by E C Hunter
After the shaking had subsided Archie decided to put as many miles between himself and the bear as fast as possible.
The afternoon passed in a blur of sweat and effort. The pack straps bit deeply into his shoulders, the sweat in his armpits irritated and made his shirt chafe. As the sun began to breach the horizon he pushed through the brush and emerged onto the shore of a huge expanse of water. It lay before him like an oasis of calm, sparkling and deep blue, ready to lull him to sleep. Archie stripped, rinsed the bear goo from his clothes and washed himself as best he could without soap. He dried himself and set about looking for a camp site.
Chapter 9
Archie slung his hammock swiftly between a couple of likely trees, not bothering with the basha. Threw his sleeping bag in and fell in after it. His eyes were closed before he even could even zip his bag up.
His sleep was troubled by dreams of bears and his father but nonetheless, he woke feeling much better than he had the previous afternoon. As his eyes slowly opened his view could have graced the cover of a ‘Visit Canada’ brochure. Blue water sparkled from under his feet until it climbed from the far shore of the lake into a never-ending sea of trees. Archie couldn’t help staring at the vista, at least until his eye was caught by a familiar object. A very familiar object. One that just shouldn’t have been there.
It was the camp Dutch oven. The one the Sasquatch had curled his huge jobbie into. The Dutch oven which he had left behind at the main camp. Archie blinked, shook his head and looked again. It was still there. How on earth could it be here? He knew for certain it hadn’t been in his pack – he had not put it in, and besides, it was an enormously heavy lump of cast iron. He would have noticed it. Archie cautiously walked over to it, a small voice telling him all the time that his father’s captors were toying with him. But why would they. Surely if they knew where he was they would either capture him or just shoot him on the spot.
Archie bent down to examine the pot. It all seemed normal, it didn’t even have a turd in it. As he picked it up he noticed something out of place. Caught in the lug where the wire handle meets the casting was a tuft of black hair. Archie tugged it out. It was soft and instantly recognisable. Black Bear.
Flummoxed, Archie sat down on a log. It just got stranger. Surely the bear which had attacked him hadn’t carried the pan here, no. Impossible. But what other explanation could there be?
Archie built a small fire, cooked porridge and made some tea. All the time he worked, his mind would not stop thinking about the Dutch oven. His only conclusion he discounted immediately. Utterly stupid. The Sasquatch had followed him and had brought it with him. Had it attacked the bear with it, driving it away from him? That would certainly account for the donging noise and the tuft of bear fur. Not to mention the fact that the beast had a known fascination with the article.
The next question was why? Why on earth would it follow him? Did it intend to cause him harm? Archie didn’t think so. He had not felt fear when the animal was in his camp. The way it had run off when he woke up was proof that it didn’t wish to harm him. But what other reasons were there? Archie was utterly confused.
Archie scraped the last of the porridge from his mess tin and was about to step to the waters edge when he noticed it. A thin tendril of smoke was starting to drift upwards through the trees. The smoke was about 400 metres away, Archie scrabbled for his binoculars. He could see nothing of the camp, but what he could see was the stern of a canoe, its bow was pulled onto the shore, the stern left bobbing in the lake.
Archie did a short wrestle with his conscience. Steal the canoe and get to his father quickly or continue on foot and take forever. It was a no contest. Archie decided to add canoe theft to his repertoire of skills.
Without deliberating further Archie packed up his camp, stowed the rifle in the specially designed pocket of his Tasmanian Tiger rucksack, stashed the Dutch oven behind a stump and set off. The approach would have to be slow, very slow. Archie picked his route carefully, using every small fold in the ground to conceal himself. Just as he would if he were stalking a deer at home in Scotland.
Every few minutes Archie would stop, take out his binoculars and spy both the route and the camp itself. The work was painstaking, but he could not afford a single mistake. If, for instance, he bumped into an animal, it could scoot off towards the camp and set whoever was there on edge.
With just another 100 meters to go Archie set his pack behind a rock on the shore, aiming to pick it up as he paddled away. The last portion of the stalk he would do on his belly, leopard crawling to the canoe. With any luck the paddle would be in it and it would be easy to slip it from the shore into deeper water where the owner could not follow.
As he nearer the craft, Archie froze. A man was lumbering down to the water. He undid is flies and urinated noisily into the water. The sharp tang wrinkled his nostrils and Archie shuddered in disgust. Only a total Muppet pees in their drinking water was a lesson George had drilled into him. As Archie watched from under a low piece of foliage, the man turned towards him, stretching as he did so. He was unmistakable, it was one of the bogus Mounties. Any doubts about stealing the canoe vanished. It was now even more important to do so.
Archie watched as the man wandered back to his campfire and sat down. As luck would have it, a stubby fir tree obscured the view of the canoe from the mans’ position. Archie stole in silently. A frisson of fear touched him as he laid a hand on the gunwale of the canoe, almost as if the man might sense him by merely touching his property.
Archie stayed there silently and motionless for a full minute before he slid around the other side of the canoe where he would easily remain invisible. After what seemed and age, Archie reached the bow. As he had hoped, the painter line was mere passed around a tree and fastened back to itself by means of a clip. He undid the clip and let it fall to the ground. Then came the slow recovery of the line. Archie gently tugged the line and watched the clip as it began its perilous journey around the tree, not 5 metres from the man. The clip reached the tree, making no noise in the soft leaf litter. Suddenly the clip snagged. Archie tugged as sharply as he dared. The clip didn’t move, it was stuck fast. Archie tried flicking the painter but the brass clip was too heavy for it to have any effect. He tugged harder. Still nothing. In desperation he started a slow heave, bracing himself against a root and using his back muscles to pull. There was a faint ripping noise as the root the clip was snagged on pulled free from the ground. The man looked round but failed to spot the root. Archie’s heart rate shot up and a fine sweat peppered his forehead. His stomach felt like a herd of butterflies were having a ceilidh. But the clip had come free – only to snag again almost immediately. Archie felt his heart drop through his boots. He felt like weeping.
‘Think Archie’. He could almost hear his father speaking to him. ‘There’s always a way’ he seemed to say. Archie lay still and thought. After a few moments he checked on the man. As he did so Archie noticed for the first time a fishing rod poking its long thin nose over the edge of the canoe. An idea formed instantly. It was the work of a few moments to snaffle the rod and make a minor adjustment. Archie took out his Leatherman multi tool and used it to snip the end line guide ring of the rod in the middle. Then, using the pliers he opened out the ring to make a ‘Y’ shape.
It worked like a dream. Archie pushed the ‘Y’ along the painter until it came to the snag, pushed the clip off the snag and retrieved it. In his head he heard a meerkat say ‘shimples’ and give a little squeak. A smiling Archie coiled the painter and dropped it silently into the bows of the canoe.
With exaggerated care Archie slid the canoe to the waters edge and walked it into the deeper water. It was not until he was screed from the camp by the overhanging birches that he boarded the canoe…one of the many skills learnt at Gordonstoun. Silently dipping the paddle Archie pushed the canoe along to the rocks where his kit was hidden. This was all too easy. With a little effort he humped his pack aboard. As he did, the protruding barrel of
the Blaser clonked against the gunwale. The noise was loud in the still morning air and carried clearly to the man’s camp site.
A hundred metres away the man raised his head from his breakfast and looked with interest along the shore, perhaps expecting to see a bear or moose.
It took him a few precious seconds to decipher the picture, he let out a strangled roar of anger. Those seconds gave Archie chance to lean on the paddle and propel the canoe away. He turned away from the shore and started to cross the lake. There was no warning, the shot was completely unexpected.
Chapter 10
The bullet from the .444 Marlin sped across the water at around 700 metres per second and with the force of a charging bull. It took a fraction of a second to reach Archie and had he not, at the moment the shot was fired, dug in deep with his paddle to turn the canoe, it would have ploughed mercilessly into his spine. It would have instantly paralysed him. The hydro elastic shock up his spinal cord would have effectively turned off his brain but death would not have been instantaneous. He would probably have drowned, having fallen into the water. He would have felt no pain.
But Archie remained resolutely alive despite the searing pain. The bullet had struck the ash wood paddle sending a 7cm long splinter flying off at the speed of a fast car. The splinter had entered his left forearm just above the wrist and was no longer visible; there was just an angry wound and an ugly ridge under the skin. The pain was abominable. Archie looked back but could not see the shooter. He must be moving forward, trying to get closer for a second shot. Archie heard a snapping of branches from the shore and threw himself on his belly in the bottom of the canoe, bracing himself for the impact of a second bullet.
The shot never came. There was the odd donging noise followed by another softer thud and then quiet.
Archie drifted for a few minutes, not daring to look up. Eventually the pain in his arm became too much to bear and Archie sat up, bracing himself to look at the wound and decide what to do. It was at this point Archie noticed that the splinter was not his only problem. The shot that had caused the splinter has also knocked the paddle from his hands. He could see it some meters away, floating serenely and looking rather more like a shaving brush than a canoe paddle. But that wasn’t his immediate concern. The pain from the splinter was only getting worse and his arm was starting to swell. There was nothing for it, the splinter would have to come out.
In the top compartment of his rucksack was Archie’s first aid kit, something his father had always insisted he carry. Archie fished inside for the tweezers. One look told him they would not be up to the job. The green plastic things were maybe suitable for pulling a bee sting but would certainly not grip this, the mother of all splinters, firmly enough.
What others options were there? He could cut along the ridge and take it out like that. His Fallkniven H1 knife was razor sharp and would do the job with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. The thought made him quail. No, that wasn’t an option. He would have to probe for it. Archie took the Leatherman multitool from the pouch on his belt. After cleaning the narrow nosed pliers with an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit Archie braced himself.
Gently Archie slid the nose of the pliers into the entry hole. The sensation made him feel light-headed and a damp sheen appeared on his forehead. Millimetre by excruciating millimetre he nosed the pliers deeper into the wound. Watery blood oozed from the hole. When the pliers eventually bumped into the splinter Archie almost passed out. Steeling himself Archie gently opened the pliers and gripped the end of the splinter and pulled.
Any pain Archie as felt up to now paled into insignificance. This was like nothing he had ever experienced. Even worse than when he had broken his leg on a black run at Davos. There was something wrong. The splinter would not move. Archie groaned. Of course! The splinter would not come out in reverse, it wanted to carry on in the same direction as it had entered.
George’s favourite expression of frustration came to mind “Hells bananas and buckets of custard”. There was nothing for it, he would have to make an exit hole. It was actually much easier than he had expected. His knife was so sharp that it opened the skin over the end of the splinter like a zipper. In fact it only stopped when it cut into the splinter itself. Archie gasped and felt faint again. Taking the pliers again with one quick move he gripped the end of the splinter and yanked. It slid from it’s lair like a viper. Pain clouded Archie’s vision but it was over. The relief was so great Archie flopped into the bottom of the canoe and slept.
When Archie woke up, he was wet.
Chapter 11
He wasn’t just wet, he was in the water! There was something very wrong. Spluttering and choking Archie managed to get his head above the surface, how on earth had he ended up in the water? There was no time to answer his own question, he was moving, quite fast – and there was an odd rushing noise.
Archie managed to spin round to face his direction of travel, his hiking boots not really helping his buoyancy. The reason for his movement soon became apparent. The contents of the lake were rapidly heading towards a huge steel grid, and Archie was going along for the ride. The canoe was bobbing uselessly nearby and his rucksack was foundering, in danger of going under. Archie struck out towards it but the current was too strong. Moments later he was pressed against the bars of the grid, the water pushing past him terrifyingly and into the turbines of a vast hydro-electric power station.
He was pinned face down and quite helpless. The huge pressure of the water made breathing difficult and the constant rushing of the water numbed his mind. Archie’s rucksack was pinned not a metre from his outstretched finger tips. He might have been able to make use of the light rope that was in one of the side pockets had it been just a little closer. It was hopeless, he just could not move. Suddenly there was a grating noise and the iron grid shuddered beneath him, Archie looked around in confusion but there was nothing to be seen. He became aware of a new and very odd sensation; something was, very slowly, sliding up his trouser leg. A snake? An eel? No, it was too hard. Debris, a piece of stick was making it’s way towards the back of his knee. It had a powerful, inexorable feel to it, as though if it carried on it would burrow it’s way into his leg and out of the other side without check. Memories of the splinter flooded back.
The stick was about to touch the tender skin at the back of Archie’s knee when something else touched his foot and pushed, then it reached his other foot. The push was unstoppable and Archie found him self borne skywards, sliding up the huge iron grid. It took a few more seconds of this terrifying slow-motion ride for Archie to realise. He was stuck on the debris catcher for the hydro-electric dam and the movement was the sweep arm which periodically cleared the debris from the intake grid.
From the base of the grid the huge steel arm was being pushed upwards by the force of massively powerful hydraulic rams. It swept upwards, gathering the accumulated sticks, logs, plastic and stray Archies. Archie fought to keep his arms and legs outside the grid; any body part left protruding inside the grid would be mercilessly guillotined off when the sweep arm reached the top bar of the grid. The ride seemed to last forever.
At last, without ceremony Archie and his rucksack were dumped over the top of the grid and into the previously accumulated piles of debris atop the dam. Archie lay for some time without moving, letting the sun warm him through his sopping clothes.
Some time later he tried to sit up, it felt as though he’d been used as a piñata. Every muscle and joint ached and he was starting to shiver. Even with the warm sun hypothermia could set in surprisingly quickly. George had drilled it into him so many times –‘hypothermia is a killer laddie’ that almost sub consciously Archie began to remove his clothes, fumbling over buttons and zips. Going through the routines he had been taught. He laid his clothes out on the concrete of the dam to steam and found a fresh pair of boxers in his pack (of course lined with a dry bag) and used them as a towel. Then donned his spare set of clothes and did the funny little dance that George h
ad taught him. High stepping, clenching and unclenching his hands followed by star jumps. It was hard work after his experience but within a few minutes his muscles began to warm up and he began to feel better. The next step was food. He dug around for a cereal bar. Much better.
With his immediate concern over Archie had time to reflect on his experience and it came back to him…he had been shot at! That was pretty darned serious stuff. The thought made him feel slightly queasy. But there had been no follow-up shot, and no consequence, as yet. His mind went back to the noise that had travelled the still lake shortly after the shot. The donging noise, the thud. He had heard them before. The bear attack! Had his protector been at it again? There was only one way to find out. He would have to retrieve the canoe and paddle back over the lake.
‘Holy cow’ he told himself, you stole the canoe to get to your father, not go chasing around trying to find out if a Sasquatch had killed a guy. Another couple of hours, what difference would it make? What if the guy was lying there injured? What if he were lying there in wait? He knew what his father would say. ‘Rest now, think later’. It seemed like a good policy. Archie pulled his sleeping bag from the pack, made a little nest in the debris and slept.
When he woke, the day was winding down, the shadows long and gangly. An orange glow was spreading across the surface of the lake. With the remains of the daylight Archie walked along the dam to where the canoe had been deposited in much the same way as he had been. It looked sound but there was the problem of not having a paddle. A quick search, amazingly, turned up the original paddle. Once again the queasy feeling overtook him as he saw the state of it. The heavy bullet had punched a neat hole in one side of the blade but the other was a shaggy mass of splinters. Archie cut the worst of them off with his knife and decided that the paddle was perfectly usable.
