“Not for a person my size,” Bob warns.
Which brings up a good point. How do you hide a glow-in-the-dark Paul Bunyan? These trees aren’t particularly large or old. Growing this densely, they are a collection of thin to medium-sized trunks. Nothing suitable for Bob.
“I’ll find a place between here and the camp,” Bob says at last. “Closer to the stream, I saw some more open spots. I can signal when he’s coming. Close in from behind.”
“How are you going to signal?” I ask. “We don’t have walkie-talkies and the emergency whistle will give you away.”
In response, Bob trills. Then makes four or five other birdcalls that have us all rocking back on our heels.
“My husband says it’s what made him first fall in love with me,” he says sheepishly. “I also play a mean ukulele.”
“Um, okay,” Neil offers. “So which of those would sound most natural in these woods?”
Bob repeats an option that sounds pretty close to the birds I’ve been hearing in the morning. Not knowing my species, I’ve been referring to them mentally as the happy birds. Versus crows and ravens, which are never happy. And seagulls and pigeons, which are just plain annoying.
Happy birds it is.
“We need more cover,” Miggy says, still looking around. “Tree branches, boughs of needles we can use to further obscure our hideouts. We’ll need to keep it loose and natural-looking—no neat rows of twigs, maybe living branches, downed logs.”
I unsheathe my knife. “I can hack off some lower pine boughs.”
“Perfect, but not around here. The fresh cut marks will be a dead giveaway.”
I didn’t even think of that.
Scott sets down his pack. “I can go to work on these bushes, dig out beneath them.”
“I’ll help Frankie with the branches.” Neil stands, bobbling slightly. “You cut, I gather.”
I think that’s a mighty generous offer, given he appears ready to fall over.
“I’ll backtrack,” Bob announces. “Select a size-appropriate lookout option for me.”
That lightens the mood, makes us all smile. Just in time for Neil’s stomach to grumble. Then Scott’s, as if in sympathy.
We all hesitate, gaze longingly at our packs. We’re down to nearly crumbs. Going through Luciana’s bag produced two more protein bars, which felt ghoulish, but she would have been the first to hand them over.
“No,” Bob states firmly. “We don’t know how long this will take. Assuming we win this fight, we still have to get down this mountain.”
I really wish he hadn’t said that. Such a demoralizing thought.
“Let’s get through this. When we know we’re making the final trek home, then we’ll snack. Celebratory protein bars for all.”
That sounds more promising.
We nod in agreement, then get to our tasks.
* * *
—
Neil and I need to hack down tree limbs away from the initial area. But which way? Strike out to the left? The right? What if our guy is already in either of those places and we walk straight into him?
We suffer a solid minute of analysis paralysis, then Neil simply takes a step forward and I follow him. What can possibly go wrong by putting the guy with a concussion in charge?
We come to a thick clump of spruce, their prickly limbs all snarled together. I curl my nose.
“Ouch. My kingdom for a nice, sturdy oak.”
“I see a bunch of lodgepole pines over there. Softer needles, stickier sap. But in this area, hardwood trees are few and far between.”
Evergreens it is. I decide to start with the spruce, crawling beneath the ring of low-hanging branches on my hands and knees. I unsheathe my blade, give it a hard stare.
“You be good to me, I’ll be good to you.” I think it gets the message.
The first branch snaps off easily, turning out to be half dead. But that also means the moment Neil tugs it out, half the needles shed onto the forest floor. I pay more attention after that, trying to stick to branches around an inch in diameter, and moving around so there aren’t a bunch of fresh nicks all in one place.
I saw, heave, saw some more. Neil tugs, sits down to rest, tugs some more.
We’re both a sweaty mess in a matter of minutes, my arms stinging from a thousand needle jabs. I think wrestling a porcupine might be easier. I have to take a break to put on my gloves, wishing I’d done so sooner, as my palms are already red with fresh-forming blisters, while my fingers have become sticky with sap.
I give up on the spruce sooner versus later. Just too difficult. We cross to a more open area where there is a spread of picturesque soft-needled pine trees adorned with pine cones.