I Can't Stop Roaming, Book 1: Born to Roam

By Arnold Mountcastle de Wees

A four-book series about a boy's worldwide travel and adventures from age 15 to 84.
He ran away from his family's Blue Ridge Mountain farm at age 15 and lied about his age to join the Marines at age 16 and served in China from 1946 to 1949 when the communist assumed control of the country and foreigners had to leave. He commanded a Marine infantry platoon during the Korean War and was plagued with violent dreams for years after wartime experiences. During some years in New York City while working as a journalist and later as a publicist he battled himself out of a severe alcohol problem. His university sweetheart rejoined him him after he transferred to Chicago and they soon became expatriates in Europe. After he death he ridded himself of possessions and became a worldwide nomad. At age 84 he still travels mostly throughout Asia with his only possessions in a backpack and has returned to China several time to witness unbelievable changes since his teenage years in the country before the Revolution. He vows to keep traveling until his last breath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arnold Mountcastle de Wees
• Release date: May 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990405931

Arnold Mountcastle de Wees

Google search for Synopses of the four-book series at adventure/arnoldmountcastle/deweesGoogle search for Reviews at book/reviews/arnold.mountcastle.deweesGoogle search for Arnold Mountcastle de Wees to locae e-book distributors of the author's work

Book preview

I Can't Stop Roaming

Born to Roam

_________

BOOK ONE

Arnold Mountcastle de Wees

Copyright © 2014 by Arnold Mountcastle de Wees

Smashwords Edition

This book and all its contents are protected by U. S. and international copyright. All or no part of this book may be reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of its contents is illegal.

Born to Roam is the first book in a four part series. Please look for our other books at Smashwords and other fine retailers.

BOOK TWO

Journey with the Love of My Life

BOOK THREE

In Pursuit of My Dreams

BOOK FOUR

Worldwide Backpacker until Age 84

Dedicated to the loving memory of Jo Ann,

a glorious companion and adventurous traveler

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Book One

I Was Born to Roam

Chapter 1

A young man's destiny is determined by what he thinks of himself.

Henry David Thoreau

The year is 1945. I'm fifteen years old, lying on top of my bed fully dressed waiting for my father to start snoring in my parents’ downstairs bedroom. I’ll get up and run away from home when I think both of them are asleep.

My two brothers are in the bedroom next to mine. John is thirteen. Frank is eleven.

Snoring downstairs is a flutter at first that become vibrating snorts, then a rhythmic rumble, sometimes broken by a fluttering snort.

I wonder if my mother is asleep. It's hard to tell about her because she never snores. I wait a few minutes before arising to scribble a note that I leave on my pillow. I'm leaving because I was born to roam. Then I pick up two packed handbags and a coiled clothesline cord by my bed.

It is quiet in my brothers' room as I emerge into the hallway. Now I must be careful. Some of the floorboards in the hallway squeak. I've rehearsed several times and know which ones do. I'm taking a long step to get across the hall and hugging the wall while taking two steps forward, then sidestepping to the center to take three steps forward and a step over against the left wall. Two more steps and I’m in front of the guest bedroom door.

The door is open. I'm stepping carefully across the threshold searching for boards that don't squeak. I go silently to the window I'd opened before bedtime to minimize noise.

I'm now through the window and on the front-porch roof and making my way carefully to the edge. The rope end is tied to the baggage grips so I can lower the handbags to the lawn and drop the rope.

The porch is high, and it’ll be a long drop to the lawn. Jumping off is going to be risky. I must do it right and not break my ankles.

I jump with my feet together. I’m relaxed as my feet sink into the sod. My body collapses into a hunkering position to soften the shock. Nothing is broken.

A white figure approaches across the lawn. It is Caesar vigorously wagging his tail. He comes close and licks my face. He is about the size of a German shepherd.

Caesar is tugging at my trouser cuff and playfully growling while I untie the cord heaped on top of the bags. He is more than two years old and still acts like a puppy. I whisper, Stop it, Caesar, or you'll wake up everyone.

Maybe I'll need a leash for Caesar in case he wants to run after another dog. He’s a silly boy, and there’s no telling what he might get up to. I cut a short length from the rope, put it in one of the bags and leave the remainder on the lawn. I grasp the bag straps to stand and whisper, Let's go, Caesar.

Caesar wants to play. He is growling and tugging at my trouser cuffs while we're crossing the lawn. I put one of the bags down and gently slap his nose, which makes him turn loose of my cuff. I whisper, Now behave yourself, Caesar.

We're through the gate, and I close it quietly and get on the deep-rutted dirt road going through our farm. It connects with a paved road a mile away. It is a pitch-black night, and I must be careful not to stumble in the deep ruts.

A hoot owl is hooting close by in the woods. Much farther into the woods is the faint howl of a wildcat, which sounds like a crying baby. Caesar growls. Shut up, Caesar, or I'll slap your ears.

He bounds ahead of me, disappearing into the darkness. Now he reappears to run full speed straight toward me. He brakes and veers at an arm's length away to run circles around me.

Caesar is off again somewhere in the darkness. A screech owl screeches and twitters from a peach tree over in the orchard.

Caesar is back and gone again—back and forth, back and forth until we reach the main road.

Now I must tie you, Caesar, just in case we need to hide if a car comes along.

It is another four miles to Whitethorn Railway Station. We'll make better time now that we're off that rutted road.

We've walked about a mile, and car lights appear ahead. We head for a deep ditch beside the road. I hold Caesar close to me until the car passes.

We're up and back on the road again. Droning sound of the car fades. All is quiet, except for my footsteps on the graveled road and Caesar's huffing as he strains at the leash.

There is no more traffic on the road for another three miles. A car engine can be heard around a curve ahead of us. We're running as fast as we can to get into a roadside rock quarry and duck behind a pyramid of crushed rocks.

Caesar and I emerge and resume our trudge toward Whitethorn after the car passes. Only a mile and we'll be there.

All house lights are out except in the railroad station where a Western Union man is sitting at a desk in front of his Morse code machine.

Caesar and I are veering away from the station and walking on the track in a northeasterly direction. Walking on the track is difficult in the darkness. So I'm looking for a place to stop for the night.

A river is below the railroad. Caesar follows me down the embankment. Here is a level spot, where I'm placing my bags. I get a bed sheet out of one of the bags to spread it on the ground and position one of the bags as a pillow.

I am under the sheet and resting my head on the pillow. Caesar is making his bed beside me.

I'm dozing. Chu, chu, chu, chu, chu, chu. A train is coming from the direction we had headed. It doesn't stop at the station or even slow down. I'm listening to the music it makes on the tracks. Clackity, lackey, clack, clack, clack.

The train is now past. Clackity music fades. Coal smoke settles down the embankment as I doze again.

I'm awakened at dawn with Caesar licking my face. The sheet crackles as I sit. It is stiff with frost.

I'm standing now to brush my fingers through my frost-stiffened hair. Fog hovers over the river. I can't see the other side.

I take three steps and pee a steamy stream that splatters on frost-crusted spots. I shake my peeter dry, put it back, button up my fly, and turn around.

I'm reaching into the bag for our breakfast. Caesar the Seizer has beaten me to breakfast. The bag was left open all night after I took out the sheet. I had packed a dozen ham sandwiches for both of us.

Caesar. I speak gruffly. You've eaten a two-day supply—enough to last us until we get far enough away that no one knows us.

Caesar is sitting and looking at me with his head cocked impishly. I lift the sheet with melting frost and put it on a weed cluster so it will dry faster in the rising sun. Fog is lifting and showing ripple rings on the water—probably carp rising to suck in floating edibles. Too bad I didn't bring fish hooks and line. I was going to but forgot.

The sheet is now dry. I fold it and put it in the bag. One of the bags is lighter now with all the sandwiches gone. Caesar is that much heavier.

Putt, putt, putt. A motor sounds toward the station. It is a motorized railway car transporting railroad workers. I'm flat on the ground and pulling Caesar down with me so we won't be seen. There are four men on the flatbed car. Three of them have children in my high school. The eldest son of the other one was killed last year while fighting the Japanese.

The car is past, the putt, putt, putt fading, and we are scrambling up the embankment.

Fog is gone from the river, and the sun has lifted frost from the ground.

It is a long step from one cross tie to another. Crushed rock is between the hewn timbers. I step like a gandy dancer from one cross tie to another. It is tiring me fast. Now I'm stepping from tie to gravel, from gravel to tie. The loose gravel is tiresome walking, too.

Now I'm in the trackside ditch, where there are blackberry bushes reaching into my path to snag my trousers and bags and scratch my hands, but walking is a bit easier here than gandy dancing on the tracks. Sometimes there are too many briars reaching across the ditch and I must go crosstie hopping again.

My guts are growling. Hunger burns my stomach. My mouth is dry. I stop to drink from my water bottle and to pour some in my cupped hand for Caesar. He wants more. All the fried salt-cured ham has made him thirsty. I give him more water.

The river curves off in a southerly direction and disappears from our view as we keep in our northeasterly route.

There is a house down to the right of the railroad. The vegetable garden is about a hundred yards away from it. Should I go down and ask for something to eat? I am a hobo now. Hobos beg from houses near railroad tracks. It is too close to home, and they know who I am. I’m looking at the garden and thinking that if I tie Caesar to a tree and…but that would be theft. So we keep following the railroad.

My stomach is burning from hunger more and more, and I am feeling weaker as the day goes on.

A spring trickles from the bank on our left. I stop and refill the water bottle while Caesar drinks from a puddle on the ground.

It is evening. Dark rain clouds are forming. We must find shelter, Caesar, or we'll get wet tonight.

It is almost dark before we find a sheltered place. It is a limekiln that looks like it hasn't been used in a long time. Rain has just started.

My hands are stiff, and my fingers are slow in straightening when I put the bags down.

Rain is coming down hard as I spread the sheet on the floor. We found this place just in time, Caesar. He tugs at the sheet and growls.

Rain stops before daylight. The air smells fresh as we get back on the tracks. I feel dirty from all of the coal smoke that settled on us yesterday as we hid from passing trains. Caesar's white coat has turned smutty.

My hunger pangs are worse. I'm feeling too weak to spend another day walking the tracks. We passed a few houses yesterday. But I didn't stop and ask for anything to eat. Today I will stop at the first house I see.

It appears soon. We head down the embankment. I tie Caesar to a tree and approach the house. A chained dog barks as I get near. Caesar answers from where he is tied, and a woman appears on the porch.

I'm hungry, ma'am. Can you give me something to eat?

"I ain't got nothin'."

Excuse me for bothering you, ma'am. I turn to go.

"Why don't you go on back home, youngun?"

I lie. That's where I'm going now, ma'am.

I untie Caesar from the tree and keep the cord tied to his collar for a while because I know he might go to that chained dog if I let him loose.

The near-noon sun makes the air feel steamy after last-night's rain. A house soon appears. I tie Caesar to a tree and go toward the house. There is the smell of something cooking as I get closer. My footsteps make the porch floorboards squeak. A woman appears before I get to the door.

Ma'am. I haven't had anything to eat for a couple of days. Can you give me something?

"I ain't got nary a thing."

I go back to Caesar. And we continue our trudge. After awhile there is a mountain in front of us. A railroad tunnel goes through it. Cool air is coming from the tunnel as we reach its entrance. The tunnel must be about a mile long because there is just a tiny bit of light showing at the other end.

Now I have a choice of going over or through the tunnel but I feel too weak to climb over that hill. Besides, this cool air coming out of the tunnel sure feels good.

We're in the cool tunnel. Caesar is on the leash. Suppose a train comes while we’re in here? There is a shelf on either side. I’ll lift Caesar onto the shelf and climb up with him. My footsteps echo against the walls. I yell, Hey, ho, and listen to the echo. Hey. Ho. Hey. Ho. My voice reverberates from wall to wall. The exit is getting bigger and the entrance smaller as we saunter along. I'm in no hurry to get out of this cool spot.

A tremendous gust of wind hits my back and almost knocks me down. There is a muffled chu, chu, chu sound behind me, and I realize that a train is entering the tunnel. I drop Caesar’s leash and yell, Run, boy, run!

We're outside now, and I’m breathing hard while holding Caesar’s collar off to the trackside. My shirt is wet from water that dripped from the ceiling. Caesar's smut is smudged. Cool air being pushed out of the tunnel by the train feels good out here in the sun.

Now the train is emerging. I’m aghast. Boxcars extend over the ledge where I planned to take refuge with Caesar if a train entered the tunnel while we were in there. We'd have been in worse shape than mashed potatoes if that train had caught us on the ledge.

The train passes to leave us shrouded in the dense coal smoke. My knees are weak while sitting here thinking that Caesar and I wouldn’t have seen the outside of this tunnel if we'd been in there the same time as that train.

We're up and moving again. My stomach feels like it is on fire. I feel weak. And I don't think I can go much longer if I don't get food.

There is a creek below us. We head down to it. Caesar drinks greedily, then jumps into the water. I strip off my clothes and dive into a deep pool.

Now I'm out of the pool and washing my clothes and draping them over a bush to dry. My ankles are still black from creosote dust coming from cross ties. It takes a lot of scrubbing to get it all off.

My clothes dry some while I splash again in the pool. I'm not going to wait until they get completely dry because they're cooler this way.

We're back on the railroad. Caesar's coat is white again. I feel better with that soot off me. If I could only get some food into my stomach…

There is a house across the creek. We go down the embankment. I tie Caesar to a tree and walk on a rickety bridge to cross the creek.

Two feists come from around the house yapping at my heels as I walk up the porch steps. Caesar is barking back by the tree. A woman appears at the door to see why the ruckus.

Howdy, boy.

Howdy, ma'am. I was wondering if you could give me something to eat. I haven't had a bite in a couple of days.

I ain't got nothin' cooked right now.

It doesn't have to be cooked, ma'am. I can eat raw eggs. Raw tomatoes. Anything.

I'll see what I kin find. She disappears into the house and reappears with a brown paper bag. Here's a half-dozen cackleberries and some tomaters.

Caesar has broken his leash and is in the yard playing with the feists. That's a mighty big dog. Is he yourn?

Yes ma’am. I had him tied to a tree.

I spect he eats a right smart more'n you do?"

Yes ma'am. He sure eats a lot.

I'll go and see what I kin find fer him. She goes into the house and returns with another brown bag. There's biscuits in here. They're all dried out and hard as a rock. She takes out one and throws it toward Caesar. He catches it in his mouth, chomps and swallows it. He's a mighty purty dog.

Yes ma'am.

Er ye hoboin'?

Yes, ma'am.

You be keerful.

I will, ma'am. Thank you a whole lot for all you have given us to eat.

"Aw, that's all right. I jist wish I had somethin' better to give ye.

It’s plenty, ma’am. And I thank you for it. Caesar and the little dogs are on the porch. I get a hold on his collar and start down the steps.

I'll get these here feists in the house or they're sure to foller after yer dog. Now you be keerful as you kin.

I'll try, ma’am. And thank you again for helping us.

It's not much. She goes into the house with the small dogs and closes the door.

We cross back over the creek and head for the shade of a big tree, where I put the two brown bags on the ground. A rock is sticking out of the ground. I remove it to leave a hole half the size of my head. I line the hole with one of the paper bags. Then I crumble half the biscuits into the bowl I've made and break three eggs onto the crumbled bread. Caesar quickly devours it, licks the bag clean and sits drooling while I suck the contents from my three eggs and eat hard biscuits.

I give him my two remaining biscuits and start eating the juicy ripe tomatoes. There are two left when we start to go. I put them in a handbag. I feel much stronger now as we climb the embankment.

We've walked about an hour when the puffing of a train sounds behind us. We go down the slope and conceal ourselves until the freight train passes. It starts slowing down before the caboose disappears around a bend. It must be approaching a station.

Sure enough there is a station around the curve. The train is stopped to take on water and coal for making steam to run the engine.

A man is walking toward the caboose and looking at the boxcar wheels. I circle my fingers around Caesar's nose. We remain hidden until the man passes around the caboose.

The door is open in one of the freight cars. We go quickly to it. I lift my heavy companion into the boxcar. Then I toss up my bags and climb into the boxcar, and we move to a far corner.

There are voices coming from the front of the train. Caesar growls. I clamp my hand over his mouth and give his head a shake. Quiet, Caesar.

Boxcar doors are being opened and slammed closed. The voices get closer. Caesar starts to growl again, and I muzzle him with my palm.

A head appears at the doorway. On top of it is a duck-hunter's brown hat. Caesar growls loudly and lunges toward the door. He is dragging me as I hold his collar. The man reaches for something. A Smith & Wesson thirty-eight is pointing toward Caesar. The man snarls and shows brown teeth. You'd better hold onto that there dog of yourn or I'm gonna fill him full of lead. We're deppity shurfs, and we've been sent to git you and take you home.

The other deputy sheriff appears at the doorway. He is chewing tobacco. He turns his head and puckers his lips to squirt a stream of brown juice that looks like a goose with diarrhea.

The deputy in the duck-hunter's hat is still pointing his revolver at Caesar. Now you come down from outta that boxcar, boy, and don't you let thet there dog loose unless you want him killed.

I must get his leash from my bag.

Git it and be keerful what you take outta thet bag.

I drag Caesar back to the corner and take the cord from the bag and tie it to his collar. I manage to get the strap handles of both bags in my right hand while I hold the leash with my left hand. We go to the door where I toss the bags out of the freight car.

The duck-hunter's-hatted one speaks. Now don't you turn loose of thet there dog when you git down here.

I hold onto the leash and jump to the ground, then lift Caesar down.

The tobacco chewer turns his head and blows the chewed-up wad out of his mouth. It looks like a goose with diarrhea really bad. He digs a partial plug of Brown Mule out of his pocket, gnaws off a piece and starts chewing.

The one still holding the thirty-eight says, Now tie that dog up to sumthin so somebody can come and git him.

I'm not going anywhere without my dog.

Then I reckon we'll hev to put handcuffs on ye. Jim Bob, you go around and git him from behind.

Both of them move toward us. Caesar snarls and lunges toward the one with the revolver. The thirty-eight is raised and explodes. The muzzle blast hits my face. Caesar yelps and falls in front of me, his feet kicking as he lies dying from a bullet in his head.

Rage blinds me. I don't remember anything until I find myself on the ground with shackles on my wrists.

They lead me past the station and put me in a black 1937 Chevrolet to take me back where I started.

Chapter 2

It has been a little more than a month since I tried to run away. I'm heading off to school, so everyone thinks. I must go early to catch the bus into town where my high school is. My brothers will leave later to walk to the primary school in Long Shop.

I'm walking on the road, like I always do when I'm going to catch the school bus. Now I'm a half-mile from where the bus will stop. I leave the road and cut across a field and head in the direction of Whitethorn.

I've gone around the railway station without being seen and am gandy dancing the cross ties until I get well past the first bend. I stop and sit on one of the tracks.

There is a putt, putt, putt sound. It is the railway motorcar coming from the station. I get up and start walking. The motorcar rounds the bend. And I run down over the embankment. The riders have seen me, I'm sure. That's what I wanted them to do.

The motorcar is out of sight. I scramble up the embankment to cross the tracks...and climb the embankment on the other side to get onto Big Hill.

Big Hill is the highest place in this area. It overlooks the road to Whitethorn and the grade school in Long Shop where my brothers go. It is the school I went to before I started to high school three years ago. No one around likes my family. My father insults people, and the kids took it out on me. I could take care of myself in a one-for-one fight because I was big for my age in primary school and strong from farm work. So they ganged up on me.

It is cool up here. A little bit of wind is blowing. I lie on my back in golden broom sage. It blocks some of the wind and is warmer here.

It is so peaceful and quiet up here. Finally I doze. Then I awaken to the voices of children playing on the school grounds during noontime recess. The sun is almost above me and it is much warmer now.

Hunger pangs my stomach. I open my handbag that I always use for carrying books. It is stuffed with tree leaves to make it look full of books when I left home this morning. In the bottom of the bag is a jar of water and a brown paper bag. Inside the brown bag are pieces of fried chicken and some biscuits. I'm taking out a wing and a biscuit and starting to eat.

I've eaten enough. There are still more pieces of chicken and biscuits for my supper. I'm a little drowsy now with a full stomach and being warm under the sun. So I doze again.

Children at afternoon recess awaken me. The sun has moved across me and is reaching toward a western ridgeline.

All goes quiet in the schoolyard after recess ends. It will be a long afternoon for me. I wish I'd brought a book.

Books are what I like most. My grandmother taught me to read and write and some arithmetic before I was three. I always got my school work done sooner than everyone else and spent the rest of my time reading anything I could find.

There was a woman who died a couple of years ago. She lived in a house I can see from up here. She was called Miss Agnes and came from New York many years ago. She wrote a book called The Big Hill. It is about the hill I'm on right now.

Miss Agnes loved books. There were glass-covered bookcases on all her living-room walls. Her house was a lending library. She took in books furnished by the county bookmobile. I was the only one from my school who checked out bookmobile books.

Miss Agnes and I became close friends. She suggested books for me to read. And we talked about the books after I read them. I missed her terribly after she died. She was like my grandmother had been to me and was kinder than my mother.

I don't think my mother likes children or anyone else. She never has anything good to say about anyone except some of her relatives. She is very nervous and often screams at us. I don't know what I did so wrong that the Lord gave me such mean kids. Sometimes she hauls off and hits us with anything she has in her hand. Once she hit me over the head with a piece of firewood and knocked me unconscious.

My father is even worse. I've never known anyone with such a nasty temper. He once beat me with a leather strap and temporarily paralyzed me from the waist down.

He would accuse me of something and would beat me if I denied it. I would say I did it to make him stop beating me. Then he would beat me for telling a lie in the first place. I was beaten no matter what I said. He is a big bully who weighs about 230 pounds. People are afraid of him.

Caesar was about the only friend I had. My old man made me keep him chained to the doghouse. One day I decided to unchain Caesar. My old man told me to put him back on the chain or he would shoot him. I was fourteen then and was feeling confident to stand up against the bully. Listen, you son of a bitch, I said. I'm not going to put the chain on Caesar ever again. I'll kill you if you if you hurt him. I might shoot your eye out with my rifle. He knows I'm a crack shot. Or I might sneak into your bedroom at night and cut your throat while you're sleeping. I'll kill you some way if you ever touch my dog. I had called the bully's bluff. He hasn't laid a hand on me since.

Life isn't bad on the farm for me now after I called the bully's bluff and after running away from home the first time. I've refused to do any farm chores after they caught me and brought me back. The old man pleaded for me to work and earn my keep. I told him that if he didn't like what I was doing I would be glad to leave home again. Now he doesn't say anything about me not working.

Children babble now as they leave the school to go home. The two teachers drive away in their cars. In another hour or so it will be time for the school bus to return with high-school students. It won't be long until my parents start to wonder why I didn't come home. The old man will get in the 1933 coffin-gray Dodge and go looking for me. He'll find out that I didn't go to school today and will be told that I was seen on the railroad tracks. I've thrown them off my scent. They'll think I'm stupid enough to get back on the same trail where I was caught.

I didn't have a destination in mind when I took off last time…except maybe a vague idea of going to Norfolk and joining the merchant marine. Jack London's and Joseph Conrad's books have made me hanker for the sea.

Now I know where I want to go. I'm heading to Baltimore where I hope to get work on a merchant ship. I could get on the highway and hitchhike in a direct route to Baltimore. But I'd soon be caught and brought back home again.

My plan now is to go in the complete opposite direction that I headed last time, where no one will think to look for me. I'll keep out of everyone's sight until I get into West Virginia. Then I'll hitchhike toward Maryland.

The sun is hovering over a western ridgeline—pretty much in the direction I'll be heading. I'm hungry and devour the rest of the chicken and biscuits. Now I wait for darkness.

The sun is descending fast and is now behind the ridge. Clouds glow pink. Dusk is near.

Dusk comes. Darkness follows soon. I pick up my bag of leaves and start walking down the hill's end, then detour a distance from any houses.

There is a creek. I take off my shoes and socks and wade across. I wipe my feet on my trouser cuffs and put on my shoes and socks.

I go across a field and am on the paved road that leads to the unpaved road going to the farm. I walk softly on the unpaved and rutted road and listen carefully for footsteps. A stomping sound ahead halts me to listen. There is a snort, and I realize it is a cow belonging to the farm joining ours.

I'm now on our farm and angle to my right so I will pass the house from a hill above it. A kerosene lamp shines through the living-room window.

I'm in the woods and angle down to the logging road. I walk on it a short distance and turn off, where I walk through dry leaves until I come to a big oak tree. It has a rotted-out hollow in it, where I have hidden my pack.

It is a pack I have made from a burlap sack. I've cut open another sack and rolled the pieces that I've flattened and sewn to make pack straps that I sewed to the sack. I learned my lesson about carrying handbags. My fingers were stiff several days after I was caught running away the first time.

I scratch through leaves at the base of the tree where I have hidden a bow and three arrows. The bow is made from a springy hickory sapling and strung with a rawhide thong. Arrow shafts are straight dogwood branches. Arrowheads are made from thin metal sheets and filed to needle-sharp points. There are Plymouth Rock hen feathers on opposite ends of the shafts.

In the pack is a change of clothes. There are several slices of uncooked salt-cured ham, a few biscuits, boiled beef and a jar of water. In a small box are fishhooks of various sizes and fishing line. I've brought a map of Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, and part of Pennsylvania. There is a box of kitchen matches. A lens that was in a pair of my mother's old eyeglasses will start fires if I run out of matches. I've packed a small saucepan for boiling and sterilizing water.

I put the handbag in the hollow tree…put the pack on my back…pick up my bow and arrows and walk on the logging road in a westerly direction away from the farm. I know these woods well and could make my way around any part of them on the darkest night.

Walking on the road is easy in the moonlight this cloudless night. A pair of eyes glows ahead. They might belong to a possum…a raccoon…or a fox. The eyes disappear as the animal scurries off from my approaching footsteps. There is the scream of a wildcat not too far away. It sounds like a crying child.

Now all is quiet except for my thumping footsteps. Roadside silence is broken by a flutter to my left as a bird flies from the top of a tall hickory tree. It’s silent again, except for my footsteps.

My footsteps thump on and on. A whippoorwill calls in the distance. Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. The whippoorwill stops calling. And the woods around me become quiet again until a hoot owl hoots a shimmering who-o-o. Who-o-o. Who-o-o-o-o. Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. It stops and a screech owl screeches nearby, to be answered by another one from far away. The owls become quiet and only my footsteps blemish the hushed surroundings as I trudge westward. There is a rustling sound in the leaves beside the road. It could be a rattlesnake...a copperhead...a weasel...or some other small creature.

The logging road ends at a hard-surface car road. There is a small mud-daubed log cabin in the moonlight not far off the road. It belongs to Dewey Smith. There are no lights, but I smell the faint odor of wood smoke.

Dewey Smith is an old man with a white beard. No one knows how old he is. He has outlived several wives. He earns his living splitting saplings for weaving chair seats. He sometimes carries a great stack of splits on his back for many miles around to weave chair bottoms at distant premises.

I'm walking on the hard-surface road until dawn. A skunk ambles across the road a distance in front of me and disappears into roadside underbrush.

I get off the road and head into the woods. I've never been in this part of the forest before. Walking won't be as easy because there is no road or even a trail.

My panging stomach is telling me that it is time for breakfast. So I stop to eat some of the boiled beef and two biscuits and drink from my water jar.

I'm back on my feet and going again. Walking isn't easy because there are more saplings and brush than trees. It is tiring, and I am exhausted by the time the sun is overhead. I stop to rest and finish the beef and