Chapter 2

Lance stood back and admired the cabinet he had just installed. As he remembered the hours he had spent downing the tree, cutting the boards, sanding and finishing the surfaces, he felt a sense of pride, a feeling of accomplishment. There had been no need to hurry on this project. Time had ceased to have its usual meaning since he’d made his break from society. There were no time clocks to punch, no meetings to attend. Hours were unimportant anymore; now only seasons mattered.

The cabinet would be perfect for storing the small items he used in his jewelry and sculpture design. Plus, it blended well with the rough log wall of his cabin, coordinating with the workbench he had already built.

He remembered back to when he had first laid eyes on the place, an ancient graying dilapidated structure surrounded by acres upon acres of Colorado forest. Of course, he had been Sullivan Proctor then. But that was three years ago; today he was a different man. He had taken the first names of his paternal and maternal grandfathers and was now known as Lance Matthew.

He put his tools away and moved into the main room of the house.

In the corner, the potbelly stove radiated a comforting heat. The walls held kitchen tools and implements. From the ceiling various herbs, drying onions, and bunches of garlic hung ready for use. Overhead in the loft were stored extra clothing, animal pelts, and rag-woven blankets. Lance had learned to make something useful of almost anything.

Along one wall loomed a rather grand fireplace he had built after hauling load after load of stone in from the river. Today, there were logs laid ready for the fire he would light come nightfall. At times a simmering pot would hang over the flames, slow cooking a stew perhaps, or roasting a wild-caught rabbit or turkey. The skylight above, fashioned from a scrap of clear corrugated fiberglass he had salvaged and reinforced, allowed a soft light and a modicum of warmth from the sun as it filtered down through the surrounding branches. Hand-woven rugs softened the stone floor he had painstakingly laid during his first year in the place.

 Lance glanced out one of the cabin’s small windows, its snug shutters open to the daylight. Though the sun shone brightly, the telltale signs of rapidly approaching winter were obvious, like the frost that coated the branches and leaves each morning when he arose, and the sense of expectancy in the air. Lance felt in his bones this would be a long, cold winter.

He wanted to add a few more shelves to his cold storage room before the first big snow fell, and stock it with as much wild game and fish as he could catch. It was also time to cull the small wild goat herd and his motley collection of chickens and ducks.

It was challenging to keep meat from spoiling without electricity. In the first year of his self-imposed exile, scavenging animals had stolen his cache from its outside storage, and he discovered that meat tended to spoil if he kept it inside. But, he had learned a lot since then.

In his second year on the mountain, he built the cold storage room using plans he found in a book. An un-insulated closet filled with shelves kept his food cold during the winter months while eliminating the possibility of wild animals hauling it away. Once the weather took its final hard turn, his meat would stay frozen and protected within its thin but sturdy walls for the duration of the winter.

He needed the first freeze before fully stocking his larder, but it wasn’t too soon for jerky and pemmican. It wasn’t too soon to gather firewood, to store the root crops in the shallow stone cellar he had fashioned, or to make the final trips into town for supplies, animal feed, and to sell his latest batch of steampunk crafts. In fact, his days were now so filled with industry; he never experienced the boredom and restlessness that had occasionally plagued him in his old life. There was lots of work to do, but work he scheduled for himself, useful work, necessary work.

He thought with satisfaction of the upcoming winter he would spend sheltered in his home, working on small projects, while the snow swirled and piled up outside. Once winter settled in, getting out for any reason would be difficult. Lance was far off the beaten path, and he loved it. The civilized world, with its intrusions, grief, and memories fell away here in the mountains as if a distant bad dream. Trading modern conveniences for this peace of mind was a small price to pay.

Lance pulled on a jacket, slung his canvas bag over a shoulder, and left to check his trotlines, traps, and scattered garden plots. A pan of succulent fried fish and boiled turnips would make a good hearty lunch. Grabbing his bow, he carefully shut and secured the cabin door, admiring once again how cleverly the place blended in with the background. When he had added onto the small dwelling, he had erected the few extra rooms around standing trees rather than cut them down. In fact, his bedroom and workroom had trees growing right up through the ceilings and out the roof. Not only did this please him aesthetically, it also gave the structure added stability. His additions were built vertically, which helped camouflage his home, giving the illusion it was just part of the surrounding forest. His home was well hidden. Safe.

A bird called overhead as he strolled amid the pines and side-winded down the slopes through the brush. He was always careful to take different routes so as not to lay down clear cut paths or trails that might lead to his cabin. Lance valued his privacy.