Mark looked uphill at the boulders. And then turning left to face the hemlock and birch grove, he thought, According to the map, if I just go straight that way, then in about half a mile I’ll come to the trail again, the part that heads down to the campground. Then I won’t have to fight my way uphill at all. It seemed simple to Mark, especially since he was tired and hungry and his legs and feet and shoulders were hurting. Then he thought, Still, I’d better use my compass.
So he took off his pack once more, pulled his compass out of the front pouch, and did some quick thinking. The map showed that the uphill part of the trail was heading north. Then at the ridge, the trail made a left turn, which meant it would be heading roughly west; and since the trail turned left again to go downhill, that would mean it was running almost straight south. So from where I’m standing, Mark said to himself, I go west, and that’ll take me directly across to the downhill part of the trail. I get to the trail, and turn left, which is south. Simple.
With a groan Mark heaved his pack up onto his back and fastened the buckles and straps. He looped the lanyard of his compass over his head. Then he opened the cover of the compass and turned the whole thing until the red end of the magnetic needle lined up with the N on the case. Then keeping the compass still and steady, Mark turned himself until north was to his right, and he was facing toward the letter W on the compass case—due west.
And then Mark started walking. Working his way westward, Mark found that the going was a lot harder. It wasn’t like walking on a trail. He had to duck under low branches, step over fallen limbs and trees, and push his way through tangled brush. His framepack felt even heavier, and it kept getting caught on things as he worked his way forward. There were occasional rocky stretches where there was less brush, but picking his way among the rocks and outcroppings wasn’t easy either.
Mark had checked his compass every thirty steps or so. He had also taken care not to drift downhill to his left as he walked across the shoulder of the mountain. When large outcroppings or dense brush had pushed him off course, he had always adjusted for the detour and gotten himself going due west again—straight toward the trail that would lead him back to camp. And Mark had tried his best to count his steps and estimate his distance. He had done everything right.
That’s why, after thirty minutes of walking, Mark couldn’t understand why he hadn’t found the trail yet. After forty-five minutes he began to wonder if his compass was working properly. And after almost an hour Mark thought maybe Mrs. Farr’s map was wrong. So he stopped to look at it again.
But it wasn’t the map’s fault. And Mark’s compass wasn’t to blame. It was the forest. The forest had tricked him—that, plus his own inexperience.
A more experienced hiker would have known that a log laid across a trailhead means “trail closed.” If Mark had known that, then maybe he wouldn’t have been looking for a trail that was wide and clear and worn away like the other one had been. And if Mark had known that the trail he was trying to find had been closed for three years, then he might have kept a more careful lookout for it. Because three years is a long time in the forest.
For the past three years every tree and plant alongside the unused trail had stretched its branches out into the open space, reaching for more light—first the ferns and the scrub oak and the blueberry bushes, then the evergreens and the hardwoods. And on the trail bed itself the winged maple seeds and the pine cones and the acorns and the layers of roots had been hard at work, trying to reclaim their ground. The seedlings and the runners had sent their roots into the boot-softened soil to soak up the water that pooled on the path after every rain. Without the almost daily pounding of hiking boots, new plants and shoots had grown and flourished.
And that’s why, at the particular place where Mark had crossed the downhill leg of the loop trail, his eyes saw only more forest.
After looking at Mrs. Farr’s map and then looking at his watch again, Mark realized that somehow, somewhere he must have missed the trail. So he made a good decision. He decided to backtrack. He turned himself around, checked his compass, and headed due east.
As he walked, Mark thought back to Saturday, just two nights ago. He’d gone outside after dinner to mess around down by the little pond behind his house, and he’d watched the sunset at about seven fifteen. It had stayed light for quite a while after that. That’s because on Saturday the sky had been clear. Not today. Today the clouds were thick and dark. It was only quarter of seven, and the daylight was fading fast. And it was also getting colder.
Instinctively Mark picked up his pace. He wanted to find the trail down to the campground before dark. Mark took forty steps, and stopped to check his compass. Another forty steps, another compass check.
It was when Mark stopped to check his compass the fifth time.
From far ahead and uphill, sort of off to his left, he heard something.
“Maaark . . .”
At first he thought he had imagined it. Someone shouting? Mark stood still, pulled off his stocking cap, and held his breath.
“Maaark . . .”
No mistake this time. Someone was calling his name.
And Mark was sure of something else. That voice? That was Mr. Maxwell. Yelling his name.
Quick anger surged up in Mark’s chest. To be tracked down and caught by Mr. Maxwell! To be led back to the campground, to be dragged off to the blue pickup truck and driven home! To face suspension and all the rest of it!
Mark turned and started running, blindly running, running anywhere, just away. Away from that voice, away from that man.
“Maaark . . .”
Rushing fiercely, rushing wildly, Mark pushed through the brush and charged downhill. Jumping over logs and boulders, he slapped the low branches aside as he thrashed forward.
“Maaark . . .”
Mark didn’t realize how tired he was, but his body knew. He was asking too much of it, pushing too hard and too fast. The slope of the land pulled him forward, demanding split-second decisions. As he jumped down a four-foot drop, Mark expected his legs to absorb the shock of the landing. They refused.
It wasn’t a bad fall, but gravity and speed and the weight of the framepack made it a hard one. Mark got his hands up in time to keep from smashing his face on the rocky ground, and he felt a chunk of rock bite into the heel of his left palm.
Mark lay still, sprawled and panting.
Again came the call, or at least a part of it: “Maa . . .”
The voice was farther away now, above and behind. Mark only heard half his name. It sounded as if someone had hung up a phone in the middle of a word.
Lying there on the ground, his heart pounding and his injured hand throbbing, Mark had a moment of clarity. His anger and fear were gone, spent. It was as if he was looking down on himself and Mr. Maxwell and the mountain and the campground. The whole scene snapped into focus, and Mark thought, Why am I running away from him? I was already headed back to the campground, right? So I was going to have to face up to Mr. Maxwell anyway. It might as well be now. I’ll just go and find him. Turn myself in. Might even make things easier to do it now instead of later.
Mark struggled to right himself, wincing as he tried to push with his left hand. Sitting up, he took a look at it. There was a small cut on the fleshy part of his palm, just below the thumb joint. Not much blood. Mostly a deep bruise from the force of the fall. His right hand hurt too, but it hadn’t been cut.
On his feet again, Mark turned to face uphill. He took a deep breath, cupped his hands around this mouth, and yelled. “I’m down here!”
Ten seconds passed, then twenty.
Mark called again, “Hey! I’m down here!”
He waited again, straining to hear, trying to filter out the sound of the wind among the trees.
Nothing.
“Mr. Maxwell? I’m down here!”
Pulling in a deep breath, Mark put all his strength into one more yell: “Mr. Maxwell!”
No reply. Only the wind and the s
hushing pines and his own deep breaths, now making plumes of vapor in the cold mountain air.
Then Mark remembered. Mr. Survival—the whistle! Snatching at the straps and buckles, Mark ripped his pack off and in fifteen seconds had rummaged through the front pockets until he found the little silver coach’s whistle that he’d bought at Wal-Mart—an Acme Thunderer. The black lanyard was still rolled up and fastened with a rubber band, just the way it had come out of its package. Mark put the mouthpiece between his lips, sucked in a breath through his nose, and pushed a blast of air through the whistle. The sharp burst of sound left Mark’s ears ringing, and even in the wind, he could hear it echo off the ridge high above. Mark strained his ears to hear an answering call. Nothing.
He blew it again and stood still to listen. And again, nothing.
Mark thought, Maybe Mr. Maxwell was going uphill while I was running down. Maybe he’s gone over a ridge up there. Or doubled back toward the main trail. Or maybe the wind and the trees soaked up the sound of my voice—he just didn’t hear me call. And now maybe he can hear the whistle, but I can’t hear him calling back! That’s got to be it! And if he’s too far away, then there’s only one thing to do: I’ve got to go up there.
Mark unrolled the lanyard and hung the whistle around his neck. He was about to lift the pack onto his back and get going, when he remembered something. Digging into another pocket, he pulled out an energy bar, unwrapped it, and forced himself to sit down and eat the whole thing; and then to take a small drink of water. Mark hated the delay, but he knew he was tired, and now he’d have to walk uphill again. He needed the fuel.
Swinging the pack around to his back, he buckled it in place, settled the straps on his shoulders, turned his mind away from the pain of his hand, and set off up the hill, hurrying toward the place where he’d last heard Mr. Maxwell’s voice.
He was in such a hurry that for the first time all afternoon, Mark forgot to do something. Something important. He forgot to check his compass.
Nineteen
Here
After about twenty minutes of pushing uphill through the woods, Mark stopped to catch his breath. He figured he must be about where he was when he had first heard Mr. Maxwell call his name.
And again, facing uphill into the wind, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Mr. Maxwell?” And waited. And then he let out a blast from the whistle. And waited.
But again, no answer.
Mark let the whistle drop from his lips. It swung down on its lanyard, and when Mark heard the clink of metal against hard plastic, he glanced down at his chest.
And that’s when Mark remembered that he ought to be checking his compass. He lifted it up to eye level and opened the cover. Mark could barely make out the white dot on the red end of the swinging needle. Time to get out the flashlight, he thought, and if Mr. Survival had been there, Mark would have given him a hug. Not only did he have a good flashlight, but he had four extra batteries.
The flashlight made it easy to see the compass dial, but Mark didn’t like what he saw. Mark thought that since he had been going uphill, he must have been headed north. That’s not what the compass reported. The compass told him that he’d been going more west than north. Yes, uphill; but uphill in the wrong direction.
Mark sat down heavily on a boulder to try to figure out what that actually meant. Because when he had heard Mr. Maxwell’s first call, he had been headed straight east—back toward the loop trail, the trail he was pretty sure he’d missed. And when he heard that first call, he ran downhill, and he had thought that going downhill meant he was south. But now he saw that he could have run downhill toward the east. Or downhill toward the west. So since he’d just been walking uphill mostly toward the west, was he further west than before? And would the loop trail still be toward the east, or was he too far north now? And which direction would get him close enough so Mr. Maxwell could hear him and answer him?
A gust of cold air found its way down the back of Mark’s neck and made him shiver. He had been expecting the wind to die down after sunset like it usually did. Not tonight. It was still blowing strong out of the north. If anything, it was picking up a little.
Mark turned off the flashlight, and then immediately turned it back on. The bright light had ruined his night vision, and now he needed it on to see anything. And he didn’t mind. He liked having it on. It gave him a little island of light in the gathering darkness.
Staring at the compass face again, he forced himself to think, forced himself to push back the rising fears. So I know the loop trail is to the east. I know it is. I know that. And the loop trail goes all the way up to the high ridge. And I know I’m not that far up on the mountain. I know that. So if I go east, and if I’m careful, then I have to find the trail. I have to.
Mark looked at his compass again and then started walking. It was slow going. He had to keep the flashlight on to keep from banging into branches or tripping over rocks and roots. He held the flashlight in his right hand because his left one still hurt from the fall. Mark kept count, and after every thirty steps he stopped to check the compass again. Working his way due east across the shoulder of the mountain took all his concentration.
The next thirty minutes seemed like six hours to Mark. As he stopped to check his direction again, he noticed that the wind had slowed down a bit and shifted direction as well. According to the compass, the wind was now coming from the east.
Mark shined his flashlight upward. He saw the swaying maple and birch branches overhead, saw the frosty vapor from his breath, visible for only a second before the wind snatched it away. He turned off the light to see if there were any stars. He forced himself to leave the light off long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness a little. No stars. No moon. Only the wind and the trees and the mountain and the night.
Pulling in a huge breath, Mark yelled: “Mr. Maxwell!”
Mark hardly recognized the echo from a rock face somewhere above him: “Mr. Maxwell!” The voice of the echo sounded like a very small boy, scared and alone.
Mark turned on his flashlight and kept walking due east.
As Mark pushed ahead, complete darkness and a bone-chilling cold settled over the mountain. Another kind of darkness crept into Mark’s mind. Grimly, Mark thought, It’s not going to happen. I’m not going to find Mr. Maxwell. He’s not even up here anymore. He’s back down at the cabins, sipping coffee and talking with the park rangers about how to rescue the stupid kid who got himself . . . lost.
For a kid alone in the woods, lost is a bad word, especially after dark. So Mark avoided it. He tried to keep the word out of his mind. But finally, after another twenty minutes of walking and calling and hearing nothing but his own voice, Mark couldn’t help himself.
I’m lost, he thought. I mean, I’m not really lost, because I’ve got a map and I’ve got a compass, and I know that sooner or later I can find my way back to the Barker Falls Trail. I’m sure I can do that. Except it won’t be easy, not in the dark. Or when I’m this tired. Right now, tonight, I’m not gonna be going down to the campground, or anywhere near it. So for tonight, I’m lost . . . but not really. I’m just . . . here.
Twenty
Camp
Mark was glad that he’d spent that night sleeping out in the barn back in February. That had been good practice. Not at camping out, but at being alone. Because being alone was the hard part.
Standing in the woods, Mark held his flashlight at arm’s length and began to turn slowly, letting the beam sweep a twenty- or thirty-foot circle around him. He was looking for a campsite.
Mark knew he wasn’t going to find a big open space like the one where he and Leon had slept that night. And really, he didn’t want an open place. Mark wanted shelter.
Uphill from where he was standing, he caught a glimpse of a large rock beyond a thicket of hemlock and birch trees. The stone looked almost white in the beam of his flashlight.
Walking closer for a better look, Mark saw it was more than a rock. It
was the downhill face of a granite outcropping. The vertical face of the outcropping rose up about thirty feet to the top ledge, which then sloped back to gradually rejoin the mountainside. Going around to the left side of the formation, Mark found a place in close to the rock where the ground was nearly level. There were some low bushes and a scattering of small rocks, but the ground was basically clear. Since it was the west side of the rock, he was well out of the wind. Best of all, six or eight feet above the level area, the rock jutted outward three or four feet. It certainly wasn’t a roof, but at that moment the whole setup looked perfect to Mark. He unsnapped and unbuckled his framepack and let it drop to the ground. He was home.
First thing, Mark dug into the front pouch of his pack and found another energy bar. It was gone in less than two minutes. Then he had a small drink of water, and he was ready to get to work.
Mark’s hands were cold, and having to constantly hold the metal flashlight didn’t help. So he quickly found his other light, the headlamp. He had to loosen the headband a little so it would fit over his stocking cap, and in the process discovered that his fingers were so cold they were clumsy. But he got the job done, and then out loud he said, “Must be twenty-five up here! Wish I’d brought some gloves!”
But Mark did have plenty of extra socks in his pack, so a minute later he was wearing a pair on his hands like mittens, pleased with his inventiveness.
The headlamp worked great. Even with the thing set on medium power, Mark felt like he had a searchlight mounted on his forehead. He wished he had put it on earlier. Wherever he looked the light was there instantly, with no effort, no thought process, and it left both his hands free.
With his sock-mittens as hand protectors, Mark pulled up the few leafless bushes that were in the way. He started to pick up and toss some rocks out of the way, then stopped. Taking a flat rock by one edge, he got down on his knees and used it to scrape away all the pine needles and leaves and brush from an area about ten feet in all directions. I know I’m not supposed to make a fire without a grown-up around, he thought, but this is an emergency, right? And it’s not like I have matches or a lighter, so I might not even be able to get one started. But it’s cold, and I’m out here alone, so I’m gonna try!