must be mountains. I try to wrap my arms around one, but only come around about a quarter of the way. The deciduous leaves block sunlight from the ground, so only pockets of the golden stuff make it to the dirt. Normal pine trees seem to be a little jealous of the height of the enormous redwoods.
Fallen pine needles, pinecones, and some rocks litter the ground. Shrubs, ferns, and smaller trees provide cover for undersized animals, but Nathaniel can’t detect any. When he does, it usually ends up startling him or getting away.
We walk over a tree that must have died and rotted until it fell over. Most of it remains intact, but parts of it are crumbling open to reveal the softening red insides of the gargantuan tree.
Inside one of the rotting cracks in the tree, I hear buzzing.
Both of us freeze. Nathaniel looks at me and I whisper, “Dingflies.”
Dingflies are ugly little insects that nest in colonies, like bees. They have their own little society and act almost just like bees. But they can’t defend themselves.
Dingflies can’t bite. They can’t sting. They can’t scratch. It’s pathetic really. The worst they can do is buzz around your face and get into places they shouldn’t, which includes… well, never mind.
The little purple bugs are named because they look like flies, but also because of the sound their nest makes when you hit it. Some use it as an instrument and have figured out how to fluctuate the tone produced, but nobody can figure out why it makes such a sound.
The only reason we want to steer clear of them is because once they lock on to our food, they won’t let it get away until it’s gone or they’re dead.
A few dingflies surface from the rotting tree, but we pass quietly and they leave us alone.
After another two hours pass, I know that the rabbit was a lucky shot. Nathaniel has missed two small mammals, one of them by a mile, and scared off another. At the moment he’s on the trail of a deer, which we’re following intently.
It’s no surprise that the trail is headed towards the river. I’m glad because I want to take a break and splash my face a little, half hoping that we mysteriously lose the deer’s trail.
Once we reach the river, Nathaniel has no idea where the deer has gone. The river is wide at this point, and a rock outcrop juts about a quarter of the distance outward. Rapids crash by just under the point, made all the more violent by more rocks and boulders sticking up out of the water. A large log sticks out at an odd angle. White water is everywhere. There’s no way the deer could have crossed, but where else could it have gone?
I manage to persuade Nathaniel that we need to set up camp. Despite the quickly darkening sky, he wants to keep going. I forbid it.
Nathaniel is happy to use his new knife and skins the rabbit before it rots. Then we cook the meat and share it around the fire with some bread, finally going to bed afterward.
We wake early. The fire still smolders weakly, but I dump some water on it anyway. Then I dig around in my pack and find some rope. I twist, tie, and lay it out until I have set a formidable trap. I repeat the process twice, and then we leave the campsite.
This day goes much the same as the last. But today I get out my throwing knives and hold one ready, determined to get at least one thing with only a knife.
My chance comes when a large pheasant-like bird perches on a branch next to us. It’s an ugly thing and is just about to scream us a lullaby when my knife cuts it short.
I’m very satisfied with my bird and decide to keep some of the longer feathers to put on arrows.
We try to stay in the cover of thicker thickets, but with the trees as large as they are, good cover is sometimes hard to come by. Aside from my bird, today we are unlucky.
We camp at the same rock outcrop over the river, but don’t dare sleep over the angry Fravora. We sleep on the shore, safe and sound. My bird proves tasty, and my traps prove empty and unsprung.
In the morning we consider crossing the river but quickly decide against it. It bothers me that we haven’t seen anything larger yet. Usually by