The Mountain

Chapter One-1

Chapter OnePeter lay back in the wooden chair and rested his feet on the rail surrounding his porch. He took a deep breath of crisp mountain air and let out a contented sigh. He could hear Mishka thrashing about behind the tree line thirty yards away. She disturbed a flock of birds, and they took to the sky with a flurry of wings. Seconds later, the big dog burst into the clearing and, tongue lolling, ran to the porch as if seeking approval from her master. Peter ruffled the animal’s furry neck until it settled.

‘Good girl,’ he said, his only words for the day.

He stood, stretched, let out a yawn and ducked through the door into the cabin. The dog followed. Peter took a pot from the stove, retrieved a bone with some flesh still attached and tossed it to Mishka who caught it expertly and swallowed it without seeming to chew. Peter chuckled and shook his head. Damn dog’s gonna choke one day, he thought.

He rekindled the pot-bellied stove and waited for the remains of the stew to heat. Might as well finish it tonight, otherwise it’ll go bad. Peter dipped in a spoon and sampled the brown liquid. He grimaced at the lack of salt, but he would have to get used to that. His supply had dwindled, and he didn’t plan on going into town any time soon. He ate the stew straight from the pot, savoring the hot liquid and relishing each morsel of meat. He salvaged another small bone, which disappeared down Mishka’s eager throat with little fuss.

Peter took his utensils outside and washed them in rainwater from a storage barrel tucked away at one end of the porch. He’d designed the system himself and was proud of his ingenuity. His only regret was the use of plastic piping, which he had hauled up the mountain against his better judgment. Still, the rain that came off the roof kept the barrel full most of the year. He rarely had to supplement his supply from the nearby creek.

He felt a tingling sensation and his scalp crawled. He’d had these feelings before when danger threatened and had learned to listen to them as the years progressed. He dropped his utensils, grabbed his shotgun, which was never far from his side and listened intently. He scanned the tree line, using all his senses to find the danger. A strange silence settled over the forest as nature held its breath in anticipation. Seconds passed and nothing happened.

The dog bristled and its ears pricked. Peter heard the noise a few seconds later. His eyes widened and he froze where he stood. The noise was familiar but out of place. He had heard it constantly during his tour of duty in Afghanistan over a decade earlier. It was the background to his world in those days. His stomach lurched now. That was a different time and a different life. He had sought refuge in the wilderness to escape sounds like this. It was the unmistakable growl of a military jet fighter. It was low, close and getting closer. The noise turned into a wail, then a scream, as the plane shot across the clearing just feet above the cabin. Leaves flew across his yard and trees bent as the plane passed. Mishka jumped and barked but Peter heard nothing. Years of quiet solitude had sensitized his hearing and he was momentarily deafened.

Peter lost sight of the F22 Raptor as it passed the tree line. Recovering from his shock, he propped his shotgun on the porch, ran around the back of his cabin where the ground was higher, and scrambled onto the roof. The plane disappeared quickly, getting smaller by the second. Without warning, it rose into the evening sky, flew straight up for a few seconds, and stalled. There was silence as the plane fought gravity. It was a fight with only one outcome. A blinding flash, followed by the deep rumbling of an explosion signaled the destruction of the expensive machine. Peter fancied that he felt a tremor beneath his feet. What the hell?

He retrieved a pair of binoculars from his sleeping area and clambered back onto the roof. He tried to get a fix on the plane’s position before the light faded for the evening. Black smoke rose into the evening sky, marking the crash site. It was roughly fifteen miles away. Peter’s mind raced as he tried to process what he had seen. Maybe the pilot ejected - that would explain the sudden upturn in the plane’s trajectory as the aviator sought height for a more controlled parachute descent. He didn’t fancy the man’s chances. The forest was dense in that area, and he was bound to end up tangled in a tree.

Peter squatted on the roof and gathered his thoughts. The plane had crashed over a dozen miles to the east. That was in Ben’s territory, and that irascible old fool would hardly welcome the intrusion. If Hollywood needed a bitter version of Grizzly Adams, Ben Atwood would be ideal. He was almost a caricature of a mad mountain man. Peter chuckled to himself; helicopters would soon be criss-crossing the wilderness in search of the downed plane, and Ben would wave his bow and arrows at them in impotent rage.

Three men shared his wilderness, and they each kept to their own loose territory. Ben was his closest neighbor, and he hadn’t seen him in over two years. Peter stood and walked to the far end of the roof. He knelt and examined a small solar panel that was one of his concessions to the modern world. It was free of debris and seemed intact. He would soon find out if it was functional. The battery it charged serviced a basic shortwave radio stored next to his bunk. He made a courtesy call to the Forest Ranger every six months to stop the man from climbing the mountain to check on him. Apart from that, it was for emergencies only. This was an emergency.

Peter jumped nimbly from the roof and entered the cabin. He turned the radio on and was relieved to see a green light. It was pre-set to the Ranger’s wavelength so Peter just picked up the handset, pressed a button, and spoke.

‘Mayday, mayday. Peter Friel calling Ranger Martin. Repeat, Mayday, mayday. Peter Friel calling Ranger Martin.’

He released the send button and waited for a response but only received hissing static. Repeated attempts produced the same frustrating results. Peter changed wavelengths and sent out a general Mayday call but continued to receive nothing but static. He went up and down the channels with no success. What was happening? All those damn tablets and smartphones! No one bothers with shortwave radios anymore!

He turned off the obsolete gadget and lay down in his bunk. Mishka took up her customary position on the floor alongside the bed, and Peter absently stroked the dog’s head while he thought.

There was little point in setting off for the crash site. The terrain was difficult and it would take at least three days to get to the area. The Air Force would launch a search-and-rescue mission at first light in any case. Besides, he didn’t feel like encroaching on Ben’s territory and risking an arrow for his troubles. He would let the military take care of it.

Dusk gave way to darkness; Peter yawned and stretched his lean frame. He turned on his side, slipped an arm under his pillow and drifted into a deep dreamless sleep.

He woke as the first rays of sunlight penetrated his window and warmed his face. It was late August and winter approached but the weather was still good. The summer’s temperate climate allowed him to perform his morning ablutions in the nearby creek. At this altitude, the water ran clear and cold. The melted snow hadn’t yet gathered the sediment that would turn the stream a murky brown lower down the mountain. He sat on the porch, in his shorts, and let the morning air dry his body. Mishka had escaped the cabin at first light and gone hunting for breakfast. Peter followed his morning ritual of fixing herbal tea while chewing on a strip of pemmican.

He sipped his tea from an enamel mug and searched the skies for signs of a rescue. Peter’s refuge was in the northernmost part of the United States, and he was used to seeing passenger aircraft in the distance as they navigated the great circle route that linked Europe to the Pacific. He couldn’t recall seeing a plane for a long time. He tried to organize his thoughts. Had he seen one of the huge passenger planes to the north recently? Was he so inured to their unobtrusive passing that he had ignored them? Had they changed their route? That wasn’t likely. He periodically checked the sky as he went about his morning chores.

He used an axe to split logs, which would fuel his fire during the winter months and collected smaller kindling for his stove. The morning wore on and no helicopters appeared. There were plenty of birds but no aircraft of any kind, not even distant passenger planes. He worked in an old pair of army boots and khaki shorts. He had built his cabin just at the edge of the tree line where mosquitoes didn’t flourish.

The sun climbed the azure sky and Peter’s skin glistened with sweat. Still no helicopters appeared. He downed his axe and drank deeply from a small barrel of boiled water he kept in a shaded area of the porch. The water escaped from the side of his mouth and trickled down his bare chest causing him to shudder. The water was still cold from the night air and he liked the sensation. Thirst satisfied, Peter rested from his chores and once again checked the empty skies. There was no sign of a search unless the Air Force employed feathered search and rescue personnel. Peter frowned in exasperation.

He entered the cool interior of the cabin and switched on the short wave radio. He repeated the exercise of the previous night with the same fruitless results. The receiver only picked up static. What the hell is going on down there in the ‘real’ world?

He sat on his bunk to gather his thoughts. He hadn’t been into town for almost a year. The memory of that trip was fresh in his mind. A mini recession, due to rising oil prices, had caused an unemployment crisis and a sharp spike in food costs. These things went in cycles and the locals tightened their belts to ride it out. They blamed OPEC and greedy oil magnates for their problems. Peter had been grimly pleased that he had made the decision to opt out of society. Had things worsened?

He sighed. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what he must do. He tried to bury the thought but it came unbidden to the forefront. He had to go into town. It was the only logical thing to do. He thought of a dozen reasons why he shouldn’t. He kept on returning to the same inescapable fact; he had to find out what was happening and how it would affect his sanctuary. Besides, there could be an injured man needing medical attention somewhere in Ben’s territory and he needed to report that.

He yearned to discuss his options with someone, but he only had Mishka. For the first time in years, he felt lonely. Damn that plane! Damn those stupid people down there! Why can’t they just leave me be?

He could just ignore the downed plane and the empty airwaves. He could stay on his mountain and overlook the problems of the rest of the world, but there was one thing that no years of solitude could overcome. The natural curiosity of his species tormented him. Besides, I need salt! he reasoned.

Two basic routes led to the nearest town. The safest choice would take at least three days. It was the long way down with the gentlest slope, and he used it when he had to haul stuff up the mountain. The shortest route involved steep inclines and some climbing skills. He had ropes hidden at strategic points to assist in the descent. It would only take a day and a half. He would take the short route in the morning.

Peter rummaged around the cabin and found his razor and scissors. He used a small mirror propped on the porch rail and spent thirty minutes removing his beard and trimming his long hair. He examined the results and smiled into the mirror. He wouldn’t win any beauty pageants but at least he wouldn’t frighten the children in town.