As evening approached and the sun began to dip towards the northwestern horizon, the shadows in the valley grew longer and longer.
They finally reached the designated camp, a relatively flat and wind-sheltered place below the "Wind Shear Pass."
"This is it," Old George said, setting down his heavy backpack and leaning on his trekking pole, gasping for breath.
"We'll stop here for today. Going any further would bring us close to our target destination."
Lin Yu'an looked in the direction he pointed, seeing the slopes ahead grow increasingly steep.
Huge rocks and twisted glacier marks crisscrossed the area, making it unsuitable to continue in dim light.
"I'll set up the tent; you two rest first."
Lin Yu'an volunteered for the task, his breath only slightly labored, in stark contrast to the two elder n who were too tired to move.
"Good lad, you're quite fit," Stan said, plopping down on the ground and pulling a water bottle from his backpack's side pocket, taking several swigs.
As he finished setting up the tent for Stan and George and was about to boil water for dinner, Lin Yu'an's Sixth Sense beca distinctly perceptive, sensing small prey!
He imdiately slung his Mossberg 590A1 over his back and said to them, "I'm going for a little walk, see if I can add sothing to our dinner."
Old George lifted his head to check the sky, reminding him, "Don't go too far; it gets dark quickly. And try not to make too much noise; we're close to the potential habitat of the sheep."
"Don't worry, I'll be quieter than a kitten."
Lin Yu'an made an OK gesture and turned towards the massive pile of rocks on the east side of the camp.
He didn't go far, only moving stealthily under the cover of the boulders, guided by his Sixth Sense.
Rembering Old George's advice, he needed to prevent making loud noises. That ant avoiding the shotgun, as its sound was very loud.
He reached into a small waterproof pocket close to his body, retrieving a peculiar tal device that resembled a tal shotgun shell.
This was a .12 gauge to .22 caliber rifled adapter tube. He skillfully inserted a small .22 long rifle round into the back of the adapter tube.
Then, with a click, he loaded this special bullet into the chamber of the Mossberg 590A1.
He racked the forearm, closing the gun's action. This mont turned the formidable tactical shotgun into a single-shot but extrely quiet .22 caliber gun.
He lay prone behind a large rock, his body tightly pressed against the cold stone.
He patiently scanned the complex terrain ahead, composed of tundra, rocks, and low shrubs.
Soon, he found subtle signs—a few scattered willow leaves and small comma-like bird droppings, signals left by feeding Thunderbirds!
He didn't hurry forward, instead maintaining absolute stillness, allowing his silhouette to fully blend into the evening shadows.
After about ten minutes, his patience was rewarded!
Not far away, a rock seemingly identical to its surroundings moved slightly, then a little head with a red crest erged.
It was a rock thunderbird. In August, its feathers were dappled gray and brown, perfectly blending with the lichens and rocks, a master of disguise.
If not for that hint of bright red and occasional movent, it would be nearly impossible to spot with the naked eye.
Soon after, a second, a third... a small flock of Thunderbirds erged from their hiding spots, clucking as they pecked at the tender plant shoots on the ground.
Lin Yu'an slowly raised his gun, using the red dot sight on his weapon to place a small red dot squarely on the plumpest Thunderbird.
He didn't choose the closest one but picked one slightly further away for a better shooting position.
Because the wind was strong, he had to evaluate wind direction issues, as the .22 bullets were easily affected by the wind.
Lin Yu'an's index finger lightly rested on the trigger, adjusting his breathing.
At the end of a long exhalation, at the mont his heartbeat reached its calst—"Pff."
An extrely faint sound, like a dry branch snapping, broke the silence of the valley.
The targeted thunderbird's head burst into small feathers instantly, and its body slumped down before making any struggle!
The other Thunderbirds were taken aback by this sudden change, flapping their wings wildly, letting out alard cries as they scattered into the crevices of the rocks, disappearing in an instant.
Lin Yu'an didn't fire a second shot.
Calmly, he ejected the still smoky adapter tube, put it back into his pocket, and then stood up to collect his evening's trophy.
This rock thunderbird felt heavy in his hand, its thick feathers indicating it had stored enough fat over the sumr, enough for the three of them to feast on.
By the ti Lin Yu'an returned to the camp, night had fallen, and under "Wind Shear Pass," three small orange mountain tents stood resiliently against the wind.
The biting mountain wind howled down from the ridge like invisible blades, scraping against the nylon tents, producing a "woo-woo" sound.
The temperature had dropped to near freezing, and each breath taken was filled with cold air.
Stan had used a few relatively flat large rocks to build a semicircular windbreak in the windbreak triangle ford by their three tents.
This temporary stone wall, though not high, was enough to block most of the fierce winds coming from the main direction.
The small portable gas stove was placed at the center of this "shelter," and with the protection of stone walls and bodies, the blue fla resiliently stabilized.
Inside the tent-ford little shelter, a bright fla was dancing on the portable gas stove, bringing the only light and warmth to this icy world.
Upon seeing the prey in Lin Yu'an's hand, Stan's eyes imdiately lit up.
"Well done, kid!"
He rubbed his frostbitten red hands and ca forward: "I thought we'd have to gnaw on that damn beef jerky again tonight. Co on, let see it."
Lin Yu'an handed over the trophy with a smile. It was a perfect catch, with only a small bullet hole in the head, and the rest of the body intact, the feathers even retaining their luster.
Old George, who was curling up in the tent arranging sleeping bags, also poked his head out. He looked at the wound on the Thunderbird's head, then at the shotgun behind Lin Yu'an, with doubt in his eyes.
"How did you manage that? Using this 12-gauge beast and still keeping the at so intact?"
Lin Yu'an didn't explain much. He just pulled out a still-warm brass conversion tube from his pocket and handed it to Old George.
Old George instantly understood the secret. A hint of surprise flashed in his eyes, which quickly turned into genuine admiration.
"Ha! Using a bear-hunting barrel to hit mosquitoes, and you only damage the mosquito's wing. Kid, you always surprise ."
"Alright, enough with the complints, we should think about how to eat it," Stan said eagerly.
"Let's make a stew. In this weather, nothing beats a hot pot of at and broth."
The two old n had no objections and also felt the young man made a good point.
Lin Yu'an began his work, skillfully skinning the Thunderbird and cleaning out the innards.
He didn't bother with the ti-consuming task of deboning but instead used his sturdy hunting knife to chop the whole bird, bones and all, into fist-sized pieces, setting them aside for later.
He placed a modestly deep pot on the stove, first throwing in a piece of bacon to fry out the grease, a common practice among many hunters in Alaska.
"Sizzle—"
Once enough oil was extracted, Lin Yu'an fished out the bacon and imdiately tossed the chunks of Thunderbird at into the pot, quickly stir-frying them.
The at pieces ca into contact with the scorching pot bottom; their surfaces instantly contracted, and their color changed from pink to a charred white as a pure aroma of at spread through the cold air.
"Oh my goodness, just slling this makes feel warr!" Stan was nearby, taking a deep whiff with a face full of delight.
When all the at was slightly golden on the surface, Lin Yu'an then poured water into the pot, which soon covered all the chunks of at.
"Alright, your turn, chef," Lin Yu'an said to Stan with a smile.
Stan chuckled, pulling out a package of high-mountain instant mashed potato powder and a small pinch of dehydrated onion flakes from his food bag.
He skillfully sprinkled these two items into the pot. The broth quickly boiled again, and with the addition of the mashed potato powder, began to thicken gradually.
Lin Yu'an turned the fla down, maintaining a gentle "bubbling" simr.
The freshness of the Thunderbird, the richness of the mashed potatoes, and the slight sweetness of the onion slowly blended in the small pot, weaving a warm aroma.
Old George, who had been silently watching, also pulled out a small tal hip flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and poured a capful of whiskey into the pot.
"George! You old booze hound! You're not saving it for ergencies?" Stan exclaid in surprise.
A rare smile appeared on Old George's face: "A little liquor takes away the gaminess and adds layers to the soup's flavor."
"This reminds of when I was young, doing the sa dish with my work buddies... Ah, not many of the old guys are around anymore."
Watching the two old n contributing their treasures to the pot with banter, a warm feeling surged in Lin Yu'an's heart.
This beca more than just a dinner; it felt like a warm ritual for the three of them.
After a long while, a pot of thick "Whiskey Thunderbird Potato Soup" was finally ready.
Lin Yu'an gave it a final seasoning with salt and served it in their titanium bowls, each chunk of at tender and falling off the bone, exuding a faint potato aroma.
Stan was the first to blow on it before eagerly taking a big sip.
The scorching thick soup slid down his throat: "Oh! God! It's hot! But it tastes great."
Old George, on the other hand, was more composed. He scooped up a piece of well-stewed leg at with a spoon, easily separating it from the bone and putting it into his mouth.
The at was not too tough, and the broth was rich. He closed his eyes in satisfaction, letting out a long sigh, as if even his soul was comforted, or perhaps he was rembering his younger days.
The three of them sat around that little fla, sipping the soup slowly and eating the at in big bites, without further conversation.
In this wind-swept icy pass, words were superfluous.
Only the piping hot soup in their bowls, the companions by their side, and the collective hope for tomorrow were the truest existence at that mont!
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(Still 4k to go tonight, it's mid-month, asking for the guaranteed monthly ticket~~~ To cast a monthly ticket, please click [Monthly Ticket])
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