Monarch of Bull Mountain, part two: Son of Monarch

[jhg]

The archer post holed across the slope, the snow from last winters drifts still 20 feet deep. The refracted sun felt like a torch on his face and he tilted the wide brim on the old straw he favored to vainly block at least some of the suns power.
He cussed himself for the late start and the firm going he would have had crossing the snow fields if he had reached them earlier in the cool of the day.
As it was the snow was soft and there was little he could do to change that fact by griping. The archer tucked his chin and pushed on, finding at least some comfort in the fact that, after all, he was in the high country again, scouting elk. So what if the going was hard. He was where he wanted to be and knew where he wanted to go...

[4dogs]

 Been waiting a while for this one.

[jhg]

It surely had been one hell of a winter.
Part of the archers mind went over some of it as the monotony of the climb and the fatigue in his thighs numbed him into a trance. But enough of him stayed present that he kept his balance and saw the slight changes in the snow surface that could send him sliding or worse, break his leg.

He let his instinct guide him. The archer was certain of one thing at least: the fact that this innate part of himself, this primitive "other" that had been a part of him since he could remember, was as trustworthy as anything he could rely on, even his conscious self. And so in his toil he found himself glancing upward into the bright sky to tally the building thunderheads one drainage over, calculating the time to cross the snow field and enter the timber and drop down into the drainage he knew would give shelter.

[Tsalt]

I like how this is starting!        

[jhg]

When the rain came it hit like birdshot. Horizontal slashes of pellets stung the archers face and he was glad to be in the timber. A tremendous concussion of thunder exploded the air above him and he instinctively dropped to the ground knowing it would do no good if the bolt struck nearby. He had seen shards of spruce as big as his arm 80 yards from a shattered tree that had been blasted by lightening. Those shards would be like shrapnel. Two feet of spinning splinter splitting the air like a giant lawn mower blade

The archer kept going. He was already wet so what did it matter? The black clouds above him were running by, insanely driven by a wind that seemed bent on destruction. He crossed a small saddle on the ridge and almost immediatley lost elevation into an other-world of old growth timber, moss and eerie shadows. The wind was much less here. It seemed to the archer like he had entered a kind of wilderness shrine, where no tempest could follow.
It was this dark and brooding place he had climbed so long to reach.

This was the place he knew he could find the Monarch of Bull Mountain...

[DaveT1963]

This is going to be good.....

[nineworlds9]

[wixwood]

ALRIGHT!!!  I've been wondering off and on for sometime about this continuing.

I'm in!

     

Bisch

[lablover]

Count me in.  I got my coffee cup filled and I'm ready for a good story.

[smoke1953]

Sounds good to me too.

[cacciatore]

For sure another great story is coming.

[Jayrod]

Almost like poetry...bring it on!!

[Bladepeek]

Why are these not published? This is good writing!

Can't wait to read this one to the finish.

[Cyclic-Rivers]

Glad to see a  sequel. This is good.

[jhg]

Probably we should provide a link to part one for those who are new to the Monarch story. Can someone do that for me?

 Thanks,

Joshua

[Ragin Bull]

Maybe this will help

 http://tradgang.com/noncgi/ultimatebb.php?ubb=get_topic;f=1;t=104817#000000

[Ragin Bull]

The last one was so good I'm in for the duration on this one!
   

[jhg]

AAArrg! I just deleted the page I just wrote. Dang it!

[jhg]

The snow was crusted here in the shadows. It was easier going. Shedings from the giant firs that towered over the drifts gave the snow a mottled, variegated appearance. It always amazed the archer each time he saw the shear volume of bits trapped within these drifts. Needles, buds, bough tips and pieces of bark all intermingled and suspended within the changing snow- the drifting winter flake long ago changing form, morphing into ice, each freeze/thaw cycle welding molecules of water to a near particle of dust again and again until a BB. An ice pearl, among millions of other, similar pearls.
 The archer stabbed his arm deep into a dense drift and closed his fist. He pulled out a handfull of snow. Holding it out into the muted light of the old forest, it was a lighter texture than the crust nearer the surface. It smelled faintly of fir, the snow infused with the scent of the ragged trees above it.
He looked far up into the crowns of the giants and the clearing sky beyond them. He shouldered his pack, then  picked his way through the ancient maze of forest until it began to bench out and the drifts had been left above him.
He wanted to find a dry place to make camp. To eat, drink some tea and rest his tired legs...