Richard Matheson: Hunted Past Reason

“Time for a snack,” Doug told him. “Eating while you hike should be one long, endless snack—a piece of candy or fruit, a sip of juice, an energy bar. Something to raise the blood sugar level.”

“Thanks,” Bob said. “Can’t say I’m crazy about these things. Marian loves them but I don’t.”

“Eat it anyway,” Doug told him. “You should take in three ounces of carbohydrate every two hours. Don’t want to let your glycogen level get too low.”

And so the lectures begin again, Bob thought; Professor Crowley on the podium.

“If we were home, I’d kill you if you spent a lot of time eating candy and flour products, sugar, big-time carbohydrates. Out here though, go for it. You need the energy.”

“Okay.” Bob tore off the wrapping, looked at it for a few moments, then put it in his pocket.

“That’s a good boy,” Doug said. “Never litter.”

Bob started to chew on the energy bar. Yuk, he thought. Dates.

“Fat is good too,” Doug told him. “Nuts. Cheese. Meat.” Bob looked at his watch. Ten minutes, sure enough. He was impressed.

“Here, swallow this,” Doug told him, tossing over a white tablet. “Salt tablet,” he said as Bob picked it up off the ground. “Better than fake sweat.”

“Fake sweat?”

“Gatorade, that kind of thing. Supposed to supply you with sodium chloride.” He made a scornful noise. “Salt tablets are better.”

“It’s really beautiful up here, don’t you think?” Bob asked after he’d washed down the salt tablet with a sip of water.

“Sure,” Doug answered. “Why do you think I come here?”

“The blue sky, the clouds,” Bob said. “The air. The stream. The incredible colors of the leaves. Those yellow trees aren’t maples, what are they?”

“Dogwood,” Doug told him.

“They certainly are beautiful,” Bob said.

“Chlorophyll draining,” Doug said. “They’re dying.”

Bob chuckled. “Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” he said. “Not too aesthetic, but—”

“—true,” Doug broke in. “I’m not a sentimentalist, Bob. To me, nature is a challenge. Something to conquer.”

“You really feel that way,” Bob said.

“You bet.” Doug nodded. He looked at his wristwatch. “We’d better get on our way. We want to set up our campsite before dark.”

“Right.” Bob took off his green corduroy cap and scratched his head. “Move on, Macduff.”

He groaned as he stood, the pack still feeling like an anvil fastened to his back.

Doug made a sound of amusement. “Good thing we’re on government land,” he said. “Don’t have to be prepared to make a dash from the hunters.”

“Hunters?” Bob looked surprised.

“It is hunting season,” Doug told him. “If this wasn’t government land, we’d be wearing bright red jackets and track shoes.”

“Well, I hope the hunters know it’s government land,” Bob said uneasily.

“Sometimes they don’t give a damn whose land it is,” Doug replied.

As they started on, Doug picked up a twig and after rubbing it off, started to move one end of it inside his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Bob asked.

“Brushing my teeth, nature style,” Doug answered.

Bob grunted, smiling slightly. “I’ll use my toothbrush,” he said.

“Well, so will I, dummy,” Doug told him. “This is temporary.”

“Ah.” Bob tried not to take offense but barely managed it.

“Just remember it in case you lose your toothbrush,” Doug said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.” He was sure that Doug could hear the edginess in his voice.

They were approaching a meadow now. As they started to cross it, Bob said, “Odd-looking grass.”

“Not grass, Bobby, sedge.” Doug’s tone was friendly now. Is he sorry he called me “dummy”? Bob wondered. It would be the way Doug would indicate an apology: not in so many words but in attitude. “All kinds of sedge,” he went on. “Short-hair sedge, black sedge, brewer’s sedge, alpine sedge, beaked sedge.”

“Whoa,” Bob said, accepting Doug’s tone of voice as apology. “A lot of sedge.”

“They look like grass,” Doug explained, “but they have triangular stems and leaves in groups of three.”

“Uh-huh.”

“If this was spring, you’d be seeing lots of flowers too. Purple owl’s clover. Larkspur. Paintbrush poppy. Lupine. Meadowfoam. Popcorn flower. Baby blue eyes.”

“Jesus, how do you know all these things?” Bob asked, too impressed by Doug’s knowledge to hold a grudge against him.

“You forget, I’ve been coming up here for years,” Doug said. “And I can read, you know.”

Oh, God, here we go again, Bob thought.

The thought vanished as something big buzzed past his head. “My God,” he said, “that bumblebee’s enormous.”

“Not a bumblebee, a rufus hummingbird.”

“Ah-ha.” No point in fretting about Doug’s manner, he thought. He was here to learn and Doug was teaching him. What more could he ask?

He started to say something, then broke off at a noise in the distance—what sounded like someone blowing across the top of an enormous pop bottle. “What the hell is that ?” he asked, fully expecting that Doug would know.

Which he did. “Blue grouse,” Doug said, “I’ve never seen one but I’ve heard them many times.”

As they started back into the forest, Bob asked about the trees up ahead. They hadn’t run across their like before.

“Live oak, blue oak,” Doug told him. “Deciduous, of course.”

Bob repressed a smile. Of course, he thought. “What about those trees?” he asked, pointing. “They look black.”

“They’re called black oak,” Doug said. “They grow really fast after a fire.”

Bob nodded. “What kind of trees are mostly found up here?”

“Oh, pine, of course,” Doug said. He does enjoy letting me know what he knows, Bob thought. “Ponderosa, sugar, Jeffrey, white, Douglas, and white fir. Ponderosa knows how to protect itself from fires too, its bark is real thick.”

Bob was about to speak when Doug stopped and raised his right hand. Bob stopped abruptly, looking at him. Trouble? he thought.

“What is—?” He broke off as Doug whispered “ Shh” and pointed upward with his right index finger.

Bob looked up and caught his breath.

Lying on an outcrop of rock on the hill to their right was a mountain lion. It was lying on its left side, stretched out in the sunlight.

For a few moments, Bob felt a tremor of uneasiness. He’d seen mountain lions before but in cages or confined environments. To see one so relatively close—at least it seemed close to him—and in the open… it was something that made him feel uncomfortable, even menaced.

But as moments passed and the large, tawny-furred cat lay motionless, obviously sound asleep, the discomfort faded.

“What a gorgeous animal,” he whispered.

“Lots of good steaks in there,” Doug whispered back.

Bob gave him a look. “Come on,” he whispered. “You don’t mean that.”

Doug punched him lightly on the arm. “Just teasing the animal activist,” he said.

Their conversation continued in whispers as they gazed up at the sprawling mountain lion. Its flanks rose and fell slowly as it slept, a faint breeze stirring the light-colored fur on its right flank.

“I’m not an animal activist,” Bob said, “I just think it would be criminal to harm a beautiful creature like that.”

“It is beautiful,” Doug agreed. “Sleek. Quick. Powerful. Deadly.” He made a clicking sound of admiration. “The perfect predator.”

Oh, Jesus, Doug, you’re hopeless, Bob thought. He decided to keep it to himself.