We never had a problem with food spoiling, since the weather was growing steadily colder. But we might well have faced such difficulty during the summer. It is not boastful to say that I think we ate as well as any camper who was not lost, and perhaps better than some.

Those days we camped there by the spring were, in retrospect, a tempering period, an adjustment to being alone in the wilderness. Perhaps for that reason, it was a good thing I had sprained my ankle: we gained time to take our own measure, to determine what we could and could not do.

On the third morning, for example, Tim came rushing up the hill. A large raccoon was caught in his deadfall, but it was still alive.

“I think I’d better shoot him,” Tim said.

I knew Tim had been aching to shoot my father’s pistol, but I had no alternative, for I didn’t know if it were possible for Tim to kill the animal with his club. Reluctantly I agreed, and he went off carrying the big .44 Colt carefully.

A few minutes later I heard the shot and immediately after it, a shout. My heart chilled. Had Tim somehow managed to shoot himself? I called out, then again, and heard an answer.

In a while, Tim came up the hill. He had the pistol, but no raccoon. I asked him what had happened.

Sheepishly he confessed that he had missed and hit the deadfall instead of the raccoon beneath it. Further-more, he had underestimated the recoil, and the pistol had bucked back, bruising his thumb. In the confusion, he stumbled against the deadfall and the raccoon, seizing the opportunity, fled.

I wanted to laugh. I would have liked to get a fat coon for the pot, but our food supply was ample, so perhaps the lesson was well learned, for I knew that Tim would be more careful in the future. “Maybe you should have used your club,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “I will next time.”

Over the days, his snares caught two rabbits, but the deadfall never claimed another victim. My ankle healed, and although it sounds boastful, my camp cooking improved tremendously. I scoured the woods for additions to the pot, and discovered many. The most useful find was a patch of rose hips, which remain on the wild rose bushes even after a hard frost. I had heard Miss Pauline mention their nourishing qualities, but what she didn’t say was that they also tasted good. They were well protected by brambles. Gathering them was an adventure in itself, but the results were worth the effort. We ate them boiled with a little stew gravy for flavor. Eaten raw, they were like dried apples, which is the way we liked them best. I sent Tim to gather as many as he could find, since they would be a welcome addition to our traveling rations once we could move again.