Page 4 of Saved By the Lumberjack
I didn't expect them to keep looking for me.
Then night fell and the forest filled with sounds I hadn't heard so close-- wolf song. Too close for comfort.
Werewolves? Not something I believe in. Real wolves? Definitely something I believe in.
So I stayed wedged in my spot overnight despite the chilly mountain temperatures and the fact that I ate my last granola bar on my hike.
I expected to be safe when the sun was up yesterday, but the forest filled with more voices-- and they all seem to be looking for me.
Eventually, they'll give up and I'll be safe to make a run for it.
I hope. Because I ran out of water this morning, I'm hungry, and my wet clothes are likely to kill me if I don't get warm and dry soon.
"Ivy!"
The newest voice in the forest sounds vaguely familiar. I cringe back into the crevice as the man gets closer to my hiding place, but my brain is scrambling to place the voice. Why does this one make me feel safe?
Jake
There's caution tape cordoning off her campsite. The one-person tent is shredded, a down sleeping bag under the remnants of pale green nylon torn open with the soft feathery stuffing lying around like a field of dandelions exploded on it.
Kitchen items and clothing lay in haphazard patterns around the compact area.
I force myself to pause here, take a good look at the things that Ivy left behind and take a minute to check in with the guys manning the camp set up nearby.
A fully organized search and rescue party will start combing the area soon enough, but I can't wait for that. Neither can Ivy. Not if she's been out here for two nights already.
July temperatures are mild even at this elevation and the weather's been clear the last few days, but the nights still cool down enough to be dangerous if you're not prepared.
There's no sign of a struggle here, but when I look carefully, I make out the faint imprint of footprints leading out to the trail a few feet away from the chaos.
I'm not great at tracking, but I used to go out hunting with my dad and grandpa. Looking at the clues in front of me, I'm glad I picked up a few things from them.
The prints are boots, much smaller than my own, and spaced to indicate a casual pace.
The good news is that Ivy didn't run out of camp in a panic, and she had on proper footwear for the terrain.
The other thing I can make out, is that her prints only start to show up once they're outside of the area that's been tamped down by whatever wrecked her stuff. I'm hoping that means she was away from camp when whatever happened happened.
The big concern now is-- why hasn't she come back?
"Ivy!"
I cup my hands around my mouth as I yell her name, praying for a response.
Nothing comes back to me in the late morning forest around me.
Following her prints, I can see she headed out on the old road to the east, but it's not long before I lose the trail as the soft dirt goes through rocky patches.
Nevertheless, I keep following the road. Every so often I see her prints again, and then I see it; a spot where the prints double back on one another, then move off the trail.
Her prints disappear in the thick duff of the forest floor, once I'm off the trail, there's no telling where she could have gone.
The trees here are old growth, growing so close together that the forest is dark and suffocating. Granite walls rise up maybethirty feet high, exposing the bones of the mountain and cutting off the forest's ability to gain more ground.
"Ivy!"
I call for her one more time and then listen in the stillness that follows my voice.
