Ray Gorham - Daunting Days of Winter

Kyle walked south, along the bank of the small creek from which the community got its name. The creek was at its smallest size this time of year, a slow trickle barely four feet across at the wider points. The channel itself, which had been cut over the centuries, was over thirty feet wide and a good eight feet below where Kyle walked. Water flow was steady and reliable, but because the creek emerged from the valley directly into the Shipley Ranch and through their cow pastures, the water was unsuitable for most everything but irrigation. Still, with the steady supply of water, the vegetation in the creek bottom and along the banks flourished, and the creek was lined with tall trees, including native pines and firs, along with a variety of maples, cottonwoods, poplars and fruit trees that had been planted by the residents who owned the surrounding land.

The thick vegetation was inviting to wildlife, and while raccoon and beaver were a nuisance year round, deer, antelope, and the occasional elk also made appearances in the winter. Black bears were also known to be in the vicinity, and many of the long-term residents had at least one tale to tell of encountering a wandering bear during their time in Deer Creek. Kyle and his family had walked along the creek a few times the previous summer, but had yet to see any of the larger wildlife.

It was the stories of bear sightings that explained the pistol strapped to his waist, but the purpose of the day’s journey was to try and bag dinner for Thanksgiving. With his twelve gauge slung across his back, Kyle was heading south into the mountains in search of turkey, if he could find it, or pheasant, if no turkeys could be found.

It had been daylight for forty-five minutes, but the sun was yet to clear the mountains to the west, and the air still held the crisp, icy chill that was common for November. In the few days since his homecoming, the weather had been cold and snowy for a couple of days before warming up to the upper 40’s, leaving the ground sloppy and muddy. Most of the snow had melted off the day before, but this morning it was cold, and Kyle’s breath was visible as he walked.

A path led to the creek bottom, and Kyle followed it. He crossed the creek on a fallen log before tracing the path back up the far bank. The barbed wire fence marking the north boundary of the Shipley Ranch was just ahead, and Kyle slipped through, briefly snagging his jacket on the wire before tugging loose. As he continued south along the creek bank, he could see a half-dozen men attacking large, round bales of hay with pitchforks, then hauling the loose feed to the fields where it was quickly consumed by the hungry and impatient herd.

Kyle waved to the foreman as he crossed the pasture. David would soon be working on the ranch again, his position held for him by Mr. Shipley while he fully recovered from his stab wound. Kyle had added his name to the list of people willing to work at the ranch, but currently there were more available hands than work to be done, so he was currently without a job.

The morning before he’d gone to his old home to continue salvaging items that would be useful in their new residence at Carol’s, followed by an afternoon of feeling cooped up, making today’s jaunt a welcome relief. Ten weeks of walking had gotten Kyle so used to being active that the past few days of hanging around the house, despite the joy of being home, had made him antsy and uncomfortable.

Sunday had been the town meeting where Kyle had spoken and answered questions for over forty-five minutes, giving a recap of his journey and, at Jennifer’s suggestion, trying to inspire people to persevere. He wasn’t sure how inspirational he’d been, but a lot of people had come up afterwards to shake his hand and thank him.

That had been followed up on Monday with Kyle and David joining the new militia. Sean Reider, the head security person and man putting together the protective force, had announced after Kyle spoke that they had to start organizing and training, and had urged and cajoled as many community members as possible to join. Sean’s efforts had been rewarded with fifty-three individuals showing up for the first meeting, ranging in age from David, at fourteen, to Tom Hanson, at sixty-nine. Kyle had been surprised by the number of weapons in the community, but pleased, under the circumstances.

The militia members had been broken out into companies, training had been scheduled, and strategy discussed. Being expected to fight for the community, to prepare to actually shoot at people, was an uncomfortable thought, but Kyle knew that was the only option they had and was likely the only way they’d make it through the winter intact.

Regardless of participating in the militia and his new responsibilities there, it felt good to get out and stretch his legs, and walking without a backpack on or a cart to pull made progress fast and effortless, despite the uneven terrain. The creek meandered back into the mountains, and Kyle followed it for a couple of miles as the sun slowly climbed overhead, finding comfort in the solitude and thickening pine trees, and enjoying the change in scenery from the paved roads he was used to. The creek split, and Kyle followed the narrower arm of it east to where it came tumbling gently down the hillside, splashing between small boulders and tree roots, leaving delicate icicles hanging from the bushes growing along its edges.

Kyle stopped in a small clearing and took his hands from his gloves and rubbed them on his face to warm his cheeks. He listened for the telltale sounds of wild turkey, but heard only the wind as it gently rocked the pine trees back and forth. He glanced back towards Deer Creek and could see sections of the freeway north of it, but the forest hid the community itself. There was a cut in the forest above him, so he headed that direction.

The slope of the mountain was gentle, and with weeks of conditioning and a good breakfast fueling him, the climb was easy and enjoyable. He reached the ridge, about 1,500 feet above the valley floor, followed it for a half mile or so, then dropped down the east side and continued exploring, finding an old logging road near an empty one-room cabin that was missing windows and looked to be decades old, as well as several four-wheeler trails. He saw a few deer off in the distance, that, had he had his rifle with him instead of his shotgun, he could have taken, along with a number of pheasants, but no turkey. Kyle stopped occasionally to reset his bearings, then, determined to impress everyone with a turkey, he pressed on.

About six miles south of Deer Creek and deep into the mountains, Kyle found a maintained gravel road and followed it westward, along the south side of the mountain. After a good mile, he was about to head back home when he heard something that sounded very much like a turkey. He stopped and listened. With a lull in the wind, the trees quieted, and he could hear the deep guttural wallowing, the distinct sound of a Tom turkey. He followed the sound further west, stopping every couple minutes to listen.

Kyle noted that the sun was past vertical and on its downward trajectory, and estimated the time to be around 1:30 in the afternoon. He pulled out a small chunk of jerky and tore off a chunk, popping the piece in his mouth as he glanced around for the turkey. As he savored the flavor of the meat, he realized that it actually had little spice, but because of his limited diet of late, that little bit of beef fat seemed like a rare treat. As he chewed, the distinct sound of turkeys came to him again, this time from the South, downhill from where he stood.

Kyle grabbed his shotgun, checked the chamber for a shell, and gingerly climbed through the barbed wire fence that lined the side of the road. The snow on the south-facing slope had mostly melted off, but the undergrowth was thick, forcing Kyle to carefully pick his way downhill in the direction of the noise.