Under the Northern Lights(9)
As if to punctuate my point, a lone wolf howled in the distance. Anger shot up my spine, obliterating the chill and easing the depression. No, I wasn’t ready to stop fighting. I’d never stop fighting, not until the last breath escaped my lips. So long as I was alive, there was still hope.
After my energizing meal, I felt a little better, less prone to mood swings. It never ceased to amaze me how having something in my stomach, even if it was only dried fruits and a handful of nuts, could lift my spirit. Securing my pack, I strapped the gun across my back and opened my tent. The cold struck me as hard as a fist, reminding me just how well my deceptively simple shelter retained heat. Struggling to get to a standing position, I twisted around and sealed the tent. After a quick bathroom break, I made a fire with the last of my dry wood. That was a problem I’d have to fix right away. Fire was my lifeline, my preservation against the chill ceaselessly trying to encapsulate me.
Sitting on a fallen log beside the fire, I propped my aching leg on a nearby rock. While I warmed up, I examined my thigh again. The gauze pad was bloody, so I carefully replaced it with one in my pocket. The wound was still wet, still seeping blood. That was bad. It shouldn’t still be bleeding. Anxiety began to crawl up my spine as I wondered how I could seal the skin, promote faster healing. I had nothing for stitches . . . so cauterize the wound? God . . . could I do that? Stick a flaming-hot piece of wood into my body? Willingly? No . . . it could wait. I’d figure that out tomorrow, if I had to. Maybe it would be fine soon.
When the fire died away, I grabbed my makeshift crutch and prepared myself to gather more wood. Warmth was the greatest thing I could do for myself right now—and it was far less stressful to think about. Walking was a struggle, though, and I was breathing heavily after just a couple of paces. My lungs felt on fire from the exertion, but I didn’t give up. I couldn’t. I needed heat. Trudging past the plane wreckage reminded me of the crash, and painful memories flashed through my brain. Averting my eyes from the warped metal, I saw the evidence of last night’s predator. Wrappers, Tupperware, and tinfoil packets that used to hold food were everywhere, and it was clear every morsel had indeed been picked clean by the bear. All I had left was stuffed in my emergency bag. Damn it . . . I’d secretly been hoping something would be left, and it was crushing to learn that wasn’t the case.
Since I was firmly holding on to the crutch with one hand, I had only one arm to carry back wood. It was inefficient and frustrating, but it was all I could do. Close to camp, I found a pine tree that had thick branches. The bottom branches were so low that they were partially buried in the snow covering the ground. Wearing my warmest gloves, I removed a section of snow and pulled the branches up. Near the base of the tree was a clear, dry spot that was now my woodshed. Good. I didn’t think I had the strength to build one.
It took all morning and a good chunk of the afternoon to fill the space beneath the tree with wood. When I was done for the day, I was disappointed. It had taken far too long, and I hadn’t gathered nearly as much as I’d wanted to gather. But days were short here, and I only had an hour or two of light left . . . and I was utterly exhausted. Every time I moved, bolts of agony radiated through my leg and chest. Everything hurt so much that I was almost getting immune to the pain. Almost. I wanted to rest—more than anything—but I needed to strengthen my shelter first. That was too important to set aside, even for a day.
Taking a second to rest, I mentally prepared myself for the task. I’d need to cut some thick branches, then tie them together in an A-frame. Then I’d need to cut some boughs off the pine tree, making pseudo-shingles for the sides. Simple, yet at the moment, exceedingly difficult. More than my brain or body could handle. I had no choice but to press on, though. Even still, I stared at my shelter for a solid ten minutes before I gathered enough willpower to get started.
Since everything took so long for me to do, I cut only half of the large branches I needed before darkness fell over me. Cursing my weary body, I called it quits and grabbed some logs so I could make another fire. I was trying to get the still-damp wood to light when I noticed something that froze my heart. A pair of eyes reflecting light from the moon. I’d only seen it for an instant, but it had been long enough to know what it was—trouble. Ice flooded my veins. My heart started beating harder, and my breaths grew faster, making my bruised chest ache.
“Get out of here!” I yelled, again trying my damnedest to light the fire. Some predators were scared off by loud noises they didn’t understand. Some. Not all. Staying near a blazing fire was my best bet, but I needed flames first.
A low growl in the night raised the hairs on the back of my neck. It sounded like a dog, which instantly made my blood go cold. Oh my God . . . no . . . wolves. Wolves were among the most intelligent hunters in these woods. They had speed, strength, and the numbers to make them a near-impossible foe, and as I recalled the flash of eyes I’d seen in the darkness, something my father had told me once popped into my mind: It’s not the wolf you see that you should worry about. It’s the other ten you don’t see that are the problem.
Fear made my fingers shake, made flicking the lighter even more difficult. The wolves were probably surrounding me right now. They could smell my blood, sense my nervousness. To them, I must seem like easy, injured prey, certainly a lot easier to take down than a five-hundred-pound moose—and they didn’t have much trouble with those. I wasn’t exactly defenseless, though. I had a weapon, and in a minute, I’d have a fire. Sudden indecision made me pause. Shit. Do I continue struggling with the fire, or do I unsling my rifle and blast a couple of warning shots at them?