When meeting a stranger, take note of every detail to create a composite in your mind.
~
The next morning, I hide in bed until my mom leaves for work. Then I ride Luci deep into the Smokies to start another search. The morning air is warm yet crisp, hinting at the beginning of fall. After passing the bent “bear crossing” sign, I skid my motorcycle into a turn and roll down an overgrown path. Hunching over Luci’s handlebars, I dodge the low-hanging branches and go as far as I can before trekking in the rest of the way.
Using the trees as handrails, I slide down the sloped forest, relishing in the details of my lush surroundings. How the bark scratches my palms and how the crisp grass crunches under my feet with every step. The sweet smell of pine teases my nose, reminding me of the dreaded holidays only a few months away. I can’t imagine them without Dad’s spectacular light display, secret stuffing recipe, and our annual Christmas morning fishing excursion.
I try to refocus my attention on how the blooming bushes splatter the green forest with blotches of pale pink. I take in their sweet perfume, letting it replace the holiday scent.
After hiking a couple more miles, the murmur of gurgling water beckons me. I gallop to the tree line and stop to watch the river. Mossy boulders crowd Bear Creek as it glistens in the sunlight. I close my eyes, inviting the sun to stroke my cheeks and warm my soul. I’d give anything to go back to last summer when Dad and I spent every morning fishing and every afternoon patrolling. Everything seemed so easy then. I can actually remember wishing for more adventure in my life. More excitement.
Be careful what you wish for.
Staring out at the river rushing by, I suddenly want so much to fish first, but it’s more important to get in another search before dusk. Eating a vanilla MoonPie, I spread out my gear and highlight a search path on my map. The plan is to fan out in a one-mile radius from the point where I located the Cheetos bag. My breath speeds up with excitement and anticipation. I don’t know if it’s the rush of hope that I’ll spot something more or the fear of finding nothing else.
Pulling on my backpack, I blaze the trail and sweep in an arch, searching for another sign. For hours, I move slowly and deliberately. Careful not to step on anything that could be hard evidence. A small something off to one side sends off an alert in my head. I bend down and inspect the compressed area filled with tiny crushed plants, a random pebble, and a broken stick. To the average person, these are just part of the everyday woods. To me, they’re prints. Signs that prove someone is out here.
I lightly run my hand over the area. The mud is dry. It hasn’t rained for a couple weeks so it’s at least that old. I quickly note the find and move on to find a scuff mark on a dead log. After further inspection, it appears someone climbed over the fallen tree, damaging the bark with a boot. On the other side, I spot a partial track. I lean down and scan the area. Up ahead, I make out a faint trail someone left behind where the leaves bend at funny angles or are flipped over, showing their light underbellies to the sky. I follow the tracks for a few yards before losing the trail.
I continue searching the planned grid. When nothing else shows up, I stop and sit down to note every detail of every find. Chewing on the pencil eraser, I scan the forest. My spirits lift a little.
I was right. Someone is out here.
The question is who and if it’s related?
Even though it’s only four o’clock, the woods are already growing dark as if nature is slowly drawing its shades. The silver on my bracelet gleams in the dimming light. It’s too dark to keep searching. Maybe I have enough time to fish. Reward myself for a search well done. Relax and clear my head before the sun sinks behind the treetops.
After unpacking my stuff, I slip into my waders and pull on a waterproof vest before slithering into the river. The current tugs at my boots, urging me to play. The soft sloshing sounds of the water stroke the embankment, and the crickets hum along to the forest’s natural buzz.
I start casting. Once I get a good rhythm going, my body relaxes, allowing me to breathe again. Whipping the line back and forth, I focus on the meter of my technique. Two o’clock, ten o’clock. Two o’clock, ten o’clock. The moist air wets my face. I lick the droplets from my lips, tasting the pure mountain water. Being in the river makes me think about Dad and how we used to fish for hours. Without talking. Without any worries.
A lump grows in my throat, blocking my airway. My chest hardens at the thought of possibly never fishing with him again.
Suddenly, I have a huge urge to get out of here, before my heart explodes and I drown in the wake of my sorrow. I quickly slosh out of the water. So much for relaxing.
Once on shore, I grab my stuff and stand at the river’s edge, watching the water slide by me like a shiny conveyor belt. Here, nothing has changed. Somehow, life keeps moving at the same current it did before.
But for me, everything is different.
Before I can invite anyone else to my pity party, a few twigs snap behind me.
Instinctively, I squat behind a boulder and scan the horizon, wondering if Simon’s making another star appearance. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to notice a human silhouette snaking through the trees. By the gait, size, and shape, it appears to be a male. My heart rate skyrockets along with my curiosity. During all my searches, I’ve never come across anyone out here. This place is always deserted. It’s why Dad and I always came here.
As the person moves further away, I decide to follow. Maybe this is the guy who owns the prints I’ve been tracking all day. I silently move through the leafy cover by using an old Apache stalking method, Fox Walking. Or as Dad called it, the Ostrich Shuffle. It comes in handy when tracking bears, so I assume it can fool humans too. Maintaining my balance, I lift each leg high in the air and lightly touch the ball of my foot to the ground. No matter how effective the technique, I always feel like a complete idiot doing this. Pretty sure I look like one too. Unfortunately, the silly walk only works if I’m patient, so I take my time and find a rhythm.
Lift. Bend. Step. Lift. Bend. Step.
The figure darts through a clump of trees in the distance. No matter how fast the shadow moves, my body remains on cruise control. For a second, I lose him, but then a slight movement notifies my peripheral vision. I work hard to continue the method, but it soon becomes clear I’m falling too far behind.
Without hesitation, I shoot off toward the intruder, only to anger a dry stick.
Crack!
The figure stops.
I slip behind a mountain laurel, letting the fat bush conceal me, and wait a few seconds. Then, in a stealth move, I inch around the side and survey the wooded landscape, listening for any sound.
Nothing.
A deep voice cuts through the silence. “Oi! What are you doing?”
I spin around to face a guy standing only a few yards away. My wilderness survival class comes back to me. Always size up your opponent. Note every detail. I conduct a quick once-over and etch a physical profile into my brain. Never know when you might need to help with a composite sketch. The subject is about 6’2”, 200 pounds, with longish dark hair. Probably my age. Looks older due to the thin scruff covering his face. He’s sporting khaki cargo pants, hiking boots, and an army-green t-shirt. A leather pouch hangs across his chest, and he’s carrying a small blue cooler. I look up into chocolate MoonPie-brown eyes.
He frowns. “Why are you following me?”
This time, I detect a slight accent that straddles the fine line between English and Australian. I can’t tell for sure because, to be honest, they both sound the same to me.
Never show your fear. I assume that’s the case any time you come across something threatening, whether it’s a big animal or a hot guy. After straightening my posture, I project my voice, hoping to mask any nerves as well as my thick Southern accent. “Saw you in the woods. I was curious. No one comes out here.”
“You do.”
I center my weight over my feet, just in case this dude comes at me. “That’s different.”
He shrugs. “Not to me.”
This chitchat is not productive, so I change the subject to something more interesting to me. “You lost?”
“You a tour guide?”
“Obviously not.”
“Right. First off, I wouldn’t be lost. Second, if I was…,” he holds up his wristwatch, “…I have this handy little gadget called … a compass.”
I cross my arms and snap back at his sarcastic remark. “Then I guess you know where you can go.”
One side of his mouth curves up. Somewhat crooked but stark white teeth sneak-a-peek through his full lips. “You’re a bit cheeky.”
Whatever that means. “Thanks. Now why did you say you were here?”
“I didn’t.” He gives me an indignant look then crosses his arms, either in defiance or in mockery.
I stand firm. “Seen anyone else out here?”
His eyes dart around as if he’s watching a mosquito. “No.”
“So you’re out here alone?”
“If you must know, I was fishing.”
I narrow my eyes and look him over again. “You fish?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely.” He points to a short, stubby rod leaning against a nearby oak.
I frown. Great. A bait fisherman. Flyfishing is about more than just fishing, not to mention it takes way more skill. Bait chunkers splash through the water, ruining peaceful runs with loud yelps and incessant booze breaks. How can slapping a fat, sedated worm on a hook be called fishing? I stare at his fishing rod, which is actually too short for his height. This guy is invading my turf, stealing my fish. “Haven’t you ever heard that size matters?”
The guy’s eyes darken slightly, but I swear I see a slight sparkle. “No need to be rude. I’ll leave you to your business. This time, don’t follow me.”
I notice how his words go up at the end of his sentences like every statement is suddenly a question. “I’m rude, but that’spolite?”
He rubs the scruff on his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Hmmm. Let me try again. Please don’t follow me. Much better I hope.” Before I can claim the last word, he pivots on one foot and trudges off into the trees.
I spy on the mystery guy until he fades into the green abyss, wondering what he’s really doing out here. I make a conscious decision to trek back to my bike off the main trail. That way, if this dude tries to track me, I’ll hear him first. Not that I’m worried. Then again, Dad and I have come across some whacky dudes out here so one can never be too careful.
As I hike toward Luci, I can’t help but think more about the woodsy stranger.
Questions cloud my head like the early morning mist blankets Bear Creek.
Who is this guy? Where is he from? And, out of all the places to fish, why is he hanging around my fishing spot?
In fact, why is he out here at all?