Gun Shy (10 page)

“He’s my father,” I said, wondering how much it cost per minute to call Hanover County from Crete.

“Is that a fact? How is the old scoundrel, anyway?”

“Well,” I said, hesitating, “actually he passed away some years back.”

“Oh, my. Did I know that? Seems I should have known that. But it’s been so long since I was back that way. I keep meaning to come up there and spend a few weeks at the lake every summer, but there are so
many
places in this world to go, don’t you know, it’s hard to get to them all. I still have that cute little cabin up there that William built for me—oh, it must have been thirty-five years ago now. I’ll bet a lot has changed since then, though, hasn’t it? We were practically in the wilderness back in those days! But I keep getting a bill from the management company every year for maintenance, so I guess the place is still standing. I rent it out sometimes, just so that I can have someone in there. I think houses need to be lived in, don’t you? I have a lovely couple who house-sits for me in Montana when I’m not out there and it makes all the difference in the world. I wish I could find someone to stay at the house in Florida, but it’s so hard to find anyone reliable. I declare, I don’t suppose you would know anyone who might be interested, would you?”

Finally, she paused for breath and I was able to interject a word. “Mrs Cranston, about your cabin—”

“Oh, dear, if you were calling about renting it, I’m afraid it’s taken for the season. A nice young couple from South Carolina. She’s in a wheelchair, don’t you know—”

By now I had figured that the only way to talk to her was to interrupt, so I said, “For the season? Do you mean until the end of the year?”

The silence on the other end seemed a little offended, and I wondered whether interrupting her might not have been a good idea after all. “My dear, of course not. I mean until the end of
leaf
season. Why on earth would anyone want to be up there after November?”

“Did the Whites rent the cabin for the whole month, then?” And how could you go away for a whole month without remembering the dog food?

“Oh, do you know Mickey and Leo, then?”

“Not really, but—”

“What business did you say you were in, dear? Real estate?”

“No, dogs.”

“I’m sorry? This connection is breaking down.”

“I said I’m a dog trainer,” I repeated, more loudly. “Boarding too. But this really isn’t about—”

“Did you say dogs? You couldn’t have said dogs. Why in the world are you calling me about dogs?”

“Maude was calling you,” I reminded her, “and what she wanted was—”

“Because I’ve only owned one dog in my life, and it’s been dead for years. Bichon frise. Can’t say I was sorry to see him go. Wouldn’t eat anything but tuna. Hated the cat. Disgraced himself on my Manolo Blahniks. Horrid creature. What did you—”

A burst of static.

I said quickly, “Is there a number where Maude can—”

“Tell her I enjoyed our chat—” Static. “Call when I—”

Static, static, and nothing.

I shouted, “Hello? Hello?” a few times, to no avail. I stared at the dead receiver in frustration, and then returned it to its stand. It rang again almost immediately. I snatched it up.

“Hello, Mrs. Cranston?”

A hesitation. “Raine, is that you? This is Dolly Amstead.”

I grimaced. “Hi, Dolly. Sorry, I was expecting someone else.”

“Well, I won’t keep you.” Her voice was crisp and efficient. “I just wanted to go over this list with you to make sure everything is all set for this weekend.”

This
weekend. My grimace deepened. The volunteer from Coastal Assistance Dogs was supposed to pick up Hero this weekend. There was certainly no way I was going to be able to get out of my obligation at the Pet Fair—nor would I dare try—so I would just have to ask whoever was coming for the dog to meet me there.

I said, “Everything’s all set, really. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Nonetheless, let’s just go over it again, shall we? Now, do you have someone to transport the equipment you need?”

I sighed, resigned to another endless half hour of Dolly’s lists. “I do. We’ll be there by seven to set up.”

“Very good. I have you scheduled for an agility demonstration at nine thirty, and then we’ll start selling tickets to let people try it with their own dogs. Two dollars each, right? And who do you have to take the money?”

In the dictionary beside the word “micromanager” there is a picture of Dolly Amstead. I suppressed a sigh. “Maude is going to help man the booth.”

“Oh, dear.” She sounded concerned. “I have her down to do an obedience demo at ten thirty. I just don’t see how she can help with your booth and be ready for the demo by then. There’s bound to be some overlap. And I can’t move the obedience demo, because I have the dancing dog at eleven.”

“The dancing
what
?”

“Oh, Raine, I told you about that! That girl from Charleston—what’s her name?—wait, I have it here. . . .” Keyboard tapping. “Lanier. Sandra Lanier. She does this all over the Carolinas to raise money for humane shelters and whatnot. She sent me a tape, and it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. The dog jumps through her arms and over her legs and does a little cha-cha and actually looks like he’s dancing. She called it canine musical something.”

“Freestyle,” I supplied, understanding. I had read about it and noticed it on the Internet, but had never actually seen it in person. “I didn’t know there was anyone around here doing that.”

“Well, she’s not from around here, exactly, is she? And we were lucky to get her. It just so happened that she was planning a hiking trip here next week anyway.”

This time of year there were more cars with South Carolina license plates cruising our roads than there were with North Carolina ones, and most of them were from the coast. Dolly wasn’t really as lucky as she thought; with all the tourists flooding our mountains, who knew what kind of talent we might find if we just put out the call?

“At any rate,” Dolly went on, “I’m going to have to try to find you another volunteer, because there simply is no way I can change the schedule now. Now, let’s go over the lineup for—”

At that moment, blessedly, my pager began to beep. As a member of Mountain Search and Rescue, I am supposed to wear the pager at all times, but the truth is, I only think about it right after a drill or during peak tourist season. Today, I hadn’t actually even put the thing on; I had just tossed it into the in-basket on my desk, where it was now squeaking irritably.

I said, quickly, “Sorry, Dolly, that’s an emergency page. Gotta go.”

I hung up as she was still sputtering and glanced at the number on the digital screen, even though I already knew what it would be. I dialed the ranger station from memory.

“What’s up?” I greeted Rick when he answered.

“Missing Boy Scout. Apparently he wandered off the trail during a sunrise hike. The scoutmaster followed the usual procedures, but no sign of him.”

I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. “Damn,” I said. Why did everyone wait so long to ask for help? “Where- abouts?”

“We need you to search Catbird Ridge. We’re assembling at the trailhead now. How long will it take you?”

“Twenty minutes.” With the cordless phone in hand, I was already on my way to the house to gather up my gear. “I’ll meet you at the trailhead and work down.”

“We’re having supplies brought for a night search if we need them.”

“Let’s hope we don’t.”

I clicked off and flung open the back door, grabbing my pack and a jacket from the hook in the mudroom, scraping off my shoes and stuffing my feet into the hiking boots that stood ready by the door. I opened my mouth to call, “Cisco!” but he was already there, claws skidding on the slick linoleum as he came to a stop before me, panting and grinning excitedly. He knew the routine.

I knotted my laces and snatched his orange search and rescue vest from the hook. “Cisco, dress,” I told him, and he stood still, lowering his head as I slipped the vest over it and buckled it around his chest. “Okay, bud, let’s go to work.”

I scrawled a note to Maude and tacked it on the kennel door, and Cisco and I were halfway up the mountain before another five minutes passed.

At least ninety percent of my search and rescue work involves tourists who come to the mountains for a taste of nature and find that, in nature, they have bitten off more than they can chew. A surprising number of these are so-called wilderness experts—which is precisely why the forest service likes to keep a particularly close eye on the wilderness camping areas. The Nantahala Forest is one of the densest, most complex natural regions in the country; cell phones don’t work here; helicopters can’t land here; gorges, rivers and sheer rock faces can turn an afternoon hike into a life-or-death ordeal for the inexperienced. The average American is so accustomed to being entertained, taken care of and made comfortable that he honestly doesn’t realize that there are still some places in this world where the dangers are real, the isolation is complete and there’s no one to sue if he gets hurt.

For the ordinary dumb tourist camper, it’s easy to forget he’s not in Disneyland, and that no matter how far away from camp he strays he will not eventually come upon a sign with a map saying YOU ARE HERE. So he will wander for days, cold, dehydrated and disoriented, until he eventually succumbs to exposure or injury.

The more experienced wilderness camper, on the other hand, is just as often a victim of his own cockiness. He spies an interesting botanical specimen or animal track only a few dozen yards off the trail, or he is deceived by what sounds like the babbling of a nearby brook, only to discover that the brook was in fact much farther away than he had thought. When he turns to retrace his steps, there are no steps to retrace and no sign whatsoever of the trail he has just left.

The wilderness expert, however, does have a few small advantages over the dumb tourist when both are lost in the woods: He has at least a rudimentary knowledge of survival skills, and he knows enough—hopefully—not to keep moving once he realizes he is lost. A Boy Scout, in particular, should be trained to find a sheltered spot and stay there, intermittently blowing a whistle or using some other noisemaker, until he is found.

Unfortunately what is happening more and more these days is that young people are so ingrained with the concept of “stranger danger” that they will actually refuse to answer the calls of rescuers who are searching for them. Over and over stories are told of rescue teams coming within yards of a lost child who was huddling in the bushes, too afraid to call out for help.

That’s where the SAR dogs come in.

I am not the only member of the Mountain Search and Rescue organization; just the closest to the actual wilderness where most of the need occurs, so I am usually the first one called. In the case of a missing child, especially with less than six hours left before dark, I knew that teams from neighboring counties had already been called. I only hoped we would find the boy before they got here.

I’m happy to say that most of these situations turn out for the good. Very often by the time we form the search party, the missing camper will stagger back, sweaty and scared but otherwise unharmed. Sometimes he’ll be lucky enough to catch a stray cell phone signal and call 911. Sometimes he’ll hear us calling. Sometimes the dog will gallop right to him—case closed and everyone is home before supper. Those are the stories that don’t make the paper. Those are the stories in which we professionals get to roll our eyes at each other in a silent commentary on “damn tourists,” then clap each other on the shoulder and head on back home. Those are the stories I like.

But when you start out, you never know what kind of story it’s going to end up being.

From the harried scoutmaster and his hoard of eager scout assistants, all of whom seemed to think this was the best part of the whole trip, we learned that Ryan Marcus, age ten, was a bright student, had multiple merit badges, and was fully aware of scout procedure when one became separated from the group. He was also, it turned out, an independent thinker who had taken off on his own to gather wild blueberries for breakfast. Cocky.

Proper procedure for SAR is to work in teams of two. In a case like this, though, with time of the essence and resources at a minimum, a dog and handler can count as a team of two. I liked it better that way. Cisco is young and, as much as I hate to admit it, still easily distracted. The less he has to contend with, the better chance of success we have.

We started down the leaf-strewn trail with Cisco on a fifteen-foot cotton lead, nose to the ground and tail wagging happily, occasionally bounding off the trail and back again, halting, doubling back, circling and charging forward; looking for all the world like he knew exactly what he was doing. Of course the secret to making yourself look like a genius dog trainer is to find out what your dog loves and keep reinforcing him for doing it. Cisco loves to track. Sometimes I am not sure that he knows the difference between a cotton glove, a human victim and a family of bunnies quivering under a rock; he only knows that when he finds it, there is a party. So with great joy and anticipation of the hunt, Cisco set out to find whatever there was to be found.

And, approximately forty-five minutes later, he did exactly that.

By this time we had long passed the point of the original Boy Scout sunrise hike and were approaching a steep, narrow section that was clearly marked ADVANCED HIKERS ONLY on the map. Below the trail, however, was a crisscross of overgrown logging roads that eventually gave way to a seldom-used dirt road that circled around, after fifteen or twenty miles, toward the lake. I held out a vague hope that a smart little Boy Scout might actually have tried to seek out civilization by following the road. I really, really hoped he had not stayed on the trail, which became more treacherous the higher it climbed.