POACHING IN BRINGSJORD FOREST

Gemini on high gloss furniture ski.

This story is from Bringsjord forest in the old days; from the tragic post-war period when the Swedes had punch as winners in five mil Nordic skiing in Oslo. Especially Uncle Anton was upset over this, and swore by Degner that if he had been 30 years younger, would "svenskbaggarne" had to bite the cornice. This was daring said by a man who never ran it longer than in sports as one of two surveyors in the long jump pit on the games on workers day 1 May.

This Christmas we had received new hand-made skis of the owner of all Furniture factory with his wife (Alf og Marie), and we comforted uncle that he could just calm down, we were ready to put us in hard training on a five mils trail straight through the deep bringsjordske forests.

A beautiful winter day in January, we set off up "Skoddeveien" (a forest road) on high gloss ski. This ancient road, which was made for horse with stubbs slead - and medieval church walkers - started down by the river past Siljevollen in Strømnes and went up to the old cotter in Egeland valley. It was a steep climb at the beginning, but well up on Kvassekleiva gentle way out inward toward Rinneveden.

The day was a very calm and sunny, and the forest was filled with a meter-thick layer of fresh snow that threatened to break the branches of conifers, and many a young birch stood as a bent smaltroll with nose buried in snowdrifts.

On top of Kvassekleiva scared we set up a grouse that had perched herself in a large pine tree, and a little further inside støkte we set up a long ebbed woodcock who sat under a bush where it usually was wetland, otherwise it was quiet in the woods.

As the road wound up under Ingrihill, was training trail to lose superseded by a latent hunting instinct, for which there were clear traces of elk. It had crossed the road and walked up towards Graudebohelleren, probably early at dawn, before it had completely stopped to snow.

Kjell was immediately overzealous and thought that we should follow moose tracks, but I held back and believed that moose could now be "of all piles," and that it was best to go up the track inland to Older. We stopped and discussed a little back and forth without being agreed other than that now it was time to take lunch break.

Above a suitable spruce, we buckled of our skis and walked a deep pit in the snow. So we let the skis flat as to seat on a bench before we sat down and took out lunch packs mother had sent with. They baked bread slices with goat cheese tasted good, but the slices with gooseberry jam was a solid frozen disaster.

"Goof demanding jam askance," I said, looking onto the packed lunch to Kjell.

"You can get ..."

He was interrupted by a resounding, sharply shot up from Ingrihill. A stunned moment we were sitting motionless, then flailed ourselves around the tree and got clear view of the hill.

"But Lord Jebael!", I shouted excitedly, "a rolling stone is coming towards us ... run for life!"

And Kjell shied voted as rooster on the shotgun, but was then standing there gaping, "That there is no rolling stone; there's a moose! "

Moose sailed roll in roll down the hillside, and it stopped just 60-70 meters above where we were standing.

"Look! See up there! "I screamed behind my hand and pointed toward Ingrihill. So I grabbed Kjell arm and tore him back into hiding behind the tree. A man came slides, partly on boots, partly on the buttocks, down the track after the moose, and at arm he held a rifle. Neck hairs began fighting back, and heart pounding and beating, while we made peepholes to the tendon on the mountainside.

When poacher reached the moose, he stated quickly that it was lifeless and harmless. Gently he emptied his rifle for cartridges and hung it on a branch, before he grabbed the legs and turned the moose so that it was lying with his head facing down the hillside. Then he sat on his haunches behind moose head, grip around the muzzle and bend moose head backward with his left hand, while with his right he drew up a broadleaf sheath knife and with a few quick cuts he open the animal throat. The red, steaming blood spurted several meters down into the white, icy snow. "A juicy winter Sacrifice ', would our ancestors, the Vikings, have called such a happening.

Only now had the offender time to look around. Was he discovered? Was someone nearby? He stared and listened.

And fear took a new icy grip for two sweaty boy bodies.

The silence was suddenly broken by the snow that slid down from a birch tree that took the time to rise up from the night hunched position. The shooter was upset and took off his dark blue earflap-hat and put his hands behind his ears to listen better. Then we knew him again, it was Bernt, son of Hartvig in Neset.

I looked over at brother Kjell and wonderment he tacitly expressed, was painted with a broad brush all over your face. How could our biggest "dyrskue hero" (Dyrskue; annual livestock exhibition in Lyngdal) fall so deeply that he shot the moose in Bringsjord-forest outside moose hunting season? It was quite impossible to understand. Something had to be wrong, and we dared for our dear life not to reveal ourselves.

...

The reason why he was our hero, yes half the village's hero, was the following event:

On “dyrskue” on Bergmoen was there so they oxen that were participating in the exhibition, one by one to enter the ring to be judged by dress-clad judges with hat and coat and polished, low shoes. As in boxing was "ring" a rectangular area fenced with ropes, and those who had access there, besides judges and "lureladden", the number men who were needed to keep track of the ox - rarely more than four to five guys in soiled overalls. The job as lureladd was prized among us schoolboys, when the lucky at closing were paid 5 kroner, - by the cashier to Lyngdal Dyreavlslag.

Task was immediately removing debris bulls put down in the ring, so that the judges avoided getting shit on your shoes. The Ladd took "lura" on a broad blade shovel bucket and carried it away to a corner of the ring that was set aside for this purpose. This dump grew, and the more tart-fine audience kept well away from the corner.

On longside had "kårfolket," the village's older toilers, has been awarded ringside seats at a couple of green-painted benches from German time. There sat each one in their finest clothes; white shirt and black suit and tie, as befits a generation who had never spent some time with clothes clothes that can be called casual wear.

Then it happened that a Kvindøl (man from Kvinesdal) found time to enter the ring. He was a long, lanky fellow, and had drunk himself to unlimited courage in the hairless chest; with flannel shirt open to the navel. He began to turn and wave his heels like a Halling dancer, and swore that he was man enough to force any Lyngdal bull to its knees.

The next individ who entered the ring was breeding team nestor, big bull "Lund Boy." When Kvindøl approached, lowered its head and roared, and the poor man took a hopelessly backward halling roll vertically in the canvas. The scorn and ridicule that followed, fallen Kvindøl heavily for the chest, and he stopped and began to tease the village's older toilers where they sat on the bench of honor.

"Yes, here it smells of dung and mothballs long road," he said and remained pointedly noses. The old did not understand irony, and some gradually began to look for mothballs in the pockets. Then he turned to the old Hartvig in Neset, "I see you've taken on the confirmand suit, and it is all just fine, since you then are ready to be put in the coffin ... huh, huh ... huh? "

There was dead silence around the ring. Good People could not believe their ears. "Everyone" knew Hartvig was terminally ill, and that his son had come home from whaling with the sole purpose of to be with his father in his last weeks.

A threatening murmur rose from the depths of people, and som prepared himself to throw his jacket. But they were too late. A young, stocky man stepped over ropes and into the ring. With flat hand hammered him into a blow across the abdomen to the prodigal Kvindøl, so he collapsed like a folding knife, then took Bernt lifting grip and bar big mouth like a child over to the corner where lureladden had gathered bullock shit, where he lifted man high up and dumped him right in the muckheap. "Just do as you are at home," was the laconic Bernts afford Kvindølen. And while he ostentatiously patting "debris" of hands, he paced over and sat down next to his elderly sickly father.

Then broke his celebration. And it would never end ...

...

The fallen elk had stopped in a depression in the terrain, but the dump was not greater than that we could constantly see what was happening up there. First he turned the moose so that it again was lying with his head pointing upward slope, then went he downside moose and stepped out a deep pit in the snow. «Certainly for the bowels", whispered Kjell, in an attempt to show that he was clear-headed and at the height of the occasion. We had been involved in slaughtering many times at home in the carriage shed, and knew so roughly what was to come.

Bernt hung his jacket next to his rifle, and then we saw that he had wrapped a rope several turns of life. Also this he hung down on the branch, and while he searchingly gazed circling, he folded slowly up the sleeves of the shirt. We held our breath while he looked both well and long down to the place where we sat hunched.

Again he brought forward knife and stuck it into the bottom of the abdomen, so he took with both hands around the handle and pulled the knife slowly and firmly upwards to the sternum. The steaming entrails gushed out and up, and he cut them loose and scoop them into the snow pit. Within a few minutes the abdomen emptied of content.

"Wonder what he is now going to do? He'll never be able to bear all the moose home, "whispered I in ear Kjell in an attempt to remain unruffled and intellectual in time of danger.

Clearance came instantly. First he cut the elk feet just below skank, and then cut him loose thighs from the abdomen at the top at the hip capsule. Then he brought down the rope and through an incision behind the hock, he attached the two thighs together in a ells distance.

Then he broke down a branch and swept snow over moose and tracks that were deposited on the field of battle, buttoned on his jacket, slung moose tighs over shoulders, grabbed his rifle, and set off obliquely through Ingri valley.

We were a while numb with cold and - possibly - a little horror. "Oh my God," sighed Kjell, and then loosened it somehow, and skis came on, and I can promise that it went fast in the turns down Skoddeveien.

...

Home in the yard stood father and split firewood, and he could not believe it was a true word in the story we blurted out with. But we told the same up to several times in chorus, so all doubts were swept aside, and he got busy with directing and instructing.

We were sent to the mother in the kitchen to eat a delayed dinner and Tordis was sent into the Garden to warn Uncle Anton that we had to salvage a moose and he had to come as soon as he could. Even went dad in the barn and attached Stubbs sleigh and a large herring barrel stuck on long sled. As soon as Uncle came, we talked about what had happened, and let up a battle plan for further actions. All had heard only praise for the young naval officer on Neset, and we agreed that it had not to come out some rumor poaching in Bringsjord forest until we had confronted Bernt with the matter.

As soon as Uncle Anton had eaten the rest of the dinner, taken father Freia from the stables, and with maternal admonitions to be careful and not to break your legs, we jumped all on the sled and headed for the woods.

It was icy and slippery for Freia up Skoddeveien, but she was young and eager and Count shod, and Uncle Anton - the "Kollen-king" - was thick dressed in an old, fluff coat with a belt, and he panted and groaned and let himself pull upwards in a piece of rope dangling behind stub sled.

Elk lying where it was abandoned and it went quickly to haul it down to Skoddeveien where it was attached to stub sled and pulled down to Siljevollen. There sawn and hewn father of the head and front legs and Anton stewed the cut portions into the barrel. Then we laid moose body on the long sleigh, spread a blanket over - and drove home.

St. Anton in Garden

It was a busy night for father and uncle who were behind closed doors in the coach and skinned and dismembered moose. Then mother took care of the pieces, and salted them carefully into a well-used oak barrel. Thanks to the cold and a meter-thick layer of snow was all the meat of superior quality - clean and fresh.

"But mother," said Kjell, "why add all the meat in one barrel? Should not Uncle Anton get his party "? Mother glanced toward the father who was quick to respond: "This meat, neither we nor Anton have, it is not our flesh. We have recovered it for that it should not go to waste, but be used for food for Bringsjord people who need something extra."

He looked at Anton, who small- smiled slightly and looked as if he was now bad plagued by itchy from angel wings which now threatened to bounce forward.

"But father, who should get all this fine moose meat?", I asked nonchalant as not to be branded as "Curious-Per". He pulled a bit on the shoulder and then onto St. Anton: "We'll decide when we have spoken with young Bernt Hartvigsen at Neset. Anton has a theory about what might have happened ... " he looked inciting onto our uncle, but this looked discreetly away on his sister and kept silent.

Late in the afternoon the day after, we turned into the yard with Bernt. His father, the old man of honor Hartvig in Neset, had passed away a month earlier, and both father and uncle Anton had followed him to the grave, and condolences the two adults sons.

Father took his time with committing Freia to courtyard tree, and only now it was done, step uncle Anton and Kjell and me out of sleighs - a broad kane space for both people and the meat barrel. So we tramped up to the hall door in unison. Bernt had enough seen us coming, for he opened the door before the father managed to knock.

He smiled a little cautious and asked us to come into the kitchen, for - as he said - it was the only room in the house that was heated. He held on to push his ships uniform. "You must excuse the mess," he said and set aside, newly washed, white shirts that floated out over the kitchen table, "it's so tomorrow I travel to Sandefjord to patterns on a whaler."

I was deeply impressed by gold stripes on the dark uniform jacket, and asked if he was a real whaling captain, but he shook smiling his head and replied that he was only 1. Officer in Kosmos fleet.

"You wonder well why we have come," said the father, and he met with his gaze. "Yesterday came the boys home from the woods and told that a moose was shot at Ingrihill and it fell off the edge and down into Rinneveden. Shortly thereafter came a guy who killed the moose. Gemini says that that guy was you, Bernt. "

The three others sat and twisted at us and looked at the floor, and was unhappy intensely in our world's precarious existence.

But Bernt had already decided to put the cards on the table when he saw we swung into the yard: "So it was you guys who were there," he said, looking searchingly at us. "It does not surprise me. I had a feeling of being watched. "

Uncle Anton could now drop his breath. He realized that it turned out to be a good atmosphere around the table and put a cautious question: "You must understand, Bernt, that now we wonder why you shot a moose that rightfully belongs to all the inhabitants of Bringsjord? Are you so tired of whale meat in Jahre fleet that you must supplement with elk meat? Huh, huh, huh ... " He opened snuff escalate and untested a good rosehip snuff before he set himself well back on his chair’ seat and continued with his feigned laughter.

Bernt shrugged smile: "Yes, you may ask, you Anton ... No, this is not so. In Antarctica, the diet is both varied and nutritious. "

He took a pause and a sip cold coffee of a half empty cup standing on the stove, then he was serious and continued: "Now I'll tell you why I shot the moose, so you get to decide what you will do with the matter."

You will recall that my nearest neighbor here on Neset, Alexandrine, lost her husband in a blasting accident during the war. It was a tragedy. She was left with a boy of five years and a girl of one year.

In the seven years that have passed since then, it has always been poor condition in the old longhouse. Father bought some small marshy land of her when she was most emty for cash, and while mother lived, she helped them with some flour for flatbread baking and some meat sausages after pig slaughter and father eased every year a few load of hay into the old barn of her - so she long way to salvage a milk cow through the winter.

The rest of the hay she collected in farmers' fields. She was well liked and many a farmer has left hay for her on his fields during these years. I have seen with my own eyes that you, Anton, allows half the load of hay lie again after you ... »

St. Anton smiled slightly frivolous and blushed blending into the sunset. Familiar, it was well known that he was got lost in the dark-eyed Alexandrine but no swarm of his had not led to anything ...

"When I two days ago took a round to say goodbye to the neighbors," continued Bernt, "I realized soon that it was bad situation in the house of Alexandrine."

"It has not been possible to get some daytime work on farms after Christmas," she said apologetically, "it is not the season for such a winter. But I can frying some chopped potatoes, if you will accept it? " Her eyes were shining with shame.

"But you've got a cow," said Bernt caught off guard, "you must have milk and butter?"

"No, Rødkolla should soon have calf, so she has stopped milk," said the son, Jani, and stared down at the floor. "But soon everything will be better for us. In May I become confirmed and so I travel at sea, and I will send my monthly wages home to my mother every time! "

 "That day I had been at Trade team and bought bread, cured pork and eggs for the past my money," continued Bernt; "I had planned to hold a small farewell party with a couple or three friends that night. But now I asked Alexandrine and kids take on outerwear and come home to me. They ate the eggs and flesh side.

I felt I got a great gift, as I stood here by the stove and smashed and fried and stuffed on their plate as they emptied. Alexandrine thanked all too soon refuse refills, but I saw through her and heaped on new supplies and kids tried not once to hold back. Have never experienced anything like that in my entire life. "

Bernt smiled to himself with the thought of that night - but then he was serious and continued: "Last week, I took over the farm after the father, and along with the bank solved I like my brother. I therefore had little cash for time, yes to tell it like it is ... I'm in the money pinch until I check in in Sandefjord tomorrow.

But I was seriously worried that the neighbors would not make it through the winter, so I could not just leave and let them empty-handed.

So I took a serious decision. As you know, father eagerly The National Rifle and Krag-Jørgensen rifle his is a sniper worthy. "Lange Krag" hit it the sieved.

The rest of the story you know. I can only assure that when I came home from the woods yesterday, flayed I skin of thighs before I went over with them to Alexandrine and presented them as cow thighs, bought in the butcher shop on Trade team.

St. Anton smiled from ear to ear and stood up and embraced Bernt Hartvigsen. "I had a theory," he said in thick voice, "and I hit spot on."

"And we ... we had a theory that a poacher was loose in our forests," I said enthused, "but there we missed. What we had was a Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest! One who took from the rich and gave to the poor ... "

 Robin Hood. He took from the rich and gave to the poor ...

Dad looked still seriously off on the young naval officer: "Bernt, you put your officer career at stake for your neighbors, and you did right," he cleared his throat and looked for words, and St. Anton used the silence to take over, "All on Bringsjord is to be held responsible if any of our kids go to bed hungry. A moose is now the smallest community can offer, " he was silent and looked embarrassed down on a brown snuff stain that appeared from one of the officer's shirts on the table.

Father, who now had now found back the words he was looking for, took quite a bit chewing tobacco and continued: "Nevertheless, we must ask you to do us a favor. Yesterday we went into Rinneveden and retrieved the shot moose home. The slain and dismembered and all the meat was salted down the barrel standing outside in sleighs. Now we let off the barrel at the driveway to the Alexandrine, and then you have to roll it up to the house. You easily fabricate an explanation. Perhaps you could say something like that in the basement of deceased persons are many surprises? "

Then it was just before a tear threatened to roll down the cheek 1st officer Hartvigsen, but he stood up, took a twin in each elbow, lifted them up and gave them a warm hug. It felt a little bit embarrassing, but "the powerlifting" I can still remember.

NB! Poachers, his family, residence and neighbors - is anonymous.  

This story was printed in the newspaper "Lister" on Saturday 19 September 2015.