From Grangeville, it was a good forty-minute drive, weather permitting, to the No Return turnoff. Three-quarters of the scenic trip cut smack through the interior of the Bitterroot Wilderness Area, always a popular route among tourists during the warmer months. Highway 12 paralleled very nearly the path the famous Lewis and Clark expedition followed over the Lolo Trail almost two centuries earlier, led by the celebrated Native American woman, Sacajawea, a Shoshone Indian. From the two-lane roadway, the scanning eye could pick out the Lochsa River, East Peak, Grave Peak, and Round Top Mountain, each beautiful and majestic in its own right, but taken together, the quartet encompassed some of the most pristine and scenic wilderness land in the lower forty-eight states, and certainly the least populated.
Jason eased off the accelerator as he approached the road sign—NO RETURN:TEN MILES. The concrete became asphalt and he turned south, entering a stand of forest so thick and dense, he felt like he was driving through a green tunnel. The smell of spruce and pine hung heavy in the air and the treetop canopy made sunglasses, even on a clear day, unnecessary. High up along the crests of rimrock, the winter snow pack had yet to recede above five thousand feet, making it difficult to picture spring knocking at nature’s door. Jason could still pick out isolated patches of snow and ice in shaded spots back in the trees.
He slowed the Jeep Cherokee to under twenty, a safe speed for negotiating the sharp hairpin curves. Six years ago he would have had trouble making this leg of the journey alone. The psychiatric journals labeled his condition a post-traumatic stress disorder—DSM code 309.81. The essential feature, as the doctors had explained, was the development of characteristic symptoms—perspiring, chest pain, hyperventilation—following the exposure to an extreme traumatic stressor. Helplessly lying on your back while your ten-year-old son was mauled to death certainly qualified. His condition was classified as chronic but as the counselors had intimated, he was making progress every year. As far as he was concerned he was almost back to his old self. As long as he had the alcohol to mitigate any residual guilt and bitterness, hell, he could consider himself a bona fide grizzly bear survivor. An exclusive club, indeed. The line to join was pretty damn short.
And costly, too. After the near fatal mauling, Jason was airlifted to a trauma center in Boise where a highly trained team of surgeons and infectious disease specialists performed a succession of minor medical miracles in getting his damaged muscles, tendons, blood vessels, and nerves back together again. The physical scars would be with him for a lifetime as would a permanent limp.
After Timmy’s death, Jenny, his ex, had blamed Jason, Jason had blamed himself, and the relationship had flown south at warp speed. Jason never even hired an attorney, instead leaving most everything they’d owned jointly—car, savings, stocks—to Jenny, with the exception of their house. When she moved back to Texas he bought out her interest in their small home and now all that remained of their shattered marriage was a holiday card she managed to send each Christmas.
At least last year, she’d signed the card.
The Jeep Cherokee took a sudden dip and No Return miraculously appeared below him no different than the fictional Brigadoon. With a resident population of 1,500, swelling to close to 3,000 during the peak summer months, the town was nestled in a lush valley, sandwiched between Grand Peak and a lesser sister peak. During the warmer months, the tourists loved the abundant hiking trials and miles of crystal-clear waterways offering white-water rafting, trout fishing, and swimming. Skiing and snowmobiling were king and queen at wintertime. Camping, hunting, and trapping occurred year-round for the weathered outdoors person.
Jason slowed while a camper with California plates pulled into one of No Return’s two gas stations, then shifted around the out-of-stater. He drove past the Stargazer and Hunter’s Peak, a pair of two local inns offering comfortable accommodations for every season. The main street was crowded, even for a Wednesday afternoon; he saw kids on bicycles and scooters, hikers with backpacks waiting for No Return’s jitney system (one refurbished yellow bus purchased from the school district in Grangeville) to transport them to particular drop-off points, and shoppers with dogs on leashes bombarding a string of novelty shops.
Approaching the outskirts of town, he swung into a gravel lot. The large wood sign declared the two-story log structure to be the Lodgepole Pine Inn, the least popular of No Return’s three hotels, but Jason’s favorite. Annexed to the inn was a tavern, christened appropriately The Lodgepole.
Jason parked. Even before turning off the ignition he felt an involuntary tightening of his chest muscles. He’d always had this sort of sixth sense when something portentous was about to manifest itself, and this was one of those times.
He had experienced it at various stages of an early boxing career—usually before a tough loss. Then later, after he’d retired, when he’d been on the trail of a lost woman hiker, who eventually expired from a fall and subsequent hypothermia. And again prior to being ambushed by the grizzly. This same sense of impending doom engulfed him now. He attributed this most recent episode to a recrudescence from being on old Clarksdale property, his Achilles heel. Real nightmares never really died, they just festered. And like the other episodes, he knew this one would pass, too. He also knew what would help it pass.
Jason waited for his pulse to settle, then crossed the lot and entered the bar.