around the fire and ate, while the log slowly burned. From time to time John Longknife got up and chopped a path for the fire to take.
I wanted them to sleep in the cave, but they put up a shelter outside. In the morning, after we had eaten, the young Indian showed me how the fire must burn. He drew a line along the top of the log with my jackknife and curves front and back to mark the bow and stern.
He spoke to his wife and she said, "The fire must not burn too far. The burning must stop when the shell is twice as thick as your hand. Then you use the ax to cut it down some more. Until the sides are no thicker than your hand, except for the bottom. The bottom must be left deeper. You must use wet clay to guide the fire."
Her husband held his hands apart to show how deep the bottom must be.
Then the Longknifes left their children with me and went down to the lake and fished the rest of the morning. They came back with dozens of fat trout, much bigger than those I caught in the stream. They built a hickory fire against the face of the cave and smoked them, taking the rest of the afternoon and that night.
In the morning the ground was covered with frost. John Longknife looked up at the gray sky and said that winter would come soon. "Two days maybe."
Helen Longknife nodded. "My husband knows the signs. Do you have snowshoes for the winter?"
"No."
"You will need them when you travel."
"I don't plan to travel."
"You can get sick. You are a long way from the village. You are alone. You will need shoes."
She glanced at the string of smoked trout. I had the feeling that the Longknifes were planning to stay on with me through the winter.
Helen got up and went over to her pack, unfastened her snowshoes, and handed them to me.
"Put them on," she said. "See if they are right. If they are not right, my husband will fix them."
But the biggest gift of all followed the gift of the snowshoes.
"You need a door," Helen Longknife said. "Many animals in the forest will look for food when snow comes. They will walk right in on you when you are sleeping. The small animals, foxes and bobcats, they are not important. But we have wolves and bears. The bears are big. You need a door."
John Longknife took the planks I had bound together, which now stood aslant the opening, and laid them out on the ground. He cut hinges of a double thickness, using deerhide I had stored. With my jackknife and his hunting knife and a tool he had made and carried in his belt, on a key ring he had found somewhere that had two
big rusty keys hanging from it, he bored holes and made wooden pegs. He wedged the frame I had made hard against the rock and set flat stones at the top and bottom and sides. He made an oak bar that moved on a heavy oak peg and locked itself into an oak slat.
I helped him as best I could. In four days the door was up. It fitted the frame, swung freely on its hinges, and could be barred tight from the inside.
When the door was finished, the Longknifes took their fish down, packed their things, and left.
"We would like to come next summer and fish," Helen Longknife said.
"You are welcome," I said.
"Then we will help you set the dugout in the water."
"Thank you."
The little girl came over and put her hand in mine for a moment.
I watched the family go down the slope. They had a birch canoe beached on the lake. As they moved away, they waved and I waved back. I liked them. They were friendly people. But for some reason I was not sorry to see them go.
It was mostly that I had grown comfortable in my new life. I had a warm cave for a home. A stream full of small fish and a lake teeming with large trout and wild fowl lay at my doorstep. The forest yielded an endless store of acorns and roots, nuts and berries.
And not only had I become comfortable, now I found
myself looking forward to each day. I felt that I had a part in what it would bring. That each new day was not something that would just happen, but was something that I would
I wanted them to sleep in the cave, but they put up a shelter outside. In the morning, after we had eaten, the young Indian showed me how the fire must burn. He drew a line along the top of the log with my jackknife and curves front and back to mark the bow and stern.
He spoke to his wife and she said, "The fire must not burn too far. The burning must stop when the shell is twice as thick as your hand. Then you use the ax to cut it down some more. Until the sides are no thicker than your hand, except for the bottom. The bottom must be left deeper. You must use wet clay to guide the fire."
Her husband held his hands apart to show how deep the bottom must be.
Then the Longknifes left their children with me and went down to the lake and fished the rest of the morning. They came back with dozens of fat trout, much bigger than those I caught in the stream. They built a hickory fire against the face of the cave and smoked them, taking the rest of the afternoon and that night.
In the morning the ground was covered with frost. John Longknife looked up at the gray sky and said that winter would come soon. "Two days maybe."
Helen Longknife nodded. "My husband knows the signs. Do you have snowshoes for the winter?"
"No."
"You will need them when you travel."
"I don't plan to travel."
"You can get sick. You are a long way from the village. You are alone. You will need shoes."
She glanced at the string of smoked trout. I had the feeling that the Longknifes were planning to stay on with me through the winter.
Helen got up and went over to her pack, unfastened her snowshoes, and handed them to me.
"Put them on," she said. "See if they are right. If they are not right, my husband will fix them."
But the biggest gift of all followed the gift of the snowshoes.
"You need a door," Helen Longknife said. "Many animals in the forest will look for food when snow comes. They will walk right in on you when you are sleeping. The small animals, foxes and bobcats, they are not important. But we have wolves and bears. The bears are big. You need a door."
John Longknife took the planks I had bound together, which now stood aslant the opening, and laid them out on the ground. He cut hinges of a double thickness, using deerhide I had stored. With my jackknife and his hunting knife and a tool he had made and carried in his belt, on a key ring he had found somewhere that had two
big rusty keys hanging from it, he bored holes and made wooden pegs. He wedged the frame I had made hard against the rock and set flat stones at the top and bottom and sides. He made an oak bar that moved on a heavy oak peg and locked itself into an oak slat.
I helped him as best I could. In four days the door was up. It fitted the frame, swung freely on its hinges, and could be barred tight from the inside.
When the door was finished, the Longknifes took their fish down, packed their things, and left.
"We would like to come next summer and fish," Helen Longknife said.
"You are welcome," I said.
"Then we will help you set the dugout in the water."
"Thank you."
The little girl came over and put her hand in mine for a moment.
I watched the family go down the slope. They had a birch canoe beached on the lake. As they moved away, they waved and I waved back. I liked them. They were friendly people. But for some reason I was not sorry to see them go.
It was mostly that I had grown comfortable in my new life. I had a warm cave for a home. A stream full of small fish and a lake teeming with large trout and wild fowl lay at my doorstep. The forest yielded an endless store of acorns and roots, nuts and berries.
And not only had I become comfortable, now I found
myself looking forward to each day. I felt that I had a part in what it would bring. That each new day was not something that would just happen, but was something that I would
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