At 5,267 feet, Mt. Katahdin isn't the highest mountain in the East, but the views offered from its summit are certainly some of the most magnificent anywhere. A patchwork of granite-capped mountains, seemingly endless emerald-green forests, and countless shimmering lakes spread out in every direction. On a clear day, which occurs more often than one might expect for a mountain subject to the unpredictable Maine weather, one can gaze at the majestic beauty of New Hampshire's White Mountains to the west, peer into Quebec to the north, and see the ocean and sky melt together far off to the east.
And, if you have a good pair of binoculars and know exactly where to look, you can see a small cabin lying in a valley 22 miles northeast of this peak. It's here, on 20 acres of rocky soil dominated by pine and birch trees, that Avery Poutman has carved out a living for the last 14 years. It's here, seven miles from the nearest dirt logging road, that Avery chose as the ideal location to distance himself from the traffic and ulcers and headaches and bad memories of his previous life. It's here that this draft evader, divorcee, electrical engineer, and part-time bartender finally found peace with the world.
It wasn't an easy decision on that blustery April day 14 years ago for Avery Poutman to sell or give away most of his belongings and leave behind friends, family, and the security of familiar surroundings. But it was far from a difficult decision either. Looking back, Avery realized that his life was one long battle between the conservative, level-headed person that society taught him to be, and the adventurous, inner-self that yearned to confront life on the most basic, survivalist terms. There was no singular event that finally prompted the change in lifestyle. It was more or less a lifetime of little frustrations that finally allowed the adventurous self to take over. When Avery gave his notice at work, he fully intended to live his dream for a summer and then walk back into the working world, a little older, a lot wiser, and fully refreshed. But he soon discovered that his inner-self hadn't been persistent for all those years for nothing. As the months passed, his emotional ties to his civilized life blurred, and the freedom and beauty offered by his wilderness existence took control. For Avery Poutman, it's been a very short 14 years.
The cabin was minimal at best. Avery bought the property when he was still working. It was to be his "escape" on weekends, although the thought of making it his permanent residence was in the back of his mind from the minute he saw it. He came up with a couple of friends one weekend and, together with a pickup truck full of lumber and a cooler full of beer, created the shell of the cabin. Over the years, Avery added a number of "luxuries," including an old, but reliable, woodstove, and a holding tank for rainwater that had pipes running into a small sink in the corner of the cabin.
An assortment of smoked meats hung from the rafters; ham, bacon, venison, and three smoked turkeys (Avery's favorite). He bought these meats on his semi-annual trips to Patten, the nearest town. Back in the early days, Avery built a smokehouse out back of the cabin with the intention of smoking the venison he'd occasionally come by. But the local black bears soon got smell of his idea and the smokehouse turned into a bear playhouse. It proved to be just as well. It was with great remorse and lingering guilt that Avery shot deer, for he felt that deer, like himself, should not have to live with the threat of human- imposed violence. With the smokehouse gone, he had a perfectly legitimate excuse for looking elsewhere for his sustenance.
This day started like a typical mid-Autumn day. There were a few puffy clouds in the otherwise crisp blue sky. The temperatures hovered in the high 20s at dawn, but managed to creep up to a comfortable 44 by noon. Over the years, Avery had learned that despite his best intentions, winter always snuck up on him before he was fully prepared. As he vowed each year, he was going to get the critical winter preparations over with well before the first major snowfall. This year, so far, he was keeping to his word, although the lack of an early snow storm deserved as much credit for this situation as did Avery's commitment to getting things done.
Today would be the third day this week that he devoted to chopping and splitting wood. It's not that he needed it for the winter, since he already had 12 cords of seasoned hardwood stacked against the cabin. But he knew that if you want seasoned wood next year, you had better cut it this year. Avery was a veteran of enough winters to know that an unyielding dedication to wood cutting was of utmost importance.
Avery had chopped the trees during the summer and stacked them out back. Today, the cutting and splitting would continue.
After a particularly exhausting but productive morning, he allowed himself to rest. As he lazily stared out back at the small, but persistent, creek that crossed his property, he was surprised suddenly by the presence of an old friend. A smile broke across Avery's face. He hadn't seen Bones for nearly two months and was afraid something had happened to him. From the looks of his mammoth body, the only thing that had happened to Bones in the last two months was a steady dose of V&R - vegetation and relaxation.
Looking at him now, with his stocky body, and massive antlers, Avery was hard pressed to remember Bones as the gangly adolescent that first dined at the same spot four years ago. A young moose is a study in awkwardness, with spindly legs too big for its body and and an odd, elongated head that appears almost comical with its lack of antlers. When it become apparent that this awkward creature was making a habit of visiting, Avery felt that this "bag of bones" should have a name.
Over the years, Bones had become more than just a dependable moose to Avery. He was the closest thing to a steady friend that Avery had, even though the depth of the friendship was limited to a mutual acknowledgement of each other's existence. Avery never approached Bones and Bones never approached Avery. It's as if both had a respect for each other's place in the natural order. But Avery sensed that Bones got as much satisfaction and security from seeing him as Avery got from seeing Bones. Maybe even moose have a need to look up an old friend sometimes, Avery thought.
After about a half hour rest and a quick lunch, Avery resumed his wood chopping. As he brought the axe down onto the log, he glanced at Bones, whose head was under water searching for a meal.
"Crack." The axe struck the wood. Bones looked up curiously, water dripping from his antlers. Avery smiled and continued. "There's not a thing to worry about, big guy," Avery thought.
"Crack." The axe struck again. Bones continued to stare for a brief moment, then resumed his eating. Nothing to worry about, the moose agreed.
Avery swung the axe over his head and again brought it down towards the wood.
"Crack. Crack." The first "crack" echoed forth before the axe hit the wood. Bones let out a low, urgent bleating. His legs buckled under him as his eyes rolled towards the back of his head. He staggered to his feet and stumbled a few yards before falling again. His body convulsed. Avery watched the sickening, uncontrolled movements in horror. After a few anguished seconds, which seemed like minutes to Avery, the convulsing stopped. Bones was dead.
The horror became confusion. The confusion became anger. Someone had shot Bones. Someone there, on his property, had just killed his best friend.
Without putting down the axe, Avery started towards Bones' body. A loud yelp came from the woods to the left.
"Got 'im," the voice yelled. A large, bearded man made his way through the creek bed. He saw Avery running towards the felled moose, axe in hand. The man smiled and started trotting towards the moose.
"Great. I only have a small hatchet. An axe will make the job a lot easier," the man said. "There's plenty of meat on this baby. Since you're letting me use the axe, feel free to take what you want."
"YOU ASSHOLE!" Avery shouted, his face flushed. "What the hell did you do that for, you son of a bitch?" Avery lifted the axe over his head and charged towards the man.
The man backed away about 10 feet and held up his shotgun.
"Hold it right there or I'll blow your goddamn head off," he said warned loudly.
Avery stopped in his tracks as the sight of the two barrels staring him in the face reached his brain. Then anger again overtook fear. He ducked and charged towards the man, letting out a yell as he swung the axe towards his abdomen.
The man jumped away.
"Don't mess with Big Jack, son." All went black.
The first thing Avery felt was his head pounding. Then the rest of his body let him know of the uncomfortable situation he was in. Cold was coming from everywhere. He planted his hands on the ground and feebly lifted his head. Pain shot down his spine. The snow fell from his hair. He struggled to his knees. About three inches of snow had made its way through the trees while he lay on the ground and more was coming down. Avery looked around puzzlingly, trying to figure out where he was. The snow compounded his confusion, masking familiar landmarks under a blanket of white.
He turned around and saw his cabin. He was in his backyard. But why? Then he noticed the ground behind him. It was a ghastly combination of white and red and brown. Bones minus meat. It all came back to him. He rubbed the back of his head. A gun butt on the head hurt an awful lot, but it was certainly better than a bullet. Bones could attest to that.
He slowly walked to the cabin, reliving the events before his blackout. He pushed open the door and welcomed the warm air from the woodstove. He dropped himself into his bed and started to drift off again.
He suddenly jolted upright. Now anger was overtaking pain. He walked over to his closet and pulled out his boots and heavy coat and put them on. Then he walked to the corner by the sink and picked up his shotgun.
Leaving the warmth of his cabin, Avery made his way back to the remains of Bones. Although the snow covered everything, Avery could pick out the indentations left by the man with the shotgun. The Autumn sun was a muted yellow behind the snowy sky. From it's position, he surmised that it was about 3:30 in the afternoon. He'd been passed out for two or three hours. The man was seven miles from the nearest road and he was dragging well over a hundred pounds of moose meat with him. "There's still time," Avery thought. He followed the indentations.
The walk was long and winding and exhausting. The snow was relentless. But Avery continued, single-mindedly bent on revenge. The further he went, the more distinct the tracks became. The man was dragging whatever it was that was holding the moose meat, so it didn't take much effort to follow the tracks despite the snow. After about four miles of walking, Avery noticed that the tracks were taking an awkward course. The man was getting confused. "Very soon," Avery mumbled. Adrenaline pumped through his body. The thrill of the hunt outweighed the pain from his head.
About a quarter mile later, Avery came upon a large canvas bag. Glancing in the bag, the horror and pain and anger were renewed. The man was too tired to carry the meat. This undignified end to a magnificent creature added to Avery's fury. He picked up his pace.
At first, Avery didn't notice "Big Jack." Big Jack was just another snow covered boulder. But the tracks stopped at this boulder. Avery kicked at the mound, and it moaned. Avery rolled the man over with his foot. The man looked up, his eyes shallow and expressionless, his lips purple.
"Help me," he whispered, too far gone to recognize that Avery was the person he had left for dead by the moose kill.
Avery cocked his shotgun and aimed the barrels at the man's eyes. Big Jack's eyes grew wide, displaying a deep, desperate fear. Avery pulled slightly on the trigger, all the while staring into Big Jack's eyes. The two men remained motionless. The quiet, delicate snow slowly covered their bodies. Five minutes. Ten minutes.
Avery pulled the gun away. The man gasped in relief. Avery smiled a knowing, wicked smile and walked away.
Big Jack became aware of his dilemma.
"No, wait. Help me!" Jack cried out.
Avery continued to smile and continued to walk.
Thousands of hikers climb Mt. Katahdin every year. When they get to the top, they are rewarded with spectacular views in every direction. And, if one had a good pair of binoculars and knew exactly where to look, they could see a man's body lying among the trees. But none of them ever will.
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