Imagine. You’re in the wilderness and it’s dark, really dark. There's not an inkling of light anywhere. The moon? Gone. Disappeared. Thank goodness for the headlamp strapped to your forehead, shining brightly, lighting the trail to camp, only a mile to go. Suddenly the headlamp peters out. Completely out because the batteries are dead. What do you do now? Well, most certainly, grab the spares and put new batteries in. Spares? What spares? Damn. Gotta make a torch. Imagine. You’re snowshoeing in the backcountry in snow so deep seven-foot fir trees are hidden beneath, and you don’t even know it. When lucky you walks directly on top of a tree and without warning you fall, swish, all the way down, down to the bottom of the tree. You heard a loud snap while falling; and, sure enough, one of your snowshoes is broken. Broken to pieces. You look up, see the blue sky, and determinedly climb out of the hole. You brush yourself off and realize one snowshoe ain’t gonna cut it. Damn. Gotta make a snowshoe. In each scenario a need existed and there was a problem that needed solved. Not only is improvisation a problem solver, but boredom - one of many stressors that mess with a survivor’s head - is dealt with. The survivor keeps active and busy while improvising, using both head and hands. It’s a bodaciously good thing. Over the years I’ve improvised a few items: mukluks, ropes, nets, knives, baskets, snowshoes, lanterns, slingshots, spears, walking sticks, water catches, shelters, tables, benches, you know, stuff like that. My students improvise all sorts of things too. “During this next block of training, each of you will improvise an item. A spoon. A table. Maybe a chess set. A pair of sandals. A flashlight. A Frisbee. A spear. Anything. Something. Something you think up.” And that’s when I get asked, “Mr. Kerns, could you give us some ideas of what to make?” Back a tad I mentioned some of the improvised items I’ve made over the years. But I forgot one. I forgot to mention my favorite. The specially equipped, human-sensing, electronically talking border tree. “Thank you for calling Byron Kerns Survival School. This is Byron. How may I help you?” “Hello, Byron,” replied a lady with a sweet southern drawl. “I want to enroll my husband in one of your classes.” “I’ll be glad to help you do that,” I said. “Your name please?” “My name is Deborah, sir, and my husband’s name is Jerry. He’s a defense attorney – voted the best in Atlanta. Anyhow, I read on your web site where students enrolled in your Bare Bones class participate in a map and compass walk. I do not, I repeat, I do not want my husband becoming lost. So, let me get right to the point. Is your training area bordered by a fence?” Never had I been asked such a question. “Yes, Deborah, the training area is fenced-in, but not by an ordinary fence. Instead, I have installed trees, specially equipped, human-sensing, electronically talking border trees. Along every edge of the training area and not too far apart. “That’s wonderful!” she said gleefully. “How nice. Now I won’t worry so much.” “There’s a catch, Deborah, one you must know. If your husband does get lost, without a doubt he’ll come before one of my trees. And when that happens the specially equipped, human-sensing, electronically talking border tree will alert Jerry, in a thunderous and terrifying voice, to stop and not move a muscle. Then the tree will ask your husband three important questions.” “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem for Jerry,” the lady said with a hint of confidence. “He gets every question right when we watch Jeopardy. Tell me the three questions! I promise I won’t tell Jerry. Better yet, I’ll pay you $300 a question.” Hmmm, I thought. That’s not enough. Not for security questions asked by a talking tree. “Okay, Deborah. I’ll share the questions with you. But it’s going to be $500 a question." “Not a problem. Oh, so-o-o not a problem. Jerry is worth it, absolutely worth it. My dear little man earned a $300,000 bonus last week. That’s why I’m shopping today and buying new dresses and shoes and handbags and all kinds of woman things. My dear Jerry is such a wonderful provider. You can understand my concern for him getting lost in your woods. $1500 extra it is. Now, tell me the three questions!” “Alright, Deborah, here goes. Question #1: Who is buried in Grant’s tomb?” “That’s an easy one!” she exclaimed giddily. “What’s the second question?” “Question #2: When was the War of 1812 fought?” “My goodness,” Deborah laughed. “Jerry’s going to know that one, too. He is such a historical nut. What’s the third question?” “Deborah, the third question is the most important question,” I said as if death had rolled in. “Jerry must answer this question correctly, or he will face tremendous devastation.” “Oh, for damn sakes! Tell me the question!” she ordered in a tone not so very peach-like. “Question #3: What is your latitude and longitude?” “Well, if that isn’t the stupidest, the damn stupidest question I’ve ever heard! If Jerry knew that, well, he certainly wouldn’t be lost and talking to your contraption of a tree would he?” “As I said, Question #3 is very important. If Jerry answers incorrectly, if he tells the tree the wrong answer, the talking tree will shake and shake like there’s no tomorrow, fall sideways, and smash your husband dead.” There was silence. Way too much silence. After a good minute’s worth, I said “Deborah, you still there? You still on the line?” “I’m here, Byron. Let’s skip Jerry and enroll my mother-in-law.”
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