What if Martial Law Were Declared in America - Part Three
This is part of our free, online and highly-praised survival fiction novel. You can read the rest of the parts here.
Bob woke before sunrise, accustomed to early rises from his military days. He threw back the heavy sleeping bag, swung his legs over the bunk, and climbed out of bed. He began stoking the embers in the old stovetop woodstove, poking them to life again using a steel rod, and adding in the split pine.
In the mountains, the morning temperatures often fall below freezing in spring, and even at this time of the year the air is crisp.
He grabbed a large pot from the woodstove, slipped into his boots and headed to the creek.
The pot of water was kept full all day, and sat on top of the stove to keep the cabin from drying out. The dry heat from the wood made everything parched. The water’s purpose was to continuously add humidity to the air, and to help warm the space. It is an old timer’s trick that his Grandmother always used when he was young.
Wearing only a coat, a pair of boxer shorts and his heavy boots, Bob stepped outside into the cool mountain air. The ground showed signs of frost. He pulled his coat tighter around him. The morning was dark, and the sky above was clear, only a few stars still poking through. It was looking like a promising day ahead. The ridge to the east showed a slight orange tinge, its light beginning to shine off the tips of the mountain peaks. He inhaled deeply the Alpine air.
It was enough reason to foretell of a fair weather day ahead for the men. Bob considered taking the time to hunt for those grouse that Murphy and he had seen on the way in yesterday. The birds would be a nice addition to supper. It was early, so the grouse may still be roosting in the trees. In the evenings, often during the cooler temperatures they would perch high in the branches to avoid predators. If the birds were unfamiliar with humans, they will sit perfectly still, just huddled balls of feathers, puffed out to keep warm, roosting as still as pine cones.
Sometimes a careful man can walk right up to a group of them and knock one off with a stick. Many of the old timers called them fool hens for this trait. The birds rested this way at least until the morning when the sun warmed things up, and then they would drop down from the trees and feed in the underbrush on dry berries, buds, and seeds.
Bob’s cabin was only 35 yards from the tiny creek. It was flowing quietly southward, singing cool and clear as it passed the cabin. It took its time making a leisurely course to the east, meandering toward the Longview marshes some twenty-five miles away. It fed the swamps that Murphy had struggled through to get here.
He paused a moment to look around at his Grandfather’s camp. The log structure was encircled by a wall of towering conifers. This made it hard for any aircraft to spot it from above. A pilot would need to be directly overhead to see it through the trees. Other than the telltale signs of chimney smoke, it was nearly invisible.
The camp had a constant freshwater source from Myrtle Creek, and was well shielded from the elements. It lay nestled beneath a sheer hillside, studded with tall fir trees at its peak. The large overhanging roof that his Dad and he had repaired many years before backed right onto the steep shale hill. At its base both the roof and the shale scree had been covered by decades of moss over the years. The cabin roof appeared as if it melded straight into the hillside, making it impossible to see it by the average searcher.
The exposed scree, warmed by the sun in the daytime, prevented snow from building up above it, this reduced the chances of avalanches in winter. The line of trees at the ridge prevented dangerous cornices of snow from forming at its summit.
The heavy roof of the cabin had been built using eight large timbers hewn from whole skinned trees, taken from the nearby forest. Roy, his Dad, and he had replaced the old thin roof with a layer of four inch thick planks sawed back in the late 80s. They had milled them using a portable chainsaw mill, and placed them using a home built gin pole set-up. The simple rig was made from two 40-foot-tall spruce timbers in the shape of a “V” holding a pulley system at the top for lifting.
With steel cables a block and tackle, and a hand-crank winch, they were able to lift the heavy timbers into place with ease. The Gin pole was set up over the cabin, and swung off the trunk of a large nearby fir tree that stood beside the structure. The fir tree was used as an upright support, and as a pivot point, it was tethered from behind with cables holding the gin poles to the tree, and the tree to the ground. The cables ran down and were fastened to the base of several other trees used as anchors. The whole rig stood solidly, and was capable of lifting several tons in weight.
The large logs used for the roof planking were rough milled to size, and fitted snugly with each other after trimming them with a chainsaw. These planks were also harvested from the nearby woods. They had been dried for over two years before milling them, and then placed and held down by one inch dowel pegs.
Each peg was twelve inches long. His Dad would split the tip of the dowels with a hand saw and insert a wedge that would expand as it was pounded into the bottom of the augured holes, thus fixing each permanently in the rafter and the gable end walls. Once the peg was set, another wedge was inserted into the top of the dowel to hold the planks solidly in-place. This sturdy roof design was thick enough to span the large spacing of the rafters, and made for a rock-solid roof.
Then the entire roof was covered with a layer of felt paper, and a double layer of heavy black polyvinyl plastic sheeting. His Dad and he also piled it high with a thick twelve-inch mat of Sphagnum moss, gathered from along the creek banks. It was a living roof that acted as insulation, like a green blanket growing over the cabin, firmly rooting itself many decades ago.
The living moss helped act as a fire retardant for the chimney, as well as insulation. It had grown to about a foot and a half thick over the passing years. This helped make the cabin part of the landscape. Moss has always been used by trappers in this way during the old days for cabin building.
The cabin had survived the occasional scree slide from the hillside without any concerns. The tiny sturdy building took it all in stride, making it blend into the scene naturally. It was a very impressive structure. Overly built, yet idyllic in the way that it looked under the hill, it was as if it grew there.
Bob stood on his rustic porch beneath the four-foot overhang of the front gable, and breathed in the mountain air. He always felt at home here at his Grandfather’s old camp. He considered the world around him, and whispered out loud, “I swear if I didn’t need to make a living, I’d never leave here.” He smiled, and made his way down the heavy log steps, toward the creek.
All along the shore were tracks and evidence of wildlife. There were deer, raccoons, and even a set of moose and Otter tracks. Across the creek on the adjacent bank was an old mashed down beaver slide left from last winter. It ran down the slope on the far bank. It was beat smooth by otters as well as beaver, and was evident by the matted grass and mud trail. The beavers must have passed through after the winter thaw.
Spring was their mating season. As soon as the ice breaks it was time for the young bucks to move on down the road to look for a mate, and make new lodgings. Beavers usually travel at night to avoid the many predators that would stop at nothing to catch one in the open. Yet, make no mistake about it, a big male beaver weighing 45 or 60 pounds can be a very formidable creature when cornered.
Bob had once watched as a large adult beaver fought off a lynx, and even saw one take on two coyotes at the same time. The big male simply held them at bay with his teeth, chastising them with a hiss a few nips to the pair of young canines. After several yelps, he turned and dove into its hole in the ice as if it was no big deal.
His Grandpa had taught Bob all about trapping, and the woodsman ways that he now possessed. Occasionally, in his youth, Bob still trapped fur. That was until he joined the Navy, and now he rarely bothered these days. The modern fur market was mainly over in Eastern Europe today, and the lucrative Russian fashion houses of Moscow.
Everywhere else has gotten too sensitive about trapping. The Western world virtually boycotted the entire fur trade all together. Bob thought this was a shame as natural fur is still one of the finest insulators out there. Now the conservation officers mainly exterminate the problem beavers, wasting the fur and meat.
Bob bent down to fill the tin pot with cool clear water, and then made his way back to the cabin. When he entered, he found Murphy still in bed rubbing his eyes. “Hey, buddy,” he called out as he made his way to the stove.
Murphy nodded cordially then croaked back, “Hey,” shaking his head awake. He looked groggy from the pain killers Bob had given him the night before.
“Wow, I slept like a rock. I feel much better, thanks for everything man…” Murphy rubbed the thigh of his bad leg using both hands, and stretched out his arms and yawned.
Bob tipped his head toward the window as he struggled with the heavy pot to the stove. “It’s looking like a great day out there,” he smiled then set the pot of water on the stove to heat. “You take it easy on that leg for a few days Murphy… ya hear? I’m headed out to scare up some grouse for supper.”
Bob lifted up the mattress of his bed and grabbed the .22 rifle from its hiding place, and slung it over his shoulder. He then slipped a full magazine into his coat pocket, pulled on some pants, grabbed a handful of jerky from the table, and stuffed it in his breast pocket.
Next, he slung an old tattered rucksack on his back. This he always kept ready by the door, as it contained the few odds and ends he might need when out and about. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Murphy.”
“Yeah, sure,” he replied, “I’ll make some breakfast…”
“Remember take it easy on that leg today. Maybe when I get back I’ll show you around a bit… if you’re up to it that is?” with that, he slipped outside and closed the heavy door behind him, and was gone.
Bob loved the woods, of all the places he could be it was here that he felt the most comfortable. He made his way north back along the trail he and Murphy had come in on yesterday. He spent the rest of the morning scouring the old winter berry patches. The odd dry berry still hung wrinkled and nearly inedible on the bare branches, being a favorite winter food of the Northern Grouse. He then skirted the hazelnut groves watching the lower limbs of the spruce trees for his birds.
By mid-morning, he had shot three and managed to scare up a rabbit on the way back to camp. He quickly dispatched it with one shot, and threw it in the sack with the rest. All in all, it was a very successful morning.
He saw plenty of deer and moose tracks, which encouraged him to ready the smoker when he got back to camp. Maybe later this week he would concentrate on something bigger for the food stores.
He then came to an old dry log by the creek and sat down to rest. He scooped up a drink of water with his cupped hand, and sipped the cool liquid. Sitting back on the log, he pulled out a large piece of jerky from his pocket, and tore off a piece with his teeth, then began to chew the leathery meat.
He thought to himself, “It really doesn’t get much better than this,” as he savored the dried meat.
The wind whistled through the tops of the spruce trees, gently moving them back and forth, swaying like a gathering of ship’s masts in a gentle harbor. The sun had finally crested the ridge line, and the day was getting warmer, it was a perfect spring day.
After a short break, he decided to clean his catch by the creek. First, he used an old woodsman’s trick to clean the birds. He laid the grouse on their backs, and stood on their wings. With his boots placed on either side of the bird, and then he began applying pressure… slowly pulling up on the legs until the entire insides came lose. The breast simply slipped out of the skin as quick as you please, and the guts were free in one go… well, when done correctly that is.
He then cut loose the legs from the tangled mess, and tossed the rest aside, and left the feathers, guts and wings for the wild things to eat.
The rabbit was different, yet equally ingenious. After squeezing the urine from the animal’s bladder to keep it from getting on the meat, he wet his fingers for grip. Then one by one he grabbed the rabbit’s legs, and while using his other hand he jerked down hard on the skin breaking it away from the foot. Rabbit skin is very delicate and tears easily. In this way, he could pull the fur from the animal without using a knife to cut it.
Working his finger under the hide between the back legs, he simply tore the skin open and removed the entire fur as if it were a sweater. He completed this procedure by pulling the hide off, inside out, over the animal’s head. Leaving nothing more than the furry feet on the remaining carcass, in which he deftly chopped off with his hatchet on the log.
The whole process, although gruesome to watch, took less than a minute to perform. He then cut open the abdomen, and removed the animal’s insides. Saving the heart and liver from each for later. He cooled the meat in the creek, and washed his catch in the cold water. He then gathered up the spoils, dropping it all in a plastic bag, and stashed it in the rucksack. He washed his hands in the creek, and then picked up his rifle and headed back down the trail toward the cabin. Yes, Bob was quite at home in this valley.
The pack was light but for the game and would certainly make for some fine eating. “Perhaps,” Bob thought, adding some vegetables to the mix will fill it out. He walked along and kept his eyes open for any sign of new shoots popping up through the winters mat.
He was looking for a certain type of fern. When picked in early spring, before it has a chance to open, it makes for a very fine vegetable. They call them fiddleheads, a name given to it for its resemblance to the curled head of a violin. The key to identifying them is that the stem of the edible ferns are clean without fuzz, and have a U-shape when cut crosswise. True fiddleheads are otherwise known as ostrich ferns, although there are other varieties that are quiet edible when their sprouts emerge, they are at their best before they become poisonous at full bloom.
The first patch he spotted just along the edge of the creek was in a low area. A person must be careful not to take all the shoots from the rhizome root. They grow in groups of three or five, and it could kill the fern for the next season if you take them all.
He walked the creek picking as he went. By the time, he finished scouring the area he had a gallon of the green edibles, and was nearly back to camp when he looked up. Bob decided to clean the fern heads in the creek, as they grow with a brown papery material attached to the heads when they first emerge. This needs to be washed off before cooking. He also threw in some wild parsnips for the stew. He then made his way into camp.