~BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN 
Primitive Volition
Primitive Volition ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ OTHER STONES OF THE CIRCLE ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
| THE KABN CHRONICLES ~ WILDERNESS SURVIVAL SKILLS PROPHECY ~ THE MARLIN DISKS ~ THE LOST CACHE JOURNALS |
| Primitive Volition (an excerpt) |
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The pale shroud of what passes for night in the land of the midnight sun had lifted hours before, yet the day lay dark and troubled--brooding its intent. Sounding more as if lecturing than talking to herself while walking the airstrip, the young woman voiced her thought, liking the karmic rhythm, "One must integrate one's lifestyle with the finite circle of Mother Earth to truly approach a comprehension of God's infinite concinnity." "Yeah," she gaped--awed with the wild, untamed country as she switched off the recorder, pocketing her ragged little book while gazing at the wonder... And felt small, tripping through the vertiginous void of not knowing, like her life had been pushed off the edge--but that wouldn't explain the increasingly pensive muse of the recent weeks-- Or would it? "Hmmm," she shivered snuggling deeper still into her coat, yet swept the weathered old fedora from her head suddenly wanting the wind in her hair. And even more suddenly was back to the same old funk she'd been in for days... Well at least she'd decided the new parka was worth the money as she zipped a little tighter. It was perfect for a summer in the Northern wilderness exactly as the sales representative had said; (it being a true 4-in-1 design engineered with Frigi-Block technology, made in China by underpaid kids specifically for Alaska, the Land of Extremes, hence the enticing, Alaska Lass trademark and catchy logo phrase, As Extreme as the Land Itself); and she just loved the colors, bright lemon Super-Micro-pel outer system with a removable/zipper-sleeved convertible poly-fleece inner component in high-voltage blue. Today as a base layer, feeling like she had to be prepared for almost anything, Doctor Pauline Erica Sanders, Ph.D. Ecological Sciences, Magna Cum Laude, UCLA, with minors in Non-Profit-Business Admin, Government Grant Writing, and another in Speculative Statistical Analysis, among the many other laurels she'd amassed in her brilliant young career, had chosen a shiny rose mallow pink vee-neck in a smooth weave acrylic and black spandex running tights with a hot fuchsia swirl streaking down the side … along with gray faux-leather trekking boots-- And of course her weathered old hat as she flopped it on, her beads and earrings jangling as she shook her head and sighed, perplexed, yet entertained as always by her kaleidoscopic thought patterns-- It was getting downright bizarre-- Everybody kept telling her she'd arrived. So what was going on? She'd been a happy camper. She liked her job. It fit quite nicely with her idea of an integrated, spiritual existence--besides the money was good, to say nothing of the bennies and retirement. She owned her own home (or at least the illusion of saying she did with the mortgage and all). Very secure-- Fire and accident, illness and litigation--even some pre-approved acts of God could come her way, and according to the policy they'd be mere blips on the screen so seamless was her coverage. Even her SUV was still under full warranty. Life was good. She had fun-- Just six months ago she'd been on paid vacation. Another escapade with her friend, Margo--this time, a ten-day wilderness ecology retreat and personal growth seminar at Eagle's Nest, New Mexico--deluxe accommodations, daily heli-tours, evening horse rides, guides and nightly speakers, gourmet vegetarian meals--ground transportation and round-trip airfare included (first-class upgrade available). Wow, what an experience. Now that was a party! Doing an about-face she let her gaze roll down the thirty-five hundred feet of gravel. Left behind decades before by the United States Geological Survey it’d been home to numerous projects and contingencies that felt obliged for one reason or another to come into the country. From this view camp was reduced to a collection of brightly colored Monopoly pieces scattered beyond the row of bladders for Jet-A, Avgas and regular at the end of the runway--her colleagues but wisps of motion, noise and purpose. Here on the opposite approach, behind a sprawling monolith of empty 55-gallon fuel drums sinking and rusting into the tundra, in the gravel pit from which spawned this improvement upon the land, she could hear the ravens and whiskey-jacks loot and pillage the bone yard-- Through the years the various camps had abandoned most of their garbage, and many of the fabrications and matériels into that scabrous, waterlogged grave (having calculated it not worth the price of flying out when done with a project)-- Forlorn in the sacrilege the dump had become through the many incarnations a chronologic record of failed technology, the wastefulness of man, and as a corollary seemed to serve as a shrine to those follies, the tatters of poly-tarps and Visqueen waving as if remnants of a ghost-ship, each group through the years having dutifully left their offering to the gods of rot, rust and decay. And now we're adding to it. "Whoopee!" she said, twirling her finger in the air, staring again at the huge mound of barrels. Through the years over 2,000 empties had been added to the towering pile of discarded drums, the huge cairn acting as a heat-sink in the hot summer sun to thaw the ancient, permafrost ground around them into an obscene watery goo of rotten, stinking sedge tussocks, decomposing rust scale and fuel-laden oily rainbow swamp sheen as they dissolved back into the tundra one travesitic layer at a time. Although to be fair, their camp was for the most part was using fuel bladders instead of the steel drums, and indeed one of their projected purposes in being there was to clean up the environment from past abuse-- Jeez, I wish the helicopter would hurry up and get here, maybe if I'm lucky, I'll come back with a new perspective--that'd sure be an easy out she almost said, but instead as she had her whole life when rattled or perplexed, bit her lower lip, swirling in her own introspection, listening on the wind... Pounding at the silence, the twin 20kW diesel generators droned away twenty-four/seven like precise androidian mantras hummed in perpetual need-- It made her want to scream. This season had started off so good, she stomped. Why couldn't they have at least tried to understand where I was coming from she thought, but these days wasn't sure she even grasped from whence dangled that tenuous thread. And this, the most far-reaching environmental project to come by in years, the one everybody had wanted in on, was to have launched her reputation. "Yeah, some name I made for myself," she stomped, scrunching her nose to the sky--goodness, even the weather had turned sour, yet the petite young woman was still glad she'd insisted upon coming out with the crew during the first-phase remote-camp staging. The logistics contractor had assigned the project a good bunch of guys. After they'd gotten it through their horny little heads she wasn't interested, they'd accepted her as Project Coordinating Liaison and work had progressed smoothly. The storage tent, along with their living quarters, had been the first to go up; an enormous blue 20x40 portable Quonset serving as the former, and beyond, in their own secluded area by the river, a 16x20 white wall-tent for their cook shack, with a collection of smaller multicolored dome tents for the crew, each one the pride of its owner, their rough attempts at civility, a clothesline here, a homemade bench or shelf there, testament to the self-sufficient, independent man that was camped there-- Her own quarters and office a beautiful 10x12 she'd decorated with wildflowers, scarves and love. It'd been the single most exciting endeavor she'd ever experienced, watching it all take shape. On the one previous project she'd been involved with, a study of the European Klööster Fühk finally appearing in North America, camp was already operational. Wow, what a different reality. And to think... Yeah, Cool... She’d been one-ninth of the energy that made it happen; and no matter what, they couldn’t take that from her. Well almost one-ninth anyway, but what she’d lacked in brute strength had been more than offset by the contagious sense of adventure she had for it all. She was always right there, doing something she felt useful: Grooming the forest, arranging the rocks and stones along the pathways into lovely, artistic borders; gathering mushrooms and berries, picking bouquets of flowers for their fire circle and cooking tent--at times doctoring a scrape or cut--or even teaching-- The crew enthusiastically cheering her on when she gave an impromptu demonstration of how to attain a perfectly squared corner when they were erecting her personal tent platform, bending and stretching her sensuous curves as she laid it all out on the ground, explaining the Euclidean postulates-- Blown away by the insane dynamics a woman's presence in the wilderness had on men— It was amazing. In a place fully one fifth the size of the 48 contiguous States, with over twice the shoreline of the East and West coasts combined and distance enough between extreme points to span from LA to New York City, the population was still so sparse, with the number of women to the odd lot of far Northern men even more so in a woman’s favor, it was as if winning the lottery for a girl when she came to Alaska— She’d never been so catered to—like queen for a day—everyday— Drinks, flowers; breakfast, lunch and dinner; gifts of all sorts, jewelry, candy and clothes; poems and songs—you name it, and in the short time she’d been in Alaska it’d probably been offered— Yet equally amazing she hadn’t let it go to her head—the Professor didn’t have time for that nonsense! Especially after her last little fling— Boy! What an excuse of a man he’d been she now realized--my God, he was even metro. And she was positive the crew was enjoying the Mexican tortillas, Spanish goat cheese and Israeli hummus, along with the Maui Wowee guava juice cocktails every afternoon. Yeah, she’d won over The Boys, as she affectionately called the crew (though most were older than her) after unconsciously blurting-out something about “Me and The Boys” during one of her satellite-phone check-ins with the Expediter—drawling the last just enough to make it sound like they were a band of outlaws— And she was Ms. Young Jesse James. The Boys had certainly surprised her, proving capable of startling collective reform, by the second day no longer burping and farting in front of her, and by the forth curtailing their cussing at least by half, which she definitely considered an improvement— She’d always been taught manners were merely respect for oneself and those around you—that acquiring a few in your lifetime certainly didn’t make one some sort of sissy, snob, or bitch, but on the contrary made a man every bit more so a man, and a woman all of a lady— “Manners are never out of style,” she was fond of saying, “no matter where you are or who you are with.” But she was certainly among some real characters this time— Definitely the last of the wild bunch-- Even before leaving the curious town of Fairbanks she’d come to the conclusion Alaska was more like a separate country then the Forty-ninth star of the flag, the people almost a different breed it seemed—especially the sort she was with, no doubt the same ilk that tamed the Old West she presumed— Tough, hard men not afraid to crow with the roosters to be sure-- Yet as strong as their individual testosterone charged personalities were, conversely seemed pretty much cut from the same patch of Postmodern Bushrat grass—universally, the uniform consisting of a ragged wardrobe of thick work shirts (always long-sleeved because of the mosquitos, in spite of the sometimes sweltering heat from the 24-hour sun), and pitch-stained overalls or canvas workpants, invariably worn and torn, patched and mended with the one seemingly indispensable commodity of the North, silver duct tape, the modern rawhide of the bush. To the man—a beard, or at least moustache and sideburns gave even the youngest a harried, rather mad, hermitized sort of look. Adorning their heads, even at mealtime, an apparently mandatory ball cap, its logo deeply significant to the owner, or on rare occasion a slouch or fedora completing the ensemble. And always a pair of gloves, with all hands scarred and callused and oh so desperate for a touch— Their knives and weapons, sunglasses, boots and other tools of the trade seemed at least a little more varied, each man convinced his “outfit” the only choice for serious bush work. Nightly they’d weigh the issue, that being their most favored topic discussed, other than women that is. She’d learned a lot from those wacky circles—all of it recorded and transcribed onto disk. After dinner someone would pull out a bag and fire up a bowl as they sat around the fire. Far into the midnight sun the sparks would fly, the sky turning a hot crimson orange ... fading to twilight—then the brightening day—and always the endless debate going round and round--as did the pipe-- It could start off with blades, or optics, or boot soles for that matter, and from there rev-up to chainsaws, four-wheelers, or outboards, but always it came back to their guns; ballistics and different actions; the politics of freedom; the propelled velocity of a known mass… Caliber-- Nonetheless, the firearms they’d brandish and brag on still gave her the absolute willies, though she had to admit, out here in the wilderness they didn’t seem quite so evil. Yet she still had plenty to say when they’d get to telling of caribou, moose and bear and how they’d hunt and kill them—but even there, a seed of doubt was forming so compelling were their tales of life on “The Last Frontier”. With the flames tumbling down into embers a yawn would spread like wildfire as they made excuses to start off to bed after she’d announce she was doing so herself, each adamantly sticking to his guns so to speak, yet to the man insisting upon a hug as the one and only means to bid her a proper goodnight—although the poems and flowers, offers for Hawaii and such had pretty much ceased when it was determined she wouldn’t put out— Still it never failed to make her chuckle; she had to be getting at least forty a day, each man constantly on the alert for plausible reasons so as to engineer one more squeeze, and maybe whisper a little something. She had to put a cork in it every now and then, and even slapped one when his hands roamed a little too far, yet no matter, they were all sweet guys—gentleman at heart, and so deep down lonesome she didn’t let it get under her skin, but instead studied them, fascinated with what made them tick—the contradictions— What made them decide to live the life they did? They were all so passionate about it. Yet they all wanted girlfriends (her right now), but lived such a scattered transient existence it held little accommodation for one. It was wild. From the stories told, their relationships and various dalliances sounded more like rodeo tales— “Alaska appears,” she’d noted one night, “to be a very difficult place as to relationships, particularly for females, the extremes as to the male to female ratio is very confusing.” She also noted one of the enduring maxims of Alaska: “You don’t loose your woman, just your turn,” was apparently based somewhat on fact. The same girls kept cropping up in many of their stories, one even variously involved through the years with three of this very crew! At least they could laugh it off—although she wasn’t sure how— Like bronc-riders catching up on who’d been ridden by whom, they’d relate their insane epics of meeting “Little Miss Hotstuff,” and before they even knew what hit them, they’d be trading the wild free life they’d been living for one that would keep her content. Yet the passion for adventure apparently too strong to put up with being held hostage forever, after a while they’d start to waver and finally have to quit the old 9-to-5 to make tracks for a job in the bush. Months later, ragged, yet renewed from the rough and tumble they’d run off to they’d fly back to Fairbanks, or Anchorage, or wherever she was only to find her all saddled-up with a new buckaroo. At this point the storyteller would flash a bittersweet smile, stating how great it was to be rid of the F-ing Bitc... "I mean,Brat—" Yet in spite of such brave pronouncements she’d note the flat lonely sound of their voices and the eight pairs of heartbroken eyes— Early on she’d come to the conclusion that the only way it could possibly work for these wild men, would be to find a mate that truly loved it way out in the woods, treat her equal, fair and square; on a homestead, or something similar—have a nice compromise of sorts— They told her that task was most times even harder—there can only be just one chief when you're living on the edge, and in the bush that would have to end up being the man... Hmmm, she didn't like that thought... Yet everything about them intrigued her. She’d even inputted a comparative graph of their bush outfits, hoping to arrive at a useful correlation. Trying to make sense of the endless discussions, one night she’d thrown up her hands, “OK, at least tell me what you would list as your strongest criteria for your particular choices. “Cause we can depend on 'em,” they all boomed at once. Well that wasn’t much help, she thought, but was sure they judged companions in the same fashion. And felt honored when “Critter”, the jovial, graying, 300 pound camp boss and foreman, told her that when they went operational she could continue to stay with them, and not move to the Weatherport dorms they’d been setting up at main camp. Maybe that hadn’t been such a great idea in retrospect. Something had changed, that was for sure. She loved her work, but lately things had been getting pretty tense. A polarization of sorts. Or maybe it was just her. That was the trouble. In a flood of memory she took it all in as her eyes went misty. Wow, what an adventure. But, way too confusing… What kept sticking in her mind the clearest was the first week when they were roughing it as they set up their quarters. It’d felt so raw and untamed, wilder than anything she’d ever experienced. A hundred miles beyond the nearest village and twice that far from town, or even highways for that matter, should any misfortune befall them, it would be hours, if not days before help could arrive— Or as the Boys kept gleefully reminding her, trying to be mindful of their language, "You can die out here if you don’t keep your shi--stuff together, Professor.” Hmm, I see. What initial supplies they’d needed had been flown in with them, with no additional flights scheduled for a week. The generators hadn’t even arrived yet. Just her and the Boys building their home in the rim of boreal forest, the mountains thrusting from the horizon as if dream-catchers spun from the hand of God, the perception so intense one needed a map to ascertain the clarified vision. Throughout the day she’d walk to the river’s edge, the liquid-crystal-music rippling with the promise, giving her the cadence, flowing towards the truth— It’d been so simple. Silence beyond measure. A contentment that let her spirit soar— Jeez—all she’d instituted was a quiet day—no work, no flights in or out, (unless an emergency was at hand) along with a few other things—a complete shutdown of the generators, radios, sat-phone and machinery, along with the four-wheelers, track-rigs and other noisy things. And she still thought it an excellent idea. Was it really so much to ask? A measly 12 out of the 168 hours we’ve designated, labeled, and butchered the week into: The a.m.s and p.m.s of the daily grind of living: Rush-hour, lunch-hour, Miller-time and prime-time; Monday, humpday--and then, Thank God It's Friday-- One half of one day a week to shut off the nonsense. Grokking the profundity of being, communing with the Mother directly. A time to celebrate the senses, to validate one’s existence. A way to see, and hear, and touch, and smell the Earth like it was at the beginning. After all wasn’t that what they were there for? To get in touch. To find solutions. To try and save us from our wretched mess. It seemed like forever since they’d completed the large research complex—a series of orange double wall portable structures attached to a central hub of chipboard, plywood and multicolored polymeric fabrics. It felt to her now as though all she’d found had been lost with the one single flip of a switch eleven days ago. With that, camp became a hive of noisy, ceaseless activity and conflicted personalities. For the better part of 48 hours in a continuing schedule the Boxcars, Caravans, and Skywagons had swooped down upon them; the piles of supplies and equipment growing with the proportionate discharge of max-payloads. Empty of cargo the pilot would firewall the throttles, and with a heroically impassive nod go screaming back down the runway into the endless sky—off for another load. Then all the people began arriving. Professors; supervisors and administrators—all strutting around—throwing their weight—the swelling sum of inflated egos crowding, arguing—haggling with her as if at a yard sale. For the most picaresque quarters; the best lab areas; asking—No—demanding the choicest supplies, and all the other extra goodies. Grad students shuffling—Coeds and TA’s huddled, mustering their peep hole of experience into a properly annoyed support for their leader; yet trying just as hard to appear unfazed by such trivialities—each group convinced—declaring their purpose in being obviously the most important towards the overall project fulfillment-- The team studying the stochastic variability of seasonal freezing and thawing at local, regional and hemispheric scales under modern and predicted climate even questioning as to who’d she think she was pitching her tent on the beautiful bend of benchland just up river from camp. Why was she allowed to have her own quarters—with a view—and an outhouse of her own? Critter had been within earshot of the conversation, and boomed out, “Cause we said she could, Pilgrim.” Him and the Boys were always watching out for her, at times going so far as to act as strong arms when some FNG would start in with the F… this and F… that. A couple of the Boys would nod as if they were robbing a bank and hover-in to lay a heavy hand on the shoulder of the F-ing New Guy, “Hey pard, we’d ‘preciate it, if you’d not cuss in front of the Lady.” At times it was even a female FNG they’d quiet— Her fellow researchers would then stare as if she’d become a traitor in the weeks she’d been there without them, and treat her as a defector the rest of the day. Thankfully, once everyone had been settled she’d managed for a week to withdraw from the drama, hiding within the collecting of baseline samplings from which to begin her own studies. Then the Director along with some people nobody had ever heard of had shown up a few days back. She’d defended her “La-La time” (as he’d put it) at the supervisor’s meeting he’d called the following morning as integral to the mindset necessary to understand their purpose completely. Yet the way he’d berated her quiet day idea, calling it a romantic, infantile notion had been a little humiliating in front of the others. But the worst was his compromise. That very day he’d ordered a big screen video setup with surround sound and bass boost, They’d have movies every night for their quality time to relax from the burdens of serving the greater good. The saddest part being many of the researchers were excited about the prospect. And now as of last night the scuttlebutt was, a large contingent of additional personnel were in transit. Just what we need she thought, more people. Not that it was that bad. The wilderness stretched for hundreds of miles in all directions, and took her breath away as she let her eyes sweep its vast stroke. “Can’t be more than two-hundred and fifty people in the surrounding seventy-five hundred square miles. Let’s see; one person per every thirty square … Hmm … and two-hundred and twenty-eight are in my camp … twenty-two into … carry the one… “Something like one in every three-hundred and forty square miles—Wow! “I must be getting bushy,” she giggled, without dismissing the notion— After all wasn’t that what they were all saying—and suddenly thought of a night from what seemed lifetimes ago, the last night when they had still been in Fairbanks preparing to go afield— The Boys had come to her hotel and literally carried her as she protested the entire time that she had work to do, to the company van—proclaiming their watering hole, The Marlin, to be the Furthest North live music bohemian bar in the world—a place she just had to experience if she wanted to taste true Alaska— With its emergent budding beat scene, reggae-rock-and-bluegrass, eclectic swirl of poets, musicians, writers, artists, and eccentrics it was definitely one of the more interesting places she’d ever ventured, her eyes, along with her highly tuned mind darting back and forth between people and things, ideas and dreams— She’d spotted the beaver pelt laced into a willow hoop hanging near the stage of the historic little club and was just getting ready to comment about how cruel trapping and hunting was when she saw it had words penned on the leather, so had made her way over— Getting excited trying to remember, she ducked into the bushes along the runway to get out of the wind, pulled off the satchel and whipped out her ultra-fast, ultra-powerful, high-performance mobile solution. Dropping to her knees she opened hurriedly, fingering with soft delicate strokes till she came upon it--YES! Grinning as she’d went from one level to the next she was convinced this new hardware was by far the hottest she’d ever used—with a database as wild and eclectic as hers it had to be—anything else would be too frustrating. This was anything but. It’d taken less than a minute of probing; and there she was—right on the boolean edge--culture,customs,ideology,colloquial,wilderness,alaska,interior,male,sayings-- Wow! That was easy--then she flicked her button--now like that night before venturing into the bush, her breathing grew ragged, her speech deep and throaty as she voiced it once again: Warning!
For the past five weeks she realized she hadn’t been able to shake the echo of that well considered, double-barreled warning--and wondered?To Cheechakos and other Tenderfeet When one flirts with the untamed—Beware! For if one wanders long on that savage ground their spirit must surrender, altered perceptions will come and strange days are upon you... Keep your wits about you Pilgrim— for if one truly communes with the primitive heart, the manifest evolution of one’s spirit is not far from its awakening... Good luck and Godspeed— have a pleasant sojourn in the land of the rainbow’s end… Just stay the hell off my end of it! Billy Shannon—Alaskan woodsman (date unknown) Were they stepping on somebody’s rainbow around here? Hurriedly recalculating the population density with the known data she figured the statistical probability both absolute (known integers) and theoretical (I believe, therefore, it is)-- Leaning towards the latter she put away her gadgets and shrugged on the satchel letting the wind spin her slow toward the stormy skyline. Sometimes ... she thought, her dreamy gaze dancing the horizon, I almost wish … and without even knowing bit down again and sucked just a little this time, watching the sky go hollow as the tempest took the mountains yet again. *******
Deep within those lonesome highlands, in some trees edging an immense plateau like the ruffled hem of a dancer’s skirt, horses shuffled—tossing their heads—impatient, but held steady. With the practiced indifference born of years in the wild the buckskin clad rider sat his tough ol’ dun—smoking—surfing the motion, yet one could tell he was just as uneasy as he studied the black clouds boiling angry and bellicose through the light strands of swirling crystal mist. Dropping his gaze to ground level and beyond he scrutinized the land. At the edge of the upper taiga’s last trees it lay like a king’s bejeweled carpet cast into a field of dreams. Rumpled and bunched upon itself the layered folds kept the treasures of a hundred thousand millennia locked in its warp and woof. Settling his hat tighter against the viscous cut of wind he peered through the gloom trying to pick out the waypoints and pathways. With the purposeful abandon of trips not quite defined the muddy trails meandered helter-skelter as if graffiti scrawled across a Persian of exquisite depth and color. Some seemed to have offended the caribou’s finer sensibilities and now no longer used were disappearing back into the landscape one strand at a time. Others he knew to varying degree wandered country so tough that in a mile or two it put you in your place, whether you cared to be or not. He shuttered a transcendent grin thinking of his last time through. It’d been in the Spring. He’d been looking for a vision. Yet after days of makin’ medicine, as he called it, he was still devoid of answers. It was getting rather disturbing. He’d come to this place long ago, and even with the changing times had always felt he could stand upon the mountains and gaze past the known world. If only in just illusion it’d always given him peace. Yet these days something was lacking. So he’d climbed higher still; to where one is but what God makes them. Pared down to only his gun and possibles bag, with just a serape for both coat and blanket, he’d went in afoot surviving on what she’d allow as he trekked deep into the very bosom of Mother Earth— And yet the insight he sought eluded him. Then during the brief night of the seventh sun he’d awoke in the lee of frozen darkness. As he crouched to feed the fire it’d come in an incredible rush—not really answers—more just realizations—things like; even though we try and run … the long, strange trip is one on one… Wow, what an experience. Now that was a party! Yet in spite of that, at this juncture he was in no mood to experience anything other than some comfort. He just wanted to get home. And if he could catch the right series of twists and turns there was a shortcut through that mystic ground in the general direction he wanted to travel—if he could remember it all— Let’s see, was it the second, or third fork. Oh yeah, the trail fades past the crossing but just keep to the bearing and it pops out a quarter mile further on. Or, even though the trail looks like shit where it heads at the quicksand spring those two-foot high tussocks last for only three quarters of a mile and that’s better than the other fork with its permafrost thaw the entire way. “Caribou,” the man snorted as if the ponies had posed the topic. That nonsense about picking the best route? Bullshit, he thought. They go where they damn well please. In this case the windswept mountain with a spiraling flat-topped ridge twisting around and over its summit. High and exposed it made him feel like a lighting rod on a steeple. But as far as he was concerned there wasn’t a choice— He had to get back. Since yesterday a sense of urgency had been needling him deep in his guts, he had no idea why, but like termites in a sill log it was eating him. Besides his people were probably getting worried. Going over the mountains would save him a day’s travel. But what a trip, especially in this storm. He’d elected to load the packhorses completely with the supplies he’d left at the various camps, rather than any trail camp outfit or spare clothing for his own comfort. The weather wasn’t playing along, that was for sure… Not to mention the shortcut was nothing more than a jumble of rocks. “Damn caribou.” The trail could break a horse’s leg and a rider’s heart, if not his neck, quicker than thinking about it. Then there were the quagmires of permafrost thaw and bottomless, icy cold tundra seep they’d have to cross— Yeah Cervidae Rangifer tarandus. The northernmost deer. Lifeblood of the arctic. Makers of the trails. Usually any place that was thoroughly miserable the hearty Barren Grounds felt obliged to go look for eats, drinks, and a good time—content and at peace with their harsh existence. And to think, it’d been that way for thousands of years. The circle unbroken. Incredible! “But, they don’t know a damn thing,” he still complained to his ponies, “about decent trail.” Yet was more than thankful to use the series of rough-cut paths. It’d be pointless to try and maintain as many miles as he traveled. Scratching the week’s worth of trail grime and stubble shadowing his face he inhaled deep and spit, “This sucks.” And for emphasis sent a stream of tobacco juice to the wind as he jammed his hands under the dun’s saddle blanket. Continuing on with the one-sided conversation he shook his head, muttering—more convinced by the moment, “Hell, even a damn yuppie’d call me greenhorn stupid this go ’round.” The packhorses seemed to agree as they stomped and pawed the sphagnum beneath the wind torn spruce, anxious to escape the vacuum crowding in around them … wondering in their own penitent way what they were doing here in the first place. The rider was wondering the same as he waited for feeling to come back into his fingers, shivering from head to toe like a mangy wolf on the tundra. “I’m getting too old for this crap,” he muttered, the gusts of wind whipping his hair like a cat o’ nine-tails, stinging his face and eyes, pissing him off all the more— “Government sure as hell. Probably playing with HAARP again. This storm damn sure came outta’ nowhere, eh Runner? Wish I would’ve let Samuel come along—I’m beat—‘bout used up bad as you cayuses. “Dammit.” And he shivered again. He’d known the run was going to be hard on a body. Fifteen-hundred pounds of supplies heaved and hauled on the backs of six big, ornery packhorses across fifty miles of untamed Alaskan bush wasn’t to be taken lightly—yeah, it was a load to even think of—much less do alone and by your lonesome— And only to turn around and head back across a land so vast even the passage just made was lost in the enormity. More so than usual it was turning into a hell of a trip. Given the nice day he’d left on he hadn’t expected the weather to turn so bum, yet wasn’t a stranger to it. But this was getting to be brutal—even for him. Four days of rain, sleet, and snow in July? El Niño, or rotten ozone, man playing God, or the North Country just being contrary— Whatever—the weather had turned crazy, and right now it really didn’t matter why. He’d told everyone he’d only be five days. But then the storms had come slowing him down. His people would be getting worried by now, not overly so, but he knew his son would be getting fidgety, wanting to saddle up and come “rescue the ol’ man.” The thought made him smile for the first time that day. He pictured Samuel grousing to the rest of the crew, “Why does he always go trailin’ off thinkin’ he can do it all himself? It’s gotta’ be pure orneriness. I swear he loves to make me worry! Boy, I’ll bet ya’ he’s cussin’ a blue streak by now, wishin’ I was with him. He ain’t no spring pup you know!” No he wasn’t, he thought, and nudged Runner impatiently, wincing when the stallion leapt forward. He suffered no illusions, although consensus had it there was Irish enough still coursing his veins to be anything but plain stubborn with admitting it— Nonetheless his life was getting harder. And Dammit man, it hurt. And yeah, he knew there were those as would say he was volatile as a rogue grizzly, but he wasn’t so cantankerous as to want to worry his boy. Ever since coming to live with his Pa the lad had taken it as his own to watching out for “the ol’ man”—bless his heart. Yet, with the aches and pains of growing older gnawing and grating, the rider had taken to the trail alone again still. He needed the time to sort things out, maybe even grieve a little. With the way his life was panning out he wasn’t really sure any longer. More and more, especially on a day such as this, the freedom he’d always struggled toward seemed kind of an empty reward. Almost sad really. And sadder yet, the hard won pride of carrying the scars to prove he’d paid his dues did nothing but put him in ill temper, and worse mood— Well, at least he was in exceptional form to cuss the retired rodeo horse he’d bought way down Fort Saint John way. For a supposed skookum packstring leader she definitely had some notions. This time around the old reprobate had locked up and about jerked him from the saddle when making her all too familiar statement of humping up like a junebug, and bucking back on the lead rope as if to say, Make me. With an imaginative kick to the good, round terms the man was already flinging toward the ingrate, and perhaps more importantly a quick stinging lash of his rawhide quirt, the incident was settled, justice dispensed—the procession once again lined out to a ground eating single-foot across the high country barrens—the whole while the rider muttering a barrage of oaths so ripe they’d make a pimp blush— By now nothing was sacred. Pen-pushin’ pisswillies and two-bit politicians with their weather changing HAARP (High-frequency Active Auroral Research Program) and chem-trails seemed to be taking most of the heat this go ‘round—although, and make no mistake, he felt obliged to include many more things. Packstrings and horses in particular. Hammer-headed ol’ rodeo bitches and a certain little stock-trader even more particularly. With that he devolved to an even richer flow reviling most of the significant events of so-called progress, along with the veritable alphabet soup of departments, bureaus, agencies and services screwing with his reality now in place because of it. Kind of smiling (in spite of it all), tickled to hear himself so colorful, he rode waiting on the storm—cussing out the world—studying on the sky— Like molten lead on a fire gone cold the clouds stirred dull and frosted, swallowing the land in its thickening dross—a heartless, lonely gray—as if the apocalypse had finally come, and all joy of hope died with it. As did his smile. They’d been fighting their way through the big permafrost thaw at the base of the summit and were starting into the worst part of the cutoff, the steep, broken switchbacks leading toward the crest, when the wind lulled for a moment, and left them— In a breath, stilling like a theater when the lights go dim— KraaaaBoooooom……… The deafening clap of thunder broke the calm as the sky flashed brighter than a Vegas neon—jagged bolts of branch lightning twisting from the heavens rent the sky to a dozen fractured fault lines crackling through the cosmos. Instantly the wind came back in gale force and whipped them. Miles into the barrens by then, with no cover, no place to run and hide he could only stare, powerless and awed as sheet after sheet of rain swept through. By now the man was almost screaming, “Whoa now, whoa now,” like it had special power as the horses started acting up, the one at the end going completely snaky. Should’ve kept the bitch in lead, he thought, only place to keep an eye on the worthless nag. Yeah, the Queen of Fort Saint John had been relegated to drag after yanking him from the saddle a mile back when they’d jumped a thaw crevasse. He’d figured his good horses could help pull her along when she got stubborn, and had tied all the connecting leads between sawbucks and halters hard with no breakaways (because of the worthless slut’s constant balking). He knew it was a dumb move, but got fed up in the two hours since he’d broke camp. Now it was going to cost him. The ol’ rodeo star was in a tizzy: Rearing, throwing herself back in fits of panic, fighting the lead-rope like a hooked salmon on a death run. The rest of the string went in total chaos trying to keep their footing on the slick rock and talus when a booming roll of thunder gutted the static air— And another as the man slammed hard against the cantle, her leadrope snapping him backwards, burning into his chest painful and tight, the wet cotton stretching, singing like a fiddle string at hoe-down as it pinned him to the saddle. The gelding up the line started bucking and going nuts immediately and without warning lost its footing and went over, sawing the rope under the man’s arm and chin. He tried to take a breath as what air he had went stale and his shoulder felt like breaking. After that it was all a blur— The swirling noise and color of nightmares—the brilliant flash of lightning, the rain straight from the eye of the storm, Runner even spooky, the packstring getting worse, another down and tangled, the thunder crashing and the screaming wind—her lead-rope strangle tightening as he started to gag and blackout— Not even sure of when, he slipped the bowie from its sheath and swung—the long, heavy blade hissing past his head. Twang! The rope lashed across his face like a bullwhip. And the Queen was off and running. Before the thunder even faded the others joined the stampede. Screaming a war whoop and righting to his saddle the man felt for broken bones, popped his shoulder back in place, yelled again and charged. The wild flutter of long hair, fringed buckskins, and painted feathers lending an hysterical, almost crazed look to his teeth-chattering wet-dog shiver, and God please spare me stare. Riding hard he leapt a ravine and swung left on the brink of rocky ledge, the lousy scumbags already two switchbacks below, running hell-bent for leather back toward the permafrost bog, the roar of wind and lighting almost nonstop in the din of driven rain. “Like hell they will,” he muttered. And launched Runner over the ragged edge. Only when they crested what had been several hours earlier the clouded summit did he pull to a real halt, glad to finally take a breather. Shaking his head as he adjusted the saddles he wasn’t sure of what was worse—the chase, or being bent backwards in the wishboned rope trying to escape a broken neck, strangulation, or being pulled off into the stomp of hooves. Damn! What a knot-head horse, should’ve known better than to trust my judgement, he laughed thinking of it. Yet, he could still almost taste the tight little cowgirl showing him the mare, man what a fine looking ass strutting in those tight fitting jeans showing it off. Oh well, no worries, he’d used the knife, chanced the race, and won the gamble for one more day in the schoolyard. Or was it an insane asylum? Hell, these days he didn’t know that either. Whatever it was, it had never been boring. And hey it wasn’t so bad. The rain had quit not long after the climax, and now with the sun trying to burn through he felt a relief and exaltation only those of the long trail understand. He knew he should take the time to reload his weapons. Even with the greased otter skin hoods (what’s called a cow’s knee) protecting the flintlock mechanisms it would be hit or miss as to whether they’d fire or not after all the rain, and wild buckarooing he’d done. “Dammit.” He just wanted to get home. They were almost there! Besides he couldn’t shake his gut feelings, worried as much about everyone as they were probably getting about him. But you never know what’ll come prowling, he thought. Especially after a storm passes on. Waiting a moment longer (as though he’d expected a sign) he shrugged and swung into the saddle. Oh well, he’d recharge the priming at least. He could ride while he did that. “Damn pains in the ass,” he muttered, a little put out with everything, his whole body bruised and hurting as he put the heels to Runner urging the horses on, “Gotta’ be plumb loco.” Slipping the cow’s-knee from the sawed-off double he ran his hand over its short, massive barrels. Worn shiny wherever the years had taken their toll, its scarred patina made him smile with the memories as he used a sleeve to wipe the mud from between the brass tacks making medicine symbols on the stock. Yeah, there was a romance about using the old muzzleloaders that cartridge guns could never approach, he thought. A total experience, like a good love affair. “Hell yeah,” he chuckled amused with the analogy, “Shit, they even come with baggage.” There was the beaded possibles bag pulling hard across his shoulder with the cleaning supplies and tools, patch worm and ball screw for dud loads along with some spare flints and knapper to keep the guns working, not to mention various other essentials for living in the wilderness making the bag all the heavier. And that in addition to the burden of powder horn, bullet pouch, and priming horn used to actually load and shoot. But yeah, he loved flintlocks all the same. A tangible link. Stone Age savage meets “civilized” man (although it was still a question in his mind to why as man increased his ability to annihilate, rape and plunder he insisted upon hanging the moniker of civilized in front of it). Heaven forbid, that a body might actually go at it with sticks, or maybe get stoned and not affect society at large. Good God, that’d be barbaric. Regardless, the heavy, beautifully finished metal and ornately carved wood pleased him. Only the most skilled artisans and craftsmen with their intricate tools and methods could produce such masterpieces, yet it took a little primitive flake of stone to make them anymore than a fancy club. And because of that they possess a certain fallibility, a lending to the balance— There was a humbleness in knowing it wasn’t a sure thing if you pulled down on something. That’s why along with the eight-gauge double he carried a brace of .60 caliber pistols worn cross-draw in pommel holsters, or sometimes in his sash. With such odds he felt it evened it up a little. More than likely at least one shot could be had in all but the worst scenarios—cases like river crossings and rainstorms. “Hell, if it comes to that I’ll use my bowie or tomahawk,” he snorted, reassuring himself as he flipped the frizzen to open the pan and blew the old priming out. Using the ramrod to make sure the pistol’s load was still seated against the breech he refilled the pan, and sealing it with tallow, tucked it back in place. It was evident by his look, or perhaps it was just his aura, he no longer cared if he left a little blood on the tracks. His youthful days when he had all the answers had faded away, along with being ten foot tall and bullet proof. With the better part of his life spent chasing what remained of the frontier he danced to his own medicine song—anyone could tell that. Seemed these days more and more people were taking offense to it. Oh well. “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” he said to no one in particular as he whoa’d and stopped the pack train, seeing movement in the distance. Hell, life wasn’t promised to be easy. Nowhere had he ever been lead to believe that life was always pleasant. Or fair— Pulling his field-glasses from a saddle pocket he focused the caribou being chased by a pack of wolves, and watched without comment as his canine brothers ripped limb from limb the bawling spring born calf they’d hamstrung, and tumbled in a drama old as life itself— Yup, sometimes not fair at all. Shifting the double-barrel cradled between pommel and thigh he pulled his serape and slouch hat closer as he glassed the country. He’d been many times on the supply trail between the high mountain camps and his main outpost, yet it still never ceased to amaze him. Especially at times like this. God's hand smeared the sky with the molten color and incandescent hue of a Krakatoa dawn as the cloud bottoms blushed pink and lifted. It was awesome. Over the miles, to the horizon, the mountains caught and held the shimmer—a golden mystic veil across the glistening, rain soaked land. Lower, illuminated in the sparkle, exquisite mosaics of a thousand earthen shades, along with the reds, yellows and orange of every cast from the moss and bush painting the barren hills. In the valleys, fingers of rich boreal grove shadowed the rivers, lakes, and swamp twining the sorrel tundra— And like a beautiful young maiden, fresh and exciting, fertile untried clefts and canyons quickened his pulse— Many he knew intimately, yet shrouded from view by the intervening high country they held the same mystery as first made him probe her sweet, virginal depths over a quarter century before. Still shivering in spite of the warming day he couldn’t help but think all the more of people living as if there was no price to be paid to Mother Earth, like living was supposed to be risk-free, and nothing but easy. “Damn fool pilgrims,” he spit— For like a kinky little vixen uncontrollably surrendering to the sadistic bitch within, the weather, an occasional pissed-off animal, the bloodthirsty insects, and worse, the impenetrable willow and alder hells, along with the jezebel herself, the country: breakneck mountain passes; primordial summits uncrossed since the dawn of time; treacherous rivers … and most heartless of all, muskeg and tundra with its permafrost rifts and crevasses, nightmarish bogs, and sanity snapping tussocks taking you captive—mesmerizing you with her sultry, untamed ways—yet the whole while just a brazen little hussy ready to use the whips while in the throes of passion—anxious to leave you vanquished, humbled, begging for mercy. Regardless, Donovan McClannahan was her slave. ******* Not far to the west, at least when measured at 125 knots, rotors cut the healing sky. Harnessed in soft seats the passengers sat alone together, putting their own interpretations to the rattle and hum of a billion angry molecules careening, and colliding in a million unnatural ways. They gazed from the warm interior oblivious to the harsh realities, yet not immune to the awesome beauty, nor the vastness of the frontier they leisurely invaded. The pilot after three tours in ‘Nam had made his way to Alaska, and in the many years since had become known as the best chopper pilot in the north. Long ago his polished ebony head had earned him the title Eightball. He liked the name. And everybody liked him. The State Troopers, a career Sargent and eager-faced young rookie of the Fish and Wildlife Protection Division had been many times under his canopy. The new order of the changing world had engulfed Alaska way back in the frenzied boom of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline construction. With that a large hatch of bureaucrats and politicians materialized to reap the spoils— To justify their predatory existence they imposed their rule upon the free land, and with the influx of non-frontier Lower Forty-Eight types swarming north for the bonanza, their oily rhetoric held sway in the passing of new law and regulation. Now years later the frontier people, white and Indian alike, were systematically being harassed and outlawed out of all they loved, and indeed, even the last remaining shreds of The Last Frontier. Listening to the Sargent on the intercom bragging to the passenger they’d picked up at the research camp, Eightball bit his words...(THIS EXCERPT IS A TASTE OF THE NOVELLA , PRIMITIVE VOLITION, SOON TO BE OFFERED IN E BOOK FORMAT by W.J. Lynus O'Brien
in the process of being rewritten from the original written in the late 1990's soon to be offered as an e-book
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