Hunted Past Reason

2:07 PM

“This is as good a place as any,” Doug said, leaning forward on the backseat.

“Okay.” Marian started to slow down the Bronco as it turned a curve to the right.

“By that fallen big-leaf maple’ll be fine,” Doug told her.

“Right.” She eased the Bronco toward the right side of the road and braked slowly. The carpeting of yellow leaves crackled under the tires before Marian stopped the Bronco by the fallen tree.

“Perfect,” Doug said.

Bob drew in a sudden, involuntary breath. “And so the adventure begins,” he said, trying to sound pleased.

Marian looked at him as she switched off the engine. “You all right?” she whispered.

He nodded, smiling. “Fine,” he said.

Doug opened the back door of the Bronco and got out. He stretched his arms upward, groaning as he arched his back. “Oh… boy,” he muttered.

Marian looked worriedly at Bob. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, why do you say that?” He managed a grin.

“Well—” She gestured vaguely. “You didn’t sound too certain there.”

“About what?”

“And so the adventure begins,” she quoted.

“Oh.” He laughed softly. “I’m a little nervous of course. I’m no kid. But I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”

In back, Doug had unlocked the hatchback door and was starting to lift it.

“You’re comfortable then,” Marian said.

“Oh, sure.” He leaned over and put his arms around her. She responded and they held on to each other tightly.

“Okay, lovebirds,” Doug said from behind the car. “Time to unload our gear.”

Bob and Marian drew apart, smiling at each other. They opened their doors and slid out, standing on the leaf-covered ground. “My God, the leaves are so big,” Marian said, picking up one that was more than a foot across. After a few moments, she dropped it, the golden leaves crunching under their shoes as they moved to the rear of the Bronco where Doug was pulling out his backpack.

“Here, I’ll get yours,” Marian said, pulling at Bob’s backpack. “Holy! Moses.” She had lost her grip on the pack, which thudded down on the ground. “It weighs a bloody ton,” she said. “How in God’s name are you going to carry that for four days?”

Bob forced a smile. “It’s really only three, honey. There’s not that much left of today.”

“Two hours would be too much for carrying that,” she said, gesturing toward the fallen pack. “You’re forty-five, not twenty-five.”

“Honey…” He gazed at her reproachfully.

“Oh…” She sighed, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I’m not saying you can’t do it. It’s just…” She made a face. “It’s so damn heavy.”

“He’ll get used to it,” Doug told her. “And it’ll get lighter every day as the food goes.”

“I suppose.” She watched Bob pick up the pack and move it away from the Bronco, then turned toward the back of the car.

“You’re not taking this, are you?” she asked, picking up a red flare.

“Sure.” Doug’s smile was teasing. “To light our campfires.”

Marian put down the flare, smiling. “What’s this?” she asked, picking up a length of chain. “You don’t need this on your hike, do you?”

“No.” Doug took it away from her and put it back in the car.

“What’s it for?” Marian asked him.

“Protection,” he answered.

She opened her mouth as though to speak, then closed it again. “Oh,” she murmured, watching him take a long leather carrier from the Bronco. “What’s that?” she asked, trying to cover her feeling of embarrassment about mentioning the chain.

“A bow,” he said.

Bob made a sound of strained amusement. “You’re taking a bow?”

“I always do.”

“And arrows, I presume.”

Doug gave him a look.

Bob asked, “Why? Do you hunt while you’re out?”

“Not necessarily,” Doug said.

Bob and Marian exchanged a look. “Which means…?” Bob asked.

“Bob.” Doug turned to him with a mildly accusing look. “We’re going into wilderness. There are black bears out there. Mountain lions. Coyotes.”

“Oh, now, wait a minute,” Marian said abruptly. “Nothing was said about black bears or mountain lions or coyotes.” She looked at Bob in concern. “Now I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

Doug laughed. “Marian, I’m not saying we’re going to run into one of them. The bow is just a precaution.”

She stared at him, her expression one of worried doubt.

“A precaution,” he repeated.

“How many times have you used it while—” She broke off. “Scratch that. How many times have you had to use it while backpacking?”

“Once,” he said, smiling.

“Black bear or mountain lion or coyote?” she asked uneasily.

“Rabbit,” he said, repressing a grin.

“Rabbit?” She looked startled. “You shot a rabbit?” As Doug nodded, she asked, “How come?”

“I lost my pack in some rapids and I had to eat,” he told her.

She looked at him in silence for a few moments.

“There aren’t any grizzly bears up here, are there?” she asked apprehensively.

“Used to be,” Doug answered. “Wolves too. Until they were killed off by stockmen—traps, guns, poison.”

Marian winced at his words.

“Honey, I’m sure it’s going to be—” Bob started.

“All right, let’s put it this way,” Marian broke in. “How often do you see black bears or mountain lions or coyotes?”

Doug chuckled. “Marian, you’re too much,” he said.

“Well,” she insisted, “how often?”

He groaned softly. “Once in a while, dear girl,” he said with labored patience. “But they don’t want to have anything to do with us any more than we want to have anything to do with them. You leave them alone, they leave you alone.”

“Marian, come on,” Bob chided.

“All right, all right.” She nodded several times. “I’m just…” She gestured vaguely with her hands.

“I should never have mentioned it,” Doug said. “Believe me, it’s nothing to be concerned about. Okay?”

“Okay.” She smiled awkwardly. “I’m just… an apprehensive frau, that’s all.”

Doug’s responding smile was a sad one. “Too bad I don’t have a frau to be apprehensive about me,” he said.

“Oh…” Marian moved to him and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry, Doug. You’re really doing something nice taking Bob on this… what, hike?”

“Adventure,” he said with a teasing smile.

She smiled back at him. “Right, adventure,” she agreed.

“All right. Now.” Doug looked serious. “You’re okay with the Bronco?”

Marian nodded, smiling. “Okay.”

“And you understand my map.”

She nodded again.

“Well, I’m not the world’s greatest mapmaker,” he said.

“It’s fine,” she told him.

“Well, just… follow the yellow Hi-liter route.”

“To Oz,” she said.

His lips puffed out in a sound of partial amusement. “Yeah, right,” he said. “It’s about… I’d say forty miles or so. Two things to keep in mind. Turn off the main road after you pass the Brandy Lake sign. And most important, keep an eye out for the two Pine Grove signs, one for Pine Grove Street, the other for Pine Grove Lane. You turn right on Pine Grove Lane; it’s the second sign you’ll come to. Got it? The second sign.”

“Got it,” she said.

He raised his hands, palms forward. “I’m only being a pest about this because we’ve had to go out searching for a lot of guests who turned right on Pine Grove Street.”

“I’ll remember,” she said.

“Okay. Good. You have the keys to the cabin?”

“In my purse.”

“Right. And you understand about the propane tank for the stove. And turning on the water.”

“I do.” She nodded. “I’ll be fine, Doug.”

“Well… I just want to be sure. We won’t be there until Wednesday afternoon.”

She nodded. “I’ll be fine,” she reassured him.

“Sure you will,” he said. “You’ll enjoy the cabin. There’s a nice big deck in back that overlooks the forest. Sit there with a drink, you’ll love it.”

“I’m sure.” Marian nodded, smiling.

“You’d better be on your way then so you have plenty of light in case you make a wrong turn. Driving up there in the dark can be a bitch.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said once more.

“Good.” He kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll see you on Wednesday then.”

“On Wednesday.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I’m going to say good-bye to my husband now.”

“You mean auf Wiedersehen, don’t you?” Doug said with a grin.

She pointed the index finger of her right hand at him. “That’s up to you,” she told him.

His grin widened. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him.”

“I know you will.”

She took Bob’s hand and led him several yards away, to the other side of the fallen maple tree. She put her arms around him and held him close. “You take good care of yourself now,” she said.

He embraced her. “I will.”

“Be careful.”

“I’ll avoid the black bears and the mountain—”

“Stop that,” she interrupted softly. “I’m going to be uneasy enough without worrying about wild animals chewing on you.”

Bob laughed softly. “Don’t be uneasy,” he told her. “Doug has backpacked dozens of times.”

“Well, you haven’t,” she said. “Take it easy. Don’t let him push you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Well…” She blew out a heavy breath. “He’s so… physical; you know that. He’s an actor, he’s done westerns… action pictures. He’s… tuned up.”

“What, and I’m out of tune?”

She sighed. “I don’t see you going to the gym very often. Or swimming.”

“I walk, don’t I?”

“Your one saving grace.” She squeaked as he pinched her back. “Well, anyway, I mean it: please-take-it-easy. Don’t let Doug push you. He won’t do it on purpose,” she added quickly, cutting him off. “He might just do it without thinking.”

“I’ll collapse at regular intervals,” he said.

“Oh…” she sighed again. “You aren’t very reassuring.”

“I will be careful,” he promised. “I will take it easy. I will avoid wild animals.”

The grip of her arms tightened. “Please do,” she said quietly.

After several moments, she drew back and looked at him intently. “Honey, are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

“I have to, sweetheart. How am I supposed to write a convincing novel about backpacking if I’ve never backpacked once?”

She nodded, sighing again, then made a face of mock pleading. “Please, sir,” she said in a little girl’s voice, “couldn’t you write a novel about drinking chi-chis and lazing around in Hawaii with your wife of twenty years?”

He chuckled. “Maybe the next one I—” he started.

“Bobby, we have to go,” Doug called.

“I wish he wouldn’t call you that,” Marian said, “as though you were ten years old or something.”

“He doesn’t mean any harm,” Bob said. He drew her close and pressed his lips to hers, lingering on the kiss.

“Dear God, that was like farewell,” she said, tears appearing in her eyes.

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. We’ll be at the cabin on Wednesday afternoon. Have a vodka and tonic waiting for me.”

“If I don’t drink up all the vodka, worrying about you.”

He laughed softly and took her by the hand, leading her back around the tree.

“Farewells all completed?” Doug said.

Marian managed a faint smile. Doug’s smile became one of sympathy. “Really, Marian, there’s nothing to be worried about. Your husband will be sore as hell in every muscle, that I guarantee, but otherwise he’ll be intact.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” she said. She kissed Bob briefly on the lips, then moved to the Bronco and got in behind the steering wheel. She turned on the engine and pulled out onto the road, raising her right hand in farewell. Bob had the feeling that she didn’t look back because she was crying. Oh, sweetheart, he thought, smiling sadly.

As the Bronco disappeared around a curve, he picked up his pack with a grunt at its weight. “Okay, let’s go,” he said.

“Whoa, whoa, not so fast,” Doug told him.

“What?” Bob looked at him, curious.

“We have to check out our gear before we leave.”

Bob frowned. “Now?” he asked.

“Sure, now.”

“Why didn’t we do all that before we left Los Angeles?”

“It’s a good idea to do it now,” Doug said. “Double-check before we leave.”

“What if I don’t have everything I need?” Bob asked. “What can I do about it now?”

“Well, I gave you a list of things you need. I assume you got all of it,” Doug said. “I was going to go to the supply store with you—as you recall. But you were in New York attending a big meeting.”

“Mm-hmm.” Bob nodded, wondering why Doug felt the need to call it a “big” meeting. It wasn’t that and Doug knew it.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Let’s do it then.”

Doug looked at him questioningly. “Are you sure you’re up to this, Bob?” he asked.

“Sure,” Bob said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Are you really?”

It didn’t sound like a question to Bob. Doug’s smile bordered on disbelief. He chuckled. “Okay. You got me,” he admitted. “Naturally, I’m a little apprehensive.”

“A lot apprehensive,” Doug answered.

“Well, maybe,” Bob said. “I’m not exactly John Muir.”

“Not exactly.” Doug’s smile was amused now.

“I’m counting on you to lead me through the wilderness without incident,” Bob said.

Doug shook his head, laughing softly. “I’ll do my damnedest, Bob,” he said. “Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Bob leaned his pack against a tree to open it.

“I see you got a side packer,” Doug said.

“Is that bad?” Bob asked. “The salesman said it was easier to get into.”

“Did he tell you it would leak more in the rain?”

“Well… no,” Bob answered. “Are we expecting rain?”

“Y’never know,” Doug said. “Did you try it on for comfort?”

Bob nodded. “Yes, I did. The salesman even put a sandbag in it to show me what it would feel like when it was loaded.”

“And—?”

Bob chuckled. “It felt heavy,” he said.

“Damn right.” Doug nodded. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got inside.”

Bob unzipped the bag and took out the first item.

“What the hell is that?” Again, Bob felt that it wasn’t a question but a judgment.

“A stove,” he said.

“That wasn’t on the list I gave you,” Doug told him.

“The salesman talked me into it,” Bob said. “He showed me how easy it was to use. What would you rather have at the end of the day, he asked, cold cereal or hot chicken à la king over rice?”

“You have chicken à la king with you as well?” Doug said, laughing as he spoke.

Bob sighed. He was getting a little weary of Doug’s belittling tone. “You never took a stove with you?” he challenged.

“Yeah, sure I did,” Doug answered. “Nothing wrong with having a stove. I was just trying to cut down on the weight you have to carry.”

“Okay.” Bob nodded.

“Canister stove’s heavier too,” Doug told him. “And you’ll have to carry out the canister.”

“Oh, no.” Bob looked dismayed.

“Oh, yes,” Doug said, nodding and smiling again. “Those are the rules of the game, Bobby. You don’t leave anything behind. Except for piss and crap, of course.”

Bob made a face, nodding. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Doug looked at him almost sternly. “There are rules, Bobby. It isn’t just a stroll in the park we’re going on, you know.”

All right, all right, Bob thought, He felt like saying it but didn’t want the hike to start out on a strained note.

“Before we look at what else you have in your pack—” Doug started.

Oh, God, what now? Bob wondered.

“You’re not wearing cotton underwear are you?”

The unexpected question struck Bob as funny, making him laugh. Doug frowned. “I’m sorry for laughing,” Bob said. “I just didn’t expect that question.”

“Well, it’s not an unimportant one,” Doug told him. “Cotton underwear gets wet from perspiration, feels lousy.”

Bob nodded. “I understand. I have on poly prop-whatever-underwear.”

“Polypropylene.” Doug nodded. “Good. And thin polypropylene socks under your wool socks?”

“Right.”

He must have sounded a bit apathetic, he realized, because Doug frowned again. “Bob, these things are important,” he said.

“All right. I understand.” Bob nodded.

“Okay.” Doug looked serious again. “You have three complete sets of socks.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Doug started to speak but Bob interrupted him. “What do you use for a stove?” he asked.

“Two logs close together over the fire,” Doug said. “I put my grate across them.” He grinned. “Of course, now I have a stove to use.”

The hell you do, Bob thought, after making fun of it? He sighed. Well, let that go, he decided.

“Very often, I’ve just eaten what Muir did—uncooked food, hot tea or coffee,” Doug told him.

Well, he is trying to be helpful, Bob chided himself. And, after all, Doug didn’t have to offer to take him on this hike, helping him get background material for his novel.

“All right, getting back to your clothes,” Doug continued. “Let’s take a look at your boots.” He knelt in front of Bob. “Did you know that every mile you walk, each foot hits the ground almost two thousand times?”

“No. Jesus.” Bob was impressed.

“And each foot has twenty-six functional bones,” Doug continued.

“No kidding,” Bob said. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I can read too,” Doug said.

What the hell does that mean? Bob wondered.

“All right, they’re leather, that’s good. You never buy plastic.”

Plastic? Bob reacted. Who in the hell would buy plastic shoes for hiking?

Doug was running his hands over Bob’s boots. “Light-weight, that’s good,” he said. “You won’t need heavyweight boots for a hike this short. Ankle-high, good. Padded ankle collar.” He grimaced a little. “Well… nylon uppers don’t need any break-in, but—”

“What?” Bob asked.

“I prefer leather uppers, they last longer, have more resistance.” He stood up, grunting. “No matter. Yours’ll be fine. You told the salesman to give you an extra half inch of toe room, didn’t you?”

“No.” Bob frowned. “You never told me that.”

“I must have forgotten,” Doug said. “It’s nothing fatal. Although it does help to have that extra half inch when you’re doing steep downhill hiking. You did wear a pair of thick socks when you were trying them on, didn’t you?”

“Yep.” Bob nodded, trying not to sound bored, which he was getting.

“Water seal the boots?” Doug asked.

“Yes.”

“Cut your toenails?”

“What?” Bob laughed at the question.

“Not a joke,” Doug said. “You’re going to be doing a lot of walking. Overlong toenails can cause problems.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Bob made a face. “Well, I don’t think they’re too long.”

“We’ll check ’em later,” Doug said. “I have a clipper in case you need it.”

Bob repressed a sigh but not enough. Doug looked at him with mild accusation. “Bob,” he said, “I’m not talking just to hear the sound of my voice. I’ve been backpacking for years. Everything I’m telling you is pertinent.”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry again, I apologize. I realize you’re just trying to help me.”

“Good.” Doug patted him on the shoulder. “Just a few more things and we’ll be on our way.”

“Shoot,” Bob said. “Not with your bow, of course.”

Doug gave him a token chuckle, then went on. “Got gaiters?” he asked.

“What?”

“Gaiters. Like leggings. Helps keep your lower pants dry, safe from thorns. Keeps sand and dirt out of your shoes. Rain.”

“Rain again,” Bob said. “You know something I don’t?”

“No, no,” Doug answered. “Just a precaution. I did mention gaiters, though.”

Bob nodded. No, you didn’t, he remembered.

“You have polyprop long johns?” Doug asked.

“Uh-huh.” Bob nodded. Let’s get on our way then, he thought.

His mind blanked out a little as Doug ran through what seemed to be a lecture about using the “layering” system to dress; each item of clothing working in combination with the others to deal with any change in the weather, hot or cold.

Lower layer, the long johns, socks; middle layer, shirt or vest, pile pants; outer layer, windbreaker, jacket, boots. Bob’s jacket was quilted, not down; that was good. If down got wet, it took forever to dry. Was Bob’s jacket seam-sealed? Bob didn’t know; he did not attempt to repress a sigh. Doug went on as though he didn’t notice. No snaps on Bob’s poncho, not good. In a wind, it would blow out like a boat sail. Snaps would prevent that. What kind of weather we planning on? Bob asked. Never know, was all Doug answered.

“Are we ready to go now?” Bob asked.

“No, no, no, no,” Doug said scoldingly. “There are several more important things.”

“Jesus, Doug. Are we going to have any time to walk before dark?”

Doug looked at him in silence.

“I know. I know,” Bob said apologetically. “Important things.”

“You doubt it?” Doug said irritably.

“No,” Bob sighed. “I’m just… anxious to get going, that’s all.”

“So am I, Bobby, believe me,” Doug said gravely. “But if we go off half cocked, you’ll regret it. I know how to do all this. You don’t. So, for Christ’s sake, show a little patience. You’ll be glad later about what we’re doing now.”

Bob nodded, looking guilty. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll say no more.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be on our way in no time,” Doug reassured him. “Let’s just get through it.”

“All right. Lay on, Macduff.”

Doug chuckled. “Let’s check your food supply,” he said.

“Right.” Bob took out what he’d brought. “Monologue time,” he said. “All food in plastic bags, a few small boxes of orange juice, no cans. Cereal. Beans. Powdered milk. Sugar. Powdered eggs. A packet of cheese. Instant coffee. Nuts. Chocolate.”

“Good,” Doug said. “Chocolate has all kinds of valuable ingredients. B vitamins. Magnesium. Good for you.”

“Marian would be happy to hear that,” Bob told him.

Doug chuckled a little. “The powdered milk is good too,” he said. “Lots of protein and calcium. Phosphorous. Vitamin D. Perfect in a survival situation.”

“A survival situation?” Bob asked. “I thought we were just going for a hike.”

Doug looked at him askance. “Just a phrase,” he said.

“Glad to hear it,” Bob answered.

“So what else you got?”

“Raisins. Powdered potatoes. A little bread. Two oranges, two apples. Energy bars. And, of course, my chicken à la king with rice, turkey tetrazzini, beef almondine.”

“Actually, you may have more food than you need,” Doug told him.

Bob made a face. “Don’t tell me that,” he said.

“No tragedy,” Doug told him. He picked up a pamphlet from Bob’s pack. “What’s this?”

Bob took the pamphlet and looked at it, laughed.

“What?” Doug asked.

“Survival in the Wilderness.” Bob read the pamphlet’s title. “Marian must have slipped it in there when I wasn’t looking.”

“Doubt if you’ll need it,” Doug said with a snicker.

“I doubt it too.” Bob slipped the pamphlet into his shirt pocket.

“Well, you seem to be in pretty good shape, food-wise,” Doug told him. “Plenty of carbohydrates—the staple of a hiker’s diet. You have enough water to see us through the afternoon?”

Bob showed him his filled water bottle.

“It’ll do, I guess,” Doug said dubiously. “I think I told you to get a wide-mouth halgene bottle though. Easier to clean. Easier to fill from a stream or spring. Easier to get a spoon into.”

“They didn’t have any,” Bob said quietly.

“All right, all right, no tragedy,” Doug replied. “I see you have some water packets too. They’re good in a pinch. What else have you got?”

“Pair of folding eyeglasses. Not that I think I’ll be doing any reading.”

Doug snickered. “Doubt it,” he said.

“And a small pair of folding binoculars,” Bob told him.

Doug made an indeterminate sound. “Won’t hurt,” he said. “You might get some use out of them. How about toiletries?”

Dear God, this is going to go on forever, Bob thought. We’ll end up camping right here for the week. He took the plastic bag out of his pack. “Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Skin lotion. Sun block. Multivitamins.”

“Let’s see.” Doug held out his hand and Bob handed him the small container. He read the ingredients. “Not bad,” he said. “Two, three hundred milligrams of Vitamin C, Vitamin A, good. Vitamin B-1. Vitamin D. Potassium. Sodium. Calcium. Iron.” He tossed the container back. “It’ll do,” he said in a tone that indicated it really wasn’t good enough.

My cup runneth over, Bob thought.

“And—?” Doug asked.

“Uh… oh,” Bob said. “Water purification tablets.”

“Safer to boil the water,” Doug told him. “Boiling time varies with height above sea level. Best to boil it for ten minutes wherever you are. And remember, drink before you get thirsty. Thirst is an alarm signal. Don’t wait for it. Remember, when you sweat it’s ninety-nine percent water.”

“Do I—?”

“Use your urine color as an indicator. If it’s darker than usual, you’re not drinking enough.”

“Okay.” No point in asking questions, Bob thought.

“Pint every half hour,” Doug told him.

Bob nodded.

“What else you got?” Doug asked.

“Oh… toilet paper,” Bob told him. “Deodorant.”

“Deodorant?” Doug chuckled. “You afraid your b.o. will offend the squirrels?”

“Just a habit,” Bob said.

“All right, no tragedy.”

Tragedy? Bob thought. How could using a deodorant be a tragedy?

“What’s that?” Doug said, pointing.

Bob took out a plastic bag with six mini-bottles of vodka in it. “Thought it might be nice to have a little drink at the end of the—”

“Not a good idea, Bob,” Doug broke in. “Alcohol impairs the judgment. Dehydrates the body. Decreases the appetite. Not good.”

“Jesus, Doug, one mini-bottle before dinner? That’s hardly boozing one’s way through the forest primeval.”

“Well.” Doug shrugged. “Okay. Your call. You’ll have to carry out the bottles though, you know.”

“Oh, Christ, I forgot about that.”

Doug chuckled. “Law of the wilderness, Bobby,” he said. “You’ll remember all this next time.” He chuckled again. “If there is a next time.”

“You don’t think there will be?” Bob asked.

“Let’s just say I hope you rented all this equipment.” When Bob didn’t reply, Doug made a face of mock pain. “Ooh,” he said, “that’s a lot of money for one hike.” He gestured vaguely. “Though I suppose you’ll get a hell of a lot more money when you sell your novel.”

Bob didn’t know how to respond to that. It crossed his mind how ironic it was that Doug had decried the mini-bottles of vodka. He’d seen Doug put away two six-packs of beer on more than one occasion.

“What about cookware?” Doug asked.

Without a word, Bob showed him the two small aluminum pots nestled together with a lid that could be used for a frying pan.

“Should be marked for measurements,” Doug said. “However. Cup?”

Bob showed him his metal Sierra cup. Doug made a face. “Should have gotten a plastic one like I told you. This one could burn your lips as well as cool down hot liquids too fast.”

Backpacking One, Professor Crowley, Bob thought. Was there going to be a written exam after all this?

“Okay, you got a spoon and knife,” Doug said. “You have a hunting knife too?”

Bob opened his jacket to show the knife in its sheath.

“That’s not a knife,” Doug said, imitating Crocodile Dundee. “This is a knife.”

He reached into his pack and pulled out what looked like a small machete. “Golak,” he told Bob.

“Jesus,” Bob said. “Are we going for a hike or a war?”

“Never know,” Doug answered.

For Christ’s sake, what does that mean? Bob wondered. He decided not to ask.

“A few more things,” Doug said, “but I have them with me so you don’t have to worry about them. Flashlight with extra bulbs and batteries. I see that you have one too—that’s good. Waterproof matches. First-aid kit, whistle; I have two, I’ll give you one of them.”

“Whistle?” Bob asked.

“In case you get lost, Bobby,” Doug said. Marian was right. Doug sounded exactly as though he were talking to a ten-year old.

“Trowel.” Doug held it up.

“What’s that for?” Bob asked.

“You plan to bury your shit with your hands?” Doug said. It was hardly a question. He grinned at Bob. “You’ll borrow mine,” he said. “It’ll bond us.”

Bob had to laugh at that.

“You have your sunglasses,” Doug went on. “One more thing before we get our packs on. Your sleeping bag.”

Bob showed it to him. Doug shook it open. Oh, Christ, Bob thought, it took me long enough to get it folded right.

“Down-filled mummy bag, yeah, that’s good,” Doug said. “I’m glad you listened to me on that anyway.”

That’s right, I ignored everything else on the list you gave me, Bob thought. Christ.

“Not too much loft,” Doug said, patting the mummy bag.

“Loft?” Bob asked.

“Insulation,” Doug told him. “The more air there is between you and the ground, the warmer you’ll be. It’s pretty heavy though, should keep you warm. Heavier than it needs to be actually.”

Make up your mind, Dougie, Bob thought.

Doug checked the sleeping bag more closely. “Should have a zipper at the top and the bottom,” he said. “Helps cool you off on a warmnight.”

Jesus! Bob thought. Which one will it be, staying warm or staying cool?

“Well, pack up and we’ll be on our way,” Doug told him.

Thank God, Bob thought. He started to roll up his sleeping bag. Please don’t tell me I’m doing it wrong, he thought. I’m sure I am.

Doug sat down on a boulder, yawning and stretching.

“What you have is an internal-frame backpack,” he said. “Pretty compact, fits better. Makes it easier to maintain your balance no matter what kind of ground you’re walking on. Most backpackers prefer the internal frame.”

Which means, of course, that you don’t prefer it, Bob guessed.

“I prefer the external-frame type,” Doug said. Bob was glad his back was turned away so Doug wouldn’t see his cheeks puff out in a stifled laugh. “Better air circulation on the back. Easier to pack. Can carry more weight. Though God knows that isn’t what you’d want right now.”

No, not at all, Bob thought in amusement as he started to repack his bag.

“No, you wouldn’t want more weight, you’d want less,” Doug went on.

Yes, sir, Professor Crowley, Bob thought.

“They say a pack for any kind of extended trip should be about a third of the hiker’s weight. What do you weigh, Bobby?”

“Two hundred.”

“That would be—” Doug was quiet for a few moments before saying, “about sixty-five pounds.” He chuckled. “You’d last about twenty minutes,” he said.

“Doug, I’m not that weak,” Bob told him, trying to not sound irritated.

“Not saying you are, kiddo,” Doug said. “You just don’t know what sixty-five pounds on your back would feel like.”

“I suppose.” Bob was trying to repack his food supply compactly.

“Fortunately, I’ll be carrying the tent and the ground pads,” Doug said.

“Yes, don’t forget to tell me what I owe you on them,” Bob told him.

“For the tent, nothing, I already own it,” Doug said. “I’ll get you on the ground pad later.” He chuckled. “And the whistle.”

“And the whistle,” Bob said good-naturedly.

“Here, put it in your pocket,” Doug told him.

“Okay, thanks,” Bob said. Doug knows a hell of a lot about all this, he told himself. Be grateful for his knowledge. So he is a little abrasive about it, so what? He’s doing me a hell of a favor taking me on this hike. Appreciate it; don’t keep niggling at his little lectures. They don’t matter, not at all.

Anyway, what do I have to complain about? he thought. I need to know all this stuff for my novel. I should stop the internal kvetching and take notes, for chrissake.

“Yeah, if you manage twenty-five, thirty pounds you’ll be doing good,” Doug said. “Make sure you put stuff you’ll only be using when we camp inside the pack. Anything you might want to use on the trail, put in one of the outer pockets. Put things in the same places all the time too so you don’t have to search for them every time you need them. And make sure you pack the stove and fuel in an outer pocket in case there’s a leak, you got that?”

Bob tried not to sigh. “Got it,” he said.

“All for your safety, buddy,” Doug reminded him.

“I know. I appreciate it,” Bob said. Say no more, he told himself.

“Okay, let’s try it on for size,” Doug said, standing.

“Right.” Bob picked up his pack and tried to swing it around his right shoulder. “Whoa!” he cried as the weight of the pack pulled him over, almost making him fall.

“And that, class, is the wrong way to don your backpack,” Doug said. His smile was smug but Bob laughed anyway. “Guess I could use a little instruction here,” he said.

“Guess you could.” Doug took the pack from him. “Now watch what I do,” he said.

“I’m watching.”

“First you loosen your shoulder, load lifter, and hip stabilizer straps a little bit. They’re all padded, that’s good.”

Bob nodded as Doug loosened the straps slightly.

“Got that?” Doug asked.

“Yeah.”

“You have to establish a routine for fitting the pack each time you put it on,” Doug told him. “Next you bend your knees like so… swing the pack onto your thigh and—slide under the shoulder straps in one quick movement. Got it?”

“Got it.” Bob nodded.

“All right, the pack is on your back. What comes next?”

“With me, probably collapse.”

“Come on, Bobby, I’m trying to tell you something here.”

“Yeah, okay, okay. I presume you tighten the straps back up.”

“Not yet,” Doug said. “First you lean forward and cinch the waist belt… like so. It should sit right above and on your hips. Next, you straighten up, settle the pack on your hips, then pull your shoulder straps tight.”

“Whoa,” Bob muttered.

“What?”

“Complicated.”

“No, it isn’t.” Doug shook his head. “Do it a few times and you’ll do it without thinking. All right. Next you buckle the sternum strap… so. Then you tighten—you did try this pack on, didn’t you?”

“Sure.” Bob nodded. “The salesman never told me all this stuff though.”

“They never do,” Doug said. “All right, next you retighten the load lifter straps and hip stabilizer straps—that’ll keep the pack from swaying while you’re walking.”

“Hope I remember all this,” Bob said, looking confused.

“You will,” Doug told him. “Otherwise, you’ll end up with raw spots on your neck and hips and God knows where else.”

With movements so fast Bob couldn’t follow them, Doug was out of the pack and holding it out. “Okay, let’s see you do it now,” he said.

3:58 PM

My God, it’s gorgeous, Bob thought as he walked along the trail behind Doug. The forest was deeply green with splashes of glowing gold from the maple leaves. One of them fell now and then, fluttering to the ground in slow, vivid loops. The only sound was that of pine needles crackling beneath their boots as they walked; two miles an hour on flat ground, one mile an hour on harder terrain, Doug had said.

Bob drew in a deep lungful of air. Like a fine white wine, he thought, crisp and pure. He smiled at the image. He was glad he had come. Now that all the lecturing was done, Doug had been quiet for more than a half hour except for asking Bob to let him know when he felt the need to stop and rest. So far, he’d said nothing even though his legs were starting to feel a little tired. The pack on his back seemed to grow heavier with every minute. Carefully packed, riding high, no more than twenty-five pounds he estimated, it still felt as though he were carrying an anvil on his back.

To hell with it, he told himself. He’d keep on as long as he could. What am I, a wimp? he challenged himself. Undoubtedly, he thought, but I’m going to fight it.

He concentrated on the forest again. Patches of sunlight dappled the trail ahead. As the trail curved to the right, he saw, again, the mountain that was their first landmark, Doug had said. There was a little snow on its peak, glistening in the sunlight. If it stays like this, he thought, I won’t need to see my poncho blowing out like a boat sail. He chuckled softly to himself, imagining that sight.

So far, except for the pack, the walk had been nothing but pleasant. They’d passed a fast-moving stream, its crystal-clear water splashing off rocks, sometimes forming momentary rainbows with the sunlight. He’d seen a mule deer grazing on a small meadow, looking over at them, apparently unconcerned because it returned to grazing a few moments later.

These are the things I want to remember for my novel, he kept thinking. All of them.

“Sure you don’t need to stop and rest?” Doug asked, looking back.

Bob didn’t answer at first. Why doesn’t Doug ask me if I want to stop and rest, not if I need to. These were the little digs that annoyed him. He was going to say no, he was fine. Then common sense prevailed. Don’t be a macho idiot, he told himself.

“Yeah, I guess I would,” he said, “I have to pee anyway. All that water you made me drink.”

“Need plenty of water,” Doug said, moving off the trail to another spot with a fallen oak lying across it. “At least a gallon a day.”

Bob joined him on the open ground and, moving around the fallen tree, opened his pants and emptied his bladder. “Oh, that feels good,” he said.

“Pause that refreshes,” Doug responded.

Bob walked back around the tree and slumped to the ground, groaning.

“You dying?” Doug asked, half smiling.

Bob snickered. “Not yet,” he answered.

“Put your pack on that little boulder,” Doug told him. “Take all the weight off your back.”

Bob shifted over to the boulder and laid his backpack on it. “Oh, you’re right,” he said, sounding pleased.

“Usually am,” Doug said, “about backpacking anyway.”

He took the compass out of his jacket pocket and looked at it.

“We still going in the right direction?” Bob asked.

“Yup.” Doug put the compass back into his pocket. “If this was unfamiliar country, we’d use a topographic map but here we don’t need to.”

“How many miles to your cabin?” Bob asked.

“Hard to say,” Doug answered. “Never figured it out. A good three days though. Four if you get real bushed and we have to slow down.”

Jesus, Doug, do you have to keep harping on this? Bob thought.

“You’re gasping for breath a little bit,” Doug told him. “That’s to be expected. Be sure you exhale all the way, get the carbon dioxide out of your system, make lots of room for oxygen. Concentrate on your exhaling.”

“All right.” Bob nodded. Good advice, he thought.

“I’ll probably lose some weight by Wednesday, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Don’t plan on it,” Doug said warningly. “You’re going to need all the energy you can muster. Don’t worry about gaining weight on a high calorie diet. You won’t.”

“I understand,” Bob nodded.

“What do you do for exercise, Bob?” Doug asked.

Bob felt inclined to exaggerate, then decided against it. “Walk,” he said.

“That’s all?”

“And swim in the summer,” Bob added.

“Oh, that’s right, you have a swimming pool.”

Bob felt himself bristle a little. Doug knew very well that he had a pool; he and Nicole had gone swimming in it.

“No weight lifting?” Doug asked.

“I used to,” Bob answered. “I stopped.”

“Why?”

Bob exhaled wearily. “I got bored with it,” he said.

“Bicycle ride?”

“I used to,” Bob said, wishing the line of questions would end.

“Tennis? Handball?”

“No, Doug, no,” he answered.

“Well—” Doug gestured with his hands. “I’m only asking because it applies to hiking. Ever take the twelve-minute test?”

“What’s that?”

“You see how far you can walk or run in twelve minutes,” Doug said. “If you can cover a mile and a quarter to a mile and a half in twelve minutes you’re in fair condition.”

“And good?” Bob asked, wondering why he was asking; he knew that the answer would only aggravate him.

“Good is what I do,” Doug said. “A mile and a half to a mile and three-quarters in twelve minutes. You do that, you’re ready for anything.”

Well, bully for you, Bob thought.

“Have to keep that cardiovascular system humming,” Doug said. “Strengthen the muscles.”

“Mmm.” Bob nodded. “Well, I’m… obviously not ready for the Olympics. But I’m not ready for the undertaker either. I don’t smoke. I drink sparingly. Watch my diet, take vitamins.”

“Uh-huh.” Doug’s nod was dismissive.

“What are we gonna see on this hike?” Bob asked to change the subject.

“Oh…” Doug gestured vaguely. “Forest. Meadows. Cliffs. Streams. Rivers. Finally, the old Wiley place.”

“What’s that?” Bob asked.

“Deserted lodge. Built back in the twenties. When we reach it, we’re almost to the cabin.”

Bob nodded. Doug fell silent again and he racked his mind for another question. Otherwise, Doug might start lecturing again.

“What kind of trees are those?” he asked, pointing.

“Douglas fir,” Doug answered.

“Got a tree named after you, very impressive,” Bob said.

Doug showed no sign of amusement but became silent again, closing his eyes.

“Wow,” Bob said, “look at that big bird up there.”

Doug opened his eyes and looked up. “Red-tailed hawk,” he muttered.

“It’s beautiful,” Bob said.

Doug grunted. “I suppose.” He yawned. “You’ll see all kinds of birds out here. Hawks. Owls. Jays. Chickadees—”

He broke off and Bob caught his breath at a strange, clattering noise overhead. Looking up, he saw two animals running through the trees. One of them soared between two branches.

“They’re not squirrels,” he said.

“Pine martens,” Doug told him. “They like to chase each other.”

Bob chuckled as the two thick-legged martens disappeared in the overhead branches, making bark dust and twigs rain down.

He started to speak when Doug said, “I’m going to take a ten-minute nap.” Laying his head back, he closed his eyes again. Ten minutes? Bob thought. Could he do that?

He stared at Doug for almost a minute. Doug was handsome enough: well-proportioned features, full head of black hair, athletic build. But he sure could be a pain in the ass.

He lay his head back and closed his eyes.

Was this a mistake after all? he wondered. His past relationship with Doug had never been a close one. He and Marian had gone once to the cabin when Doug and Nicole were still married. Doug had been doing reasonably well then: a small, running part in a detective series; it was on that set that he’d become acquainted with Doug.

The weekend had been a tense one. Doug and Nicole were obviously getting close to a divorce, their behavior during the weekend not easy to experience, filled with arguments—about their son Artie, about Doug’s limited career, hints (from Nicole) about Doug’s womanizing.

Doug tried to cover it all with laughter and charm; he could be charming when he wanted to. At least he was on that weekend.

Bob had made the mistake—he felt now that it was a mistake—of mentioning the backpacking novel he was planning to write. When he spoke about the research he’d done, Doug had insisted that the only proper research he could do would be to actually take a backpacking trip—and he was the one to take Bob on it. Bob had expressed interest and gratitude at the offer. Now he wasn’t sure it was a good idea after all. Since things had been going poorly for Doug’s career (he was back working with a building contractor again) his disposition had darkened somewhat.

And I have three whole days ahead to be with him, he thought, maybe four.

Yippee.

He twitched as something landed on his lap. Jerking open his eyes, he looked down and saw an energy bar lying on his right leg.

“Time for a snack,” Doug told him. “Eating while you hike should be one long, endless snack—a piece of candy or fruit, a sip of juice, an energy bar. Something to raise the blood sugar level.”

“Thanks,” Bob said. “Can’t say I’m crazy about these things. Marian loves them but I don’t.”

“Eat it anyway,” Doug told him. “You should take in three ounces of carbohydrate every two hours. Don’t want to let your glycogen level get too low.”

And so the lectures begin again, Bob thought; Professor Crowley on the podium.

“If we were home, I’d kill you if you spent a lot of time eating candy and flour products, sugar, big-time carbohydrates. Out here though, go for it. You need the energy.”

“Okay.” Bob tore off the wrapping, looked at it for a few moments, then put it in his pocket.

“That’s a good boy,” Doug said. “Never litter.”

Bob started to chew on the energy bar. Yuk, he thought. Dates.

“Fat is good too,” Doug told him. “Nuts. Cheese. Meat.” Bob looked at his watch. Ten minutes, sure enough. He was impressed.

“Here, swallow this,” Doug told him, tossing over a white tablet. “Salt tablet,” he said as Bob picked it up off the ground. “Better than fake sweat.”

“Fake sweat?”

“Gatorade, that kind of thing. Supposed to supply you with sodium chloride.” He made a scornful noise. “Salt tablets are better.”

“It’s really beautiful up here, don’t you think?” Bob asked after he’d washed down the salt tablet with a sip of water.

“Sure,” Doug answered. “Why do you think I come here?”

“The blue sky, the clouds,” Bob said. “The air. The stream. The incredible colors of the leaves. Those yellow trees aren’t maples, what are they?”

“Dogwood,” Doug told him.

“They certainly are beautiful,” Bob said.

“Chlorophyll draining,” Doug said. “They’re dying.”

Bob chuckled. “Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” he said. “Not too aesthetic, but—”

“—true,” Doug broke in. “I’m not a sentimentalist, Bob. To me, nature is a challenge. Something to conquer.”

“You really feel that way,” Bob said.

“You bet.” Doug nodded. He looked at his wristwatch. “We’d better get on our way. We want to set up our campsite before dark.”

“Right.” Bob took off his green corduroy cap and scratched his head. “Move on, Macduff.”

He groaned as he stood, the pack still feeling like an anvil fastened to his back.

Doug made a sound of amusement. “Good thing we’re on government land,” he said. “Don’t have to be prepared to make a dash from the hunters.”

“Hunters?” Bob looked surprised.

“It is hunting season,” Doug told him. “If this wasn’t government land, we’d be wearing bright red jackets and track shoes.”

“Well, I hope the hunters know it’s government land,” Bob said uneasily.

“Sometimes they don’t give a damn whose land it is,” Doug replied.

4:21 PM

As they started on, Doug picked up a twig and after rubbing it off, started to move one end of it inside his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Bob asked.

“Brushing my teeth, nature style,” Doug answered.

Bob grunted, smiling slightly. “I’ll use my toothbrush,” he said.

“Well, so will I, dummy,” Doug told him. “This is temporary.”

“Ah.” Bob tried not to take offense but barely managed it.

“Just remember it in case you lose your toothbrush,” Doug said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.” He was sure that Doug could hear the edginess in his voice.

They were approaching a meadow now. As they started to cross it, Bob said, “Odd-looking grass.”

“Not grass, Bobby, sedge.” Doug’s tone was friendly now. Is he sorry he called me “dummy”? Bob wondered. It would be the way Doug would indicate an apology: not in so many words but in attitude. “All kinds of sedge,” he went on. “Short-hair sedge, black sedge, brewer’s sedge, alpine sedge, beaked sedge.”

“Whoa,” Bob said, accepting Doug’s tone of voice as apology. “A lot of sedge.”

“They look like grass,” Doug explained, “but they have triangular stems and leaves in groups of three.”

“Uh-huh.”

“If this was spring, you’d be seeing lots of flowers too. Purple owl’s clover. Larkspur. Paintbrush poppy. Lupine. Meadowfoam. Popcorn flower. Baby blue eyes.”

“Jesus, how do you know all these things?” Bob asked, too impressed by Doug’s knowledge to hold a grudge against him.

“You forget, I’ve been coming up here for years,” Doug said. “And I can read, you know.”

Oh, God, here we go again, Bob thought.

The thought vanished as something big buzzed past his head. “My God,” he said, “that bumblebee’s enormous.”

“Not a bumblebee, a rufus hummingbird.”

“Ah-ha.” No point in fretting about Doug’s manner, he thought. He was here to learn and Doug was teaching him. What more could he ask?

He started to say something, then broke off at a noise in the distance—what sounded like someone blowing across the top of an enormous pop bottle. “What the hell is that?” he asked, fully expecting that Doug would know.

Which he did. “Blue grouse,” Doug said, “I’ve never seen one but I’ve heard them many times.”

As they started back into the forest, Bob asked about the trees up ahead. They hadn’t run across their like before.

“Live oak, blue oak,” Doug told him. “Deciduous, of course.”

Bob repressed a smile. Of course, he thought. “What about those trees?” he asked, pointing. “They look black.”

“They’re called black oak,” Doug said. “They grow really fast after a fire.”

Bob nodded. “What kind of trees are mostly found up here?”

“Oh, pine, of course,” Doug said. He does enjoy letting me know what he knows, Bob thought. “Ponderosa, sugar, Jeffrey, white, Douglas, and white fir. Ponderosa knows how to protect itself from fires too, its bark is real thick.”

Bob was about to speak when Doug stopped and raised his right hand. Bob stopped abruptly, looking at him. Trouble? he thought.

“What is—?” He broke off as Doug whispered “Shh” and pointed upward with his right index finger.

Bob looked up and caught his breath.

Lying on an outcrop of rock on the hill to their right was a mountain lion. It was lying on its left side, stretched out in the sunlight.

For a few moments, Bob felt a tremor of uneasiness. He’d seen mountain lions before but in cages or confined environments. To see one so relatively close—at least it seemed close to him—and in the open… it was something that made him feel uncomfortable, even menaced.

But as moments passed and the large, tawny-furred cat lay motionless, obviously sound asleep, the discomfort faded.

“What a gorgeous animal,” he whispered.

“Lots of good steaks in there,” Doug whispered back.

Bob gave him a look. “Come on,” he whispered. “You don’t mean that.”

Doug punched him lightly on the arm. “Just teasing the animal activist,” he said.

Their conversation continued in whispers as they gazed up at the sprawling mountain lion. Its flanks rose and fell slowly as it slept, a faint breeze stirring the light-colored fur on its right flank.

“I’m not an animal activist,” Bob said, “I just think it would be criminal to harm a beautiful creature like that.”

“It is beautiful,” Doug agreed. “Sleek. Quick. Powerful. Deadly.” He made a clicking sound of admiration. “The perfect predator.”

Oh, Jesus, Doug, you’re hopeless, Bob thought. He decided to keep it to himself.

“Well, let’s keep going,” Doug whispered, turning onto the path again.

Bob looked across his shoulder at the sleeping mountain lion as they moved away from it. Briefly, he imagined the cat waking up, spotting him, and with a frightening roar, leaping to its feet and off the rocky ledge, bounding toward him, muscles rippling, eyes intent on his.

Oh, shut up, he told himself. It wants to be left alone, no more. He looked ahead again. Doug had increased the length between them.

“Doug?” he called as softly as he could; no point in waking up the mountain lion unnecessarily.

Doug stopped and looked around.

“I’ve got to pee again.”

“All right,” Doug said. He stopped and waited while Bob stepped behind a tree.

“Drink more,” Doug told him. “You’ve been pissing out a lot of liquid.”

“All right,” Bob answered. “My bottle’s getting kind o’ low though.”

“There’ll be plenty of water in the lake,” Doug told him. “Drink.”

“Yessir.” Bob emptied his bladder on the trunk of the tree. “Hate to pee my way across the entire countryside,” he said.

“Don’t worry, it’s biodegradable,” Doug’s voice reached him.

He finished and walked back to the path, drinking water. “Warm,” he said, frowning.

“I forgot to tell you,” Doug said. “Carry the bottle inside your pack wrapped in a piece of clothing. It’ll keep your water cooler.”

“Oh.” Bob nodded.

“I’ve noticed, you’re not walking erectly enough,” Doug told him. “Don’t slump. And don’t lean forward. All of that’s bad for your back. And keep a steady stride. Not too fast, but steady.”

Yes, Professor, Bob thought. He almost said it aloud, then changed his mind. Doug was telling him these things to benefit him, not harass him. Just listen, nod, and fermez la bouche, he instructed himself.

“Try not to lift your feet any higher than you have to,” Doug went on. “Swing your arms; good for circulation. And keep a steady, rhythmic pace. You’ll get less tired that way. Slow and steady wins the race.”

What race? Bob thought. Are we in a race? He put the thought from his mind. Just listen, ordered his brain.

“I hope you’ve done a lot of walking to toughen up your legs,” Doug told him.

“Quite a bit,” Bob lied.

“Well, let’s be on our way,” Doug said. “Got to keep moving or your muscles will cramp.”

Muscles? Bob thought.

The stream was wide and fast-moving, a fallen tree across it covered with deep crosshatches. “Makes it easier to cross,” Doug said. “Incidentally, since you’re so curious about trees, those cinnamon-colored bark ones are incense cedars.”

Bob nodded. Thank you, Professor, he thought.

Doug bent over and broke a twig off the tree. “Watch,” he told Bob, tossing the twig into the stream. It was almost immediately swept out of sight. “That can tell you how fast the water’s moving,” Doug said. “So if the stream looks deep to you, don’t try to cross it, the current might knock you down. Keep going farther downstream and look for a spot where you can cross diagonally.”

He shook his head with a grim smile, remembering. “That’s how I lost my backpack that time I mentioned before,” he said, “I loosened my straps and unhooked my hip belt, of course, you’re supposed to do that. But I miscalculated the velocity of the stream; it was probably a small river actually. And boom! I was in headlong and my pack was gone, washed over a damn waterfall. I was lucky I held on to my bow case.” He grinned. “That’s when I shot the rabbit for food. Okay, let’s cross.”

Bob tried to be as careful as he could but the weight of his pack pulled him off balance and he started to fall. Doug, close behind, grabbed him and pushed him across the tree trunk. He was startled by the ease with which Doug moved him. “Easy does it, Roberto,” Doug said, laughing a little.

As they continued along the trail, not only did Bob’s back ache and his legs feel heavy, he started getting breathless as well.

“You should be getting your second wind by tomorrow,” Doug told him.

And now you’ll tell me what that is, Bob thought.

“It’s a surge of energy that follows the period of time it takes you to get used to hard exercise,” Doug said. “You’ll feel more comfortable, be able to move faster.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Bob said wearily.

Doug laughed. “You are in piss-poor condition, aren’t you?” he said.

Bob didn’t feel like arguing. “Yes, I am,” he agreed. “Can we move a little slower?” he asked, “I’m losing my first breath.”

“We’re getting up a little higher, that’s why,” Doug explained casually.

Bob kept laboring for breath. That’s it? he thought. We’re up a little higher? I’m still having trouble breathing.

“Doug, I gotta stop again,” he said.

“What, already? The water’s running through you like a sieve.”

“No, it’s not that, I just need to rest a little while.”

“Oh.” Doug’s tone was remote. He’s already sorry he invited me on this hike, Bob thought.

Doug looked at his watch as they sat down. “Getting late,” he said.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Bob answered guiltily. He leaned his back against a tree trunk, groaning uncontrollably.

“You really think you’re going to make this, Bob?” Doug sounded honestly curious, marginally concerned.

“I will, I will, I just—” Bob swallowed and closed his eyes. “How fast do you usually go?” he asked, feeling that he ought to, at least, maintain some level of conversation, especially if it gave Doug a chance to brag a little.

“At least a dozen miles a day,” Doug told him. Bob wondered if he knew why he’d asked the question. “Beginners usually… a mile a day, no more,” he added, sounding bored.

“Always measured in miles?” Bob asked. He really didn’t care to know but still felt compelled to let Doug be impressive.

“Not always,” Doug said; he sounded a little more interested now. “It can be hours a day too. Most packers give out after four or five hours. I’ve hiked ten to twelve with no problem.”

“Ten to twelve?” Bob opened his eyes and stared at Doug with genuine awe.

“Once I went sixteen, once nineteen,” Doug told him.

“That’s amazing, Doug.” He wasn’t trying to cater to Doug now, he was truly impressed.

Doug seemed to lighten up at that. “I know it’s hard for you,” he said, “but I’m really trying to take it easy on you, give your muscles a chance to loosen up, get your pulse rate up to snuff.”

“I appreciate that, Doug,” Bob told him.

“You might try relacing your boots,” Doug suggested. “See if they’re on too tight; you don’t want to pinch your feet.”

“Okay, I will. Thanks.”

He started at the strange noise overhead, deep, throbbing, uneven. “What in the hell is that?” he asked.

“Blue grouse again,” Doug told him, “up on the mountain.”

Bob felt himself going to sleep.

There were at least seven coyotes circling them, maybe eight. There were no trees to climb. The ground was open and bare.

“What do we do now?” he asked fearfully, turning to Doug.

Doug wasn’t there.

“Oh, Jesus, only he’d know what to do,” he muttered.

He stared at the growling, slavering coyotes as they moved in slowly.

He jolted and opened his eyes. Doug had just shaken him by the shoulder. Bob stared at him groggily.

“You fell asleep,” Doug told him.

“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry, Doug,” Bob said, a pained expression on his face.

“Look,” Doug said, “what I’m going to do is go on by myself, set up camp for us.”

Bob stared at him blankly. “I don’t understand,” he murmured.

“It’s getting late,” Doug said. “It takes a while to set up camp. I can go on ahead and get it ready.”

“Well…” Bob looked alarmed. “Leave me alone?”

“Bob, all you have to do is follow the trail,” Doug said with a chuckle. “You can’t get lost. And when you get to the camp, the fire will be burning, the tent set up, the sleeping bags ready. I’ll take yours with me—and your stove, give you less weight to carry. I’ll even take some of your damn chicken à la king with me so it’ll be ready to eat by the time you arrive. Take you maybe two hours to get there. Maybe less.”

“But…”

“Have to do it this way, buddy,” Doug said. “We’re behind schedule.”

“What if I get lost?” He was aware of sounding like “Bobby” now, a panicking ten-year-old.

“Bobby, you can’t get lost,” Doug said. “Just follow the trail. Okay?” It was more a demand than a question.

“Okay.” His voice sounded timid to him. He swallowed dryly. “There’s no chance I could wander off the trail?”

“None,” Doug said, “and if it gets a little dark, use your flashlight. You reversed your batteries, didn’t you?”

“What?” Bob felt helpless and stupid. “What do you—?”

“Keeps them from running down if the flashlight accidentally gets turned on,” Doug told him.

“Oh.” Was he going to just agree to this, let Doug leave him behind in the woods—hell, the forest!—the very first afternoon they were out?

He tried to struggle up but the pack was too heavy on him and pulled him back; he thudded against the tree trunk.

“You’ll have less weight now,” Doug told him, strapping Bob’s stove and sleeping bag on his pack. “You’ll be fine—able to move a little faster.”

Bob felt as though his mouth was hanging open, his expression appalled as Doug turned away and started walking briskly along the trail. Don’t! a voice cried in his brain. What about the mountain lion?!

That seemed to break the spell of dread. The mountain lion, for Christ’s sake? he thought. What did he think, the mountain lion was going to trail him and have him for supper? Grow up, Hansen, he ordered himself. Grow up, get up, and move your ass. This isn’t goddamn Deliverance, you know.

Maybe if I start after him right away and move as fast as I can, I’ll be able to catch up to him, he thought abruptly. Good idea. Doug couldn’t be walking that fast.

He tried to stand quickly and fell back, landing clumsily. Yeah, that’s great, Hansen, he mocked himself. Real deft.

He tried again and fell back awkwardly once more. Jesus Christ, he said he took some weight off my pack! he thought. It feels as though he added rocks to it instead.

No. No. He calmed himself. On your knees first, then stand slowly. Got it? He drew in a quick breath, nodding. Got it, he answered.

Carefully, he turned himself and rose to his knees, then slowly, arms outstretched to keep himself in balance, rose to his feet. There, he thought. That wasn’t so difficult now, was it? He tried not to pay attention to the painful drag of the pack on his back, the aching in his legs. Go, he told himself. Move.

He started to walk along the trail as rapidly as he could. Stand erect, he reminded himself. Don’t slump. Don’t lift your feet too high. Walk with a steady stride.

His brain reacted with unexpected irritation. Goddamn it, how am I supposed to remember all that crap? What am I, John Muir? No. He tried to settle his mind. It’s already been established that you definitely aren’t John Muir. Just walk erect, don’t slump, steady stride. It’s not that fucking hard, you idiot. Thanks for the kind words, he thought and had to grin.

He concentrated on keeping a steady stride. Doug was right, that did work better. But then Doug was right about everything. Backpacking-wise anyway. Life? A little different.

Odd how the forest, which had seemed exquisite and inspiring before, was now beginning to take on the aspects of an ominous entity around him. The tall, thin pines looked like spears, their foliage thick and gray-green, large, scaly cones on the ground beneath them. The huge leaves of the maple trees now looked like random splashes of yellow amid the dark green canopy. Was the green really that dark or was the light starting to fade? That would be all he needed: to be alone in the forest in the dark. Wonderful, he thought. He tried to visualize the possibility with amusement but his involuntary shiver belied it. Great, he thought. Alone in the forest in the dark. And I don’t even have my sleeping bag now! he suddenly realized. I’d goddamn freeze to death! They’d find my skeleton twenty years from now, lying under—

Oh, shut up! he commanded himself. And straighten up for Christ’s sake, you’re slumping! “Oh,” he muttered gloomily. He fought away anxiety. Just—follow—the—goddamn—path; that was all he had to do. He wasn’t in the great North Woods. This was a national park in California and he was on a trail. A trail, Hansen, he reminded himself.

No, wait. Goddamn it, I am slumping again! There must be some way to control—

Yes! His face lit up as he moved to a fallen tree and found a branch on it with the right thickness. Taking out his hunting knife, he started to saw away at it so that it would be about five feet long. Oh, great, he thought, the knife was just about sharp enough to slice its way through butter.

He hacked and pulled at the branch until it broke off, then cut off the twigs (sure, those the damn knife can cut off, he thought) and did the best he could to level the end of the branch.

He began to walk again, using the branch as a staff. Not bad, he thought. It did help keep him more erect. Now just move at a steady pace and you’ll—

“Jesus Christ!” He stopped and jerked around as something rustled noisily in the brush to his left. Just before it vanished, he saw that it was a fleeing rabbit.

“Oh… God.” He swallowed dryly, then opened his bottle and took a drink of water. His heartbeat was still pounding. Is it going to be like this the whole time? he wondered. I thought it was something big, something dangerous. A rabbit, for chrissake. He groaned at his vulnerability. Just keep going, will you, Hansen? he suggested. Yes, by all means, he replied politely to himself.

He started walking again. It did seem easier to stay erect and keep a steady pace using the staff. For a few moments, he visualized himself as a proficient woodsman striding through his familiar wilderness. After all, he had only to follow the very obvious trail. Soon enough, he’d reach the campsite. Doug would be waiting there, a cozy fire burning. Dehydration or no dehydration, he would partake of one of his little bottles of vodka.

He seemed to be going uphill more now. At least the strain of walking seemed to be increasing and it was becoming more and more laborious to breathe. Well, he could manage that. If only it wasn’t getting so shadowy. The more shadowy it became, the more menacing the silence seemed.

Ordinarily, he loved silence. Where Marian and he lived in Agoura Hills, it was deathly silent, far from the freeway noises; and he enjoyed it immensely, they both did. Sitting on their deck at sunset, having drinks, they often commented on how quiet it was. There, quiet seemed peaceful and comforting. Here…

Well, it’s the unknown, he tried to reason with himself. Just… keep moving and stop worrying about it. It ain’t gonna kill you.

“I hope,” he muttered. He frowned at himself. “Shut up,” he said.

He had to stop and empty his bladder again, then take another drink of water. The bottle was getting pretty empty, he saw. What if he got lost and ran out of water?

“Oh, for God’s sake, shut the hell up,” he ordered himself. Drawing in a deep, he hoped, restoring breath, he continued walking.

As he got into a rhythmic stride, he began to think about Doug.

Was it really necessary for him to go on ahead and leave me behind? he wondered. After all, how much more difficult would it have been to set up camp if they’d gotten to the place together, wherever it was?

This was their first day out too. Doug knew he was uneasy. He knew that Marian was uneasy. Was it really thoughtful of him to hurry on ahead to make camp? Or had there been something mean about it, something actually a little cruel under the circumstances?

He thought about the few years they had known Doug and Nicole, then, limitedly, Doug by himself. They were never really close. They’d had a few laughs together but their personalities didn’t really blend that well. Nicole was pleasant enough, very beautiful (she’d been a model), but a little cut off and remote. And, from the very start, she’d obviously been unhappy about her marriage to Doug. The death of Artie had really torn what threads were left intact in their relationship.

What Doug and he had shared most in common was their knowledge and attitudes toward the motion picture and television business. They were both highly dissatisfied and frustrated by it, Doug more than him because, as relative as the pain was, actors did have it worse than writers. He could, at least, submerge his disappointments by writing a short story or a novel. Doug could only do a little theater that while creatively fulfilling involved no monetary satisfaction at all.

In other words, Bob thought—in other words, had there always been an edge of envy, even resentment in Doug? And had he just demonstrated a small bit of that by leaving him behind in the woods?

“The forest,” he said. “The forest.”

It wasn’t any charming, sweet, endearing woods.

It was BIG. Powerful. Unyielding. A massive, silent being that could and had swallowed men alive.

That’s a charming image, he thought.

But he couldn’t dispel it.

Well, here’s another goddamn thing he didn’t tell me about, he thought.

He stared glumly at the fast-moving stream in front of him. On its opposite shore, the path obviously continued.

Now what? he thought. It was definitely getting darker and there was no way he could see to cross the stream: no fallen tree trunk, no stepping-stone boulders.

“Well, what am I supposed to do now, Dougie boy?” he asked loudly.

Breaking a tiny piece of twig off his staff, he tossed it into the stream and watched it be swept away by the bubbling, splashing current. Great, he thought, his face a mask of annoyance. Now I know it’s moving fast. Thank you, Douglas, for that enlightening bit of woodlore. It changes everything.

He drew in a quick, convulsive breath. This isn’t funny, Bob, he told himself. What was he supposed to do, walk across the stream, get his boots and socks and trousers soaking wet? Screw that.

“Well…” Grimacing, he started walking along the edge of the stream, hoping to find a narrower part of it.

Up above, a wind was starting to blow in the high pines. Great, he thought, a storm.

He shook that away with a scowl. Stop being a baby, he told himself. Doug got across the damn stream, so can I.

For a while, he imagined Doug coming up with a rope from his pack, hurling one end of it across the stream, encircling a branch with it, and swinging across like Tarzan.

“Not likely,” he muttered, moving guardedly along the stream edge so he wouldn’t stumble on a stone.

About twenty yards down, he came across a tree trunk fallen across the stream. “Ah,” he said. “Ah.” You might have mentioned it to me, he said to Doug in his mind. You know this goddamn forest, I don’t.

As he crossed the trunk, it shifted with him. “Oh, God,” he muttered. Flailing at the air for balance, he lost hold of the staff and dropped it in the stream. By the time he’d fallen to one knee on the tree trunk, grabbed hold of it, and regained his balance, the staff was long gone, washed downstream by the leaping current. Great, he thought as he made it finally to the other side of the stream. Easy come, easy go.

He walked back along the stream until he reached the trail and started along it again. This is a goddamn national forest, he thought as he walked. Why didn’t they put some kind of bridge on the stream so the trail could be followed more easily? It might have been considerate to novices like me.

He concentrated on walking erect, not slumping, lifting his feet, keeping a steady stride. Well, he should be at the campsite soon. He swallowed uneasily. He’d better be. The light was fading fast. At least, it seemed to be. Maybe it was because of the thick tree growth.

Just keep going, he told himself. Erect. Feet lifted. Steady stride. He walked through the deep, silent forest, trying to remain convinced that he would reach Doug soon, have that vodka, dine on chicken à la king, and, most of all, rest his weary bones.

5:13 PM

“Good God,” he muttered.

Just ahead of him, the trail split.

He stared at it in utter dismay. For the first time since he’d started after Doug he felt a genuine sense of fear. What was he supposed to do now? Doug did it on purpose, he found himself thinking.

He’d gone on ahead, not to set up a camp but to leave him behind, hopelessly lost.

A spasm of coldness shook his body. No, you’re being paranoid, he thought. Would Doug have taken him all the way up here for some kind of terrible revenge? Revenge for what? Envy, okay, maybe so. A little jealousy. But this?

“No,” he said. “No. No.” He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. There was some other reason. Doug hadn’t been up here for a long time. He’d forgotten that the trail split, that was all.

“In that case…” he murmured.

He looked at the bushes and trees around the dividing trail. A piece of paper, a note, a scrap of rag. Something to mark the trail he was supposed to follow.

There was nothing. It was shadowy beneath the trees but surely he’d see a rag or piece of paper if Doug had placed one to mark his way.

He drew in a deep, trembling breath. Dear God, he thought. He really didn’t know which way to go. And Doug had not left any sign to help him.

He swallowed dryly. His throat felt parched. Removing the top of his water bottle, he took a sip. Not too much, he cautioned himself. You don’t want to run out of water.

“Sure,” he said cynically. That’s what really matters. I can be totally lost in the forest, but so long as I have water, I’ll be fine. “Damn,” he muttered. “Stupid idiot.”

All right. All right. He straightened up, a look of determination on his face. Maybe this was a test, a goddamn test. That sort of thing Doug would do. He was setting up a situation where logic could tell him which half of the trail to follow.

All right, think, he thought; think, you moron.

The right-hand trail looked as though it was beginning to angle downward. That would indicate that it was heading toward the lake Doug had mentioned. Was the answer as simple as that?

No, the left-hand trail could also be leading to the lake. Couldn’t it? The lake could be to the left, not the right.

Which leaves me right back where I started, he thought. He tried to find some measure of amusement in the thought but couldn’t really do it; the situation was too potentially serious to be amusing in any way.

Well, for Christ’s sake, make up your mind! he ordered himself. He couldn’t just stand here like a bump on a log and—

He had to snicker at the memory. A bump on a log? He hadn’t thought of that phrase since he was a boy. His mother had used it often.

“All right,” he said firmly, “which way, Hansen, right or left?”

The right-hand path seemed the most likely. It was angling down and that would indicate it heading toward the lake. And Doug had said it might take him less than an hour to reach the campsite. So the right path was the most logical one to take. There you go, Bobby, he imagined Doug telling him when he reached the campsite. You just passed your first test in Woodlore I.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, starting forward onto the right-hand trail.

The trail kept getting steeper as he moved along. He found himself tending to lean back, trying to center the weight of the pack so it wouldn’t pull him forward.

The path was also getting darker as he walked. Looking up, he could see, through rifts in the tree foliage, that it was still light. You’d never know it down here, he thought.

He kept looking to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the lake. But all he saw was endless forest. Was this the right way after all? Had he made a mistake? Maybe—

He gasped out in shock as something rolled beneath his right boot and he found himself lurching helplessly to his left. “No!” he cried, starting to fall, thrashing, into some brush.

His right palm, flung down automatically to brace himself against the fall, hit the ground and was scraped across it, making him hiss in pain. A jagged streak of pain stabbed at the right side of his back as he thudded to a halt, a bush twig raking across his right cheek, making him hiss again.

He lay motionless in the brush, gasping for breath. Oh, Jesus, what if I’ve broken something? he thought, terrified. What if I’m on the wrong path and I’ve broken a bone?

The sound he made, intended to be a despairing laugh, came out, instead, as a sob. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he murmured, eyes tearing. What am I doing here? he thought. His throat felt dry again. He lay immobile, aware of his body twisted into a heap. I’m finished, he thought. I’m gone.

He forced air into his lungs. Shut up, he told himself. Just shut up. He’d taken a clumsy tumble, nothing more. It’s not as if that mountain lion is about to pounce on me and bite off my face.

He grimaced at the thought. Great imaging, he told himself.

“All right, get up, for chrissake,” he said irritably. “Get off your ass—or whatever you’re lying on. Night is going to fall too if you don’t get moving.”

Laboriously, with slow, groaning movements, he struggled to his feet. His back felt sore and tender, his right palm hurt. But, at least, he didn’t appear to have any broken bones.

He got back on the trail and stood still, wondering what to do.

“Doug?!” he shouted. He had to clear his throat, took a sip of water, then shouted again. “Doug! Doug!”

Was that an answer? he thought, suddenly excited. He shouted Doug’s name again and again, finally realizing that what he was hearing was the echo of his own voice.

“Oh… shit,” he muttered.

The whistle! he thought suddenly.

Fumbling through his jacket pockets until he found it, he blew on it as hard as he could. He had to drink more water; his mouth felt dry. He blew on the whistle again, struggling to make the sound as loud as possible.

There was no response.

“You bastard,” he muttered. “You lousy bastard.”

He continued down the path, moving with cautious steps. What the hell had rolled beneath his boot anyway? A twig? A rock? A pinecone? Whatever it was, it had sure made him take a real flop into the brush. For a few moments, he visualized John Muir accosting him and saying, “Bob, if I were you, I’d go back to Los Angeles, you really don’t belong out here,” and him replying, “Mr. Muir, how right you are.”

Twelve minutes later, he reached the lake and the end of the trail. The open area of water made the light brighter; it wasn’t that close to darkness after all.

Neither was it any spot for a campsite. There was thick growth all the way to the shore, no possible flat, open areas anywhere in sight. So the trail had been the wrong one after all. Great. Sorry, Bobby, you just failed test number one in your Woodlore course, Doug told him in his imagination. Try again.

“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You miserable son of a bitch, not letting me know which trail to take.”

He winced as he realized how his right palm hurt. Looking at it, he saw dried blood streaks across it, imbedded dirt, scrapes, and scratches.

Kneeling—the movement sent a streak of pain across the right side of his back that made him cry out softly—he put his palm in the cold water of the lake, and removing his handkerchief, he rubbed it on the palm as gently as he could to clean it off. “Oh… Jesus,” he said, his face contorted from the stinging pain.

How am I supposed to write a convincing novel about backpacking if I’ve never backpacked once, he heard himself telling Marian. He sighed heavily. Would that I had written that novel about Hawaii she suggested I write, he thought.

He straightened up with a grunt of pain and effort.

“Doug!” he shouted. “Damn it, where are you?!”

This time, the echo was more distinct. What, the open water? he wondered.

“What’s the difference?” he said as he started back up the trail. Now how long was it going to take to reach the campsite? he thought. Would it be dark by then? He blew out hissing breath. Good ol’ Doug, he thought. My pal.

He stopped to take another sip of water, then continued up the trail, leaning forward to keep the weight of the backpack centered. His water was really getting low now. What if he still wasn’t able to find Doug? What if Doug did do all this to lose him? He shivered, grimacing. Come on, he told himself. Don’t be goddamn paranoid. You do this all the time. What was that song Mel Brooks composed for The Twelve Chairs? “Hope for the best; expect the worst,” he sang softly. Something like that. And that was him. “You’re a goddamn pessimist, Bob,” he informed himself. As if I didn’t know, he thought.

When he reached the split in the path and started along the left one, he tried to see what time it was but it was too dark in the heavy shade for him to read the watch face. He stopped and retrieved his flashlight. Don’t forget to reverse the batteries, he thought. Oh, fuck you, he answered himself, switching on the flashlight and pointing the beam at the face of his wristwatch.

“Oh, my,” he said. It was seven minutes after seven. This time of year, it was going to be dark soon now. Thank God they hadn’t left after daylight savings time had ended or it’d be dark already. Damn you, Doug, he thought. Why did you do this to me on the very first day? It was unconscionable, really unconscionable.

He became aware that he was limping slightly as he walked. All I need, he thought. Days of hiking ahead and a limp. “Swell,” he muttered. He was really getting angry with Doug now. What the hell right did he think he had to leave him alone on the first day of their hike?

His anger kept mounting as he limped along the trail. By the time he saw the glow of the campfire ahead, there was nothing left in him to react with relief at the sight. He was all anger.

“Hey, there he is,” Doug said as Bob walked up to the campsite.

“Don’t-ever-do-that-to-me-again,” Bob told him in a low-pitched, shaking voice.

“What?” Doug looked perplexed.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?” Bob demanded. “You don’t tell me there’s no way to cross that stream at the trail. You don’t tell me there’s a goddamn split in the trail.”

“Bob—” Doug said.

“So I go down the right-hand trail and fall because it’s so damn steep! I hurt my back, I scrape my palm! I find the lake and there’s nothing there but water!”

“Bob!” Doug cried. “Take it easy. Let me—”

“Take it easy?!” Bob almost yelled. “I was fucking terrified out there! Terrified! I screamed your name as loud as I could! I blew your goddamn whistle until I was out of breath!” He knew his voice was breaking and he sounded on the verge of crying but he didn’t care. “What the hell was wrong with you, leaving me alone like that?! You know I’ve never done this sort of thing before! You know it goddamn well!”

Doug tried to grab Bob’s arm. “Bob, will you kindly let me—”

“Why didn’t you tell me there was a split in the trail?!” Bob shouted.

“I didn’t remember that there was!” Doug answered sharply.

“Oh, well, great, great!” Bob said. “What was I supposed to do, guess which trail to follow?”

“No, Bobby, no,” Doug said, sounding angry now. “I did mark the left-hand trail! I did mark it!”

Bob felt struck dumb by Doug’s words. Then suspicion struck again. “How?” he demanded. “There was no note, no piece of paper, no piece of rag.”

“Did you look at the ground?” Doug demanded back.

“The ground?! It was so dark there I could barely see the ground!”

“Well, if you had—if you’d thought for a moment to shine your flashlight at the ground, you’d have seen that I made an arrow out of stones there! Pointing toward the left-hand trail!” Doug was glaring at him now.

Bob stared at him, speechless.

“And even if you hadn’t seen it—which you obviously didn’t—I’d have gone back to find you after a while. Do you think I’d have just left you out there, for Christ’s sake?!”

How strange, was all Bob could think. How instantaneously rage could turn to guilt.

He tried to speak but couldn’t; his throat felt so dry and raw. He took a sip of water, noting that his hand shook holding the bottle.

Then he drew in trembling breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know, I didn’t understand.” He couldn’t lose all his anger though. “You really shouldn’t have left me alone though. I was scared to death, Doug. Alone in the dark forest? Jesus Christ. I didn’t know what to do.”

Doug’s expression had softened now. “Okay,” he said, “I probably shouldn’t have left you alone. You just weren’t up to it.”

That’s right, make sure you get a little dig in, have the final word. Bob pushed aside the thought, he was so relieved now that the nightmare (albeit minor) had ended.

“I know what it’s like in the forest after dark,” Doug said. “Although it wasn’t really dark yet. It’s just getting dark now.”

“Under those trees it was dark,” Bob said.

“Granted.” Doug nodded. “It can be hair-raising. All the noises.”

Bob managed a weak chuckle. “I even imagined that mountain lion getting me,” he said.

Doug’s smile was perfunctory. “I told you they don’t want anything to do with us.”

Bob sighed. “I know you did,” he said. Can’t help getting in one more little lecture, can you? he thought.

“Here, let’s get that pack off you,” Doug said.

Bob groaned with intense pleasure as Doug removed the pack and put it on the ground. “Now I know what Quasimodo must have gone through,” he said.

He saw that Doug didn’t get the point and let it go.

“Here, let me get that scrape on your cheek,” Doug told him.

“Scrape on my cheek?” Bob looked confused. “Didn’t know I had one.” He’d forgotten all about it.

He sank down with another groan of pleasure as Doug got a small plastic bottle of alcohol, a cotton ball, and a tube of ointment from his pack. “That for me to drink?” Bob asked.

Doug made a sound of vague amusement and got down on one knee before Bob. “Take your cap off,” he said.

Bob removed his cap and lay it on the ground as Doug opened the small bottle of alcohol and, up-ending it, wet the cotton ball.

“This’ll sting,” he said.

Bob stiffened with a faint cry as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his cheek. “Not too bad a scratch,” Doug told him.

Bob nodded as Doug took hold of his right hand and lifted it up, palm raised. “This is going to sting too,” he said.

“Oh!” Bob jerked, eyes closed, teeth clenching as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his palm. Are you enjoying this? he thought, then frowned at himself for the uncharitable thought.

He sat quietly, gazing at Doug’s intent expression as he spread salve on the cheek and palm. I’ve wronged him, he thought. He never meant for me to come to harm. It was my own fault. It would have been better if Doug had stayed with him. Still, there was a camp now. Doug’s tent was up. He saw their sleeping bags inside, the pads underneath them. And, of course, the fire. The crackling yellow-orange flames and radiating warmth were really comforting. Especially after what he’d been through.

Doug finished applying the salve and looked up with a slight grin. “That should do it,” he said. “Try not to fall down again.”

Bob thought for a moment that Doug was razzing him. Then he let it go, smiling at Doug. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.

“No problem,” Doug answered, “I’m sure the Writers Guild insurance will pay for it.”

“Yeah.” Bob chuckled, taking it for granted that Doug was joking.

“Well, I guess you could use one of your little bottles of vodka right now,” Doug said.

You got that right, Bob thought.

8:23 PM

Bob leaned back against his pack with a sound part groan, part sigh of pleasure. “I feel alive again,” he said. He took a sip of the instant mocha coffee he’d brought along. They had cooked and shared the chicken à la king, two slices of bread, and, for dessert, two cookies and an apple each. He hadn’t even minded that Doug had made fun of him for putting some of the condiments that Marian had packed for him on the chicken à la king.

“A little bit of civilization in the north woods, eh?” Doug had said with a teasing smile.

He hadn’t even responded.

“Too bad you didn’t bring a pair of slippers,” Doug said; he had brought a pair and was wearing them.

“Yeah.” Bob nodded. Of course you never told me to, he thought, but then I suppose I should have thought of it myself.

“How’s the blister?” Doug asked.

When Bob’d taken off his boots, he’d become aware of the blister on his right big toe. Doug had put a bandage on it, one with a hole in its middle so as not to irritate the blister itself. While he was putting it on, Bob asked him, only half jokingly, if there was anything about backpacking he didn’t know.

“Not much,” Doug replied and proceeded to inform him of ways of knowing direction while hiking.

Moss grew more thickly on the shadiest side of the tree, which would be the north side of trees that were fairly out in the open where sunlight could reach them all day.

Vegetation grew larger and more openly on northern slopes, smaller and more densely on southern slopes.

You could prevent yourself from traveling in circles by always keeping two trees lined up in front of you.

Then, at night, there was the north star…

“Enough,” Bob said, chuckling. “I’ll never remember any of it.”

“Well, you might need it someday,” Doug told him, “you never know.”

“I know,” Bob said. “This is my one and only backpacking hike.”

“Oh.” Doug nodded, an expression of remote acknowledgment on his face.

Bob tried to soften what he’d said by remarking that he could see how wonderful backpacking must be; he was just not inclined toward it, but Doug’s nod was no more than cursory.

Doug had been quiet for a while, staring into the fire, and Bob decided that he really must have offended him by so casually negating any possibility of him ever backpacking again. Doug didn’t have to do this; it had been and was a generous offer. He had to try to say something to lighten Doug’s mood.

“What made you pick this spot for a campsite?” he asked.

“Oh.” Doug shrugged. “A number of things.”

“Like what?”

“You’re not really interested,” Doug told him.

“Yes. I am,” Bob insisted. “I know I’m a dud as a hiker but I would like to know as much as I can for my novel.”

“Your novel,” Doug said. He looked at Bob without expression. “Is there a movie in it?” he asked.

Ah, Bob thought. The entrée to peace. “Probably,” he said, “there are four good male roles in it, two females.”

“Why not just do it as a screenplay then?” Doug asked.

“Oh, no,” Bob said. “I don’t want to put you through all this just for a screenplay. If it gets fucked up—assuming it gets made at all—there’s nothing left to show for it. But if there’s a novel…”

“Yeah.” Doug nodded, conceding. “I understand. That way, if it’s good, you make money from both the novel and the screenplay.”

“Right.” It wasn’t what he’d meant but he let it go. “And, when the time comes—as I hope it will—for the story to be filmed, I’ll certainly suggest you for one of the parts,” he said, playing his trump card.

“Well, I’d love to read the screenplay when you’ve written it,” Doug said, sounding considerably more cheerful now.

“Sure,” Bob said, nodding. “There is a good part for a villain, but he’s a man in his sixties.”

“That’s nothing,” Doug said quickly, “I played a father in Our Town and he had to be a man in his late fifties.”

“Oh.” Bob nodded. “I’ll remember that.”

Doug nodded back, smiling, then made a clucking sound. “So you need to know about what constitutes a good campsite.”

“Yes, I’d like to.”

“Okay.” Doug seemed to think about it for a few seconds, then began.

“Well, to start with,” he said, “it was no problem in the nineteenth century, even the early part of this century. You could cut brush for a campfire, cut logs, drink and wash in the water, have all the room in the world because there were so few campers. Now—” He made a hissing sound of disgust. “Thousands of people every year, screwing up everything.”

“I know.” Bob nodded glumly. “Ruining the environment.”

“I’m not talking about the environment,” Doug said, “I’m talking about camping and backpacking.”

“Oh.” Bob nodded. Should have known, he thought.

“Well, anyway, first of all, proximity to water,” Doug said, “that’s a must, absolutely basic, which is why we’re by a lake. Also the site should be on a gradual slope—well drained. That way, if it rains—”

“You think it’s going to rain?”

“No, no.” Doug waved his hand impatiently. “Just let me finish.”

“Sorry,” Bob apologized.

“If it does rain for any reason, you’re safe from runoff. A meadow would be a bad place to camp, for example. Also, there’s a nice breeze here. Keeps away the bugs.”

“My God, you think of everything,” Bob said.

“Better than being miserable,” Doug replied. “But shut up, I’m a long way from being done.”

“Sorry again,” Bob said, smiling.

“Surrounding trees to break up any wind that rises,” Doug continued.

“I apologize for interrupting,” Bob said, “but why are we so far away from the lake?”

“So there isn’t any chance of contaminating it,” Doug told him. “A lot of idiots camp right by the water and piss and crap all over, polluting what’s supposed to be fresh water.”

Bob nodded. “Got ya.” I should be taking notes, he thought. Was he going to be able to remember all this?

“Open ground,” Doug went on, “no vegetation, rotted trees.”

Bob wanted to ask about the rotted trees but decided to remain silent as Doug continued.

“Up a little high to avoid cold air, which flows downward. Slope facing east, protected from a west wind and getting the sun in the morning, which you’ll find makes it a lot easier to get up.”

“Douglas, I am damned impressed by your knowledge,” Bob broke in, thinking that Doug wouldn’t object to being interrupted in that way.

“Tricks of the trade, Bobby.” Doug grinned at him. I was right, Bob thought.

“Tent needs to be well staked, of course,” Doug said, “so the wind won’t blow it away. Use one with a dome top; gives with the wind. Double wall. Full-cover rain fly.”

I won’t even try to find out what that is, Bob thought.

“Outer shell waterproofed,” Doug continued. “Repels rain and prevents condensation from forming on the inner walls. Curved walls to prevent wind flap, a vestibule to keep rain from blowing in.”

“A vestibule?” Bob asked, visualizing the vestibule of an apartment house in Brooklyn he’d lived in when he was a boy.

“Need a little entryway,” Doug told him. “Wind and rain can blow in through a simple opening. As for the ground cloth, it should be exactly the size of the tent floor. If it sticks outside and it rains, the ground cloth can direct water under the tent. Did you put your iodine tablets in your water?”

“Yeah?” Bob more asked than said.

“Don’t forget to do that all the time,” Doug told him, “Giardia lamblia can kill.”

“Jesus, what’s that?”

“Parasite,” Doug answered. “Deadly little bastards. Use your iodine tablets always.”

“Ooh,” Bob said.

“What’s wrong?” Doug asked.

“The chicken à la king has done its job,” Bob answered, making a face.

“Just as well,” Doug told him. “Good time to teach you bathroom regulations anyway.”

“Regulations?” Bob laughed softly.

“Oh, yeah,” Doug said, “very important.” He got up. “I’ll show you where to go. Come on.”

“Okay.” Bob winced a little at the pressure in his bowels. “Not too far, I hope.”

“Far enough,” Doug said.

Bob pulled on his boots and got to his feet with a groan. “Stiff,” he said.

“You’ll loosen up,” Doug told him. “Get your flashlight and toilet paper.”

He led Bob away from the camp, walking up the slight rise. He walked and walked. “How far are we going?” Bob asked.

“Far enough,” Doug said again.

Bob couldn’t believe how far they were walking away from the campsite. “Jesus, I’ll need a compass to find my way back,” he said, grimacing; he really had to go now.

“Okay, this should do,” Doug said. Turning, he looked back at the faint glow of the campfire. “About two hundred or so yards,” he estimated. He held out his trowel; Bob hadn’t noticed that he’d brought it with him.

“Okay,” he said, “behind that boulder would be good. Dig a cat hole six to ten inches deep. Squat over the hole and shit. Then, when you’re done, fill the hole back up and tamp the soil down good.”

“What about the toilet paper?” Bob asked.

“That you can’t bury,” Doug told him. “Either you burn it at the campsite or you pack it out.”

“Pack it out?” Bob stared at him incredulously.

“So burn it,” Doug said. “Just make sure the smoke isn’t blowing in my direction.”

Bob nodded. “What if the ground’s too hard for digging?”

“Cover your crap with dirt or leaves or dead bark or whatever you can find. Just don’t leave it uncovered. Some animals might eat it.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bob said, moving behind the boulder. He started to undo his trousers, watching Doug’s form moving back toward the camp.

“What if I have to take a leak during the night?” he called after him. “Do I have to schlepp all the way back here?”

“No,” Doug said across his shoulder. “Just move a decent distance from the campsite.” After a few moments, he added, “And try to pee downwind.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bob gave up trying to move his bowels. Maybe tomorrow, he told himself.

When he got back to the camp, except for his slippers, Doug was completely naked.

“Whoa! What’s going on?” were the first words that occurred to Bob.

Doug chuckled. “Bath time,” he said. “What did you think, I was going to seduce you?”

“Uh… try to seduce me,” Bob replied.

Doug laughed. “Right,” he said.

“Bath time?” Bob asked.

“I like to do it every night,” Doug told him. Bob noticed that he’d filled a cooking pot with water and was heating it on the grate.

“I thought we slept in our clothes,” Bob said.

“You can.” Doug’s tone was dubious. “But dirt and body oil can collect on the inside of your sleeping bag that way. Eventually find its way into the fabric, eventually into the fill and break down the bag’s insulation ability.”

“Ah.” Bob nodded, averting his eyes.

“This embarrass you?” Doug asked him.

“No. I just—” He broke off. Don’t be so polite, he thought. “Well… yes, sort of. Outside of my son, I haven’t seen a naked man since college gymnasium.”

“Don’t know what you been missing,” Doug said. Bob glanced up at him. What the hell did that mean?

Doug laughed again. “Jesus Christ, Bob, I’m just kidding.”

“Oh, okay.” Bob nodded, trying to smile.

“If I’d known this was going to bother you, I’d have done it behind a tree. It’s a little warmer by the fire though.”

“Yes. Of course.” Bob was aware of trying to sound casual and failing.

“Not that I need the fire,” Doug told him. “I’m exothermic; it’s easy for me to release heat. My hands and feet are always warm.”

“Not Marian,” Bob said, still averting his gaze, “her hands and feet are always cold.”

“She’s endothermic then,” Doug told him.

“Ah-ha.”

Doug said no more but took the pot off the grate, using his washrag for a pot holder. Setting it on the ground, he soaked the washcloth in the water. “Whoa. Hot,” he said. Taking the washrag out of the pot, he wrung it out gingerly, then started rubbing soap on it.

“You gonna do this?” he asked.

Bob sighed. “I dunno. If we were going out for a couple of weeks, I suppose so. But three or four days…”

“More likely four or five the way we’re going,” Doug told him.

Again, the little jab, Bob thought. “Isn’t this where you were planning to camp the first night?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Doug said, soaping under his arms and over his chest. “But only because I figured we’d never get any farther.” He chuckled. “You almost didn’t make it here.”

“Mmm.” Bob had sat down by the fire now.

When Doug didn’t respond he glanced up. Doug was soaping his stomach and groin, leaning forward slightly. Bob had seen him in a Speedo bathing suit when Doug and Nicole came over to the house to swim. Seeing him entirely naked though made him aware of how muscular Doug was, his stomach flat, his abdomen muscles clearly defined.

For a moment, he thought of telling Doug how well built he was, then decided against it. He wasn’t sure how Doug would react to such a comment. He was aware of how uncomfortable he felt.

Doug seemed to read his mind. “Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable,” he said.

“No, no. It just… caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“How do you plan to wash up?” Doug inquired. “It’s not a good idea to keep wearing the same underwear. You do have some extra long johns packed, don’t you?”

“Sure.” Bob nodded. “And some packages of moist towelettes to wash myself off with.”

“Well, that’ll have to do if it’s all you want,” Doug said. He was bending over now, soaping up his legs and ankles, then his feet.

The silence bothered Bob again.

“I, uh, see that that boulder over there is kind of black. Why didn’t you use that same spot for the fire?” he asked.

“Stupid thing to do,” Doug said. He was rinsing the soap off his body now. “That black will be there for centuries. That’s why I make a fire ring with stones. Which I’ll dismantle in the morning. You’ll be helping with the fires so remember never to use wet stones, they can explode in a fire.”

“Oh, my God.” Bob winced a little.

Silence again. He glanced up involuntarily and saw Doug drying himself with a towel, arms raised. He swallowed, wondering if Doug had done this deliberately to embarrass him.

Oh, don’t be stupid, he told himself.

“I notice that you didn’t dig a fire pit,” he said to break the silence and divert his mind from more uncharitable thoughts.

Doug chuckled. “You’ve been reading,” he said.

“Yeah, well… yeah, it did say that in the backpacking book I read.”

“It’s a good idea in windy weather,” Doug said. He was getting into a clean pair of long underwear now. “It’s also less visible and won’t bother other campers. But since it isn’t windy and there are no other campers, there’s no need for a fire pit.”

“Got ya,” Bob said.

Doug put on his slippers again and crouched by the fire, palms extended to the heat.

“You use only squaw wood to burn,” he said.

“Squaw wood?”

“I guess they call it that because Indian squaws made the fires,” Doug answered. “It’s wood that’s lying on the ground. You never use living growth for burning. Start the fire with fallen leaves or twigs or pine needles. And if there’s not enough dead wood on the ground, break off dead limbs or branches on fallen trees. Or living ones; just make sure the limbs or branches are dead. Got that?”

“Got it,” Bob said. I hope, he thought.

“You notice that I built a small wall of stones on that side of the fire,” Doug said, pointing. “That’s to keep the smoke rising in that direction. Don’t ask me why that works, I have no idea. It does though.”

Bob smiled. “I didn’t notice that before,” he said.

“Tricks of the trade, Bobby,” Doug said. “By the way, don’t ever try to put out a fire by pouring water over it. That can make rocks explode too. Knew a guy who got blinded that way.”

“Jesus.” Bob grimaced.

“Fires are tricky,” Doug said. “Getting them lit is one thing, keeping them lit is another. They’ll do anything you want—burn slow, fast, anything—but you have to know what you’re doing. Flick the coals one way and it’s a goner. Flick them the right way and you’ve got a fire that’ll burn for hours.”

“Well, you’re the expert, I leave campfires up to you.”

“No, no, it’ll be one of your chores,” Doug said. “I’ll show you how to start a fire tomorrow.”

“My chores,” Bob said.

“Sure, you didn’t think this was going to be a free ride, did you?” Doug said, his tone hardening slightly. “You’ll do the fires, do cleanup work. I’ll take care of the sleeping arrangements, keep us supplied with purified water.” His smile seemed vaguely unpleasant, Bob thought. “In addition to being your guide and protector.”

Bob only nodded. “Okay,” he said then.

“I think from now on we’ll use my grate to cook on,” Doug said. “Easier than your stove.”

“You mean I brought it for nothing?” Bob asked, looking pained.

“Well, Bobby, I didn’t tell you to buy it, did I?”

“No.” Bob’s tone was glum. “That damn salesman…”

“You can use the stove on your own if you want,” Doug said. “There’s just not much point to it.”

“Yeah.” Bob nodded. Sighed. “And I suppose I can’t just leave it here,” he said.

“No, no. What you pack in—”

“—you pack out,” Bob finished.

“Exactly,” Doug said.

9:38 PM

The fire was low now, little more than glowing embers with a few small tongues of flame licking upward.

“Have you checked for ticks?” Doug asked.

“Ticks?” Bob answered, wincing.

“Yeah, ticks,” Doug said. “If you find any attached to your body, cover them with something that’ll cut off their air supply—Vaseline, oil, tree sap if you have nothing better. That’ll make the tick release its grip and you can remove it. Make sure you get the whole tick though. Grasp it where the mouth parts are attached to the skin. Don’t squeeze its body. And wash your hands after touching it. It has fluids that cause lyme disease.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Bob said grimly.

Doug chuckled. “Don’t despair. It probably won’t happen. You have on long pants and a long sleeve jacket, a hat. Tuck the hems of your pants into your socks for protection.”

Now he tells me, Bob thought. “I can see it all. I’ll get lyme disease, catch rabies from some demented squirrel, get bitten by a rattlesnake, torn to pieces by a mountain lion.”

Doug laughed loudly. “Well, you have a lot to look forward to, don’t you?”

“A lot.”

“See, there’s one,” Doug said. Reaching out he brushed a tick off Bob’s hat. “All there is to it. Now get out all your food.”

“What?” Bob looked at him, not understanding.

“Your food, your food,” Doug said, “we have to hang it up so the bears can’t get at it.”

“Oh, Jesus, bears too?” Bob reacted. “How many of them are out here?”

“Not that many,” Doug told him, “but they can smell food if it’s anywhere around.”

Bob swallowed, nodding. He felt as though he were sinking into a pit. What next? Attack by Indians? An earthquake? A volcanic eruption?

He opened his pack and started taking out the food he had in plastic bags. “Plastic bottles too?” he asked.

“May as well,” Doug said, “I’ve seen bears open bottles with their teeth. I don’t know how they can smell what’s in the bottles but…”

His voice faded as he started removing plastic sacks from his pack.

“Why the different colors?” Bob asked.

“Breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner,” Doug told him. “And coffee, of course. All double-sacked; I notice you didn’t do that.”

You never told me to, Mr. Crowley, sir, he heard himself kvetching in his mind.

“You can also put different kinds of food in different sacks—soup powder, beans, whatever.”

By now, he had taken two heavy cloth bags and a quarter-inch nylon rope from his pack. He tossed one of the bags to Bob. “Put your food in there,” he said. “They’re called stuff packs. For an obvious reason, I guess.”

He was finished filling and tying up his pack before Bob. Taking hold of the rope, he coiled it and began tossing the end of it at an oak limb about twenty feet above them. On the third try, he got the rope end over the branch so that it hung down in two lengths in front of them.

“You notice I’m putting the rope about ten feet from the trunk,” he said. “Not that that’ll stop a really acrobatic bear but it’s better than hanging the bags close to the trunk.”

He chuckled. “I’ve never seen it myself but some guy I met once told me that he saw a mother bear stand on her hind feet and her cub stand on her shoulders, trying to knock down a food bag.”

“No,” Bob said incredulously.

“That’s what the guy told me.”

Bob laughed. “What a sight that must have been.”

Doug nodded, chuckling again. “That’s for sure,” he said. “Like some greaser kid trying to knock down a pinñata.”

Greaser kid, Bob thought, frowning. Just how prejudiced was Doug? They’d never had a conversation revealing it in any way. Was that because Marian was almost always there?

Tying his bag to one end of the rope now, Doug pulled it up close to the limb. Then, taking Bob’s sack, he tied it to the other length of the rope, reaching up as high as he could and looping up the excess rope. Bob noticed that there was a monofilament line on that end of the rope. “What’s that for?” he asked.

“In case there isn’t a stick or a branch to pull them down,” Doug said. He tossed the bag with Bob’s food in it up toward the limb. The other bag dropped down so that both bags now hung about twelve feet from the ground.

“That should do it,” Doug said, “unless a twelve-foot bear comes by.”

“If it does, I’ll have died of a heart attack long before it can get our food,” Bob said.

Doug snickered. “You and Marian,” he said. “Oh, before I forget. Cover your pack with your pack cover in case it rains. And make sure you leave the pockets open so mice and raccoons can check them out without chewing their way in.”

“Anything else we can expect?” Bob asked. “A pack of coyotes maybe?”

Doug only shook his head. “A backpacker you will never be,” he said solemnly.

That’s for damn sure, Bob thought.

“Take anything into the tent you might need during the night,” Doug told him. “Flashlight, water bottle, toilet paper, et cetera.”

As they started for the tent, Doug reached up and broke off a small branch hanging above its entrance.

“Aren’t you despoiling Mother Nature now?” Bob joshed him.

Doug didn’t seem to get it. “Would you rather have your eye poked out if you get up to piss during the night?” he asked, tossing aside the branch.

Bob watched as Doug clambered into the tent, carrying his bow and arrow holder.

“In case of Indian attack?” he said.

Again, Doug didn’t seem to get it—or chose not to get it—as a joke. “Bear,” was all he said.

“Doug, you keep on mentioning bears,” Bob said as he crawled into the tent. “How likely are we to see one?”

“They like to prowl around at night,” Doug told him. “But as long as there’s no smell of food around the tent, they’ll usually move on.”

“Usually?” Bob asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Doug said, “I’ve never had a problem with one yet. Except for the time one of my buddies got eaten by one.”

“What?” Bob looked at him, aghast.

Bob laughed. “Jesus,” he said, “you and Marian are two of a kind. Real worriers.”

Bob drew in a shaky breath. “I presume that was a joke then.”

“You presume right, sir,” Doug answered with a dead-on imitation of Ed McMahon.

That was his idea of a joke, Bob thought as he put aside the articles he’d brought with him, slid his way into the sleeping bag, and zipped it up. He was glad that Doug had told him not to sleep in his clothes. He did feel more comfortable in a clean pair of long underwear after washing himself off with some of the towelettes Marian had bought him. A clean pair of socks felt good too.

He released a long sigh, then yawned.

“You won’t have trouble sleeping tonight,” Doug said.

“That’s for sure,” Bob replied. Abruptly, he wished he’d thought to bring along some Valium to relax his muscles. Oh, well, he thought. Let nature take its course. Whatever that means, he thought. He stretched out his legs, then let them relax.

He watched as Doug began to shake out his sleeping bag vigorously.

“What are you doing now, checking for rattlesnakes?” he asked, repressing a grin.

Doug didn’t even smile. “Fluffing it up,” he said as though Bob had asked a serious question. “Getting the maximum loft. Traps air in the fibers. Helps to keep you warm.”

Jesus, but he knows a lot, Bob thought. I suppose I should do the same thing, he told himself. He was too damn tired though. The hell with it.

“Did you bring a woolen cap to keep your head warm while you’re sleeping?” Doug asked.

You know you never told me that, Bob thought. “I’ll use my corduroy cap,” he said.

“Not as good. But… if that’s all you have…”

Anything else I’m going to need you haven’t told me about? Bob thought.

“Important to keep the top of your head warm,” Doug told him. “I’m going for a walk now.”

“A walk?” Bob looked astonished.

“Better than having a warm drink. You want to go with me?”

“No, thanks, I am very comfortable in here,” Bob told him.

“Okay, suit yourself. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Before Bob could respond, Doug was out of the tent and gone. Jesus Christ, what if something happens to him? he thought; he falls, gets mauled by a bear, anything? He’d be alone then, with no way of finding the cabin. Did Doug know he’d react this way? He wouldn’t be at all surprised.

He lay silently—and tensely—listening for the sound of Doug returning. What was with him, anyway, going for a walk in the forest at night? Even with a flashlight that he must have taken with him.

Bob exhaled heavily. Was Doug doing all this to torment him? Why should he? They were friends, weren’t they? Or were they?

Minutes passed. He grew more and more tense. Jesus, what if something really had happened to Doug? What would he—?

A sudden thrashing noise outside, a crazed growl. He stiffened, face a mask of terror.

Doug lunged into the tent, shining his flashlight beam into Bob’s face. Seeing Bob’s rigid expression of dread, he burst into laughter. “Oh, shit,” he said, “you’re too easy.”

Bob looked at him in fury. “If I’d had a gun, you’d be dead now, you fucking idiot!”

Doug snickered, shaking his head. “Calmdown,” he said, “it was just a joke.”

“A joke that would have killed me if I had a bad heart,” Bob told him. “It’s still pounding.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Doug said, “I didn’t think you’d react this hard.” He slipped into his sleeping bag and started thrashing his legs.

“What are you doing now?” Bob asked him, irritably.

“Isometrics,” Doug answered. “Gets the blood flow going.”

My blood flow is turned off for the night, Bob thought. Anyway, he felt warm enough. He put on his corduroy cap. He hadn’t planned to wear it while he was sleeping but if it helped…

The two of them lay silently for a while. Then Doug said, “I haven’t seen you in a while. What have you been up to?”

At first, he wasn’t going to reply, he was still so angry with Doug. Then he thought: Well, what the hell, maybe he did think it was a joke. There were still days ahead of them being together, Doug in total control of the hike. He couldn’t afford being resentful the entire time. He closed his eyes and instructed himself to calm down, forget the incident.

He sighed. “Well, mostly I’ve been schlepping through the forest primeval with a joker I know, doing research for a novel.”

“No screenplays lately?” Doug asked, ignoring the remark. “Teleplays? Series work?”

“I haven’t worked on series episodes in five years,” Bob told him.

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t have to do that sort of thing anymore,” Doug said.

Why was it, Bob wondered, that almost every other comment by Doug seemed to verge on insult?

He decided not to make an issue of it. “I was never very good at it anyway,” he said. “I can adapt novels okay or make up stories, but I was never able to get a fix on already established characters in already established environments.”

Doug grunted. “No screenplays? Teleplays?”

Bob knew very well what Doug wanted. He was still bucking for available parts. “I did a screenplay about… oh, it must be nearly a year ago. They haven’t made it yet though, don’t know if they even intend to. That’s the only project I’ve been working on this year. I sold a novelette to Playboy but I don’t think there’s a film in it. That’s why I decided to take a crack at this backpacking novel.”

“You don’t want to do it as a screenplay though,” Doug said, sounding vaguely accusing.

“No,” Bob said. “Novel first. Screenplay later—if it happens. What about you?” He hoped he wasn’t treading on Doug’s toes. If things weren’t going well for him…

“Oh, I did a commercial. Ford SUV.”

“That pays well, doesn’t it?” Bob asked, trying to sound impressed.

“Not bad,” Doug said. “It isn’t acting though.”

“No, of course not,” Bob said sympathetically. “Any little theater?”

“I’m supposed to do a Simon play in Glendale,” Doug said. “Not sure I want to though.”

“Why not?”

“Oh… it’s a long way to drive. A rinky-dink operation. And the director seems to be an idiot.”

“That’s no fun,” Bob said.

Doug grunted scornfully. “Especially if you’re trying to do Neil Simon,” he said.

Bob racked his mind for something else to mention. “What about that… hospital show you were trying out for?” he asked.

“Not that hospital show,” Doug said. “The hospital show—ER.”

“Oh. And—?”

“I’m still waiting to hear,” Doug told him. “The director and I didn’t exactly hit it off. He wasn’t interested in any of my ideas about the character.”

“Ah.” Bob nodded. Another strikeout, he thought. It was too bad too. He’d seen Doug act on television and the stage and he had a definite presence, a charismatic masculinity. He didn’t understand why Doug wasn’t further along. Oh, the hell I don’t, he thought. Acting is on a par with bond-servanting. Too often, talent had little to do with it. It was who you knew; it was good representation; it was sheer good luck. At least for someone like Doug; he wasn’t exactly Robert De Niro or Dustin Hoffman. And even they had their problems. It was a merciless business.

“You’re a lucky son of a gun, you know that, Bob,” Doug said.

“How so?” Bob asked, genuinely curious as to what Doug was getting at.

“You’re a good-looking man,” Doug started.

“Well, Jesus, so are you,” Bob broke in. “Me times ten.”

“Yeah, much good it does me,” Doug said. “You also have a good marriage. Marian is a hell of a lady.”

“I buy that,” Bob said, trying to prevent this conversational approach from dipping too low.

“You have two healthy, successful kids,” Doug continued, making Bob wince. He really didn’t want to get into that area; it was too raw. He closed his eyes, wondering if Doug would be offended if he fell asleep on him. Probably. He opened his eyes again.

“Life has gone well for you, no doubt about it,” Doug said.

Bob didn’t want to start a hassle but he felt compelled to answer Doug’s remark.

“Well, you know, I had to work awfully hard to get where I am,” he said. “Marian and I had some damn lean years when we were first married. I had that night job in the supermarket, I was a bank messenger for a while, I worked in a hardware store for more than a year. It wasn’t exactly going that well back then.”

“No, but it worked out well,” Doug said. “You have your career, your marriage, your kids. I have shit.”

“Doug, it’s not that bad,” Bob said. Well, we’re into it now anyway, he thought. No help for it. Continue. “You’re a handsome, talented actor—”

“—out of work,” Doug interrupted.

“You know the way the business goes,” Bob said, “a month from now you could be in London costarring with Emma Thompson.”

“Not bloody likely,” Doug said. “And even if I was, I don’t have the rest. No Nicole. No Jenny.” His breath faltered. “Artie gone.”

Bob swallowed. Well, this was going nowhere fast, he thought. He should have gone to sleep as soon as he’d gotten into the tent. It wasn’t that he didn’t sympathize with Doug. He did—all the way. But what more could he do that he hadn’t done already? He felt a heavy sigh coming on and held it down.

“How old are you, Bob?” Doug asked.

Bob hesitated, then answered, “Forty-four.”

“I’m forty-two,” Doug said. “How old is Marian?”

“Oh, now, you know I’m not allowed to answer that,” Bob said, conscious of still trying to lighten the moment.

“Why not? Nicole is forty,” Doug said. “How old is Marian? About the same?”

“About the same,” Bob conceded.

“Sex still good with her?” Doug asked.

Bob felt himself twitch. What the hell made Doug think that up out of nowhere?

“Well, is it?” Doug asked as though he couldn’t understand why Bob wasn’t willing to answer the question.

“Well…” Bob didn’t know what to say.

“I imagine it is,” Doug said. “She’s a hell of a fine-looking woman.”

Bob didn’t care for the direction Doug had taken the conversation but he said, “Yes. She is.”

“Nicole and I had a great sex life,” Doug said. “We screwed like maniacs. She used to really get turned on by being handcuffed to our bed and raped.”

“How nice.” Bob knew it was an inappropriate response but couldn’t think of anything else to say. Like maniacs, eh? Handcuffs and rape? By Jove, good show.

Doug didn’t seem to notice the inappropriateness of his reply. Or chose to pay no attention to it. “I can’t say I blame her for feeling the way she does,” he said. “Most actors’ marriages are wrecked by the conflict between career needs and marriage needs. Actors have less time to devote to their marriages than almost any other group of men. The woman who marries an actor has to pretty much dedicate her life to her husband’s profession. Not easy.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Bob said. He wouldn’t say anything about how difficult it also was for a woman to be married to a writer.

“Add to that,” Doug continued, “actors are exposed to more opportunities to fool around than other men. Actresses—I refuse to call them actors—almost expect actors to make a move on them. It’s part of the fucking game—and I do mean fucking.”

Bob had to admit to himself that Doug had more insight than he gave him credit for. For a few moments, he felt a sense of strange ambivalence. Here they were, lying in the dark wilderness, discussing things no primitive man ever discussed—or thought of for that matter. It was as though they were contemporary men lying in an ancient, timeless environment.

“Ever cheat on Marian?” Doug asked, instantly demolishing the odd ambivalence.

For Christ’s sake, are we having a goddamn sex seminar here? Bob thought.

“No,” he said.

“Oh, come on,” Doug said, totally dubious. “Never?”

“I had the opportunities. I didn’t take them,” Bob answered.

“Jesus,” Doug said. “Assuming that you’re telling the truth, you must have gone spiritual at a damned early age.”

“It has nothing to do with being spiritual,” Bob said. “It’s a matter of loyalty. Respect.”

“Yeah. I suppose,” Doug responded. He made an amused sound. “I guess you know it was my catting around that made Nicole divorce me.”

“Well, I—”

“Also because my career was going down the toilet, of course,” Doug said bitterly. “I wasn’t making enough money for the bitch.”

Bob winced. So much for Doug’s insight, he thought. I want to go to sleep, not listen to this.

“Ever think about going to bed with a man?” Doug asked.

Bob stiffened. Oh, my Christ, he thought.

Doug seemed to know what he was feeling because he snickered and patted Bob on the shoulder. “Relax,” he said, “I didn’t bring you all the way up here just to make a move on you.”

Bob’s breath shook before he could answer. “Glad to hear it,” he muttered.

“Well, I saw how uptight you were before when I was bathing and I thought maybe it was a problem for you.”

“No.” Bob wished his voice didn’t sound so faint. What the hell brought all this on? he wondered.

“I did it a few times when I was about twenty,” Doug said casually. “Then I decided that I liked pussy a hell of a lot more.”

Bully for you, Bob thought.

“Well…” Doug clucked. “We’d better get some sleep. Here.”

Bob twitched as something landed on his chest. Opening his eyes, he saw that it was an energy bar.

“I already brushed my teeth,” he said.

“Eat it anyway,” Doug told him. “Help to keep you warm.”

Bob grunted, then, obediently, ate the energy bar, visualizing the nuts and peanut butter in between his teeth all night. He’d get out of the sleeping bag and out of the tent and brush his teeth again if he wasn’t so tired.

“Here,” Doug said.

He took what Doug was holding out: a twig. “More protein?” he said.

“No,” Doug said as though Bob really thought that. “Clean your teeth with it.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, good night,” Doug said, closing his eyes and sighing. “Long day tomorrow,” he added.

Bob made a face, crossing his eyes. Looking forward to it, an insincere voice remarked in his head.

10:31 PM

Good God, he thought. He would have sworn that, by now, he’d be sleeping like a dead man. Conversation before with Doug had seemed in doubt because of his exhaustion. Now Doug was asleep, it was quiet, and here he was still awake.

Quiet? he thought. It sounded as though half the wildlife in the forest was prowling around—in search of food no doubt. He saw now the value of Doug suspending their food from that limb. At one point, he heard something clawing at, he assumed, the trunk of the tree the food was hanging from. What had it been? A raccoon, he hoped, not a grizzly bear. No, Doug had said there were no grizzly bears in this area. Black bears though. Their claws and teeth were just as rending as those of a grizzly. He’d lain in rigid silence, trusting that the creature, whatever it was, would get discouraged presently and move on, which it did.

Little noises persisted though. Crackling, snapping, gnawing sounds. Mice? He hoped so. He visualized them crawling in and out of his backpack pockets, scavenging for food. Well, it’s their territory, he told himself. We’re the interlopers. It didn’t help to alleviate his uneasiness.

But it was more than prowling critters that kept him awake; he was well aware of that. His side ached. He’d taken a Tylenol for that—and for his scraped palm that seemed to alternate between itching and hurting. He didn’t dare scratch it though; that would only make it worse. And he was extremely tired. His entire body seemed to ache, mostly his legs. I need to rest! he thought in angry desperation. Why couldn’t he?

Two reasons, his mind told him, one physical, one mental—or was it emotional? It could very well be.

First of all, he wasn’t sure that, physically, he was going to manage this hike. It was only the end of the first day and already he felt as though he’d gone through a round with Mike Tyson. What if he, literally, conked out before the hike was completed? Hell, before it was half completed? What could he do, ask Doug to carry him to the cabin? Sure, absolutely.

And yet they couldn’t go back. What good would that do? So they made the spot where they’d started out. Then what? Wait for a car to pick them up? It was October. Traffic was not likely to be too heavy. They’d seen one car after they’d reached the park.

Anyway, he couldn’t bear the thought of how Doug would look at him if he quit now.

Doug.

That was the second thing, of course, and more than arguably the worst one.

To be honest with himself—and he was trying to be—he wasn’t sure about Doug. He was pretty rough on me today, he thought. Endless little digs and criticisms, all unnecessary. Bob had made it clear from the start that he was uneasy about the hike. He wanted to do it very much, he’d made that clear too. It would make his novel more authentic if he’d taken a backpack trip personally. But uneasy? Yes, he was. Not a problem, Doug had assured him. They’d take it easy, be in no rush. It wouldn’t be that difficult.

No rush? he thought. Then why had Doug left him alone to hurry on and get the campsite ready? He must have known—he must have—that it would be unnerving for him. But he’d done it anyway. And, by God, it had been unnerving. An arrow made of stones? How the hell did Doug expect him to see that in the shadowy gloom of the forest?

But it was more than that, again of course. It was Doug’s personality. They’d never spent more than a day or two together—and that always in the company of Nicole and Marian.

Three days—possibly four alone with Doug? He realized that he didn’t know Doug well at all. And there had been hints—more than hints—clear signs—of aspects in Doug’s behavior that, frankly, made him nervous. What, actually, was going on in Doug’s head? That he was embittered had become more than clear. He’d always known that Doug had felt frustrated about the lack of real success in his acting career.

Now he realized—he’d only suspected it before—that Doug was also bitter about his divorce from Nicole. Even though Nicole had had every reason to divorce him because of Doug’s—openly admitted—numerous infidelities. He knew that Doug had a pretty shaky relationship with his daughter. And as for Artie… Well, he hoped the subject never came up again.

Did Doug resent him? Clearly, his words had made it obvious that Doug envied him. But was the envy verging on the border of dislike, perhaps intense dislike? Why had Doug brought up the idea of him being lucky because of his career, his marriage, his parenthood? Why call it luck? He’d earned it with hard work and dedication. Goddamn it, he thought, was Doug going to make the next three days a penance for him? Doug had all the trump cards in his hand. He could make the entire hike a nightmare if he chose to—and all in the name of being Bob’s “guide and protector.”

He was aware of how knotted his stomach muscles felt. God damn it, he wished he could take a Valium.

Then reaction set in. Don’t be so damn melodramatic, he told himself. So Doug might be a pain in the ass for a few days. Period. By the end of the week, he and Marian would be home with all this angst forgotten. End of story.

It seemed to help. He closed his eyes and started to use fractional hypnosis on himself, starting with his stomach muscles. Your stomach muscles are relaxed, relaxed. All tension gone. Relaxed. Relaxed.

Just before he drifted into sleep, he heard the distant howling of a coyote. The wilderness speaking, he thought with a faint smile. Canis latrans, he remembered reading somewhere. “Barking dog.”

Darkness soon enveloped him.