What if they’re totally innocent? That’d be the last thing I need. Carl and Les would never believe me again. On the other hand, if these guys are hunting around up in these mountains, maybe they know something about my dad?
Out in the woods, these are the tiny decisions that contribute to someone losing their way. To act or not to act. To move or not to move. Those basic questions can make a huge difference.
Between life and death. Lost or found.
I bolt toward Luci.
If these idiots know something about Dad, there’s only one way to find out.
Survival Skill #11
By moving slowly, you decrease the chance of detection and conserve energy you may need later.
Dark, billowy clouds roll across the sky like tumbleweeds as I snake up the mountain, leaving a safe distance behind the truck. Once the men turn down a dirt lane, I wait a little before inching my bike around the bend. Their truck is parked off to one side, partially concealed by the trees. What Dad called a 4-5-9 or suspicious vehicle.
As Luci rolls closer, the reality of my decision to follow these guys finally clicks. This plan would definitely be a “don’t” in the Dumb Girl’s Guide to Wilderness Survival handbook. However, if I don’t chase after these idiots now, they may be gone by the time I get help.
I park Luci behind some bushes and sneak along the tree line. When I peer inside the shiny truck, a new cowboy hat rests on the shiny leather seat. I scan the area and notice a few shoe prints leading away from the truck. Dad called this a confirmed sign or spoor.
After taking pictures, I pause at the mouth of the trail leading into the darkening woods. It’s late, and the woods will only allow a couple more hours of light. I hesitate only a fraction of a second before allowing the trees to swallow me whole.
My plan? Sneak in, get coordinates of their camp, and sneak out. Then I’ll go get Les or tell Carl so they can haul these guys in and arrest them.
What could go wrong?
I trek along the overgrown green alleyway, weaving in and out of trees while inspecting the path for prints. Shafts of sunlight break through the lush foliage, creating orange stripes along the forest’s green floor, reminding me of the setting sun. Oaks, pines, and spruces border the trail. I move noiselessly. As if my feet aren’t touching the ground. These guys could be anywhere, so I need to find them way before they notice me.
After barely escaping a fence of poison ivy and almost stepping on a sleeping timber rattlesnake, I stop to regroup. Fear and anxiety is a tracker’s Achilles’ heel. Dad used to track poachers all the time. So I know I need to pay attention to the whole world around me, not just the trail. Any place where these guys have disturbed the natural grain of the forest. Broken twigs. Crushed weeds. Pebbles pressed into dirt. A good tracker anticipates movement and searches for forced lines that blemish the natural flow of the forest.
Every nerve switches on and tingles, probing to find something out of place. I trek for a couple miles. Suddenly, a soft whistling and the smell of smoke hitch a ride on the wind. Cupping my hand behind my ear, I zero in on their location. With each step, I breathe and release.
Step, roll foot, weight transfer, and breathe.
I inch my way to the border of their campsite and hide. To conceal the whiteness of my eyes and teeth, I squint and close my mouth. It’s surprising how those two things can give you away in an all-green environment. Then, like Dad taught me, I poke my head around the side—not over the top—of a fat shrub to get a better view.
Al sits next to a blazing fire, methodically scraping his new collector’s knife back and forth along a sharpening stone as he whistles. The campsite seems scant, except for a couple of small iceboxes, a few large duffle bags, and some scattered trash.
Off to one side, Billy stuffs a few things into a large satchel. “Why do we need all
Out in the woods, these are the tiny decisions that contribute to someone losing their way. To act or not to act. To move or not to move. Those basic questions can make a huge difference.
Between life and death. Lost or found.
I bolt toward Luci.
If these idiots know something about Dad, there’s only one way to find out.
Survival Skill #11
By moving slowly, you decrease the chance of detection and conserve energy you may need later.
Dark, billowy clouds roll across the sky like tumbleweeds as I snake up the mountain, leaving a safe distance behind the truck. Once the men turn down a dirt lane, I wait a little before inching my bike around the bend. Their truck is parked off to one side, partially concealed by the trees. What Dad called a 4-5-9 or suspicious vehicle.
As Luci rolls closer, the reality of my decision to follow these guys finally clicks. This plan would definitely be a “don’t” in the Dumb Girl’s Guide to Wilderness Survival handbook. However, if I don’t chase after these idiots now, they may be gone by the time I get help.
I park Luci behind some bushes and sneak along the tree line. When I peer inside the shiny truck, a new cowboy hat rests on the shiny leather seat. I scan the area and notice a few shoe prints leading away from the truck. Dad called this a confirmed sign or spoor.
After taking pictures, I pause at the mouth of the trail leading into the darkening woods. It’s late, and the woods will only allow a couple more hours of light. I hesitate only a fraction of a second before allowing the trees to swallow me whole.
My plan? Sneak in, get coordinates of their camp, and sneak out. Then I’ll go get Les or tell Carl so they can haul these guys in and arrest them.
What could go wrong?
I trek along the overgrown green alleyway, weaving in and out of trees while inspecting the path for prints. Shafts of sunlight break through the lush foliage, creating orange stripes along the forest’s green floor, reminding me of the setting sun. Oaks, pines, and spruces border the trail. I move noiselessly. As if my feet aren’t touching the ground. These guys could be anywhere, so I need to find them way before they notice me.
After barely escaping a fence of poison ivy and almost stepping on a sleeping timber rattlesnake, I stop to regroup. Fear and anxiety is a tracker’s Achilles’ heel. Dad used to track poachers all the time. So I know I need to pay attention to the whole world around me, not just the trail. Any place where these guys have disturbed the natural grain of the forest. Broken twigs. Crushed weeds. Pebbles pressed into dirt. A good tracker anticipates movement and searches for forced lines that blemish the natural flow of the forest.
Every nerve switches on and tingles, probing to find something out of place. I trek for a couple miles. Suddenly, a soft whistling and the smell of smoke hitch a ride on the wind. Cupping my hand behind my ear, I zero in on their location. With each step, I breathe and release.
Step, roll foot, weight transfer, and breathe.
I inch my way to the border of their campsite and hide. To conceal the whiteness of my eyes and teeth, I squint and close my mouth. It’s surprising how those two things can give you away in an all-green environment. Then, like Dad taught me, I poke my head around the side—not over the top—of a fat shrub to get a better view.
Al sits next to a blazing fire, methodically scraping his new collector’s knife back and forth along a sharpening stone as he whistles. The campsite seems scant, except for a couple of small iceboxes, a few large duffle bags, and some scattered trash.
Off to one side, Billy stuffs a few things into a large satchel. “Why do we need all
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