Page 3 of Found By the Mountain Man
We make good time on the descent, and I'm actually starting to think we'll get back to base without incident when my radio crackles again.
"Connor, priority call. You need to respond."
The urgency in Jake's voice stops me cold. Priority calls mean someone's in trouble. Real trouble.
"Copy, Jake. What's the situation?"
"Solo photographer, overdue check-in. The last known position was Black Creek, upstream from the lodge."
I check my watch. Two hours overdue isn't necessarily cause for panic, but Black Creek has been running high and fast underthe ice with the early melt. Not a place you want to be alone if something goes wrong, especially in these temperatures.
"Description?"
"Female, mid-twenties, dark hair. Professional photographer, so she's carrying heavy gear. Name's Mavis Aldana."
Of course. Another city professional who thinks wilderness photography is the same as taking pictures in Central Park, even in winter conditions.
"I can be at Black Creek in twenty minutes," I tell Jake, already calculating the fastest route. "Send backup to the usual access points."
"Roger. Be careful, man. Weather's deteriorating faster than predicted. Temperature's dropping fast."
I turn to my group, who are watching this exchange with the fascination of people who've never seen an actual emergency unfold.
"Change of plans," I announce. "We're cutting the lesson short. I need to get you back to base immediately."
Twenty-five minutes later, the temperature has dropped another five degrees in the past hour, and the wind has that sharp edge that means serious snow. The clouds have thickened into a gray ceiling that seems to be pressing down on Darkmore Peak.
If this photographer is injured or lost, we don't have much time before weather becomes a factor for the rescuers too.
I jog toward the Black Creek trailhead, my boots finding good purchase in the packed snow, my mind already shifting into SAR mode. Think like the victim. Professional photographer, probably focused on getting the perfect shot. Willing to takerisks for her art. Where would she go that seemed manageable but could turn dangerous quickly?
The ice formations. That's where every photographer goes this time of year, trying to capture the "pristine wilderness" shots that sell to magazines. The problem is, the formations are unstable right now, affected by the warming and cooling cycles we've been having.
I reach Black Creek and immediately see signs of her passage—disturbed snow along the bank, a clear boot print in the powder. She headed upstream, just like I thought.
Following her trail, I move quickly but carefully, reading the story written in snow and bent grass. She was methodical, stopping frequently, probably to evaluate shots. Good. Methodical people don't usually do anything catastrophically stupid.
Then I reach the bend where the creek cuts through the rocks, and I see the disaster site.
Ice chunks scattered in the water. A gaping hole where the creek's frozen surface has given way. Fresh scrape marks on the rocks. Disturbed snow where something, or someone, was dragged from the creek.
And there, caught on a branch jutting from the bank, a camera strap.
Professional grade, expensive equipment. The kind someone would risk their life to protect.
"Jake, I've got evidence of an incident at the ice formations," I radio. "Looks like she went through the ice, possibly swept downstream."
"Copy. You see any sign of her?"
I'm already moving downstream, following the creek's flow, looking for more evidence. Boot prints in the snow, disturbed vegetation, anything that might tell me which way she went.
"Not yet, but I'm tracking downstream. If she went in the water here, the current would have carried her—"
I stop mid-sentence.
There, about fifty yards downstream, something dark against the white snow of the bank. Too regularly shaped to be natural. Too still to be alive.
I break into a run, my SAR training warring with a growing dread. Fifty yards feels like fifty miles when you're racing to reach someone who might already be beyond help.
