The blazing North African sun beat down with a physical force, baking all under it's scorching rays. The lone man trudged on, staggering with exhaustion and thirst. He was the last sole surviving member of a doomed expedition of the Royal Geographic Society. They had set out to explore and map the Northern Sahara, but mishaps and Beduin bandits had felled their numbers. Now, only the one man survived, and his canine companion. The wild dog of the Atlas mountains had been found as a pup on the outward journey, and raised on the trip. Now, the dog trudged on with his master, with the walk of the doomed hoping for salvation.
At the base of a huge sand dune, the man found a small water hole of stale looking water. The man knew he had to boil the water, so he took out his knife and set to carving some dry brush into shavings. He paused to look at the knife in his hand. Before leaving England, his father had given him the knife and wished him well. It was a scout pattern of knife, and the man wished he had reason to use the can opener now. But he used the wide spear pointed blade to shave the tinder, and the razor sharp blade made thin curls of almost translucent wood. With a small pile of tinder, he reached for his matches.
"Hey Kid! This ain't no playground, get outa the way!" yelled a man with a dirty white hardhat.
Walter looked up as Lucky the mutt had already skittered sideways, away from the dump truck backing up to the huge dirt pile and emitting a high pitched beeping noise. Twelve year old Walter, disturbed from his day dream, called his dog and walked away from the bleak construction site. The boy hated it when grownups shattered his playtime, and now he walked off into the woods that bordered the construction site. It was summer vacation, and Walter had a lot of time on his hands, and loved to go alone into the woods and fields around his home. Leaving the construction site behind, the quiet green of the thick woods closed around him. Lucky the mutt followed him closely, hoping they would go home where the magic never empty bag of dog treats were in the pantry. Following the narrow path, Walter let his mind drift a little.
The green hell of the jungle pressed in on the narrow game trail the explorer followed. Humid heat had his shirt sticking to his back, and rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead. He needed water badly, and the lone survivor of the expedition walked on. Coming to a small stream, he was tempted to just fall on his face and drink, but he thought of the deadly parasites in the water. He set about making a fire to boil some of the water in his tin cup, and gathered some sticks. Using his scout knife, he shaved of thin curls of tinder to catch the spark from his ferro rod. Once, twice he tried. On the third strike, a spark took hold, and a thin curl of smoke rose. Blowing gently, he coaxed the flame higher and added a few sticks.
"Walter! hasn't anyone told you not to play with matches!" a high pitched voice scolded him, while bursting in on his reverie. "Put that fire out before you burn the woods down. Really, do I have to talk to your mother about this!?"
Walter looked up, highly annoyed, and saw Mrs. Hotchkiss standing there, a pair of binoculars hanging from her thin neck, and a bird book in hand.
"No Mrs. Hotchkiss, I'm not burning down the woods. I'm just practicing my fire making for the boy scouts." Walter explained, thinking quickly.
"Oh, well, I guess that's not bad if the boy scouts are involved. But do try to be careful. These woods are home to the nuthatch and other birds."
"Yes Mrs. Hotchkiss." said a dejected Walter, as he kicked the small pile of burning sticks into the creek.
Walter trudged home, his daydreams for the day shattered by the intrusive grownups. Lucky the mutt, walked in back of him following closely, happy that they were heading in the direction of the never empty bag of dog treats. Once home, Lucky's dream came true, and Walter tossed him a dog biscuit that Lucky caught in midair. Walter went to his room, and took out the sharpening stone to touch up his knife with. As the thin knife edge scraped across the stone, Walter thought of the first pioneers through the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky. His mind drifted to long rifles and ...
At the base of a huge sand dune, the man found a small water hole of stale looking water. The man knew he had to boil the water, so he took out his knife and set to carving some dry brush into shavings. He paused to look at the knife in his hand. Before leaving England, his father had given him the knife and wished him well. It was a scout pattern of knife, and the man wished he had reason to use the can opener now. But he used the wide spear pointed blade to shave the tinder, and the razor sharp blade made thin curls of almost translucent wood. With a small pile of tinder, he reached for his matches.
"Hey Kid! This ain't no playground, get outa the way!" yelled a man with a dirty white hardhat.
Walter looked up as Lucky the mutt had already skittered sideways, away from the dump truck backing up to the huge dirt pile and emitting a high pitched beeping noise. Twelve year old Walter, disturbed from his day dream, called his dog and walked away from the bleak construction site. The boy hated it when grownups shattered his playtime, and now he walked off into the woods that bordered the construction site. It was summer vacation, and Walter had a lot of time on his hands, and loved to go alone into the woods and fields around his home. Leaving the construction site behind, the quiet green of the thick woods closed around him. Lucky the mutt followed him closely, hoping they would go home where the magic never empty bag of dog treats were in the pantry. Following the narrow path, Walter let his mind drift a little.
The green hell of the jungle pressed in on the narrow game trail the explorer followed. Humid heat had his shirt sticking to his back, and rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead. He needed water badly, and the lone survivor of the expedition walked on. Coming to a small stream, he was tempted to just fall on his face and drink, but he thought of the deadly parasites in the water. He set about making a fire to boil some of the water in his tin cup, and gathered some sticks. Using his scout knife, he shaved of thin curls of tinder to catch the spark from his ferro rod. Once, twice he tried. On the third strike, a spark took hold, and a thin curl of smoke rose. Blowing gently, he coaxed the flame higher and added a few sticks.
"Walter! hasn't anyone told you not to play with matches!" a high pitched voice scolded him, while bursting in on his reverie. "Put that fire out before you burn the woods down. Really, do I have to talk to your mother about this!?"
Walter looked up, highly annoyed, and saw Mrs. Hotchkiss standing there, a pair of binoculars hanging from her thin neck, and a bird book in hand.
"No Mrs. Hotchkiss, I'm not burning down the woods. I'm just practicing my fire making for the boy scouts." Walter explained, thinking quickly.
"Oh, well, I guess that's not bad if the boy scouts are involved. But do try to be careful. These woods are home to the nuthatch and other birds."
"Yes Mrs. Hotchkiss." said a dejected Walter, as he kicked the small pile of burning sticks into the creek.
Walter trudged home, his daydreams for the day shattered by the intrusive grownups. Lucky the mutt, walked in back of him following closely, happy that they were heading in the direction of the never empty bag of dog treats. Once home, Lucky's dream came true, and Walter tossed him a dog biscuit that Lucky caught in midair. Walter went to his room, and took out the sharpening stone to touch up his knife with. As the thin knife edge scraped across the stone, Walter thought of the first pioneers through the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky. His mind drifted to long rifles and ...
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