Lobo stirs before David. She shuffles around the van and wakes him. A Volkswagen Vanagon purchased two years ago and has since slowly been reborn. He rebuilt the engine and inside he fabricated for living. Right behind the driver’s seat is a desk, where David writes and reads. Candles and books clutter the desk. All the way in the back a hammock stretches across the van for nights when David is alone. When Eleanor comes along, the two sleep on the floor.
Next to the desk is the kitchen, simply consisting of another small desk with a cabinet in the bottom. Screwed onto the top is a large wooden cutting board. Inside the cabinet are a small two-burner propane stove, an iron skillet and Dutch oven, a large wooden spoon, a few forks, a brick of homemade butter, and a bottle of whiskey. The ceiling of the van is strewn with gear—his two rifles, a .30-06 and .22, canoe paddles, and his fishing poles. It may be claustrophobic to many, but to David his van is therapeutic.
Whenever David and Eleanor can get away, they go. They fuel themselves through adventure and together they have fallen madly in love. Many nights, cold and dark, the two have slept in this van, and now, upon waking, David misses her dearly. He wishes he had not left her home alone. He hates to do this. But he had to leave town. He had to reset his spirit, mind, and soul.
The sun sits below the horizon leaving the sky aflame with broken clouds idly drifting as they have exhausted themselves. David looks outside; the snow must be three feet deep. And he has overslept. He rolls over in his sleeping bag and looks towards the East. The sun spills over the horizon and into his eyes. David flinches in pain and quickly stuffs his head into his pillow to avert the harsh light.
With a deep breath, he climbs out of bed, rubs his eyes and searches for his eyeglasses. Lobo is eager to get outside. Her tail fervently thumps the floor. She loves the snow. David shuffles around in the van to open the driver door and let her out. She flies out in haste as snow eagerly pours in. Grunting, he kicks out what he can and drains a bladder full of beer and whiskey. David sets his eyes on breakfast.
He pulls out the stove and attaches it to a propane tank. Grabbing a small pot from the floor, he sets it down on the stove and fills it with water. He lights the burner and finds the jar of oats he soaked the night before and adds them to the water. He sets about making coffee. The air shivers through his bones. He pauses to put on a wool sweater. With coffee and water on the burner the oats have thickened. Adding butter he sits back while they cool. He grabs a jar of maple syrup and mixes in a spoonful. The coffee foams and boils over the pot. Hissing, David rushes to turn off the flame.
Between bites and sips, he thinks up a plan for the day. The van must be dug out. The road is only one hundred feet away. And he must get there by the end of the day in order to return home. He swallows his last bite as he slips on a pair of wool underwear, wool pants, and finally, his deer-hide pants. Then his boots and a wool brimmed hat. He finishes most of his black coffee and tells Lobo to rest up for the day. Grabbing his shovel, he slips out the driver side door.
The snow is deep, fluffy, and he sinks right through. Losing his balance he falls, right into the warm yellow snow. But it is light, and easy to move. He begins the shoveling then stops and listens. The air is calm. Still. And pure. The mountain air levitates about with dignity, freshest immediately following the early fall snowstorms the air is the freshest. The snow removes all the particulates from the air. He feels invigorated, heavily breathing under the work. He focuses on the rhythm of the shovel. His pace is arduous but he holds steady, first establishing a corridor around the van. He misses Eleanor.
Working steadily, he stops to clear his glasses from fog. Suddenly, on the edge of the clearing, about two hundred yards from the van, stands a large whitetail deer, trying to poke its way through the small clearing. David looks up, leans on his shovel, exhales, and sees the deer. Silently, he opens the door and is immediately greeted with a wet, slobbery tongue. He shoves Lobo out of the way. Reaching back, he grabs his .30-06. A lever-action Winchester. His favorite gun. His grandfather had passed it on to him when he graduated high school. He keeps it loaded at all times, always prepared for a moment like this. He turns and noiselessly closes the door. He must decide—shoot the deer and spend the day dressing the carcass, or let it be and dig his car out. He looks up towards the deer, and with a flicker of the tail, its head rises. David can see the breath, pouring out from each nostril. The buck acknowledges David and halts.
He kneels down at the side of the bus. Missing Eleanor, he sees this as an offering. He pulls the gun next to his body and quietly pulls the lever. Adrenaline races in his veins. With a muffled mechanical click, a bullet slides into the chamber. He pulls his rifle up to his shoulder. Resting the wooden stock in the small of his shoulder, the scope stands between his eye and the deer. He switches off the safety and rests his finger on the trigger. Holding his breath, he poises for the shot. Abruptly, a snowplow roars its way down the highway. And with it, David fires. The smoke floats up from his gun. The deer is nowhere in sight.
“Fuck! Damn truck, spooked the deer,” exclaims David. He puts his gun back on safety and leans it against the van. He hopes the deer is lying there in the snow. After post-holing the 200 yards to where the deer stood, he surveys for tracks. He finds them. Coming and going. No blood. Cursing the snowplow, he returns to his van, picks up his gun and empties the chamber. His heart beats heavily with adrenaline. He pockets the empty shell as he picks up the shovel and returns to the strenuous work.
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