“Why build it so far off the trail?” I ask.
“Generally, you look for some kind of natural starting point. Say, a few collapsed trees that already form a frame for the structure, that kind of thing. But to leave the trail and walk this far in . . .” Nemeth glances behind us, where the hiking path is barely visible through the fence of matchstick tree trunks. His expression is troubled. “I don’t know,” he says at last.
I think of the screams we heard yesterday when hiking up. The cries Nemeth said came from an animal but didn’t sound like any kind of cute, four-legged creature that I know. I wonder if the person who sheltered here heard those shrieks as well and felt a need for a less conspicuous shelter.
Nemeth rises to standing, dusting off his pants. He directs his next comment to the group: “While Devil’s Canyon is hard to access for your average hiker, a fair number of people still pass through here during any given season. Best bet is to see if we can find some trace of Tim’s gear or remnant of the person who stayed here. Otherwise, all we got is evidence of a single person who camped here at some point at least a year ago.”
Martin speaks up. “It’s his.”
We all look at him.
“The tree branches forming the lean-to. They haven’t been just hacked down. Their tips are cut at a precise forty-five-degree angle, as one might expect from an engineer. Then there’s the way the stones are arranged around the fire pit. They’re all similar in size and shape. No need for that. Requires extra effort. But Tim liked things uniform, balanced to the eye. Son of a carpenter, you know.”
I don’t know, but the more I learn of Tim, the more I wish that I’d had a chance to meet him. My life is filled with ghosts. Images and stories of people I never knew and, in most cases, never will. They haunt me. And yet I keep coming back for more, collecting memories that aren’t even my memories and clutching them tight to my chest. If you hoard other people’s tragedies, does that make your own easier to bear?
I’m still waiting to find out.
“We could search from here.” Luciana speaks up softly. She and Daisy are standing at attention twenty feet away, Luciana holding a small bladder in her hand. I’ve seen it used by trackers before, puffing the orange powder in the air and watching how it drifts to determine the direction of the wind.
Martin stares at her a long, long time. Once again, his face is shuttered. Once again, he’s seeing things only he can see.
The three amigos shift restlessly. Bob adjusts his pack. We wait.
Still, Martin doesn’t answer.
Now that we’re here and the moment is at hand, does he really want to proceed? To stumble upon his child’s bones? To learn once and for all what happened to his son, realizing he can never unknow it?
Closure is such a tricky, tricky thing.
A single snaking tremor, rippling through his entire body. Martin turns to Luciana.
He says, “Yes.”
* * *
—
“Searches work best as a team of three: canine, handler, and support person.” Luciana eyes our group expectantly.
Martin immediately raises his hand. “Support person.”
Luciana regards him for a moment, clearly considering. Then abruptly: “No.”
Martin blinks. This is the first time I’ve heard someone tell him no. It’s clearly not his thing.
“Wait just a damn moment—”
“Do you even know what a support person does?”
Martin scowls. “No.”
“You plot progress using compass points and are in charge of communicating with the rest of the group to ensure we don’t intersect one another or duplicate efforts. Do you feel like staring at a map and compass, or do you want to keep your eye out for signs of Tim?”
That scowl again. Martin doesn’t have to speak for us to know his answer. Luciana waits for it anyway. This is her area of expertise and she’s establishing her dominance right out of the gate. I want to applaud but I worry it might be in poor taste.
“Fine,” Martin bites out, graceful to the bitter end.
Bob speaks up. “I’m good with a compass.”
Luciana nods at him. “Perfect. You’re support. So this is how it’ll work.” At the word work, Daisy perks up. Luciana acknowledges her canine companion with a pat on the head. “Yes, work, work, work,” she coos. “We’re getting ready to work.” Now Daisy positively vibrates with excitement.
“It’s important to get her revved up. The more engaged she is, the better she’ll do,” Luciana informs the rest of us. “Not that Daisy ever needs much. She genuinely loves the hunt.