Blood and Iron - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Buyin' time, they say, is a dangerous thing, you never know exactly what the
time will bring, just move along, not too fast, try to make the good
times last.

Excert from All The Time In The World,
by The Subdudes

It was my last trip.  I walked along behind the idling snow mobile with its three tethered freight toboggans, slowly checking the loads of each of the ten-foot sleds.  Slowly was the order of the day, in winter camping. Sweating could easily lead to hypothermia as the body chilled.

The temperature was twenty below zero actual, with a stiff wind as the blizzard gathered strength around me.  Its blowing and drifting snow would obliterate any trace of my passage through the Boundary Waters. 

My quite illegal (in the recreational area) snowmobile would drag the last of my earthly possessions through the motor forbidden park to the hidden, also illegal, cabin of my childhood friend Robert. His family’s cabin, built long before Voyagers Park, even before the State of Minnesota itself existed. 

I cast a last nostalgic look at Robert’s Dodge Ram One Ton four-wheel drive pick up with the long gooseneck trailer, disappearing under a blanket of drifting snow.  The pick-up’s license plates were in my hands, and the accessible VIN numbers had been carefully removed before my trip.  Tomorrow morning the truck would be reported stolen

There was less nostalgia for what that snow bound truck represented. 

My separated, soon-to-be ex-wife and her lover - my boss - made it clear that her divorce would quickly transfer my entire assets to her in a seamless financial transaction.  Since their long-term affair had been conducted right under my nose without any suspicions on my part, assumptions that they were so much cleverer than I were doubtless well founded. 

Grinning, I thought, perhaps not so seamless. 

Right now, two hookers of my recent acquaintance were driving my “bimmer” to Las Vegas with all my credit cards.  When they arrived, my ‘ex’ car was going to a chop shop, and credit cards would be sold.  In about a week, my paper trail would evaporate into the Nevada underworld like a mist in the desert. 

Wife Natalie, and my best friend boss Bill, were about to discover that the disappearance of a principal plays hell with the legal process.  If they were just a bit unlucky, suspicions of their involvement in my vanishing might well completely ruin their party. 

I replaced my helmet, muting the now-howling wind.  I awkwardly climbed on the heated seat of my Arctic Cat T660 Turbo Touring LE,  I was moving with difficulty, in view of the fact that two imaginative call girls (grateful for the gift of a seventy-five thousand dollar BMW) can be quite, um, strenuous in their own exceedingly pleasurable fashion.  

I plugged the helmet into the Cat’s communications system as I started the MP3 of the Subdudes:

…need a minute
take your time
you need an hour
you can borrow mine
'cause I've got all the time in the world.

Following the GPS across the trackless lakes in the blizzards whiteout should have been stressful; it just shows the difference when you have nothing to lose. 

I was musing as my snowmobile effortlessly chewed up the miles.  Nothing like twenty below to keep things running cool even while pulling a load. 

Natalie had been doing an effective job keeping me broke.  Her blind spot was my various collections.  My gun, knife, cartridge, coin, stamp, music box, lock, and watch collections had all flown beneath her money radar, forgotten.

My guns, blades, cartridges, and locks were with me.  My coins and stamps had been liquidated to friendly collectors for cash.  With the exception of a few keepsakes and gifts, the music boxes and watches followed being similarly dispersed.   That pile of cash financed the purchases for this expedition. 

This expedition!  This “hiding out,” actually!

My boy hood chum, Robert, gave me the key to his secluded cabin in this trackless wilderness, saying,  “Take all the time you want. You won’t be disturbed.”

He patted the small green oxygen bottle next to his hip as he continued softly, “I won’t be here when you get back from your sabbatical.”

I nodded sadly, as we once more went over the minutiae of my planned two-year stay alone in the wilderness.  It was a daunting undertaking. I planned to disappear for at least two years without coming out for any reason, including need for additional supply.

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The GPS announcing the lakeshore by the cabin roused me from my memories.  I carefully turned the sled with its long tow into the trees, heading for my new home.  I had to smile; even after my trips through here, there was little sign of disturbance.  The trail behind me was already drifting full.   

Now my transit was much slower, as I wound back and forth, picking my way through trees and thick brush, until finally I broke into the small clearing under the giant wolf oak tree that sheltered the stone cabin.

I stopped to marvel at this cabin - my new home. Solid and timeless, built of huge stones and massive timbers with a thick slate roof.  Seeming to settle firmly into the ground, its fieldstone fireplace and multiple-flue chimney forming the north wall, while a sheltered porch faced the other three sides

On my previous trips tonight, I’d lit the fireplace and thrown open the shutters.  The bright windows, and smell of chili mingled with wood smoke greeted me as I pulled up next to the entrance, removing my helmet.

Now it was more grunt work, as I stripped off my snowmobile suit and began hauling one bundle after another into the cabin.  Rapidly, I finished filling the two rooms off the great room.  In the kitchen, I added to the mound of provisions and supplies yet to be put away.  Another untidy pile grew even larger in the great room.  Without delay, the snowmobile was under a tarp next to the cabin, with the now empty freight toboggans lined up under the big oak tree.  

After a last look around outside, I staggered through the door.  Grabbing my canteen off a table, I collapsed on the leather couch in front of the fireplace.  The smell of chili emanating from the big cast iron pot had, by now, permeated the room.  I realized that I was famished. 

A couple huge bowls of chili with thick slices of homemade bread, chased by one of my carefully hoarded beers, left me full and torpid on the couch.  The blizzard winds, muted by the substantial walls and thick windows, were oddly comforting as I settled deep in the cushions, staring at the fire. 

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My eyes opened slowly. I was looking at the dying embers in the fieldstone fireplace.  I started then sat back as I remembered where I was.   I looked at my watch to find it well after noon.  I had just had my best, most relaxing and refreshing, sleep of recent memory! 

I wandered from window to window, looking out at the continuing storm.  Robert had promised me a storm to cover my tracks, but this record-breaking blizzard far exceeded his most optimistic predictions.   The cabin was still warm.  Low-voltage fans distributed part of the fireplace’s heated air under the hardwood floor. 

The cabin’s electrical system was supplied with juice by a small turbine spinning in the nearby swift moving creek.  Photovoltaic cells were backup when the creek froze in January.  Deep cycle batteries in a cabinet on the porch, fed by a trickle charger, stored power as a further insurance against interruption.   

A cabinet in the mudroom, next to the kitchen area, held power tools.  Ryobi eighteen-volt power packs were charging on the top shelf, while the rest of the shelves were filled with every imaginable Ryobi battery-powered tool including drills, circular and reciprocating saws.  

Before I continued my unpacking, I needed breakfast.  I replenished the fireplace bonfire, then started a small fire in the Charm Crawford Royal wood-burning cookstove.  I marveled again at Robert’s ability to furnish this cabin in the middle of the wilderness.

Using three of my fresh eggs for breakfast with a steak, fried potatoes and toast, I made breakfast just like my frontier ancestors.  After I finished eating, I sat at the massive, hand-made dining table, drinking coffee out of the giant enamel coffee pot, planning my day’s activities with the wind howling outside.

I finally quit being lazy, grabbing a couple of battery work lights and crawling up the steep steps to open the hatch into the attic.    I marveled again at the heavy timbers every couple of feet, supporting the thick plank roofing.

Enough stalling!  It was past time to get to work, hauling part of my massive stock of assorted freeze-dried food and paper products up into the attic.  Backpacking and survival supplies of all kinds were represented in quantity, along with a goodly supply of Mil-Spec MREs. When the excess food and paper moved upstairs, the main floor was much clearer. 

The low-voltage refrigerator/freezer was packed with the fresh meat, eggs, butter, bread, fruit, and produce.

I checked the kitchen pantry, stacking up the six-gallon poly pails of cooking oil, vinegar, vanilla, pepper, apple sauce, molasses, brown sugar, powdered eggs, ketchup, powdered margarine, raspberry jam, peanut butter, chocolate syrup, dry soups, tea, minced onions, and honey. Forty-eight gallon plastic barrels held pasta, flour, dried potatoes, beans, rice, oatmeal, salt, sugar, powdered milk, coffee, cocoa, lemonade mix, and other basics while bulk yeast, baking powder, baking soda, spices and condiments lined the shelves.  Cases of Spam, tuna fish, chili, soup, and stew cans were stacked behind forty pound bags of dried apples with ten pound bags of potatoes, and onions.  Large cans of assorted canned vegetables, fruits and juices completed my major provisioning. Vitamin and mineral supplements lined one shelf. 

Now I grabbed a battery drill, installing my Daisho on the wall along with a couple of pictures. Pocket watches, antique locks, and rare cartridges were displayed on the desk.  Guns went into gun racks while handguns and smaller blades went into cabinets with the ammunition. My cylinder six-bell antique music box went up on the fireplace mantle, while my Regina mahogany fifteen-inch disc music box stood by Robert’s tall Grandfather Clock.   

Next on the agenda was unpacking my various small tools for my hobbies and collections. Soon, my equipment and parts for repairing guns, knives, watches, locks, and music boxes was organized.    With the considerable ‘spare’ time ahead, I brought along a couple of each to repair. 

Finally, with everything picked up and put away, I checked the weather again to find the wind blowing and snow falling at a steady clip. I threw on my parka to shovel my way out to the most deluxe outhouse in the world!  

It was a pit toilet, but spacious and clean, with a pot-bellied stove for heat.  Battery powered lights and fan kept it well lit and ventilated.  I stoked the fire, warming this very essential room. In truth it might be easier just to take the toilet seat in and out of the warm cabin when I needed to use it.

Afterwards, I stood on the porch for a brief moment, absorbing the sheer power of nature as the blizzard continued, unabated.  The alcohol thermometer hanging from the porch ceiling read minus forty.  It was time to get back inside. 

I spread newspapers on the big dining room table.  My gun cleaning kits were brought out, to clean and lube every one of my guns and knives after the transport and temperature swings.  It was a pleasant, calming exercise. 

After I was done and had thrown all the trash into the cookstove, I sat down to more chili.  The big cast iron pot still had several meals remaining, even with the big dent my newly restored appetite was making.  I finally sat on the couch drinking my coffee.  I glanced at my watch, and was shocked at how late it was.  I certainly wasn’t keeping track of time very well.

I realized that I hadn’t wound and set the grandfathers clock.  Having it gonging the hours, while chiming the quarters, would be a welcome addition.  Opening the glass door, I felt around the bottom of the clock for the winder.  I found the clock winder and a stack of large manila envelopes.

First I wound the clock, raising the weights carefully, moving the hands forward, setting it.  Afterwards, I sat at the table, opening the manila envelopes to find…keys.

First, a huge key, over a foot long with a heart shaped bow and a bit nearly three inches square.  The bit, the part that fits in the keyway, was fine metal filigree almost like lace. In another envelope marked “outbuildings”, a ring with several normal sized skeleton keys.  Finally several envelopes, each with a very fancy skeleton key.

I was confused to say the least.  There weren’t any outbuildings!  At least, none locked with those keys -- and where did the ‘singles’ fit? -- but most intriguing was the huge ‘key to the city’ key. Papers with it showed, by simple diagram, the key fitting into one of the fireplace stones! It was Robert’s handwriting on the diagram.  I would naturally assume this was some kind of elaborate practical joke, except Robert is a singularly humorless person, with zero talent for, or interest in, jokes! 

Standing up with my flashlight, I found the opening next to the mantelshelf.  A keyway the exact size right into the rock.  I carefully inserted the big key.  The shoulder hit the rock, with a satisfying ‘clunk’ I turned the heart shaped bow clockwise half a turn, until I heard and felt a ‘click’ feeling the key catch and stop.   I don’t know what I expected, but the result was anticlimactic.  Nothing. 

I had to grin at that.  Sort of like the rest of my life. 

I tried to remove the key.  It didn’t budge.  I shrugged; it wasn’t hurting anything, so I left it.   I could only conclude that Robert worried about my sanity, and keeping busy, and had left me a puzzle to solve.  With that in mind, I hung the key ring marked ‘outbuildings’ with my Daisho.  The fancy individual keys were lined up on a shelf just below it.

Still shaking my head, I made a cup of hot cocoa, sipping it while I made up the big bed in the corner of the great room.   When the cocoa was gone, I crawled under the comforter and in the warmth and quiet I closed my eyes. 

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 I started to come awake, with warm sunshine on my face and bird songs in my ears. My eyes opened, and I stared at the ceiling, listening.  This was not the distinctive call of the Chickadee, who mocks the cold; this was the song of a summer songbird.   I began to realize how warm I was, even with the comforter kicked off sometime in the night.

I rolled out of bed, moving to the nearest window to look out.  I stared outside, holding the window frame for support.  I gasped, finally remembering to breathe.

Green grass, lush foliage and wild flowers had replaced the winter landscape.  Colorful noisy birds and butterflies moved among the trees. 

What happened to my snowstorm? 

Continued in Chapter 2

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