this used to be real estate, now it's only fields and trees

Ray knew nothing at all about daytime wilderness navigation without a compass or GPS unit. He knew next to nothing about night-time celestial navigation, except how to take a really good reading of the omens according to seven different ancient astrological systems. The Army manual had mentioned a number of directional stars worth following, but it would've been a lot more useful if it had included a line to the effect of 'you know how people in novels travel by night using only the light of the stars to see? It's bupkis.' He'd come within a hair of breaking all the major bones in his body when a torrential downpour had caught him trying to clamber down an especially steep slope. And now, every single plant species within a radius of a day's walk was pumping out all the pollen its reproductive system could manage.

On the bright side, he'd been able to patch the worst of the leaks in the roof when he made it back to the cabin. The plugs weren't much more than strategically applied divots carved out with the edge of a rock, but they did the job- as long as they weren't falling apart or shedding clods of dirt. It was solid enough work that when the second, longer storm came, he was able to pull on the nasty excuse for an elk-hide blanket and get busy ripping the unnecessary pages out of the Auel books. That took more time, and provided more amusement, than he would've thought. Free kindling, free toilet paper, and improving a work of literature- what more could a guy stuck in a really crummy wilderness situation ask for?

. . . well, other than a plane ticket back to New York City and for Walter Peck to come down with a sudden advanced case of multidrug-resistant syphilis?

And a set of halfway decent tools that hadn't left his fingers sliced and bruised in all kinds of places because of gross unfamiliarity on his part with the flint-knapping process?

And a razor? A razor would be really nice. There'd been a part in The Valley of Horses where the male lead had scraped hair off his cheek with a sharp piece of flint. Ray had tried that. Once. Just once.

Maybe something in the way of vegetable matter that wasn't either dried, overripe, or completely out of season? Not that the elk meat hadn't smoked up nicely, but not even the Atkins diet took high-protein living this far, and Atkins had all kinds of dietary side effects from what Ray remembered of Egon's diatribe against the subject.

Oooh, a notebook would be nice too, and something to write with. Ray had taken to keeping notes on his situation on whatever flat clear surfaces he could; the flint bits he'd blunted into screwdrivers were great for writing in cuneiform, just in case Peck and company ever tried to check up on him.

…. and as long as he was at it, why not a pony?

It was not the best spring day Raymond Stantz had ever had, really.

Maybe he could take apart the telephone and put it back together again for the sixth time. That ought to provide a few minutes' amusement.