Untraceable

Survival Skill #26

Tracks, especially human prints, lose their sharp edges over time due to weather conditions.

~

First thing Monday morning, I get up and head out before Mom even wakes up. Mama Sue’s place is the only store within a hundred miles that makes custom hiking boots. So maybe she can help me figure out where these prints came from.

After cutting through the town of Cherokee, I turn off the main road and onto Hwy 1410. The crowds are already lining up outside Cherokee’s Bear Park, waiting to “experience nature up close and personal.”

When I realize the store is only a few doors down from the bear pit attraction, a sick feeling ignites in my belly. I hate this place. People hitting animals with rotten apples. Bears living in cement corners without so much as a blade of grass in sight. Obese cubs begging for crappy food.

Stretching along the beautiful Oconaluftee River, the bear park is massive, offering a variety of bear species, a gem mine, a tubing center, a shooting range, and an indoor mall. For reasons I still don’t understand, the park isn’t subject to any national bear laws. Keeping animals in an unnatural habitat with these awful conditions is not only disrespectful to nature, but it goes against everything Native Americans represent.

I park and notice Wyn has already called twice and texted once. I turn my phone off to avoid him. The more I hang out with Mo, the more I find myself hiding from Wyn. I’m stuck between wanting to tell him what’s going on and not hurting him. A part of me is afraid I’ll lose him again too.

I head toward the shop, keeping my face down. I’m not supposed to be here. Chief Reed banned Dad and me from the reservation last year because of our persistent protesting. Hopefully the chief isn’t around today.

As I walk by the reinforced walls of the complex, I hear snippets of the things going on behind the scenes. Bears groaning, kids screeching, and people shouting, “Bear! Bear!” Don’t those people see how unhappy the bears are? Maybe if they understood the animal’s natural behavior, they’d be more appalled. What’s worse is that the chief doesn’t see it either. Or doesn’t care.

At last, I reach Mama Sue’s. The scent of leather wafts through the store, its walls lined with shoes: cowboy boots, hiking boots, and rain boots. A few clothing rounds break up the large, open space, displaying outdoor wear for fishing, hiking, and camping.

Mama Sue is helping a customer in the back. Dad always liked Sue, called her “Mama Grizzly.” From what he said, the woman is hardcore and tough as a rhino’s horn. Once, after being attacked by a bear, she crawled back to her cabin and sewed up her own head before calling for help.

Everyone knows Mama Sue doesn’t fool around.

As I wait for her to finish, I browse the store. A few articles about her attack hang on the wall next to a large bear hide. I’m guessing Mama Sue got her revenge after all. I lean in to read one about how she used to live so remotely that she could only provide her address by giving the latitude and longitude.

“Well, hello, young lady. How can I help you?”

The scruff voice startles me. I spin around and face Mama Grizzly. She’s wearing a leather river hat, chambray shirt, and black jeans. Her kinky brownish-gray hair is braided and hanging down to her waist. She crosses her arms. “Well? Speak up, child. I don’t have all day. Come to think of it, at my age, I probably don’t have much longer at all.” She coughs then smiles. “That means, you had better ask me something now. Before it’s too late.”

I make a point not to stare too long at the three deep scars running down her left cheek. “You’re Mama Sue?” Dumb question, I must be nervous.