Clear and sunny again but cool at night.
Visited Mom in am then went to Vernon to visit long time friend, Russ. We got caught up again over several glasses of wine.
Like I mentioned yesterday, I really don't have anything prepared to publish in the way of a story, but the thought occurred that I could post the beginning of the story I am currently working on. I don't want to try and past as I go as I have done before as it puts pressure on to hurry and then the product isn't good.
So what I put on today is just to provide a glimpse.
FORKS IN THE TRAIL
A SEQUEL TO ‘FIRST WE SURVIVE’
By
JOHN LITTLE
This story was started in 2011 and then was shelved because I couldn’t find the words or perhaps the path to follow.
Then in April of 2012 my youngest son was killed and I reread a story he had written some time ago. (Wolf Dreams, A story of choices)
The rereading opened my eyes and although I have always recognized that our path through life has many forks, his story made me realize that each fork requires a choice and therefore our lives are made by the choices we choose.
This then lead me to resurrecting this story, some of it will be influenced by the words he wrote and it will be a testimony to his wisdom.
FORKS IN THE TRAIL
Is dedicated to the memory of
Alan Harvey Little
1969 – 2012
1
He slipped out the back door easing it shut behind him. He didn’t pause to look about but turned and headed in the pre-dawn shadows towards the beach just yards away. In a few steps the outline of the boat ramp became faintly discernible; a boat beached by the ebb tide was leaning against the far side.
Without pause he stepped up onto the ramp and moved down the cleated surface to the first of several connected floats. At the third float he stopped then stepped down into a small boat that was obviously prepared for fishing.
He slipped a smallish knapsack off his shoulder and stored it under the bow seat, then stepped across the center seat and bent over the fuel tank that was secured to the wooden slats of the floor boards. He pumped a half dozen times on the in-line rubber ball of the fuel hose that ran from the tank back to the fifteen horse Johnson outboard; he turned, checked to ensure the motor was in neutral, pulled out the choke, twisted the handle to ‘start’ and pulled the starter cord. On the third pull the motor burst into life shattering the early morning quietness.
The young man quickly closed the choke and slowed the motor; as it idled he untied the boat and shoved away from the float. He buttoned the worn jacket he was wearing against the morning’s chill then engaged the motor, increased power and put the boat into a tight turn and headed out into the bay; the first vestiges of the rising sun were just glimmering on the tips of the mountains that rose from the darkened shore ahead of him.
Roger Holden or Roj to avoid confusion with his grandfather for whom he had been named, was heading out on his first fishing trip since he had arrived home a week earlier. He had just completed his second year of university and was eager to do some ‘r and r’; to recapture the feeling of peacefulness and contentment that had always prevailed during his childhood and teens in the small village where he had been born and on the waters and in the wilds where he had grown up.
The first few days after his arrival he had been caught up in the excitement of re-uniting with family and friends but after the initial fervor wore down he found himself yearning for some solitary time; some time to travel the small bays and inlets that he knew so well and later to tramp along the beaches and the trails he had known his whole life.
The night before he had announced that he would head out early the next morning. “I’m thinking I might stay out overnight and be home the day after tomorrow.” He explained.
“Sounds good, Roj,” his father said, not offering to go along.
Meggie, his mother smiled, “Good bring home a few rock cod and I’ll deep fry them for you.”
Neither parent tried to dissuade him from going, they both recognized the pattern from previous homecomings and had no concerns about a solitary expedition. He had been given his first boat when he was twelve and had demonstrated early on both his grandfather’s and his father’s understanding of the water as well as their skill in handling boats; a good portion of his pre-teen years had been spent on the old “Four Square” that was now retired and resting on dry land as a monument to another time.
Once well away from the floats and the other boats, Roj opened the throttle to cruising speed and headed out of the bay. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, just somewhere down the inlet; whims of the moment would be his guide.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later he turned the boat and angled into a small sandy beach. He gently ran the bow up onto the sand and cut the motor, he sat for a moment and let his mind go back to the first time he had visited this spot; it was just after his twelfth birthday and was his first solo expedition in his twelve foot double ender. He smiled as he remembered stripping down and cavorting in and out of the water and then his dismay when he couldn’t get the old one cylinder inboard motor to start. He remembered his initial panic then slowly realizing that he was alone and with no one to help, he had to solve the problem himself. Eventually the odor of gas rising from the carburetor had reminded him that his grandfather had cautioned him that sometimes the float would stick and the engine would flood.
Visited Mom in am then went to Vernon to visit long time friend, Russ. We got caught up again over several glasses of wine.
Like I mentioned yesterday, I really don't have anything prepared to publish in the way of a story, but the thought occurred that I could post the beginning of the story I am currently working on. I don't want to try and past as I go as I have done before as it puts pressure on to hurry and then the product isn't good.
So what I put on today is just to provide a glimpse.
FORKS IN THE TRAIL
A SEQUEL TO ‘FIRST WE SURVIVE’
By
JOHN LITTLE
This story was started in 2011 and then was shelved because I couldn’t find the words or perhaps the path to follow.
Then in April of 2012 my youngest son was killed and I reread a story he had written some time ago. (Wolf Dreams, A story of choices)
The rereading opened my eyes and although I have always recognized that our path through life has many forks, his story made me realize that each fork requires a choice and therefore our lives are made by the choices we choose.
This then lead me to resurrecting this story, some of it will be influenced by the words he wrote and it will be a testimony to his wisdom.
FORKS IN THE TRAIL
Is dedicated to the memory of
Alan Harvey Little
1969 – 2012
1
He slipped out the back door easing it shut behind him. He didn’t pause to look about but turned and headed in the pre-dawn shadows towards the beach just yards away. In a few steps the outline of the boat ramp became faintly discernible; a boat beached by the ebb tide was leaning against the far side.
Without pause he stepped up onto the ramp and moved down the cleated surface to the first of several connected floats. At the third float he stopped then stepped down into a small boat that was obviously prepared for fishing.
He slipped a smallish knapsack off his shoulder and stored it under the bow seat, then stepped across the center seat and bent over the fuel tank that was secured to the wooden slats of the floor boards. He pumped a half dozen times on the in-line rubber ball of the fuel hose that ran from the tank back to the fifteen horse Johnson outboard; he turned, checked to ensure the motor was in neutral, pulled out the choke, twisted the handle to ‘start’ and pulled the starter cord. On the third pull the motor burst into life shattering the early morning quietness.
The young man quickly closed the choke and slowed the motor; as it idled he untied the boat and shoved away from the float. He buttoned the worn jacket he was wearing against the morning’s chill then engaged the motor, increased power and put the boat into a tight turn and headed out into the bay; the first vestiges of the rising sun were just glimmering on the tips of the mountains that rose from the darkened shore ahead of him.
Roger Holden or Roj to avoid confusion with his grandfather for whom he had been named, was heading out on his first fishing trip since he had arrived home a week earlier. He had just completed his second year of university and was eager to do some ‘r and r’; to recapture the feeling of peacefulness and contentment that had always prevailed during his childhood and teens in the small village where he had been born and on the waters and in the wilds where he had grown up.
The first few days after his arrival he had been caught up in the excitement of re-uniting with family and friends but after the initial fervor wore down he found himself yearning for some solitary time; some time to travel the small bays and inlets that he knew so well and later to tramp along the beaches and the trails he had known his whole life.
The night before he had announced that he would head out early the next morning. “I’m thinking I might stay out overnight and be home the day after tomorrow.” He explained.
“Sounds good, Roj,” his father said, not offering to go along.
Meggie, his mother smiled, “Good bring home a few rock cod and I’ll deep fry them for you.”
Neither parent tried to dissuade him from going, they both recognized the pattern from previous homecomings and had no concerns about a solitary expedition. He had been given his first boat when he was twelve and had demonstrated early on both his grandfather’s and his father’s understanding of the water as well as their skill in handling boats; a good portion of his pre-teen years had been spent on the old “Four Square” that was now retired and resting on dry land as a monument to another time.
Once well away from the floats and the other boats, Roj opened the throttle to cruising speed and headed out of the bay. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, just somewhere down the inlet; whims of the moment would be his guide.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later he turned the boat and angled into a small sandy beach. He gently ran the bow up onto the sand and cut the motor, he sat for a moment and let his mind go back to the first time he had visited this spot; it was just after his twelfth birthday and was his first solo expedition in his twelve foot double ender. He smiled as he remembered stripping down and cavorting in and out of the water and then his dismay when he couldn’t get the old one cylinder inboard motor to start. He remembered his initial panic then slowly realizing that he was alone and with no one to help, he had to solve the problem himself. Eventually the odor of gas rising from the carburetor had reminded him that his grandfather had cautioned him that sometimes the float would stick and the engine would flood.
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