Читать книгу How Far the Mountain - Robert K. Swisher Jr. - Страница 14

It was slightly past midnight when Bill reached the trailhead. He had not left his house until after the sun went down, not wanting to see the mountains as he drove toward them, although he had loaded his gear in the early afternoon. Bill turned off the lights to the truck, feeling as though he was stranded in a life raft in the middle of the ocean and there was no hope he would ever be found. Gypsy whined softly and poked him with her cold nose. He patted the top of her head, enjoying the feeling of her thick hair. “I guess I have to move,” he said to the dog.

Getting out of the truck, Gypsy barreled past him and dashed into the darkness. The small bell Bill had attached to her collar tinkled like a tiny wind chime. He got his flashlight out from behind the seat. When he shined the light at the trailer window, the horses neighed and stomped their feet. Taking out the first horse he put a set of hobbles on her front legs and turned her out. When he had done the same thing with the second horse, he tossed two wedges of hay by the rear of the horse trailer. The horses waited for him to leave before coming to eat.

Bill could hear the stream that was no more than fifty yards away. He liked the sound of the stream. It had been a long time. He could no longer hear the bell, but he did not worry, Gypsy would be back. He never had to worry about Gypsy, she knew what she was doing. Bill had never tied up Gypsy. He would never tie up the dog.

Taking a canvas tarp from the back of the truck he spread it on the ground and put his sleeping bag on top of the canvas. From the back of the truck he took out an arm full of wood. After stacking the wood, he sprayed it with kerosene from a plastic bottle. The fire danced to life with one match, illuminating the trees around him. For a moment it reminded him of flares, but the thought of flares no longer bothered him—the war no longer bothered him. The tall, dark, imposing trees, illuminated by the fire made him feel small. Standing by the fire he shined his flashlight on the trail marker, ‘Designated Wilderness Area Beyond This Point.’ “Wilderness my ass,” he thought.

Wilderness to only the soft remnants of mankind that most people had become. He got larger pieces of wood from the back of the truck and put them on the fire. When they caught, he got his thermos and sat down on his sleeping bag. He noticed several burn holes in the sleeping bag he had forgotten to fix. Pouring himself a cup of black coffee Gypsy tinkled in from the dark and sat down on the end of the canvas. She was wet from the stream. Bill went to the truck and returned with several packets of moist dog food. After unwrapping them he tossed them to the dog and burnt the wrappers. She sniffed them, looked around casually, and lay down to eat. Gypsy was not a dog to show thanks.

When the fire had burned down to embers, Bill removed his boots and got into his sleeping bag. He did not take off his clothes, sleeping in the nude in the boondocks was an old wives’ tale. He rolled the canvas tarp over him, making the dog move. “Go find yourself a bush,” he told Gypsy.

Shutting his eyes he could hear the steady grinding of the horses jaws as they ate the hay. The stream seemed to get louder as though he was lying by the bank. For now, everything was fine. It was dark and it was fine.

He was about to fall asleep when Gypsy curled up on the bottom of the tarp. He did not kick her off, but moved his legs to give her more room.

Waking, the horizon was a light crimson. The sun would clear the mountains in less than thirty minutes. A heavy dew covered the tarp and the grass. He sat up and Gypsy stretched and yawned. The horses had not gone far during the night. He tossed out a small wedge of hay and they crow hopped over on their hobbled legs. Bill thought about an old mountain horse he once had that could travel miles at night hobbled. He wondered if the horse was still alive or had been made into dog food.

Digging out a dented and black metal coffeepot Bill filled it with water from a canteen. He put the last of his wood on the embers from the night’s fire and set the pot on them and tossed a handful of coffee in the pot. By the time the coffee boiled he would have all his gear packed and ready to load on the packhorse. Gypsy scampered after a ground squirrel, which made it, chattering all the way to his hole. Gypsy dug furiously for a few seconds, stuck her nose in the hole, lifted her head back up and ran back to the truck not stupid enough to waste her time on a task she could not win. Bill unwrapped two pieces of deer jerky. One he gave to the dog and one he ate himself.

When the sun cleared the ridge of the valley Bill was drinking a cup of coffee. Steam poured off the stream and the cries of two ravens filled the cool morning. He could not see the ravens. For a moment he felt like loading all the gear back into the truck and going back home. Gypsy looked at him, jumped up and down several times like she was dancing and yipped and ran toward a walking bridge that crossed the stream. When she got to the bridge, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Come on back here you worthless dog,” Bill called.

Gypsy ran back to him and Bill rubbed her around the neck and head. Gypsy barked, the bark echoing up the valley. “At least they’re no people around,” Bill told Gypsy.

Gypsy barked once again and wagged her tail.

Bill took a deep breath, looked at the horses and then back at the dog.

Within thirty minutes Bill had the packhorse loaded with all the gear and tied down with a diamond hitch. The hitch had taken three times for him to throw—it had been a long time.

He poured the rest of the coffee on the fire and put the pot in his saddlebag. As he put his foot in the stirrup, he once again felt like leaving. Taking his foot out of the stirrup he rested his forehead on the saddle and shut his eyes. After a few minutes, with little physical effort, but great mental effort, he swung up in the saddle. He unwrapped the lead rope to the pack saddle horse from his saddle horn, nudged his horse gently and started toward the stream. Gypsy ran across the bridge but Bill led his horse through the stream. The horse did not slow up or show any alarm as she picked her way through the belly deep water, nor did the pack horse pull back on her lead rope. On the other side of the stream, both horses shook. The packhorse’s load did not shift and Bill felt proud. Settling into the saddle he pointed the horse toward the trail that cut through the middle of a wide green valley, dotted with stands of pine and mountain willow. Gypsy ran to the front of the horses, not looking back.

Bill fought a deep sense of loneliness as he nudged the horse on. The horse did not walk as fast as he liked a mountain horse to walk but it really did not matter. He was in no hurry and he was not going to go far the first day, only five or six miles.

After an hour Bill found himself thinking about all his years in the mountains and it was a shock to realize what he had become over the past two years. Before her, he always had the feeling he belonged in the mountains. There was no place else he had ever belonged. It was as if he walked through life two steps out of synk with everybody else, or even two steps behind. In the mountains, he moved to his own time. “I’d just as soon been an outlaw and had to hide out in the mountains my whole life,” he said to the back of the horse’s head although the mountains had been crueler to him than the war.

The horse’s ears moved as he talked. Gypsy darted off the trail after something Bill could not see.

Bill did not stop for lunch. When he crossed small streams he let the horses drink but he did not let them grab at tufts of grass as they walked. He hated horses that did not watch where they were going. Stupid horses he called them. Mountain horses could not be stupid horses. But then, Bill mused, whoever heard of a smart horse?

At 3 p.m., Bill stopped at the mouth of a meadow. He had climbed about 2,000 feet in elevation from the trailhead. The meadow was over a mile long and not over a hundred yards wide. It was hemmed in by towering outcroppings of rock with a stream tumbling down one side. On the other side of the meadow stands of birch dotted the steep hills, while a few scattered pine trees jutted toward the sky along the edge of the stream. There was plenty of grass for the horses. Bill’s legs were growing tight after not riding for two years and a small ache was creeping into the small of his back.

After unsaddling the horses Bill hobbled them and turned them out. They immediately started to eat the green grass. He did not bother to pitch the tent but made a make shift lean-to out of a tarp.

Gypsy lay in the shade of a tree and snapped at flies while Bill went through the gear looking for a frying pan and other odds and ends. When he was done, although it would not be dark for several hours, he gathered a pile of wood.

When he sat down, Gypsy sat by his side. Resting his arm around her back he patted her head. “I can see her everywhere,” he told the dog. “I can hear her laugh.”

Gypsy lay and rested her chin on his leg. “You’re a good old dog,” Bill said. “You’re a good old worthless dog.”