Cold River by William Judson

Author:William Judson [Judson, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101650875
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 1976-07-01T00:00:00+00:00

The day came when I felt strong enough to keep up with Tim, and it was none too soon. Every night had been colder than the last, and twice there had been light sprinkles of powder snow, sifting down through the tall pines. Winter was knocking on our door.

I was not afraid of traveling in snow, though if it gets deep, it can be exhausting work breaking your trail through it. But it would be dangerous on the trail if we should be hit by a blizzard, which was not unknown in those parts in November. Although I assured Tim that my ankle was as good as new, it was still tender. If I stepped carelessly, it was apt to catch.

We had sufficient supplies for several days. I had dried two or three pounds of the turkey by cooking it very slowly to make a sort of jerky. We had at least a pound of shelled beechnuts. I had hoarded enough beans to make two or three small meals. There were two small partridges, roasted whole over the fire and one lonely snowshoe rabbit caught the last night in one of Tim’s snares.

He had gone around that last morning checking them and removing the twine in case we needed it later. Also, it would have been cruel to leave an unattended snare to kill a rabbit once we were gone.

I now had my own knife. It had begun life as a humble table knife which had been in our utensils. In my idle moments at the camp, I had rubbed it for hours against a smooth stone, and now it held an edge which, while my father could not have shaved with it, was sufficient for slicing meat. It was my idea to divide supplies and gear as equally as possible between the two of us, so that if one pack should be lost, we would have enough remaining in the other for survival.

We didn’t hurry nor did we dawdle. Our course, as before, was southeast. On the first day I would guess that we made five or six miles easily. We stopped often and listened, for sound carries far. If someone was in the woods with us, we might have been able to hear him. But all we heard was one itchy buck crashing off through the underbrush when we surprised him feeding on some wild apples. We thanked him for pointing them out to us and gathered all we could carry easily. I warned Tim against gorging himself on them raw, for they can produce a mighty stomach ache. He ate one, complaining of its bitterness. I chewed on a bit of one and agreed. Cooked down, though, they would be tasty.

Our path seemed to be more downhill than up. I expressed the hope that we were working our way out of the mountains. Tim didn’t answer, but I knew what he was thinking. It was a foolish thing to have said, since I knew better than he how many mountains still surrounded us.

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