Fox

By Maxim Griffin.

It’s dark – the path through the woods is hard underfoot after a recent cold snap – one of those long, low winter sunsets has turned into a night of particular clarity – there have been reports of enough solar activity to provoke an aurora – you saw it in early October, first time in your life – everyone else was asleep and you stood in the road, mouth open.

It’s something of a minor tradition – you trudge out to a particular wood at a particular time of year and go to ground for the night – a few simple bits of kit, a sleeping bag, a tarp, some string, a little grub and a healthy jigger of whiskey – you’re not strictly supposed to be here but that has never stopped you – there’s satisfaction to be claimed from making yourself a den in the night, it appeals to your inner badger – you step off the thin track and scamper up a steep incline to your chosen spot – slightly less elegant than earlier years but you make it without tripping in the dark and that’s the main thing – still got it.

There’s no rain forecast and the stars have revealed themselves – you quickly string up your low shelter – how very Ray Mears – your patch is a hollow halfway up the chalky sides of a glacial valley – in the summer it’s a green cave but in January it’s a damp pit – no matter, sleep isn’t really the main agenda – you’ll watch Jupiter and Orion pass across the web of limbs – you let your eyes adjust to the present light levels – birch trees shine eerie – good.

Watching and listening
Stillness is important – to be still – you don’t shuffle – you shift your gears to the tempo of the woods at night – you keep quiet – the sound of one car passing, very far away – nothing moves, you tune in – there – your ears pick up on the gentlest lick of breeze, the whole wood leans with it, ever so slightly – listen harder – one silver cloud paces west to east.

A dog fox announces his intentions to all the neighbourhood vixens – ARRRKKK – makes you jump – you chuckle and gently curse – ARRRKKK – far end of the valley, probably – ARRRKKK – he’s on patrol – you wait, looking for movement – your head torch is bright but you keep it off – let him work his way down the valley – ARRRKKK – louder, closer – you don’t want to give the game away – you wriggle in the chalky muck to get a better vantage – you’re the Rogue Male, the Jackal, you’re playing soldiers – you press the button – a full beam – left to right along the opposite ridge – slowly – ARRRKKK – closer still – you keep the beam steady – a flash of reflection – no – you keep beam steady – there – two o’clock – a pair of eyes caught in the light – blink – gone – ARRRKKK – gone.

The fox hasn’t vanished – he’s out there for sure, just more cautious now – you keep your ears open – nothing – it’s late – you’re hungry – you reach inside your battered old rucksack – a tiny stove, a tiny pan, a tin of something that claims to be Irish Stew – you fashion some kind of kitchen – the stove’s old, well-used and – you double-check – yup – empty – not even a breath of gas – thought you’d checked – plan B rolls into action and within a few minutes you’ve scraped together a couple of handfuls of twigs and tinder – you fashion a little nest of sticks – you’ve dug out the dog end of a candle from your rucksack – wax and wick make the perfect good fuel – you dollop the mysterious casserole into the tiny pan and it starts to smell similar to food – good – finishing your field rations you consider keeping the flames going a little longer but you don’t want to give the game away – shame – it’s getting chilly – you kill the embers with damp chalk – 30 seconds of hissing and smoke and it’s as though your tiny fire never existed.

Close encounters
A nip of the whiskey reminds you why it didn’t get finished over Christmas – you look up – clear – Jupiter is in charge – same as it ever was – instinct suggests you check the time but you didn’t bring your phone with you – you’d only end up reading the news – fresh weirdness everywhere – you look up – must be one – Mars is very bright – another nip of that whiskey – it sits better than the first – your eyes get used to the starlight – you think back – a few years ago someone found a lower Paleolithic hand axe at the top end of this valley – two hundred thousand years old, give or take – there would have been mammoths – the stars would have been the same, more or less – you’re starting to drift – the sleeping bag pulled up about you – eyes close – shhh.

ARRRKKK – you start – that fox is taking the mickey out of you – ARRRKKK – waiting until you’d let your guard down – ARRRKKK – that was close – head torch – full beam – left and right – up and down your side of the wood – you leave the torch on but point it straight up – enough light to let him know you are present – ARRRKKK – you’re on alert now – two in the morning in some Lincolnshire wood where you ought not to be and a fox is letting everything know exactly where you are – Ray Mears wouldn’t let a fox shout at him – ARRRKKK – you curse – it feels as though every molecule of the woods is looking at you – you wait – you wait a long time – the tension eases – you curl back into the sleeping bag – Jupiter is heading west with Mars on his heels – you’re wide awake – the woods have settled – you haven’t – you pack up – it’ll be a nice walk anyway, with the stars – add a couple of extra miles and you could visit that 24-hour Scottish restaurant on the ring road – it’s a sound plan and you’re sticking with it – you slip out of the wood making sure to leave no trace, the starlit hills before you – the dog fox watching as you trudge off into the night – ARRRKKK.

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