by JT Sawyer
Everyone nodded in agreement. “Before we begin on that, let’s take a few hours and gather up more pine nuts and cattail roots. We don’t know what the region ahead will hold in terms of such resources, so harvest as much as your packs can hold. Then, we’ll get started on Firearms 101. With what we have to do here to get ready, we’ll plan on heading out at first light for the line shack.”
While everyone set about harvesting the two abundant wild foods in the area and replenishing water bottles, Travis went through the biker’s saddlebags. The contents revealed that they had most likely done a few home raids. Assorted jewelry, eight boxes of 12 gauge shotgun shells, a roll of fifty-dollar bills, two pulverized bags of cookies, a dozen AA batteries, rolls of gauze, twenty assorted canned goods, ten pound bag of rice, a few t-shirts and socks, three pill bottles each of antibiotics and Vicodin, and a stuffed Koala bear. Travis held the small grey stuffed animal in his hands for a second, and then tossed it to the back of the alcove along with the jewelry.
When they reassembled an hour later, their packs were laden with nuts, cattail roots, and full water bottles. Travis ran through the basics of weapons safety, loading a magazine, and racking a round in the chamber, and then had everyone perform several dozen rounds of dry fire practice. “Don’t worry about headshots, just shoot the bastards where they look the biggest,” was his advice on sighting. He had trained plenty of rebel forces in guerilla warfare in other parts of the world, but never thought he’d be imparting the same information to a group of friendly-eyed tourists on home soil.
Extensive malfunction drills would have to wait for another time. This basic training would at least ensure that they had a few more hands ready, in the event anything happened to the shooters in the group. Travis then went over a few basic techniques for gunshot, wound management using direct pressure and improvised tourniquets. Katy contributed her ER experiences with wound care in the aftermath of a gunfight.
After an intensive afternoon of prepping for the hike and the hands-on training, everyone took a short break. Nearing sunset, LB lit the evening campfire with the dwindling fuel from Pete’s Bic lighter, and the group gathered around to roast the cattail roots and critters caught in the deadfalls. Per Travis’s instructions, LB tossed the squirrels and rat on the hot coals for thirty seconds to burn off any fleas which would reduce the threat of bubonic plague. Afterwards, the singed carcasses were removed, gutted, and buried under the coals in their skins to bake for forty minutes, using the aboriginal method of preparing wild game. “If we only had a cooking pot for making that rice, I could make some killer packrat burritos,” chimed LB.
“Is that an old family recipe of yours?” laughed Evelyn.
“Oh yeah, we Puerto Ricans often go out wading through murky rivers to dig up plant roots laden with grit for our squirrel soufflés,” he laughed back. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, with a serious face, “if Travis or Pete could show me how to make some Tabasco, I’d be a happy man. You could put Tabasco on crushed gravel and it would be edible,” he chuckled.
“With all these new foods, you should think about starting up a fancy eatery out here, called The Rice and Rat Cafe,” Evelyn said, as they both broke into laughter. It was the first time since the river trip that either of them wore a look other than terror on their faces.
Katy came over and sat down next to the tiny fire, which was nestled behind a rock reflector to reduce the light and fuel consumption. “It’s sounding like a comedy routine over here. What did I miss?”
“LB’s just discussing a career move. We both agreed that he has a promising path ahead as a wilderness chef,” replied Evelyn.
Katy looked at the squirrels and rats roasting on willow skewers next to the fire and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I can see we’re all going to be fighting over who gets the succulent hind legs off that rat,” she said, licking her lips and laughing.
“Hey, wait a minute, Evelyn already has dibs on that rat, Katy. If you’re lucky, she’ll share a tender backstrap with you,” said LB.
Travis was up above the rim of the alcove keeping an eye on the canyon floor. He could hear the laughter of the group below, but any attempt to emit a smile was kept at bay as he pondered the coming days and his responsibilities in getting them ready for the new world ahead.
Chapter 15
The familiar shrill of a nighthawk, circling above for insects, was echoing off the canyon walls. The rocks were painted in an orange hue, as dawn unfolded. Travis and Pete were quietly walking amongst the tangled arms and legs of the group, waking each person. Night time travel in the desert would have been preferred if they had NVGs. Otherwise, it was too risky, as everything in the unforgiving landscape had evolved to pierce, poke, sting, or impale. Travis knew that there was a practical reason that native cultures of the Southwest had taboos about venturing out at night.
Before the first slivers of sunlight had pierced the landscape, the group had crested the ridge above the alcove. The country ahead was a seemingly unending surface of grey-brown slickrock, punctuated by an occasional grove of juniper trees. Every hundred yards there was a swale of sand, but the region was so bleak that not even animal or insect tracks were evident on the doppled surface. Many miles in the distance was a backdrop of jagged mountains rising up like an earthen vertebrae. The canyon they had just left, now seemed like an oasis compared to the monotonous expanse ahead.
Nora led the way followed by Rachel, who stayed on her sister’s boot heels the entire time. Nora carried an AK along with LB, and Travis, who had the other two. Katy clung to the shotgun like it had become a familiar friend. On Pete’s belt was the .45 formerly carried by LB, and Evelyn had the Glock from one of the bikers. Jim clutched the shoulder straps of his pack and plodded along behind Travis as if tethered by an invisible leash. Behind Katy was Becka, clinging to her grandfather’s lever-action that she had once used for hunting.
They paced themselves by hiking for ninety minutes, followed by a twenty minute shade break. This was loosely dictated by the presence of the tree groves, and each one provided a mental talisman of how far they had to go before resting again. In this landscape, Travis knew they would average around two miles per hour and that they may have to bivouac somewhere overnight as Evelyn’s hips and knees might not hold up to the mileage. By Noon, they had covered eleven miles. The temperature was spiking, and most everyone had the familiar red flush to their cheeks that comes with mild heat stress.
“Ok, let’s take a siesta for a few hours,” Travis said as they approached a massive grove of junipers. Everyone dropped their packs and plunked down on the soft duff underneath the welcoming shade of the trees.
Once they had rehydrated and snacked, Pete took off his boots and began massaging his feet while falling into guide mode again. “Remember, everything out here is foot powered and you have to take care of your foundation. So, get those boots and socks off, put them in the sun for a while to give ‘em a solar bath, and then rub those gnarly soles of yours, you desert rats.”
Everyone followed his lead except Travis. He felt the need to intermittently skirt the perimeter of the grove, scanning the horizon for any movement. He pulled out the binoculars and glassed the direction from which they had just come, as well as the surrounding areas. While squatting down, he noticed some pieces of ancient pottery strewn on the ground. The familiar black and white appearance indicated it was the prehistoric ancestors of the Yavapai. He picked up a piece, flipping it back and forth between his fingers. They’ve been here for over one hundred generations and survived drought, warfare, the Spanish, smallpox, and the intrusion of the modern world. Hell, knowing them, they’re still going strong. This is just going to be another hiccup in their oral tradition. Something to be said about the benefit of living in a tribe.
Katy came over and kneeled down next to him. “I think the hike is catching up to Ev. You know her- she’s stoic and will just keep going ‘til she drops. Do you have any of those painkillers we can give her?”
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sp; “Yeah, there’s a bottle of Vicodin in the saddlebag by my gear,” he said. She rose and began to walk away when Travis said, “Hey, Katy,” he paused, “thanks for always watching everyone’s back.”
She nodded with a half-smile, and then turned and headed back to the group.
They rested in the grove until four p.m., waiting out the hottest part of the afternoon, which rose to the triple digits. Just sitting under the shade of a tree, in ninety degree weather, a person would sweat off six quarts of water in a twenty-four hour period in a desert region. Hiking in the mid-day heat would double, or even triple, that expenditure rate and their water supply was confined to what they carried, making siestas a necessary part of backcountry travel.
With feet rested and a nap under their belts, everyone was eager to push on for the second leg of the journey. “How much farther is it, Nora?” asked Pete.
“Mmm….” she paused, scanning the area, matching it to the mental topo map in her head. “I’d say we’re just a little over half way.” She pointed to a single column of rock rising up from the desert floor. “That’s Misty Butte right over there. On the other side is the canyon where our line shack is located.”
“Why’s it called Misty Butte?” said Evelyn.
“Well, ma’am, that’s just what my family called it. My grandma’s name was Misty…well…actually her nickname. She always used to complain to my grandpa about how she wanted to live where there was more water and joked about leaving him to move to a house by the ocean. He was born a desert cowboy, from a long line of cowboys, and met her in Phoenix after her dad moved the family there from San Diego for work.”
Nora slung a saddlebag over her shoulder and walked out of the grove. “My grandma once asked him to take her on a cruise but he wouldn’t have it and, instead, took her fishing for a week up in Montana. I remember that trip because I was only about ten and when they came home, and I asked my grandpa how he liked Montana. He summed it up in three words: Can’t see far! Anyway, she died a few years after that, and my grandpa buried her on the west side of that butte, so she could face west towards the ocean.”
The group hiked in single file formation for the next two hours until they could see the lip of the canyon beyond Misty Butte and the gravestone Nora had mentioned. As they approached, Travis motioned to the group to drop down to avoid silhouetting themselves, as they neared the canyon’s edge.
Creeping up to a cluster of currant bushes, Travis lowered his gear and scanned the canyon floor below. It was more winding than most and only about three hundred feet deep. The bottom was lined with ubiquitous cottonwood trees, with a smattering of willow and hackberry trees. Opposite from where he stood, and about a hundred yards beyond the ribbon of trees, was a large bench of sandstone that was up off the canyon floor about fifty feet.
Nora pulled on his shirt sleeve and pointed to the bench. Nestled in a thick stand of trees, was a finely hewn stone shack with a tin roof and chimney protruding off the back that seemed to melt into the slickrock walls behind it. Alongside the shack was a corral of weathered fence posts and a small tack barn to the right. Behind the structure, to the right, was a slot canyon where the walls seemed to muscle apart.
He glassed up and down the canyon and surrounding rim. The only way down was a slender mule trail a few hundred yards away from their present location. “Anything we should know before heading down there?” he asked Nora.
“This trail to my right is the main entrance to the shack. Unlike the place we came from, this canyon is filled with lots of small side canyons and springs. The nearest dirt road is about six miles to the east, so it’s not likely there’ll be anybody here. Only my family used this place, and that was only in the spring and fall,” she said.
The sun was dipping in the west as Travis motioned to the group to follow him down the trail. With Misty Butte as their backdrop, they descended the narrow path to the canyon floor. Pausing in the cottonwood grove before the line shack, he squatted and surveyed the building for any movement while studying the ground for tracks, which only revealed rain, pock marks and the pungent smell of decaying leaves.
He looked back at the group, with his hand raised, and then realized they didn’t have a command of hand signals yet for what he expected of them. He motioned LB, Katy, and Nora to move up. “I’m going to skirt around the left side of the building towards the front door. Nora, I want you to cover me, while LB and Katy, you two move along the left side and await my instructions. Remember, above all else, where your muzzle is pointing and make sure that ain’t at the backside of your partner.”
Pointing his two fingers up to his eyes, he said, “Just so we’re all clear, this hand signal means ‘Do you see anything?’ and this hand signal,” he switched to all four fingers extended and pointing forward, “to move in that direction. Got it?” They all nodded in agreement. This would have to do for now. One more thing to cover with my ragtag band of desert insurgents, he thought.
The rest of the group remained in the shadowy confines of the grove, while the two teams split up and approached the small stone shack from either side, while darting from tree to tree. Nearing the corner of the building, Travis indicated a rock pile where he wanted Nora to wait and provide rear cover. He then crept up alongside the stone facade. A small overhang, held up by withered beams, extended beyond the front door and a rusty bucket lay on its side, beside a punctured wicker chair. He looked at Katy in the distance and gave the eyesight hand signal to her. She looked back towards the windows of the shack and then nodded in the negative to Travis. He motioned for her to come up while LB stayed behind.
Once she was on the opposite side of the doorway, she steadied the shotgun and pointed it towards the ground, her finger indexed above the trigger. Travis had his Glock in a low-ready position and then raised three fingers to Katy, lowering each one until he slid forward and slowly grabbed the door handle, giving it a gentle twist. It was unlocked. Entering the fatal funnel of the doorway was punctuated with explosive action, as he swung the door open and rushed in, sweeping each corner of the small shack for signs of movement. Katy remained in ready outside the door as the small shack was barely large enough for one person to provide a safe survey.
“We’re clear,” he said, lowering his pistol. Katy stood and walked inside, holding the shotgun in a forward position with rigid arms. Travis raised his hand and motioned her to relax her position. “It’s OK. We’re clear…you can ease off now.” She rolled her eyes and lowered the weapon, exhaling and blowing a strand of hair off her nose.
Travis stepped outside and motioned to the others to come up. They emerged from their positions and clambered up to the porch overhang. Travis holstered his pistol and went back inside to scan the contents of the stone building. The walls were made of rough-hewn, sandstone slabs cemented in place with mud mortar. The tin roof was held up with massive timbers of hand-peeled logs overlaid with a lattice of straight limbs. The furnishings were sparse, as befitting a cowboy camp, and consisted of a bunk bed, plywood table, two chairs, stack of firewood, oil lamp, propane stove and fuel, assorted cooking pots, and a Dutch oven. On a shelf above the table were a few books, and several bowls and cups. In a large, cedar-lined chest behind the door were some wool blankets, box of matches, bar of soap, a few rolls of toilet paper, some spools of thread, sewing needles, a bottle of rum, and a dozen, sixty-four ounce cans of chili con carne, along with two cans of coffee.
The sun’s last rays were withdrawing from the canyon, as the shadows piercing the windows of the line shack grew longer. Nora was already inside getting the lantern lit when Travis moved up beside her. “That lantern can be on for the next half-hour, long enough to cook up some grub. After that, no lights. Use my headlamp if you need to find anything, but we need to observe light discipline and not turn this place into a signal beacon.”
Pete stepped up and did a visual inspection of the cooking items. “If someone can help me, I’ll fire up the stove and warm that chili.”
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��I’ll help. We’ve got a lot of pine nuts to add in as well,” said Katy.
“Travis moved to the corner, pulled up a chair, and removed his boots. “This shack will keep us warm tonight so let’s all plan on sleeping here,” he said. “We can take turns again with sentry duty, in two hour shifts. As there are more of us now, I want to have two people on each shift, spread out in different directions. I’ll go over the details after dinner.”
Chapter 16
It was around two a.m. and Travis’s guard duty outside the line shack was nearly up. The moon was just sinking over the canyon’s rim, leaving the trees in shadow. His eyes were heavy as the toll of another long day was catching up to him. He rested against a rock pile under a large cottonwood tree and fought to stay awake. There was a gentle breeze caressing the leaves of the tree above, causing him to drift in and out. The smell of wet earth from the recent rains, permeated the air. He could hear the approaching footsteps of Pete, who was coming to relieve him.
“Hey boss, it’s your turn to catch some shut-eye.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m sure I’ll sleep like a babe.”
“It’s sleep like a log…babies never sleep,” chuckled Pete, as Travis handed off the AK and then walked towards the line shack.
When morning came, few people stirred except Travis, who was already up walking the area, counting off paces and scanning the ridgelines for potential chokepoints and overwatch areas. Despite the tactical mindset he was in, he couldn’t stop marveling at the natural beauty of the place. A small spring trickled out of the slot canyon behind the shack and merged with the main artery of the larger canyon, forming a small pool. Deer, jackrabbit, and javelina tracks dotted the ground. The well-concealed location complete with ample water, firewood, and wild game relaxed the lines of tension in Travis’s face as he settled on a weathered stump, in sight of the line shack.
