Chapter 18: Feral Goats and Fired Passion

End-February 2030

Despite what the calendar said, winter refused to make its spectacular debut all season long. There were the occasional snow flurries, but they never amounted to much and within a day or two the snow melted away where exposed to the sun’s passion.

Clark and his family needed meat, fresh meat to build up their strength for the coming spring. Other than meat, they also needed to harvest the richest pelts and thickest skins for leather which were available primarily in winter. After nearly four years, he had become one with nature, a skilled two-legged predator.

However, without a white landscape, deer and other wild game were well camouflaged among the trees and dry brush. Without a few inches of snow blanketing the ground, Clark was unable to see their tracks or their droppings, identify the kind of animals or which way they were going. Deep snow made it difficult to get around, and often dangerous, even with snowshoes. But, without snow, the hunt would take longer and the longer he was out in the wilderness, the more exposed he would be to potential dangerous situations.

He couldn’t rest and was forced to widen his search to areas where he had never been before. His main focus was locations where water was available and the terrain provided a safe bedding area for the deer to escape chilly winds. He figured that with a higher concentration of the animals his chances of tagging one were greater.

The effort, however, was going to be exhausting and not without perils. He could get lost in a thick fog, become trapped in a sudden snowstorm and suffer frostbite, or be attacked by some ferocious animal.

He entered the woods on the other side of the stream across from the apple orchard and moved along some game trails in the general direction of Farrville. Noiselessly, he crept through the rough, endless wilderness, choked with underbrush, tangled ravines, and ever more difficult terrain. Using the army compass stored in the box under the couch, he checked his position every few minutes to make sure he wasn’t going around in circles. The deeper he went the taller and older the woods appeared, flinging melancholy utterances in the breeze.

His eyes roved everywhere alert and vigilant for the prized game as well as the hidden dangers, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of forests and open fields, reading signs and sounds like reading a book. When a sound came to him, he didn’t just hear it, but would know the sound and from where it came.

Every time he was out in the wild, he relied more and more on his senses of sight, sound and smell. They had always been there, but seemed to have atrophied living in an artificial society, heavily dependent on technology. Now, it was imperative to put them to use, more crucial than his hunting gear, and his senses seemed getting keener with experience as time went on. Maybe humans needed a reboot every 1000 or so years, he thought.

The game trail wound its way about trees and outcroppings, and slowly worked its way up the slope of a pine covered hill. Along the way, he found a pile of scat. It wasn’t fresh, and by the size of the turds were that of a bear. Suddenly the outing was no longer about hunting, but making sure he didn’t end up being the hunted.

He checked to make sure his pistol was loaded and his hunting knife securely fastened to his belt. He was confident that he could kill a bear with his rifle before it got to him. For all he cared, the bear could take a dump wherever it felt the need, as long as it didn’t stray too close to the cabin. A beast of that size could easily rip a door off its hinges, or break a window.

The trail disappeared and the ground dropped away sharply in front of him into a rugged ravine filled with jagged rocks. It was deep and ran about two hundred feet towards a bog that stretched from north to south along a narrow valley covered in a variety of sedge grasses and cottontails. He didn’t want to get stuck or bogged down in a wet, muddy area. Instead, he took a detour up and around the ravine until he reached an area on the far side where pines had been toppled and lay on the ground like fallen soldiers.

The further he went the more it became apparent to him that a powerful storm had torn the forest to pieces. It looked like a giant had become angry and used a massive wrecking ball on the trees. Huge pines were twisted and snapped off. The ground was littered with limbs and treetops. Sharp branches jutted from all directions like broken teeth trying to thrust themselves at his eyes.

Among the tangled chaos, thickets of blackberries, raspberries, and elderberries had established their domain, fighting for space and light from above. The bramble of thorns tried to tear at his clothes. It was hard to get through, and he had to move cautiously and as noiselessly as possible.

He quickly realized it was foolish to go forward and climbed up the slant of an aged, fallen tree covered with tree fungus the size and color of pancakes to get a better view of his surroundings. The area wasn’t particularly suitable to sustain deer or bring a kill through. He stood there for a moment in silence to contemplate an exit when suddenly he heard the sound of twigs breaking. He focused his eyes in the direction where he thought the sound came from. He heard it again and sharply tipped his head downslope, catching the gleam of shiny black fur.

At the base of a nearby uprooted tree with earth still clinging to its web of feeders a black bear appeared with ears perked on high alert. The burly animal sniffed the air and grunted with displeasure for being disturbed from its slumber.

Was it the same bear that Katie had fought off? Wasn’t the animal supposed to be hibernating? Clark’s heart hammered in his chest and the sound of blood pulsed in his ears.

The bear looked sluggish, swaying on all fours like a drunkard, trying to keep its hefty body steady. It stuck out its long pink tongue like it was testing the temperature of the air, only to finish the routine by opening its mouth for a long, drawn-out yawn. The only sound it made was a few huffs like it was coughing to clear its lungs.

Clark remained focused on the bear’s intentions; his stance as rigid as his rifle. He knew the bear was a part of the woods. He respected that and was glad that he didn’t stand downhill from the brute where it would certainly have picked up his scent and might have reacted angrily for being provoked.

In slow motion, the bear turned and disappeared in a dugout at the base of the roots to curl up again and resume its long winter snooze.

Clark relaxed his grip on the rifle and was finally able to breathe again and move his body. It was time to make his way back home. He followed a course up the slope to get away from the bear’s den and immediate territory as quickly as possible and live to tell his story.

March 2030

After many more days of roaming through uneven, often steep terrain littered with fallen branches and rocks left behind at the end of the last ice age when the glaciers receded, he stumbled upon a parched rivulet, thirsting for the melting snow which made itself scarce. Young aspen trees with thin trunks grew in clusters, competing for moisture and sunlight. According to his sense of direction, the rivulet originated from the woods somewhere south of the farmhouse and thread its way downhill through the rugged terrain to the trickle of running water that guided them up to the cabin.

Further downstream, he found himself struggling through a maze of scrubby trees and bushes which he believed lined up with the brickhouse. It was brimming with tassels of tree moss, and there were signs all over where deer had stripped tender twigs and pulled moss off branches.

Rather than retrace his steps over the challenging terrain back up to the cabin, Clark decided to head in the direction of the brickhouse, intent on taking a roundabout detour to the gravel road and the well-traveled mountain trail.

As he approached what he believed was the meadow laid out in front of the house, he nocked an arrow just in case. In slow motion, he stalked toward the edge of the forest, dry leaves and pine needles crunching underfoot. He stopped behind a large tree making himself one with the thick trunk.

He cautiously moved to the side and stretched his neck to see over the tall grass, moving his head from side to side to get a better view through the underbrush. Squinting to adjust his eyes to the bright light of the open meadow, he spotted several deer at the far side where the sun was still providing warmth. The animals were calmly nibbling on food sources among the overgrown brush along the edge. A large buck stood guard several feet away on higher ground giving off an air of authority; his huge ears swiveling constantly like radar dishes to pick up any unusual sound.

Clark considered himself an excellent marksman, yet he felt the distance was too great and the dry grass too high to get a clean shot. If he missed, wounded and couldn’t find the animal, he would have nothing to show for days of effort, plus lose an arrow.

As an architect he learned to tackle one challenge at a time and still see the broad picture. Hunting was no different. He decided it was best to return the next day when he could set up a position much closer to his target.

Dodging trees, fallen limbs, and brambles, Clark moved easily around the perimeter of the meadow towards the driveway of the brickhouse. He was as quiet and stealthy as a mountain lion on the hunt, occasionally looking back to see if the deer had noticed him or not. Except for the buck who kept watch over his harem, all the others were still busy feeding.

That night up at the cabin, as the sun dropped to its bed behind the mountains, the sky over the ridge took on a reddish glow. Clark had observed this before and remembered what his grandfather often told him:

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.

Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning.

Trying to predict the weather in mountainous regions proved difficult and Clark learned to rely on such sayings and other natural observations that had withstood the test of time, like fog that clings and dissipates along the ground as a sure sign of clear weather on the horizon. Knowing the conditions for at least the next day meant the difference between success and failure. He was confident that clear days were in the forecast for a couple of days and decided to put his plan into action.

CLARK LEFT SHORTLY after lunch the following day for the farmhouse where he would wait till dark and then go spend the night at the brickhouse. He wanted to be up and in position before the break of dawn on the second day to wait for the deer.

When he reached the gravel road and looked down the path, he froze and fell back into the brush, startled to see a pair of short four-legged animals with tails pointing skyward crossing the road from the farmhouse to the crop field. He was too far away and the animals disappeared in the blink of an eye making it impossible to identify them. One thing was sure. They didn’t look like deer.

He stayed to the side of the road hoping to blend in with the brush and not be seen. He was less than 100 yards from the farmhouse when several more of the same creatures crossed over to where the others had gone attracted by their calling. It sounded like bleats. There was no more doubt in Clark’s mind. These animals were goats; maybe the one’s that Brother Matthew had talked about.

Clark slipped around to the back of the house and galloped upstairs taking two steps at a time. From the bay window in the master bedroom he had a perfect overview of the apple orchard and crop field. There were at least a dozen or more goats including one big, bad looking Billy goat. They came in all shapes and sizes, various colors and patterns from all white to half white, half brown with black feet, and light brown with white molted blotches on their sides. Some had floppy ears; others, pointy ones. Clark was so excited and nervous that he couldn’t think straight what to do next.

The deer weren’t going anywhere, not soon anyway. The goats, on the other hand, were capable of foraging for anything far and wide and seemed quicker on the hoof. The decision to postpone the deer hunt and concentrate on the goats required little rationale. He could always go deer hunting another day. The proposition to catch goats and domesticate them seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He had to think long term for the sake of Fifi and Trish and little Matthew and eventually a few more additions to the family. Milk, real milk was a vital necessity for them, and his mouth started to water also thinking about cheese and butter which he hadn’t seen in years. If he could capture a couple of nannies and a young buck, that would be more than enough to get started.

Luring the females without infuriating the male was going to be a challenge. However, he remembered from his grandparents’ small farm that, unlike deer, goats are not afraid of humans, unless they are harmed or feel threatened. Moreover, they are intelligent and very curious animals, and reciprocate nicely when offered treats. The young, on the other hand, are playful and often make the best pets. However, Clark wasn’t sure how feral goats would react to him.

There were still three, maybe four hours of daylight left. Clark quickly grabbed several pieces of rope, filled one bucket with a few handfuls of corn and the rest with apples, and another with a cabbage head and lots of carrots from the cellar. Nonchalantly, he wandered over to the open gate leading to the apple orchard and crop field, replicating the sound goats make in order to grab their attention and motivate them to come see the goodies he brought. The goats were feeding on the green wheat grass, but, when Clark started dangling carrots in his hand, a few came closer curious to taste the bright orange delicacy. The others continued grazing without fear, minding their own business.