The Mountain Man

It was a long time ago now, and if I remember correctly, it was winter. 

Winter is best for a good story, for it appears that children are more calm during that time (little boys anyhow). 

Yes, that must have been the case in this instance, for the teacher sure had my attention on this day.  No – no time for acting like a wild Indian – that would have to wait. 

For this here story was about a Mountain Man.  That was mighty important in my book, and rightly so. You see, I lived in the Ozark Mountains, and I was a man.  Well…not really, not yet anyhow. But, I was going to be some day. That meant I might have to endure what he did, or so I reasoned. 

Now, let’s see.  Oh, yes, the year was 1823, the very same year that the first steamboat navigated the Mississippi River to Fort Snelling in Minnesota. 

Well, Mr. Hugh Glass, answering an advertisement in the “Missouri Gazette,” joined the party of General William Henry Ashley on an expedition to ascend the Missouri River as part of a fur trading venture. Hugh was a perfect fit, for he was a rugged Mountain Man, fur trapper, tracker, and hunter extraordinaire. But all of that would pale compared to what was getting ready to happen. And, I…well, I still shudder at the thought! 

The company of men began their expedition by heading over land to the Yellowstone River, which you all probably know, joins the Missouri River in western North Dakota. That is when it happened. Yes sir, it sure did. Hugh was out scouting the immediate territory, when he encountered a vicious Mother Bear with two cubs. Well, she had a grouch on that day, and attacking him, she literally ripped his lower body to shreds. After the mauling was over, eye witnesses said they could see his open rib cage, as the flesh on his sides hung down like Burley Baccer drying in a barn. 

He also suffered a broken leg, and a puncture to his wind pipe. A puncture that was so severe, men could visibly see Hugh’s breath out the side of his neck. 

Well, being in the middle of nowhere, and torn to bits, the party elected two men to stay with him. After a short time, the two men, certain that Hugh would not live, left him for dead. Rotten scoundrels! But contrary to their professional opinion, he didn’t die. Hugh was determined to live!  See, I told you he was a Mountain Man. 

Two hundred miles from civilization, he set the bone in his own leg, splinted it, and then began dragging his body along the ground. Being unable to walk, he began eating anything he could reach with his hands, to gain strength. Wild berries, edible plants, ants, grasshoppers, and mice. Then it got worse! Yes, worse than eating mice! 

You see, his wounds were so severe that they became putrefied with infection, and maggots set up camp in his back and legs. Weak and exhausted from all of the trauma, Hugh pulled himself up next to a log face down, and was trying to get some rest when another bear happened along. 

Another bear?! 

But, hold on! 

Turns out this bear wasn’t a man eater.  Instead, the bear began licking the maggots out of Hugh’s wounds.  Hugh just laid there playing possum, and the bear did a right fair job of cleaning him up! 

Then the bear moseyed on, and Hugh began dragging himself again, all the time using the great “Thunder Butte” as a landmark to guide himself by. Hugh finally crawled his way to the Cheyenne River, where he fashioned a crude raft, and floated the remaining distance to Fort Kiowa. The excruciatingly painful journey for help took him six weeks. 

Yes sir, it was long ago when I first heard that story of the Mountain Man. And as I already explained, I reasoned within my boyish imagination that I may have to endure what he did. 

But, here is where it takes a turn for the worse. 

Sitting there in that classroom, little did I know that something similar would indeed happen to me – even worse.  Yes sir, I was also torn to bits, and my journey for help would take longer than six weeks; a whole lot longer. 

You see, I learned that I was one of them folks like the prophet Isaiah spoke of, it was awful, and I ought to know, for I lived it. What am I talking about?                            

“From the sole of the foot, even unto the head there is no soundness in it; but wounds and bruises, and putrefying sores: they have not been closed, neither bound up, neither mollified with ointment.” (Isaiah 1:6)

What Isaiah was describing is a people ravaged by sin – and without Christ; such was I. As I became aware of this truth, the grotesque and awful wounds of sin became more than I could bear. Oh, to be certain, others may be aware that a man has a fractured leg, but only he understands the pain, and I was tormented as if in hell itself. Yet, now thankful. Thankful because what if I had never learned how sinful I was in the eyes of a Holy God? But then came the struggle.

How could I defeat sin, that wretched filth?  How could I repair the damage, remove the shame, and relieve the pain? 

Obviously, I couldn’t. None of us can. 

No, the only thing I could do was lower my head, point to my wounds, and cry with the apostle, “Oh, wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from this body of death?” (Rom. 7:24). 

Yes, dear reader, that is when I crawled to Jesus for help, and found Him, or moreover, was found by Him.          

By faith, Jesus is there for the broken and the weak, for those who have been left half dead with no help in sight.  Yes sir, kind of like the Mountain Man. But are we determined to live, and not die?   

 “For whoso findeth me, findeth life, and shall obtain favor of the LORD.  But he that sinneth against me wrongeth his own soul: all they that hate me love death.” (Prov. 8:35,36)

Michael Everett Jones is a Texas County native, old fashioned historian and purveyor of traditional Christian values. Email ozarksgrandpajones@gmail.com.