by Ed Robinson
After an hour, I decided to crawl out of my hiding spot and try to get close enough to spot them. All the clothing I wore made it tougher to move like smoke, but I did my best. I had a way of gliding amongst the trees and rocks without making a sound. I put that skill to use and zeroed in on whoever was on the mountain with me. I heard them whisper again, and knew where they were. I still couldn’t see them, so I circled back a little so I could get up above them. I found just the right vantage point and spotted them as soon as they made the slightest movement.
I concealed myself and studied the two men with rifles below me. They were older than we had thought, probably in their late thirties. They were fit, but not built like mountain climbers. They’d shown good sound discipline on their way up the trail, other than the whispering. I took them to be healthy adult locals who’d grown up in these mountains. They’d be good in the woods, strong and agile, not afraid of the cold. Most likely didn’t have access to good hunting grounds. Poaching someone else’s property during hunting season would get them shot. They’d chosen to do their thing on protected land, outside of the legal season. They had families to feed and a mountain legacy to uphold. They weren’t much different from alligator poachers in the Everglades.
Twelve
One of the men had binoculars. I watched as he scanned the mountainside. I still hadn’t seen any deer that day. They settled in to wait. I’d been waiting all day, but had no choice but to sit still and keep on waiting. Two hours went by without a sign of a deer. The poachers got up and started to move. They hadn’t given up. They were relocating to another spot.
That meant I was on the move again too. My joints protested when I got up to walk. I’d been as still as a corpse for hours, and now my body didn’t want to cooperate. The cold had a lot to do with that, but age played a part as well. I willed myself into motion, ignoring the pain and stiffness. I couldn’t risk losing sight of the two illegal deer hunters. I also didn’t want them to realize they were being trailed.
I reverted to the techniques I’d learned from my friend, Pop. I was light on my feet and smooth with my motions. My eyes stayed ten steps ahead, finding trees and rocks to hide behind. I moved like smoke on a cold winter’s day, staying far enough behind to avoid detection, but close enough to know where the men were.
My targets moved stealthily as well, leaving the hiking trail to hunt the brush on the western slope of the mountain. They settled down in a rock outcropping and pulled out the binoculars again. Their new spot gave them a much wider view of the area. It also made it impossible for me to get any closer. I was lying down in dried out brown brush. If I moved at all, they’d spot me. It was time to wait again. I let myself relax and got comfortable on the frozen ground. I relied on my heightened sense of hearing to warn me of any change in the circumstance. I almost fell asleep, but the two men were on the move again.
I peered between the dead grass and saw one of them pointing even further to the west. They’d spotted a deer. It was down the hill so I couldn’t see it unless I stood up. I couldn’t do that until they moved away from my position. The second man raised his rifle and tried to zero in on his target. He didn’t pull the trigger. Either the animal was too far away, or it was moving too fast. They conferred briefly and took off at a trot in pursuit.
I took the opportunity to stand and stretch. I could barely see the deer. It was nothing but a blur of fur until I used my scope to sight it in. I saw a big buck, ten points or more, in the open but moving towards a stand of small trees. He hadn’t sensed the hunters yet, but if they kept jogging in his direction, he’d be alerted soon. I watched as the men slowed to a walk, occasionally using their scope to keep track of the buck. They were on the verge of having a decent shot, but they kept walking.
I didn’t have much cover, so I had to keep stopping to duck down behind whatever weeds or rocks I could find. The poachers had opened up a considerable gap between us. I didn’t run when they did, and they didn’t have to hide from anything but the deer. I located the police radio I’d been given. I expected to hear a shot at any minute. I was ready to radio in the kill and location. We were a long way from the parking lot. My cop pals would have plenty of time to get to the parking lot before the poachers could butcher their kill and hike back down.
No shot was fired. I was afraid to raise my head to see what was going on. Eventually, I had to. The men were even further away from me, and the buck had disappeared into the woods. It appeared that they were going in after it. I gave them time to reach the tree line before I got up to follow. I lost sight of them as a result. I took a direct line to the trees about a quarter-mile to their south. I could hide in the woods and find them in no time. My big advantage was that they didn’t know I was there.
I slid into the cover of the trees and turned back west. It didn’t take long to regain contact. The two men had spread out, and their rifles were at the ready. They thought the buck was nearby. They were quiet and smooth. I observed them make a military-style sweep of the area, and come up empty. The wily old buck had slipped away. I wanted to root for his escape, but I also wanted this mission to be over. Without a kill, it would only continue.
I stayed behind the poachers until they made it back to the clearing. They didn’t head back the way they came. Instead, they angled downward towards the parking lot. It was obvious they knew this part of the mountain well. I let them get far enough away for me to break my radio silence. I called the cops to bring them up to speed.
“I’ve been tracking two men for hours,” I said. “They went after a buck, but he got away without any shots fired.”
“You still on them?” came the reply.
“They went across a bald,” I said. “I’m out of touch at the moment, but I’ll pick them back up after they reach the woods.”
“Are they headed back down to the parking lot?”
“Looks that way,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t take a shot along the way.”
“They’ll run out of daylight soon,” he said. “Start working your way to the parking lot. We’ll pick you up after they leave.”
“On my way,” I said.
I hustled across the clearing towards the woods. I stopped in my tracks halfway across. I thought I caught a glimpse of the men on the edge of the trees. If they’d stopped to look out over the bald, I was busted. I dropped down in the grass and flattened myself on the ground. I wouldn’t expect them to shoot at me, but after the past few months up here in the mountains, I’d learned to expect the worst. So far, they were only guilty of carrying weapons in a restricted area. I hoped they wouldn’t add to their crimes by trying to kill me. I hoped they hadn’t seen me at all. Stick to deer, boys. The punishment is much less.
I lay there until almost dark. Finally, I got up my nerve and started to move towards the trees again. I saw no sign of the poachers. Once in the trees, I kept my movements in stealth mode anyway. Slowly I crept back down the trail to the edge of the parking area. There were no cars or trucks parked there.
“Come get me,” I said into the radio. “The day is done.”
While I waited for my ride, I kicked myself for losing the two men. I could have determined what they were driving. I could have gotten a better description to give the police, maybe even gotten a tag number. Instead, I’d blundered out in the open and possibly exposed my presence. If they’d spotted me, tracking them just got a whole lot harder. I was cold, tired and frustrated. I hadn’t anticipated this job being such a pain in the ass.
Rominger pulled up within ten minutes. He’d been close by all day, just waiting to hear from me. Thank God he brought hot coffee.
“Tough day at the office?” he asked.
“I saw them. I tracked them. They struck out,” I said. “Therefore, I guess I did too.”
“Did you see what they were driving?”
“No, damn it,” I said. “They may have made me. I’m not sure, but I had to lay low until I knew the coast was clear. They boogied out of he
re before I could get back on them.”
“Maybe I should have hidden a man in the woods by the parking lot,” he said. “Have another guy freezing his balls off for this deal.”
“That’s a brilliant idea that’s a day late,” I said. “Run their tags. Check them out. Send the WRC to their house to check the freezer.”
“We were focused on catching them in the act,” he said. “Turning out to be harder than we thought.”
“The deer had a say in that today,” I said. “They weren’t moving for some reason. I saw five or six the last time up there.”
“The old-timers say that means heavy snow,” he said. “Forecast calls for a few inches maybe.”
“I forgot to consult my Farmer’s Almanac,” I said. “But if the deer aren’t moving then there’s no point in trying to poach them. Those dudes won’t be back until conditions change.”
“How do you figure all this shit out?” he asked. “You’re not even from around here.”
“I had a life before Florida,” I told him. “It was full of hunting, fishing, and beer drinking. Poker at the firehouse on Friday nights. Horseshoes in the summertime. All men drove pickups, without exception. It’s not so foreign to me.”
“You’re just full of surprises,” he said. “So what’s our next move?”
“We need a good idea of what the weather is about to do,” I said. “Don’t you have a decent source for this kind of thing?”
“I’ll check Ray’s Weather down in Boone,” he said. “He’s usually got a good feel for special weather events.”
To my amazement, he fired up a laptop right there in his car. He clicked at the keys for a few minutes, played with the little pad that acted as a mouse, and produced a forecast.
“Ray says that the higher elevations will see a foot or more,” he said. “Maybe even eighteen inches. The weird thing is that the foothills will only get a few inches.”
“Hence the previous forecast,” I said. “I’m guessing the temperature will be right about freezing, except for up in the mountains.”
“That and some weird effect where the mountains wring the moisture out of a system,” he said. “Orographic lift it’s called.”
“I think I heard that term when those hurricanes threatened to make it to the mountains,” I said. “Didn’t really play out.”
“I guess it’s hard to predict,” he said. “But old Ray says it’s going to happen this time.”
“I better bring in some more wood and get the generator ready,” I said. “Take me home, James.”
Rominger told me to keep the radio so that I could call in after the weather improved. There’d be no chasing poachers for a few days. If they wanted to go up there in a blizzard, more power to them. By the time I got home, I was thoroughly pooped. Brody had a plate ready to microwave, but I put it off. My joints were threatening to seize up altogether. I thought that a long, hot bath would satisfy them. Brody was surprised, and a bit concerned because I never took baths. The big whirlpool tub that came with the cabin was her domain.
“You okay?” she asked. “What can I do?”
“Let me soak in the tub for a while,” I said. “I’ll eat later.”
After I submerged myself in the roiling hot water, I wondered why I didn’t do this more often. The heat and the weightlessness worked magic on my aching bones. I could have fallen asleep right there, but the water started to cool, and I had to get out. I came into the bedroom with a towel around my waist to find Brody waiting for me.
“Where’s it hurt?” she asked.
“Knees, hips, right shoulder, but mostly lower back.”
“Lie down,” she said. “Let me give you a massage.”
I obeyed her command. Who wouldn’t? Backrubs weren’t a normal thing for us, but I was certainly in the mood to be on the receiving end. She worked on my back with some warm oil until I could feel the stress leaving my body. She rubbed my shoulder for a bit, before asking me to turn over. The oil was put to a different use. In spite of my lack of vigor after a hard day, I was able to respond appropriately. Stress became a distant memory.
A hot meal put the capper on everything. I was asleep before nine. I didn’t even get to tell Brody about my day.
Thirteen
I felt much better in the morning. The bath and the rubdown worked wonders, but Brody was worried about me. She’d never seen me come limping home with assorted aches and pains.
“It’s the cold,” I told her. “This Florida boy isn’t used to it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t like to see you in pain. I know I agreed to you working like this, but there’s no reason you have to continue.”
“I’ll keep at it until I catch the guys or they tell me to quit.”
“Or they find your frozen corpse up on that mountain,” she said. “Sometime in the spring.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “If my body tells me to stop, I’ll listen.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said. “You’ll drive yourself past your limits if it means completing the mission.”
“It wouldn’t be an issue on a tropical island,” I said. “I don’t need a walker just yet.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “Pay heed to what your body is telling you. Don’t push it too hard.”
“As you witnessed last night,” I said. “All my parts are in good working order.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
Even though she was showing her love and concern for my well-being, I was secretly offended by her suggestion that I was getting old. Hell, I knew I was aging, but I was determined not to give in to it, not yet anyway. I was of the mind that if I did nothing but sit still, then age would creep up on me even faster. I was fifty-six years old. The last ten years had been marked by hard living. I kept myself fit though. I jogged in the sand and swam and never ate junk. Since moving to the mountains, I’d become an accomplished hiker. It was a different type of exercise, but I still felt physically capable. The air was thinner but cleaner. Brody fed me well. I wasn’t ready for the rocking chair, not even close.
The snow started falling that afternoon. Small flakes rained down in a torrent of white. The winds kicked up and swirled it around the holler like a cotton candy machine. Accumulation on the cold ground began immediately. It would be the first real snowfall of our new life. I had a snow shovel at the ready in the garage. I started the generator to warm it up in case we needed it. The cold weather clothes I’d been wearing were tumbling in the dryer. We had plenty of firewood and food. We were as ready as we could be.
I wasn’t a total stranger to snowstorms. I’d grown up on the Delmarva Peninsula where we had the occasional blizzard. I went to college in Frostburg, Maryland. The white stuff started coming down around Thanksgiving and didn’t stop until Easter. I recalled the orographic phenomenon that Rominger had mentioned. It was a five-hour drive from my dad’s place to school. There would be no snow on the ground during the entire trip. Once I started up Big Savage Mountain, suddenly it was a foot deep. His weather source was calling for the same thing to happen with this storm. Down in the valley might see an inch or two, but up at our cabin, it was going to get deep.
It came down all day and throughout the night — some sleet and freezing rain mixed in the next day, which was too much for some trees. They came down on power lines somewhere in the area, and we lost electricity. We were prepared. I opened the garage door, dragged the gennie outside and fired it up. I had fifteen gallons of ethanol free gas to keep it running for a while. I ran a heavy-duty extension cord up to the porch and through a window, which we sealed off with a towel. We put a power strip next to the heater and ran more cords to the fridge and some lamps.
Our odd set-up of gravity fed water from higher up on the mountain kept us flushing and washing our hands. We snuggled together on the couch with good books. As long as the gas held out, we’d be as comfortable as ever. We had wood to burn after that. This was part of mountain living that we’d acce
pted before we bought the place. Every once in a while we’d look out the window or go out on the porch to admire the beauty of it. The creek was the only thing that wasn’t covered in white. It babbled on as it always had, oblivious to the storm. Ice formed at its edges, but nothing could stop its flow.
The power stayed out for three full days. The generator quit just a few hours before it came back on. Now I knew that it burned roughly five gallons per day. I thought maybe I needed a few more gas cans for future events. We never got cold. Our food survived just fine. I didn’t run out of booze. Hell, that wasn’t so bad, I thought.
The thaw happened quickly. The temperature rose into the upper thirties, and the sun shone brightly. The creek became a boiling cauldron of runoff. Our neighbor, Richard, had plowed the drive up to the blacktop road. Now water ran down it and washed out the gravel. It piled up at the bottom of the hill. He used the plow to push it back up the hill before switching to his box scrape to spread it out. He’d obviously been through this drill before.
I had shoveled out around the cabin and garage. The piles I’d made turned to slush which froze solid overnight. The next day it reverted to slush again. It was a week before it was gone completely, but then the cold set in on us again. Once we were able to drive down the mountain, I bought three more five-gallon gas cans. I filled six cans to be ready for the next outage. We upped our stores of non-perishable goods and hid a case of whiskey in the loft, just in case.
The one thing we lacked without power was hot water. The generator couldn’t run the water heater. After three days, we were in desperate need. Now I’d been without a shower for much longer when I lived on the boat, but this was different. We’d grown accustomed to living like normal people and taking regular showers. As I was pondering how to remedy that problem, Rominger drove down the drive.