Early on the morning of our departure, our community gathered
about. As was our custom, we began in silence, hearing the gushing stream, bird
calls, breathing and slight coughs across the group. The air was chilled, but
fresh. Then Mosako looked up and spoke a blessing over us and the singing of
our congregation grew softly, then built in strength. As we finished, we
all rose enmasse, with lungs filled and the sound of singing echoing across the
valley escarpments. No hiding away in the shadows now. With hugs,
and tears, and many tut tuts at the weight of various packs, we set off, about
twelve of us; at the lead, Tilda, moving quickly and not once looking back.
Her face was earnest; she was leading a mission for the first time, and
she knew the risks well. We followed in a long line, picking our way through
the damp undergrowth. In places a birch log path had been laid, a
corrugated respite occurring periodically along the trail. Birch is slow
to rot, and not much good for a fire either.
My load comprised of the abseiling ropes. We knew that these could
be sold on at a local market by the coast. Our rope making skills were
well respected. None of our ropes ever broke, despite being light weight.
I remember stories of how our traders impressed the market crowds with daring
fleets of climbing, and swinging about from high balconies.
The path we followed did not require navigation. It markings
became clearer by the side of the stream, in the same way that the stream would
eventually grow into a wide impressive river. Skill would be needed to
cross it. Our troupe walked till the sun dropped, and the cool of the evening
indicated our time to rest. The older members, recced the area looking
for a safe spot for the night. The criteria were 'dry', 'hidden from the
track', and 'easy to defend' if we were to be disturbed by bears or wolves.
Wolves always give themselves away by howling, they just can't help it. Bears
are only a problem if they feel we have chosen the prime spot for the night,
and they want to pull rank on us. We always checked for bear hair, and other
tell tail sights such as scratching posts. Rations for the journey were
always the same. Dry disks of bread, which we softened in water, and air dried
slices of steak. We could supplement this with wild greens, often bitter
herbs, abundant in all valleys throughout the year. Sometimes we found
mushrooms, testing these for toxins by rubbing a suspect mushroom against our
wrists. The skin here on the body is very thin, and the body gives an
early warning of risk. Most mushrooms are easily recognised, but a few
look and smell very similar, and caution is needed. Mushrooms are always
eaten with salt crystals.
As the journey approached the sea, the valley widened out, and the
evidence of human habitation became more apparent. Some areas were now
fenced off with great pine trees toppled on their sides. Guard dogs
aggressively swept their territories, but were always brought up short by our
honed skill in understanding and taming the animal spirit. My first view of the
sea came on the fifth day. Experiences like this form wonderfully deep
impressions, like the view from a mountain top, or swimming deep underwater and
being bombarded by fish and light.
We had heard so much about the sea. Many evenings were spent
listening to the adventures of some member of our community, or the accounts of
a refugee, newly mastering our language, who explained at length the iniquity
of their previous life, and why living our Spartan existence was far
preferable.
None of us had been to these cliffs before where thousands of
squawking seabirds wheeled about. It was mesmerising, with that
unsettling illusion one gets in precarious places that you might be sucked over
the edge. We were after the fulmars eggs. We knew there was just
one time in the year when steeling fulmar’s eggs would not affect their
survival at all. It was early spring, and though the birds object
strongly to our intrusion, they have the capacity to replace their eggs almost
immediate and get on with hatching a brood or two quite comfortably before the
weather changes. I elected to be lowered over the edge of the cliff down to the
long ledges where the rudimentary fulmar nests could be found. The irate
birds, though not directly attacking me, showed their objecting to my dive
bombing me with an oily vomit, revenge with an effect over a number of days.
The eggs were placed in leather buckets and sent up the cliff face on
their own ropes, banging occasionally into protruding rock with cracking sounds
accompanied by groans from up above.
That evening after a splendid tea of scrambled eggs, with all the
casualties from the accent providing a rich reward, we enjoyed our first night
in the open. It was a crisp clear evening, with the slowly igniting stars
above. Snuggled into the hollows in the rocky outcrops along the ridge,
we gazed the night away over a shimmering sea. For me the excitement was
made complete by the warm presence of my big sister pressing up close to me,
her long hair tickling my face. Tomorrow we would be fishing.
We were accustomed to fish in our diet, but only when the seasons
brought big salmon up to our remote valley. Aged salmon is not a great
delicacy. And we largely helped ourselves to the salmon abandoned by the Bears.
Who during the most plentiful periods, only bother biting off the area
behind the head, rich in fat, before discarding the rest of the carcass.
Fishing by the sea was quite different. Up from the cliffs,
about two hours walk, were lagoons, warm waters, rich in all sorts of fish.
While we walked through the rough scrub on the way to the lagoons, sharp
eyed scouts noticed where thick vines fell for the wooded canopy. With hatches
clenched between teeth, they shinned up these vines before hacking them down
carefully. Getting down was now tricky, and a good climber ensures that some
vines were left for this purpose. The vines were cautiously cut into three foot
lengths, sap instantly squirting out White sap. This sap was not only
caustic, it also has other properties to be respected. The twelve of us
now spread out with our fishing nets strung between us. Wading into the
shallow lagoon, we cordoned off a leg of the watery expanse and moved slowing
constricting and entrapping all types of fish. Then when the confines of
lagoon were deemed small enough, bit of the vine were hit hard with sticks and
flung into the water, the sap defused out creating a concoction of poison. its
action was to slow the effectiveness of muscles, and soon lethargic fish were
bobbing to the surface gasping for air. As simple as can be, we scooped
out fish, as if they were already on the platter. More fish than we could
handle. At least a third were allowed to live another day, and were pushed off
into purer waters.
Next, on great racks of branches, each fish was gutted and laid
out for smoking. We kids rushed around collecting sacks of pine cones,
and wood. Soon a deep white belching smoke poured up between the fish,
and straight up in a plume, like a forest fire. I now noticed the strain
on Tida's face. She knew that word would get around that the Red Belts
were about. We generally came in for a lot of attention.
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