The Bushmen
While shivering in my archery stand in the sub-freezing dawn, I acknowledge that the season for bivouacking for 4 and 6 year old boys is coming to an end so, upon my return to the house, I announce to the boys that we are going to backpack into the mountains, build a shelter, and survive.
The house explodes with activity. Since we have memorized entire seasons of Dual Survival, Man vs. Wild, and Survivorman among others, we acknowledge this moment in time is our destiny and the burning fire of barbarism kindles in our bellies.
Ben, age 6, grabs his jacket and camo “Go-Bag” and heads out the door. Jill has to tell him that the expedition only commences after lunch.
Gabe, age 4, is in a panic looking for his Fire Steel (he calls it a “fire start”) and his gloves. I advise that we will only take those items necessary for survival and that does not include his Construction Series Legos.
My lovely wife and soul-mate, who is so very understanding and supportive of the journey boys must make as they strive towards manhood, cooks us bacon, eggs, and potatoes. Fueled by adrenaline, Gabe stuffs huge portions into his mouth.
Jill doles out matchbooks to all and advises that the matches will be accounted for and handed back in upon our return. I’m guessing no further explanation is necessary as to this process of accountability.
We have another moment of panic when Gabe can’t remember where he placed his Bear Grylls pamphlet on “Survival”. He procures it and we study how to make snow caves and animal snares. I remind him that we don’t have any snow.
I pack my kit wondering why I get myself into these situations. Usually, we just camp out in the Adirondack Shelter I made from logs on our property. It has a woodstove. We stay warm. It has a roof. We stay dry. We can see the roof of the house from it. We can bail.
We hike up the field behind our house. I confirm with Ben that we will go so far into the woods that we won’t be able to see the house. It takes a few moments for the enormity of this undertaking to sink in. Ben advises that this will help them get stronger when we really go backpacking. (The boys know that when they are ready, they can join me on real backpacking trips.) Gabe spouts out that this is good training for bear hunting season. They wrestle with how far we will have to hike (we only own 93 acres) and smugly conclude that we will be a “long, far ways in the mountain”. Gabe announces with glee that we will be “in Survival”.
They question why we didn’t bring the four-WHEELER. (They have always emphasized the last word, “wheeler” and I think I rather prefer their pronunciation.) “Because that wouldn’t be backpacking.” Heads nod in agreement. I didn’t tell them that Jill and Emily will join us for a campfire and will bring our cooler and sleeping bags on the four-WHEELER.
Someone asks if I brought a gun. Of course not, I reply. I brought two. We discuss trying to shoot a squirrel with my .22LR Henry AR-7 Survival Rifle which quickly leads to the question of whether it will take down a wolf. I advise that the .22 is for food and the .357 magnum handgun is for everything else. Gabe asks if it can stop a Rhino. “Of course”, I concur. “What about a pack of coyotes?” he asks. Ben proclaims he will “karate chop” the coyotes. With these problems solved, we forge ahead.
Our accession into the forest is marked by the stampeding of thousands of rhinos marching through the crinkling leaves. The boys become concerned that we haven’t seen a squirrel. I confirm that it probably isn’t likely.
Ben advises he is really thirsty. I advise Ben we are only 200 yards from the house. We will drink when we get there. “How much farther?” he asks. Oh, maybe 300 yards. There is gasping and moaning. They bolster their courage when I remind them that I hike all day with a heavy pack so they better buck up.
We find the spot I was aiming for – a small grove of white pines among the hardwoods. The boys drop to the ground, shed their packs, and suck down half their water.
I solicit their input on where to build a shelter. I point out that the dead tree of their choosing, a widow-maker tenuously hung up in some branches, is probably not the most prudent option.
We build a classic stick and debris shelter among two pine trees. The boys mostly want to handle my knife and hatchet. I finally direct their energy into covering the shelter with leaves and pine needles for insulation. Gabe snags my spool of “cordage” on his foot making a tangled mess.
I solicit input on the next step of survival: we have protection, we have water…. “Snares!” Ben proclaims. “How about a fire?” I ask. We build a fire pit. I wrestle several large rocks for the backside of the fire pit to reflect heat into our shelter. The boys are in awe at my strength and capacity. I make a mental note to enjoy the moment as I acknowledge it won’t be long until they are putting me into a headlock.
After an hour and half or so, I am reasonably confident we can survive the night. The boys sit down in the shelter exhausted from the effort. We agree that survival is hard work.
We gather a large stack of wood. I note that I will be tending the fire all night to ensure warmth and comfort for all.
Jill and Emily (and the four-WHEELER) arrive with the rest of our gear and our cooler. Emily provides quite a bit of pink and purple contrast against our deciduous forest survival scenario.
The girls retire to home before dusk and we are left to ponder the lonely and perilous existence of mountain men.
That evening, Jill and Emily baked brownies and watched Snow White together. I asked Emily later what happened to Snow White and she told me with wide eyes that she “got married”. To whom? “Her daddy”. I asked Emily who she was going to marry and she said “my daddy” and smiled at me. (She is totally setting me up for a pony someday.)
It is dark. The boys crawl in to bed exhausted (it’s only 6 pm). The moon is bright and the woods are beautiful. I drift off to sleep. I awake to the boys dancing around the fire. Gabe is in his socks. “Let’s tell stories, Dad!” I share some of my camping and backpacking adventures. The boys are delighted. Its 9 pm. Gabe’s entire kit is spread around the campfire. The headlamps are confiscated. A piece of flaming rope whizzes over my head. The “cordage” is confiscated. The boys confirm that my “magnum” is handy. In case of bears.
I get zipped into my mummy bag and make sure all air leaks are addressed. I glance at Gabe to see his two sleeping bags are unzipped and sprawled every which way. I angrily unzip and unstuff myself out the bag, zip Gabe into bags, and remind him that if he can’t stay warm tonight he will freeze to death. The atmosphere is solemn for a few moments. Gabe is up out of his bag peering into the night. He hears something. I advise him it’s Kaiser, my German Shepherd. “No! It’s some animal. I see it!” I crawl out from bag again and display my “magnum” and assure him that I won’t let anything get him. Kaiser strolls into the campsite. We crawl back into bed.
I sleep great for an hour. I wake up to tend the fire, shift the sleeping bushmen back into their sleeping bags, and repeat. Gabe’s bag is full of pine needles and leaves. At least he is warm. At 2 a.m., I notice the boys are watching me tend the fire. We enjoy a moment in the cold night air, under the stars, by the flickering campfire.
I awake to a ruckus at dawn wondering why can’t they blasted sleep in for once. Ben has a fire roaring and Gabe is whacking sticks on a log – wearing just his socks and a sweatshirt. Its 28 degrees. “Dad, is it time to make tea and eat our venison jerky?” Apparently, it is.
We trudge to the spring to fill our water containers. The boys are transformed. We are capable and confident men. We make tea. I make coffee. We eat jerky. Well, they eat jerky; I’m left with two small bites. We make hotdogs (we didn’t find any caribou to shoot). We lounge around the fire.
One last project: we must build a snare. We build a whip-snare out of a sapling. Gabe suggests we might catch a “wild boar”. Ben tests it and laughs in glee as his hand is yanked into the sky. The boys look upon me with amazement. Clearly, I’ve moved up a notch from “the guy who brings home the bacon” to someone of much higher esteem.
We trudge back to the house and glory in our hero’s welcome. We are mountain men.
