been
washed away during a river crossing, he was more or less totally screwed.
George unzipped
the right front pocket of his insulated hunting jacket and pulled out his cell
phone for what he guessed might be about the two hundredth time in the last two
days, knowing what he would see when he powered it up but doing so anyway. The
device clicked and whirred, eventually awakening from its slumber and informing
George that, so sorry, there was still no cell coverage in this part of the
God-forsaken northern Maine woods, and furthermore, its battery was getting
dangerously low, so if he wished to make a call, this might be a good goddamned
time to do it. He cursed under his breath. The damn thing was about as useful
to him as the broken GPS. Two electronic paperweights.
His hands were
shaking as he shoved the cell phone back into his pocket and re-zipped it. He
had only removed his gloves for a couple of minutes, and his fingers were
already stiffening and losing feeling. Dammit, it was cold!
George stopped in
a small clearing and tried to get his bearings, knowing it was pointless but
not having the faintest clue what else to do. The lowering sky was a dark grey,
almost black; the sun a distant memory even though it was the middle of the
day. Orienting himself direction-wise was a no go. The drizzle which had fallen
pretty much constantly since, incredibly, just about the exact moment his GPS
had given up the ghost was now increasing in intensity from a soft mist to a
steady, slanting rain. The temperature was falling, too, and George knew he
needed to find shelter and hole up until the weather cleared.
He had been
walking nonstop for almost two days now and exhaustion hung on him like a
cloak. Conventional outdoor wisdom dictated that when someone got lost they
should stay in one place and wait for help, but George knew while that was good
advice for a twelve-year-old who had become disoriented during a Boy Scout
hike, it would do nothing to help him in his present situation. No one knew he
had even come here, and as far as George could remember from his map book
before it decided to go for a swim and never return, there was only one small
town within twenty miles in any direction, so the chances of some random hiker
or hunter stumbling upon him and helping him out of this mess were pretty slim.
Almost nonexistent, when it came right down to brass tacks.
That being the
case, George figured he might just as well keep moving. Maybe he would get
lucky and stumble upon the little hamlet, and if he didn’t, well, he would be
no worse off walking when the sun finally came out than he would have been had
he stayed in one place. Either way, if he didn’t find that town, he was going
to have some serious hiking to do once he was able to determine which way was
south.
But now, hungry,
tired, depressed and drenched, with a steadily lowering body temperature as an
added bonus, George Hooper decided the number one priority was to seek shelter
and wait out the rest of the storm, at least until he could get warm and dry.
But where? Most of the trees in this thickly forested area were towering pines,
their branches sagging from the weight of all the water collecting on their
needles the past two days. Perhaps he could burrow under the branches toward
the middle of one of the mammoth firs in the hopes of finding some dry ground.
George looked
around for the most likely tree to begin burrowing into, and as he did, he
again glanced up at the dark sky, at the clouds roiling high above the
treetops. His breath caught in his throat as his brain at first refused to
believe what his eyes were telling him. He stared without moving for a good
sixty seconds at a thin column of smoke rising above the forest and
disappearing into the rain and mist. A fire!
Whether the smoke
was coming from a fireplace or a campfire or a cook stove, George had no way of
knowing, but one thing he did know was that someone was near, and if
someone was near then that
washed away during a river crossing, he was more or less totally screwed.
George unzipped
the right front pocket of his insulated hunting jacket and pulled out his cell
phone for what he guessed might be about the two hundredth time in the last two
days, knowing what he would see when he powered it up but doing so anyway. The
device clicked and whirred, eventually awakening from its slumber and informing
George that, so sorry, there was still no cell coverage in this part of the
God-forsaken northern Maine woods, and furthermore, its battery was getting
dangerously low, so if he wished to make a call, this might be a good goddamned
time to do it. He cursed under his breath. The damn thing was about as useful
to him as the broken GPS. Two electronic paperweights.
His hands were
shaking as he shoved the cell phone back into his pocket and re-zipped it. He
had only removed his gloves for a couple of minutes, and his fingers were
already stiffening and losing feeling. Dammit, it was cold!
George stopped in
a small clearing and tried to get his bearings, knowing it was pointless but
not having the faintest clue what else to do. The lowering sky was a dark grey,
almost black; the sun a distant memory even though it was the middle of the
day. Orienting himself direction-wise was a no go. The drizzle which had fallen
pretty much constantly since, incredibly, just about the exact moment his GPS
had given up the ghost was now increasing in intensity from a soft mist to a
steady, slanting rain. The temperature was falling, too, and George knew he
needed to find shelter and hole up until the weather cleared.
He had been
walking nonstop for almost two days now and exhaustion hung on him like a
cloak. Conventional outdoor wisdom dictated that when someone got lost they
should stay in one place and wait for help, but George knew while that was good
advice for a twelve-year-old who had become disoriented during a Boy Scout
hike, it would do nothing to help him in his present situation. No one knew he
had even come here, and as far as George could remember from his map book
before it decided to go for a swim and never return, there was only one small
town within twenty miles in any direction, so the chances of some random hiker
or hunter stumbling upon him and helping him out of this mess were pretty slim.
Almost nonexistent, when it came right down to brass tacks.
That being the
case, George figured he might just as well keep moving. Maybe he would get
lucky and stumble upon the little hamlet, and if he didn’t, well, he would be
no worse off walking when the sun finally came out than he would have been had
he stayed in one place. Either way, if he didn’t find that town, he was going
to have some serious hiking to do once he was able to determine which way was
south.
But now, hungry,
tired, depressed and drenched, with a steadily lowering body temperature as an
added bonus, George Hooper decided the number one priority was to seek shelter
and wait out the rest of the storm, at least until he could get warm and dry.
But where? Most of the trees in this thickly forested area were towering pines,
their branches sagging from the weight of all the water collecting on their
needles the past two days. Perhaps he could burrow under the branches toward
the middle of one of the mammoth firs in the hopes of finding some dry ground.
George looked
around for the most likely tree to begin burrowing into, and as he did, he
again glanced up at the dark sky, at the clouds roiling high above the
treetops. His breath caught in his throat as his brain at first refused to
believe what his eyes were telling him. He stared without moving for a good
sixty seconds at a thin column of smoke rising above the forest and
disappearing into the rain and mist. A fire!
Whether the smoke
was coming from a fireplace or a campfire or a cook stove, George had no way of
knowing, but one thing he did know was that someone was near, and if
someone was near then that
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