Hunted Past Reason (3 page)

My cup runneth over, Bob thought.

"And—?" Doug asked.

"Uh . . . oh," Bob said. "Water purification tablets."

"Safer to boil the water," Doug told him. "Boiling time varies with height above sea level. Best to boil it for ten minutes wherever you are. And remember, drink
before
you get thirsty. Thirst is an alarm signal. Don't wait for it. Remember, when you sweat it's ninety-nine percent water."

"Do I—?"

"Use your urine color as an indicator. If it's darker than usual, you're not drinking enough."

"Okay." No point in asking questions, Bob thought.

"Pint every half hour," Doug told him.

Bob nodded.

"What else you got?" Doug asked.

"Oh . . . toilet paper," Bob told him. "Deodorant."

"Deodorant?" Doug chuckled. "You afraid your b.o. will offend the squirrels?"

"Just a habit," Bob said.

"All right, no tragedy."

Tragedy? Bob thought. How could using a deodorant be a tragedy?

"What's that?" Doug said, pointing.

Bob took out a plastic bag with six mini-bottles of vodka in it. "Thought it might be nice to have a little drink at the end of the—"

"Not a good idea, Bob," Doug broke in. "Alcohol impairs the judgment. Dehydrates the body. Decreases the appetite. Not good."

"Jesus, Doug, one mini-bottle before dinner? That's hardly boozing one's way through the forest primeval."

"Well." Doug shrugged. "Okay. Your call. You'll have to carry out the bottles though, you know."

"Oh, Christ, I forgot about that."

Doug chuckled. "Law of the wilderness, Bobby," he said. "You'll remember all this next time." He chuckled again. "If there
is
a next time."

"You don't think there will be?" Bob asked.

"Let's just say I hope you rented all this equipment." When Bob didn't reply, Doug made a face of mock pain. "Ooh," he said, "that's a lot of money for one hike." He gestured vaguely. "Though I suppose you'll get a hell of a lot
more
money when you sell your novel."

Bob didn't know how to respond to that. It crossed his mind how ironic it was that Doug had decried the mini-bottles of vodka. He'd seen Doug put away two six-packs of beer on more than one occasion.

"What about cookware?" Doug asked.

Without a word, Bob showed him the two small aluminum pots nestled together with a lid that could be used for a frying pan.

"Should be marked for measurements," Doug said. "However. Cup?"

Bob showed him his metal Sierra cup. Doug made a face. "Should have gotten a plastic one like I told you. This one could burn your lips as well as cool down hot liquids too fast."

Backpacking One, Professor Crowley, Bob thought. Was there going to be a written exam after all this?

"Okay, you got a spoon and knife," Doug said. "You have a hunting knife too?"

Bob opened his jacket to show the knife in its sheath.

"That's not a knife," Doug said, imitating Crocodile Dundee. "This is a knife."

He reached into his pack and pulled out what looked like a small machete. "Golak," he told Bob.

"Jesus," Bob said. "Are we going for a hike or a war?"

"Never know," Doug answered.

For Christ's sake, what does
that
mean? Bob wondered. He decided not to ask.

"A few more things," Doug said, "but I have them with me so you don't have to worry about them. Flashlight with extra bulbs and batteries. I see that you have one too— that's good. Waterproof matches. First-aid kit, whistle; I have two, I'll give you one of them."

"Whistle?" Bob asked.

"In case you get lost, Bobby," Doug said. Marian was right. Doug sounded exactly as though he were talking to a ten-year old.

"Trowel." Doug held it up.

"What's
that
for?" Bob asked.

"You plan to bury your shit with your hands?" Doug said. It was hardly a question. He grinned at Bob. "You'll borrow mine," he said. "It'll bond us."

Bob had to laugh at that.

"You have your sunglasses," Doug went on. "One more thing before we get our packs on. Your sleeping bag."

Bob showed it to him. Doug shook it open. Oh, Christ, Bob thought, it took me long enough to get it folded right.

"Down-filled mummy bag, yeah, that's good," Doug said. "I'm glad you listened to me on that anyway."

That's right, I ignored everything else on the list you gave me, Bob thought. Christ.

"Not too much loft," Doug said, patting the mummy bag.

"Loft?" Bob asked.

"Insulation," Doug told him. "The more air there is between you and the ground, the warmer you'll be. It's pretty heavy though, should keep you warm. Heavier than it needs to be actually."

Make up your mind, Dougie, Bob thought.

Doug checked the sleeping bag more closely. "Should have a zipper at the top
and
the bottom," he said. "Helps cool you off on a warmnight."

Jesus! Bob thought. Which one will it be, staying warm or staying cool?

"Well, pack up and we'll be on our way," Doug told him.

Thank
God
, Bob thought. He started to roll up his sleeping bag. Please don't tell me I'm doing it wrong, he thought. I'm sure I am.

Doug sat down on a boulder, yawning and stretching.

"What you have is an internal-frame backpack," he said. "Pretty compact, fits better. Makes it easier to maintain your balance no matter what kind of ground you're walking on. Most backpackers prefer the internal frame."

Which means, of course, that you don't prefer it, Bob guessed.

"I prefer the external-frame type," Doug said. Bob was glad his back was turned away so Doug wouldn't see his cheeks puff out in a stifled laugh. "Better air circulation on the back. Easier to pack. Can carry more weight. Though God knows that isn't what you'd want right now."

No, not at all, Bob thought in amusement as he started to repack his bag.

"No, you wouldn't want more weight, you'd want less," Doug went on.

Yes, sir, Professor Crowley, Bob thought.

"They say a pack for any kind of extended trip should be about a third of the hiker's weight. What do you weigh, Bobby?"

"Two hundred."

"That would be—" Doug was quiet for a few moments before saying, "about sixty-five pounds." He chuckled. "You'd last about twenty minutes," he said.

"Doug, I'm not
that
weak," Bob told him, trying to not sound irritated.

"Not saying you are, kiddo," Doug said. "You just don't know what sixty-five pounds on your back would feel like."

"I suppose." Bob was trying to repack his food supply compactly.

"Fortunately, I'll be carrying the tent and the ground pads," Doug said.

"Yes, don't forget to tell me what I owe you on them," Bob told him.

"For the tent, nothing, I already own it," Doug said. "I'll get you on the ground pad later." He chuckled. "And the whistle."

"And the whistle," Bob said good-naturedly.

"Here, put it in your pocket," Doug told him.

"Okay, thanks," Bob said. Doug knows a hell of a lot about all this, he told himself. Be grateful for his knowledge. So he is a little abrasive about it, so what? He's doing me a hell of a favor taking me on this hike. Appreciate it; don't keep niggling at his little lectures. They don't matter, not at all.

Anyway, what do I have to complain about? he thought. I need to know all this stuff for my novel. I should stop the internal kvetching and take notes, for chrissake.

"Yeah, if you manage twenty-five, thirty pounds you'll be doing good," Doug said. "Make sure you put stuff you'll only be using when we camp
inside
the pack. Anything you might want to use on the trail, put in one of the outer pockets. Put things in the same places all the time too so you don't have to search for them every time you need them. And make sure you pack the stove and fuel in an outer pocket in case there's a leak, you got that?"

Bob tried not to sigh. "Got it," he said.

"All for your safety, buddy," Doug reminded him.

"I know. I appreciate it," Bob said. Say no more, he told himself.

"Okay, let's try it on for size," Doug said, standing.

"Right." Bob picked up his pack and tried to swing it around his right shoulder. "Whoa!" he cried as the weight of the pack pulled him over, almost making him fall.

"And that, class, is the wrong way to don your backpack," Doug said. His smile was smug but Bob laughed anyway. "Guess I could use a little instruction here," he said.

"Guess you could." Doug took the pack from him. "Now watch what I do," he said.

"I'm watching."

"First you loosen your shoulder, load lifter, and hip stabilizer straps a little bit. They're all padded, that's good."

Bob nodded as Doug loosened the straps slightly.

"Got that?" Doug asked.

"Yeah."

"You have to establish a routine for fitting the pack each time you put it on," Doug told him. "Next you bend your knees like
so
. . . swing the pack onto your thigh and— slide under the shoulder straps in one quick movement. Got it?"

"Got it." Bob nodded.

"All right, the pack is on your back. What comes next?"

"With me, probably collapse."

"Come on, Bobby, I'm trying to tell you something here."

"Yeah, okay, okay. I presume you tighten the straps back up."

"Not yet," Doug said. "First you lean forward and cinch the waist belt . . . like so. It should sit right above and on your hips. Next, you straighten up, settle the pack on your hips,
then
pull your shoulder straps tight."

"Whoa," Bob muttered.

"What?"

"Complicated."

"No, it isn't." Doug shook his head. "Do it a few times and you'll do it without thinking. All right. Next you buckle the sternum strap . . . so. Then you tighten— you did try this pack on, didn't you?"

"Sure." Bob nodded. "The salesman never told me all this stuff though."

"They never do," Doug said. "All right, next you retighten the load lifter straps and hip stabilizer straps— that'll keep the pack from swaying while you're walking."

"Hope I remember all this," Bob said, looking confused.

"You will," Doug told him. "Otherwise, you'll end up with raw spots on your neck and hips and God knows where else."

With movements so fast Bob couldn't follow them, Doug was out of the pack and holding it out. "Okay, let's see you do it now," he said.

3:58 PM

My God, it's gorgeous, Bob thought as he walked along the trail behind Doug. The forest was deeply green with splashes of glowing gold from the maple leaves. One of them fell now and then, fluttering to the ground in slow, vivid loops. The only sound was that of pine needles crackling beneath their boots as they walked; two miles an hour on flat ground, one mile an hour on harder terrain, Doug had said.

Bob drew in a deep lungful of air. Like a fine white wine, he thought, crisp and pure. He smiled at the image. He was glad he had come. Now that all the lecturing was done, Doug had been quiet for more than a half hour except for asking Bob to let him know when he felt the need to stop and rest. So far, he'd said nothing even though his legs were starting to feel a little tired. The pack on his back seemed to grow heavier with every minute. Carefully packed, riding high, no more than twenty-five pounds he estimated, it still felt as though he were carrying an anvil on his back.

To hell with it, he told himself. He'd keep on as long as he could. What am I, a wimp? he challenged himself. Undoubtedly, he thought, but I'm going to fight it.

He concentrated on the forest again. Patches of sunlight dappled the trail ahead. As the trail curved to the right, he saw, again, the mountain that was their first landmark, Doug had said. There was a little snow on its peak, glistening in the sunlight. If it stays like this, he thought, I won't need to see my poncho blowing out like a boat sail. He chuckled softly to himself, imagining that sight.

So far, except for the pack, the walk had been nothing but pleasant. They'd passed a fast-moving stream, its crystal-clear water splashing off rocks, sometimes forming momentary rainbows with the sunlight. He'd seen a mule deer grazing on a small meadow, looking over at them, apparently unconcerned because it returned to grazing a few moments later.

These are the things I want to remember for my novel, he kept thinking. All of them.

"Sure you don't need to stop and rest?" Doug asked, looking back.

Bob didn't answer at first. Why doesn't Doug ask me if I want to stop and rest, not if I need to. These were the little digs that annoyed him. He was going to say no, he was fine. Then common sense prevailed. Don't be a macho idiot, he told himself.

"Yeah, I guess I would," he said, "I have to pee anyway. All that water you made me drink."

"Need plenty of water," Doug said, moving off the trail to another spot with a fallen oak lying across it. "At least a gallon a day."

Bob joined him on the open ground and, moving around the fallen tree, opened his pants and emptied his bladder. "Oh,
that
feels good," he said.

"Pause that refreshes," Doug responded.

Bob walked back around the tree and slumped to the ground, groaning.

"You dying?" Doug asked, half smiling.

Bob snickered. "Not yet," he answered.

"Put your pack on that little boulder," Doug told him. "Take all the weight off your back."

Bob shifted over to the boulder and laid his backpack on it. "Oh, you're right," he said, sounding pleased.

"Usually am," Doug said, "about backpacking anyway."

He took the compass out of his jacket pocket and looked at it.

"We still going in the right direction?" Bob asked.

"Yup." Doug put the compass back into his pocket. "If this was unfamiliar country, we'd use a topographic map but here we don't need to."

"How many miles to your cabin?" Bob asked.

"Hard to say," Doug answered. "Never figured it out. A good three days though. Four if you get real bushed and we have to slow down."

Jesus, Doug, do you have to keep harping on this? Bob thought.