a brilliant performance of toughness and skill on a horse and with guns of all sizes. John Wayne’s performances left audiences breathless and other actors wanting.

And so, when I went to see the movie “True Grit” – the new version, I was a little worried that I wouldn’t like it. I was however, not even slightly disappointed. In truth, I was delighted. I was entertained. I laughed and I felt like I was along for the ride as I watched the drama play out. The acting was fantastic and the characters memorable. My only disappointment was the way the movie ended. In the middle of the movie, I picked up on what I thought was some foreshadowing – but it turned out not to be anything at all. Now it’s only fair that I tell you that it’s been decades since I saw the original John Wayne version of this story. Perhaps that movie ended in the same way – and if it did, then that would make my next comment a little mute. But for what it’s worth, the ending of this new version left me wanting. To me, the final minutes of this new movie just didn’t seem to match the rest of the story. In fact, the way the new “True Grit” ended made me feel like the story was a meaningless tragedy. I have a soft spot for happy endings, and I was disappointed. However, other than the disappointing ending, I thought the show was awesome.

Movie Review – “127 Hours”

2011-03-12T04:00:00.001-07:00

Movie Review – “127 Hours”

This movie depicts a real-life extreme adventure where the main character is trapped in a life or death situation. In order for him to live, he has to amputate his own arm (which is graphically portrayed). This true story is set against the breathtaking scenery of mountains and canyons and the camera operators did a fantastic job of showing off the area. I found the acting to be very good. I liked the way the director made use of flashbacks to both tell the story and to endear the audience to the main character. There was also a ‘premonition’ scene where the main character accurately sees into his future, but that scene only made sense to me as the movie concluded with a visit with the real person whom the story was about (which was very cool by the way). As I watched this movie, I was transported into the pain this man experienced - into the depths of his feelings and into the deeply personal process of how he survived mentally. I mostly enjoyed the show. However, “127 Hours” would have been so much more enjoyable had there not been so much profanity. I don't understand why those who make movies think that they need profanity. Yes, the adventurer may have used profanity in the actual event, but there is no appropriate place for profanity in any movie anytime, anywhere! So... well done for the photography and well done for the attempt to portray an over-the-top, life altering event in the life of a very brave and determined man, but... two thumbs down for the infestation of foul language which, like a colony of aggressive fire ants under my theatre seat, spoiled an otherwise fantastic movie.

Something Profound This Way Comes

2011-03-07T08:57:00.001-07:00

Something profound has happened in my soul. Perhaps my recent lack of outdoor adventure has made me long for a fresh connection to the miraculous world I live in. Perhaps I’m just getting sentimental in my old age (not that I’m all that old though)? Perhaps I’m just more sensitive than I used to be? Perhaps the recent disruption of my income has heightened my sense of the potential frailties and seemingly endless possibilities of life? Perhaps I’ve more fully noticed the finite certainty of mortality and the fact that my time here is limited? Perhaps I’m finally mature enough to honestly acknowledge that life is hard for everyone – even if I don’t know about the hardships and struggles of others. Perhaps it’s the fact that yesterday was the remembered birthday of my wife’s mother, now passed on? Perhaps I just haven’t encountered a really big miracle for a while? Or perhaps it’s that fact that I’m a day’s drive away from the most exciting bit of action in our family? Whatever the reasons however, I’ve spent the past 12 hours in emotional awe. In the past 12 hours, I’ve laughed and I’ve cried and I’ve earnestly prayed. I’ve been washed over by warm waves gratitude. Last night I even awoke from a sound sleep and found myself smiling at the fresh news. Truly, life is a gift! Life is precious! Life is a celebration! Life is a sweet miracle that I’ve taken for granted way too many times!

What has happened? Well I will tell you. After weeks of coping with a slow leak of amniotic fluid, after one lengthy air ambulance ride, after weeks of hospital bed rest, after plenty of prayers and worry and boredom, and finally, after 35hours and 45 minutes of actually trying to have a baby, last night, by caesarean section, my youngest daughter gave birth to her first daughter. A healthy, black- haired beauty, Airyanna Ellissa Marie immediately claimed her father’s heart and took over mine shortly thereafter (and I haven’t even seen her yet). Last night, as I awaited the news, I was reminded of my own delivery room vigil for each of my four children. I recalled my own overwhelming joy as my three daughters and one son drew their first breaths and claimed my heart and then claimed the hearts of the rest of the family. I remembered my own worry for the life of my sweet wife and the joy I felt when she was finally out of danger. I felt anew my sense of profound appreciation for my wife’s sacrifices in bring our children into this world. In years, now long past, it was my privilege to witness the miracle of birth, and last night it was my son-in-law’s turn. When he phoned to give us the news, I heard it in his voice – his life had been forever changed. He was a father. He had a healthy daughter and a recovering wife! He too had seen the miracle of birth. Life was great - even though it had been stressful and exhausting only minutes before!

And so I have one thing left to say... Welcome to our family little Airyanna! I can’t wait to meet you! Thank you for reminding me of how precious life really is!

BOOK REVIEW - "The Stone Traveler" by Kathi Oram Peterson - Narrated by Jason Tatom

2011-03-05T04:00:00.006-07:00

BOOK REVIEW - "The Stone Traveler" by Kathi Oram Peterson - Narrated by Jason Tatom

It’s difficult to review a book that takes the reader to ancient America, in Book of Mormon times, without automatically comparing the writing to that of the “Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites” series (by Chris Heimerdinger). When I first began listening to the narration of “The Stone Traveler”, on the unabridged CDs, I worried that I wouldn't like it as much as I did the “Tennis Shoes” series. However, I was not disappointed in the least. As an audio connoisseur of books, I'm not often drawn into a story like I was into “The Stone Traveler”. Narrator Jason Tatom, did a brilliant job of rendering the saga. The plot began innocently enough, but soon became an all out roller coaster ride full of twists and turns, and delightful surprises that I certainly didn't see coming. I was definitely entertained. In my opinion, Kathi has created a true masterpiece of fiction blended with great actual history. It was a pleasure to begin the book and an even greater pleasure to complete it. Well done Kathi Oram Peterson! Any chance of a sequel?

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 45

2011-02-26T04:00:00.006-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow
By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 45

Multiple motors sent exhaust into the night air. The procession of one car and three vans wound their way out of the Midnight Lake Campground. Down the dark dusty road they drove, the Kilronan Valley only vaguely visible in the faint starlight that was mostly covered by clouds. Stan Calderbank lay in the back of Richard and Carlea’s van, Alida at his side, her hand in his once more. Within the van’s dark interior, even the voices of six-year-old Gerald and four-year-old Grant were switched off. The only sound reaching Stan was the gentle rumble of rubber on a well-maintained gravel road.

Minutes passed. Before long, they all turned left onto the main highway. A convoy of four, the two worried families accelerated down the pavement towards the hospital.

“Welcome to Peebles.” Gerald Calderbank read out as Richard sped past the sign.

“That didn’t take very long!” Grant added, and the forty minute spell of silence was finally broken.

Ten minutes later, Glen and Stan both lay on clean white cots in the emergency room. The Peebles Hospital was a small one, and it took another fifteen minutes before the on-call doctor arrived.

Another half an hour found the wizened physician scrutinizing a bank of backlit x-rays. Alida sat nearby. Stan lay still, eyes fixed and wondering. Then the old doctor turned. White-coated and suntanned, he began to speak. The old man’s voice was filled with certainly. “Well Mr. Calderbank.” He stated, glancing briefly at the intense gaze of Alida, “You are a very lucky man.”

In spite of herself, Alida put a hand to her breast and let out a little puff of air. The doctor continued, setting his hand reassuringly on Stan’s arm and nodding slightly as the words cascaded expressively from an aging throat. “The break to your femur is clean and I think it can be set it without difficulty.”

The lines on Stan’s deeply tanned face relaxed a little. “Thank you.” He rasped.

The doctor smiled warmly and continued, “I’ll give you some more Demerol and while it’s taking effect, I’ll tape your ribs. Two of them are broken.”

Stan nodded.

“Then I’ll set and cast your leg.”

Stan nodded again.

“Considering what you’ve been through, your injuries could be seen as being relatively minor. The prognosis of a full recovery is very promising.” The doctor gently patted his wrinkled hand on Stan’s arm. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

An hour later, Stan was wheeled back to his waiting wife. Alida arose. The graceful woman smiled as she moved closer to her injured husband and caressed his strong hand with her delicate fingers. Tears cascaded quietly down her delicate features. Stan’s injuries were an unpleasant surprise. “But he’ll be OK now.” She told herself.

Tentatively, Alida lifted the sheet that covered Stan and inspected the doctor’s handiwork. She nodded approvingly and shot he husband an empathetic look. Stan glanced down at his broken leg. It was encased in a fibreglass cocoon, but the familiar throbbing was strangely absent. The big man’s brain and body were still numb from medication, but his thoughts were his own.

The big man looked up at his wife. He studied her high cheekbones and small nose, her red lips and the tiny wrinkles framing at the corners of her pretty mouth. Finally, he found her opal eyes, pools of sapphire where it seemed he could swim forever.

“I’m sorry.” He finally said.

Alida’s soft voice spoke. “It’s alright my love. You’re OK now.”

Stan closed his eyes, gratitude filling his soul like hot chocolate trickling into a tall mug. Visions of his family paraded across the stage of Stan Calderbank’s memory, the procession led by his beloved Alida. Following her, all dressed in their finest, came his three sons and their sweet wives. Five precious grandchildren ran in their wake, energized by boundless youth and overflowing with the pure joys of life. Children’s laughter flooded the warm air.

Then the big man was in the water – frigid water! Skull Creek boiled over his vulnerable body. Death reached out to claim him but he was delivered. Suddenly, he heard the deafening roar of the grizzly. He felt the hot fetid breath and spewed spittle strike his face, but he lived on. “Why was I spared?” The question burned in his mind.

Next, Stan lay on the field of boulders under Ravenscrag Mountain awaiting a rescue that seemed to forever elude him. He felt the pains of a broken body. He saw the fog. He felt the bonfire. He felt the distress of hunger and thirst. He recalled the lurching travois and their narrow escape in the truck. “I know.” He thought. “I know why my life had been spared.”

Stan Calderbank opened his eyes. His face was wet with tears he hadn’t realized were even flowing. His Alida stared down at him, compassion for him adorning her slender face, her eyes sparkling with mists of emotion.

“I’m sorry... I was unkind... to you.” The big man rasped, swallowing hard. He squeezed Alida’s hand in his. “I’ll do better... in the future.”

Alida reached out her delicate fingers and touched Stan’s broad face. Then she bent down and kissed him tenderly, her own tears spilling. “I love you Stan.” She whispered.

“Big C?” Glen’s familiar voice cut into the tender moment.

“Yeah?” Stan rasped, turning his head and wiping his eyes. With a pair of professionally made crutches under his arms, Glen McPherson approached Stan and Alida. The small man’s face was clean, if one didn’t count the beard stubble. Glen was smiling. The stubborn Scotsman had stark white bandages on both his knees and his left ankle was cradled in a yellowish fibreglass cast. The narrow cut on his face had been cleaned and then stitched shut. Stan’s eyes silently examined the cut for a moment. It had looked much worse before. It definitely gave his small friend a more roguish appearance!

“I haven’t seen... you move so... fast in days!” The big man eventually said.

“We’re quite a pair.” Glen said, grinning. “How are you doing?”

“Much better... but I’ll be... laid up for... a while.” Stan lifted the sheet to reveal his cast.

“Nonsense!” Glen countered, an indomitable twinkle in his eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, in the 1976 Olympic Games, a Japanese gymnast named Shun Fijimoto broke his femur during the floor exercises. He was so committed to winning a team Gold Medal that he got a cast, just like yours, and competed in the ring exercises.”

Stan was listening, but rolled his eyes a little as the small man continued.

“The ring exercises didn’t require the use of Mr. Fujimoto’s legs until the end of the performance when he flew through the air, twisting and turning and flipping before landing hard on a thin mat!”

Stan and Alida both winced.

“Shun Fijimoto gave a flawless performance on the rings and landed his dismount perfectly, holding the landing for just long enough to secure the Gold Medal for him and his team.”

Stan grimaced at the thought and Glen went on with the story.

“Afterwards, when they interviewed Mr. Fujimoto in the hospital, he was asked how he did it. Like a true champion, he smiled and said, “The pain shot through me like a knife, but now the pain is gone and I have a Gold Medal.”

The bold gymnast’s words hung in the air for several silent seconds. In spite of his suffering, Stan smiled. He too was alive – and he had something much more precious than a Gold Medal. The big man gave Alida’s hand a little squeeze and his eyes met Glen’s. Glen saw deep gratitude there, but there was something else too. “Life truly is… about living.” Stan rasped.

Glen nodded, but remained quiet for a few moments while his smile melted into contemplation.

“Well,” Stan finally broke the silence. “Are you ready… to drag me back… to Maple Creek… to get our stuff?”

Glen grinned wryly, “Ok, but this time we’ll have to take a roll of duct tape and some real crutches - just in case!” Then he winked at Alida, a rakish smile climbing his ruddy cheeks. “And maybe you and Lillie can accompany us too! Stan’s just too heavy to drag by myself!”

******* The End *******

PS. A heartfelt thanks to all you readers who visited my blog and read this novel - my very first one. The only editor this manuscript has seen is me, and since the manuscript has been circulating, I have been made aware of a few minor errors. I hope the mistakes haven't spoiled the story for any of you. Adventure should never permit interruption by spellchecker!!! When this novel is formally published, and I do plan to publish it soon, I hope all the mistakes are corrected. Stay tuned for more on publication.

If you can spare a minute, I would very much appreciate knowing how you feel about the book, plot, characters, spelling or whatever. Any comments are welcome, so please be honest. You can email me at davisbigelow@gmail.com. Also, if you do email me a comment, please also indicate whether of not I am allowed to publish your words on some future day. If you will allow me to quote you, please indicate how you'd like your name to appear at the end of the quotation. And... if you just want to be anonymous, that works too. My goal in writing this novel has been to have a bit of literary fun - and I have. Hopefully you did too.

My next project is a short story / novella about a fictitional character in a Mexican sea port. There will be some scuba diving, spanish speaking, mystery solving and plenty of adventure - and who knows what else I'll toss in before I'm done. I should consider some romance too, cuz like Brooks and Dunn's song says, "Put a girl in it!" The bottom line is that I'm gunna have some fun with the project - and of course, I'll share it with you all. Due to having to work for a living (what is with that anyway), I write slowly, but I'll post about this very fun project as it comes together. Thank you for you interest. Hasta luego! (And "Yes", I do speak a little Spanish.)

Davis L. Bigelow

Celebrating 10,000 Page Loads

2011-02-25T11:41:00.000-07:00

From the day of its very humble and halting beginnings on June 17, 2007, I am pleased to say that my blog has now enjoyed over 10,000 page loads. A long time reader from Milo, Alberta, Canada got the number 10,000 spot! Congrats!
I'm grateful and glad that so many have visited and re-visited. I hope all of you have enjoyed my posts thus far and that you will continue to visit often. I hope to keep things interesting and I think even add a little controversy from time to time (I'm not that political, but I'm going to climb out of the kiddie pool and venture a step or two towards the deep end). Thank you all for your kind interest!
And to those of you who felt to make comments - I appreciate all of them. Because of your comments, I have taken the opportunity to enjoy the blogs of many fascinating, interesting and exiting people from around our small globe - yes, that would probably be you. I find that several significant things make my life interesting: Having new adventures, sharing the adventures of others, trying to say things that would be positive and uplifting, creating art in word and deed, sharing in the heartaches & triumphs of others while I consider my own vicissitudes and achievements, and just getting outside myself to see this amazing world through my own eyes and through the unique eyes of others. My blog, in spite of my reluctance to begin it, has made my life infinitely more rich. I appreciate all who add positive, inspirational and uplifting content to the world wide web. You are awesome!!! Please keep up the good work!
Three & a half years ago, when I began this blog, I hadn't a clue what I was doing! Even today, I still feel like I need to consult Blogging For Dummies from time to time! Now I realize that it's not typically manly of me to admit something like that, but hey, the truth is the truth! Since 2007, I've posted 161 times - which is not very many times compared to some of you out there. For nearly the last year, I've taken special pleasure in publishing my first fiction novel, "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" for anyone to read (and hopefully enjoy). Tomorrow at 4am MST (mountain standard time), the final chapter goes up and the book reaches its epic conclusion.
What will I do next? Well... at the end of the final chapter of tomorrow's post, I will tell you.
See you in the morning!

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 44

2011-02-19T04:00:00.002-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow
By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 44

It only took one brief glance before Lillie tore away from the gawking group and sprinted though the darkness towards her own campsite. A flashlight flared in the McPherson campsite, but it went unnoticed by the rest of the group. In seconds, Lillie held her husband’s cellular phone, staring at the glowing display. “We need an ambulance!” she panted to the darkness, but the phone refused to connect. “No Service” was its only response.

By the time Lillie returned to the dusty pickup, Richard Calderbank was manoeuvring his van closer. Lillie McPherson pressed close beside her friend. “Alida, are you ok?”

Moist, sapphire eyes settled on Lillie’s green ones. Alida was dishevelled. Blonde tresses streaked with noticeable accents of white obscured her tear-stained face. A slender arm was draped over the side of the truck bed and a delicate hand absorbed the warmth of her husband’s chapped and dirty fingers. “I think so.” She breathed, looking down again at Stan.

Lillie embraced her friend, and her own unbidden tears trickled into Alida’s hair. After a moment, Lillie found her voice, and whispered softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Alright” Richard announced, already out of the van. His wife, Carlea had the rear door open and Harlan and Irvington Calderbank stood ready at the tailgate. Glen leaned on the travois stick he had used to operate the clutch, Val Marie on one side and his daughter, Laura McTaggart on the other. Val Marie was intently watching the drama unfold while Laura was content to put her arm about her father’s waist. Laura silently wiped tears from her eyes, but Glen was too preoccupied to notice. The small man had done his part. Now more able hands were finally lifting his heavy burden.

Laura’s husband, Kelstern moved to assist Richard, Harlan and Irvington. “On three.” Richard orchestrated. The four healthy men gently drew Stan towards the bed that waited a few steps away in the back of Richard and Carlea’s large van. Stan Calderbank gritted his teeth once more. His jaw muscles were sore from the innumerable efforts of the brutally painful day. Alida’s hand was lost in the darkness. “Dear God?” Stan silently prayed. “I’m almost there. Please help me to endure just a little more.”

Juniata and the four Calderbank boys stood nearby, corralled by Harlan’s wife, Daphne and Irvington’s wife, Lorlie. With strong hands gripping the edges of the ragged tent, Stan floated into the air, borne upwards as if on a cloud. Lillie and Alida joined in the lift too. Laura McTaggart pulled away from Glen, wiping tears from her youthful face, her long red hair sweeping through the dim light like a blood-red sunset.

Val Marie McTaggart watched as her mother took a position at Uncle Stan’s head. Val Marie wiped at her own tears. Before today, the little girl had never shed tears for someone else’s sorrow. Val Marie tightened her grip on her grandfather’s careworn hand and stared on.

Mylar crinkled and flashed a myriad of tiny reflections of the fire and lamplight. Stan Calderbank felt like an overstuffed, foil-wrapped sausage at the centre of an oddball art exhibit.

“Ok Dad.” Richard interrupted the big man’s thoughts. We’re going to slide you in onto the bed. Surrounding him, Stan could hear laboured breathing and the soft shuffles of shoes on the dirt and gravel of the campsite’s driveway. At his feet, Carlea appeared. The mother of his oldest grandson knelt on the bed inside the van, reaching out for the tent. In seconds, Stan felt the soft foam mattress caress his body. Grunts and groans sounded from all quarters as his family and friends struggled to keep him lifted into the air until he was over the bed. Richard and Harlan joined Carlea inside. Then, the mattress had him, and mercifully, the motion ceased.

Carlea Calderbank was the first to emerge from the van. “Mom?” she said, looking through moist eyes at Alida. “You can ride in the back with Dad and Glen can ride up front with Richard.” Glen heard, and began to hobble forward.

“Can I go with you Grandpa?” an innocent voice asked.

Glen paused to gaze down upon the face of his precocious granddaughter. Before he could respond, however, another voice answered. “If it’s OK with your mother, you can go in our car Valley.” Lillie’s gentle voice soothed as she crouched down in front of her granddaughter.

Lillie looked up Glen McPherson. The bruised Scotsman’s eyes reflected his approval. “Carlea?” he called. “Lillie’s going to drive me.”

“OK.” Came Carlea’s quick reply.

“Lillie and I will follow you.”

Carlea replied once more, but her voice was drowned out. Simultaneously, the roar of three additional engines joined the motor pool choir. Glen looked around. “It seems everyone’s going to the emergency room.”

Why Am I Publishing My Novel Online - for Free ?

2011-02-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

Queen of Chaos said... (In the Comment Section on Chapter 43)

Woah! You're posting your book on your blog? I have never seen this before! I must go back to previous posts and find out the answer. ;)

I think you're brave. Aren't you afraid of copyrite laws- even though you wrote Copyrite 2011 at the top of each post?

Guess I'm just a little worried for you.

But, besides me being worried, I'm excited to read your book right here on your blog!

My response:
Thank you for your kind words Autumn. I think that you raise a good question - one that I've thought about a lot. Here is my lengthy answer.

I decided to open-publish my fiction novel, "In Ravenscrag's Shadow", on my blog for a few significant reasons.

My first reason was that I loved writing this novel and didn't want to keep all the fun I had doing it to myself. At the beginning, I wasn't sure if I would ever publish the book (in print), so I thought, "Why not". Truth be told, I only spent about three and a half months creating "In Ravenscrag's Shadow", so if someone did try to 'rip me off', at least the loss wouldn't be unbearable. That said, however, Blogger puts date & time stamps on every post, so proving that this manuscript was mine first would be a no brainer (not to mention my original notes).

My second reason was that I hoped to soon publish my non-fiction book, "Three Seconds On, Three Seconds Off" and felt that with my lifestyle of working all the time, I needed an advertising / promotion tool that didn't involve travelling around to do book signings. I thought that publishing "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" on line would assist me in getting noticed - hopefully in a positive light. Since I have a worldwide readership on my blog, I hope that at least some of my visitors are entertained. I also hope that my readers will tell their friends about a free online novel that their children can read without fear of moral contamination to their young minds.

My third reason was to give a little back to the online writing community. I have personally benefited from the words of many others but have never seen anyone offer to show me their writing-in-progress. As an author, I felt to keep all my unedited words to myself, so I decided to breach my comfort zone and let those who might be interested see a part of my creative process. The novel, you are reading here in this blog, has been edited only by me. It is my raw writing and my very first attempt at fiction writing in excess of 1,000 words as well as well as my very first novel. ("Three Seconds On, Three Seconds Off" is a collection of historical, autobiographical short stories.)

My fourth reason was that I thought that "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" did need a little fine tuning, and what better way to get some helpful feedback than to put it out there for the world to read and respond to. (As awesome as it might be to do it, I'm not naive enough to believe that I could write a fiction best seller on my first attempt - only in my dreams.) Once the book concludes with Chapter 45 (on Feb 26th) I'm going to re-edit the manuscript with consideration given to any comments that you, my readers offer. In November, I printed and hand-bound one copy of "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" which has been read by several friends.

Once the feedback is all in and I've completed my next edit, I plan to submit the manuscript to a publisher or two. If I get no takers, I'll probably self publish and offer the book for sale on Amazon - or, I might just produce hand-bound copies at home. Or perhaps both. It is a lot of fun to transform a bunch of pages into a real book!

So there you have it... It's been a rewarding, fulfilling, exciting, scary, demanding and fun experience to publish "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" online and I figure... what's the point of creating if I don't enjoy it to the max and climb a little way out of my comfort zone! If you enjoy reading this novel half as much as I enjoyed creating it, then I'll smile in gratitude, draw in a big breath, exhale slowly and feel very satisfied!

Thank you all for visiting my blog!!!

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 43

2011-02-12T04:00:00.001-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow
By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 43

Midnight Lake shimmered calmly in the sunset’s afterglow. It would be dark in just a few more minutes. Alida’s oldest son Richard had just lit the propane lantern before retaking his seat by the warm and cheery campfire. The full spectrum of yellow, orange and red danced in the eyes of the onlookers, four boys and two adults. The four Calderbank boys each gripped short sticks and were thoroughly entertaining themselves by poking at the coals. Four pairs of dirty knees shifted in the dirt as swirling smoke determined the source of each boy’s next breath of fresh air.

Just out of reach of the smoke, Glen’s son-in law, Kelstern McTaggart, chatted amiably with Richard Calderbank about the latest stock market trends, but the boys paid no heed to such boring conversation. As smoke and flame gently rose into the night air, six muted shadows danced against the backdrop of ebony evergreen trees.

Twenty feet from the fire, Lillie McPherson sat with Alida at the picnic table, wrapped up in a game of Saskatchewan Rummy - which Alida was winning. In fact, the picnic table was surrounded by six additional, card playing adults as well as two children.

Beside Lillie nestled her five-year-old granddaughter, Val Marie, intently studying Lillie’s cards. Juniata Calderbank sat quietly on her grandmother’s lap. Cobwebs of sleep were knitting thickly over the two-year-old’s closed eyes and her head lay against Alida. In the lamplight, Juniata’s fine features gave her the look of a porcelain doll. Apparently, keeping up with her four older cousins had run the little girl completely out of steam.

Spread out on either side of the two grandmothers sat Lillie’s only daughter and Alida’s two younger sons as well as all three of the Calderbank daughters-in-law. Sixteen in number, the only missing members of the two families were Glen and Stan.

“It ‘s a campfire!” The pinpoint of light twinkled through the trees. Glen turned his head towards the open rear window of the cab. “We’re here Stan! We made it!” Tears swelled once again into the eyes of the big man. Glen guided the pickup truck into the Calderbank campsite.

Val Marie was the first to notice the slow-moving headlights in the darkness. Her sharp emerald eyes peered through strands of claret hair, an unspoken question on her alert mind. Then, a dirty black pickup swerved into the campsite’s driveway.

Four red-tipped sticks and one energetic card game abruptly froze as sixteen sets of eyes focused on the dusty pickup. The headlights winked off and the engine died. Except for the gently crackling campfire, the air in the Calderbank campsite went as quiet as a funeral. Then Val Marie pulled away from her grandmother’s embrace. “It’s them!” she cried out, joy gushing. “Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandpa!” The scampering of Val Marie’s bare feet in the dust was instantly followed by an audible gasp as Glen opened the door of the pickup, activating the truck’s interior light. The light’s glow revealed only one occupant!

Alida let out a cry and shot to her feet. Lorlie Calderbank reached to grab the waking Juniata. A dozen slightly curved cards fell unnoticed from Alida’s trembling hand, landing helter-skelter on the picnic table. Concerned murmurs sounded. Both families mobilized.

Val Marie reached the truck first, her bright green eyes curious. When she saw Glen, however, she stopped short. “Who was in Uncle Stan’s truck?” The man rose to stand, retreating a little from the dim light that seemed to eerily emanate from within the cab. The man’s face was streaked with dirt and dried blood. The little bit of hair he had was tousled. The stranger’s shirt was badly torn and he only stood on one foot. Val Marie took a step back. Tears spilled from the man’s eyes, tracing silver rivulets on his cheeks. “Sunny Valley!” called a familiar voice. Val Marie’s eyes widened, but her response was drowned in the cacophony of approaching voices.

“Where’s Stan?”

“Are you OK?”

“What happened?”

“Are you hurt?”

Lillie rushed forward to embrace the spent Scotsman.

For a brief moment, Glen McPherson wrapped his aching arms around his Lillie, more tears gushing. Then, as if trying to halt traffic, Glen held up a hand. He drew in a deep breath. Glen had rehearsed this speech several times in the past few hours, but now that he was about to give it, everything felt so different. He opened his mouth to speak. “Stan…” The name caught in his throat as another powerful wave of emotion pulsed through him.

Alida stiffened. “Stan?” She screamed, but the sound was squeezed from her throat by raw realization. Her hands flew to her open mouth. Her eyes were whirlpools of terror. The fine features of her face were twisted by unspeakable grief. Her shoulders shagged. Then, like a giant redwood undercut by the sharp saw of an experienced woodsman, Alida began to fall. Her youngest son, Irvington was the closest to the distraught woman. As Alida collapsed into Irvington’s strong arms, her other two sons, Richard and Harlan sprang to her side. Alida’s boys gently eased her limp body to the ground. The campsite went silent once more.

Several stifled sobs shattered the stillness. “No!” Glen blurted, shaking his head. “Stan’s alive! We just need to get him to the hospital.” Alida began to stir. The faces of the group all turned away from Alida and stared again at the battered and shadowy countenance of Glen McPherson. The small man continued, gesturing with his upturned thumb. “Stan’s in the back of the truck with a broken leg.”

As if choreographed by a master director, all eyes silently shifted to the shrouded blackness of the truck bed. Kelstern McTaggart pulled his flashlight from his belt and shattered the darkness. There, wrapped in motionless silver, lay Stan Calderbank.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 42

2011-02-05T04:00:00.001-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

Chapter 42

The starter engaged and the truck’s engine came back to life. A third blow pulsed through the truck’s metal skin, this time sliding the rear tires sideways. Stan heard Glen grind a gear into place. The engine roared. Springing over the rocks and grass, the faithful pickup truck regained its footing. Dirt and rocks and shredded grass spun from the wheels, scattering wildly into the air behind them. The grizzly bellowed one final time. The pickup fishtailed forward, gaining momentum.

A minute later, the dusty black truck was bumping and lurching down the narrow excuse for a road, dodging trees and rubbing against encroaching bushes. Yarbo Road was merciless! With each passing second, its ruts, bumps and potholes produced pain for Stan Calderbank. The big man’s face was a moving mask of wrinkles and grimaces.

“How you doing Big C?” A familiar voice rose above the sounds of the chugging engine, squeaking suspension and pulsating tires. Glen had opened the sliding rear window in the cab so he could be heard.

“It’s too… bumpy!” The big man hissed through clenched teeth.

“Sorry. I’ll go slower.” For the past several minutes, the small bruised and bloodied hiker had stared into the rear view mirror, watching with relief as the furious grizzly grew further and further away. Now the silver-tipped terror was gone from sight. “We’re lucky that bear didn’t give chase!”

Stan heard the words, but made no reply. Silently he prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, thank thee for sparing our lives once more.”

Glen sat in relative comfort, cradling the steering wheel in one hand and the front travois support crutch in the other. Activating the clutch with his left foot was impossible, but on his retreat into the cab, he had brought the discarded chunk of wood. He glanced down at the crutch. “I’m sure glad you came along for the ride.” He said, patting the scuffed bark and smiling a little. “Of course, idling along in first gear doesn’t require your services at the moment.”

“Glen?”

“Yes?”

“I’m cold.”

Glen considered a moment before replying. He didn’t have much to offer his friend. “Ok.” He said, “I’ll stop and cover you with the emergency blankets.”

The barely moving truck came to a halt and Glen set the hand brake. Warily, he opened the door and stared long and hard down the rutted track. Only the tips of the tallest trees showed movement. Glen drew in a deep breath. His heart was still racing as his good foot touched the earthy surface of the rutted road. In seconds, the wiry Scotsman was in the bed of the pickup. Spreading the twin Mylar sheets sideways over the big man, Glen tucked in the edges and offered some commentary. “Considering how fast we are going, these probably won’t blow off you anyway, but better safe than sorry.”

Stan grunted his agreement.

When Glen was done tucking him in, the big man resembled a giant, plump caterpillar cocooned by a shiny chrysalis. “Snug as a bug in a rug.” Glen observed. In spite of the gravity of the situation, the battered Scotsman grinned. His cocooned friend might easily have been a special effect in a cheap sci-fi movie from the 1970’s! Glen’s grin then melted. The determined man glanced warily about. Satisfied, he clamoured from the bed of the pickup and hopped for the truck’s open door.

The day waned as the truck crawled slowly onward. Glen McPherson manned the helm. Stan Calderbank was his silent, silver-robed cargo. At just five miles per hour, and sometimes even less, Yarbo Road lasted forever! Inch by inch, however, the black truck lurched its way along.

“There it is!” Glen shouted, jubilation spicing his voice. “Fairlight Road!”

Stan lay motionless, unless you counted the perpetual jostling of the ride, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and measured. At the sound of Glen’s voice, he looked around. Trees towered above him, reaching towards a leaden sky. The summer air was cool. “What time… is it?” He wheezed.

Glen glanced at the battered face of wristwatch. “It’s 4:00pm.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Me too big guy, but we’ll be there soon.” Glen turned the wheel and four dusty tires bit into Fairlight Road.

The next twenty miles went by a little faster, but still required nearly three hours of additional torture for Big C. As his faithful truck bumped and bounced over crushed gravel, protruding boulders, gyrating washboards, the occasional rut and several gnarly wooden bridges Stan kept his silent mantra going. “You’re almost there! You’re almost there!” The words echoed down the corridors of his focused mind, seeming to bolster the big man’s will to endure. Somewhere in the middle of the trip, Glen had made a bathroom stop, but their quest had quickly resumed. The monotonous rumble of the rough road under inflated rubber seemed a near permanent event.

“Stan?” For being nearly killed twice that day, Glen sounded unusually positive. In fact he might have just won the lottery.

The big man pried open his tired eyes and stifled a cough. He was in pain, but the Mylar blankets enrobed his broken body in radiant heat, helping to ease some of his extreme discomfort. After the hypothermia, it was good to feel warm again. “What?” Came his weak reply.

“I see the sign to Midnight Lake!”

Stan Calderbank smiled and sighed. He was too spent to speak.

“Ten more minutes and we’ll be there!” Glen chortled. “Mercifully, you haven’t been rained on yet! It could be worse!”

A tear of gratitude slipped from the corner of Stan’s eye. His emotions had been systematically stifled and callously crushed by unrelenting agony for an endless blur of time. Except for the several sweet seconds when Glen had stopped the truck along Fairlight Road, the big man’s body had been in constant motion for hours.

“You’re almost there! You’re almost there!” Stan’s mantra continued to echo down the corridors of his failing mind. The sturdy brick wall, protecting Stan’s concentrated-enduring from pain-induced insanity, was now a translucent membrane, weaker and more fragile than a dragonfly’s wing. “You’re almost there!” The big man desperately clung to sanity, but an impending breach felt imminent! “You’re almost there!”

Twin, unrelenting beasts of prey, thirst and hunger, gnawed at the ragged hikers. Fairlight Road was behind them and Midnight Lake was drawing near. Glen McPherson rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to relieve the knots. He reached for a switch and turned it on. Lights flared onto the road ahead, illuminating the darkening access to the campsite. He moved his hand upward to massage his temples. Lack of water had produced an unwelcome headache. “We’ll be there soon.” He breathed aloud. His empty stomach rumbled. Glen scowled. He hadn’t eaten for hours. “That awful bear will no doubt be chewing on my food by now!” Then, suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a glimmer of light.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 41

2011-01-29T04:00:00.002-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 41

Glen grabbed the door handle and glanced skyward. Overhead, the afternoon sun was still shining, but that was about to change. Thick clouds were billowing in from the west and a fresh breeze was puffing their way. The exhausted Scotsman opened the door and plopped onto the driver’s seat. “It feels so good to sit on a soft seat!” He muttered. With a dirt-stained hand, he inserted the key and turned. “Yes!” Relief washed over him. The truck’s engine roared to life and settled into an easy idle.

As Glen emerged from the cab, a broad grin was plastered onto his ruddy face. Stan was smiling too. “Ok Stan, it’s time to leave.” Glen gripped the edge of the truck box and hopped towards the tailgate. “I’ll have you in the bed of your truck in a jiffy and then we’re finally going to high tail it for Midnight Lake.

“Glen?”

“Yeah?”

“Try the… cell phone… first.”

Glen stopped, nodded, and dug into his fanny pack. The small man shook his head and frowned. “Why did I forget such an obvious thing?”

The phone came into view and Glen flipped it open. Stan waited, the top of his head towards Glen, his neck craning to see. “A helicopter ride to the emergency room would be much nicer than a bumpy ride in the back of my truck.” Stan thought as he waited for the phone to power up.

Glen blew out a sharp breath. “The phone’s dead!” His lips pursed tightly. As Glen stared off towards Skull Creek he shook his head again. “It looks like the phone drowned in the river.”

Stan considered, then replied, “Better it… than us.”

Glen stashed the dead phone and hopped to the head of the inclined travois. He bent down and crawled back underneath the front crossbar. Lifting the laden litter one final time, he drew it the last three feet. His smile was gone now, replaced by concentration. With the forward tips of the travois at the truck, Glen lifted them a little more than usual and set them on the tailgate. Half climbing, half crawling over the front crossbar, Glen gained the truck bed and prepared to hoist Stan in.

It was an epic struggle, but finally the top of the travois was most of the way into the truck bed. “We have a problem.” Glen puffed. “The travois is too wide to fit all the way into the bed. I’m going to have to take it apart and leave it here.”

“Ok.”

“Not that we’ll need it again anyway.” He rationalized. “It’s just that it would be nice to get to our wives and get some help before we die of old age!” Glen sounded frustrated. His stomach growled and thirst gnawed at him.

Glen withdrew his Leatherman and snapped open a blade. “Since the tent’s obviously ruined, I guess cutting the cords won’t really matter that much.”

Stan regarded his friend. Between the two of them, they had begun their backpacking adventure with some nice equipment – equipment that was expensive. The big man frowned. He understood, but didn’t like it either. “You can… get a better… tent.” He wheezed, trying to apply a bit of healing salve to Glen’s wounds.

“Yeah, I know.” Glen muttered. “But I really liked this tent!” The sharp blade made short work of the lashings, its light slicing sounds nearly covered up by the breeze. “At this point, I guess any tent would be better than this one!”

Stan nodded.

Glen clamoured out of the truck. In seconds the travois poles lay scattered in the alpine grass. Glen then crawled back into the box and heaved Stan’s remaining bulk off the tailgate and fully into the truck‘s bed. “Finally!” The panting man muttered.

Glen stood erect, stretching. One hand sat on the roof of the cab, while the other massaged the lower regions of his sore back. They were almost there! Glen shut his eyes and breathed in a satisfying breath of alpine air. At his feet, Stan Calderbank lay prostrated on the softness of the sleeping mats, resting, at last in the bed of his truck. Miraculously, the mats had not been punctured during their ordeal. Glen looked down at his large friend, opening his eyes. “Well Big C?” Glen sounded optimistic for a change. “I think we’re ready to make like Skull Creek and flow quickly away.”

“Indeed.”

Glen looked up, preparing to make a calm exit from the bed of the truck when his eyes caught movement. He froze, an inaudible gasp caught in his throat. Glen’s blue eyes widened. His heart redlined. Up Wynyard Hill, following the trail the two hikers had just scraped into the alpine dirt, lumbered a silver-tipped shimmering mass of fur! Death was coming for them!

Without thinking, Glen propelled his alert body into the air, hands grabbing the edge of the truck box. Like an awkward gymnast at end of an intense performance, the wiry Scot rotated in the air and struck his good foot against the dirt. “Aaaaaah!” The jarring forces swept pain into his damaged ankle, but he mostly ignored it. Stan looked up, bewildered as Glen’s flushed face bounced towards the tailgate.

Terror shrieked in Glen’s frenzied mind. The muscles in his neck were bowstrings awaiting release. His fingers found the driver’s side edge of the tailgate. His bulging eyes never left the charging bruin. From his lower vantage point, all Glen could see of the animal was its massive hump. The bear’s thick hair undulated in the summer sunlight. It looked like a field of ripe grain in the wind. Then, exploding like a jack in the box, the beady eyes of the charging grizzly bear emerged above the edge of the hill.

Glen screamed! The tailgate flew upwards, slamming shut. Glen McPherson pivoted. His stormy eyes fixed on the door of the truck. “I should have left it open!” Determined hopping began in earnest. Then, with sudden abruptness, his foot struck the tip of a discarded travois pole.

Within the bed of the pickup truck, Stan Calderbank lay puzzling over Glen’s strange behaviour. The big man hauled his weary head off the soft sleeping mat, seeking understanding. Then, Stan heard the scream. His heart leaped into his throat. At his feet, the tailgate slammed. Glen’s stricken face turned his way. “Oh no!” he muttered. Like a deadly blow to the solar plexus, realization struck the big man. “Glen’s panic can only mean one thing!” Then the unthinkable happened. Glen’s bouncing, terror-twisted face fell forward and disappeared from sight.

Glen landed heavily. The dazed man was completely unprepared for the fall. His right hand was unceremoniously ripped from the edge of the truck bed while his left somehow got to the ground just before his face arrived. The strewn travois pole dug into the shin of his good leg. The wiry Scotsman rolled over and looked up. “I’m a dead man!”

Paralysed and helpless Stan felt the gentle vibration of the truck’s engine against his back. The view from his vantage point included just a few emerald-green treetops and the black insides of the truck box. He strained to hear, but the world beyond the truck had gone deathly silent. Then his blood ran cold. From just beyond the confines of his metal prison a mighty snarl vibrated the metal under his fingertips! “The grizzly!” Stan heard Glen scream again! “What’s happening?”

Stan Calderbank had never felt such intense frustration. He had never been so utterly powerless. “At least in the tent I was able to fight!” Stan clenched his jaws together and gripped the edge of the truck box. “I have to see!” The big man tried to hoist his shoulders into the fresh air, but the longest of the splints was still lashed firmly to his chest. His fingers flew to the knot. Thankfully, Glen had tied it like a shoelace. Glen screamed again. If it were even possible, this latest scream sounded even more desperate than the last. The knot came loose.

Stan Calderbank’s head and shoulders lifted. The big man’s eyes were wide and filled with terror. Blood pounded in his head. Over the edge of the truck bed the giant grizzly’s massive maw reared into the sky. Stan gasped. Then suddenly, Glen’s fingers slapped onto the black paint near Stan’s face. Big C gasped again! The struggling Scotsman’s face popped into view. There was a bright scarlet smear beginning at his nose and running across his right cheek! The distressed hiker was panting feverishly, but then he was gone.

The grizzly roared. This time, Stan’s gaze riveted on the ivory teeth glinting against the traces of blue that the dark clouds hadn’t quite painted out of the sky. Then the mighty growl died out. Stan heard wood hit steel. The grizzly dropped to all fours. The truck door slammed. The bear snarled again, but this time the sound came from just over the edge of the truck box from Stan’s upturned and unprotected face. “Would the bear climb into the truck bed?”

A powerful blow shook the pickup truck. Stan gasped again and sagged back onto his makeshift bed. His ribs and thigh were throbbing. “Have we come all this way just to die here?” The truck lurched. The engine died. A second blow struck the truck. “Oh God!” Stan prayed. “Please spare us!”

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 40

2011-01-22T04:00:00.002-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 40

“Get up!” From some distant mountaintop, the sound floated into his mind. Like the feet of a tiny butterfly alighting on a rose petal, the sound caressed and soothed Glen’s water-soaked eardrums. “Get up!” Suddenly, the prostrated hiker’s eyes popped open. Through water-speckled glasses, he stared blankly at some strange plant that clung to the wet soil of the river bank.

“Ooooooh!” Glen moaned. His body was shivering uncontrollably. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but his tongue was an overstuffed sausage and his jaw was unresponsive. The waterlogged hiker fought to move his head, his arms, his legs, straining unsuccessfully against seized joints. He was a partially thawed Christmas turkey that had been rushed through the defrost phase of its existence by immersion in running water – except the water hadn’t melted his unyielding flesh, it had immobilised it! The small man’s mind reeled on the brink of oblivion. “Get up Glen!”

Finally, the determined Scotsman moved. He rose unsteadily to his knees, a disoriented tightrope walker without a safety net to catch him if he fell. Glen’s head lolled about atop his shoulders like a disjointed bobble-head figurine. “I haff ta mae a far.” He slurred. Glen’s brain was barely working but somehow he remembered that slurred speech was a sign of advanced hypothermia. Death was gently wrapping him in her lifeless embrace, lulling him to relax in her welcoming arms, coaxing him to sleep in silence. “No!” he muttered, resisting the inevitable. “I haff ta mae a far!”

From his kneeling position, Glen could see a small nest of deadfall on the riverbank. The clutch of smashed branches and shredded bark appeared to have been washed there by a spring flood and then left to parch in the summer sun. The nest of limbs was far enough from any trees or other flammable materials to do the job Glen required. The determined Scot eyed the potential fuel for the lifesaving bonfire he and Stan required if they were to remain alive. He tried to grin, but his face was senseless. “If I can just get a fire going.” Glen thought through his haze of hypothermia. He took a deep breath. Then, with superhuman effort, the soggy Scotsman abandoned the travois and crawled towards the deadfall.

Bruised knees drug in the dirt. Gloved hands clawed forward. Inch by inch Glen closed the distance between himself and the nest of deadfall. Soon, he was keeling again, sitting on his heels and digging out his match container and fire starter kit.

Beside the shivering hiker lay his soggy gloves. Glen puffed a few warm breaths on his unresponsive fingers and went to work on the lid of the watertight match container. Finally Glen had a dry match ready and a wax-impregnated cotton ball squished into a thin patty. He placed the ball under a few thins sticks and struck the match.

A tiny yellow ball of fire erupted from the tip of the thin wood, sending a miniature ball of heat past Glen’s downturned face. The smell of sulphur briefly filled his nostrils and then was gone. Anticipation flooded the small man. “Cuuu-mmmon!” He shivered, his jaw chattering like a steel wheel over gravel. Between his senseless fingers, the match quivered and nearly went out. Then the wax ignited. A growing flame licked hungrily at bits of fractured fuel above it. “Cuuu-mmmon!” Glen slurred again, trying to will the fire into being. He pushed a few tiny branches over the fragile flame, and the pile began to burn. Then, like an injection of morphine to a trembling addict, heat took over Glen McPherson’s world, overwhelming him, wrapping him, filling him with indescribable relief.

Before the blaze, like an albino shaman in a fictitious nether world, Glen McPherson began to strip, shedding his wet clothing and exposing his numb skin to the growing warmth. When the goose-bumped man was down to just his underwear, and his skin had finally dried, he pulled his waterlogged boots back on and headed for Stan.

The litter rested on the dirt some twenty feet from the fire, its lower shredded tips of green wood still protruding over the swirling stream of Skull Creek. Big C lay motionless between the long poles. “Stan?” Glen crawled up to the big man and shook him.

Stan Calderbank’s eyes fluttered open. Glen grinned from ear to ear. “You’re alive!” Stan grunted, his voice barely audible above the rushing creek. Glen could feel the fire’s heat on his bare back, but he was still shivering. “I have to get you closer to the fire.”

With that, Glen crawled to the head of the litter and began dragging his big friend across the weed-punctuated dirt. In another minute, both men were basking in the intense heat.

Glen helped Stan out of his boots, socks and shirt, but removing the big man’s pants was not an option. “I’m going to use an emergency blanket to help warm us.” Glen said, pulling the scuffed, dripping Mylar from his fanny pack. As Glen held it up, the blanket’s reflective surface bounced heat onto their pale hypothermic bodies. Glen gazed down at Stan and chuckled.

“What?”

“It’s just that you look like a small Beluga whale in a giant reflector oven.”

“Ow!” Stan said, beginning to feel deliverance from the icy grip of a watery grave. “Don’t make… me laugh.”

“Sorry.” Glen offered, but continued a silent smile. The small man propped up the Mylar with a branch and then scuttled off. He laid out their clothing to dry before employing his own reflective blanket. With the immediate crisis passed and the sun finally beginning to burn off the fog, Glen collapsed beside his friend. “Too bad we didn’t think to bring a pot and some hot chocolate.”

“You could… go back across?”

Glen McPherson eyed his big friend, tilting his head a little to one side before responding. “I would,” he finally said, a smirk on his face, “but my boots are still wet.”

Nearly an hour passed in unspoken silence. Radiant heat from the bonfire began to force the chill from their bones, and finally, the men had to retreat a little from the blaze. “It feels good to be warm again!” Glen said. Stan nodded, but managed to add a smile to the exchange before his face again resumed a slack expression. The big man was warm, but his pains hadn’t been washed away.

For the next hour, Glen held piece after piece of wet clothing between himself and the fire, waiting until each began to steam before selecting the next one. The sun finally poked through the fog to add its warmth, but the enormous bed of crimson coals did the majority of the work. Soon, the dark stains of water in the fabric gave way and the clothing’s colour grew lighter.

“Good thing I listened to you.” Glen said, rubbing at his empty stomach. “If we hadn’t brought the water filter, we’d be in more trouble than we already are.” Stan nodded and Glen crawled to the creek to get a much-needed drink.

The battered Scotsman sat on the bank of Skull Creek, right leg out over the raging rapids, the water purifier’s intake hose dangling into the current over his bare foot, his hands methodically pumping. Glen’s nervous gaze slowly swept the distant tree line. They were at least a hundred feet downstream from their previous night‘s campsite. He shook his head. “I still can’t believe we’re alive!”

Goose bumps swarmed Glen’s muscled chest and then disappeared into the sunlight. He continued to pump. His left ankle throbbed mercilessly and the battered hiker stared down at it. The blue and purple skin looked like some dismal Vincent Van Goth painting, created on a day when the master painter was unusually downcast and dejected. Glen shuddered. “Heavenly Father?” His prayer came out as a whisper, swallowed by the sounds of the surging stream. “Thank thee for helping me and Stan to get across this river.” The small man’s eyes took in the bonfire, and he continued to speak. “Thank thee for preparing that pile of wood and twigs so I could start a fire so easily.” Unbidden tears rose and began to weep out onto his ruddy cheeks. It was painfully obvious that the two men were alive only by the grace of God.

Five minutes passed before Glen McPherson was crawling again, carrying a pump water pouch toward his big friend.

“Hey Big C?” Glen sounded a little more upbeat. Stan’s eyes met his. “I think I can still pull you without my crutch.” A look of curiosity flickered across the big man’s face, but he remained resigned to listen. If I lean on the front support of the travois, I should be able to make it work.

Stan nodded his understanding. His breathing was shallow. His face was drawn. After a pregnant pause, he spoke. “Are the clothes… dry enough?”

“I think so.”

“Then… let’s go.”

Glen scuttled in the glow of the coals, relishing in the final minutes of heat. He dressed first and then worked on Stan. With the Mylar blankets again gathered into his fanny pack, the water drank and the pump refastened to the litter, the small man took up his position of draft horse.

Without his crutch, Glen balanced on one leg and then bent down and hoisted the head of the travois into the alpine air. Gravity swung the front support into a vertical position and Glen let the litter’s weight settle onto it. Pushing downward on the front cross bar with both hands, the determined Scot shuffled his right foot forward a little and then simultaneously lifted and pulled forward. The travois slid ahead nearly a foot. “It looks like this is going to work.” He called out. Behind him, Stan smiled with relief. “Looks like we have about five hundred yards to go!”

Stan’s thoughts were both bitter and sweet as he watched the river slowly retreat. “I’m glad to be rid of you!” He thought as he eyed the raging, glaciated waters of Skull Creek churn relentlessly by. Raw memories of his helplessness in the churning river haunted his thoughts. In spite of the ordeals of the past several days he had never faced certain death before. But today he had. The terror he felt in the river had eclipsed everything. In that prolonged moment of distress, his life had paraded before him. The big man had experienced a rush of gratitude for good deeds done and a rush of regret for things left undone. How Glen had pulled him to safety he didn’t know. “Truly, it was a miracle.” While Glen had been drying their clothes and boots, the big man had offered a silent, but sincere prayer of his own. God had given his life back to him and Stan knew it. “God gave life back to us both!”

For several minutes, Glen struggled forward across the relatively level riverbank. His intense blue eyes fixed the top of Wynyard Hill. “You’re almost there!” he muttered under his breath. “You can do this.” In spite of the self-fabricated, psych up success speech, Glen McPherson knew the truth. Pulling his large friend up this final grade would be tough – perhaps even the toughest test of the week. The small man stopped to rest and to catch his breath. The water he had consumed was already feeling used up and his empty stomach housed no fresh power for the small man’s abused muscles.

“Hey Big C, you’d better get your good foot against the bottom crossbar for this hill.”

“Ok.”

“I can’t leave you now, so close to the truck and all!” A vision of Stan sliding off the travois played across the stage of Glen’s mind. In spite of their sombre situation, he grinned. “Of course, if you did slide off, it would be so much easier for me!”

Stan smirked and shook his head. “You’d like that… wouldn’t you?”

The men were silent for a few seconds as the brief moment of humour was absorbed into the fleeing fog that still clung to the tallest tree tops of Wynyard Hill. Finally Glen spoke. “Not really.” He said. “We’ve come this far. No point in quitting now!”

Stan’s smile faded, and two tiny rivulets ran down his cheeks. In the past five days, his tenacious friend had saved his life more times than he could count. His debt to Glen McPherson was too large to ever repay. Stan stared absently off into space. “I would have done the same for him though!” Fresh tears spilled over the big man’s lower eyelids. With a large hand, Stan wiped at his face and then pressed the foot of his god leg against the lower bar of the travois. Hope filled his heart and the big man’s mind found the face of his devoted wife. “I’ll be home soon Alida!” He took a shallow breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll be home soon and things will be better between us.”

Well over an hour of puffing, panting, sweating and straining passed before Glen spied the truck. The exterior, of the sought after vehicle, was covered in rain-splattered dust. The ebony paint bore the haunted look of ten thousand chicken pox scars, but the struggling hiker didn’t care. All that mattered was the fact that they were nearly saved!

Ten additional minutes saw Stan laying quietly on the inclined travois atop the grassy knoll that marked the highest point of Wynyard Hill. Glen knelt at his head, panting hard while fumbling in his fanny pack for the precious truck key. As battered hands and knees crawled for the ignition an unspoken thought ran through the minds of both hikers. Neither man however, dared give the dour thought a voice. “I just hope the truck starts.”

As Glen McPherson plunged the key into the door lock and turned, four hairy feet approached the bank of Skull Creek and came to a halt. Five hundred yards below the oblivious hikers, twin beady eyes scrutinized the embers of the dying bonfire before finally gazing upwards at Wynyard Hill. “Where are those human’s now?” The bruin paused for only a brief moment longer, sniffing at the moist alpine air. Then silver-tipped hair felt the icy sting of Skull Creek as the grizzly boldly stepped into the water.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 39

2011-01-15T04:00:00.003-07:00

“Glen?” Lillie’s voice floated into his ears. The sunlight dazzled her delicate features and caused her hair to catch fire. “Come on Glen.” Lillie was running across a verdant meadow of green. The vivacious redhead stopped and turned. “Hurry Glen!” She called again. Her smile was alluring. Glen willed his legs to move, but they were like firmly rooted oak trees. “I’m trying.” He called back. Lillie began to run again. Her graceful form danced across the lush grass, but Glen could not seem to move. Cords constricted around his heart as he watched his beloved wife fade into the distance. The exhausted Scotsman thrashed in his sleep and then went still once again.

Muted morning light finally seeped softly through the holes in the tent, dappling the two weary men with splashes of illumination as they fitfully slumbered. Above the shredded tent, the sky was completely hidden from view. A thick blanket of fog hung in the alpine air, obscuring the plentiful overhang of tree limbs. The moist murk seemed determined to remain attached to every leaf and blade of grass it could touch.

Stan’s eyes popped open. The big man hadn’t meant to fall asleep. “Glen?” Came his harsh whisper. “Are you asleep?” The wiry Scotsman stirred, then drew in a sharp breath of the humid air.

“What? No.” Glen shook his head and then opened his eyes unusually wide as if trying to stretch his eyelids. Suddenly, a powerful yawn contorted the small man’s stubbled face. “Ok.” He finally conceded. “Maybe I was asleep.” The small man peered out through the nearest overhead hole and scowled. “I must have been asleep. I was dreaming again, except this time it wasn’t very nice.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you hear the bear again?” Glen asked, now wide-awake and worried.

“Not a sound.”

“I still can’t believe we chased it off like that. I thought we were dead men!”

“Me too.” Came the wheezy reply.

Glen pulled his feet out of his sleeping bag and donned his clothes. “Well, my friend…” Glen sounded a little playful as he buckled his belt. “If that bear comes back now, at least I can outrun you.”

“You mean… out limp me!” Stan countered adding his own efforts to the stress relieving humour. The truth was however, that the tension was like the fog that hung over their tent – thick, oppressive and inescapable!

The small man laughed as he unzipped the tent door, but then cut his chuckle to silence. “Aw!” He chortled. “What is this?” Glen picked up one of his boots and displayed it to Stan. A large portion of the boot’s tongue was missing, obviously gnawed away by some animal. Stan face reflected Glen’s scowl.

“It must have… been a squirrel… or something.”

“Disgusting creature!” Glen glared at the boot, fingering the ragged edge of the padded leather tongue. “I guess it could be worse.” He rationalized. “At least I can still wear the boot!” The tired Scot blew out a breath and pulled on his footwear.

With all the food gone, their morning rituals took less time than usual. Glen McPherson hustled to get the tent off of Stan. “Ok Big C.” He said. “Time to get onto your chariot.

“After I go… to the bathroom.” The big man groaned.

“Right!”

Fifteen minutes later, still under the thick grey repression of fog, Stan Calderbank was nearly back in his place atop the tent. “Almost there!” Glen encouraged, tugging once again on the sleeping mat and sliding it a little more. “We’re definitely going home today!”

When the mat, and its prone human cargo, were finally positioned on the flattened tent, the struggling Scotsman wrestled the travois back into its place. Punctuated by furtive glances in all directions, the wary Scotsman attended to his work. In minutes, Glen’s practiced fingers tightened the ripped tent back onto the travois.

With the litter ready, Glen hobbled to retrieve the hanging backpack. Stepping over the strewn tent poles, the determined man untied the rope and let the pack drop to the dirt. He withdrew a water pouch and took a deep draught. “Ahhhhh! That’s nice!” Dropping the pouch back inside, Glen shouldered the backpack and limped over to Stan and spoke evenly. “Hey Big C, you’d better have a drink before we go.”

The big man was still panting from his bathroom and repositioning ordeal. “Ok.” He said and reached out a hand to accept the half full pouch. Glen watched as his friend swallowed the cool liquid.

“I think we’d better leave as much stuff as we can.” Glen said, obviously still thinking about their escape plan. The small man’s eyes mechanically swept the perimeter of their campsite. “The less we have on the travois to get caught in the current, the better.” Stan continued to drink, but nodded his approval and grunted slightly. “We’ll send someone back to get our things.” Glen’s eyes swept the edge of the trees. “Right now, all I wana do is get us to the truck and find some help.”

Stan stopped drinking. “Just remember… the cell phone… and keys.”

“I’ll put them in my fanny pack.”

Glen rummaged in the backpack and held up the trophy. “Here are our tickets out of here.” He said, trying to mask the tiredness in his voice. The small man zipped the phone and keys into his fanny pack and looked around again. The fog was still low, but beginning to lift. “At least I can see across Skull Creek.” He muttered to himself. The fact was, a bear could be napping in the bushes on the opposite bank and Glen still wouldn’t be able to spot him. In the distance, the foaming bank was just barely visible. The proximity of Stan’s unseen pickup truck fuelled his strange sense of optimism. The determined Scotsman drew in a full breath and pushed it out past pursed lips. He shook his head and prepared to move. “I feel like a paranoid homing pigeon!”

Glen paused for long enough to stuff the strewn tent poles into the top of the open pack and then turned to face Stan. “Should I leave the water and pump too?”

“You could put… one pouch and… the pump… beside me.” He wheezed. “We’re not there… yet.”

The small man’s brow furrowed, but he nodded silently. In seconds, Glen had the full water pouch and the nylon bag, containing the pump secured to the free end of the topmost tent string on the travois. “There.” He said. “Now let’s get outa Dodge before the big gun comes back to town!”

With that, Glen McPherson zipped up his faithful red backpack and tossed it to the edge of the wide trail. “We’ve sure wrecked a lot of our equipment.” He observed aloud. “I hope some bear doesn’t rip our packs to shreds before we can get someone to retrieve them for us.”

Stan said nothing. He agreed, but a few lost items were infinitely less precious than their lives. The big man’s eyes followed Glen as he hobbled to the head of the litter. He heard the wiry Scot grunt as he bent down to pick it up.

“Glen?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s have prayer… before we go.”

Glen knelt at the head of the litter while Stan lay quietly behind him. Glen’s pleading words carried over the rush of the nearby creek.

In moments, the heartfelt prayer was concluded. Feeling marginally refreshed from their night’s sleep, and buoyed by the prayer, the two battered and humbled hikers set out. Stan watched as the litter pivoted his limp body under the grey dawn. There was a strange smearing of colours. Streaks of muted greens and browns mysteriously blended with the brooding, translucent haze. Then, the big man felt his head fall towards the ground. Above his head, he heard Glen gasp and moan. The river crossing had begun.

It seemed to take forever before the rear tips of the fourteen-foot travois reached the damp dirt that marked the bank of Skull Creek. As the shredded tips of green wood slipped downward into the water, Stan wondered something very strange. “Why is this river called Skull Creek?” Then, with shocking abruptness, the question, like dirt in a gold miner’s sluice box was swept away by the clear water.

Ahead of the big man, Glen McPherson struggled against the powerful current. The raging waters of Skull Creek surged and swirled about his legs and the two crutches. Progress was slow, but he was moving. Glen’s good foot slid unsteadily on the thin coatings of algae that clung to the submerged and unstable river rocks. “My legs!” He muttered under his breath, screwing up his face and gritting his teeth. The small man’s legs were rapidly losing feeling and he had only just begun the crossing.

The determined Scotsman fixed his stare on the opposite riverbank. It was one hundred feet away, but it might have been a million miles! “Come on Glen!” He hissed through clenched teeth. “You can make it!” Glen felt the rear of the travois drop into the river. Then, suddenly, the river took hold.

“Ahhhhh!” Water coursed and surged about Stan Calderbank instantly soaking him through. All his aches and pains drowned as frigid waters wrapped about his body, suffocating him in a watery cocoon. There was no veiled promise of mercy here! Skull Creek boiled over the big man, its glaciated droplets of death splashing onto his face. The litter lurched ahead. “Oh God!” Stan puffed aloud. “Help me… to survive… this river.”

The tips of the travois headed downstream, dragged by the frothing current. The inflated mattresses, that cradled Stan, began to rise. For Glen, the litter was nearly weightless, but another problem quickly demanded his attention. The small man had to keep the travois from pulling him off his feet and sweeping them both downstream.

“If you fall, you’ll both die!” The terrifying thought was demanding, insistent, and reeked the acrid, stultifying scent of intolerable truth! Powerless to resist it, the anxious warning echoed through the empty corridors of Glen’s mind, and refused to fade.

“Hold on Stan!” Glen shouted. The roar of rapids diluted the small man’s voice like water does thin soup, but Stan heard the struggling Scotsman anyway. Glen pivoted his body to accommodate the river’s pull.

Big C’s white knuckles clung frantically to the travois. The litter’s stout poles now made up the rigid portion of his hull and provided the only stability within reach. The travois had transformed into an unexpected life raft! Stan grimaced, his head still miraculously above water. “At least I’m not drowning!”

Hour long seconds trickled by, and with the passing of each one, the struggling hikers floundered. The menacing river gave no quarter. Rushing, glaciated waters penetrated further and further into the flesh of each man. Then, its icy grip went after their bones.

Inch by inch, the far bank of Skull Creek drew nearer. It would have been a faster crossing if Glen could have hobbled directly across, but that was an impossibility. The best the wiry Scot could do was to maintain a heading of about 45 degrees to the current.

Breathing hard, Glen McPherson willed his good leg to pull. The small man and his hapless raft lurched onward. Fifty feet left. Forty feet left. Thirty feet left. From his thigh down, all feeling was gone.

“Ahhhhh!” Glen’s water-anaesthetize foot slipped and he went down. Suddenly, everything began to move in slow motion. “No!” He heard himself scream, but his pathetic sound was drowned out by the raging river. Glen’s mouth filled with chilled water. His eyes were wide with terror. The small man’s hind parts struck the slippery riverbed. The merciless river tore at his body. Then, before he could break his fall, water boiled over his head!

Big C felt Glen collapse. The big man’s face went white as his mind released a clear message to his body. “This is it!” As the roiling waters of Skull Creek powered over him, he drew in as big a breath as he could. He wouldn’t go down without a fight, but he was virtually helpless. Stan’s eyes stared up at the morass of murk smothering the landscape. For a prolonged moment, the big man noticed the wispy gauze that reached out from the ragged bottom of the overhead fog as it attempted to brush against his upturned face. The fog was spectral, a phantom reaching with gentle tendril-like fingers to claim the stricken hiker. Then, the nightmare took a turn for the worse. The litter went into full reverse. It was picking up speed. “Alida!” Stan moaned. Then, Stan’s helpless head was buried in the rapids! “Oh God, not yet! Please not yet!”

From the protection of the thick evergreens that rimmed the northern bank of Skull Creek, the large bruin stared at the surging stream. His black eyes were fixed on the strange spectacle. The human and his human cargo were bobbing up and down in the water like pieces of driftwood during the spring runoff. Silver-tipped hair caressed the press of foliage that camouflaged the massive bear as he watched. The Grizzly’s encounter with the two men in the tent had been painful, but with the coming of dawn, curiosity had prevailed. He would not be cowed a second time by these puny humans!

At the head of the travois, Glen McPherson’s fingers raked at the slimy riverbed. Sputtering, the struggling Scotsman fought for breath. The front bar of the travois pressed into the small man’s stomach, dragging him forcefully backwards. Hiking boot heels and unprotected hind parts scraped and bumped unceremoniously across the slippery, submerged rocks. Glen’s injured ankle begged for relief. Suddenly, the small man’s backside hit a high spot in the riverbed. Glen was propelled upwards. His lips found air, but the moment didn’t last. As the small man frantically tore against the turbulence, he slid off the boulder. Icy water again boiled onto Glen face. “Dear God help me.”

Holding a precious breath of air, Glen took firm hold of the travois’s crossbar and flexed every muscle in his midsection. The wiry Scot pivoted his legs downstream and twisted his body until his stomach faced the river bed. His traumatized ankle bawled. His concentration was all consuming. He knew what was required. “If I don’t find my footing fast, we’re both dead men!”

Face downward and still buried in the frothy fray, Glen McPherson dug the tips of his hiking boots into the riverbed. His feet shuddered, stuttering over the slippery stones. Fire filled his injured ankle, but he blocked it out with all the mental power he could muster. The travois stopped! Glen struggled to stand, pulling his shoulders clear of the raging river and gasping for breath. A mighty upward pull lifted the head of the litter clear of the river. Behind him, Stan Calderbank sputtered and coughed.

Like a lone fence post in a brutal prairie blizzard, Glen McPherson stood stoically in Skull Creek. His chest heaved for breath! His crutch was gone! His hat was gone! His body was numb! Somehow, he was still alive!

The determined Scotsman glanced around. The southern bank of Skull creek was only fifteen feet away. “Are you Ok?” He panted.

“Yeah.” Stan wheezed.

“I have to crawl the rest of the way out of this river.”

“OK… just let… me catch… my breath…first”

“Me too.” Glen replied, hyperventilating hard. The small man shook his head. His muscles were close to failing from hypothermia. “We might make it out of the river alive” he thought, “but surviving the next half an hour will be the real trick!” He looked down at his waist. “At least I still have my fire starting kit!”

“Alright Big C, are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

Glen sucked in a deep breath and dropped to his knees. Froth, from the closest rapids, lathered his stubbled chin as it plunged into the river once more. Head down, travois crossbar pressing against his stomach, Glen scratched and scrambled forward with all his might. Eternity passed, but Glen’s numb bald spot finally struck the earthen bank. On hands and knees, a dripping apparition rose from the deadly waters into the hanging fog, dragging the litter behind him. Glen shut his eyes in concentration. As the laden litter lifted from the river, it’s weight returned. The spent Scot heard Stan sputter and cough once again. In spite of their perilous predicament, Glen grinned for a split second before sagging to the dirt.

Several precious seconds passed. The two soggy hikers lay panting and shivering on the southern bank of Skull Creek. Across the boiling water, twin beady eyes stared on.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 38

2011-01-08T04:00:00.001-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 38

Darkness squeezed every spec of light from the tree-covered landscape. The stars came out to play, trying in vain to illuminate the lonely tent sitting beside the frothy mountain stream. In several more hours, the moon would arrive to assist the stars. For now, however, the world was murky and shadowless.

Glen McPherson and Stan Calderbank lay in silent slumber. Outside the thin, ripped walls of their meagre accommodation churned Skull Creek, its turbulent waters roaring in the night and blocking out any other sound.

“Look at all the amazing flowers” Lillie exclaimed, music in her lilting voice. She turned her dazzling smile on Glen. He met her piercing gaze. His heart fluttered. Lillie wore a lacy white blouse and a full skirt, bearing the pattern of the Royal Scottish House of Stewart. The blood reds, forest greens, royal blues, coal blacks, golden yellows and pure whites, delicately woven together in a pleasing plaid pattern, flowed around her hips as she danced through the field of knee-high flowers. She was breathtakingly beautiful! All around her, crimson and gold wild flowers flourished in the hot sun. Blue-green mountains back dropped the alpine floral display. A calm lake shimmered in the valley below them. This was nature at its finest and his Lillie was like a sparkling diamond that completed the jewellery! Glen ran to catch up to his exuberant wife.

Warm air was filled with the sweet scent of blossoms. The delightful sounds of her voice filled his ears. Lillie’s soft hand was in his. His sweetheart pressed against his side. Glen was in love.

Lillie leaned into him, her face close. “I love you.” She breathed. Then, her tender lips brushed his. Glen kissed her back, lost in her embrace, his very life entwined around hers. Life could not be better than this!

Suddenly, the scene began to peel away. As new images materialized, Glen found himself sitting across a food-laden table from Lillie. He looked around, trying to orient himself. “Where are we?” His searching eyes settled on a menu. It sat on the table next to him. Tornea’s Authentic Mexican Restaurant was emblazoned in rich gold lettering on the deep red leather of the menu cover. He smiled to himself. Glen McPherson was Scottish to the bone, but he dearly loved Mexican cuisine.

Glen stared down. In front of him sat a colourful plate of enchiladas topped with melted cheese, a proliferation of jalapeno slices, green onions, and red tomato chunks, all smothered in thick scarlet salsa with a side of guacamole. Spicy rice filled one edge of the sumptuous looking platter while a cluster of purple tortilla chips graced the opposite edge. The meal smelled incredible! Glen smiled at Lillie and picked up his fork.

In the darkness within the tent, Stan Calderbank’s eyes fluttered open. His broken leg throbbed and his good leg demanded to be wiggled. The big man shifted a little. Pain shot through him. He winced. The big man squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to cry out. When the lancing pain finally subsided, Stan opened his eyes once more. Above him, twinkling through a rip in the tent’s ceiling, were stars. The slash was only a few inches in length, but with the moon still hidden, a brilliant swath of the Milky Way galaxy was visible. The big man gazed longingly at the sky. “What a show Mother Nature can put on!”

All of a sudden, the stars winked out. It was strange. It was as if a cloud had leaped across the sky and eclipsed the small smattering of starlight. It was then that Stan smelled a foul stench.

Glen dug his fork into an enchilada. His mouth watered in anticipation. The food touched his lips. “Oh it was so spicy!” The Scotsman choked on the piquancy. Fire exploded in his mouth. The inferno tore into his unprepared nasal passages. He could feel the heat in his ear canals! How could food be so hot? Glen dropped his fork and looked around. Beside him, at the next table, the patrons were just getting their order delivered by a group of waiters. Without warning, the lead waiter tripped. The poor man was carrying a platter of flaming hot goose. “What?” The oven bronzed bird was actually on fire!

Big C sniffed at the putrid air, an unspoken question demanding a response. “What is that?” The hair on the back of Stan’s neck stood on end. “Something’s definitely not right!”

Pandemonium broke loose in the restaurant. A man, at the neighbouring table jumped to his feet. His cloths were burning. Glen McPherson’s eyes popped out of his head. A shriek erupted from the flaming man’s mouth! Glen sat paralysed in his chair. His hands flew to cover his ears. The frenzied, flaming man was at least ten feet away, yet the scream seemed to be just inches from Glen’s head.

Glen choked awake. Beside him, Stan was screaming. The stinging taste of pepper spray filled the night air. Glen rolled towards the big man. “Where’s the flashlight?” Its LED bulb glowed against Stan’s sleeping bag. Glen snatched it up. Above the roar of the nearby river, he could hear a deep rumble. It was like rolling thunder! Glen aimed the flashlight’s beam towards the sound. His stinging eyes bulged out! He drew a sharp breath of terror and choked on it! Even with his glasses off, the small man knew what was happening. Through a hole in the tent roof poked the enormous snout of a bear!

Glen’s flashlight beam glinted off massive moist nostrils. They were black and flaring violently. A multitude of fine blonde-coloured hairs rimmed the tip of the bruin’s snout. The low, thunderous sound of extreme displeasure emanated from closed jaws and seemed to refract and echo past massive ivory fangs that barely showed against creamy red gums. Stan had already discharged some of the pepper spray. The burning flavour of capsicum filled the air around the two men, choking them. In his panicked state, the pepper spray had missed the bear and hit the tent roof instead. When Stan had groped desperately for the bottle, he had inadvertently dropped the flashlight. The horror-struck hiker had fired blind.

“Shoot him!” yelled the frenzied Scotsman, now wide-awake. Glen had never had a near-death experience before, but he was having one now! The flashlight trembled in his hand, strobe lighting the snout of the carnivore and casting disturbing shadows on the tent’s fabric. Glen groped frantically for the hatchet, unable to take his eyes off the bear. Stan squeezed the trigger. In the feeble flashlight’s glow, the broken hiker’s aim was deadly. A wicked torrent of crimson pepper spray hit the bear. The fiery liquid splattered against the black, flaring nostrils. The powerful propellant forced some of the stream right up its quivering nose!

The grizzly bear’s silver-tipped head jerked and then pushed further into the tent, tearing the nylon fabric like a sledgehammer through rice paper. Finally! Glen’s fingers closed about the carbon fibre handle of the hatchet. The bruin’s formidable jaws opened wide. The wavering light revealed a double row of tarnished white teeth. Saliva ran down a gigantic red tongue. A pink lower lip stuck out in a pout and started to gyrate. The grizzly let out a mighty roar. It sounded like a locomotive speeding down a gravel road at a hundred miles an hour. The sound was deafening! Putrid breath, blended with the thick scent of pepper spray, filled the tent. Stan nearly wretched. The deadly, gaping jaws were less than two feet from his unprotected face.

The big man could feel the discharge of hot fetid air as it ripped from the depths of the beast. Bear spittle spewed out, landing unceremoniously on Stan’s exposed face. The big man started to heave, but by sheer will power, he held back the surge. His kind-featured face contorted. He was nauseated and he was terrified. Gone was the throbbing in his leg and ribs. Stan’s life was about to end and all he could do was lay there, helpless!

“Shoot him again!” Glen screamed, trying to mount a counter attack. The wiry Scotsman squirmed to his knees and brought up his weapon. Glen was nearly blind from the stinging cloud of pepper spray. His breathing was distressed. The leather sheath still protected the hatchet’s honed blade, but there was no time to remove it.

Stan yelled again. It was the cry of a man about to die. It was the cry of a fearless warrior not willing to give any quarter until his heart beat for the very last time. It was the cry of a hero of legend.

The big man squeezed the trigger, nearly denting the bottle with his vice-like grip. A torrent of pepper spray drenched the entire insides of the grizzly’s gaping maw. Stan held the trigger until the bottle ran dry, but his thumb refused to release. At that same instant, Glen dropped the flashlight and crushed the carbon fibre handle in both fists. A battle cry, worthy of his ancestry, ripped from his stinging throat.

The hatchet came down with bone breaking force. Glen’s hands vibrated violently as the inertia was absorbed by the bear’s skull. The giant grizzly roared again. Glen struck again. In an instant, the mild mannered Scotsman became a crazed captured creature. Adrenalin pumped wildly through his bloodstream. He would not cringe in a corner. He would fight for life or die trying. Like a mighty machine, Glen rained blows down on the bear’s head. Their pepper spray was gone. They had only one weapon left.

The bruised grizzly roared again. Stan detached his hand from the empty spray bottle, his brain reeling for more options. Suddenly he remembered Glen’s crutch. Above him Glen’s frantic face was a blur in the near blackness. Stan groped in the darkness. In a split second, his powerful fingers closed around the wooden shaft of the crutch and into the fray it flew. The big man blinked hard, trying to douse the fire from his eyes. The feeble light lay on the floor, but in the near blackness at the ceiling, Stan could still see a little. With all the strength he could muster, the big man swung the tip of the crutch. It struck the grizzly on the throat. Beside him, Stan heard Glen’s ragged breathing punctuated by coughing. He could hear the dull thuds of leather-protected steel on fur-covered bone. He swung the crutch again. If the grizzly wanted them, the ferocious beast was going to pay dearly first! Again Stan swung. The solid wooden crutch sunk one last time into the soft, unprotected target.

Then suddenly, it happened. White pinpoints of light appeared through the hole in the tent’s ceiling. Glen swung the hatchet, but missed. The inertia caused him to fall forward. His souped-up body landed on Stan’s stomach and the hatchet head tore wildly through the tent wall, harmlessly digging into the dirt outside. Just beyond him, branches and twigs snapped mercilessly. Then, the rushing waters of Skull Creek swallowed up the sounds of the bear’s rapid retreat.

The winded Scotsman pulled himself off of the big man. His mind reeled. “What a rude awakening!” he muttered, coughing some more. “I can’t believe we’re still alive?” Beside him, Stan panted and moaned. Glen gasped for air, reeling from his swim in swirling capsicum.

“Are you hurt?” Glen rasped, grabbing up the flashlight and setting the hatchet down on the tent floor.

“No!” Stan gasped. “But I… think I… wet myself!”

Glen laughed. It was more born of nervousness than humour, but the laugh just got out before the small man could stop it.

“Are you… ok?” Stan asked.

“Yeah.” Glen panted. “I can’t believe we’re still alive!” he said again. The massive hole Glen had torn in the tent was rapidly clearing the cloud of pepper spray. The Scotsman drew a deep breath of pure night air and held it for a second. His heart was pounding, threatening to jump right through his heaving ribcage. “I’ve wrecked the tent.” He said finally, pointing the flashlight towards the massive rip.

Stan turned to see. “Oh my!”

“So much for a good night’s sleep.” Glen remarked, finally regaining some of his humour. “And I was having such a nice dream too!”

Stan let out a breathy laugh, moaning and then nodding. The big man brought his arm up and consulted his watch. “Almost four.” He stated.

Glen thought a moment. “The sun will be up in three more hours.” He said. “And the moment we can see, I want to leave this awful place!” Glen sounded as determined as the big man had ever heard him sound.

“Sounds good… to me.” Stan agreed.

“I’m surprised that that bear left without a bigger fight! If it returns, I’d wager that it won’t back down again!”

Big C nodded, but said nothing. His ribs throbbed, aggravated from swinging the crutch, not to mention the tensing of more muscles than he knew he had. His increased heart rate caused his fractured femur to pulsate and burn. The wetness, now cooling at his crotch, was irritating, but all the big man could do was to lie still and hope for better events with the coming of the dawn.

“We’d better stay awake until we can get out of here in the light of day.” Glen said. “If that grizzly returns, an extra second or two of warning might save us again.”

“I doubt… I can sleep.”

“Me neither.”

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow " - Chapter 37

2010-12-31T04:00:00.001-07:00

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2010

Chapter 37

For the next few minutes, both men rested. Finally, Glen crawled from the ground and began to set up their camp. They needed the backpack unlashed from the litter, the tent erected, and some supper made. As the remnants of the day wore on, Glen set himself to work. His first order of business was to get Stan off the tent.

The small man removed the backpack and untied the lashings holding the frazzled tent in place. Next, he moved the litter out of the way. With the travois clear, he helped Stan roll back and forth; bunching the fabric up under one side of the big man before rolling him the other way and pulling the tent all the way out. Just like the night before, the helplessly injured man paid a tremendous toll of pain for such a small manoeuvre.

When the tent was free of the big man’s weight, Glen dug in his pack for the poles. The pegs had been abandoned at their last campsite, but at least the tent would stand without them. Glen scowled. “Putting up this tent is much easier with pegs to hold the corners!” The small man scuttled around, unsuccessfully trying to spread the fabric. Finally, Glen placed baseball sized rocks on the tent’s corners. A few awkward minutes later and the tent was erected.

“Ok Big C, my next trick is to get you inside the tent again.”

“First... I need a... bathroom stop.” The big man said.

Once more, Glen employed the sharp hatchet. First, he created a new digging stick; then a pair of forearm-thick logs for a latrine seat. Glen missed the wonderfully sharp folding saw that he had left behind to conserve weight, but the small axe was definately better than nothing. Soon the wood was cut and the small man scuttled back into camp.

The worn Scotsman sowed the hatchet and stared down at his hands. They were bruised and blistered and scraped and strained. He was kneeling beside his backpack, catching his breath. Glen closed his eyes. “Heavenly Father?” He prayed. “Please help us to live through this night and then help us to be able to cross this deep river in the morning and make it back to our families.”

Silver lines wandered down dirt-stained cheeks as Glen McPherson’s prayer concluded. He wiped his tears with the back of his haggard hand and looked over at his large friend. Stan lay helpless on the ground, silently waiting and watching. As their eyes met, Glen saw silent understanding in the big man’s eyes.

Soon, Stan was again perched above a deep hole, attempting to remain atop the pair of rolling logs that Glen had fashioned for him. The ordeal might have seemed rather funny if it hadn’t been such a privately serious moment in the big man’s life.

When the ordeal was finally over, Glen assisted the panting man off the makeshift latrine. With the big man’s shoulders on the sleeping mat, Glen pulled his friend away from the hole. Following the short trip from the bathroom, Stan collapsed onto the softness of his sleeping mat and attempted to rest. The big man was still groaning as Glen shuffled over to fill the hole.

“Ok Big C.” Glen puffed. “Now let’s get you into the tent.” The wiry Scotsman positioned the torn tent bottom over Stan’s moaning, but unmoving form, and helped the big man emerge inside.

“Thank you.” Was all the big man could offer. Stan Calderbank was spent. His ribs ached. His leg throbbed. The muscles in his fingers and hands spasmmed and cramped from the endless hours of clinging to the travois poles. “Is there no mercy?” The big man’s unspoken question echoed down the empty halls of his mind. “Oh God? Please help me?”

Stan lay still while Glen prepared their supper. Except for two freeze-dried meals, all their food was gone. Tonight’s nourishment would truly be their last supper. The roar of the roiling river made talking a chore, so both men kept mostly silent. Finally, Glen attempted to lighten the mood. “Considering this nasty river, it seems we’re most definitely up a creek without a boat or a paddle!”

Stan grinned, but reality wiped his smile away in an instant. The big man peered up through a trail-enlarged hole in the tent’s roof. The irony was painful. He rested beside a beautiful mountain stream at the end of a warm summer’s day. Nearby, a spectacular cataract of freshly blended, sun-kissed frosting cascaded glacial water over slick black boulders and into secluded pools. Majestic mountain peaks tickled the deep blue sky and marshmallow clouds. Vegetation painted the undulating landscape with infinite variegations of green. Multi-coloured wild flowers proliferated alpine meadows at every turn. “Who could dream up a prettier place to relax and take in the bounties of nature?” The big man closed his eyes and saw the face of his wife. He saw the faces of his children and grandchildren. “I can dream up prettier places!” he thought bitterly. Yes, his surroundings were spectacular, but he loathed the prison they had become. “Just help me get home in one piece.” He prayed though unbidden tears. “Just help both of us to get there.”

Glen knelt beside the stove, looking at his watch. The water in their only pot had been boiling for nearly five minutes, but with the turbidity of the rushing river water, the small man was going to give it another five. They were already in severe distress. The water they consumed needed to be free of any live bacteria and other obnoxious microbes. The weary Scotsman shuddered. “Adding a case of the turkey-squirts to Stan would not be pretty at all!” He shook his head. “No!” He muttered, forcing his thoughts to head elsewhere. “I won’t even imagine that sickening scenario!”

The sun was nearly down and darkness threatened to envelope their campsite in less than thirty-five minutes. From outside the tent, Glen McPherson gazed skyward. The clouds were nearly gone now—just four puffy white specs exiting over the jagged peaks of the Lajord Range. They would disappear any second now. “Well…” Glen broke the silence. “Without cloud cover, there seems little chance of a red sky to promise positive potential for tomorrow.” Glen sounded a bit sarcastic. Stan pulled out of his thoughts and smiled a bit. The alpine air was not very warm, but unspoken thoughts of embracing their loved ones, in just a few more hours, warmed both of their faint hearts. The water in the kettle still boiled. Nearby, Skull Creek churned on.

“Looks like… no rain tonight.” Stan said, gazing skyward through the open tent door. The prediction was, after all, not too surprising, taking into account the big man’s predominant view for past three and a half days.

Glen regarded the big man with interest. “I guess you’ve studied the sky more that any weather man does.”

Stan grinned. “A sky… that clears after… the sun goes down… means rain… before morning.” Glen nodded while Stan continued. “The sky… is clear now… and it is… still light.”

Soon, Glen was hunkered in the tent doorway, spoon-feeding Stan from the steaming Mylar pouch. “It could be worse.” Glen commented, manoeuvring another bite of stew into Stan’s open mouth. “At least we’re eating and still alive… Even if I am in a bad mood.”

Stan smirked a little, but continued to chew. Eating while laying flat on his back was a risky endeavour. The big man had no interest in coughing―should the urge arise. The truth was painful enough though. They were trapped by a river—a river that would have been relatively insignificant had they both been able to walk normally! “It really isn’t fair.” He thought. “One quarter of a mile is all that separates us from escape.” The big man swallowed the bite of rich, juicy stew. “All we have to do is to survive for one more night.”

Once Stan had consumed his portion of supper, Glen dug into his. When he finished eating, Glen limped to the water’s edge. Just like the night before, the small man crushed the two supper pouches and prepared to throw the refuse into the river. It wasn’t much, but even a small advantage over preventing a bear attack was better than nothing. “It’s not so bad.” The small man rationalized as he tossed the crushed Mylar into the current. “Our lives are on the line.” The shimmering balls of Mylar were swept away quickly by the swift stream. Glen watched them go. “And staying alive definitely takes precedence over having a clean environment.”

The garbage hurried quickly out of sight, but Glen remained motionless on the riverbank, gazing at the rapids and lost in thought. The crushed plastic had moved so fast! “I hope that doesn’t happen to us tomorrow.” He thought darkly. “Even with the water level down, dragging Stan across will be a tough assignment.” Glen’s heart was full of dread. “Heavenly Father?” he prayed. “Help me to be able to get us across this river in the morning.” As his quiet prayer left his chapped lips, he felt a little comforted. Whatever happened tomorrow, at least his God had heard his plea.

Glen hobbled back to his pack and prepared to hoist it into a tree. Before he dragged it away, the determined Scotsman took one last drink of cool water from a hydration pouch. Then, with his crutch under one arm and the pack dragging along behind the other, Glen located a tree with a suitable branch and hoisted the light backpack well above the reach of any marauding bear.

With the pack safely lofted in the tree, and the lifting rope secured at an angle to it, Glen shambled back to the tent. He slipped off his dirty boots and set them just outside the door. He placed his crutch on the tent floor, between him and Stan. With the zipper done up, the small man began to settle himself for the night. Stan lay in silence. In the flashlight’s glow, Glen attended to his swollen ankle. After massaging it, the exhausted Scotsman re-wrapped the tensor bandage. Placing his socks, pants and shirt in the corner of the tent the exhausted hiker climbed into his sleeping bag.

Before lying down, Glen carefully placed the pepper spray, the sheathed hatchet and the flashlight between him and Stan. “Our weapons are all right here Big C.” He said warily. “I hope we won’t need them, but just in case we do, either of us can reach them.”

“Thanks.” Came the raspy response. “We just need… protection for… one more night!”

The men were quiet for a second before Glen spoke again. “Big C?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s have prayer.”

“Ok.” Stan whispered, “I’m ready.”

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow " - Chapter 36

2010-12-24T04:00:00.002-07:00

The afternoon deepened and then waned. As the day progressed Glen required rest stops more frequently. The winded Scot was becoming less and less able to drag his large friend. The speed of their progress had diminished. It had been sluggish at its best and now their pace bordered on deliberate dawdling.

Thirty-five minutes ago, the staggering Scotsman had downed the final drops of their precious water. Glen’s right leg and hip, as well as both his shoulders and arms, all burned mercilessly. His throat was parched. His bruised ankle throbbed, pressing against the interior of his boot like compressed helium inside a rapidly ascending weather balloon. His breathing was ragged. Glen couldn’t go on for much longer.

In the last half hour, since the last water pouch had been fully drained, neither man had spoken. Stan lay on the undulating litter, forever trying to will away his shooting pains and the incessant throbbing of his blood into his broken leg. He was beyond uncomfortable, and they were still not there. Not many positive thoughts swirled inside the big man’s mind, but he reached through the din of discouragement and plucked one good thought to focus on. “At least Glen’s careful about the route he drags me across.”

Suddenly, Stan imagined reaching the truck. The big man shook his head. The thought should have been comforting, blissful and even exhilarating, but it was not. “When we get to the truck, my discomfort will be anything but over!” The new thought chilled him, smashing his brief visit to positive thinking like spectacles under the tires of a speeding semi. “Riding on this travois is bad enough! Yarbo Road is full of potholes!” His worries multiplied inside his head. “And when the potholes of Yarbo Road stop trying to swallow my tires, there are numerous sections of washboard gravel, grooved strategically into the wilderness track to maximize my discomfort.” Stan sighed a shallow sigh. “I just have to hold on for a few more hours.” A fierce scowl crossed the big man’s face and he clenched his teeth. “Steady Stan, you can do this.” He reassured himself. “You can handle it.”

Forty-five more tortuous minutes passed. Glen was stopped again. He panted hard to catch his breath. “I think I… hear Skull Creek.”

Stan listened, but could not discern the sound of rushing water over the gentle rustle of leaves beside his ears. The trail was narrow and the bushes grew right up to the pathway. Numerous leaf-softened branch tips had been rubbing against his arms and hands for some time now. Several bushy branches even projected far enough into the trail to threaten his face, but none had hit him yet.

Glen began to pull forward once more. Silently, Stan hoped that his friend’s hearing was accurate. He had noted the slower pace and the increase in Glen’s respiration rate. His designated packhorse couldn’t pull much longer without a drink of water.

Twenty minutes later, the roaring rapids of Skull Creek were in Glen’s line of sight. In spite of his dry mouth, salty lips, burning limbs and aching joints, the small man grinned. Five additional minutes saw the litter resting near the bank of the rain-swollen watercourse. Glen rummaged in his backpack and retrieved the water-purifying pump.

In his right hand, Glen clutched the pair of hydration pouches as well as the bag that contained the pump. In his left, the exhausted Scotsman articulated his makeshift crutch. Seconds later, Glen’s exhausted body sat perched on the bank of the raging river. In no time at all, pure water trickled into the first pouch. When Glen had about a cup of water purified, he ceased pumping and guzzled the liquid. “Ahhhhh!” He blew out a breath. “That tastes heavenly!” The small man returned the intake hose to the river, again holding it in the stream as the flexible hose dangled over his outstretched leg. He pumped for another thirty seconds and stopped again. Hobbling over to Stan, Glen deposited the cool pouch into the big man’s hands. Big C downed the refreshment and Glen returned to the river for more.

As Glen sat parked on the river’s shore, pumping water into their hydration pouches, his eyes took in the deep torrent of water that blocked their path. Its roaring rapids were the only sound that the small man could hear. Skull Creek was badly swollen. Glen inspected the riverbank. “If we’d had much more rain, these banks wouldn’t have been high enough to contain all the water!” The muscles in the small man’s jaw worked as he pumped. His eyes swept up the hill. On the opposite bank, a five hundred yard struggle with an elevation gain of just over two hundred feet would lead them to the truck. “We’re so close!”

Glen eyed the river once more, this time trying to estimate its depth. He sent his mind back in time to the moments he had first waded across the icy waters of Skull Creek. “It must have been just under a foot in depth then.” He said aloud. “Right now, it looks like more than double that!”

From his low vantage point, it was difficult to tell. On the first day of their hike, and in the heat of the day, the glacial water flowing from Lady Lake had chilled his legs to the bone. Now it was their fourth day in the wilderness. The return crossing today would be so much worse than the first one! Then there was the ambient temperature to consider. Glen shot a quick glance at the sun. It would shortly begin its exit into the west, meaning that the gruelling pull up the steep hill would be made mostly in twilight and perhaps even in the dark. That, of course, was after they successfully forded the raging river.

Glen stared back at the frothing waters, tracing them up to the distant waterfall plunging from Lady Lake. An unbidden shudder ran through him. His jaw muscles flared again. The dreaded event of fording the swollen creek would most likely leave both men soaked to the skin. Glen scanned the sky once more. “If we’re lucky, there’s an hour of daylight left.”

Soon the hydration pouches were full. Glen drank deeply again and then refilled. “Big C?” he called. “Do you want any more to drink?”

Stan did, but even more than being thirsty he was terrified of having to use the bathroom. “Not right now.” He said.

Glen nodded, gathered up the pump, hoses and hydration pouches and hobbled back to Stan. As the items disappeared into the backpack Glen could see the trepidation on Stan’s face.

“That water looks… pretty deep.” Stan said. “Will my face… stay out?”

Glen stared again at the river, zipping up his pack without looking down at it. “I’ll check.” With that, Glen scuttled to the water’s edge and, balancing on one foot, probed the river with his crutch. From their first crossing, the small man new that the bank was steep and that the centre of the flow was only two or three inches deeper than it was at the edge.

Stan looked on as Glen plunged his makeshift crutch into the swift water. The balancing Scotsman bent sharply at the waist before Stan saw the crutch hit bottom. The crutch withdrew. A dark stain on the wood indicated the depth. The big man scowled. “The water’s at least two feet deep!”

Glen hobbled back to Stan. “It looks bad.” He stated, but the diagnosis was plainly obvious to both men. Glen reached the head of the litter and bent down. Kneeling, Glen compared the measured water depth with the small crutch that supported the front of the travois. The water was only three inches less than the stout support that had been assisting Glen in dragging the travois. He frowned and blew out a frustrated breath.

“I’m going to lift the travois up so it rests on the support.” Glen warned. A moment later, saw the travois at an angle and Glen staring at it from a distance of a few paces. The crown of Stan’s head was higher than his mouth but they were both lower than the measured height of the water!

Glen let out an exasperated sigh. “We’re so close!” He lamented, his voice rising in volume against the raging river. “We’ve made it so far! How can we be stopped now? It’s just not fair!” Glen looked down at the dirt and shook his head.

Stan lay quietly. He was quite familiar with the height of his face when Glen pulled the litter. As Glen passed him, on his way to measure the front support crutch, Stan observed the watermark on Glen’s crutch. Even without a word from his friend, Stan knew that the raging river was too deep for him. The big man closed his eyes and sent his brain into overdrive, searching for a solution that wouldn’t end in his death.

“The most obvious action is for Glen to leave me and go for help.” Stan thought. “That might be the best thing, but that choice would leave me at the mercy of at least two roaming grizzly bears.” The big man rubbed at the profusion of greying stubble on his swarthy face. “If I were threatened, I could use the pepper spray. But I certainly couldn’t defend myself in any other way.” Stan let out a shallow sigh. “If Glen did leave me, I would likely be alone for several hours—several hours of darkness!” Even though bears could not see especially well, Stan doubted that the giant carnivores would let darkness stop them from doing whatever it was that bears did in the dark. “Most wild animals are nocturnal.” The big man opened his eyes. Glen was still appraising the situation. “I have a much better chance of survival if there are two of us to battle against an invading bruin.” He concluded. “And besides,” Stan’s thinking extended, “If Glen does try to ford the river alone, without the travois to help stabilize him, he’ll probably not make it across in one piece.”

“What if we cross the river right now?” Stan began to mull through a second option. “True, the swollen waters of Skull Creek look menacing but the sleeping mat will give me a little bit of buoyancy.” The big man shook his head slightly. With Glen’s injured ankle, the possibility of them both drowning seemed imminent. “Even if we did make the crossing, we would be chilled and wet.” Stan followed that train of thought. “There will be no warm sunlight to stave off the hypothermia that is certain to attack us in the river and then follow us out.” The big man sighed again. “It would border on suicide to cross this raging river tonight!”

“There is only… one reasonable… thing for us… to do.” He said aloud. Glen’s eyes met his as Stan continued. “We have to… wait here ‘til… the morning.” Glen began to respond, but Stan held up a big hand. He had just remembered something significant. “The melt water… from the glacier… will be a… lot less… in the morning.” The discouraged Scotsman averted his eyes to the dirt and said nothing. Admitting defeat was not Glen’s first or even his second choice. Stan continued. “Remember our trip… to Spirit Lake?” Glen nodded, smiling a little as he recalled the amazing five-day adventure they had shared just two years before. “When we camped… below Hearts Hill? The river there… was twice as deep… in the late afternoons.”

Glen’s mind raced back to the campsite on the bank of that glacial-fed river at the foot of Hearts Hill, taking in the memory of the breathtaking surroundings. The Spirit Lake hike was all the two men had talked about while they had prepared for this new adventure. Glen remembered the phenomena with the river. It had been unexpected and very peculiar. When the sun warmed the landscape, the glacier melted at an increased rate and presto; the river swelled to double the height it had been in the early morning.

“So what you’re saying is that we should camp here tonight and cross first thing in the morning?”

“Yeah.” Stan said. “I really don’t… want to drown!”

“Good point.” Glen gazed up at the sky. “The sun will set soon and that would mean climbing the hill in the dark. Being wet will certainly get us into trouble with hypothermia.”

“Considering the… temperature of… the water… hypothermia is… inevitable.” Stan concluded. “It’s safer... to stay here... tonight!”

“That water is very cold!” Glen said, still considering Stan’s suggestion. “I could leave you here, but if you were attacked by a bear, I’d never forgive myself.” He trailed off, a lump forming in his throat. “And Alida would never forgive me either!”

Stan listened to the small man who had been keeping him alive. If Glen decided to leave him now and go for help, there was nothing he could do to stop him. “Glen might bring back help tonight if he left me.” The prone man pondered some more. “Of course that’s assuming he can make the crossing on one leg!”

Glen set his jaw, took a deep breath, and spoke again, interrupting the big man’s swirling thoughts. “Ok.” He sounded determined. “We’ll both stay here tonight.” The roar of the river nearly swallowed up his words. “First thing in the morning, we will cross this nasty river and go home!”

Hobbling back to lower the front of the litter, Glen’s brow furrowed deeply. He muttered aloud to himself, the sound of his voice lost in the rush of Skull Creek. “I hope this isn’t a fatal mistake!”

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow " - Chapter 35

2010-12-18T04:00:00.002-07:00

A pair of large brown beady eyes spied from within the leafy camouflage. The grizzly breathed smoothly, unflinchingly. As the big bear watched, he was surprised to notice the presence of two humans instead of what he thought was only one. Usually he didn’t make mistakes like this. Obviously, his extra caution had been prudent. What else had he missed?

A light southerly wind wafted the scents of the two humans into his moist nostrils. Now that he could see the two men, he was able to differentiate between their odours. The bruin stared as one of the men scampered back and forth about the campsite. In his very limited experience with humans, the bear knew that the smell of food was often blended in the air with the scent of their bodies. Strange, however, was the fact that the grizzly could not smell anything to eat. Even when he had stalked along the edge of their mysterious sleeping device he had not been able to detect the presence of a ready meal. And then there were those odd noises coming from within the structure. He had been curious and wanted to take a look within, but wariness had gotten the better of him. In fact, he had just barely hidden himself before one of the humans emerged into his mountain domain. He was wise to hide. He had no idea what might have happened if he had been spotted.

The big bear remained resigned and calm, observing and waiting. If he was patient, there would soon be another opportunity for him to satisfy his curiosity. Patience had been his friend in the past, and it would probably be his friend again today. “There is no rush.” He thought. “It’s much better to cautious.”

“We need wheels!” Glen sputtered, clumping along at his usual, but pathetically slow pace. Behind him, Stan just held on and gritted his teeth. The litter was much more stable than it had been when they crossed the field of boulders under the shadow of Ravenscrag Mountain, but the trail was not exactly a freshly paved primary highway. Random roots criss-crossed the dirt path. Rainwater sat in scattered, randomly placed depressions, making Glen’s footing uncertain. Still, for all the trepidation, the trail behind them was at least free of the unseen grizzly bear. If the two men had been hiking normally, they would have had to keep looking over their shoulders to see if danger was approaching them from behind them. Incapacitated as he was, however, Stan Calderbank made an attentive and astute rear lookout.

Glen halted. Stan turned his head to see what lay ahead, but his neck would just not turn that far. “Everything ok?” the big man asked.

“Yeah.” Glen replied. I just need some way to help support the front of this travois. My arms are killing me!”

Stan pondered the problem a moment. “Why don’t… you cut a… short crutch… and lash it on.”

The idea had merit, and Glen’s worried mind caught hold of the notion. “That’s a good idea.” He stated. “Hold on. I’m going to put you down.”

Glen set the litter on the trail and hobbled back to Stan. He untied the hatchet from one of the upper tent tethers. Unsheathing it, Glen looked at Stan, “I’ll be right back.”

With that, Glen scuttled off into the woods. It took the scanning Scotsman just seconds to locate a suitable branch. He set to work, chopping.

The sound of clinking steel filled the tranquility of the alpine air. The massive grizzly stopped and stiffened. He had been following the men—from a safe distance of course. It took less than a second for the big bruin to identify the sound’s direction. “It must be the humans!” Apprehensive, the bear listened intently. Whatever the humans were doing, it was loud. The grizzly puzzled a bit. He had never heard such a noise as this before. Anxious to get a closer look, but worried for his own hide, the bear stood his ground a moment longer. The clinking sounds did not stop. Finally, the grizzly turned and moved quickly off the trail into the undergrowth. “These humans apparently still have a few tricks up their sleeves!”

Stan lay on the litter, prone and pathetic. As he listened to the hatchet’s blows, he reached out to touch the bottle of pressurized bear repellent. He had made jokes about pepper spray. “A bit of spice to make a hiker more tasty!” he had often said. A deep furrow played in the dried sweat on his brow. Today, he hoped his flippant joke held no thread of truth. He wanted no part of the irony an encounter with a bear might bring.

Glen returned momentarily. Instead of one crutch, he now had two. In spite of the serious situation, however, Stan smirked. Glen noticed. “What?” The small man sounded irritated.

“You just look… funny with… crutches of… different lengths.” Stan wheezed.

Glen glanced down at the crude wooden implements. A smile crossed his own lips. He had to admit it. A man using two unevenly matched crutches did have the makings for a comedy act. After a second, Glen grew serious again. He drew out his Leatherman and cut a piece of excess string from one of the tent loops. They wouldn’t need to tie the tent down anyway, and he had no other twine to use to lash the new crutch to the front of the litter.

It took Glen a minute or two to lash the short crutch in place, but that was only after he adjusted its height with the hatchet. With the front crosspiece of the travois resting in the crook of the short wooden crutch, Glen hefted the litter. As the front rose off the ground, the extended crutch tip was dragged from its horizontal to a vertical position. With the crutch directly under the cross beam, Glen set the travois down. It rested perfectly on the new crutch! “Success!”

Glen had been wise enough to lash the wood to the exact centre of the framework. As long as he kept his own crutch and right foot far enough apart from each other, the short crutch just swung forward with each lurching step he took. He smiled at his handiwork. “Great idea Stan.” He offered. “I just wish you had suggested this very helpful mechanical device yesterday.”

“Sorry.”

The grizzly lay quietly among the thick, leafy bushes. The disturbing sound had ceased, but he wanted no part in taking chances. He would wait a while before he stalked after the unusual men any further. The big bruin looked up at the sky. The day was becoming a nice one and he was getting hungry. Hearing no more sounds, the bear rose and began to forage.

The terrain beneath the litter was more or less smooth, and the extra relief offered by the swinging support gave Glen’s strained arms some desperately needed help. The relief was definitely appreciated. “The further we go, the more I like this crutch idea!” Glen panted.

“Glad you… like it.” Stan offered.

“Big C.” Glen puffed. “I think you have… a patentable idea!”

“Thanks.” Stan said, “But there aren’t… very many… stores out here… that will carry it.”

Glen tried to laugh, but he was breathing too hard to get out more than a humorous huff. He had been pulling the litter for well over an hour and a half. The small man came to a stop and rested the front of the litter on the crutch. He ducked out from under the front cross brace and hobbled for his pack.

“How much farther do you think it is to Paisley Brook?” he asked, unzipping the main pouch of the pack.

“I can’t be sure… but it can’t be… more than another… hour.” Stan wheezed.

Glen drank deeply from the full hydration pack, then, he offered a drink to Stan.

Just a little.” Stan said. “After this morning… I don’t ever… want to use… the bathroom… again!” Glen smiled in understanding. He didn’t want to have to help Stan again either!

When the men finished drinking, Glen stowed the plastic pouch and zipped up the red pack. Their water was now gone, but Paisley Brook would soon provide a fresh source. Glen hobbled back to the front of the litter and resumed his position of packhorse.

Another hour of dragging ticked by, but still no river. The small man set the front of the travois down. “I’m getting dehydrated.” Glen panted. “My good leg feels like a piece of wood.” He was ranting now. “My hips are killing me and my armpit feels raw.” Stan had no idea what to say, so he just listened. “I’m moving on sheer will alone!” Glen concluded his complaints and picked up the travois once more. “We have to make it to Paisley Brook soon. I can’t go on much longer without water!”

Maple Creek had marked the southern end of Green Canyon. Now the narrow, rocky gap between High Tor and Ravenscrag Mountains was far behind the two haggard hikers. Three hours from the life-giving creek, a smooth open area began to stretch out before them. The Mistawasis Mountains on the west and the Lajord Range on the east back dropped both sides of the open valley. Quite different than Green Canyon, here, the mountain ranges were further apart.

Several miles west of the two hikers, thick deposits of glacial ice clung to the sides of the Mistawasis Mountains. As the thick glaciers slowly thawed in the summer heat, the melted ice fed Maple Creek, Paisley Brook, Lady Lake, and Skull Creek. Looking south, to where the broad valley opened even wider, the three rivers ran together to form a large body of water called Middle Lake. From there, the chilled mountain water ran into the Sucker River and eventually reached the salt water of the ocean. Glen McPherson paused to catch his breath, looking out over the valley.

The picturesque basin was home to a myriad of evergreen trees. They grew everywhere, but they were all so short that Glen could see over top of most of them. Nearly twenty years before, a mighty fire had ripped through the open valley, leaving blackened skeletons of the once-proud evergreens that called it their home. Today, seeds from the mighty forest had sprung up, trying to restore the valley to its former glory. Glen surveyed the area ahead of him, remembering the reason for the new forest seedlings. “In another thirty or forty years, there will be a magnificent forest her.” He thought, trying to take his mind off his throbbing muscles. “We have to be getting close.” He muttered between gasps for air and hefted the travois once again.

Minutes continued to creep by. Time seemed meaningless. Glen’s twin crutches and single booted foot left a strange combination of tracks in the soft earthen trail as he plodded along, lurching with each and every step. Suddenly, Stan spoke. “I think… I hear water.”

Glen paused in his forward movement and let the travois rest on the short support crutch. He could hear it too. “You’re right.” He panted, smiling. “Paisley Brook is just ahead.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Glen and Stan both lay on the ground. Beside them, Paisley Brook ran by. With the overnight rain accumulations, the lazy brook had been transformed into a narrow, but raging set of shallow rapids. Two full hydration packs and the water-purifying pump sat next to Glen’s unmoving arm. The stubborn Scotsman’s chest still heaved from lack of breath. Stan just tried to relax his cramping muscles. The day was beginning to warm, but the chilled water in their stomachs compensated for it. Above their closed eyes, the storm clouds were breaking up. In another hour or maybe two, the sun would be out to complete the storm cycle and end the gloominess that had dogged them for nearly two days. By tomorrow, the rain would be all but forgotten.

The men lay quietly in their tranquil surroundings. Birds and insects flitted and hummed nearby, but aside from the small creatures and the flowing brook, the world was still.

“Beep, beep, beep, beep!” Glen’s watch jolted the aching Scotsman out of the deep sleep of his nap. His hiking hat covered his eyes. His hand shot off the ground and groped for the shut-off button on the obnoxious watch. At his side, Stan stirred too, but he didn’t jump. The loud alarm wasn’t right beside his ear!

Glen moaned. “I don’t wana get up yet!” The small man pealed the wide-brimmed hat off his eyes and stared at this watch. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon. “I guess we’d better get moving.” He said reluctantly. “We must have at least three more hours of this torture before we reach Skull Creek.”

Glen rolled over onto his stomach so he could pull his stiff body up to his knees and then complete the standing process using his good foot and handy crutch. He had only been dependant on the crutch for a few days, but had adapted quickly. It was, however, a love-hate relationship that he had with the makeshift support. His armpit was chaffed and his hip and hamstring hurt from having to hold up one leg all the time. Of course, dragging Stan made things even worse. In good conscience though, the worn Scotsman couldn’t be too hard on the inanimate wood. The crutch was, after all, helping to save his life and the life of his friend. The wiry man drew in a full breath of fresh mountain air and blew out slowly. Donning his worn leather gloves, Glen gripped his makeshift crutch and pulled himself up to stand.

“Ok Big C.” Glen was still trying to psyche himself up. “I hope you’re more ready for this than I am?”

“Probably not.” Came an honest reply. “I’d better have… two more Tylenol.”

Glen obliged, stowing the water in his pack and transferring the two requested tablets from the small pill bottle to the big man’s mouth. Glen then looked around, moved to the head of the litter and lifted it once more.

The short crutch did pretty well crossing Paisley Brook. Only once did the swift water prevent the wooden tip from swinging forward properly. Of course, the fast water was only a few inches deep, and the brook only eight feet in width. Glen watched the crutch work, knowing that this creek crossing was only a mild prelude to the fording of Skull Creek. Considering the extra volume of runoff in Paisley Brook, their next river crossing would be a most difficult challenge. The brook’s flow had nearly doubled in volume since their last encounter, three days ago.

“You know.” Glen puffed, limping along. “Maybe I should… lash a stick to… my bad leg… so I can... use it without… putting weight… on my ankle?”

Behind him, Stan grinned through his discomfort. In his mind’s eye, he could picture his friend using both a peg leg and a crutch—at the same time. With all that wooden support, Glen would really take on the air of Long John Silver! “You’ll have to… get an eye patch… to go with it.” Stan wheezed.

Glen laughed. In fact, he had to stop pulling for a second to let the joke roll off. “That’s a good one.” He panted. It felt good to add humour to their meagre diet. “Arrrrrg!” Glen chortled, employing his best pirate voice. “I’ll be wantin… a boat ready… when we get… to Skull Creek!”

Stan let a laugh slip, and it hurt. “Ouch.” He cried, holding up a hand like a traffic cop in a busy intersection. “That’s enough!”

“Well… you started it.” Glen countered, beginning to pull again.

“Sorry.”

An hour later, the determined Scotsman rounded a bend in the meandering trail and halted. Ahead, the smooth, woodland pathway morphed abruptly into a small field of ragged rocks. Similar in appearance to the rock-strewn portion of Green Canyon, the area was much less expansive and not nearly so rugged. All the rocks in the fairly level area, were of similar size except one notable exception. Near the centre of the two hundred foot wide swath of small boulders towered a mammoth sized stone. “There’s Lone Rock.” Glen said

In some long forgotten day of the past, some unknown force of nature had deposited the giant boulder here. As far as Glen and Stan knew, no human eye had witnessed the cataclysmic event. All that remained was for tenacious trekkers to venture into this remote place to see the sight for themselves. Scrub clung along the western and southern edges of Lone Rock, diminished in their stature by the sheer enormity of the mighty stone. The eastern side of the rock was not quite as vertical as the rest. Its steep slope bore the marks of numerous climbers, attempting to ascend its thirty-foot bastion to gain a perch on the pinnacle.

Glen McPherson smiled to himself as he drew the litter slowly past the colossal rock. Just three days before, he had fought his way to the top. Stan had elected to observe. Glen remembered the panoramic view of the open valley that had been his to enjoy. With the evergreens still recovering their growth, he could see for several hundred yards in all directions. The sun had felt warm on his face. His legs had both been working well that day! How he had wished that he brought a video camera on the adventure. A shadow crossed Glen’s face. Today, he was grateful he had not brought the camera. By now he would have left it in Green Canyon for some bear to play with!

Soon the two travellers were across the rock field and on the smooth trail once again. “I need… a rest!” Glen panted. He came to a stop and lowered the litter, using his long crutch to kick the short travois support crutch forward so it would not keep the front of the travois aloft.

With the travois settled, Glen hobbled to the pack for a much-needed drink. Unzipping a small pouch at the top of the pack, the human packhorse dug out their last power bar. He was exhausted and hungry, but they were almost there.

The tired Scotsman eased his sore body onto the trail, settling like a beached jelly fish on a forsaken beach. While Glen munched the power bar, he rubbed his hip. “I need a two-hour soak in a swirling hot tub!”

“Me too!” Stan moaned, nodding his complete agreement.

Once the bar was consumed, Glen untied his left boot and unwound the tensor bandage. The sun peaked out from behind the thinning cloud cover and warmed the swollen joint. Glen ran his fingers over the damaged skin. Black and blue hues were everywhere! “Perhaps it is broken?” He wondered aloud. Glen was no doctor, but he had lived long enough to see a few injuries. “If I only have a bad sprain, shouldn’t I be able to use the ankle by now?” Without realizing it, Glen shook his head and let out a sigh. “I just don’t know enough about these things!”

Following a ten-minute rest, Glen rewrapped his ankle and donned his waterproof hiking boot. “Well…” he said, climbing to a standing position. “We’re not going to get there by resting.”

As the front of the travois was raised, Stan winced for the umpteenth time. The big man kept reminding himself that all the pain would be worth it, but that thought had long since become worn out. “I just want the pain to end!”

Glen pulled for several seconds and then suddenly stopped. Stan abandoned his pity party and listened. The light southerly wind played in the trees and bushes. A few birds flew in the warm air. Glen was silent. Stan hadn’t heard anything, but that didn’t mean Glen hadn’t. Unbidden, the hair on Stan’s neck bristled. He reached out a hand and closed his big fingers about the bottle of pepper spray.

Glen’s voice broke the stillness. “There are more bear tracks.” He stated. “A grizzly crossed this trail since it rained.” Glen studied the impressions. “The tracks are dry around the edges, which mean they were made a few hours ago.” The big man listened as Glen continued. “They look smaller than the other tracks. I don’t know if that’s good or bad?”

“It’s not… that good.” Stan offered. “Let’s have… a prayer.”

“Ok.”

Glen set the litter down onto its support crutch. He lowered himself to his knees. The position was appropriate to prayer as well as for allowing him to rest from standing. He was so very tired of standing!

Bowing his head, Glen began to pray. “Heavenly Father? Stan and I have been trying hard to get ourselves to the truck and then to safety. We are hurt, and there are grizzlies in the area. If it be Thy will, please help us to reach the safety of our families. We are fearful of a bear attack. Please comfort us. Please protect us. Please help us to be strong enough to stay alive.” Glen paused as emotion temporarily closed off his airway. He flicked away a tear with a dirty finger tip before continuing. “We thank Thee that we are yet alive. Please help our families to be ready to help us when we arrive at Midnight Lake.” Glen paused again and then concluded the invocation in the name of the Saviour.

As two soft “Amens” were uttered into the tranquil mountain air, Glen McPherson and Stan Calderbank opened their moistened eyes. The sun was now brilliant in the sky. The minutes of the afternoon of their fourth day were ticking by. For now, the weather was wonderful—not too hot or too cool. Finally, Glen cleared his throat and then spoke. “Shall we go again Big C?”

“I’m ready.”

With that, the wiry Scotsman arose. Grunting, he lifted the litter and pulled once more. Methodically, the two haggard hikers moved towards their destiny.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 34

2010-12-11T09:18:00.000-07:00

Dawn crept quietly over the Mistawasis Mountains, first striking the snow capped tip of High Tor. Once the light had condescended to touch the lesser peaks, Ravenscrag Mountain found illumination too. The thick nimbostratus clouds were giving way to the power of the sun and were beginning to break up and move eastward. In a few minutes, several shafts of sunlight would once again reach down to touch the rugged landscape. A mile away from Ravenscrag Mountain, sandwiched between the Lajord and Mistawasis mountain ranges, two bruised and broken men slept. Their battered tent stood silently at the southern end of Green Canyon. The chilled waters of Maple Creek churned nearby, swollen to a torrent by the precipitation. Overnight, the rain had ceased but the ground was still damp and soft.

Stan’s eyes flickered open. The air was cold and the humidity high. His ribs felt slightly improved, but the throbbing in his broken leg was like the nearby creek—it hadn’t stopped once during the night.

In the faint light of dawn, the ceiling of the tent showed its punctures as pinpricks of light against the dark interior of the cool sleeping chamber. Sometime in the night, the candle lantern had burned itself out. Stan eyed the gold lantern housing. It hung motionless from its string. “At least the wind isn’t blowing.” He thought. “Thankfully, the rain’s stopped too.” Stan closed his eyes again and offered a silent prayer. Not only was he still was alive and warm, but there was also hope for him and Glen to make it to medical help before the day was out. He had much to be discouraged about, but in spite of it all, he would try to be positive.

Soon, Glen stirred. His barely audible voice disturbed the tranquility within the tent, but he just muttered something incomprehensible. Stan smirked. “Glen’s probably enjoying some sweet dream. He’ll wake up soon enough.” The big man’s grin melted. “Then, he’ll have to resume the drudgerous duty of being my personal packhorse.” Stan silently studied the tent’s ceiling and tried to glimpse the sky through the largest tear. “No.” He thought, “I won’t disturb my dreaming friend just yet.”

Glen settled into a quiet snore. Stan just listened and let his thoughts run free. “Glen’s given so much of himself already.” The big man let his memory trace their journey back over the past several days. Then he took a shallow breath and soundlessly breathed the words, “Heavenly Father, thank you for Glen.”

Another ten minutes drifted by before Glen McPherson broke from the sweet squeeze of slumber. He sucked in a deep breath of cool mountain air and cast his eyes about the tent. “Mornin.” Stan whispered, meeting his gaze.

“Good morning Big C.” Glen sounded half cheerful. “How did you sleep?”

“Not bad… considering my leg... kept waking me up... every few minutes.”

Glen sat up and touched the ceiling. It was dry. “When did the rain stop?”

“It’s been a... few hours.” Stan dragged his left arm from within the sleeping bag and consulted his watch. “Three-and-a-half… hours since I… first noticed.”

Glen nodded. “Well, that’s good news.” He stated. “I was dreading the prospect of pulling you in the rain. Crossing Paisley Brook and Skull Creek will get us plenty wet enough!”

It was Stan’s turn to nod in agreement. “Glen?” he asked, dramatically changing the subject. “Sorry... but I need to… use the bathroom.”

Glen quickly responded, but the big man was not yet finished dispensing his request. “I need more… than cracks… in the rocks.” Stan finished.

Glen stopped, grimacing before he could stop himself. He bit his tongue and pulled on his chilled socks and pants. “Ok.” He said, now more or less composed. “Let me see what I can do.”

Glen slid his arms into his coat and unzipped the tent door. In seconds, his stiff fingers had his boots laced. Snatching up his makeshift crutch and the hatchet, Glen rose to stand, groaning as his muscles protested. This project was going to take a few minutes.

Moving as quickly as he could, Glen scanned the area. “The closer I can get the bathroom to Stan, the better it’ll be.” His mind reeled. “But what should I do?” Suddenly, he had it. With a workable plan forming, Glen scuttled over to the edge of the forest.

The small man unsheathed the hatchet and stuffed the leather sheath into the back pocket of his pants. He then laid the sharp blade into a stocky chunk of deadfall. He needed a digging stick. After numerous chopping strokes, Glen had the tip of the four-foot stick sharpened to a point. The tip resembled a ridiculously oversized flat blade screwdriver. Glen inspected it. “A bit crude, but it should work.” He stated, sounding like a judge at a primitive tool making contest.

“Next, I need two pieces of wood.” Glen’s eyes darted about the wooded area again. It was only a minute before he was chopping at a thick fallen log. It took some time, but the axe was sharp. Wood slowly splintered away under the incessant cadence of steel striking wood in the morning stillness. Like a frenzied beaver, Glen used the hatchet to gnaw off two stout chunks of the log. With two two-foot pieces on the ground, Glen stowed the hatchet in its case and threaded the sheath onto his belt once more. Grabbing the chunks of wood, he tucked them under his right arm and jammed his crutch under his left.

Returning to retrieve the digging stick, Glen soon arrived back at the tent doorway. “Well Stan,” he said. “I think you’ll be able to do your business right here.” The limping Scotsman panted, and set to work.

Digging stick in hand, Glen chipped away at the rain-softened dirt, pausing every few seconds to scoop it out with his hand. In no time at all, he created a hole a foot deep. Stan looked on as Glen positioned the two cut-off logs, one on each side of the hole. Glen stared down at the crudely constructed latrine, frowning but nodding approvingly at his handiwork. From his Boy Scout training, he knew that latrine pits were supposed to be eighteen to twenty-four inches deep, but this one would do for a one-time use.

“Ok Stan.” He said, trying to lighten the mood. “Your throne awaits.” Glen gave his best imitation of game show girl’s wave and smiled. Stan just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“What?”

The big man held up an open palm. “I’m sure... it will work.”

“I hope so, cuz our options are pretty limited.”

Glen ducked inside the tent and quickly removed his sleeping bag, mat, flashlight, lantern and the unused bottle of pepper spray. A few seconds later, the tent was again in the air and floating to the damp ground several feet away from the big man. Glen ducked back into the tent and pulled a half a roll of toilet paper from an inside pocket. “At least the roll’s in a sealed plastic bag!”

The next few minutes involved a lot of suffering for Stan. The incessant throbbing in his broken leg was relentless! Slowly, but surely, the big man moved the three feet from his sleeping mat to the unstable log platform. Glen supported Stan’s back, while the logs threatened to roll out from under him.

When the ordeal was over, Stan manoeuvred off the pit and collapsed on a sleeping mat, panting hard. Glen filled the pit with the dirt he had dug out of it.

“Good thing we’re never going to write a book about this!” Glen remarked, trying to relieve the awkwardness of the moment. Stan just offered a fleeting smile and nodded. “How does my wife do this?” Glen asked under his breath. Lillie had worked as an assisted living worker for many years, but up until today, Glen had not fully appreciated the job she did. “I just hope this is one-time thing!” He muttered under his breath.

With Stan temporarily settled back onto his sleeping mat, Glen hobbled over to the pack and lowered it. Using the pack hanging rope as a clothesline, The small man quickly hung up the sleeping bags and one of the mats to dry. He shuffled back to the tent for his final trip. Crawling back inside, he gathered the crinkly Mylar back into his fanny pack and then began to strike the tent. As Glen moved to pull out the poles, he stopped short. His hurry on hold, the limping man stared down at the dirt. From the smooth ground, several grizzly tracks screamed out in silent exclamation.

Glen glanced furtively around. Nothing moved. He looked back at the tracks for further examination. There was no water in the depressions, and that meant one very disturbing thing. “Stan.” Glen tried to speak without alarm in his voice. “What time did you say that the rain stopped?”

Stan thought a moment before replying. “It was three-thirty… when I first noticed… that the rain had… stopped. I don’t know… what time… it actually did. Why?”

There was a pregnant pause. Finally Glen spoke. “There are fresh grizzly tracks where the back wall of our tent was.” He admitted. “They are so fresh that there’s no water in any of them.”

Stan’s brow furrowed deeply. Glen looked stricken. The wary Scotsman scanned his own tracks. They appeared to have been made at the same time as the bear made his. Abandoning the poles, Glen made a rapid shuffle back to Stan. He scooped up the bottle of pepper spray and threaded its black nylon case onto his belt. Together with the hatchet, he now carried two weapons. Stan gazed on as the stressed Scotsman re-buckled his leather belt.

“The bear… is probably… watching us.” Stan wheezed.

Glen nodded in agreement. It seemed painfully obvious that the bear had walked past the vulnerable men only minutes before they had awakened. “Perhaps it was even a matter of seconds.” Glen shuddered. Adrenalin fuelled him now.

“Here.” Glen’s exit strategy was rapidly falling into place. He dug out the bottle of Tylenol and gave Stan two tablets. The big man swallowed the pills and Glen went for their water. “I’m glad I filled these pouches last night.”

The small man was bordering on hysteria, but he forced himself to voice his thoughts clearly. “We have to leave as quickly as we can. Bears are unpredictable, and this particular one clearly has little if any fear of us.” Stan nodded but remained silent as Glen continued. “Since we’re going to reach the truck by nightfall, we should leave anything else we can spare to entertain the wandering bear.”

Glen carried some water back to Stan. Between the two of them, they emptied the one litre pouch in under a minute. Glen then moved to the tent and finished pulling out the poles. The gentle southerly breeze caressed the fabric as he lofted it and hauled it to the rope clothesline.

With all their wet things on the line, Glen focussed on his backpack. “I’m going to leave as much as I can.” He said repeating himself without realizing it. “We should make it to the truck tonight and there’s no point in me dragging any more than I absolutely have to.”

“Ok.” said Stan. The big man was in total agreement, but even if he hadn’t been, he was in no position to argue anyway. Glen was right, however. They had to get to safety before the bear became bold enough to harm them. The longer they took to flee, the more inevitable a close encounter became. “And an encounter with a bear would end badly at best.” The big man thought darkly.

Big C lay helpless on the ground. Glen had done everything for him for days now. Frustration burned through him. “It just isn’t fair!” He thought. “How would it be if a bear attacked Glen and I’m forced to watch?” Stan willed the tragic spectacle from his mind, but it refused to leave so easily. The fact was, the dark thought was a definite prelude to a potential reality.

Glen continued to sort things. He spilled everything from the backpack. Moving to the sleeping bags, he took one and stuffed it into his pack. Then he spread the tent out beside Stan and laid the second sleeping mat on top of it. He glanced around again, just to be sure they were still alone, then went back to work. “Ok big fella.” Glen said, trying to sound cheerful. “Let’s get you onto this travois.”

The two men worked together and after considerable effort, Stan was atop the tent and nestled on the double set of sleeping mats. Glen hobbled to the immobile travois and dragged it over top of the big man. The worried Scotsman slid the litter into the perfect position and then began the process of tying the tent to it. “I hope I can stretch this tent tight enough.” Glen muttered. “I expect that dragging your hind parts on the ground would probably be a bad thing!”

It required several minutes of trying and retying before the litter was ready to support Stan. The slice Glen had cut in the tent floor proved to be challenging to work around, but the small man managed it.

With the job completed, Glen covered Stan with his sleeping bag. As an emergency measure, he put the tent poles into the pack and then thought about the rest. They still needed to eat and drink, so he stuffed in the stove, two freeze-dried suppers and two energy bars. From the discard pile, Glen pulled the pot, and the two hydration pouches, but the rest was going to remain. One water pouch was empty and Glen paused to consider. “One litre will be enough to get us to Paisley Brook where I can refill both pouches.” Without further consideration, he stuffed the pouches and the pump into the waiting pack.

They were ready to go, but Glen’s ankle was throbbing mercilessly. The injured joint needed some serious rest and relaxation. The frustrated man sat down on the damp soil. Shedding his boot and sighing, Glen spun the tensor wrap off. The black and blue ankle was still very swollen. The only positive part was that some of the swelling around the edges of the damage had begun to go down. The small man curled up his lip and his thoughts snarled inside his racing mind. “If I just had the use of both my legs, Stan and I would’ve already made it to the hospital.” Glen’s brow furrowed deeply. “And this prowling bear would not even matter!”

Glen blew out a frustrated breath. Holding up one end of the tensor bandage, he removed all the twists. Then, he rolled the wrap and began to apply it to his ankle once more. I seconds, his ankle was protected anew and his boot re-laced.

Turning over onto his knees and then standing, Glen tentatively tried to put weight on the injured ankle. He balanced on his good leg and crutch. As the dangling foot touched the ground, even before any weight was on it, Glen winced in pain. “Perhaps it is broken?” he thought glumly, gazing down at the injured limb. “No matter what its status, the ankle is still useless to me!” Glen scowled and sighed again.

“Almost ready.” Glen said, pulling himself from his unsuccessful attempt to diagnose his ruined ankle. The handicapped Scot hobbled over to his backpack and dragged the light pack to the bottom of the travois. In moments, he had the red pack lashed securely in place. “Ok Stan. Time to leave.” While Glen scuttled to the head of the litter and lifted, Stan tried to mentally prepare himself. The pack mule portion of the day had begun!

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 33

2010-12-04T04:00:00.002-07:00

Auburn hair shimmered in a flowing cascade behind her. In their weightless environment, Glen stared through the glass of his diving mask at Lillie as she descended just ahead of him. Her long hair waved smoothly through the water. Her body was graceful. From above them, sparkling sunlight bathed Lillie’s deep blue swimsuit and the pale skin of her freckled back. It glinted off her matching fins and snorkel. Glen powered after her, holding his breath and kicking with his own fins. Below them, hundreds of thousands of coral polyps pushed towards the tropical light. Hauntingly beautiful, the reds, greens, blues and yellows painted a pastel panorama on the ocean floor. Everywhere, as far as the crystal clear waters would allow them to see, multi-coloured fish swam lazily in small schools. Some were large and some small, but all looked exotic. It boggled the mind to think that this coral reef ran for over a thousand miles! Given an entire lifetime of diving, it seemed unlikely that anyone could see it all.

Glen pulled hard against the thick water with his stocky arms. In a second or two, he pulled alongside Lillie and looked over at her. She was so beautiful! The mesmerized Scotsman couldn’t imagine that any mythical mermaid could look so good under water. Grinning, he gestured with his hand; thumb and forefinger forming a circle and his other three fingers extended. It was the universal scuba diving sign for ok. Under the mask, Lillie’s eyes glittered. She sent him a dazzling smile, nodding as she did. Even with a snorkel in her mouth, she was gorgeous. Her delicate fingers returned the sign. Then, she made a fist and pointed her thumb upwards. Glen nodded and responded to her direction.

In a few seconds, they were at the surface, snorkels protruding into the hot September air. Swimming side by side, Glen reached out and took Lillie’s hand. As their skin touched, Lillie gave his fingers a squeeze. They were living their dream and loving every minute of it. Beneath them lay a part to the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. Beneath them lay a part of the planet that few ever got to enjoy from such a highly personal vantage point.

Off to their left swam a submerged sea turtle. Lillie pointed excitedly with her free hand. She squeezed Glen’s hand and released it. He knew she was going down for a closer look. He blew a small puff of air through his nose to clear the salty water that was attempting to accumulate in his mask. Then, Glen sucked in a giant breath and joined Lillie, popping his finned feet out of the brine and pushing them straight up into the warm tropical air. Down he shot, into the depths after his very own mermaid. Truly, this was a breath-taking experience!

“Ahhhhh!” Glen gasped for air. He face was wet, but he was no longer warm. “Where’s the light?” The disoriented Scotsman moved his head around, his eyes darting from side to side. A strange sound filled the air. It sounded like raindrops. “Lillie?” In the inky darkness, a drip of cold water hit his nostrils. “Puuu!” Glen blew out sharply to clear his airway, sending the unwanted water away in a mist. “What’s happening?” His mind wrestled to clear away the cobwebs of sleep. Then, in a torrent, reality returned. Another drop of chilled liquid landed on the tip of his nose.

Wiping the water off, Glen shifted. Out from within his warm sleeping bag came his hand. He groped grogily for the flashlight. Fumbling a little, he finally switched it on. Outside the tent, rain rhythmically dripped. Inside, water was crawling through the many small holes in the tent’s roof. Some of the unwelcome water clung to the interior of the fabric, running along the waterproof coating of the nylon to reach the floor. Some of the unwelcome water just fell from where it had breached the ceiling. “This is not good!” He muttered under his breath, dark thoughts rising within his mind like putrid smoke from a smudge fire. “We might be warm now, but getting wet could easily tip the balance against us.” Glen shook his head. “Hypothermia is not a friend to be casually invited in. Hypothermia could easily take both our lives before morning!”

Glen shone the light on Stan’s sleeping bag. Dark, water stains littered the nylon fabric. He looked at his own bedding. It was the same. Wide awake now, Glen’s mind sought a solution. He reached for his fanny pack, getting hit by two separate drips of chilled liquid as he moved. In seconds, he produced his match case and twisted the sealed container open. A tiny fire erupted at the tip of his damp fingers. Then, Glen touched the flame to the wick of the candle lantern. Its yellow flame flared. At least they had a heat source—albeit a small one.

In the light of the candle lantern, Stan stirred. His sore body had been in a shallow sleep, but Glen’s squirming had awakened him. Glen regarded the big man. It was good that he was no longer asleep.

“I need to cover us with the emergency blankets.” He stated unzipping his fanny pack.

“Ok.” Stan whispered. “My sleeping bag… feels wet.”

“Yeah.” Glen muttered. “Rain’s coming in.” He pulled out the noisy Mylar sheets. In the confines of the tent, the crinkling was like applause at a rock concert! Glen rose to his knees and spread shimmering plastic sheets over Stan and then over his own sleeping bag. “There.” He said. “I hope that’s enough protection.”

Outside, the rain gently dribbled, but inside, at least they would stay a bit dryer. Water might drip on them, but the Mylar would keep the tops of their sleeping bags dry. Glen’s eyes followed the flashlight beam to the tent floor. “As long as the rain doesn’t come through the roof holes too fast, our sleeping mats should keep the water on the floor at bay.”

For long minutes, both men laid awake, listening to the incessant drip of raindrops. Muted trickles and gurgles sounded from nearby Maple Creek. The sounds should have been soothing, but not under the circumstances. Candle lantern light illuminated their sleeping chamber, but no sleep was happening as yet. “I wish…” Stan finally whispered, “That I was… home in my… own bed.”

Glen’s thoughts drifted back to the images of his dream. Lilie’s sweet face appeared in his mind. Cuddling up to her would be so much nicer than laying alone in his damp sleeping bag. Tears pricked at the corners of the small man’s eyes. At last, he spoke. “Yeah.” He said. “That sounds wonderful.” Glen’s words died out and were replaced by the sound of pitter-patter on the roof. “I’ll get you home tomorrow my friend.” He finally promised.

“Ok.” Stan replied. “I guess… that will have… to do.” The big man’s breathing was still laboured from his broken ribs, but he continued. “As long as… we don’t die… from hypothermia… first.”

“We still have three miles to go to reach the truck.” Glen stated. “We should make it by tomorrow night.”

“Why doesn’t… God help us… more?” Stan wheezed.

“I don’t know.” Glen replied, considering his next words, “But perhaps He expects us to struggle before He ultimately saves us.”

“I hope… He saves us.”

“I hope so too.”

Stan Calderbank and Glen McPherson lay quietly in the half-light. Tears welled up in their eyes. They had both had enough, yet there was so much more to endure. The candle flickered its warmth near the tent roof, casting its marginal glow over the two unmoving men. Water dripped slowly onto the shiny Mylar and trickled to the tent floor. Both men wrestled with the same question. “Would God spare them or just let them struggle and then die anyway?” One by one the minutes of the dark, rainy night ticked by. Finally, imperceptibly, a fitful sleep overtook each man - first Glen McPherson and then Stan Calderbank.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 32

2010-11-27T04:00:00.001-07:00

Creeping soundlessly on cat’s paws, darkness finally overtook the weary hikers. Before the sun had vanished, however, Glen had the tent erected. He had put it up in the dark several times before and utilizing the waning light of day just made the task all that much easier.

With the tent up, Glen pulled out his knife and purposefully cut a slit into the floor. “Alright Big C.” he said, “You may want to grab a breath so I don’t suffocate you.” Stan obediently drew in as much breath as he could hold.

“Ok.” He squeaked, using as little air as possible.

Glen lifted the erected tent into the air and swung it over top of his big friend. Once it had settled into place, the wiry Scot scuttled to the tent door. He quickly located the big man’s bulky bump and slipped the tent floor around him. “Nice.” Stan wheezed. “That only hurt… a little.”

Glen grinned and began to quickly stuff their loose belongings inside. “Let’s just hope any rain water doesn’t run under the tent and get you from below.”

“Yeah.”

Once his mat and sleeping bag were spread, Glen hobbled around outside the tent to locate the pack’s hanging rope and a suitable rock. Then, tying the fist-sized rock to end of the rope, Glen scouted to locate a tree with a high enough branch. He located a large Fir tree nearby, and in the near darkness, began to toss the weighted end of the rope skyward. Success finally came on his sixth try.

With the rope in place, Glen returned to camp and heaved the pack the short distance to the waiting rope. Under the Fir tree, once again, Glen tied the pack to the rope and prepared to pull. With Stan‘s help, the chore wouldn’t have been too bad, but all he had was himself. “Why does everything have to be so hard?” Glen dug in his pocket and found his flashlight. Shining the beam here and there, he searched until he located a low branch on a nearby tree. The bough appeared to be strong enough, and Glen wasted no time in introducing the dangling rope to it. The day before, when he had hoisted Stan’s pack, Glen had looped the rope once around a neighbouring branch, taking advantage of the mechanics of friction to assist him. Tonight, would be no different. With his gloves on, Glen began the tug-o-war. Slowly the dangling, dead weight rose until it the pack was high enough. From the claw marks in the milky bark of the towering Larch tree in Green Canyon, Glen knew how high the pack had to be to remain out of reach of a roaming bear.

Glen shone the narrow flashlight beam onto the dangling backpack. “I think that’s high enough.” He said approvingly and began trying off the free end of the rope. A flashlight inspection revealed secure knots and Glen wasted no time in stowing the light, retrieving his crutch and making off for the tent. His inviting sleeping bag, complete with an inviting, soft sleeping mat awaited him. Mercifully, there were no rocks to lay on tonight. Glen knew that for a fact. Before he spread out the tent, he had checked!

The limping Scotsman made his way back to the tent. The handle of the hatchet, mounted on his belt, slapped at his leg as he moved. The journey was only 25 yards—not the 100-yard recommended distance to separate your backpack from your campsite. In the darkness, however, Glen no longer cared. Physically, he was spent. Mentally, he was beaten. Only one more problem remained to be solved before he could chase his dreams into blissful sleep. He was starving!

Glen scuttled to the creek and dipped several cups of cool water into the aluminum pot. His mouth watered in anticipation. “Supper’s a comin’ Big C.” He called out, shuffling past the tent door.

Glen easily assembled the stove and attached the fuel bottle. Rummaging in a tiny pocket on his fanny pack, he produced a waterproof cylinder containing matches. Five seconds later, a tiny, but hot fire blazed in the darkness. The stove fire’s blue and yellow glow danced through the open door and onto the tent walls. Their second hot meal in three days was in the making.

Shadows from the fire’s illumination flickered across Stan’s swarthy face. He was so very tired. Laying still, breathing shallow breaths, the big man stared out the tent door at Glen. After three days with nearly no food, he was finally feeling hungry. “I guess that’s what a broken femur does to a guy!” He thought wryly. As the stove’s heat seeped into the pot of cold creek water, hope began to replace the big man’s doubts. “The trail to the truck has two more river crossings.” He thought. “At least we’ll have a steady water supply.” The big man’s memories of his hike into Green Canyon were still crisp and he took a short walk down memory lane. “The pathway is mostly a gentle downhill slope. That will aid Glen in dragging me.” He recalled the crossing of Maple Creek and his mind raced to the banks of their next crossing. “Crossing Paisley Brook will be OK, but fording Skull Creek will be another matter.” When they had crossed Skull Creek, on the way to Green Canyon, the water had been a twelve-inch deep torrent, nearly forty feet wide. “Going through a foot of icy water on this travois will be tough! And then there’s the climb up the hill to the truck.”

As Stan’s thoughts swirled, Glen prepared the freeze-dried suppers. When Glen poured the boiling water inside the two Mylar pouches, steam violently erupted into the cool air. With the pouches resting carefully on the ground, the weary Scotsman lit the candle lantern and extinguished the stove. The candle’s warm, yellow glow flickered in the darkness, dancing on the tent wall and nearby foliage.

Glen moved into the tent and fastened the lantern to a short string hanging from a small loop sewn into the ceiling. He pause a moment and remembered installing the string three years before, on the tent’s very first adventure. “Those were better days.” He said softly. Suddenly the small man frowned. As the light illuminated the tent’s ceiling, Glen saw something he didn’t like. Numerous holes! All the dragging over the boulders had damaged the fabric. Most of the holes were tiny, but if it rained, they’d have a problem. The frustrated Scotsman let out a weary sigh. “When this is all over, I’ll be needing a new tent!” Shaking his head, Glen crawled back to attend the food.

Following five minutes of rehydration, the food was ready. Under the flickering flame, Glen carefully fed his prone friend. Stan chewed methodically. It seemed like the man was learning how to eat for the first time.

“I need… some more… Tylenol.” Stan muttered between bites.

Glen produced the nearly empty bottle from his fanny pack and shone the flashlight beam inside. He counted the tablets. Glen shook two pills into his hand and held them up to Stan’s lips. “Here.” He said. “There are only eight left after these.”

“Ugh!” Stan grunted, letting the tablets drop in and then swallowing. “I hope… I make it.”

“You will.”

Stan finished eating, and Glen chowed down on his own supper. It was already getting cold. “The night’s upon us and it looks like it’ll be a cool one.” The small man said, speaking through a mouthful of cheese laden macaroni.

In the candle light, Stan nodded his silent agreement.

Glen gulped the last bite and licked his spoon several times to get it clean. “Well that was a much needed meal.” He stated. Glen held his spoon up in the light to inspect it. Satisfied, he stashed the utensil in his fanny pack. The weary Scotsman gathered up the two empty Mylar food pouches, grabbed his crutch and rose. It would be a serious mistake to leave such tantalizing smells anywhere close to their campsite. “I’ll be right back.” He said.

Following his flashlight beam, Glen made his way downstream, keeping close to the edge of Maple Creek. After a hundred feet, he paused to crush the Mylar packages in his hand. He had been taught to pack out any garbage he brought, but he was about to make an exception. He was not about to lower the packs just to put their trash out of reach of a hungry bear. Tonight, staying alive took precedence. Glen frowned as he tossed the two balls of plastic into the current. He watched as the discarded garbage drifted out of sight, miniscule bits of twilight dancing off the wrinkled silver. Then, the darkness swallowed them up.

The tired Scotsman turned and headed for the tent. The muscles in his face were slack. His eyelids were heavy. In a minute or so he was there, removing his boots and then the tensor wrap that cradled his swollen ankle. “My ankle’s beginning to look a bit less black and blue.” He observed aloud. “But it still can’t bear any weight.” Glen gently massaged the bruised flesh for a moment and then re-wrapped it. Stan said nothing.

The tent zipper hummed, sealing in the two men. Stan was settled and all that remained was for Glen to turn in. “Goodnight Stan.” The weary man whispered. “I hope you sleep well.”

“Thanks.”

Glen peeled off his pants and removed the pepper spray and hatchet from his belt. “Here.” He said, raising the bottle into the candle light for Stan to see and then setting it down. “The bear spray is right here between us.” Glen set the pressurized bottle against the edge of Stan’s hand so he could feel its location.

“Ok.” Stan replied. “I hope we… don’t need it.”

“Me too, but better safe than sorry.” Glen trailed off. “The flashlight and hatchet are here too.” He added, setting the items alongside the bottle of pepper spray. “You wanna have prayer with me before we go to sleep?”

“Yeah.”

When Glen had finished praying, he blew out the lantern’s flame. The weary man then nestled into the cocoon of his sleeping bag and exhaled a long warm breath. Before the humid heat penetrated his sore and exhausted frame, and extinguished his consciousness with some much-needed sleep, he spoke, “Goodnight Big C.”

“Goodnight Glen.”

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 31

2010-11-20T04:00:00.001-07:00

Aromatic evergreen boughs rustled gently in the fresh, late afternoon breeze. Birds scavenged among the bushes for seeds and insects. Green leaves danced and the long grasses, growing along the woodland trail, whispered to one another in what sounded like a distant sea of jubilant children. Daylight was westbound, bearing relentlessly for the distant horizon. The cloud dampened sun would dawn elsewhere on the planet, but here and now, dawn would have to wait until the darkness had its turn. Night would soon reign supreme.

Glen McPherson struggled onward. The gentle downhill slope helped immeasurably, but the weight he dragged behind his spent body felt heavier and heavier with each lurching stagger. Ahead, between ragged gasps for oxygen, the stubborn Scotsman could hear the promise of temporary relief. The sound was the cool babble of water in Maple Creek!

Several more minutes passed before the creek came into sight. Determined to get as far down the trail as possible, the stalwart Scotsman did not stop at the water’s edge. Scrapping his original plan, he lurched boldly into the shallow stream. His boot and crutch tip sloshed through the four-inch deep current. The small man’s hiking boots were waterproof, but that fact influenced him little. Even if he had been wearing ventilated court sneakers, he would not have slowed. The obsessed man just kept on tugging at the litter until he and his moaning cargo were safely on the opposite bank.

Glen panted hard from the final haul of the travois up the far bank of the narrow creek. A strange set of wet tracks trailed behind him. Wet boot marks were accompanied by an equal number of round, damp depressions in the alpine soil. Even the most bumbling of trackers would have had no trouble following the distinctive marks made by Glen’s makeshift crutch and the sole of his right boot. Of course, if the would-be tracker were extremely blind, the twin, continuous skid marks, made by the laden litter, were even more obvious.

“Where should we camp?” Glen looked around. He instinctively knew that when he finally set the travois down, he wouldn’t want to lift it again! After more than a few seconds of scrutiny, Glen turned and pulled the travois a few feet to his right. Then, with the sweetness that is only born of relief from pain, Glen set the laden litter onto the ground. “At last!”

The next few minutes were not minutes of rest for the worn out Scotsman. Oh no! The muted light was already beginning to fail. At best, the injured men had just under a half an hour of daylight remaining and Glen knew it. The small man rallied his failing muscles and quickly moved to the rear of the travois to attack the lashings of the backpack. He had it untied in seconds.

The determined Scotsman rummaged in his red pack. Before Glen could even think about resting, both he and Stan needed water. In seconds, Glen had a hydration pouch and the water-purifying pump at the edge of Maple Creek. “I’ll have a drink for you in a minute Stan.” He panted.

The big man just nodded and moistened his parched lips with a sticky tongue.

Once they were somewhat refreshed by the cool mountain stream, Glen set to work on their camp. He unloaded the backpack with anything he thought they might need before morning. That included a two energy bars, two freeze dried dinners, the pot, stove, fuel bottle and candle lantern as well as his own sleeping bag and the two flashlights. The rest got stuffed back into the pack for safe keeping – all except for the tent poles.

Glen McPherson glanced up at the darkening sky. The thick cloud cover would most certainly wring out some rain during the night. “If it helps,” Glen offered, returning his gaze to Stan, “I think we need the tent, even if it hurts. Things are bad enough without us getting wet!”

“I know.” The big man muttered and then scowled. Ordinarily, the big man could rise from the ground with relative ease, but his present condition was anything but ordinary! All day, he had suffered. He had done so as silently as he could, but the throbbing jolts of pain had been relentless! Stan longed for the secure, unconscious cocoon of sleep. He longed to receive a little respite, but it had not come yet. “A little longer.” He told himself. “Very soon now, you can rest, but first, you must endure a little more torture.”

Glen scuttled to Stan’s side. “Ok my friend.” He said, untying the tent from the travois poles. “Let’s get you off our tent.” Once the tent was free of the wooden framework, Glen lifted the travois out of the way and returned to Big C.

“I have an idea.” Glen said. “Instead of dragging you off the tent and my sleeping mat, let’s try to roll you off.”

“Ok”

“If the plan works you can roll one way while I stuff part of the tent and mat under one side of you. Then, you can roll the other way, and I’ll pull the bunched up tent and mat the rest of the way out.”

“Sounds painful.” Stan rasped.

“I’ll be a gentle as I can my friend.” Glen was already gathering up the fabric next to the big man’s side. “Before the rolling phase of this plan, let’s get you to sit up a bit so I can stuff part of the tent under your upper back.”

“Ok.”

The event went better that Stan expected―at least until it was time for his broken leg to rise off the ground.

“Argh!” Stan screamed out in unrestrained pain.

Glen grimaced. “Sorry!” He looked compassionately at his hiking partner. “Almost there.” Glen encouraged. Stan moaned again, but the tent and mat were already free. Glen carefully eased the broken limb on back onto the remaining sleeping mat. The small man’s face was stricken. “I’m so sorry.” Glen apologized.

“I know.” The big man wheezed. “It’s not… your fault.”

“So far, we’ve beaten the odds.” Glen said. “If you get hypothermia you can’t just do a little cardio to warm up.”

The big man nodded. Stan knew he was especially vulnerable to exposure. If he got chilled, he would probably die.

Glen looked up again at the lowering clouds. “Yes…” he mused, “Rain is most definitely our enemy tonight.”

Stan listened, but reserved his next comment. “Getting wet would be a bad thing, but rain’s not our only enemy!”

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 30

2010-11-13T04:00:00.001-07:00

Chapter 30

Behind the hobbling hiker lurked the bear. He couldn’t see the small man especially well, but at only two hundred feet away, the carnivore could see well enough. Besides, the alpine air was thick with the man’s sweat-ripened scent. Even at this close range, the hiker didn’t seem to be aware of him. The human certainly didn’t seem to pose any immediate threat. The big bruin had lived through several summers, and had learned to be cautious—even when things appeared to be safe. If the grizzly had been human, he might have summed up his attitude by arrogantly stating that, “Only fools rush in… and he was no fool.”

The careful carnivore cast his dark eyes upwards. His best guess was that it would be dark in a little while. He was in no hurry anyway. His stomach was full. He could easily wait till nightfall to satisfy his mounting curiosity.

“Big C!” Glen called out. The big man lay motionless on the inactive litter; eyes shut and seemingly devoid of life. Glen had been observing his friend ever since beginning the trek back. Limping the one hundred feet to reach his hiking partner hadn’t taken that long, but in all the time it took, Stan Calderbank had not moved. Glen knew first aide, but he was no doctor. He had never before witnessed the full symptoms of a broken femur. Perhaps he didn’t even know all the symptoms? “I wish they’d taught me more in first aid” He panted under his breath. All Glen knew, from his first aid classes, was that a broken thigh bone could trigger sufficient shock to kill a person. He had been taught how to splint and how to treat for shock, but most of what he had learned about broken legs involved calling a paramedic and getting the injured person to a professional. Glen’s stomach growled and the small man glowered. “My first aid learning is like my stomach... practically empty!” Worry gnawed at the small man. “Perhaps, in spite of all my efforts, Stan will die anyway? Perhaps he will die from something I have no knowledge of?”

Glen McPherson shuffled closer. Apprehension built within him. “Big C!” he called again trying to quicken his pace. “Curse my ankle and this backpack for slowing me down!” He muttered, eyes riveted on his prone friend. “If Stan’s stopped breathing, every second counts!”

The big man pried his heavy eyelids open and stared up. His friend sounded anxious. Glen was a sight, too. In spite of his discomfort, Stan allowed a slight grin to flicker across his ashen face. Without the pack on his back, and with a patch over one eye, the dirty-faced, unkempt Scotsman might have passed for Robert Louis Stevenson’s fictitious character, Long John Silver. Glen hobbled up to the litter. Stan still made no sound.

“You weren’t moving!” Glen panted. “I wasn’t sure you were still with me.” Stan regarded the smaller man. Glen stared for a moment before beginning to unstrap the backpack from his shoulders.

“I’m ok.” Stan finally wheezed. “I just need… some real… painkillers.”

Glen smirked and rolled his eyes. “Well at least you haven’t lost your sense of humour!” he chortled, his worry dissipating a little. “We’ll get you some real medication soon.” Glen was serious again. “You just hold on until I can get you out of here!” The wiry Scotsman sounded fiercely determined.

Stan nodded, but didn’t reply. He only watched as Glen transferred the contents of the pack he had been carrying into the one fastened to the bottom cross bar of the travois. A lump rose in the big man’s throat. For two and a half days Stan had harboured the very real fear that he would not live through this adventure. This afternoon, however, he had reason to pause. Glen just might be able to save his life after all. “Thanks Glen.” He muttered.

Glen looked up from closing the backpack and squarely met the big man’s gaze.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 29

2010-11-06T04:00:00.000-06:00

Chapter 29

Twin nostrils flared and then relaxed. Moisture glistened on the black tip of the brawny snout. Rhythmic slumber was the exclusive activity that presently occupied the silver-tipped bruin. Suddenly the grizzly’s beady eyes flickered open. Raising its enormous head, the bear sniffed at the gentle airwaves that wafted by its improvised bedchamber. The human’s scent was in the air!

The big bear eased effortlessly to its feet, scarcely making a sound. Its bushy bulk stood hidden by the low scrub that grew at the feet of the narrow strip of trees near the north end of Green Canyon. It moved cautiously forward, caressing the leaves of the low bushes with its soft hair. Its experienced senses were now on full alert. The grizzly was ready and willing to defend itself should the need arise. Its large nose poked into the grey afternoon light. Its dark eyes peered southward along the dirt trail. Then the big bear froze.

Glen McPherson shuffled up to the old Larch tree. Before he began the short journey, he had strapped the pressurized bottle of pepper spray as well as Stan’s hatchet to his belt. Not particularly well equipped to encounter a bear, at least he had two weapons at his disposal. Glen felt for the weapons and nervously looked around before uniting the rope that held the backpack aloft. Nothing moved in the canyon. Hand over hand Glen’s gloved hands controlled the decent of Stan’s dangling backpack. This would be the pack’s final partnership with the useful tree. The wary Scot eyed the claw marks that gouged the smooth, creamy white bark and looked around again.

The grizzly watched and wondered. “A strange creature is this human!” The man began to approach, but then stopped. “Why had he stopped?” Then the unimaginable took place. The unusual item, hanging from the large tree he had clawed, somehow fell slowly to the ground. The sight was amazing. The human had powers the bear lacked, yet the small human looked so puny.

Limping to the base of the towering tree, Glen tussled the pack onto its front so he could access the exterior zippers. On his trek from the travois to the tree, he had decided that some things would have to be left behind. The travois was already weighed down, and any extra load from the second backpack would only make Glen’s life that much more difficult.

The contemplating Scotsman unceremoniously spilled the pack’s entire contents out onto the ground. He scrutinized the cache. The two men had eaten little from the stock of food they had packed in. Glen’s mouth began to water. Both men were hungry, but Glen had expended considerably more energy than his friend had. “How much food should I take?” Glen wondered aloud, tearing open an energy bar and greedily gnawing on it. “We should make it back to the truck by tomorrow night.” The small man rubbed a dirty hand over his bristling moustache and beard. “But what if it takes us a little longer?” Glen shook his head and furrowed his brow. “For sure we’ll need one more breakfast and lunch plus supper tonight and maybe one for tomorrow night.” Glen selected four freeze-dried meals and set them apart in a pile. Next, he grabbed four packages of dry soup, four packages of instant oatmeal and four energy bars. “Ok.” He said, still talking to himself and pointing at the empty air, “I already have a pot on the travois, as well as our bowls and spoons.” Glen shed his hat and ran his fingers through the tangled remnants of his once-thick hair. He nodded and then pulled the tent poles and pegs from among the strewn equipment. Glen eyed the pile of food and gear and put his hat back on. “That’s not very much stuff.” Glen selected two pouches of instant juice and two packages of powdered milk and added then to the newly formed pile. “Ok. That should do it.” He said, stuffing the food and tent pegs into a mesh bag.

Still laying in the grass, slated to be left behind, was the remainder of the food they had thought to enjoy. The weary hiker placed the excess grub against the base of the Larch tree. He added their second pot and outback oven to the pile before scanning what remained. “We no longer need the folding saw either.” Glen paused to stare at the two piles, screwing up his face a little. “It looks like a peace offering to the god of claw marks!” Glen muttered sarcastically, looking up at the scarified the tree and then glancing around again. The small man frowned and blew out a breath. “I guess our lives are worth more than a bunch of replaceable stuff.”

The worn Scotsman stuffed the priority pile into Stan’s pack. The food and gear fit loosely. Glen gathered the rope from the tree and zipped it into the pack. Standing, the wiry man hefted the light pack from the ground onto his shoulders. He easily fastened the waist and shoulder straps and cinched them up. Then, sweeping the canyon with his eyes, he turned southward.

Beady, unblinking eyes continued to observe. The human rummaged on the ground a while. Then, suddenly, the small man arose and lifted the unusual item onto his back. With a fleeting backward glance, the human tramped away, leaving the bear to wonder what bizarre spectacle might next present itself. The grizzly sniffed at the air again. “I smell food.”

In Glen’s absence, Stan’s breathing had eventually returned to normal. The big man watched his friend hobble to the towering tree and lower the dangling backpack. The trussed man was tired, but not exhausted enough for fatigue to overcome his pain and send him into the blissful realms of slumber. In fact, his throbbing leg and ribs were making it difficult for him to even relax. Stan continued to stare after Glen. “My ordeal is not remotely near its conclusion!” The big man thought darkly. “Glen will return in a minute, and my pain will become unbearable once more.” In response to his thoughts, Stan let out a low groan. ”Steady Stan!” He tried to bolster his resolve. “Surviving takes precedence over pain right now!” The big man closed his eyes willing his thoughts to be positive. “You can make it Stan.”

After some time, Stan saw Glen rise from the dirt and put on the backpack. “My time to rest is just about over.” The big man closed his eyes again and tried to relax. “Dear God, please help me to survive this day!”