If he had hit the deer, would it have died? Or had the deer’s spirit put the branch in the way? Tim’s father would not have approved of such speculation, but his grandfather would have understood.

A chill was growing under the hemlock as the fire died. There was little energy left in him now. He slipped into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Two miles away the black bear caught a faint scent, but he could not identify it. Without his sense of smell, he was nearly helpless. It was days since he had had meat, and his instinct to hibernate as well as his hunger told him how badly he needed to eat. He stood up on his hind legs and peered uselessly into the blinding screen of snow, but a bear’s eyes are weak, and he saw nothing.

A great rage was building within him.

* * *

Tim woke, shivering uncontrollably. The fire was out. He scattered the ashes and found a live ember. Working carefully, he took tinder from the supply in his canteen and rekindled the fire. When he had it going, he didn’t wait to warm himself, but stacked the remainder of his wood so that it would fall into the fire as it burned. Then he fell back into a half-conscious state.

* * *

The fire was out again when he woke and day was beginning to lighten the world. The snow had stopped. He ate a mouthful of snow, then dug around the roots of his shelter tree, hoping to find a squirrel’s cache of pine nuts. He found a pitiful few.

He did not bother to rebuild the fire. If he stayed here now, he would never leave.

The deer’s tracks had been covered by the fresh snow, but it made no difference. He was too weak to stalk it anyway. The tracks of birds and small rodents dotted the snow here and there, but there were by not many of them.

Tim wandered in a daze, looking for anything to eat. Once he blundered into a pine and looked longingly at the cones hanging high above his head. For the life of him, he could not figure out how to get them down. Not for the life of him.

Later, he realized that he was following a set of tracks, but he didn’t know what had made them. He followed them to the base of a lodgepole pine and, looking up, he could see a creature sitting in the lower branches staring down at him.

Porcupine!

The  porcupine is one of the few creatures slow enough to be caught and clubbed. The have no speed, only their quills for protection.

Shaking with excitement and need, Tim strung his bow and nocked an arrow. Shooting overhead was a skill he had never practiced. His first arrow buried itself in the limb on which the porcupine sat.

The porcupine was startled into action. As Tim nocked another arrow, almost sobbing, the porcupine waddled to the main trunk and started up. Tim took careful aim and shot again. The arrow skewered the porcupine and buried itself in the tree trunk.

The creature hung suspended by the shaft that had struck it, nailed to the tree and completely out of Tim’s reach.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Tim cried as tears ran down his cheeks. Then, making slow and graceful turns, the porcupine slid down the shaft, propelled by its own weight, and fell to the ground. The arrow remained embedded in the tree.

Tim approached the fallen creature and fell to his knees before it. It lay on its back with its rodent like mouth half open. Its eyes were flat and dull in death.

It was meat. More than meat, this was life itself. more tomorrow

There was too long a stretch of open ground to be covered before Tim could get within spear throwing range. He strung his bow instead, and laid aside his crutch. His ankle might give way, but he had to take the chance. Moving laterally, he got directly behind the deer, then began to advance. His ankle sent a shock of pain through him each time it hit the ground. He carried the bow in shooting position, ready to draw and release the moment the muley became alarmed.

To his amazement, the deer did not become aware of him. He advanced slowly, footfalls silenced by the thin layer of snow, to within fifty feet of the animal. It still sat quietly, looking down the slope.

Tim paused. If he did not shoot soon, his chance would be lost. Drawing back his bow, he sighted on the deer’s side just behind the shoulders and released.

The arrow flashed, flying true. There was a thuck on impact and the mule deer erupted from the ground. For a fraction of a second it stared at Tim; then it was gone, bounding away in great leaps, using all four feet in its haste.

Tim stood holding his empty bow, frozen in superstitious terror. For a moment the deer’s eyes had seemed to hold an almost human intelligence. Was this a spirit deer after all – one that could not be killed?

The deer was gone. Only his tracks remained.

Tim staggered forward to where the deer had lain. His arrow was buried head deep in a thumb sized branch of whitethorn, and its shaft had shattered on impact. It was a chance in a thousand with such a large target and such a skimpy bush, but Tim’s arrow had been stopped short.

Tim’s scream of frustration rebounded from the mountainside.

Chapter 10

Tim squatted before his fire. In this exposed position at the edge of a small meadow, the constant wind had stunted the growth of a mountain hemlock, twisting it into a whorling shrub that backed against a granite outcropping. Tim had built a fire against the rock so that it reflected heat into the space beneath the hemlock. He had made that space more snug by interweaving branches from nearby shrubs and banking snow against the outer branches.

It was snowing again. The scattered flakes had given way to a steady fall of snow with the coming of night. They did not dance as they had the night before. Now there was no wind and they floated purposefully downward, filling the night with a curtain of white and steadily building up a layer on the trees and ground.

Tim paid little attention to his surroundings. He sat silently, caught up in the rumblings of his empty stomach and the throbbing of his ankle. Today had nearly defeated him. The long stalk in the cold and wind had been bad enough, but it was the waiting, not moving while he searched the brush with his eyes, that had left him chilled through and exhausted.

The fire was dying, but it seemed just too much trouble to put on more wood. Tim’s head dropped to his chest. He really should have saved that arrow, but instead he had taken the already shattered shaft and had broken it again and again, then ground it underfoot in his rage.

If he had hit the deer, would it have died? Or had the deer’s spirit put the branch in the way? more tomorrow

The muley’s trail switchbacked up the valley as he browsed. Tim remained under cover as he followed so he could not be seen from above. He knew that a mule deer will browse for an hour or so as the day begins, then lie down looking downslope. This gives the deer the advantage of rising winds moving up the canyons in the morning. Tim could do nothing to disguise his scent, but he could stay out of sight.

From time to time, Tim could see freshly nipped branches of serviceberry and manzanita. Then he came upon a peculiar sign. The deer had torn up a large patch of snow and it was visibly yellow from his urine. A nearby willow was bruised and its bark was torn loose near the ground.

The deer was going into rut despite his wound! Tim would never have believed it. Perhaps this would make him careless.  Certainly it would make him dangerous. A muley in rut with freshly sharpened antlers will not hesitate to attack

* * *

In another part of the mountains, the black bear was leaving the foothills. His nose had begun to heal, but his sense of smell was mostly gone. His eye where the buckshot had lodged was swelling and the infection was spreading. He could not hunt properly with only his weak eyes to guide him. He was hungry and angry, and he was heading for the section of the mountains where Tim was lost.

* * *

Eventually, Tim decided that he had followed the deer’s tracks far enough. By now, it should have gone to earth, so he worked his way up the side of the valley and continued upslope parallel to the muley’s trail. After half a mile he dropped down into the valley again to check and, sure enough, the tracks were gone.

If his reasoning was correct, the deer was below him now, so he began a slow downslope stalk into the wind. The trees grew closer together here, and that made it hard for him to see.

The clouds were a boiling sea of gray and charcoal hanging just above the treetops. It was nearing noon, but the day just grew colder. Tim leaned against the bole of a mountain hemlock to rest his aching ankle and consider his next move. As long as he stayed still and upright, he would probably remain unseen against the trees, but he would have to look carefully before he made each move.

He moved diagonally to the right and stopped again against the bole of a lodgepole pine. He stood there with only his eyes moving for a long time, looking particularly at a likely clump of bitter cherry. Then he moved again, going about twenty feet and stopping.

He worked his way along for two hours, moving briefly and standing long to search with his eyes. The cold was getting to him, but he tried to ignore it. Eventually, he came to an opening in the trees, almost a meadow, but with a scattering of Jeffrey pines and low bushes of manzanita and whitethorn – just the kind of resting spot his father had taught him to look for.

Tim settled back against a pine and slid down so that he was hidden by a light screen of gooseberry. He scanned the area. It took almost ten minutes before Tim’s eyes could separate the deer from its cover. The deer had chosen a spot commanding a view of his trail. If Tim had blundered along following his tracks, the deer would have been long gone. more tomorrow

Since the chase, the deer had laid up and had eaten heavily. His wound was mostly healed now and much of his strength had returned, but the bone of his foreleg was chipped and he could not put weight on it without pain.

Now something out of the ordinary was happening in the night. There was a suggestion of light low in the valley where there should be no light. The deer had watched it for nearly two hours, not alarmed because it was at a distance. Then, just after the snow began to fall, the human that had hurt him so badly and chased him so relentlessly appeared in the faint light. The deer froze, watching. After a while the human disappeared and the deer slipped away, moving as rapidly a his damaged foreleg would allow.

* * *

The snow had left its mark lightly on the land, with a few drifts beneath the trees and about an inch on the ground. When he smothered his fire with snow and started out, Tim found that his ankle had not stiffened with use. He felt better than he had since his adventure began.

The sky had cleared briefly about sunrise, and Tim had taken advantage of his opportunity to look for landmarks. He could see far across the slopes, but there was nothing in sight that he recognized. That puzzled him. He could not imagine being so far from the place he had set out to hunt.

He would have built up a signal fire in hopes of being seen by some ranger on fire watch, but the clouds closed in tight again within a few minutes.

Tim studied the high valley with care and wished for a pair of binoculars. Or a rifle. Or a helicopter. Or just a cell phone. He circled the valley, staying in the cover of the stunted trees, but all he found of his deer was a single frozen track, pointing upslope.

Why? Why, at the obvious beginning of winter, with snow already on the ground, was the muley going further into the mountains and away from its winter feeding grounds in the valley below? Had it seen him? If it had, it must have been last night when he walked out into the snow storm.

Tim stood irresolute, staring at the single track and feeling really scared for the first time. He had seen far enough down the mountain to know that it would take him days to walk out in his crippled condition. Hunger was already grinding at him. He could concentrate on the task at hand only by a major effort of will. His bare forearms were chapped and reddened by exposure, and corded with loss of weight. He was in real trouble.

He really had no choice. Without any hope of rescue, he had to save himself, and he could not hope to walk out without food. He was already weak and he would only become weaker.

He turned upslope, in the direction that single track pointed.

From time to time Tim found tracks. He did not need many, because the deer kept to the valley of the creek. About mid-morning, Tim came across a complete row of tracks that stood out clear in the fresh snow. These had been laid down since the storm. The deer’s injured foreleg had never touched the ground. That injury was Tim’s only advantage.

His disadvantage was his own ankle. This morning he was putting more weight on it and ignoring the ache. He hoped that he would be able to manage a hobbling run if it came to that, but he wasn’t sure. more next week

The Deer saw all this from his place concealed at the edge of the forest. The First Man was becoming weaker as he hunted. He could not make a kill while his arms had not the strength to draw his bow properly, and while his legs did not have the strength to stalk properly. The Deer saw that the First Men would soon perish. Then the Deer changed his form so the man would not know him.

The First Man saw a dark animal at the edge of the forest, bigger than the Squirrel or the Towhee, and standing still and close. It took the last of his strength to pull back his bow and shoot. The animal fell, and only when the First Man came close did he see that it was his friend and teacher the Deer.

The First Man was terribly frightened and sad, but the Deer was a Spirit Deer and he answered the Man’s fear and sadness by saying, “As long as you eat my meat with reverence and kill only for need, my children and your children will inhabit these hills in peace forever.”

Tim felt much like a First Man as his memories slipped away into sleep. But this deer was unlikely to give himself up so that he could eat.

* * *

Like the puffy down of cottonwood they came, rolling on invisible currents of air, settling on Tim’s clothing and instantly disappearing into the fabric. He had awakened to feed the dying fire only to find the ground already white with snow. Tim had known that it was coming, but still he was not ready for it.

He left the shelter of the cutbank and stepped out into the swirling mass. A slight wind funnelled down the creek, sucking warmth from his exposed arms and finding its way through the many rips in his clothing.

He threw back his head in wonder at the delicate beauty of the snowfall. The flakes fell harmlessly into his eyes and mouth and collected on his clothing. He knew that he should be scared; it surprised him that he wasn’t.

He stood out far longer than he should have, and when he returned to the fire it took a long time to stop shivering.

Chapter 9

Animals are more predictable than people. Very little of their behavior is learned; most of it is born in them.

Mule deer are not the intellectuals of the animal world, nor are they cursed with an excess of curiosity. Their first reaction to any new object or event is to walk wide around it, then study it from afar. They are creatures of the open forest and plains, thriving best where underbrush is scarce and visibility is high; they place faith in distance. This is often the death of them. They will sometimes stare openly at a hunter while he knocks them down from 300 yards away with a high powered rifle.

Tim’s deer was more cautious than normal because he had been wounded and because the area he was in was entirely new to him. And there was more. 

When Tim had fallen into the stream and hit his head, he had not been knocked unconscious. He had been swept downstream only a few hundred yards and had come out dazed and maddened by pain. He had run after the wounded deer, bleeding from his head wound, dripping water, and screaming. The chase lasted for hours, and when Tim finally collapsed, he remembered none of it.

That was why he was so badly lost, and why the deer feared him with an almost human fear. more tomorrow