Would he die some lonely death in these empty wilds? What good was freedom if it came to nothing? He talked to himself, talked to the prickly pear cactus, talked to the crows that gossiped about his passage. Some evenings caught him in places without firewood, but he had learned to cook all of any salmon he caught and could make a meal of cold fish if he had to.
Then one day he lost a hook and line. It snagged on something and his line snapped. Skye found himself holding a pole with a foot of string dangling from it. With no more line, he might well starve.
He felt more and more oppressed as he considered the loss. He stood on the riverbank, drawn bow in hand, knowing the wealth of food that lay in those waters, maddened that he could capture none of it. He would have to turn himself into a hunter or starve. Immediately he hiked far away from the river, looking for game and finding none. When he returned at dusk, a terrible pessimism stole through him.
Standing there beside the mighty Columbia River with all its unreachable food, he asked himself why he had been set on earth. He had suffered in the navy, and now he suffered more. Did some peopleâs lives simply take a wrong turn, never to be redeemed? Would he wander this wilderness until he died an early death? Would he be better off turning around, tracing his way back to Fort Vancouver, and turn himself over to John McLoughlin? It was tempting, if only because he would have companionship.
In the past he had occasionally fallen into bouts of despair, especially when he was locked in shipsâ brigs for weeks on end. He knew that there was only one cure for it: he had to drive the demon out of himself. He must never surrender to despair. He might now be in grave trouble, but he was not defeated. He reminded himself that he was alive and free. He had to help himself because no one else would. It was bootless to question the meaning of his existence, or why his had been a hard lot, or whether there was justice in the world. Such speculations never solved anything. He would keep on. He would suffer and starve if he must, but he would not quit and he would not surrender the liberty he had won at such terrible cost. With that resolve, and with a half-muttered prayer to the mysterious God who let him suffer so much, he started east once again.
The next day he shot an antelope. He could not explain it. The handsome animal stood on a slight rise, watching him approach, probably a sentinel for the nearby herd. It should have fled, but it didnât. Itchily, he nocked an arrow and eased closer, to perhaps thirty yards. A long shot for a novice with a bow. The antelope didnât present much target, facing him almost squarely. But he drew, aimed, and loosed his fingers. The arrow whipped true and buried itself in the animalâs chest. The antelope took a few steps and collapsed.
Exultantly, Skye raced to it and found it was dying. He retrieved his arrow, pulling gently until it came free. He was a long way from the river a longer way to firewood. In fact, he didnât see a tree anywhere, but he knew a few grew near the water, often hidden from the prairies. The antelope was too heavy to carry and cumbersome to drag. Skye decided to lighten the load by gutting it, which took a while in hot sun. He didnât really know what he was doing, and doubted that his kitchen knife was the ideal tool. The carcass was still too heavy, so Skye slowly cut off its head, having trouble with bone and cartilage. Now at last he felt he could hoist the carcass to one shoulder, his warbag over the other, and stagger back to the river.
The half-mile trek exhausted him, but he reached the stony bank, washed the carcass and himself, and hunted for wood. He saw none. He stumbled a mile more along the river before he came to a crease in the land full of stumpy trees and brush, enough of it dead to give him what he needed. He exulted, and set to work at once, building a hot fire,
Then one day he lost a hook and line. It snagged on something and his line snapped. Skye found himself holding a pole with a foot of string dangling from it. With no more line, he might well starve.
He felt more and more oppressed as he considered the loss. He stood on the riverbank, drawn bow in hand, knowing the wealth of food that lay in those waters, maddened that he could capture none of it. He would have to turn himself into a hunter or starve. Immediately he hiked far away from the river, looking for game and finding none. When he returned at dusk, a terrible pessimism stole through him.
Standing there beside the mighty Columbia River with all its unreachable food, he asked himself why he had been set on earth. He had suffered in the navy, and now he suffered more. Did some peopleâs lives simply take a wrong turn, never to be redeemed? Would he wander this wilderness until he died an early death? Would he be better off turning around, tracing his way back to Fort Vancouver, and turn himself over to John McLoughlin? It was tempting, if only because he would have companionship.
In the past he had occasionally fallen into bouts of despair, especially when he was locked in shipsâ brigs for weeks on end. He knew that there was only one cure for it: he had to drive the demon out of himself. He must never surrender to despair. He might now be in grave trouble, but he was not defeated. He reminded himself that he was alive and free. He had to help himself because no one else would. It was bootless to question the meaning of his existence, or why his had been a hard lot, or whether there was justice in the world. Such speculations never solved anything. He would keep on. He would suffer and starve if he must, but he would not quit and he would not surrender the liberty he had won at such terrible cost. With that resolve, and with a half-muttered prayer to the mysterious God who let him suffer so much, he started east once again.
The next day he shot an antelope. He could not explain it. The handsome animal stood on a slight rise, watching him approach, probably a sentinel for the nearby herd. It should have fled, but it didnât. Itchily, he nocked an arrow and eased closer, to perhaps thirty yards. A long shot for a novice with a bow. The antelope didnât present much target, facing him almost squarely. But he drew, aimed, and loosed his fingers. The arrow whipped true and buried itself in the animalâs chest. The antelope took a few steps and collapsed.
Exultantly, Skye raced to it and found it was dying. He retrieved his arrow, pulling gently until it came free. He was a long way from the river a longer way to firewood. In fact, he didnât see a tree anywhere, but he knew a few grew near the water, often hidden from the prairies. The antelope was too heavy to carry and cumbersome to drag. Skye decided to lighten the load by gutting it, which took a while in hot sun. He didnât really know what he was doing, and doubted that his kitchen knife was the ideal tool. The carcass was still too heavy, so Skye slowly cut off its head, having trouble with bone and cartilage. Now at last he felt he could hoist the carcass to one shoulder, his warbag over the other, and stagger back to the river.
The half-mile trek exhausted him, but he reached the stony bank, washed the carcass and himself, and hunted for wood. He saw none. He stumbled a mile more along the river before he came to a crease in the land full of stumpy trees and brush, enough of it dead to give him what he needed. He exulted, and set to work at once, building a hot fire,
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