The Lone Man On The Ridge - Episode Seven: Bugging Out

The moment you realize you have to leave your own home is never loud, it’s heavy. Jack wakes to birds, squirrels, and the familiar cluck of his chickens, but his gut already knows what his mind is trying to avoid: the people he crossed now know exactly where he lives, and the next visit won’t be a small one. From the ridge above the valley, the view turns into a threat assessment, and the word “bug out” stops being theory and becomes a deadline.

If you care about realistic bug out decisions, off-grid security, ham radio basics, and the psychology of leaving home, this chapter hits close. Subscribe, share the episode with a friend who thinks prepping is just stuff, and leave a review telling us what you would take when tomorrow changes everything.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

This is the Lone Man on the Ridge Episode 7 Bugging Out. The first hints of gray light were just beginning to creep over the eastern ridge when Jack finally laid back down on his cot. He slept hard for a couple hours. He woke slowly to the normal sounds of the forest, birds calling, squirrels chattering, and the distant clucking of his chickens. Mr Rogers was already up, sitting by the door, waiting patiently. Jack sat up and rubbed his face. His body felt heavy. He made a small fire, boiled some water, made some coffee, and forced himself to eat a little bit of jerky. The entire day became a slow, heavy march through his property. Around noon, Jack climbed up to the small rocky outcrop that overlooked the valley below. He stood there for a long time, looking over the land in silence. That's when it hit him. This was a decision he never thought he would have to make. He took a slow, heavy walk back down to the cabin. When he reached the door, he paused for a long moment with his hand on the knob. When he finally opened it and stepped inside, something in him changed. The decision had been made. He wasn't in full bug out mode yet, but he was close. He was now in a practical, calculating mindset, trying to figure out exactly what he had and more importantly, what he could realistically take with him. Jack climbed up out of the root cellar with a small notebook in his hand. He'd been writing down what he had and what he might be able to carry. As he stepped outside, the sound of his chickens clucking and scratching in the dirt hit him immediately. He stopped. Jack stood there and watched them for a long moment, his face tightening. He let out a long, slow, heavy breath. He was not able to take his chickens. The rest of the afternoon and early evening passed in a quiet, methodical blur. Jack moved through the cabin and the property with purpose now, making notes and checking gear. As the sun began to drop behind the western ridge, Jack stood on the porch and looked over his land. In his gut he figured he maybe had forty eight to seventy two hours at most before Dylan returned with the much larger group. He went back inside, made himself a small dinner, and went to bed early. For the first time in two nights he actually slept well. The next morning, Jack was up well before dawn. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat at the wooden table quietly drinking while he waited. At exactly nine AM, he walked over to the ham radio, powered it up, and keyed the mic. Kilo Quebec four, Yankee India Tango calling CQ. Calling CQ, anybody copy my transmission? Static crackled for a moment, and then a familiar voice came through. This is Alpha Lima Lima Uniform Delta. I've got you four by four. You're coming in clear today. How you doin'? Jack leaned forward in the chair. Much better, thanks. This is Jack, by the way. Let's drop the call signs if that's okay with you. The man on the other end gave a short chuckle. Sure. I'm not too worried about getting fined by the FCC for improper ham radio etiquette. Jack couldn't help but smile a little. Fair enough. My name's Jack. Stephen, good to talk to you again. Stephen's tone became more relaxed. So Jack, what's new with you? Jack exhaled slowly before answering. I've had a couple of run ins with some locals recently, made some enemies. They know exactly where I'm at now, and I have no doubt they'll be coming back. And they're not going to be coming alone. Because of that, I'm going to have to leave my location. I really don't want to, but I don't have much of a choice anymore. Stephen was quiet for a moment and then spoke carefully. I don't mean to pry, but it must be pretty bad if you're willing to leave your place up in the mountains. That's not a decision someone makes lightly. Jack stared at the table for a second before answering. Yeah it is. I've built a good setup here over the last several years. I've been living here permanently for the last five. It's just me and my trusty canine. We held our own the last two times this group came at us, but I got a feeling next time they're gonna bring more people than I can fend off. Stephen took a moment before responding. I don't know what to tell you, Jack. That's a tough situation. When you're out on the road, if you have a handheld ham radio or a mobile unit in your vehicle, you can always give me a shout. Stephen then gave a short chuckle and added, Well, I mean I hope you've got a vehicle, and you're not planning on walking out of Western North Carolina on foot. Jack smiled slightly despite himself. Stephen finished. You'll always have a friendly voice on this end of the radio. We can talk again another day. Jack nodded to himself. Thank you, Stephen, I appreciate it. I hope we do talk soon. Likewise, Stephen replied. Stay safe out there, Jack. Alpha Lima Lima Uniform Delta, clear. Jack set down the mic slowly and stared at the radio for a long moment. The cabin was silent except for the soft crackling of the wood stove. He took a deep breath, picked up his notepad, and flipped to a fresh page. It was time to get serious. For the next several hours, Jack moved methodically between the cabin and the root cellar, making the hard decisions about what he could actually take with him. He wrote quickly, his list growing longer with each trip. He knew he couldn't bring everything from the root cellar. He'd have to choose carefully and only take what he could reasonably fit in the truck while still leaving room for mister Rogers. Every so often he would stop, look around the cabin and shake his head. The weight of what he was doing settled heavier on him every passing hour. mister Rogers stayed close, watching his every move. Later that evening, just before he planned to start loading the truck, Jack knelt down beside his cot and reached underneath it. He pulled out an old military surplus footlocker. He opened the lid and stared down at the contents in silence. Inside was a uniform shirt he was wearing the night he was shot, still stained with his own dried blood. Jack reached down and slowly slid his finger through the bullet hole into the fabric. He let out a quiet breath and thought to himself I called in a lot of favors for this shirt. I hope Reggie never got in trouble for slipping this out of the property unit to me. Jack carefully folded the bloody shirt, picked up his retired police badge and credentials, and grabbed his old body armor. These three items were definitely coming with him. He closed the footlocker and slid it back under the cot. He then stood up and walked over to a small hidden compartment in the wall. He pulled out a heavy canvas bag filled with one ounce silver rounds and added them to the pile of gear he would take tomorrow. Jack stood in the middle of the cabin for a long moment, looking around slowly at everything he was about to leave behind. He let out a long, tired breath, then walked over and laid down. He would load the truck first thing in the morning. mister Rogers curled up on the floor beside him. Tomorrow changes everything. This has been the Lone Man on the Ridge Episode seven Bugging Out.