It felt good to be out in the snow. It was deep, about to the beginning of the thighs, deep enough to be a struggle, and he liked that. Hunting was not something that he took to naturally. It started out as a tag-along trip with Jess's brothers. They were hunters from the day they were old enough to legally have a license. Jess said it would be a good thing for him to go with them, show them that he could be one of them. The let him come, surprised when he found that he had the knack, that he actually liked it.

He stopped for a moment, adjusted his backpack and watched the sun moving against the clouds. The air was cold enough that the insides of your nose went dry with each breath. Crisp. The sparrows gathered and swarmed away, across the bushes and into the next section of trees. All he could see were trees and flat, wind-swept snow. After fastening the wrist straps of his gloves again, he looked back towards the south. There was no sign of the helicopter anymore. He was glad that the extra hundred he slipped the pilot would keep his mouth shut.

The sun was weak and feeble. A hazy light covered the land, giving him a feeling of walking in shadows. He glanced down towards his chest pocket, looking for the fabric zipper strap that he knew would be there, opened the pocket and pulled out the compass. He glanced up and checked his landmarks. Right of the tree would put him due North, into the wind. He sniffed, rezipped the pocket and readjusted his shotgun. With an audible grunt, he moved towards the North, into the wind, and he relished the feel and the sting of the wind on his face, the slight pain.

The camp was small and Spartan. He had found a small area against a gentle, rising hill that was barren of snow. It seemed like a good idea to set up camp there, then he remembered why there was no snow at that spot. The wind blew mercilessly in a small torrents, constantly assaulting his efforts to raise his meager tent. Eventually he gave up, walked another mile North, and settled into a small opening in a group of trees. He decided not to clear the snow, thinking it might give him some insulation against the hard, frozen ground.

Supper consisted of a small dish that he'd warmed on the cook stove. A fire seemed like a good idea, but an impossible one. He reached into his pack, brought out a small case, and pulled out the handgun. It had been an implausible purchase, one that he thought that he would never make. Handguns are for the criminals and the cops, he had always thought. Well, also the cowboys, but since he wasn't Hopalong Cassady he thought that he would never buy one. After Jess's death, he found himself walking into a pawnshop on the East side of town for no apparent reason, and buying it. There was something comforting and chilling at the same time about holding it, the smooth cold silver metal against the flat of his hand. He had justified it to himself by saying that if he got attacked by an animal in his tent while he was sleeping; it would be easier to defend himself. In the back recesses of his mind he knew this was a load of shit, but he tuned that conscience-type voice out, repeating to himself that it was for protection. He had even uttered the word "protection" while holding it at the pawnshop.

After putting the gun to the side by his sleeping bag, he pulled the map out of his bag. He was farther North than most guides suggested, and farther than almost any of the pilots would drop hunters. The hundreds had been worth it to secure this trip. What use did he have for money now?

The supplies would hold him for a while. After that he would have to live off of the land. He knew he was flying blind on that area, but didn't care. The wind rippled the tent at uneven intervals. Even though he knew that it was coming, it still took him off-guard. He lowered the lamp to a minimal glow. Tomorrow he would continue North. He would keep going.

The day had been uneventful. The steady stream of stinging snow mixed with sleet was enough to make him lower his head into the wind. Where he was going, he did not know. All that he knew was that the weight of the shotgun was real, the ache in his thighs was real, and the fact that the sun was going down was real. The trees were becoming thicker now, and he had a choice, to go into the trees, or to try and skirt the trees. If he went around the trees, it might take him days, and the wind would be something else. God knew what was in the trees, hell the forest, but it seemed inviting. He walked through the trees, using the branches as hand holds. He stopped after about a half-hour, attached the sling to the shotgun, and slid it over his head and a shoulder. Now he felt like a soldier out of a war movie. Probably the one who will talk about his girl and get clipped. If it were only that easy.

Damn. Now he was thinking about Jess.

It wasn't her fault, it was nobody's fault. Cancer can get anyone. It could get him now, right now, and he could drop dead right by this tree, and that's where they would find him. He shook his head, who was he kidding; nobody would find him here. They had all meant well after Jess's death, dropping by to see how he was doing, bringing over a casserole or a pie. The minister had visited once or twice, he couldn't remember, but the scripture had seemed empty. Jess's brothers had even come and taken him fishing. He didn't catch anything, or even try much, just sat and watched the river slide by in its gurgling comfort and disquieting noise simultaneously.

It was getting darker now. He'd have to find a campsite soon. He kept walking. There was something reassuring about walking, putting one boot in front of the other, thinking only of the task at hand, that he needed to grab onto the tree limb, miss that spot that looked like a drift, stay to this side, those things were easy. He had walked for another mile when he caught the faint smell of firewood in the wind. He stopped and looked for the zippered pocket again. There was the compass, just where it should be. He looked at the compass, checked the wind. The wind was coming from the North. He changed his course slightly and started going west, then stopped. For no reason he could think of he changed again, and headed West. What was he expecting to find? Some wild hunter who had gone native? An outlaw? He laughed, that was it, outlaws. Jesse James would be alive and living way up here. He laughed again, that was impossible. He had been to St. Joseph, Missouri with Jess one summer. They were driving cross-country and stopped, visited the Pony Express museum, paid their admission and walked into the house in St. Joe were Jesse was shot. Couldn't be Jesse. The next vision of outlaws that flashed through his mind were the cartoon Mafia guys from the Looney Tunes that Bugs Bunny harasses. Maybe he'd get lucky and it'd be Bogart. That would be good, hooking up with Bogie. He could even bum a cigarette then.

The smell of smoke became stronger, and dark was coming closer. It was getting colder, and he knew that if he didn't find the shelter, that he would have no hope in setting up the tent tonight. He was too cold and tired, had pushed himself too far. The smoke would be his next destination. He kept walking; eventually pulling out a flashlight that strapped to his head. It would not be long before that would be his only light. He walked past the densest section of trees that he had come across yet, pushed his way through, then stopped.

Past the trees was a small clearing, and in the middle of the clearing stood a small cabin with a severely drooping roof. The smoke was coming out of the chimney in a constant stream, lazily curling up towards the stars. He would have been able to see the stars earlier, but the trees and his relentless movement had prevented that. There was a porch on the cabin, and two rocking chairs outlined in snow. There were no lights in the cabin, but the smoke slid effortlessly in gray tendrils from the chimney.

He knocked hard on the rough wood door, but there was no answer inside. He glanced around, and saw no disturbances in the snow on the porch. The door opened easily to his touch, and the faint light of the fireplace illuminated portions of the cabin, ensconcing the rest in a hazy darkness. After depositing his pack on the floor, he held his shotgun like a dowsing rod and walked around the house, looking for some signs of humanity. No forms remotely human displayed, only the traffic of the smaller animals and birds he had previously seen ahead in distances, their sounds his only contact. He followed his tracks back to the house, mindful to retread the same steps. He re-entered the cabin, taking off his boots by the door, the snow falling in clumps to the floor.

It was a small cabin, built for necessity only. A large iron bed dominated the room, covered with old quilts and a discernibly lumpy pillow. The walls were wood, the bark still clinging to patches. A small table with two chairs abutted the wall close to the fireplace, and the crack and hiss of the fire was the only sound. He decided to make himself comfortable, and wait for the owner of the fire to return. If all else failed, he was armed, after all. He slid the handgun from it's case and put it in his back pocket, unzipped his coat and laid it over his boots. It was beginning to be warm in the cabin, and he stripped down to his jeans and the old red wool plaid shirt that he always wore when hunting. There were no books in the cabin save an old copy of Milton, and he was in no mood for that. He pulled the chair up closer to the fire, and watched the flames move along the wood, fascinated by the changes of color and motion. The pulsing white/red of the embers looked like the beating of a heart, and his began to beat in time with the fire.

He woke still in the chair, the fire reduced to a large clump of smoking gray with faint red undertones. The muscles in his back and legs ached as he rose and fed the fire again from the small pile of split wood to the side of the fireplace. Faint light drifted in through the streaked windows, giving everything a faint hue of dirty yellow. After searching patiently he found a small cabinet with stale crackers and some canned soup, but decided not to push his luck with the cabin any further. The tasteless meal in his pack served its purpose.

He changed his red wool shirt for a synthetic microfiber pullover that was tucked away in his pack, and noticed the silk long underwear Jess had demanded he buy if he was going to hunt in cold weather. It had seemed extravagant, but it had been worth it, the silk kept the warm close to his skin. The heavy cold clothes were next, the slick outerwear felt so out of place in this house, or cabin, whatever it really was. After adjusting the straps on his backpack, he checked the pocket for his compass. Still there. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder, opened the door, glancing back at the now flickering fire, and moved through the powdery snow that had gathered by the doorway. After stepping off the porch, he looked back at the cabin, then unzippered the pocket, checked the compass. North.

The morning sunlight faded quickly. There was a mist that hung over the landscape, trees poking through like branches in a plastic bag. The faint, almost haze-light reminded him of reading comic books under the blankets with John. They had used the flashlight to read Batman. Well, he’d read to John. Johnny did not know how to read then. He walked through deeper snow now, the trees had begun to grove in, and the startings of the familiar ache began deep in the recesses of his thigh muscles. He knew the knees would begin to ache towards the afternoon, relics of playing too much catcher during his youth. Jess had stopped making him play softball when he was thirty-eight, she had insisted that she was not a professional sports trainer, and should not be asked to act as one. His mind flashed to playing catch with John in the backyard of the house on Decatur Street, both of them pretending to be pitchers. When was the last time he had seen John? Ten, no, fifteen years ago at the dinner party for Jess’s birthday. There hadn’t been anything that he could pinpoint, he and Jess had been over it a million times, John had just slipped from their grasps. He didn’t even know where he was.

A crow landed on a branch about twenty yards away, and he stopped. He watched the crow sit on the tree, unmoving. The wind began to pick up through the trees, and he heard the eerie sound that was so comforting. He had made Jess stand out and listen to the sound when they had traveled through Colorado one year. There was something about the whorl of the wind through the fine evergreen branches that made his stomach tighten, and his eyes close. Jess had called it his primeval infant mood. She had said that he had been a Jungian in a past life, that this was just so much collective unconciousness streaming back at him. The sound was ancient, which only served to remind him of how young he actually is in the grand scheme. It was times like that he missed, her educated flippancy. He could remember the vast mountain valley stretching out before him like a sea of white-capped green, the wind the only audible thing when they did not speak.

But she was gone, and John was nowhere to be found, and he was in the middle of a forest looking at a crow. "Where does everyone go, crow?" The crow looked at him, shuffled its wings, and flew away, its trajectory uneven and jarring.

He looked to the sky, and guessed with his uncertain knowledge of the heavens that it had to be about noon. The watch had died a few weeks before, and he had bought a battery, but it had been the wrong size. He remembered standing in the checkout line at the department store, looking at the people as they all went about their immediate business. Their faces reflected nothing, and he found himself asking what pain were they masking, trying to escape. A small woman with a boy of two in a cart had been in front of him, and he thought about what her pain would be. Possibly a loveless marriage, financial problems, maybe her father had disowned her. An elderly man bid him good day as he left, and he wondered what pain that face held in check. What about the teenage boys walking in, the Asian woman holding the folds of her coat close to her neck to escape the wind, what about us all?

A large group of thick trunks rose over the next sloping hill, and he decided to stop there for his meager meal. He sat cross-legged, his back to the trunks, out of the cold North wind. The wrappers of the candybars that he had bought on impulse crackled loudly in the faint hollow that the trees provided. There was no sustenance in their chocolate composition, but it was a small pleasure that he allowed himself. He exhaled long and visibly, and let his head fall to the back of the trunks, and closed his eyes.

The small, stinging brought him back, the icy snow must have started only moments before, as his frame was barely covered with white. "Goddamn it, I’ve been asleep," he said out loud, but for how long he could not guess. The sun had dimmed, and the swirl of the snow made it hard to tell it’s position. He reached for the pocket as always, drew the compass out and looked for North. The hand was spinning slowly, never stopping. He tapped the plastic crystal with a gloved finger, and the needle kept its slow circle. His head involuntarily looked down towards the ground on the right, then back to the compass. He struck the compass several times on the top of his thigh, then brought it close to his face. The fast warmth of his breath obscured the bottom half of the compass, but it was no use, the needle kept spinning mercilessly. His right hand did a quarter-turn, opened flat, the compass centered in the palm of the glove. The needle moved slower, but did not stop. In anger, he trapped the compass between his hand and the closest tree trunk, feeling the plastic give, centered between fabric and bark. He moved his hand back slowly, feeling the muscles slowly ease, and the plastic dropped to the snow, bits of manufactured pieces of synthetics. Never moving his eyes from the jumble of colored plastic sharply divided against the snow he stood and looked uselessly. He shouldered his pack and shotgun, and turned to face the direction he had come from. There were no footsteps to be seen in the snow, the wind had erased all hope of orientation. It would not be long until darkness arrived, and he had hoped to be camped for the night. He moved to the left of the trees, and headed in what must be north.

The ache had begun in his knees now, sleeping cross-legged against the trees had not helped the situation. The snow kept falling, and bowing his head against the wind his steps were slowly measured. He kept this pace for what seemed like ages, until the diminishing light and snow forced him to stop. The wind was whipping through the trees now, whirling past his covered ears. How long could this forest go on? He thought again of the limitless appearances of the trees in the mountains with Jess, how eventually she tired of looking at their expanse and told him that she was freezing her ass off and was getting into the car. For a moment he considered trying to walk back to the cabin, but knew that it would not work, that he would never make it. He looked up at the dying sun and set off again towards the north, ignoring the biting snow.

After a while the snow began to lessen, as did the light. The landscape had begun undulating in a series of rolling hills, with trees angled on their banks. The thickness of the trees was almost suffocating; he could not walk three straight yards without having to turn one way or the other. He noticed a small rise to the left that seemed to hold some promise of shelter, and made towards that, moving slowly, the aches seemingly etched in the fiber of his muscles and tendons. It seemed a small cave-like area, inviting enough in weather such as this. He removed the shotgun, held it by the barrel end of the case, and used the butt to clear as much snow from the entrance as possible. He moved inside tentatively, his breath coming in small pale gasps. There was not enough room to stand, and as he sank to a painful knee, he pulled the flashlight out of the outside pocket of his backpack while removing it from his shoulders. The light was bright enough to illuminate the immediate area. It was damp and cold, but no snow or wind had made its entrance as of yet. He sat the pack by the entrance, and half-crawled with the flashlight to find the limits of his refuge. It did not go back farther than 10 yards, and the roof sloped sharply down at the end. After crawling back closer to the entrance, he sat with his back towards a wall and stretched his legs, moving them out straight with measured slowness. Experience had taught him that to do so quickly would result in cramps, and his body was painful enough right now as it was.

For the next while he busied himself with the task of making a rudimentary camp, spreading the silver emergency blankets that department stores marketed to motorists in the event of being stranded in the winter. The advertising on the packages had stated that the blankets were developed by NASA for the space program. This was about as far away from space as he could imagine. He remembered sitting and watching Neal Armstrong land on the moon in grainy black and white, and the world had seemed to hold so much promise then. If we could put a man on the moon, think of the things we could accomplish. More unfulfilled promises, he thought, and arranged the starter logs from the deep recesses of his pack. They would not last long, but the fire would be more comforting than useful. It started slowly, but managed to catch at last, the thin smoke filling the small area of the cave. He watched the fire move, the tendrils of flame changing colors, and the reflection of the fire on the snow outside.

He sat and ate a small, tasteless meal of dubious quality. Another emergency motorist purchase. The snow had stopped falling now, and a quiet, clear winter moon illuminated the land. He saw it out of the corner of his eye at first, and thought it a bird. But the shape was too large for a bird, and had none of the jerky-quick movements of a bird on the land. A deer, he thought. Venison would be good, even if he did have to waste most of it. But when the black shape moved again, there was too much bulk for even a deer. Shit, it’s a bear, he thought, and reached for the shotgun, unsheathing it as quietly as he could. The metal now sat in his hands, cold and bluish. He fumbled for the shells, and removed his gloves as he could not get a solid grasp on the small zipper. When he looked up again, the shape was gone. He hadn’t thought of bears. He knew that he might run into deer, possibly a few coyotes, wolves, or even a moose, but not a bear. Immediately he thought back to his childhood, sitting on Mr. Kolakav’s front porch sipping lemonade in the bright summer sun with Johnny, listening to Kolakav’s stories about the Russian steppes. Kolakav had emigrated from Russia when he was young, and loved to tell stories to the boys in the neighborhood. World War II had taken Kolakav’s right arm, and he had refused to wear the prosthesis that he had been given. John imagined him a pirate, and after a few tentative trips past his porch he had invited them to have lemonade with him. His wife had died years ago, and they had no idea what he did outside of sitting on his porch telling them stories about Russia.

A few sounds that could not come from the wind were filtered through the trees. He loaded all the shells that the shotgun would hold, chambered one, and eased the safety off. Kolakav’s bear story kept coming back to him, how when he was young, Kolakav had been to Siberia with his uncle hunting bears, how you could smell them when they were close, that they smelled awful. Johnny had said that the bears at the zoo didn’t smell, but Kolakav said that they were not real bears, only show bears to make us feel that they were under control, that a real bear could split a man in two even after he had been filled with lead.

It was getting darker now, and the fire was dying slowly. He took the remaining five starter logs out of the pack, placed one on the fire, watching the distance as the new log caught flame, and the radius of light increased. Goddamned Kolakav, he thought, filling our head with stupid stories like that. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black shape moving again, fluidly and silent, just beyond. He moved the barrel of the shotgun in that direction then lost the shape to the blackness of the forest.

After a few minutes he lowered the shotgun to his lap, exhaled sharply, and rested his back against the wall. Why did he do that? He had just reacted, it was the hunter in him that had taken over. The deer slugs should stop just about anything. He left the shotgun resting on his thighs and felt the wall until his hand reached the pack, never moving his eyes from the dim expanse outside the cave. He found the handgun case, brought it to his lap, and unzipped it. He checked the clip; it was a fully loaded magazine. Unzipping his coat at the throat, he placed the gun inside, close to his heart. Just the mind playing tricks, he thought, too much Kolakav and Grandpa stuck in the brain. Grandpa had countered Kolakav’s stories with his own, telling he and Johnny about the Scottish stories that he had learned from his grandfather, who had come to America before the turn of the century. How there was a big, black demon dog who roamed the moors looking for souls. Grandpa waived off the Hound of the Baskervilles as a poor imitation of the real thing, which he swore on his rosary existed. Foolish old stories, all of them, calculated to scare little boys.

He was no longer little, but it had worked. He was scared, his breath was coming in ragged bursts, and the gun felt tight against his chest. After the latest log burned down to bare embers, he covered himself with the silver blanket, hand resting underneath on the trigger of the shotgun, and fell asleep unwillingly.

The faint sunlight broke into the cave through the trees, waking him uneasily. The fire had died long ago, and the wind had piled the snow up at the entrance yet again. He repacked his possessions, making sure the case to the shotgun was packed. It was better unsheathed now, if only for his peace of mind. It seemed as if every bone in his body rebelled and cracked as he stood in the feeble wind outside the cave. His first thought was to try and track the black shape from the night before, but he knew that would be useless, the wind had resculpted the snow into waves that would hide all but the deepest tracks. He noticed that there were no birds here, and the silence made him uneasy. With the shotgun slung around his arm as he had seen the movie soldiers do, he started walking. This should be North, he thought, and checked against the sun. The sun. He could actually see the sun today, and it told him that he was going in the right direction.

It was after a half-mile or so that he noticed that there was no wind, that a stillness covered everything except the sounds that he made. He could only hear his breathing, his heart, the fabric-rustle of his coat.

The room was small, off-white. The window held a pristine view of the parking lot and what he thought was a crackhouse, or at least something where something shouldn't be going on at all, but should be condemned. He had sat in the worn recliner at her bedside, reading three-year old National Geographic magazines about the Incas and Egyptians. One copy held a story about some South American people that had sacrificed their children to the mountain, how the mountain climbers had found them in the snow and ice, mummified. There had been no wild atrocities committed other than the obvious; the scientists believed they were given some sort of drug to put them to sleep, and before they awoke they would have frozen to death. A picture of a mummified girl of about eight resonated in his mind, her clothes the best that was available, and she was curled together like his nieces had when they were younger, a ball of warmth, but dissipated. He heard the breathing of the machine, his wife attached and unmoving, the constant, metronomic quality of the machine and the stillness of his wife.

He moved his hand to his zipper pocket, then remembered the broken plastic from earlier. "Damn." After saying that he looked around, just in the off-chance something had heard him, but no birds rose and skitted away, no bears lumbered through the snow, nothing. It went on like this for miles, or so it seemed. There were few distinct landmarks, only trees and the sweep of snow. The sun had passed it's pinnacle for the day, when the trees opened up and died away, leaving a spread of snow gleaming, untouched. He thought immediately of the movie Lawrence of Arabia, the wide shots of sand. The sun was the only constant object, and he concentrated on it until his eyes began to hurt, then turned away blinking, walking North.

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