For this assignment I had to rewrite the very beginning of My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George by adding a hook. In my opinion this book is only interesting because of the survival skills Sam (the main character) uses as he lives in the wilds of  the Catskills Mountains; the rest is tolerable. But what really ruins the book is the very beginning. The author states that Sam survives through the winter,  that he gets a pet falcon, and that he lives in a tree, all of which are the only points worth mentioning. Thus, the author says everything interesting in the book in the first chapter making the rest dull. So I was excited when my assignment was to rewrite the beginning. This is what I came up with:

I was finally going to do it. I had been preparing for years: researching, reading, talking to experts who had done it before. Now was the time. It would sound preposterous to anyone whom I told my plan to, but it wouldn’t matter what other people would think where I was going. So I started to accumulate my supplies.

I acquired my penknife by the taffy cart near Benton St., which is located four blocks from my New York apartment. I actually won it and a little extra cash on the side. This is how it happened: I was walking through the chaotic streets and happened to hear through the loud noises of every New York day this: “Solve the puzzle; get a dollar!” Now I am very fond of riddles and puzzles and those sort of things, and I have, on occasion, procured several things of value playing dollar riddles. So I located the man who was still shouting, “Solve the puzzle; get a dollar!” and jogged over to him.

“Ah!” he said. “Does the little man wish to solve my humble puzzle?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Well that’ll cost you a dollar.” At my skeptical visage he quickly added, “A dollar to enter young lad. A dollar if you solve the puzzle in under ten minutes; two if you solve it in five,” he smiled.

“And if I don’t solve it in ten?” I looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“A man has got to earn a living somehow,” he said with a sympathetic expression.

“What’s the puzzle?” I said.

“Oh, oh! A dollar first, then I show you the puzzle. Is the man in?”

I handed him a dollar.

“Excellent!” he said grabbing the dollar. “Now here is the puzzle.” He pulled five dice out of his pocket. “Now you know that if you add the opposite sides of each die it equals seven, right? Good.” He rolled the dice: three ones, a three and a four. “All right, now,” he said. “There are four holes in the ice, there are two polar bears on the ice, and there are twenty two fish under the ice.” He left the dice there for a second and then grabbed them up and rolled again: two twos, a three, and two fours. “This time,” he said, “there is one hole in the ice, two polar bears on the ice, and…”

“Four fish under the ice,” I said.

He looked at me, “ Well,um… let’s roll them again, shall we?” He picked them up and shook them in his hands. “This time you tell me how many holes, polar bears, and fish.” He rolled them: a one, a three, a five, and two fours.

“Three holes in the ice, six polar bears on the ice, and twelve fish under the ice,” I said.

“Well, that has to be a record,” he said in disbelief, shaking his head. I got my dollar back accompanied by two others.

How did I get the knife? Well, I bet a kid on the street I had a puzzle that he couldn’t solve, and if he did, I would buy him a candy bar every day for as long as I lived. If he couldn’t solve it, then I got his knife. He wasn’t too happy about giving it over, but by that time there was a huge crowd watching us and if he’d have refused he, would have been in for it. Thus, I got my penknife.

The story behind my ball of cord isn’t nearly as interesting. I simply found it in an alley a few days after my success with the penknife. It had probably been lying there for a couple of weeks since it was damp with cold, polluted city rain. However, it was still strong – strong enough for what I needed it for – so I tucked it in my pocked and went on my way.

It was then, after I got my ball of cord, that I encountered my first problem. My dad found my knife and my notes and wanted to know what exactly I was planning on doing. I had thought of what I would say when this situation came up, but I hadn’t thought of anything good enough that would properly reassure him, and mom, of my plan. So I just came out with it. After I told him, I got the last response I expected. He said, “Okay.” He didn’t try and stop me; he didn’t ground me; he didn’t even try to “talk some sense into me” as adults were always trying to do to kids. He even snickered a little and said, “Need anything to get you going?”

I was so taken aback that I hardly knew what to say. So I just said, “Some flint and steel? You know, to start a fire?” My voice cracked, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“All right, then.” He left my room leaving me gaping, and came back again some minutes later and was greeted by my still unbelieving face. “Here it is. Still in perfect condition, never used, from when I was a boy. Actually from when my dad was a boy. But here it’s yours.”

I had to make something clear to him, so he wouldn’t misunderstand what I was doing, “Dad, listen to me. I am not running way,” I swallowed and continued, “Running away implies going away from something, but me, I’m running to something.”

All he did was nod as if he completely understood. Then he lightened up a bit and slapped me on the back.

That day I thought I was running to the Catskills Mountains, to the woods, to my ancestors’ abandoned farm, to freedom, but I wonder now if I was running to something more, to myself, or what I hoped would lead me to myself. This much, however, is as clear to me now as it was then: I was starting my adventure, my story.