The Gnome was on a mission to find the biggest bighorn ram in the mountains. He spent the last months of summer in the craggiest peaks of the backcountry, scouting and glassing for the full-curl of his dreams. He spent weeks clambering through boulder fields and scurrying over massive slabs of granite.
Around him, pikas chirped from the rocks and hawks soared on the updrafts around the peaks, letting out occasional sky-piercing cries. Other than the occasional flutter of an insect, it was fairly lonely up so high, but the Gnome could see for miles and miles. He’d found a few rams with horns that would appease a mortal man, but they weren’t what the Gnome was after.
The Gnome knew he’d have to go deeper and higher into the mountains to find his prize. He walked for days across rocky terrain, forded rivers, and climbed over passes until he was in the heart of the mountain range. There, he looked upon ManEater Mountain. It towered above him, casting a dark shadow into the valley below.
He set up a camp near a meandering mountain stream and planned his route for the next morning. He’d go up the peak that sat next to, and slightly below, ManEater. It was an easier climb, and he’d be able to get a good view of what was happening beneath the jagged peaks.
As the sun rose, the Gnome clambered up the steep, rocky slope. Every time his foot found a loose rock, a surprising number of earth-toned moths fluttered out from beneath it. He didn’t think too much of it and continued up, looking toward the next peak for a sign of sheep.
When he spotted the ram, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The top of the horns looked wider across than the Gnome’s hand. They curled down, almost to the brute’s nose, where they turned back on themselves and twisted into another, almost full curl. The ram then picked its heavy head up from munching on the sparse high country shrubs and looked across the saddle, directly at the Gnome.
He ducked down behind the nearest boulder, but in doing so, kicked loose a pile of scree. It tumbled down the mountainside, throwing a torrent of dust and debris in its wake. The Gnome cringed as he heard the ram huff, likely moving ground after witnessing the disturbance. But when the Gnome peeked over the rock, the ram was still lazily grazing. When he heard another huff, he realized it came from the other side of the ridge he was on, not the other peak.
The Gnome crawled over rocks to get a look at what critter was making the noise. But before he could breach the ridge, he was swatted to the ground by the massive paw of a grizzly bear.
Disoriented by the blow, the Gnome reached for his knife, but realized the sheath had come loose in his scramble; it wasn’t on his side. So he hurried to grab a sizeable rock that he could hurl at the bruin getting closer by the second. He threw the rock with all his force, but it phased the bear no more than a fly on a summer day. The boar reacted by grabbing hold of the Gnome’s shirt, lifting him with its massive jaws, and flinging him down the mountainside.
Dazed and dinged up, the Gnome felt around the boulders for something to hold onto. Wedged in between a couple of sizeable stones, the Gnome’s hand found purchase on what seemed to be a plastic handle. He grasped it, pulled, and a single trekking pole emerged from the rock like Excalibur.
This time, when the bear charged him, he swatted it on the nose with the stick. The bruin shook its head in annoyance but continued to pursue the Gnome, who parried every blow like a trained swordsman. When the Gnome finally won the upper ground, he leaped upon the boar’s back.
With one hand wound tightly in the long hairs of his hump, the other grasped the trekking pole and smacked the bear on the rump like a jockey with debts to pay. The bruin bucked and brayed in protest, but ran down the mountain regardless.
Near the bottom of the mountain, a river crossed their path. The Gnome took the chance and bailed off the back of the bear into the icy waters. Pleased to be free of the annoyance on his back, the bear quickly went back to flipping rocks and slurping up moths. The Gnome swam to the far shore, wrung the water from his clothes, gazed up at the peaks above, and began planning how he’d get to that ram without another grizzly rodeo.
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