He made camp at the base of a huge pine. Almost No snow was under it and it was dry and kept out some of the fierce wind. He was surviving okay. Life was hard up as high as he was and he looked forward to spring when he'd go home. He felt like these mountains and streams and cold and the brute force of nature had somewaht made him wilder but more at ease with himself.
He set to work on skinning the beaver. He had caught it last night and was too tired and cold to skin it then. His hands were freezing and he'd stop now and then to warm them under the wool mackinaw.
A warm bed and maybe a little bit of T.V. would be nice he thought. Soon enough.
(going to be adapted to a book, this was just a story thrown together.)
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