From: bobandcarole@aol.com   
      
   Story: Jerome's Chronicles   
      
   by bobandcarole (Mg, ped, rom, slow)   
      
       I'd like to apologize ahead of time to the people of Canada, I have   
   taken liberties with their land in this story.  I'm quite sure that the   
   Northwest Territory is not as sparsely populated as I have portrayed, I'm   
   not sure there is anywhere on Earth that empty.  I needed it to be so it   
   is, at least in this tale.  The cities of Redmond and Towland don't exist.   
   The Canadian National does exist but I made up the CanWest line.  Making up   
   things saves on research and you don't have to worry about getting the   
   details right.   
      
       Catharsis, that's what I was after.  I'm sure of that...maybe.  It might   
   also have been the shock of turning 40.  Who me?  I can't be 40, I was a   
   teen just yesterday!.  It might also have been the need for the primal   
   scream, macho style, the need to prove that I could cut it.  That I... the   
   almighty `I' still had enough sand in my gullet and testosterone in my   
   balls to stare eternity in the face and flip it off.   
      
       Whatever the reason here I was, Jerome T Jarret, ex accountant, ex   
   stockbroker and recently ex husband.  I shivered as the bush plane circled   
   back for a last pass.  His wings waggled once then he was a rapidly   
   dwindling dot headed south.  I watched till the roar of the engine   
   vanished, leaving only the moan of the wind for company.   
      
       I looked around and took stock.  I was standing as far north as one   
   could get on the continent and still be within the jurisdiction of any   
   North American government.  The Arctic Circle was a week or so south by my   
   reckoning.  My goal was actually a simple one.  All I had to do was make my   
   way nearly 1200 miles through some of the most remote terrain on Earth.  My   
   end point would be the US border.  To make things more interesting it was   
   mid-October with winter coming on.  My resources, would be myself, $5000.00   
   worth of high tech clothing, tentage and sleeping gear, and a 60+ year old   
   M1903 Springfield sniper rifle kitted out in modern carbon fiber furniture.   
   I had a few other things along, there was my sled, a modernistic thing of   
   aluminum and titanium tubing of my own design.  Hopefully it would be light   
   enough for me to pull even loaded down with 200+ pounds of freeze-dried   
   nutrition.  I had a pistol too, a ported, vented and lightened by god Colt   
   Commander.  The latter was maybe redundant.  If anything hostile got close   
   enough for me to make a 0.45 count I was already in a world of shit, but my   
   macho psyche demanded it so it rode on my hip securely ensconced in Nomex.   
      
       I shifted the rifle to a more comfortable position, snuggled down my   
   pack and took up the sled's leads.  I figured with a heavy load I'd be   
   lucky to make five miles a day.  As the sled grew lighter and my body   
   toughened my mileage would increase.  By the time I reached the first of my   
   supply caches I expected to be doubling my initial daily distance.  Of   
   course then I'd have a heavy sled again and the entire process would begin   
   anew.  All of this was assuming I didn't step in a hole and break my leg on   
   the first day.   
      
       Which brings me to what was not in my gear.  No where on my person, on   
   the sled or at any of my caches was there any form of communication device.   
   No phone, no radio, not even a single flare.  The scream demanded it.  I   
   was working without a net.  That was the grand experiment.  Had the   
   twentieth century office bred male lost what it meant to be male?  Did I   
   have to cringe away from the spirits of men like Jim Bridger, Bill Cody and   
   Daniel Boone or could I turn and stare their shades in the face.  The   
   question had been asked, an answer was required.  Was I a man or a nebbish?   
      
       I scuffed my feet to seat my Tech-Land alloy snowshoes and threw my   
   shoulder against the sleds harness.  The dry-lubed runners `screed' lightly   
   as they started to slide across the hard crust of yesterdays snowfall.  It   
   was time to find out.   
      
       Even in summer the Northwest Territory was a very sparsely populated   
   piece of real estate.  Known worldwide as `The Sportsman's Paradise' it was   
   a mecca for hunters and fisherman during the fair months.  When the first   
   icy breath of autumn came roaring down from the north all of that stopped.   
   The cabins were shuttered, the tents struck, and the bush pilots settled in   
   for the winter at their favorite pub with a beer and a yarn.  The world's   
   deserts were bustling masses of humanity compared to the Northwest   
   Territory in winter.  I was smack dab in the middle of the least populated   
   stretch of acreage on Earth.  It was entirely possible that there was not   
   another human being within hundreds of miles.   
      
       At first the going was fairly easy and my spirits, jarred by the   
   departure of the bush plane, soared.  I congratulated myself for the hours   
   I'd spent on the Stairmaster and the rigorously enforced daily jog.  I   
   looked around at the terrain, the gently rolling snowfield that was all   
   that could be seen in all directions.  I figured it would be three weeks   
   before I saw a tree.  To the west the Brooks range played on the horizon   
   but I knew it to be a trick of the atmosphere, a refractory golem thrown up   
   for my amusement.  The foothills were 300 miles away.   
      
       My Euphoria lasted almost till noon.  By then my calves had began to   
   burn and my thighs ached.  When I stopped for a lunch of dried meat and   
   snowmelt the muscles in my legs jumped like tiny frogs.   
      
       By dusk I was a basket case, my legs had turned to wood and even with   
   all of the vents wide open my oh-so-efficient thermal clothing had turned   
   into a sauna.  I pitched my tent, stuffed something vaguely chicken tasting   
   down my throat, had four Tylenol for desert then collapsed.  I did have the   
   presence of mind to turn my clothing inside out so my sweat could dry but   
   then I was done.   
      
       I awoke in the predawn thoroughly in pain.  Every movement caused some   
   muscle or tendon to scream in agony.  I laid there for awhile trying to   
   will myself to death.  That didn't seem to work and the pistol was too far   
   away so I decided to get up and piss instead.  Getting out of my tight   
   mummy bag took a month or so and almost a year elapsed before I made it to   
   the tent door and zipped it open.  I staggered out to greet the pink   
   horizon of an arctic morning.  I made a yellow hole in the snow then   
   swallowed another handful of Tylenol and lurched back to bed.   
      
       The sun was up before I felt like moving again.  I dressed, leaving off   
   several layers this time then melted some snow for breakfast.  It takes a   
   lot of snow to make a quart of water.  Fortified with porridge and coffee I   
   loaded the sled and got back into train.   
      
       Today was worse, far worse.  Each painful step was a triumph of the   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)