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Join Date: Jan 2006
Posts: 151
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Mountain Man
Here is a short story I've been working on. It still needs a little bit of "pulling things together" and length.
Morning had broken in the Alaskan hills; the sun bathed the entire scene of wintry bliss, and Jack Nicles was standing amid it all, at the top of the mountain. He liked it up here because he could see for miles. He could see his cabin, the small town to the north, and all of the trees, the hills, and all the life which was pulsating around him. It was in this setting that he had made his home, and he planned to live here forever.
He had come here six years ago, a naive and inexperienced city boy, and now he was a man of the mountain, a king of the unknown world. This title was pleasant to him, and he was very satisfied with his life and his escape. There was no other way which he would have had it all end. This was what he wanted, and he received it with due satisfaction. Being alone, in the mountains of the Alaskan tundra, was never as lonely as he had imagined it would be.
It was six years ago that Jack quit his job, that he packed up and left everything except for plenty warm clothing and a store of cash. He wasn't sure himself why he left it all, but he felt now, as he had every day since his departure, that it was very much worth the trouble. Where else could he inhale the world in its primeval essence? There was nowhere else. The cities and towns and all other rural orifices were meaningless to him. He had analyzed them for years, trying to discern a function of their existence, but was persistently fruitless in his search. So, he left it all, and moved out west, far west, and decided to make his home here, among the bears and the foxes and the wolves, where man was born, and, as he though, where man ought to be.
Now that Jack had conquered the mountain, he was ready to head back. He made a simple fire with the sulphur matches he had brought along, and enjoyed himself by the immense warmth. He had learned to love that warmth, and respect it, as there is nothing like the heat of a fresh fire to warm your soul. The warmth is inexperienced of any "city" boy, and Jack disdained any such personages for lacking such a marvelous thing. Life was warmth, and fire brought it to him, into the crevices of his soul. Jack was thinking about this and the plane flying overhead as he sat eating a bacon sandwich. How crude machines are, he thought. How crude life is outside of nature.
Jack finished up, and started down the way in which he came. The path was rough-going, yet Jack endured it nimbly. He could not have done this six years ago, and was immensely proud at being able to do so now. Nothing in life is greater than conquering a trial, he pondered, and as such, he enjoyed much of his success which he had experienced as of late. He still depended on the town for most of his food source, yet he was becoming more independent by the days. He was becoming the mountain man he had always dreamed of being when he was little.
The snow crumpled noisily under the heavy boots as Jack walked down the mountain. If he got home before 6:00, he would be very competent with his progress. However, as things were going now, he was experiencing difficulty. He had tumbled several times after being lost in distant thoughts, and began to curse himself for his stupidity. He couldn't make stupid mistakes out here. This was a cruel and dangerous environment. Every step had to be nimble, and every motion had to sure. There was no room for sensory failure, and so from there on out, he took his time. Time, which is the precursor to all things sensible, was leading his way home.
The wildlife was bristling on this cold Alaskan spring morning. The temperature had dipped below zero, yet Jack had grown so use to these conditions that it didn't bother him much. He simply was careful, and admired all of what he saw as he progressed. Every animal was fascinating to him, every pine needle was delicate and finely crafted. He experienced this utopia as one experiences a tidal wave. It came on quickly, yet endured persistently, and seemed destined to never end, and he did not want it to do so. He loved it. He loved it all.
Jack made it home by his projected time. He approached his small cabin with a smirk on his face. His thoughts were dashing about, yet the most prominent force within his mind was of his growing capability as a mountain man. Soon, he thought, he could absolve all contingencies. He would survive through human endurance, and his life pursuit would be complete. He wanted nothing more of the world than to be alone in the mountains.
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Poetic Deviation? I'll try.
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