OUER FRIEND CARLSON

CARLSON

We built a hut on Daring Mountain

One year we built a cabin on Daring Mountain (Vågefjell). It was erected at great speed on residues from father abandoned fox-farm. It was hard times after the war, and one had to virtually to seek “Supply Tribunal" for permission to buy a pack of nickel-plated nails. It came naturally out of the question; straightening and reuse was the solution.

Seven days later, the hut was completed and Carlson could move in. Carlson was an outlaw refugee in his despair had come to us, and we gave him shelter and food a few weeks in the fall. So he was killed by a shot from close range. Shotgun blew away half his head, and he got an uncontrolled shaking on both hind feet. We were present and saw the killing through the doorway in our cabin.

"Murderer!" screamed Kjell to the bounty hunter, who in shook off the dog's attack stood and picked out the empty cartridge from shotgun rifle and fumbled to put in place a new one. He was startled and looked puzzled up on us, and it was clear that he resented the fact that the killing was observed by two boys standing almost in the firing line.

"Just go away from Daring Mountain," I shouted desperately as he pulled a heavy German bayonet: "And you do not touch the dog! God in heaven, you do not touch the dog "!

But the executioner cared little about a warning of a 7 year old boy. He stretched the forelegs to Carlson out over a birch root, and cut them off. "I must have paws with me to the sheriff," excused himself half aloud before he side facing proceeded to go down the path of Dare Mountain. It was as if he feared getting a hailstorm of stones after him.

As soon as old "Olvie", a famous fox and badger hunter from neighboring village, had disappeared down the hillside, we ran down to Carlson and carried him gently into the plank cabin.

The before so energetic body was heavy, limp and lifeless, and we sat down on the soil floor covered with emty Hydro-sacks and kept him between us. He was still warm and good in body and blood dripped from his head and front legs down on our clothes, but the glow in his good, warm eyes was extinguished. Our friend was dead; he had sacrificed his life for us. Never again would he - happy and wagging - come leaping ahead.

It was shameful of the big boys, but now we had to give up, we could not hold back the tears; from opposite sides we stuck our heads into the soft fur - and wept.

That animal protection had promised the same bounty for Carlson as for red fox, was well known from lookups on telephone post of the common mailbox in Austigard. What amazed people were that bounty hunters took a long time to collect the prize. The dog was like sunk in the soil.

But an autumn clear night with a full moon, sounded protracted hoot up from Daring Mountain. It made people shiver in the back and hurry home, and sisters Edvardsen started talking about wolves was returned in the hills - and that children should be kept indoors.

We knew better than that, but had betrayed our friend when it counted most. We had promised Carlson keeping him hidden for bounty hunters, and should of course have realized that Olvie would examine the proper Daring Mountain as soon as he came home from work that day. We should have moved the dog to safety with the same we came from school, but instead we had delayed in the time waiting to get with native lukewarm scraps in a tin pail.

Carlson had heard bounty hunter already when this step over wire fence that separated the properties of Ludvig O. and Anton K.; fence that separated between Hazelnut Hillside and Daring Mountain. Our friend pricked ears and made us aware that the intruder was on his way with a deep, warning growl, and we panicked and tried desperately to chase him away up the hillside. But the dog perceived the situation wrong. He thought the hunters were looking for us and took the role of "family" protector. The loyalty cost him his life. He rushed like a torpedo down to the bounty hunter and was only a few meters from pushing him flat on the ground - when the shot was fired.

We humans are such created that even the darkest moments we were looking for comfort and relief from pain of grief. Brother Kjell, who in recent evenings had been lying on the couch and read "The Last of the Mohicans" by James Fenimore Cooper, tried to look for the light in the tunnel. He wiped his tears and said, mostly to himself: "Perhaps Carlson allready come to The happy hunting grounds, maybe he runs on flower-filled meadows and hunt moose and rabbits!"

"But Kjell," I said, wiping tears from her cheek, " Carlson has no front paws; he runs nowhere."

Brother Ludvig had on Saturdays read aloud from the book "Apache Indians" by Helge Ingstad and there until it became clear that the god Manitou, ruler of The happy hunting grounds, not far was such a powerful creator as God Father – creator of heaven and earth. "Manitou cannot create new paws to Carlson, barely enough to rig something more than a couple of crutches. Manitou is just a repairman - one who fixes things that are shattered and destroyed."

Kjell due a bit on this, so brightened he and added: "Then we dig a grave for cross for Carlson, and ask God the Father to give him new feet when he knocks on the gate of heaven."

But I was still quite depressed: "Heaven is behind the pearly gates; a gate into the city with streets of gold. It is no place for Carlson to run around on golden cobblestones ... He's not a city dog ​​... No, Carlson must to The happy hunting grounds, run over green meadows and hunt moose and rabbits."

The brother agreed with my thinking, "Streets of Gold is no paradise for Carlson." He thought for a while, then it came: "There is only one thing to do; we must get back front paws to Carlson and add them into the grave, then fixes Manitou the rest, so he is able "!

I realized the rationale for this reasoning and changed theme: "Now it begins to be cold during the nights," I said worried, "best to bring horse blanket and wrap it around Carlson so he does not freeze in the night ... And a shovel must we have ... we have to dig before frost sets in the soil, before the hard frosts come."

There was no time to lose, and we were tired and weary when we crawled into bed that night, and had almost fallen asleep before mother came up to pray evening prayer. But then it rolled up from us all the sad things that happen that day. It was only the mother who knew the secret of Carlson on Daring Mountain, for in the long run it proved to be quite impossible to provide dog food, without her tacit consent. And now it seemed that the mother was very upset over dog murder. But it was probably mostly because she believed that her twins could have been hit by lead shot.

When I asked if we could take Carlson in the prayer this evening, and not just pray for the heathen and those in the family who walked on the broad road and needed repentance, it went as feared. She flinched for such. She had never heard that the animals would go to Heaven: "Jesus died on the cross of Calvary for the salvation of the lost people, not for dogs and horses and cows".

Later, when the mother had said good night and left us alone in grief, we came in strong doubt Heaven was the right place for us.

...

Ouer friend Carlson

Carl was an old, tired man, probably well over fifty. Where he came from, nobody knew. Some thought - mostly on the dialect - that he came from Froland, others guessed at Finnskogen. I rather lean most on the last. He grew up in a place where elkhounds and moose hunting were widespread, I am little in doubt.

He was hired on farms on Bringsjord and in neighboring villages. At our home, he helped father with cutting up the long, thick trunks of birch and alder for logs. In early spring he participated always in the dirt driving, and was a master at spreading muck beyond potato fields.

Typically, day laborers had eaten breakfast before they met up at the farm. Not so with Carl. He had into the kitchen for coffee, eggs and cured pork, before he came really started with the day's deed. As soon as he had left the kitchen, it happened that the girls wrinkled their fine noses, and put the kitchen window wide open. He went the same work clothes which he had used in the dirt basement with Ludvig O. day before.

Carl stayed with Ragnvald J., a farmer in Vestigarden. He was at that time a widower, and his kids had gone out into the world. He therefore had plenty of room in the big house, and Karl did stay in a room with him.

It is said that Ragnvald did not like dogs. At least it went wrong when Carl asket about acquiring Elkhound puppy. He received a clear message: "No dog in my house." End of the story was that Carl was able to build a "house" on Ragnvalds fields in Homman. It was a straightforward solution for both parties; now he could stay there with his dog without interference from any quarters.

But Carl was a poor man. The money did not reach farther than from hand to mouth. Building material therefore had to be not too expensive; slim timber and hard trodden earth. The pattern he built earth hut (gamme), like those in ancient times had been used for Sami in Finnskogen. The inner frame was of young slender birch logs was put in the ring and tied together at the top with iron-string. Surface these was placed plank pieces and plank at bottom and branches at top. Outside this came a thick layer of turf and hard packed earth.

The entrance was a trapezoidal door of planks. The door had a window glass the size of an A-4 sheets at top, the rest of the sparse light let in through the vent in the ceiling. Along one wall, he had nailed up a sleeping bench. Heating and cooking facilities came from the fireplace in the middle of the floor. Later that winter he got neighbors' help to install a furnace, and the smoke vent in the roof was sealed.

Carl built a earth hut in Homman...

When Carl came to cut logs that winter, he brought with him a little puppy dog ​​of a breed that was unknown to us. Karl said it was Elkhound, and it was so made that it melted the hearts. The puppy was hungry and ate sausages and lapped milk and accompanied us in the footsteps all day. Carl had not given his name, so we called him "Carlson."

Late winter we were lucky and dad suffered from gout in his back and was bedridden. Sciatica and lumbago was called "gout" in the old days, and were usually cured with two weeks bed rest. But there was also other remedy. Alf Opsahl told that in Opsal-village, where they had a private power plant to Lyngdal Hat-fabric, they used to wrap a fit wire several times around the big toe and then stick wire ends into a socket. There was really no sure guarantee that rheumatism was cured, but there was a guarantee that they never took more than one treatment.

Another guy, I think it was the postman ours, came with a mucus solution in a round cake tin. Far tasted the wonderful fludium only once and claimed that there was a fifty-fifty mix of jellyfish and sting jellyfish (i.e. one of each). Finally he demanded "aspirin" and sister Plata, which stood at Drangsland manufaktur shop, had to go over to Hovden (Glassmagasinet) and buy a box of Globoid. Eventually he got on his legs, but not before all the drove home stocks was cut and split by a hireling with puppy dog.

Jn winter a year later, it started to go downwards with Carl. There was little money and little food. The dog had now grown big and strong, and it got most of what was edible. Carl was thin and forlorn and suffered high fever. One day Carlson scraped on the door to Ragnvald the farmer, and he knew something was wrong in Homman - and followed the dog into the earth hut (gammen), where he found a forlorn Karl, and he called the district doctor Føien, who made sure that Carl was taken on a stretcher to the ambulance and admitted to Farsund Hospital.

My father in law, dr. Thormod Føien, had  been the district doctor in Alta in Finnmark, a district that also included Kautokeino and Karasjok, where he had been in various sick visits in earth huts on Finnmarksvidda. (The Germans burned virtually all ordinary houses in Finnmark). But he told me he had never seen a hut that was so damp and fungus infested as Carl’s gamme in Homman. While Carl was hospitalized, it was therefore made a municipal decision that the hut could not be used as a human dwelling - and had to be demolished. The consequence was that when Carl was discharged from the hospital, he had to move back to "lodgings" at Ragnvald; and get rid of the dog.

But no one saw the advantage in taking over responsibility for a large Elkhound. Carl did not manage given it away, and he was not able to kill it. Thus Carlson became a municipal issue, a matter for local animal protection. But when they came to pick up the dog, it had left the hut and was vanished. Sometime later promised animal protection bounty on the dog and the sad ending was that it was shot on Daring Mountain.

Days after Carlson’s death there was a dark cloud hanging over us. Carlson could not get to The happy hunting grounds before he had gotten his paws with him to the grave. Two days later we rode to Alleen and turned up at the sheriff's office.

It turned out that Kvarenes was busy, and we performed the errand for a lady sitting there. She said she thought his paws were submitted to the sheriff, but she could not go in there now and that we had to come back in an hour.

We then had plenty of time to go to the kiosk to Sletta and buy cartoon booklets "Wild West" (25 cents) and "Texas" (50 cents). Then we visited sister Marie in the apartment over Alf Olsen's painting shop, and reminded about the birthday cake at six o'clock on our birthday and we could just wisper and drink raspberry soda for Arnfinn had just fallen asleep.

An hour later we were back at the sheriff's office where we conceded to Kvarenes and submitted errand ours; Carlson had to get back paws so he could get to The happy hunting grounds and run across sunny flower meadows while he hunts for elk and rabbits.

Sheriff Kvarenes, who remembered us well from the major exploration campaign he successfully had led when Kjell traceless disappeared in a potato crate, told that "Olvie" had been and delivered the paws and was paid bounty. 
Then he opened the window and lit a "Teddy" and showed great interest in our history, "Did you really build a cottage on Daring Mountain for the dog?"

"Yes," I replied, "He was our best friend. He gave life to us. He stormed down to Ollie and would have beaten him to the ground. "

Kvarenes stubbed the half-smoked cigarette emphatically in the ashtray and took a turn away in front of the open window. There he gave his time to studying Berge heath and to kindle a new Teddy.

"It's okay that you get his paws back and bury them along with the dog so that Carlson might ... uh, come to The eternal hunting grounds and run over the flower fields there," said the sheriff with his back to us, before he turned on his heel and sat down behind the desk, where he stubbed his cigarette carefully, before he got up and fetched a brown package from a green metal cabinets and gave it to Kjell. Then he took us by the hand and wished us well back home - "and say hello so much to Thorvald and Lina." And it was the first time we had taken magistrates in hand since Kjell disappered and we bowed and thanked him and promised.

We got in a hurry to get home, for Carlson had to be buried before it got dark. But we were quite so relieved in sorrow for now we could put his paws in place down the grave blanket. Before we shoveled the earth, we stretched hands against sunset and called "O Manitou" and I kept a beautiful little speech at the grave and told about Carlson’s sad fate and asked Manitou doctor his wounds. After the burial, we sang the first two verses of the now famous hymn "O, Manitou" (Song: "O Tannenbaum").

O, Manitou

O, Manitou

You doctors Carlson’s crush-head!

You helping dog and horse and cow,

Protecting all from rain and snow

O, Manitou

O, Manitou

You doctors Carlson’s crush-head!

O, Manitou

O, Manitou

You doctors Carlson’s crush-feet!

You savior dog – you savior cow,

from Moaning Valleys rain and snow

O, Manitou

O, Manitou

You doctors Carlson’s crush-feet!

And on The happy hunting grounds runs still Carlson over sunny flower meadows and hunt moose and rabbits. There I feel pretty confident.

Daring Mountain (red arrow) thrones behind our childhood home in the middle of the picture. 
It seems like the mountain has shrunk over the last 60 years. Photo Finn Bringsjord

This story was reprinted in the newspaper "Lister" Saturday 17 September 2016.

http://www.lister24.no/nyheter/Var-venn-Karlsen-514168.html