Scott Williams - The Pulse

“It is getting cold. Can we build a fire tonight since it’s not raining?”

“I don’t think we should. I wanted to camp out of sight in the woods to be on the safe side, even though I think it’s highly unlikely anyone would be coming down the river at night. And although I’m pretty sure we’re still a good distance behind this guy who’s got Casey, building a fire would defeat the purpose of camping up here instead of out in the open. There is a little bit of propane left in the one canister we have, though. We can use the stove to make some hot chocolate and cook the last of the rice packets. Maybe if we do that quickly, there will be enough left to heat water for oatmeal in the morning. You can have what’s left of that too. I’m going to try and catch a fish tonight for my breakfast.”

“How are you going to see to fish in this dark?”

“Not the kind of fishing you’re thinking about, Jessica. There were some hooks and trotline in that tackle box where we got the canoe. I’m going to take some small pieces of the beef jerky I have left and use it to bait some drop hooks. What you do is tie them to a branch hanging out over a deep, still hole in the river, like the one just upstream, and leave it out all night. With any luck at all, a catfish will come along and smell the bait and hook itself when it swallows it. Jerky isn’t ideal, but that’s all I’ve got. I hope soaking it in the water for a few hours on the hook will soften it up and it will still have enough smell to work.”

“Well, good luck with it, but I hope we can find a riverside salad bar for me tomorrow. I’m looking forward to trying those cattails you were talking about.”

Grant left her for a few minutes and carefully picked his way along the riverbank in the dark. He had been trying to maintain a positive attitude as much as possible in front of Jessica, but he was overwhelmed with fear of what would become of Casey, and full of doubt that they could ever even find her, much less rescue her, out in the vastness of these river woodlands with no help. More then the fear though, he felt guilt for his own failure to protect her. He realized now he should have never left her alone to guard the stupid bicycles. They should have all stuck together and none of this would have happened. He had brought them both out here to the middle of nowhere with the promise of a safe refuge, and now look where that had gotten them. Not only was Casey in immediate and grave peril (if she were still alive), but he had now gotten Jessica, who was completely inexperienced in any life outside of a city, into a hardcore wilderness survival situation. It was up to him to somehow provide for her safety, shelter, and food, as well as take care of his own needs.

He found branches from which to hang four drop hooks. It was hard to tell in the darkness if the locations were ideal, but all he could do was hope for the best. This wasn’t a method he’d learned from the Wapishana in Guayana, but rather a technique used by the locals on the Bogue Chitto and most other rivers in the South to catch catfish. The beauty of it was that it was passive—setting out hooks was like setting a trap. You could forget about it and do other things and it would either work or it wouldn’t, depending on whether the quarry took the bait.

He returned to Jessica’s side by the canoe as quickly as possible, knowing she was terrified to be out in these dark woods and devastated by what had happened to Casey. She said she wasn’t hungry, but when the last of the cheddar-broccoli rice packets was cooked on the stove and he offered her most of it, she wolfed it down. Then he heated water for hot chocolate and they sat close together sipping it, leaning back side by side against the hull of the canoe, talking about Casey and trying to reassure each other that she would be okay. Grant knew the next day would likely be long and hard and they would need their sleep, but neither of them could relax because of their worries. He spread their sleeping bags on the tarp, putting Jessica’s next to the canoe and his close by on the other side, shielding her from the dangers she was certain lurked in the inky blackness surrounding them. Before lying down, he stuck the point of his machete in the soft ground so that the handle was within easy reach, though he knew there was nothing in the wild to fear here and the chances of a human intruder stumbling across their camp in the night were slim to none. But they had barely settled into their bags to try to rest when a barred owl unleashed its demonic, half-laughing, half-screaming, and utterly ear-piercing cry into the forest close by. Jessica grabbed him in a panic and nearly suffocated him in her arms, terrified by a sound that he had assumed everyone was familiar with.

“What in the hell was that?” she whispered, barely able to breathe in her choking fear.

Grant laughed a little and hugged her back to reassure her. “It’s just an owl. They’re common here in these big hardwood forests. We’ll probably hear them all night. They’re perfectly harmless.”

“That was worse than something from a horror movie! I’m so scared, Grant. I believe you that it was an owl, but I’m so scared after what happened to Casey.” Her tears flowed freely as she clung to him, and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably. Grant felt his own eyes moisten as he stroked her hair as if she were a little girl and tried to reassure her.

Jessica stayed snuggled up against his shoulder the remainder of the night, and when he opened his eyes, he realized they both must have fallen fast asleep. The impenetrable darkness of night was replaced by a thick morning mist that hung over the river like heavy smoke. Birdcalls and the barking chatter of gray squirrels echoed through the forest. It was cool enough that Grant thought about a hot cup of coffee with great anticipation, but he then he remembered his hooks and gently pulled himself away from Jessica to go check them.

When he got to the river’s edge, the first two hooks were just as he’d left them, and when he pulled them up the jerky had swollen to the consistency of raw bacon, but was untouched. He pushed his way through the river cane to the next hook and saw that the branch he’d tied it to was bobbing up and down. When he grabbed the line, there was strong resistance as he pulled it in and he found on the other end a nice, sleek catfish that he guessed weighed at least two pounds. He grinned as he hooked a finger through one of its gills so it couldn’t get away, and checked the last hook with heightened enthusiasm, but found it empty. He was thrilled with his success nevertheless, as this fish represented a good meal that would make a fine breakfast for both of them—if only Jessica could get over her aversion to eating things from outside the plant kingdom.

Back at the canoe, he used the machete to cut a small sapling down and quickly cut three equal-length stakes from it, about a foot long. The propane left in the single bottle he’d brought was barely enough to heat some oatmeal for Jessica. He decided to save it since it wasn’t enough to cook the fish with anyway. In this heavy morning mist, he felt it was safe to build a quick twig fire that would put out very little smoke, so he made a tripod of the green sapling pieces by pushing one end of each one into the ground so that the tops were spaced just a few inches apart—just the right distance to support the cooking pot.

Jessica was awakened by the whacking of his blade and sat up to watch him build the fire. “I can’t believe you caught a fish that easily. That’s amazing.”

“Not really. Any good fisherman in these parts who knows what he’s doing would have probably caught at least two or three, if not four, with four sets. I hate to waste time cooking anything, but this will only take minutes. If we don’t eat, we won’t be able to paddle all day. I sure wish you would try some of this.”