Green?

Will we see green tomorrow?

As I curl up next to my travelling companion in our small snow-cave - digging my fingers into her thick fur - all I can hope for is that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow instead of all the white, black and grey, we'll see something green.

The morning ritual is the same as it has been for more days than I would like to remember; an elbow in my belly, and a hissed "Hands! Move!" If we could speak more than a few words of each other's language, I think she'd claim that she only allows me to warm my fingers in her fur because I'm more useful with working hands, but somehow I know she likes the feel of my arms holding her. Maybe it reminds her of her father - as I'm so much taller than her - or a lover? No matter. As she tenses up to give me another taste of her elbow, I loosen my grip just enough for her to get away. While she slips outside - her fur protects her for those few minutes, I get dressed, then fire up the small stove and fill the kettle with snow. Then she returns, and I slip outside to do my business.

After breakfast - some sort of broth from her supplies and ration bars from mine - we pack everything into a sled made from an engine cowling, strap on snowshoes made from bent aluminium tubing, tie us together with a nylon rope and set out southwards. Always south, towards the sun, guided by my old good-luck charm; my Boy Scout compass.

Maybe today, before we camp for the night we'll see some green?

As we walk - always south - I have good time to think and remember how we ended up here; Me an geologist in a second-hand scoutship, her a four-foot high creature that more resembles a raccoon than a fearless fighter pilot. Just about the only thing we know of their people is that they're not interested in contact with our people. "It's a matter of honour," one of their lizard-like neighbours told us, but refused to explain. Just my luck to enter orbit just before her ship did, then, and with her dropping into orbit right in front of me. I'm not certain how we both survived the flaming reentry, or how our ships crashed no more than a click away from each other.
Up ahead, my companion waves me to stop as she starts poking the snow in front of her with a rod - or rather, an antenna from my ship - searching for hidden crevasses. As we start moving again, slower this time, I fall back a bit until the rope is taut. No need to make a fall longer than necessary.

Where was I? Oh yes, that fateful day. When I finally managed to dig myself out of the crash-foam, I found that both our ships came down in a narrow mountain valley. I spent the next hour or so first surveying the damage - it didn't take long to realise that it was beyond salvage, even as shelter - and packing my supplies. As I was about to set out, I learned, the hard way, that the other pilot had survived when a midget in space-suit jumped me from behind. The fight was mercifully short as my longer reach allowed me to land a lucky blow on my opponent's helmet.

My companion is pointing at the side of a steep hill, looking at me for a decision. I look it over, and deciding that it might be unsafe, points out a course further away. Guess she trusts my survival skills now...

That first day, though, it took all I had to explain that the valley wasn't a good place to stay, even for a single night. I guess what won the argument was that I had beaten her in a fair fight. We had just enough time that day to dig through her ship for supplies and get to the mouth of the valley and set up a small camp before darkness descended. That night a storm blew in from the east, and the cold forced us to cuddle up to share body-heat. When the storm finally abated two days later, she was... upset I guess we could call it. That changed when she got a look at the valley, where avalanches had buried both ships.

Then we set out southwards, and hopefully a place where we can live until rescue.

Evening routine is the same as always; She checks on the two rescue beacons in the sled and cleans the solar panel, then start preparing a meal from our dwindling supplies, while I dig a cave for us to sleep in. Then we remove our clothes - I change into my dry gear, she seems to prefer walking around in her fur - and hang them up in the hope that it'll stay above freezing in the cave and some of the moisture will drip off. Then, if we're not both too tired, we try to learn a few words of each others' language, before it's once again time to sleep. I roll out our blankets and lie down with my back against the cave wall, then she - growling what I assume is threats about what'll happen if I don't keep my hands to myself - lies down with her tail tucked between her legs and with her back towards me. Then I pull the blanket over us and reach out with my arm to switch off the flashlight.

As I close my eyes and prepare to endure another night, I wonder, maybe tomorrow we'll see some green?