Untraceable

Survival Skill #1

A good tracker learns to follow every print and every lead—one at a time.

~

Three weeks, two days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-three minutes ago…

***

Dad used to always say, nothing is untraceable.

Everything that touches this earth leaves a special imprint, a unique mark that proves we existed in some way—no matter how invisible we may feel.

I follow the thin trail, staying a few feet to one side, and search for any sign of humans. Any time there’s a slight blemish in the dirt, I drop down and study it. Maybe it’s something important—something my dad left behind. Even when it’s nothing, I still draw a circle around the spot with a stick and mark it with orange surveyor tape. Just like Dad showed me. Then I document it by snapping a few photos with my digital camera and logging some notes. A tracker never knows how two separate things might be related. Connected in some way.

At the next bend in the path, I squat and scour through a mound of dead leaves. The Arnold Schwarzenegger of ants pops out from under a stick, lugging a dead beetle ten times his size. No matter how much he struggles, he never gives up. Another lesson to me courtesy of Mother Nature herself.

A few feet away, a squirrel rifles through a pile of twigs, searching for acorns. He freezes and stares at me as I inspect a nearby shrub. An earth snake, or Virginia valeriae as Dad calls it, slithers over my hiking boot. I pinch the tip of the snake’s tail and dangle him in front of my face. “You seen anything out here?”

His forked tongue darts out and kisses the tip of my nose.

“Great, now I’m talking to animals.” I sigh and place him down gently then watch him slither away.

Dr. Head thinks I’m in denial. Captain thinks I don’t trust his police investigation of my dad’s disappearance, and Mom just thinks I’m plain nuts. What if they’re all right?

I pick up a stone and chuck it at a nearby tree. The rock bounces back and ricochets off my kneecap. “Owwww!” My voice echoes a little before being swallowed by the thick humidity. I drop down onto a boulder. Leaning forward, I rest my forehead in my hands and inhale deep breaths, trying to let the woods soothe me.

Three months, and not one solid lead.

Finding evidence should be easier than this. Especially for me.

Technically, I’ve been a wildlife officer’s assistant since I could trace my own hand in the dirt with a stick. My first friend was a bear. My first potty, an oak tree. My first swing, a forest vine. I’ve lived in the North Carolina Smokies my whole life. Tagging alongside Dad whenever he patrolled, I’ve soaked up everything he taught me about wildlife, tracking, and wilderness survival. Over the years, I’ve created a mental map of side trails, memorized plant species, and studied the scientific name of every forest animal out here.

One time, when I was smaller than a river otter, Dad hid from me out in these woods. Took me less than sixty minutes to track him down. I remember him being shocked. But it didn’t surprise me. After all, I’ve been his shadow my whole life. I’ve studied his gait, how his right foot drags slightly when he walks because of an old motorcycle injury. I’ve even memorized the tread of his size eleven hiking boot—ranger standard issue. But mostly, I know how his mind works. How he thinks.

Yet none of this information seems to help me now.

Even though it’s pretty unlikely that I—a sixteen-year-old tomboy who can build a fire from scratch, yet can’t seem to cut her own bangs straight—could find something a hundred searchers couldn’t; I know deep down if anyone can find Dad, it’s me.

After looking a few more hours with zero finds, I reluctantly stop my search for the day. I flatten my trail map against a boulder and smooth out the tiny creases.

I wish it were that simple. To wipe my hand across a crumpled page in my life and erase any unwanted wrinkles.

After studying the map of the Smoky Mountain National Park, I highlight my search coordinates.

Marking another failed day.

I dig my notebook out of the backpack and jot down my findings before heading home: absolutely nothing.

I stroke the pink camo cover. Dad used to tease me about how the bright color stood out against the green and brown backdrop. Strange how random things pop into your head at weird times. Little, insignificant things you never think about until they’re triggered by something totally unexpected, without any warning.

A tightness balloons in my chest when I picture Dad’s smiling face, so I quickly put away the notebook, hoping to file away another painful memory.

Beads of sweat race along my spine from the humidity pressing down on me. The heat seems much worse this year. My Dad would say it’s the South; I say it’s global warming. I dampen my bandana with water from my canteen and drape it across the back of my neck. I steal a drink, letting little droplets of water trickle down my chin. Pulling the sticky strands off my skin, I roll my long, black hair into a bun. The warm air is a small relief to my suffocating neck.

After gathering my things, I begin the long five-mile hike back to my bike. Along the way, I get lost in the simple sounds of the woods. The crunching of my boots through the dry leaves. The bickering birds and crickets in the trees. All the random sounds that don’t seem like much on their own but, when put together, create a special song.

Just as I reach the main trail, I spot an azalea bush with a few broken limbs along one side. A scar on the hand of nature, marking an unnatural break. My heart stumbles. To the average person, this is nothing. To me, it could be everything.

When I inspect the jagged branches, the bugs beneath me stop buzzing. I peer into the thick foliage and spot a splash of orange. Even though the limbs scratch my face and arms, I reach into the brambles until my fingers skim something stiff and crinkly. I pinch the edge and retract the object slowly before laying it on the ground.

It’s an old Cheetos bag.

Dad’s favorite snack.

At first, I freeze, not sure what to do. Then I remember how to recover items properly. My hand trembles as I slip a Ziploc and pair of tweezers out of my pocket. It takes a few minutes to slide the evidence into the bag and seal it. Once it’s safe, I stare through the dirty barrier. Who would have thought a cheesy snack could mean so much? That a simple piece of trash could potentially crack Dad’s case wide open. I shove the plastic baggie into my backpack.

I need to get this back to town. Now. After three months, time is definitely not on my side.

Before I can stand, the bushes ahead of me shiver.

My body tenses when I spot a dark shape crashing through the dense underbrush. I wait quietly, not sure what it is.

Until a deep groan pierces the silence.