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Nick could hear Chunk clawing at the back door as he scrambled in from the evening chill. The Pit was a fearsome companion, one which served a great many purposes and fulfilled the needs of a woodcutter in bear country. He gave Chunk a vigorous rub down his back and headed to the Jotul to add a few large pieces of split for the overnight. He knew it would be chilly well into the morning hours as there would be no inversion from the unbelievable amount of stars above. The night sky’s was dense in the swirling bands of the Milky Way from horizon to horizon.

Chains were piled atop a newspaper on the dining room table; four skip-tooths and several safety chains for the old Stihl which needed expert filing. In order to continue working the old logging deck at break neck pace, he knew a visit to Steve’s was necessary. He laughed as he pulled a long sip of bourbon, thinking of what an utter dumbass he was for using his chain file to remove bearings from the High Boy’s wheel hub. These were precious commodities as many people were cutting wood for heat themselves. Steve would get him fixed up quick and hopefully the files he ordered would appear on Thursday, when the train arrived from the coast.

“Come on Chunk” he belched, “Let’s hit it.” All 110 pounds of pit bull bounded onto the bed. Nick took the kettle off the stove, and poured the hot water into a small fortex bucket and added some vinegar. As he lifted the sponge from the bucket he felt his rotator cuff, the soreness made him wince… “Age sucks” he murmured. As the heat began to relieve the aches and pains, he looked at Chunk and smiled.

Nick always gave himself bucket showers before bed, a habit he picked up living aboard, where washing sheets was a luxury unless in port. He figured it kept him from needing to fire up the diesel gennie w/o a number of loads. More importantly, this evening, it provided relief from the neatly stacked and split cord for January and Tick. Sleep would come easy.

At a quarter to five Nick lit a smoke in bed, rolled over, stretched and emptied himself into his boots. On the way to out the door, the kettle was placed back upon the stove. As he pushed the starter, the beast sputtered and roared to life. “Damn 390, should have bought that one at Le Halles” he smirked. The heater would take a good ten minutes to warm the cabin and coffee was a must. Chunk had plopped down in front of the stove, fast asleep. Nick took the kettle off and tore open a pack of Nestle’s instant coffee. “This shit tastes just like the chem it’s made from” he thought. “I’ll need to add real beans to the grocery list again.”

The drive to Cain’s place took Nick past the rail yard, where most inland commerce from the surrounding 500 miles was conducted. He would return Thursday to help his friend load his flatbed for the country store and grab his order for the next week. January has asked him if he wouldn’t mind gathering her things as well, which he was pleased to do for her. He was impressed by how well a marine biologist had adapted to the mountains. January’s abilities seemed boundless, her intelligence immense. Nick’s admiration for her grew every time they spoke, she fascinated him with her no non-sense approach to everything. Simple, direct and to the point, no bullshit, what you heard, you best believe.

Steve was in the back lot as Nick arrived, moving the carcass of an old speed boat he raced on one of the interior lakes. “I outta just burn this damn thing were it not all toxic…” Nick grinned and reached down to lift the trailer with Steve, moving to the back of the lot where two blue tarps were unfolded and slapping the ground in the morning breeze.