C Box - Blood Trail

Lucy took a deep breath to reload when there was a knock on the door. “You girls all right in there?” said their dad.

“Sure,” Sheridan said, “come in.”

He stuck his head in but didn’t enter, his eyes moving from Lucy to Sheridan and back, knowing he’d interrupted something. Sheridan noted the sparkle of gray in his sideburns she’d recently noticed for the first time. He was excited about something, motivated. There was a glint in his eye and a half-smile he couldn’t contain, the look he got when he had a purpose or a cause. “Better get going,” he told Lucy, who was notorious for extending her bedtime, “no stalling tonight.”

After he’d left, Lucy picked up her report in her most haughty manner. “There may not be any more falcons left if the earth keeps heating up,” she said, “so you might as well get that car.”

“Do you realize that what you just said makes no sense at all?”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Good night, Lucy.”

“Good night, Sheridan.” And over her shoulder as she skipped out of the room, “Nature Geek. Bird Girl.”

THE PROBLEM with my route back at night through the forest is an elk camp that has sprung up on the trail. Three canvas wall tents, four cursed four-wheel ATVs, the detritus of hunters in a campsite: chairs, clotheslines, a firepit ringed with pots and pans. I am grateful they don’t have horses who could whinny or spook at my presence and give me away. Because of the canyon walls on both sides, the only way to proceed is through the sleeping camp. Inside the tents are at least four armed hunters, maybe as many as eight or nine. I can hear snoring and the occasional deep cough.

I think: what’s wrong with these people? Don’t they know hunters are being hunted? Why do they not stay home? What makes them come out here while their fellow mouth-breathing Bubbas are being killed and gutted? Of course, these men have nothing to fear from me, but they don’t know that.

I lower the daypack to my feet and my shoulders relax from the strain of the last few hours. The moon is almost full and the stars are crisp and white, pulsing, throwing off enough light that there are shadows. For the past week, I’ve been preparing for this midnight trek. I’ve been loading up on foods high in vitamin A, which enhances night vision. Beef liver, chicken liver, milk, cheese, carrots and carrot juice, spinach. I can tell that eating these foods has helped greatly since I’ve only had to use my flashlight (fitted with a red lens) twice. Another tactic for walking in complete darkness outdoors is called “off-center vision,” and I’m good at it. The trick is not to look directly at objects-in my case, landmarks like dead trees or odd-shaped boulders I noted on my trek in-or they’ll seem to disappear. Looking at objects full-on directly utilizes the cone area of the retina, which is not active during times of darkness. Instead, I look to the left, right, above, or below the object I’m observing in order to use the area of the retina containing the rod cells, which are sensitive in darkness. If I keep moving my eyes around the object of interest, I can “see” what I’m looking at better than if I shine my headlamp on it. Plus, I’m not blinded afterward by the light. I’ve done my best to stay near the trail in but not to literally retrace my steps. As on the way in, I avoid soft ground where I may leave footprints as well as brush where I may break twigs in passing through. I stay as much as I can to hard-packed game trails or rock, disturbing as little as possible.

Earlier in the night, after I left my place of hiding where I observed the forensics team do their work, I methodically discarded evidence that could implicate me. I used the geology of the area to my advantage, especially the huge granite boulders piled up on top of each other and the scree on the denuded faces of two mountains I passed. The cache of clean clothing I’d left behind was easy to find in the dark and I changed from top to bottom, from boots to hat. I cleaned the barrel and chamber of my rifle with a field cleaning kit so thoroughly it would be difficult to tell it has been fired recently. I scrubbed exposed skin-the bands of skin between my gloves and coat cuffs, my face and neck-clean of gunpowder residue with wet wipes I brought in a ziplock bag. My old bloody clothing I wadded up tight and slipped into a crack in the boulder field where it dropped away deep. So deep, I barely heard when it landed. The depth beneath these boulder fields always astonishes me, and I wonder what lives in the dark within them. I imagine that whatever is down there scuttling in the absolute blackness will feast on the blood-drenched clothing and eventually reduce it to scat. The single spent cartridge and rifle cleaning patches I dropped in separate slits in the boulder scree. I washed my skinning knife in a spring-fed creek with biodegradable soap, and buried the washcloth under a log so heavy it strained me to turn it over.

I am now probably the cleanest hunter in the Rocky Mountains, and the thought makes me smile. It may be silly to take such precautions, I know that. After all, a hunter who has discharged a weapon is not an unusual circumstance. But if caught, I’d rather err on the side of caution. I’d rather be ruled out immediately by the fact that I haven’t fired a shot all day. Nevertheless, my hunting license, habitat stamp, and maps of the area are in my backpack and they are proof of my legitimacy. If stopped and questioned, it’s the reason I’m out here. The only thing that can possibly link me to the crime if I were stopped is the human head, which is triple wrapped in plastic inside the daypack. As I walk along, I practice hurling it away from me until I become quite good at it. I think I can do it unobtrusively by swinging it behind my back and throwing it off to the side. The trick, I think, is not to turn and watch where it lands, which might draw attention to it. And hope it lands on soft pine needles and doesn’t thump against a hollow tree trunk or crash through branches. Luck so far has been on my side. Still, though, I don’t want to take any risks .

And I fear that one of the elk hunters will awaken and step outside his tent and see me as I pass through. I don’t want to have to use my knife again.

I WAIT outside the elk camp for most of an hour. My hearing is acute. I’ve identified five breathers in the tents. Two in two tents, one in one. The two in the tent on the left, farthest from the fire pit, are sleeping the hardest. They make lots of noise, and occasionally one of them snorts and coughs. I guess they had the most to drink, or they’re heavy smokers, or they’re the oldest. Maybe all three. The two in the right-side tent sleep in almost whispers, and they concern me. Men who lie awake at night often breathe rhythmically, as if they are sleeping. Since this is their first night in the camp and the first night elk hunting, one or both could be awake, nervously anticipating the dawn. Or just not comfortable in cots and sleeping bags. But the single breather in the single tent worries me the most. Since he is by himself, I guess he is either the leader if they are friends or more likely a hired hunting guide. Some guides are maternal, and look out for their clients’ every comfort. Some are jerks, the kind of men who want to show off their ability and manhood to clients in the hope they’ll be talked about and admired. Either way, if the single is a guide and feeling proprietary about the camp and responsible for the other hunters, he could present problems for me.

Experienced tent campers know that animals pass through their camps all night long, especially if they’ve camped near water or on a trail, which is the case here. The sound of footfalls will not likely produce an automatic confrontation. I’m more worried about someone coming outside to urinate or simply because he can’t sleep and seeing me. I work my skinning knife out from beneath my jacket so the handle is within easy reach. And I know, if necessary, I can arm my weapon and fire within two seconds.