The old man paused and fought down the feeling of worry. He was lost now, and he knew it. He'd just wanted to go for a walk in the woods, and he'd driven up to the state park for that reason. His wife had been watching him like a hawk since the doctors visit, and he felt like escaping for a bit. Sneaking out of the house, he'd driven up to the nieghboring forest in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountians. Intending for only an hour or two walk, he'd had one those spells where he felt disoriented and had wandered far off the trial in the woods. Now with nightfall not far off, he knew he had only an hour or less to get set for spending the night.
He had been an outdoorsman his whole life, and was comfortable in the woods. He looked around and started to build a small lean-to for the night. A large pine tree was nearby, and he took out his old pocket knife. It had been a daily companion for almost 30 years now, and the red bone scales were almost smooth from decades of handling. The jigging in the dyed bone was shallow, but still there, and still provided a good grip as he opened the clip blade of the stockman. The blades were a dark grey with years of patina built up on the carbon steel, but a bright ribbon of gleaming edge showed it was sharp and cared for.
"I'm sorry old tree," he told big pine, "but I need to borrow some of your lower branches so I get through the night."
The razor sharp clip blade went right through the limbs that he cut by putting a little preasure on them, then cutting into the grain. He picked out the limbs that were about thumb thick, with lots of smaller branches on them. Soon he had a large pile of pine boughs. Then he walked around and gathered up as much kindling as he could. Taking a long piece of wood from a dead fall he set it in the low fork of a small tree, and soon had a comfortable pine bough lean-to just big enough for him to lay in. There was a thick layer of pine boughs for a bed, to keep him off the cold ground. He sniffed the air, and knew it was going to be a cold night, so he gathered up arm loads of forrest debris and piled it high over his lean-to for extra insulation. Just in front of the lean-to he made his fire against a log to act as a reflector. Again using his bone handled stockman, he shaved off fine curls of wood, and laid them on a small pile of dry pine needles. The big pile of kindling was by the lean-to entrance.
He also gathered dry grass and unlaced his boots and stuffed the dry grass into them, and left this boots laced very loose. The grass would be extra insulation for the cold night.
He reached into his pocket and took out a battered Zippo lighter. Like the Old Case bone handle stockman, it had been a very long time friend. The case was dented and marred with the years, and on the front of the case was the unit crest of the outfit he was with in the army. The Zippo and the Case knife had been with him for more years than he cared to think about.
He struck the wheel and the dry tinder burst into flame, and the old man fed the little fire carefully. The tiniest of dry twigs, then a little bigger. It had drizzeled a bit earlier, and some of the wood was damp, but he rememberd how his dad had taught him to find dry wood by selecting the most verticle standing limbs of a dead fall. It seemed like only yesterday his dad was telling him "The water will run down the outside of the wood. That's gravity at work son. Break off the limb and use your knife to shave off whats wet on the outside, and it's dry underneath. "
With a small fire going, he had time to reflect on things. He felt anger that he was having trouble with his memory. His wife had noticed it first, and tests so far had ruled out the onset of Alzimers. He sat by his little fire, and thought about how he could recall small details of his childhood, but would get disorientated driving around his own nieghborhood. He used the stockman again to shave off some damp bark, and feed the wood into the fire. He thought back to one of his fellow soldiers from decades past, who had been a Navajo from Arizona. "White men make fires too big, can't get close to them. All you need is a small fire that will fit in a hat. A small fire you can sit close to, and not burn up too much wood."
Night fell on the old man, and he sat close to his hatfull of fire. He looked around and enjoyed being out, but felt bad his wife would worry. He'd forgotten his cell phone when he had left the house that morning, and knew he'd hear about it when he got home. The night passed slowly, but it was actually warm in his little debris shelter with the fire right in front. He grew sleepy, and lay down curled up on the pile of pine boughs. He slept on and off that night, waking up when the fire got low and cold reminded him to feed the wood to the glowing coals. At one point he sat up and smoked his pipe. The old Peterson had been with him a long time as well. He thought about his plight of being stuck out in the woods with just what was in his pockets, but then those items were like very old friends. The Case pocket knife, dented up Zippo, the old Peterson. He'd made shelter with the stockman, fire with his lighter, and had a pipe to smoke. He may be a little hungrey, but he had the comfort of old friends with him. An overnight fast wasn't going to hurt him as much as the worry he was causing his wife. But he'd make it up to her.
After another short nap, he looked at his watch and saw it was 3AM. He took out his knife and felt the edge, and deceided to touch up the blade. From his wallet he took out a flat cut down Eze-lap model L sharpener and honed the old Case. The light from the fire gave him enough to work by, and the steady shhh, shhh, shhh, sound of the blade going in the small circles was an old comforting sound and feel. In a few minutes he had the carbon steel blade sharp, and he gave it a few licks on the top of his leather boots.
The grey light of dawn found him waking from another cat nap by the cold. He fed some twigs to the still glowing coals and blew on them gently. Yellow flames grew, and he fed some of the last of the kindling to the fire. He was just deceiding to try to find his way back once he had warmed up by his fire, when he heard a shout.
"Hello, are you Jack Willis?" a man asked.
"Yes, I am, who are you?" the old man asked, seeing a couple of people coming up through the woods.
"We're local SAR team volunteers sir, we've been out looking for you. Your wife reported you missing yesterday and the park ranger found your car last night at the trail head. Let's check you out and make sure you're okay, we'll arrange for transport"
"Hang on sonny. I don't mean to sound ungratefull, but I walked in here, I can walk out. Just lead the way, I'll follow. " the old man said.
The SAR team looked around, and was surprised at the neat little camp the old man had made. It took but a moment that they could see he'd had a decent night in a well built shelter with a fire. The man who seemed to be the leader squated down and looked in the shelter. He studied the cut ends of the pine boughs.
"What did you chop off those limbs with? He asked, not noticing any sheath knife or hatchet around.
"Oh, I had my pocket knife. It does the job if you think about what you're doing. My old daddy used to say you can do alot by whittling. " replied the old man. He took out his Case stockman and showed it to the SAR man. The SAR leader looked at it and got a funny look on his face.
"My dad carries one just like that. I used to laugh at it and call it an old man's knife. I guess it's all in knowing what your doing." he said, again looking at the camp the old man named Jack Willis had made.
"Old man!" Jack said, not unkindly, "It may be an old man that dances on your grave, son. Now, if you've got water in that canteen, lets put this fire out and get going. I'm about ready to kill for a cup of coffee, and I just sharpened this old knife a few hours ago."
They watched in amazement as Jack sat down on a log and took off his boots and shook out the dry grass. Then he was ready to go and they walked off. But not before the SAR team leader took out a small digital camera and photgraghed the makeshift camp. As they walked down the trail back to the parking lot he called ahead to let them know the old man had been found in good shape, and let his wife know he was okay.
Later at the trail head his wife was waiting, and rushed to him. "
"You old coot, you scared me half to death! Are you all right?" she half scolded half asked.
"Mrs. Willis," the SAR leader said, "Your husband had set up house keeping up there. He had a nice little hut and fire when we found him. he sure looked comfortable to me."
"Well, Said Jack, "Like my dear old departed daddy used to tell me; if you have a pocket knife and fire, you're gonna be okay. Besides, it wasn't like I was alone up there."
His wife looked up at him with a worried look on her face.
"Honey, you were alone, there wasn't anyone with you." she told him gently.
The old man patted his pocket where the old Case stockman and beat up Zippo were.
"That's where you're wrong. I had a couple of very old friends with me."
He had been an outdoorsman his whole life, and was comfortable in the woods. He looked around and started to build a small lean-to for the night. A large pine tree was nearby, and he took out his old pocket knife. It had been a daily companion for almost 30 years now, and the red bone scales were almost smooth from decades of handling. The jigging in the dyed bone was shallow, but still there, and still provided a good grip as he opened the clip blade of the stockman. The blades were a dark grey with years of patina built up on the carbon steel, but a bright ribbon of gleaming edge showed it was sharp and cared for.
"I'm sorry old tree," he told big pine, "but I need to borrow some of your lower branches so I get through the night."
The razor sharp clip blade went right through the limbs that he cut by putting a little preasure on them, then cutting into the grain. He picked out the limbs that were about thumb thick, with lots of smaller branches on them. Soon he had a large pile of pine boughs. Then he walked around and gathered up as much kindling as he could. Taking a long piece of wood from a dead fall he set it in the low fork of a small tree, and soon had a comfortable pine bough lean-to just big enough for him to lay in. There was a thick layer of pine boughs for a bed, to keep him off the cold ground. He sniffed the air, and knew it was going to be a cold night, so he gathered up arm loads of forrest debris and piled it high over his lean-to for extra insulation. Just in front of the lean-to he made his fire against a log to act as a reflector. Again using his bone handled stockman, he shaved off fine curls of wood, and laid them on a small pile of dry pine needles. The big pile of kindling was by the lean-to entrance.
He also gathered dry grass and unlaced his boots and stuffed the dry grass into them, and left this boots laced very loose. The grass would be extra insulation for the cold night.
He reached into his pocket and took out a battered Zippo lighter. Like the Old Case bone handle stockman, it had been a very long time friend. The case was dented and marred with the years, and on the front of the case was the unit crest of the outfit he was with in the army. The Zippo and the Case knife had been with him for more years than he cared to think about.
He struck the wheel and the dry tinder burst into flame, and the old man fed the little fire carefully. The tiniest of dry twigs, then a little bigger. It had drizzeled a bit earlier, and some of the wood was damp, but he rememberd how his dad had taught him to find dry wood by selecting the most verticle standing limbs of a dead fall. It seemed like only yesterday his dad was telling him "The water will run down the outside of the wood. That's gravity at work son. Break off the limb and use your knife to shave off whats wet on the outside, and it's dry underneath. "
With a small fire going, he had time to reflect on things. He felt anger that he was having trouble with his memory. His wife had noticed it first, and tests so far had ruled out the onset of Alzimers. He sat by his little fire, and thought about how he could recall small details of his childhood, but would get disorientated driving around his own nieghborhood. He used the stockman again to shave off some damp bark, and feed the wood into the fire. He thought back to one of his fellow soldiers from decades past, who had been a Navajo from Arizona. "White men make fires too big, can't get close to them. All you need is a small fire that will fit in a hat. A small fire you can sit close to, and not burn up too much wood."
Night fell on the old man, and he sat close to his hatfull of fire. He looked around and enjoyed being out, but felt bad his wife would worry. He'd forgotten his cell phone when he had left the house that morning, and knew he'd hear about it when he got home. The night passed slowly, but it was actually warm in his little debris shelter with the fire right in front. He grew sleepy, and lay down curled up on the pile of pine boughs. He slept on and off that night, waking up when the fire got low and cold reminded him to feed the wood to the glowing coals. At one point he sat up and smoked his pipe. The old Peterson had been with him a long time as well. He thought about his plight of being stuck out in the woods with just what was in his pockets, but then those items were like very old friends. The Case pocket knife, dented up Zippo, the old Peterson. He'd made shelter with the stockman, fire with his lighter, and had a pipe to smoke. He may be a little hungrey, but he had the comfort of old friends with him. An overnight fast wasn't going to hurt him as much as the worry he was causing his wife. But he'd make it up to her.
After another short nap, he looked at his watch and saw it was 3AM. He took out his knife and felt the edge, and deceided to touch up the blade. From his wallet he took out a flat cut down Eze-lap model L sharpener and honed the old Case. The light from the fire gave him enough to work by, and the steady shhh, shhh, shhh, sound of the blade going in the small circles was an old comforting sound and feel. In a few minutes he had the carbon steel blade sharp, and he gave it a few licks on the top of his leather boots.
The grey light of dawn found him waking from another cat nap by the cold. He fed some twigs to the still glowing coals and blew on them gently. Yellow flames grew, and he fed some of the last of the kindling to the fire. He was just deceiding to try to find his way back once he had warmed up by his fire, when he heard a shout.
"Hello, are you Jack Willis?" a man asked.
"Yes, I am, who are you?" the old man asked, seeing a couple of people coming up through the woods.
"We're local SAR team volunteers sir, we've been out looking for you. Your wife reported you missing yesterday and the park ranger found your car last night at the trail head. Let's check you out and make sure you're okay, we'll arrange for transport"
"Hang on sonny. I don't mean to sound ungratefull, but I walked in here, I can walk out. Just lead the way, I'll follow. " the old man said.
The SAR team looked around, and was surprised at the neat little camp the old man had made. It took but a moment that they could see he'd had a decent night in a well built shelter with a fire. The man who seemed to be the leader squated down and looked in the shelter. He studied the cut ends of the pine boughs.
"What did you chop off those limbs with? He asked, not noticing any sheath knife or hatchet around.
"Oh, I had my pocket knife. It does the job if you think about what you're doing. My old daddy used to say you can do alot by whittling. " replied the old man. He took out his Case stockman and showed it to the SAR man. The SAR leader looked at it and got a funny look on his face.
"My dad carries one just like that. I used to laugh at it and call it an old man's knife. I guess it's all in knowing what your doing." he said, again looking at the camp the old man named Jack Willis had made.
"Old man!" Jack said, not unkindly, "It may be an old man that dances on your grave, son. Now, if you've got water in that canteen, lets put this fire out and get going. I'm about ready to kill for a cup of coffee, and I just sharpened this old knife a few hours ago."
They watched in amazement as Jack sat down on a log and took off his boots and shook out the dry grass. Then he was ready to go and they walked off. But not before the SAR team leader took out a small digital camera and photgraghed the makeshift camp. As they walked down the trail back to the parking lot he called ahead to let them know the old man had been found in good shape, and let his wife know he was okay.
Later at the trail head his wife was waiting, and rushed to him. "
"You old coot, you scared me half to death! Are you all right?" she half scolded half asked.
"Mrs. Willis," the SAR leader said, "Your husband had set up house keeping up there. He had a nice little hut and fire when we found him. he sure looked comfortable to me."
"Well, Said Jack, "Like my dear old departed daddy used to tell me; if you have a pocket knife and fire, you're gonna be okay. Besides, it wasn't like I was alone up there."
His wife looked up at him with a worried look on her face.
"Honey, you were alone, there wasn't anyone with you." she told him gently.
The old man patted his pocket where the old Case stockman and beat up Zippo were.
"That's where you're wrong. I had a couple of very old friends with me."
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