Nella
“Four hundred twenty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents, please.”
I wince at the price tag as I pull out my credit card, and remind myself this is for Pippa.
It’s not that I’m without means, but I have my share of the inheritance and a good chunk of savings tied up in investments. I’m simply used to living a frugal life on a precise budget. Which means no lavish vacations, fancy hotels, or reckless shopping.
However, as the friendly camper at the Timberlane Campground so kindly pointed out, I would need appropriate gear if I intended to head into the mountains.
Yesterday was wasted, hitting up another couple of RV resorts and campgrounds near town. Talking to a manager if I could find one, or otherwise any campers I came across. Pippa’s picture I printed out was already getting grungy from all the different hands it passed through.
I’d connected with local police again, who didn’t have anything new to report.
Then today I got the break I’d been hoping for. A nice lady the motel breakfast bar this morning mentioned the Timberlane Campground about half an hour north of town on Pipe Creek Road. She mentioned staying there with a trailer a few times when her husband was still alive. She’s in town to visit a daughter who lives here, but opts for the motel these days.
I headed out right after breakfast and ended up spending a large chunk of the day there. Unfortunately, I had to wait until noon to speak to Chuck Yates, the manager, but he was extremely helpful.
Yes, Pippa had stayed here for three nights and left August twenty-sixth, however, Chuck wasn’t sure where she was heading. He hadn’t seen her leave, but pointed me in the direction of a trailer parked in the site across from her.
Betsy Waters had been in that same spot for the past three weeks and not only remembered my sister, but recalled a conversation they had around boondocking on Scenery Mountain. She helped me mark up my map with the possible dispersed camping spots she discussed with Pippa and offered to help me look.
Given that the woman is at least in her seventies and firmly in the claws of arthritis—judging by the misshapen joints in her hands—I thought it prudent to kindly decline. She did, however, point out I would need sturdier clothes to be clambering through the wilderness.
Hence my costly visit to the Libby Sports Center, where I was able to find everything from hiking boots to bear spray. I added in a sleeping bag, a blow-up air mattress, a small bottle-top propane burner, and the cheapest camping cookware I could find. This was after seeing a poster advertising van camping. Sure, the van in the picture was modified, but I’m sure I can make it work if I take out the back seat.
It’s already past dinnertime and my stomach is rumbling when I lug my bags to the van and drive back to the motel. The plan had been to extend my reservation, but I figure I can save a bit of money and time if I simply camp up on the mountain.
The open sign is still on the office door so I stop out front and dart inside. Martha looks up from the computer.
“Checking out early?” she asks.
“I’m not leaving until tomorrow morning, but if I could settle up now, that would be wonderful.”
“No problem.” She pulls up my bill and prints it out. “Ready to head home?”
“Not quite yet,” I tell her, realizing I never mentioned the reason for my visit to Libby. “My sister went missing. She was last seen in this area a week and a half ago.”
Martha’s face instantly shows concern.
“Oh dear, that’s dreadful. I’m sorry, I had no idea. Did she live here?”
“No, just visiting. She was traveling in her motorhome and stopped here on her way home. She never made it.”
“Oh dear,” she mutters again. “And I’ve heard some horrible stories of women traveling alone.”
I can feel the blood draining from my face. I’ve heard those stories as well but have managed to keep my mind from going in that direction. At least until now.
Martha clues in she may have said something insensitive and claps her hand over her mouth.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry, that was terribly insensitive of me.”
I force a smile. “Not to worry. In any event, I still have a few leads I’d like to follow up on.”
“You’re welcome to stay longer,” she responds. “The room is available until this coming Saturday.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m heading into the mountains and will be sleeping in my van. I just need to find a place to store the rear bench to make room.”
Martha’s face lights up, maybe eager to help because of her earlier faux pas.
“You’re welcome to store it in my shed. My son keeps a few tools in there but other than that it’s empty and dry. In fact, he can probably take it out for you. Those things can be heavy.”
I’ve seen a friendly young man around, maybe early twenties, coming from the residence behind the office early in the morning.
“I wouldn’t want to impose on you, or him,” I quickly add.
“Nonsense. He’s just finishing up dinner, let me get him now. That way you can leave at your leisure in the morning.”
She wasn’t going to take no for an answer and twenty minutes later my bench is safely stored in the shed on the side of the property, and Wyatt—Martha’s son—is blowing up my air mattress with his compressor. A lot faster than filling it by mouth, which is what I’d intended to do.
Wyatt had kindly offered a bucket for my nightly needs, as he put it, and told me to grab any toilet paper rolls from my room. I hadn’t even thought about that, and as it turned out, about a lot of other standard things. By the time I thanked Wyatt and bid him goodnight, I had another comprehensive list of things I might need. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll have to make a few stops in town before heading up to Scenery Mountain.
By the time I have everything packed away in the van, it’s after nine and I don’t have energy left to cook. I wolf down a quick peanut butter sandwich before hopping in the shower. It may be a while before I have that luxury again.
Clean but exhausted I roll into bed, yet sleep doesn’t come easy.
My mind is bouncing in all directions. Imagining horrible outcomes for my sister, second-guessing my plans to head out there without any experience, and an unreasonable anger toward the police and Fletcher Boone for not taking me seriously.
I’m not sure how, but it’s clear I’ll have to find Pippa myself. One way or another.
I had no idea how tough it would be going up some of these logging roads. Of course I’d learned my lesson getting stuck in the mud earlier in the week so at times I was going slower than molasses, but then I’d suddenly encounter a steep incline and would have to floor it to get up.
My nerves are getting a workout.
So far, I’ve found only two of the five spots Betsy Waters marked on my map. One was a narrow cutout along a creek with beautiful views, but it had been occupied by a young couple with two dogs and a tent trailer who had been in that spot for almost two weeks already. I showed them Pippa’s picture, but neither of them recognized her or the camper.
No one was in the second spot on the map. A large open space at the end of the dirt road. I presume it was used to load and turn around logging trucks. There were still a few large logs lying beside a pile of gravel. A discarded bucket, a few empty water bottles, and an old oil drum were left behind as well.
I took my time there, looking around the clearing first for any signs of recent occupation before I decided to out my propane burner to boil some water for tea and had something easy for lunch. Then I stuffed a few things in my new pack, clipped my bear spray to my belt just in case, and explored some of the surrounding woods.
I found nothing. Not that that’s saying a lot, I’ll readily admit I’m not exactly qualified, but I have a healthy dose of common sense and I’m not stupid. Still, I wish I at least had a second pair of eyes.
Maybe I’ll try Mr. Boone one more time.
But when I grab my phone, I notice I have no reception.
Wonderful.
Already the light is waning when I make my way up yet another logging road. I’m going to have to find a spot to park soon, because as nerve-wracking as it is to drive these narrow trails in the daytime, I don’t even want to contemplate trying this in the dark.
From the satellite views I looked at over breakfast, there are a total of four clear-cut areas on this road. I’ve already passed two and hope to make my way to the farthest one today. But when I pass the third clearing on my right, I catch sight of something and stop the van to get a better look.
Standing on the running board I’m able to see over the roof. Grazing on the far side of the open space up against the tree line is a small herd of about a dozen bighorn sheep.
Not the first time I’ve seen them, we have plenty up in the Canadian Rockies as well, but the only time I encounter them there is when they venture close to civilization. Out here I’m on their turf, and suddenly the sight of them strikes me with awe.
I allow myself a moment to take them in before the fading sunlight pushes me on. But as I get back behind the wheel, I feel I have a bit more insight into what draws my sister to these remote locations.
I don’t have to go far, maybe two minutes, before the trail comes to an end and the trees once again open up. About three or four feet of new growth covers most of the clearing here except for the rock shield right in front of me. Roughly the size of a tennis court, I imagine it was used as a staging area for loggers.
Disappointment has my stomach churning—no motorhome. But then I notice what looks like a firepit made with rocks and a small pile of firewood stacked by its side; my heart starts racing in my chest.
I drive over and get out of the van. The firepit holds ashes and a half-burned log. Someone was here recently and my gut tells me it was Pippa, but where is she now?
Dammit, Pippa, where the hell did you go?
Already the trees look dark and foreboding and I know it won’t take long for the last strands of daylight to disappear. First order of business is to get a fire going. I’ve never built one before, but I’ve seen plenty of pictures.
It takes me half an hour, but I finally get it going. Sitting in the folding chair I had the foresight to buy, eating the canned chili I heated on my propane burner, and staring into the flames, I feel oddly accomplished. Pippa would be proud of me, stepping out of my comfort zone.
Thinking of her makes tears burn my eyes and forces my mind into a different direction. Unfortunately, it picks the dark, brooding man I spoke with a few nights ago. Guilt immediately follows because I didn’t try hard enough for my sister, who always warned me pride would be my downfall.
It startled me when I realized it had been him trying to get a hold of me. I’d been disappointed when all he’d been interested in was who passed on his name. Maybe I should’ve begged for his help, but didn’t want more disappointment so I ended the phone call before he could.
A rustling sound comes from my right and I snap my head around. The orange glow from the dwindling fire only serves to intensify the black shadows in the tree line beyond. A tendril of fear slithers down my spine as I strain to hear.
There. Another rustle.
Something is moving through the trees.
My hand moves to my belt for the bear spray, but comes up empty. I left it inside the van when I was opening the can of chili.
Shit.
The loud crack of a branch has me jump to my feet, and make a run for the van, my dinner still in my hand.
Fletch
“No luck?”
I glare as Sully walks toward me.
Today was a bust again.
I’d been tracking a small herd yesterday but lost daylight and this morning they were gone. When I moved to another spot on top of a ridge I spotted eight or nine rams feeding at the bottom, but they were mostly small. They took off before I could get close enough to really look them over.
I wasn’t able to get anything large enough in my spotting scope to waste an arrow on. Don’t like the idea of taking down a young one—they don’t have enough meat on them yet—but at this rate, I may have to. It would really fucking suck if I didn’t have anything to show for that prized tag.
“Thinking of taking up fishing,” I grumble, drawing a chuckle from Sully who claps me on the shoulder.
“You’ve got a week left yet. You’ll get one. Of course, you can always let me tag along. I could put the drone up and spot you a good ram from the air in no time.”
“Fuck off,” I growl.
Sully isn’t in the least intimidated and laughs as he continues to his cottage, still limping some from an injury he sustained in the spring.
Bastard. He knows damn well I don’t like cutting corners. You can also draw game to a spot by feeding them, or lob a damn grenade into a herd and call it a kill, but that’s cheating. Only way I like to hunt is fair, one-on-one. Except, so far, the bighorn are getting the best of me.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll check out the area Ewing mentioned the other day. South of Cedar Creek up on Scenery Mountain. I haven’t been up there much—my usual hunting grounds are a bit farther north—but maybe it’s time for a change.
I may know just the spot.