Untraceable

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 between the truck and me. 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. This is 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 listed as 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 leather seat. I scan the area and notice a few shoe prints leading away from the truck.

After taking a few 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, leaving no trace. As if my feet aren’t even 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 these two things can give you away in an all-green environment. Then, 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 this crap anyways? We got guns.” His lisp is magnified in the still evening air.

Al stops whistling but keeps a steady rhythm with his knife. “You never know when we might need ’em. Them creatures is unpredictable.”

“Yeah, but bear spray? Seems like that’s for a buncha sissies.”

I roll my eyes. It’s hard to take these idiots seriously. Some men drink from the fountain of knowledge.

Obviously, these guys barely gargle.

Or maybe they’re just plain parched.

Al chuckles. “Got it off one of those bear-huggin’ sites. Wanted to be sure we were prepared to dance.”

Billy reads the label aloud. “Bear Smart. Repels bears in a non-toxic, non-lethal manner. This pepper spray will not permanently injure the bear or the outdoorsman. Holster is also available.”

I smile thinking of how many times people end up hurting themselves by spraying this stuff into the wind.

Al opens one side of his hunting vest, revealing a gun. “I got me a holster right here.”

I only get a glimpse, but from the shape of the handle and length of the barrel, it appears to be some kind of .44 Magnum. All those hours of watching Dad polish his antique gun collection might finally come in handy.

Billy loads another bag. “Where we huntin’ this time? Some place new, I hope.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everything’s under control. We don’t need to be afraid of those forest cops this time.”

Forest cops? Wildlife officers, game wardens, and park rangers are often referred to as forest cops around here. Hard to tell the difference unless you know the uniform or what each person actually does.

My brain shuts down, and my ears buzz like a swarm of bees has suddenly gotten trapped inside my head. The men’s voices sound nasally and distorted, like a McDonald’s drive-in operator. I jerk out of my daze and quickly note the coordinates on my GPS watch. When I spin around to leave, my head is so jumbled, I forget about staying quiet and step into a pile of dead leaves and twigs. A horde of birds explodes from the bushes around me. I stop and look back to see if the two men heard anything.

“What was that?” Billy grabs his rifle. From the size and color, I’d guess it’s probably a Winchester or a Colt.

Al glances in my direction and slips a hand into his vest. “I dunno. Let’s check it out.”

Billy’s voice quivers as he stares off into the trees, his gun cocked. “Maybe it’s that freakin’ bear again. Feels like he’s huntin’ us sometimes.”

Al slides out his pistol and storms in my direction. “I got me a weird feeling about this.”

Without too quick of a movement, I slowly slink to the ground and press my body against the earth. Keeping my eyes down, I spy on the men, hoping they don’t investigate my location too closely. I bury my face in the leaves. As footsteps pound toward me, I breathe shallow so they can’t hear me. The loud crunching of Al’s shoes gets closer and closer. He stops on the other side of the bush and rattles the branches directly above me.

Billy whispers from further away. “See anything?”

Al kicks his foot into the roots, stirring up some dirt and leaves. A gritty cloud of dust particles billows around me. My nose twitches as I fight against the urge to sneeze.

Unfortunately for me, I lose.

Al’s voice hisses above me. “Well, well, well. What we got here?”