thought. I'm putting the plastic bag in my pack, isn't that good enough?
The knowledge that he was all alone in the wilderness with Doug was, to say the least, discomfiting, to say the most, unnerving. Doug, it became more and more obvious, was a loner. He obviously needed to be given his separate "space" now and then. He didn't ask for it, just subsided into silence and walked ahead. Most likely, he already regretted having made his offer to guide Bob through the hike. Obviously, he preferred being on his own, responsible to no one but himself, enjoying solitude, not required to interact with anyone, least of all the total novice Bob was.
Had he done it only to keep the channels open between them in case a role came up that Bob could recommend him for? He was beginning to think that was the case. They had never really had much in common, very little grounds for conversation.
Still . . . he had to remember that Doug was doing him a favor. Not enjoying it, God knows, he thought— but doing it nonetheless.
So just sweat it out, Hansen, he ordered himself. Keep up your spirits. Be of good cheer.
Endure.
He didn't want to but he finally had to speak.
"Doug?" he said.
Doug kept moving through the underbrush as though he hadn't heard. Was it possible that he hadn't heard? He certainly preferred that possibility to thinking that Doug had heard and was ignoring him.
"Doug!" He felt awkward shouting, but at the same time he wanted Doug to know the urgency of his call.
Doug stopped but didn't turn. Was there a look of irritated disbelief on his face? Was he thinking: Oh, for Christ's sake, now what?
Then he turned, his expression unreadable. He said nothing.
"I'd really like to stop and rest and have that cup of coffee now," Bob told him.
The deliberate way in which Doug lifted his left arm and pushed back his jacket sleeve to look at his wristwatch made his reaction obvious.
"I know it hasn't even been two hours yet," Bob said.
"It hasn't even been an hour and a half," Doug answered.
Bob sighed. Not another painful exchange, please, he thought. He knew he couldn't just be polite. Doug had to know how he felt.
"I'm in rotten shape, you said so yourself," he said firmly. "I need to rest. I need that cup of coffee. I'm sorry if I'm being a burden but give me a break."
Doug's expression eased and he gestured mollifyingly. "All right, all right," he said. "I'm not paying attention. I'm used to moving fast. We'll stop."
"Thank you." Bob nodded. Bless you, sir, and all your kin, he thought. No, stay away from that, he reminded himself.
To his surprise, Doug turned back and started forward again. What the hell? Bob thought. Has he changed his mind already?
Several minutes later, Doug reached a small clearing in the forest and stopped. He was sitting with his pack propped on a small fallen tree by the time Bob reached him.
"Don't step on that scat," he said.
"Scat."
"Coyote shit." Doug pointed at the ground.
"Oh. Thanks for telling me." Coyotes, Bob thought. No point in expressing uneasiness about them; Doug would only tell him he was being paranoid.
With a grateful groan, he sank down heavily and propped his backpack on the same fallen tree so that he and Doug were sitting side by side. "Feels good," he muttered, thinking: That's the understatement of the week.
"Look up on that hill," Doug said, pointing.
Bob looked in that direction, tensing slightly at the sight of a black bear sitting on its haunches, eating something.
"What's it eating, another backpacker?" he said.
Doug snickered. "Who knows?" he replied. "Could be anything— nuts, berries, insects, maybe a squirrel. Could even be tree bark, they'll eat that too."
"That their usual diet?" Bob asked.
"Hell, no," Doug said disgustedly. "Their usual diet is discarded hamburger buns, fruit, cookies, candy, anything stupid backpackers leave out in the open."
Bob nodded grimly, looking up at the bear.
"Does he know we're here?" he asked.
"I don't think so,"
The knowledge that he was all alone in the wilderness with Doug was, to say the least, discomfiting, to say the most, unnerving. Doug, it became more and more obvious, was a loner. He obviously needed to be given his separate "space" now and then. He didn't ask for it, just subsided into silence and walked ahead. Most likely, he already regretted having made his offer to guide Bob through the hike. Obviously, he preferred being on his own, responsible to no one but himself, enjoying solitude, not required to interact with anyone, least of all the total novice Bob was.
Had he done it only to keep the channels open between them in case a role came up that Bob could recommend him for? He was beginning to think that was the case. They had never really had much in common, very little grounds for conversation.
Still . . . he had to remember that Doug was doing him a favor. Not enjoying it, God knows, he thought— but doing it nonetheless.
So just sweat it out, Hansen, he ordered himself. Keep up your spirits. Be of good cheer.
Endure.
He didn't want to but he finally had to speak.
"Doug?" he said.
Doug kept moving through the underbrush as though he hadn't heard. Was it possible that he hadn't heard? He certainly preferred that possibility to thinking that Doug had heard and was ignoring him.
"Doug!" He felt awkward shouting, but at the same time he wanted Doug to know the urgency of his call.
Doug stopped but didn't turn. Was there a look of irritated disbelief on his face? Was he thinking: Oh, for Christ's sake, now what?
Then he turned, his expression unreadable. He said nothing.
"I'd really like to stop and rest and have that cup of coffee now," Bob told him.
The deliberate way in which Doug lifted his left arm and pushed back his jacket sleeve to look at his wristwatch made his reaction obvious.
"I know it hasn't even been two hours yet," Bob said.
"It hasn't even been an hour and a half," Doug answered.
Bob sighed. Not another painful exchange, please, he thought. He knew he couldn't just be polite. Doug had to know how he felt.
"I'm in rotten shape, you said so yourself," he said firmly. "I need to rest. I need that cup of coffee. I'm sorry if I'm being a burden but give me a break."
Doug's expression eased and he gestured mollifyingly. "All right, all right," he said. "I'm not paying attention. I'm used to moving fast. We'll stop."
"Thank you." Bob nodded. Bless you, sir, and all your kin, he thought. No, stay away from that, he reminded himself.
To his surprise, Doug turned back and started forward again. What the hell? Bob thought. Has he changed his mind already?
Several minutes later, Doug reached a small clearing in the forest and stopped. He was sitting with his pack propped on a small fallen tree by the time Bob reached him.
"Don't step on that scat," he said.
"Scat."
"Coyote shit." Doug pointed at the ground.
"Oh. Thanks for telling me." Coyotes, Bob thought. No point in expressing uneasiness about them; Doug would only tell him he was being paranoid.
With a grateful groan, he sank down heavily and propped his backpack on the same fallen tree so that he and Doug were sitting side by side. "Feels good," he muttered, thinking: That's the understatement of the week.
"Look up on that hill," Doug said, pointing.
Bob looked in that direction, tensing slightly at the sight of a black bear sitting on its haunches, eating something.
"What's it eating, another backpacker?" he said.
Doug snickered. "Who knows?" he replied. "Could be anything— nuts, berries, insects, maybe a squirrel. Could even be tree bark, they'll eat that too."
"That their usual diet?" Bob asked.
"Hell, no," Doug said disgustedly. "Their usual diet is discarded hamburger buns, fruit, cookies, candy, anything stupid backpackers leave out in the open."
Bob nodded grimly, looking up at the bear.
"Does he know we're here?" he asked.
"I don't think so,"
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