WOOD Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Gail

  Blaze

  From the Author

  Also by Rocklyn Ryder:

  About the Author

  WOOD

  A Wild Romance

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Magpie Press

  Contents

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Gail

  Blaze

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  From the Author

  Also by Rocklyn Ryder:

  Untitled

  Untitled

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 Rocklyn Ryder

  All rights reserved worldwide

  No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.

  This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.

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  WOOD

  A Wild Romance

  by

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Gail

  I’m the first admit the double standard: I love this lumberjack trend. I'll read anything with a ripped guy on the cover sporting a full beard, an open flannel, and holding an axe because a man swinging an axe is the motherfucking image of drooling, panty-melting, hotness.

  But seriously, when was the last fucking time you saw an actual lumberjack doing his job with a fucking axe? And that's the part that I have to prepare myself for with every single one of these books.

  Taking a deep breath to gather my inner peace so I can force my suspension of disbelief, I close my eyes and channel the image in my head.

  Hell yeah, the picture this book paints is hot. I can see this guy in my mind's eye; all rippling muscles across his shoulders and back as he hacks away at a tree in northern Washington state with a hand...held...axe. And no shirt on. And claims to be a professional lumberjack. Working on a crew. Chopping wood for a mill.

  Sure he is.

  I can't do it. Not today. I close out of the reading app and toss my phone in the back seat.

  Pros don't chop trees down with a blade. They use saws. Big ones. With on-board, gas-powered motors. They make a lot of noise and a lot of dust. Big crews use chain saw attachments on Bobcats, front loaders, processors-- everything is big and loud and mechanized.

  There are lots of chainsaws, safety harnesses, hard hats, two-way radios, and heavy-duty equipment.

  Even in wilderness areas where internal combustion is forbidden, crews use handsaws. Saws. Not axes.

  Especially not out west. Even our small trees are big. I always took our forests for granted till I went back east.

  No fucking wonder people back there think you can chop trees down with an axe. I've held dicks thicker than the trees I saw in Pennsylvania!

  For instance, this forest, the one surrounding me right now-- I look out the open windows at the mountainous landscape of western Idaho-- every single one of those trees is at least a foot thick. Not around. Diameter, not circumference.

  I'm moderately proud of myself for finding some use for my junior high geometry class.

  And these are small trees compared to what I grew up with. Where logging crews worked in the mountains-- with chainsaws-- and the logging trucks came through town every day filled with freshly felled trees.

  Not that any of that matters. The books are just fucking books, lumberjacks using axes are the least of my issues.

  Now is not the time to get into a debate with myself about what sort of reading material I indulge in when I take a break. Now is the time to end the break and get back on the road.

  I check the map: a good, old fashioned paper road atlas of north America that shows these old mountain passes as pale gray lines defined as "other" roads.

  Tracing my finger across the one that represents the gravel road winding into the mountains on my right, I mentally convert the squiggles into miles, check the gas gauge, consider how much spare gas I have in the back, and calculate the distance to....Elk Creek? Is that a town? Or a campground? Or who knows. Based on what I've learned about these maps so far, it could be anything, but it should put me out on the west side of the Bitterroot Mountains close to Kooskia.

  The atlas lists Kooskia as a town, but not a very big one. I wonder if it'll have gas? Or a motel? I've been living in the back of the Pathfinder on and off for 4 years, and I've been on the road for 6 days this time, I could really get behind the idea of putting down some money for a hot shower and a real bed.

  But I'm not in a hurry. I have enough food and water in the back of the SUV to last a couple of days if I end up finding a nice place to camp-- I study the squiggles on the map, knowing full well how deceiving they can be-- or if this road takes longer to get through than I estimate.

  The road isn't really that bad, steep and winding, but I'm making good time. The whole road is about 75 miles from highway to highway and I'm about halfway through when I hear it. The unmistakable hiss of a tire losing pressure.

  I pull to the side of the single lane, gravel and dirt, mountain pass road and shut the car down.

  Walking around to the car I spot the quickly deflating rear passenger tire.

  So here's my situation: I'm 24, I'm female, I'm alone on a deserted mountain road that connects Nowhere, Idaho to Nowhere, Idaho, and I have a flat tire.

  Joy.

  Well it's not like I've never changed a tire in my lifetime. I open the back hatch and pull out the storage tubs that contain my entire life. One for the kitchen, one for the bedroom, one full of random odds and ends like clothes, toiletries and my diary from high school because I can't bear to part with it and I don't know what else to do with it.

  I set the tubs on the ground a few feet from the car and lift the cover on the recessed compartment that holds the jack and the tire iron, and then I release the spare tire from under the car.

  I've been a nomad on and off for a few years now. I did some long distance hiking, living out of a backpack for a year and a half, but mostly I'm what they call a rubber tramp. I live in my car. And when you live like this, and like to take the road less traveled-- I look up and take in my surroundings, make that, the road untraveled-- you choose a car that can get you where you need to go.

  In my case, it's a turn of the century 4 wheel drive Nissan Pathfinder with a little bit of suspension lift and some burly off-road tires that aren't likely to go flat just because you ran over a sharp rock.
>
  Until one of them does.

  Damn. It's been a long time since I had to change a tire on this thing.

  I unlatch the lid of the "miscellaneous" storage tub and root around inside for the chunk of 4x4 that I learned to keep with me for just this purpose the hard way.

  While I decide not to panic when I can't find my magic wood in its designated corner of the tub, I reminisce back to how I ended up with it.

  It was 3 years ago, early in my nomad days, before I knew half the stuff I know now. I was cutting through Death Valley on a holiday weekend in November. The weather was cool, the perfect time to be driving through Death Valley, when I ended up with a flat.

  I was always kind of a tom boy, changing a tire has never been a big deal, so I pulled over, pulled out the jack and the spare-- just like I am right now-- only that time, I got the jack under the axle and lifted the wheel off the ground.

  Pulled the damn tire off only to discover I couldn't get the spare on. And that was when I was still running the stock size, street tires. Before I upgraded to the 31 inch all terrains.

  Once the old tire came off, there was no way I could get the spare back on, there just wasn't enough clearance, and I couldn't get the flat tire back on either. So I had stood out there for an hour trying to figure out what had gone wrong, feeling a lot like a "stupid girl" in front of hundreds of motorhomes parked in the campground just across the desert from me.

  I was quite the afternoon entertainment for a lot of retirees that day.

  Finally, one of them took pity on me and came hiking across the sand carrying a 16 inch long piece of 4 inch by 4 inch fence post-- along with his own jack-- and showed me how to use the wood to give the jack more lift.

  Turns out his wife had made him come help me once she discovered him and a few of his buddies sitting around drinking beer and making fun of me.

  I learned a valuable lesson, I got my tire changed, I made some friends, I got dinner and a beer and they let me keep the chunk of magic wood.

  I've only had to use it one other time for myself since-- after that I finally sucked it up and sprung for the good tires.

  I've used it to help out a couple of others along the way though...shit! The toe of my hiking boot sends the box sliding across the gravel. That couple in Montana last week. With the puppy in the back seat of their old Jeep Wrangler. I lent it to them.

  And didn't get it back.

  Damn that puppy for being adorable.

  Looking around, I try to find a substitute. A good, solid rock. No dice. Downed wood? Even with the folding saw I keep in my kit, I can't cut off a piece that's stable enough.

  Finally, I sit on the tail of the back hatch and stare off into the vast solitude of the Bitterroot Range around me.

  The way I see it, I have a few choices. I can camp out right here in the car and wait for another adventurous traveler to pass by: I reach over and check the date on my discarded cell phone. August 28. I look at the tire tracks I left in the section of dirt and gravel road that I've already been up, then I crane my neck to inspect the completely undisturbed dirt, gravel, and miscellaneous forest debris that litters the road surface stretching into the distance ahead of me.

  So, yeah. That could keep me here till maybe next July.

  I don't have enough food for that and although I'm pretty sure I could hunt in a pure survivalist situation-- like, if there were zombies or if Red Dawn happened or something-- I'm not exactly that particular brand of bad ass.

  We won't discuss the fact that this pass probably gets buried under 8 feet of snow in sub-zero temps during the winter. Sub-zero Fahrenheit temps. I pat the stack of sleeping bags spread out in the back of the SUV. They're good ones, one of them is the down mummy bag I took on my John Muir Trail hike when I was 20, but they've seen better days and even at their best they were only rated for 20 degrees.

  By the time temps drop in the winter, I'm usually camped at the beach down south somewhere where I don't need to worry about hypothermia.

  Staying with the car isn't a viable option...unless...

  I check my phone. Nope. Of course not. I've gotten so used to not having signal I almost forgot to even check but when I switch it out of airplane mode and give it a chance to search for several minutes, the phone does nothing but pretty much start cannibalizing battery power. I switch it back to airplane mode and consider the other options.

  Drive on the flat. Utterly destroy the aluminum alloy rim, possibly crack it. In which case, I'm not just down a $300 tire but a $250 rim and all the potential damage to my axle, suspension, and pretty much my entire car. Which is also my home for the time being.

  Also, I have about 30-40 miles to go before I even meet up with a main road no matter which direction I head in.

  Shaking my head, I nix that plan. Maybe in an all-out emergency where time was of the essence, but time is one thing I'm not running low on.

  Since dying is the absolute last option that I am willing to consider, I stand up and start packing my backpack. I have all the essentials and enough beef jerky and tuna packets to sustain me for about 4 days and God knows I have plenty of know how and experience to hike my happy ass 40 miles to get to a road and, hopefully, cell service and the nearest tow truck.

  It's been 4 years since I did any serious trekking. It takes me some time to pack up the Pathfinder and stick a note on the dash just in case someone actually does happen by.

  Since I'm stuck at about the half way point between main roads, it's a toss up as to which direction to aim.

  On one hand, the road behind me is familiar. I also know that there's nothing back there and, even before I turned onto the old forest service road that cuts across the mountains, I hadn't seen anything resembling a service station in 50 miles.

  Ultimately, I decide to move forward. Toward my original destination of Elk Creek. At least there's something on the map at the bottom of these mountains, maybe they'll have pizza. And I came for an adventure! I remind myself as I shoulder my pack, might as well seize the opportunity. It'll make for a great story later.

  By the time I get my hike on, I don't manage to get far before the sun sinks below the mountains in the distance. After that, it starts cooling off right quick and I know I won't have light left for long so I find a spot just off the road and pitch my tent.

  At this point, I'm too tired to make a feast out of my stash of genuine bison jerky that I picked up back in Wyoming. I consider reading another chapter of hot mountain man romance book, but I'd rather not drain the battery even though I've got a solar charger with me.

  At least an early bed time means an early start in the morning.

  Blaze

  I woke up restless, plagued by an itch I can't seem to scratch. I tried getting some exercise, taking a hike, throwing some shit, and jacking off-- not necessarily in that order-- but nothing is shaking the feeling.

  Looking at the way the clouds are rollin' in overhead, I'm guessin' I can blame my heightened sense of anxiety on the weather. From the looks of it, it'll be raining hard enough by this afternoon that maybe I oughta contemplate building an ark instead of wasting my time splittin' more wood.

  Making the rounds of my property, I take a mental inventory.

  I've got about 9 cord of seasoned wood split and stacked. For just me, that oughta be plenty to get through the harsh winter that's on its way to the Bitterroots. I've been working at getting a head start on next winter's stash, with about 6 cord already done.

  It's what you do when you live like this. Off grid in the pristine mountain air with nothing and no one to fuck with your head.

  You spend all summer clearing dead-fall, dragging rounds back to the pile by the barn and letting them dry out so they're easy to split. Then you split the big pieces into smaller pieces and stack 'em up nice and neat.

  Preparing fuel for heat and cooking takes up most of my days during the summers. There's plenty of hunting and some vegetable gardening to fill in the gaps and fill up the freezer in the barn,
as well as maintenance on the solar panels, the battery bank, and the generator. I'm off grid, not living in another century.

  Sometimes I even manage to have something resembling spare time.

  Times when I might have a chance to sit down and read a book, go for a swim in the lake, or just kick back on the porch with a cold beer, looking out over the forest and the mountains and think about what a lucky son of a bitch I am gettin' to live like this.

  Been up here for the last 3 years now. Loving every minute of it. Wouldn't change it for love nor money.

  The rest of the world can go fuck itself. I'm happy right here.

  Still, today I've got a restless feeling. Something jittery deep in my bones and no matter what I do, I'm still on edge. So I set up the smaller rounds on the big stump I use as a chopping block when I'm feeling like I want to play pioneer days, and I start swingin' the axe.

  It's a good work out, splitting wood with a blade. It fills up the silence of the forest when I need noise, and it's good for driving out any bullshit that starts getting in my head.

  Bullshit like getting the truck out, dropping the battery back into it, filling it up with fuel, going through the trouble of firing it up just to make a trip into the city.

  CHOP!

  The axe bites into the chunk of cedar and splits almost all the way through in one swing.

  I almost start to convince myself that it's close enough to time anyway. I could just make the fall supply trip a few weeks early and get it out of the way. That way I'd have plenty of time to get everything put away, make sure I got everything so I'd still have time to make another run before the road got impassible.

  CHOP!

  This swing hits perfectly and the two sections of wood split easily and fall off the big stump to the ground. I kick the fallen pieces out of the way and grab another round off the pile, pulling my shirt off and throwing it over on top of one of the larger rounds before taking my next swing.