Free Journal by Craig Buckhout, Abbagail Shaw, Patrick Gantt Page A

encountered Mr. Ponytail’s crew, maybe eight or nine miles at most.  If
they were still following us north, and we turned east now, they could
conceivably intercept us.  But the choice was between maybe freezing to death
north or maybe getting shot to death east.
    We
walked east in a steady snowfall.  But snow was better than rain, and it would
eliminate our tracks in short order — at least we could say that.  It made for
hard walking, however — we could say that, too.  It was hard not so much
because of the depth of the snow, it wasn’t yet that bad.  It had more to do
with the terrain, which was either up or down.   It also was because the ground
was so uneven you never knew exactly what you were stepping on.  In fact, I
fell once when my toe caught a root hidden in the snow.   I also saw Gabriel go
down one time.  He made a face like he hurt himself, but he didn’t cry out.  He
just got back up and kept going.
    More
and more, the trees gave way to a landscape of barren white slopes, dabbed here
and there grey-green with sage, which, at times, was waist high and impenetrable,
requiring frequent changes in direction.  It also slowed our progress down
considerably. 
    About
three hours into the morning, we stopped to rest and study our surroundings to
see if we were being followed.  Gabriel was looking pretty bad and Anna only a
little bit better, sitting there hunched over and hugging herself.  I took the
time at that point to cut strips of fabric from the material I had removed from
the plane.  I wrapped these around their lower legs as makeshift gaiters, tying
them in place with nylon cord.  Their pants were already wet, but I figured
this might help insulate them from the cold.  I wished I had thought of it
earlier.  I also made sure that Gabriel drank some water.  You can get
dehydrated in the cold just the same as you can in heat.   During this whole process, not
much was said between us; each holding our miseries tight.    
    Re-reading
what I just put down, I can imagine that it might make me sound as if I am this
tough, resilient character taking care of the women folk and children, but
that’s not the case; not by a long shot.  First, as I’ve stated so many times
before, I was completely and totally miserable, scared, cold, wet, and tired
just like they were.  The reason I might have been in slightly better shape than
they were is because I had warmer clothing on and more of it.  They left the
farm essentially with what they had on their backs and what they could scrounge
up in just a very few minutes.  Also, there was a practical reason for me being
particularly attentive to their phys the Author

    Getting
back to it, with little enthusiasm, we continued east.  If there was a bright
spot, it was that the snow stopped falling, and it seemed that we were going
more downhill than up.  Once I saw deer tracks and another time what had to be
the paw prints of a gray wolf or large dog.  There would be no hunting, however. 
To risk a shot from us now, would risk a shot at us later. 
    Other
than that already mentioned, and an uneventful crossing of an old logging road,
there’s not much to tell about the next several hours.  After all, how do I
remark on a missed footstep, an uprooted tree, or a climb just short of impossible
when the hundred before and after were no different?  It was basically just one
foot in front of the other for about six more hours.
    We
quit when our legs quit, not another step less.  This time I left Anna and
Gabriel to put up our shelter while I scouted around for fire wood and maybe
something to eat.  I found enough pieces of dry wood for a cook fire, refilled
our water bottles from a ribbon of water flowing from a hillside spring, and
picked two pockets full of new growth Fiddleheads, a type of edible fern common
to the area.  There wasn’t enough for a full meal, but it would maybe provide a
few more calories to keep us going.
    Because
I have