and he was able to unclench his fist from around the pistol grip of the rifle. His fingers felt like ice, in spite of his insulated riding gloves. DJ flexed them to try to restore some feeling.
He replaced the partially used magazine in his rifle and then returned it to its scabbard. Removing the flashlight from his pocket, he looked at the back of his quad. Nothing looked damaged or amiss, other than the missing trailer. He motored over to where the truck had gone through the fence the first time. There lay his precious trailer in the shallow ditch that ran beside the road. It looked more like an accordion than a trailer. Parts of it and its cargo were scattered across the ditch. DJ could feel the hot blood returning to his head as the realization of what this meant sank in. His rigid body seemed to melt, as his head hung and his shoulders sagged. How could he carry all of his stuff without the trailer? How would he make it without all of his carefully assembled gear? He sat and pondered those questions for a long time.
Finally he began to collect his stuff. First he looked for his firearms. The rifle case was dirty but undamaged, and he opened it up to find that his rifles were fine. The pistol case was crushed on one corner, but the contents were intact, except for one ruined magazine. His shotgun, however, hadnât fared so well. It had been run over by the truck. Both barrels were noticeably bent, and he wasnât sure if the receiver had any damage or not.
Then he gathered the jerry cans of gasoline. The empty one was only dinged up a little, but two of the full jerry cans had split open on the seam. Now he had only five gallons of fuel, besides what was already in the quad. Heâd have to find more somehow. As he fought the urge to just plop down in the middle of the field, he wondered if heâd ever get to his destination.
Almost all his dried goods were trashed, but most of the canned food was still good. The aluminum poles for his tent were bent beyond repair, and his cook stove was totaled. Jacobâs sonâs chain saw had come out of the case on impact; it was packed with dirt and debris and DJ suspected that it would no longer work. DJ threw the unusable gear into one pile and prioritized the rest, strapping items onto the racks of his quad.
The firearms and gas were easy to place, even if they did sit higher than he would have liked. He had to make some choices on ammo. He left the shotgun ammo behind since he no longer had a working scattergun. What he had the most of was the ammo for his carbine, so he decided to take half of it. He took all of the ammo for his bolt-action rifle and the rimfire rifle, but he only took the pistol ammo for his main sidearm. He found a spot for a little of the food that had been on the trailer. He still had five or six daysâ worth between his emergency pack and the MREs already on the quad. His sleeping bag, tool kit, and gravity-fed water filter took up the rest of the available space. He looked at the things he was going to leave behind and sighed. He could do without them, but he hated the idea of leaving behind things he could use.
Well, Iâll be damned if Iâm going to leave them here for someone to take,
he thought. He looked across the road and saw that the cornfield there wasnât planted all the way to the fence. There was a path wide enough for a tractor to turn around between the crops and the property line. DJ dug out his folding shovel and climbed over the fence. The ground was hard, and the digging was strenuous, but he finally had a deep enough hole to bury the usable items he couldnât take. Carrying them across the fence and covering them only took a fraction of the time it took to dig the hole. DJ packed the dirt in as tightly as he could and camouflaged the mound to the best of his ability. He saved the location in his GPS with the hope that heâd be able to come back one day to retrieve the cache. The pile of
He replaced the partially used magazine in his rifle and then returned it to its scabbard. Removing the flashlight from his pocket, he looked at the back of his quad. Nothing looked damaged or amiss, other than the missing trailer. He motored over to where the truck had gone through the fence the first time. There lay his precious trailer in the shallow ditch that ran beside the road. It looked more like an accordion than a trailer. Parts of it and its cargo were scattered across the ditch. DJ could feel the hot blood returning to his head as the realization of what this meant sank in. His rigid body seemed to melt, as his head hung and his shoulders sagged. How could he carry all of his stuff without the trailer? How would he make it without all of his carefully assembled gear? He sat and pondered those questions for a long time.
Finally he began to collect his stuff. First he looked for his firearms. The rifle case was dirty but undamaged, and he opened it up to find that his rifles were fine. The pistol case was crushed on one corner, but the contents were intact, except for one ruined magazine. His shotgun, however, hadnât fared so well. It had been run over by the truck. Both barrels were noticeably bent, and he wasnât sure if the receiver had any damage or not.
Then he gathered the jerry cans of gasoline. The empty one was only dinged up a little, but two of the full jerry cans had split open on the seam. Now he had only five gallons of fuel, besides what was already in the quad. Heâd have to find more somehow. As he fought the urge to just plop down in the middle of the field, he wondered if heâd ever get to his destination.
Almost all his dried goods were trashed, but most of the canned food was still good. The aluminum poles for his tent were bent beyond repair, and his cook stove was totaled. Jacobâs sonâs chain saw had come out of the case on impact; it was packed with dirt and debris and DJ suspected that it would no longer work. DJ threw the unusable gear into one pile and prioritized the rest, strapping items onto the racks of his quad.
The firearms and gas were easy to place, even if they did sit higher than he would have liked. He had to make some choices on ammo. He left the shotgun ammo behind since he no longer had a working scattergun. What he had the most of was the ammo for his carbine, so he decided to take half of it. He took all of the ammo for his bolt-action rifle and the rimfire rifle, but he only took the pistol ammo for his main sidearm. He found a spot for a little of the food that had been on the trailer. He still had five or six daysâ worth between his emergency pack and the MREs already on the quad. His sleeping bag, tool kit, and gravity-fed water filter took up the rest of the available space. He looked at the things he was going to leave behind and sighed. He could do without them, but he hated the idea of leaving behind things he could use.
Well, Iâll be damned if Iâm going to leave them here for someone to take,
he thought. He looked across the road and saw that the cornfield there wasnât planted all the way to the fence. There was a path wide enough for a tractor to turn around between the crops and the property line. DJ dug out his folding shovel and climbed over the fence. The ground was hard, and the digging was strenuous, but he finally had a deep enough hole to bury the usable items he couldnât take. Carrying them across the fence and covering them only took a fraction of the time it took to dig the hole. DJ packed the dirt in as tightly as he could and camouflaged the mound to the best of his ability. He saved the location in his GPS with the hope that heâd be able to come back one day to retrieve the cache. The pile of
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