Mr. Maxwell felt the sweat break out on his forehead. “Listen, Jim. Give me twenty minutes, okay? I just want to make a quick pass back through the campground, and if I don’t get any news, then I’ll turn it all over to you, okay?”
The ranger rubbed his chin a second or two and then said, “Fifteen minutes. You get back to me in fifteen minutes with good news or I’ve got to start makin’ phone calls.”
“Fair enough, Jim. Thanks.” And Mr. Maxwell was out the door at a trot.
On his first quick search, Mr. Maxwell had been past all the girls’ cabins, but he hadn’t talked to all the chaperones and teachers, hadn’t actually asked if anyone had set eyes on Mark Chelmsley carrying a bright yellow backpack, headed toward the parking lots. Now he was asking.
The grown-ups in the first three cabins hadn’t seen a thing. Then in the Pine Cove cabin he talked with Mrs. Leghorn. She was sitting in a chair close to the woodstove, her long red coat tucked around her legs, her stainless steel coffee cup in her gloved hands.
“Mark?” she said. “Yes, I saw him. I was walking to the kitchen for some coffee, and he went across the path. Had that big thing on his back.”
Mr. Maxwell’s heart took a leap, but he kept his voice calm and low. “Were you at the lodge when you saw him?”
Mrs. Leghorn shook her head. “Not quite. I was almost to the council clearing, in the woods on this side of it.” Motioning with her hands, she said, “I was walking this way, toward the lodge, and he cut across ahead of me at the near end of the clearing, kind of going that way.”
Mr. Maxwell leaned forward. “You’re sure about that? He wasn’t walking toward the road?”
Mrs. Leghorn shook her head. “No, I’m sure. He wasn’t headed toward the road at all.”
Mr. Maxwell knew Gray’s Notch State Park almost as well as he knew his own forty-five acres. And he knew that if Mrs. Leghorn and Mark had crossed paths where she said they had, and if Mark hadn’t been heading for the road, there was only one other place he could have been going.
Mr. Maxwell said, “Listen, Elsa, I need you to do something for me, right now, okay? I need you to walk to the gatehouse as quickly as you can and tell the ranger that I’ve found Mark, all right?”
Taking a last sip of coffee, Mrs. Leghorn stood up and said, “Of course, Bill. Was he lost or something?”
Mr. Maxwell nodded. “Sort of. Tell Jim—that’s the ranger—tell him that Mark walked up the Barker Falls Trail, and that I’ve gone to fetch him, and that we’ll be back soon, all right? Got that?”
The math teacher nodded. “Barker Falls Trail.”
Mr. Maxwell said, “Right,” and with that he turned, rushed out the door, veered to the left, and began jogging toward the trailhead at the east edge of the council clearing.
* * *
Mark eased himself down until he was sitting on a boulder, his breath coming in rough gasps. For more than an hour he’d been pushing himself pretty hard. He unhooked the straps, shrugged off his pack, then bent down to get a water bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he took a long drink. Right away he wished he hadn’t. I should probably be more careful with my water. He dug into his pack and pulled out an energy bar. He opened the end of the wrapper, took one bite, then carefully tucked it away again.
Mark was in good shape, so it didn’t take him long to catch his breath. After about two minutes he stood up and stretched. His right heel felt a little warm, but he didn’t think it was starting to blister. Besides, there was no time for first aid, not now. He picked up his pack, settled the pads on his shoulders, fastened the strap across his chest, and then snapped the buckle of the waist belt.
He looked back at the rocky ravine he had just climbed, and then ahead into the pines and the leafless groves of maple and birch that covered the rising ground on both sides of the trail. Suddenly Mark felt small.
It wasn’t like feeling small compared to another kid. It wasn’t like feeling small in the crowd during a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden. This was different, a new kind of small.
High overhead a crow called, and Mark tipped his face up to scan the gray sky above the treetops. A second crow answered the first, and he saw them both, winging north. Or is that east? he asked himself.
Mark wasn’t sure. He almost reached for his compass, because then he could figure it out. Wouldn’t be hard to do. Then he could at least be sure of something.
Because Mark wasn’t sure of much at that moment. He wasn’t sure if anyone would find him. He wasn’t sure if anyone was looking yet. He wasn’t sure how far he had walked since the last trail marker.
But glancing at his watch, he was suddenly sure of one thing: It was two minutes after four, and if anyone was coming after him, he didn’t have time to be standing around.
Mark turned and started walking uphill again.
* * *
“I’ll get in less trouble than you would.”
That’s what Mark had whispered to Jason in the Raven’s Nest. And at that moment, Mark felt sure it was true.
This whole thing is stupid anyway. It’s not like I was waving the knife around or trying to kill someone with it. I didn’t even know the thing had a blade! And if Mr. Maxwell had found Jason with it, would Jason be getting sent home? No way. This is about me and Mr. Maxwell. Mark had felt sure of that, too.
And how much trouble am I really in? After all, this isn’t even my school, not really. Or my town. Suspended for a week? Or even for the rest of the year? So what? That’s what Mark had told himself in the cabin as he rolled his sleeping bag and gathered his things.
But when he had gotten outside, when he had started walking toward the parking lot, Mark didn’t feel so confident. Walking on the path, dragging his boots on the ground, scraping up a small heap of pine needles with every step, Mark felt the weight of the situation pressing in from all sides. What are Mom and Dad going to say about this? he asked himself. And what if Mr. Maxwell or the principal calls Runyon Academy? What then?
And then there was the fact that he was going to miss the whole Week in the Woods. Walking on the roadway now, a deep wave of self-pity surged up in Mark’s chest, and he had to gulp hard to keep from letting out a sob. It’s not fair! he raged, and the feeling was so intense that for a moment Mark thought he had screamed the words out loud.
Then a thought stopped him in his tracks. I’ve got to go and wait in Mr. Maxwell’s truck? That’s because he’s going to drive me home himself! He wants to! He wants to rub it in and watch me squirm, all the way home!
Turning to his right, Mark looked around. There was no one in sight. Then at the edge of the council clearing Mark saw the big brown display board he had looked at earlier during the scavenger hunt. It was the starting point of a ten-mile trail that went up to a waterfall.
Mark walked toward the trailhead, his stride getting longer and more purposeful with every step. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter, didn’t slow his pace. And as he passed the display board and saw the first red trail marker nailed to a tree twenty yards ahead, he said to himself, If Mr. Maxwell wants to get rid of me so bad, then he’s gonna have to find me first!
Seventeen
Tracks
Mr. Maxwell stopped jogging once he got to the trail. He didn’t want to work up a sweat, didn’t want his shirt to feel wet. It wasn’t that cold yet, only about fifty, but he knew the temperature would drop as the trail went up Gray’s Mountain toward Barker Falls. Plus the sun would be going down. And damp clothes in cold weather means trouble for a hiker.
Mr. Maxwell settled into a steady pace, counting on his longer stride to quickly eat up the distance between himself and Mark Chelmsley. He did the mental calculations. Soft suburban kid, carrying a pack, walking uphill—can’t be making more than three miles an hour. At every bend in the trail Mr. Maxwell expected to see Mark sitting on a log, worn out and footsore, waiting to be rescued.
He had no doubts about being on the right trail. Even if the boy hadn’t been one of the first hikers
on the trail this season, and even if his child-sized boots hadn’t left distinctive ridged prints on the softer pieces of ground, Mr. Maxwell would still have been able to follow Mark’s trail as easily as a trucker follows the highway. Tracking was one of his specialties.
Mr. Maxwell was proud of his woodcraft. He felt he understood nature. He knew the outdoors from both sides.
On the theoretical side, he had studied nature as a scientist. He had learned about the plants and creatures of the great northern forest. He had learned about the processes that shaped the landscape. He had learned about the systems of the natural world and how they worked together.
On the practical side, he understood the day-today rhythms of nature. He had that quiet understanding of the woods and mountains that comes only after years of experience on the ground.
Some of Bill Maxwell’s friends didn’t understand how he could be so concerned about conservation and still be a hunter. That’s because they didn’t get up with him at four in the morning on a crisp fall day and leave the house with nothing but a hunting bow and one razor-tipped arrow. They didn’t hike with him for two hours in the predawn silence, watching for deer spoor, finding the right place to wait, sometimes for five or six hours, a place where he could blend with the woods, notice every motion, every change in wind direction, every small sound, waiting for a buck to step into his line of sight.
They didn’t understand that moment of silently fitting the arrow to the string, slowly drawing it back past his right ear, muscles tensed, aiming at that spot just above the front shoulder of the deer. It wasn’t a moment of selfishness. It was a moment of admitting his connection with all of nature, of admitting his dependence on it. It was a moment of gratitude, of reverence for life.
And those people who disapproved of hunting didn’t understand that for years now, after taking aim, Bill Maxwell would slowly ease the bowstring back to a straight line, make a small noise, and smile as the startled deer bolted into the brush. He didn’t take the food nature offered him because he didn’t truly need it. He only needed to know that the food was still there.
Mr. Maxwell usually did his best thinking as he walked alone in the woods. It usually calmed him down and helped him clear his mind. Not today. Today his thoughts were a tangle of fear and worry. And most of all, guilt.
Pigheaded idiot, that’s what I am, he said to himself. Got all bent out of shape because some eleven-year-old kid wouldn’t jump through hoops for me. Had to be the big tough guy and get back at him. Way to go! And the farther Mr. Maxwell walked along the trail, looking down now and then at the small boot prints of the boy, the worse he felt.
* * *
Mark was alone with his thoughts too.
For a long time he had held on to his anger. He focused only on keeping up his pace. But after more than an hour and a half, Mark realized that someone must be looking for him by now. But of course, no one would know where to start.
Mark imagined the commotion. People running around, searching all the cabins, calling his name. And Mr. Maxwell would probably be in tons of trouble for letting a kid get lost. Lost! That’s a good one, thought Mark with a smile.
But then he thought, Maybe they’ve called the police. And Leon and Anya. And my parents. Because they think I’m lost. And maybe the school will have to cancel the whole program, send all the kids home tomorrow so they can search. For me.
And that brought Mark to a complete stop at a bend in the trail. The seriousness of what he was doing struck him full force. He was mad at Mr. Maxwell, but he didn’t want to ruin the week for everyone else. Plus get himself in more and more trouble.
Mark sat on the trunk of a big fallen pine tree that lay along one side of the trail. He shrugged off his pack and unzipped the outer pouch. He rustled through his school papers until he found what he wanted: the map Mrs. Farr had handed out in social studies. It was a map of the whole park. It wasn’t printed very clearly, but Mark found the Barker Falls Trail. He identified the spur that he’d seen a while back that headed off to the right. It went about a quarter of a mile to a tent platform.
And sitting there studying the map, Mark saw a way back. But it wasn’t just a way back. It was a way out, out of the mess he’d started to stir up. The map showed a trail that looped off to the left from the main trail and wound back down to the campground. This loop trail ended up on the far side of the main lodge, away from all the cabins and the council clearing, almost to the parking lots. Perfect! he thought. I take that trail back down, spend the night close to the campground, and then show up in the morning! All I have to do is wander out of the woods over by the parking lot—maybe act like I got lost!
And then Mark thought that maybe he should let himself be found tonight. No sense making everyone worry all night. All I have to do is find that trail. It’s right here on the map. It has to be close by.
Happy with this decision, Mark allowed himself another drink of water and the rest of the energy bar he had nibbled on earlier.
As he stood up and turned around to pull on his pack, Mark saw the trail. It was right there, just behind where he’d been sitting. The big pine tree had almost hidden it, but now Mark saw it clear as day, angling off to the left. He stepped up onto the log, jumped down on the far side, and set off along the trail, his heart much lighter and his mind at peace.
* * *
At five o’clock Mr. Maxwell stopped to catch his breath and evaluate the situation. As he ran down the facts, he counted them off on his fingers.
Fact: I’ve come about three and a half miles from camp.
Fact: No boy in sight.
Fact: The trail’s getting harder—steeper and rockier.
Fact: Mark has to be close now, he has to be worn out.
Fact: It’s cloudy, but it won’t start to get dark until seven or so.
Fact: If I find Mark in the next hour, we can get back to camp before dark.
The last two facts got Mr. Maxwell moving again. Time was running out. It was going to get cold tonight, probably down below freezing. In an hour he’d have to turn back whether he’d found Mark or not. That would mean the boy would have to spend the night alone on the mountain. And Mr. Maxwell found that thought unacceptable. He fastened the top button of his jacket and set off again, picking up his pace.
Ten minutes later Mr. Maxwell lost Mark’s tracks. No boot prints. Doubling back about two hundred yards, he found the problem. A big pine tree had been cut down and the log had been laid along the left side of the main trail. And there were Mark’s prints. Mr. Maxwell could see that Mark had sat down and taken off his pack. Then he’d stood up, stepped up onto the log, and gone off onto the other side. He’d taken the side trail.
Mr. Maxwell looked at the tracks, and then looked at the trail heading off to the left. And he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Mr. Maxwell knew that trail. He’d hiked it lots of times. It was a loop trail. It looped around back to the campground, but not directly. That trail went across the side of the mountain and then up steeply to a high ridge before it cut back down. The views were beautiful, so beautiful that the trail had been overused—too many hikers. And then the heavy spring rains had caused some serious erosion. Some dangerous erosion.
The thick pine log had been laid across the head of the trail for a reason. That trail had been closed for three years.
Eighteen
Bushwhacking
Mark was glad Anya had made him take his stocking cap.
He’d been hiking on the loop trail for about half an hour. A stiff breeze had come up, making the brisk air feel much colder. He’d had to stop and fish the hat out of the zippered compartment on the top of his pack, and now his ears were warm again.
The scrub oak trees on either side of the trail still held some of their dry leaves from the previous fall, and when the gusts swept up the hillside, the rustling sound reminded Mark of waves breaking along a beach. The bare branches of the maple and birch trees swayed and tapped against each
other, and high overhead where the wind was stronger, the pine trees waved and sighed.
Mark noticed from the start that this loop trail wasn’t nearly as wide as the main trail had been. He had to keep a sharp lookout for the markers. The ones on this trail were blue, and there weren’t as many of them. Sometimes they were almost hidden by tree branches. A few times when the trail wasn’t obvious, Mark searched until he found the next little blue circle, or the next splotch of faded blue paint on a rock. And it didn’t help that in some places the pine and hemlock trees were thick enough to dim the fading daylight.
Mark tried not to think about it, but his pack had begun to feel heavier. A lot heavier. Mark knew he was getting tired. He knew he was slowing down some, too. But that’s okay, he thought. I’m just going back to the campground, and even if it gets dark, I’ve got a flashlight. And the trail is mostly downhill, right? So Mark ignored his body’s call for rest. He kept pushing ahead.
As Mark walked out of a thick grove of birch and hemlock trees, the trail made a sharp turn to his right, angling up across a stretch of mostly open hillside. Only a few scruffy oaks and low junipers clung to the slope. The climb would be steep, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the trail wasn’t really a trail anymore. It looked more like the rocky bed of an uphill river. Where the trail used to be there was a crazy jumble of granite boulders, some of them as big as washing machines. To go up that way, Mark saw he’d have to pick out a path either above the gullied trail, or just below it.
Or, he thought, I could find a different way.
Mark dug the map out of his pants pocket and unfolded it. He saw the sharp turn that the trail took on the map and thought, So that means I’m right here. The trail headed uphill for a stretch, then went left for a half mile along a ridge, and then the trail turned left once more and went almost straight downhill toward the campground.