Sometimes he had gone camping with his father alone; other times his grandfather had come along.

When his grandfather had come along, he had always told stories. Sometimes these were Miwuk legends – and sometimes Tim thought he made up stories, and called them Miwuk legends.

Lying back in the cold and struggling to shift his body deeper into the pile of pine needles that were his only cover, Tim remembered the legend of the Spirit Deer.

* * *

Once, long ago when the world was newly formed, the First Men lived on berries and roots and were very poor. They did not have bows and arrows, or any tools. They wandered through the forest, hungry all the time and very cold when winter came. They didn’t even know how to make fires or shelter.

The Beaver saw the First Men walking by his pond one day, and took pity on them. He called out to the First Men and showed them how to cut wood and pile it together to make shelters and the First Men made their first umucha. They thanked the Beaver and he returned to his pond.

Many years later, the first umucha fell down in a wind storm and the First Men could not build another because they did not have teeth like the Beaver to cut wood. Then the Hawk showed them how to strike stones together to make sharp tools so that they could repair their umucha. The First Men thanked the Hawk and he flew away.

Now the First Men could take shelter from the rain once again, but still they were cold and hungry all the time. So the Woodpecker took pity on them and showed them how to make fire. The First Men thanked the Woodpecker, and stayed close to their fires in winter, and were warm.

Still they were hungry, until the Squirrel showed them how to harvest acorns, and the West Wind showed them how to leach them so that they were good to eat. The First Men thanked the Squirrel and the West Wind and boiled their acorn flour in fine baskets the Towhee had taught them to weave, and now they were warm and dry and fed.

You would think that the First Men had everything they needed, and certainly they were better off than they had ever been. But as time passed they became weaker and weaker until they could barely stand up to go out and gather acorns, or cut wood, or make fires. They did not understand this weakness, so they asked the Great Spirit for guidance. But the Great Spirit did not answer them.

Instead, the Great Spirit went to the Deer and said, “You have seen these First Men. They have food and fire and shelter, and still they grow weaker. Can you tell me why this is?”

“Of course,” the Deer answered. “They have gone to the Beaver and the Towhee and the Squirrel for help, but none of them know all of Men’s needs. The Hawk knew, but he would not tell. Being Men, they need meat or they become weak.”

The Great Spirit said, “Will you tell the First Men this?”

The Deer replied, “You are asking much of me!”

The Great Spirit was silent, and the Deer bowed to his wisdom. He went to the First Men. He taught them how to make bows and arrows, and fish traps, and woodpecker traps, and how to use all the parts of the animals they would kill.

Then the Deer went back into the woods and one of the First Men started out with his new weapons. He shot an arrow at the Woodpecker, but the Woodpecker only laughed at him, for he had not had enough practice to shoot well. The First Man shot at the Squirrel, but the Squirrel only threw acorns back at him in scorn. more tomorrow

The tracks led to a cut where some shift in the landscape was starting a new stream. It was dry now, but Tim could see that water had come rushing in a muddy torrent down the bank of the ravine, cutting and gouging among the rocks, uprooting one stunted juniper and carving a channel. Everything was knife edged in its newness. Obviously this waterfall had only seen one or two major rains. The deer’s tracks stood out clearly where it had gone up.

Tim gave a low whistle of admiration. Despite his injury, the deer still had stamina. And guts, for it had certainly fallen at least twice during the ascent. Tim tossed both spears over the lip of the bank above, then tossed up his unstrung bow the same way. Bracing his feet, he grasped his crutch-club by its tip and spun it up over the lip. The atlatl went into his quiver. It was a rough climb with only one good leg, but there were handholds.

A recent slide had dammed a small stream, shoving the waters sideways to spill over the bank of the ravine. Some water from the recent rain remained trapped there. The deer had apparently smelled it. Restraining his distaste, Tim drank from the muddy pool. The tracks led up slope away from the ravine.

Chapter 8

Tim squatted in the dimness and checked the tracks again. They continued toward the top of the hill, and Tim was sure that the deer was bedded down somewhere above him.

The deer had been browsing through this tiny, high valley. Tim could read this from his tracks, though he had not seen him. His father had taught him a lot about mule deer and their habits, and his grandfather had taught him Miwuk tales about them. Tim was sure that this deer would be up there somewhere watching the valley and trying the air for a foreign scent. In just a few minutes there would be no more light and Tim had to decide what to do. He could not make it back to his shelter now, even if he wanted to abandon the hunt. If he stayed where he was, he would be no better off in the morning than he was now. But if he could work to the ridge above under the cover of darkness, he would be in position when the muley came out from his cover tomorrow morning.

The wind decided matters for him. He simply could not stand the cold any longer.

He settled in against a cutbank, beneath a screen of firs and built a fire against a downed log. There were no aspens nearby to form a bark basket, so he skewered the squirrel he had shot that afternoon and roasted it whole. The dry, stringy meat was not nearly as satisfying as the squirrel and pine nut stew had been.

He drank from a trickle of water in the stream bed and wished for a bark basket and juniper berries to make tea. Even a pint of unflavored hot water in his stomach would have warmed him. He stretched out in the narrow space between the fire and the bank and thought of the down jacket tied to the back of his bike, hidden all too well at the campsite where he had started this hunt.

Tim did not sleep at once. He lay awake for a long time staring into the fire before the warmth finally began to soak into him, and thought about all the times he had sat beside his father or grandfather staring into other campfires. His father hunted only once a year to get a deer for the freezer, but they had spent many nights camping out for the pleasure of being outdoors. Sometimes he had gone with his father alone; other times his grandfather had come along. more tomorrow

Tim was pleased, especially when his second spear struck the same target. Gathering his weapons, he decided that his bow might not be very good, but at least the spear thrower felt natural in his hands.

He had no idea how far he had wandered, or in what direction, after his fall into the river. He could be sure that he had wandered away from civilization because he had seen no one, and had heard no deer hunter’s gunshots. It was not reasonable to believe that he could simply walk a few miles now and be out of danger.

He was considerably better off than he had been a few days ago, but he was weak and terribly hungry. He could not survive on pine nuts alone. Game was scarce, and soon it would snow. Normally, it was best to stay in one place if you were lost, but he had been in one place for days already.

The simple fact was that no one was coming to rescue him. He had put himself beyond help by not telling anyone where he was going.

While he thought it out, Tim had continued to hunt and an unexpectedly lucky shot had skewered a squirrel. As Tim bled it and tied it at his waist, he decided to check and disarm his deadfalls, and start walking out.

Then he saw the tracks of a mule deer – walking on three legs.

It gave him a strange feeling. It could not be coincidence, that this particular deer was here now.

His first shot, so many days ago, had seemed clear and true, but the deer had not fallen. When he continued the hunt, it had brought him to disaster. Had his fall into the river been clumsiness, or something more? The thought made his hair stand up along his neck as he thought of some of his grandfather’s tales. Last night the deer had haunted his dreams and now it was back with him once more.

Was it a spirit deer?

Still, he was hungry, and that deer might mean life or death for him. He had no desire to chase him further, but it was an opportunity he could not pass up.

“I’m sorry, Deer,” he whispered aloud. “I don’t want to kill you any more, but now I have to.” 

He knelt to examine the spoor. The ridge of dirt between the halves of the hooves had collapsed and the edges of the track didn’t seem fresh. He worked along the ground, closely examining a whole series of tracks. The deer was favoring his right foreleg, carrying it mostly, but stepping gingerly on it from time to time. Where the right foreleg made prints, they hardly bruised the dry ground, while the left foreleg’s prints were deep. The left forehoof was fraying under the strain. Its tracks were a bit less smooth in outline than the rear leg tracks. The good foreleg would be tender from doing more than its share.

The tracks were several hours old. They came out of the maze of brush that extended from his camp to the edge of the ravine. The deer had apparently used that cover to sneak through the ravine without coming in sight of the camp.

The tracks went straight down the ravine and into the brush. Tim followed them slowly, not wanting to overtake the deer too soon. It might be a long stalk, and he would have to be cautious and study the deer’s habits in order to get close enough for a kill.

The tracks led to a cut where some shift in the landscape was starting a new stream. more next week

Chapter 7

Tim made quite a sight.

A quiver of aspen bark sewn with strips of willow bark hung from his belt. It held eight arrows, all feathered with aspen bark and tipped with obsidian arrowheads attached with pine pitch. Opposite the quiver hung his knife, the canvas case containing his firestone, and his canteen, now filled with dried tinder. His shirt sleeves were hacked off just below the elbow. His pant leg was split from waist to cuff and laced with strips cut from a dirty handkerchief. His boots were scuffed and battered; one of them was heavily splinted and both were laced with willow bark. His hair was still matted with dirt and dried blood.

He leaned on a crude crutch. He had replaced the original crosspiece with a stone from the creek bed set in pitch and lashed with squirrel hide so that it could double as a club. In his left hand he carried a bow strung with bootlaces and two slim spears tipped with deadly obsidian points. Through his belt, he had thrust an atlatl.

His Miwuk ancestors would have recognized all of his weapons as crude versions of their own, except for the atlatl. That was a spear throwing stick that Tim had read about. Because of his interest in his own ancestors, he had done a lot of reading about primitive men, and now he was about to put that reading to use.

It was his seventh day on the mountain and he had had nothing but pine nuts and one squirrel to eat. If he came upon any game, from squirrel to deer, he intended kill it – if he could.

On the opposite side of the creek, squirrels and Stellar jays had congregated in a lodgepole pine. They disappeared when Tim approached, so he seated himself on a fallen log and waited until they returned. He nocked an arrow and shot at a squirrel. It was a bad miss and every animal disappeared. Soon they returned. This time he aimed at a jay, and missed again. Tim had to wait nearly twenty minutes before they returned, and then they managed to keep to the far side of the tree. Finally, one cocky jay set himself up as a perfect target. Tim’s arrow clipped his tailfeathers, but did no harm.

After another half hour, Tim decided that he wouldn’t be getting any more shots, so he retrieved his arrows. One had lost its bark fletching, but that could be repaired.

Stopping in a clearing, he let his crutch fall and fired his seven good arrows at various targets while balancing on his good foot and letting his injured foot take some of his weight. There was no doubt that his ankle was getting better, and no doubt that his archery was lousy.

Pulling out his atlatl, he nocked the butt of a spear into its hook and raised them together until the spear came to a horizontal position above his shoulder. Holding the handle of the atlatl, he hooked his forefinger around the middle of the spear. The obsidian point glinted thirty inches in front of his face while the atlatl and the rest of the spear stuck out behind him. He cast the spear with an easy overhand motion, releasing his forefinger and keeping his grip on the atlatl. The light spear was fetched with bark like his arrows, and it described a flat arc ending in the bush he had chosen as his target.

Tim was pleased, especially when his second spear struck the same target. more tomorrow