The sun was high overhead as MacGyver picked his way along the trail that wound its way north next to the river. He adjusted the heavy pack on his back and shifted the stiff handle of Puck's harness in his sweaty left hand. Behind him, he heard Christy sigh.
"'Bout time for a break?" he called over his shoulder to her. They had been hiking along the river the whole morning, except for a small stop for a snack and a drink. Randall and Jeanne bid them goodbye before the sun was up, taking their mowing scythes out to the airstrip before the heat of the day set in. As volunteers, it was their job to keep the airstrip mowed and the area around the cabin clear of fire hazards while the rangers were in town. And since the wilderness Act of 1964, no motors were allowed (planes excepted), so they were mowing the airstrip the old-fashioned way. Mac didn't envy them that job.
"Yeah, I'm ready for a rest," admitted Christy, who had kept up surprisingly well with Mac's pace along the trail. They had begun with Christy in the lead, but soon discovered that Puck was just as adept at following the trail as she was, so then they took turns. Because they both wore high-top boots to protect against the ever-present rattlesnakes, they were both hot in the summer sun. "Here's a little clear area along this sand bar," said Christy, and led Mac through some bracken to a small beach in the turn of the river. He unharnessed Puck and took off both their packs then flopped in the shade of a tree to rest.
After Mac had munched his peanut butter sandwich for lunch, he dug around in one of the pockets of his pack for the plastic stuff sack containing the packet of tactile maps he had gathered back at the Phoenix office.
"What's that?" asked Christy coming over to peer down at what he held.
"Maps," said Mac, riffling through the pile. The first one was a tactile representation of the entire Selway drainage. The next one, a closer view of the upper Selway. He had several that formed a set of elevations of the area and one with simplified trails labeled with braille names.
"Those are super cool!" enthused Christy. "Can I see one?"
"Sure," assented Mac, handing over one he wasn't using. The map rustled as she unfolded it and ran her own fingers over the stiff, embossed paper.
Puck trotted off down the beach, noisily lapping water from the river.
"I'm looking to figure out how close we are to the Salmon Hole," said Mac, referring to one of the spawning grounds for the Chinook. He felt frustration rise in him at the slowness of trying to take in detailed information tactually; even finding the right map was proving difficult.
"I brought the Forest Service elevation map too," offered Christy. "My brother would kill me if I went backpacking without my own map."
"Your brother?" queried Mac.
"Yeah, my big, protective, annoying, bossy older brother," she laughed. "His name's Mike."
Mac smiled at this and turned back to the pile of paper in his lap. He carefully sorted through again, until he found the one of the river and the trail they were using. Nearby peaks were identified as well as points in the river and other trails.
"We passed the Wolfinbarger homestead with the bridge, right?" he asked, his fingers tracing the route they had followed all morning. He was looking for Bear Creek, and intuition told him they were close.
"Let's see," pondered Christy as she too peered at his map. "From what I can tell looking at the river, we're about here." She placed a finger on the map. Mac traced the distance from her finger toward Bear Creek, flowing into the Selway from the East and decided they were probably fairly close.
They repacked their supplies, and as they finished putting gear into their packs, Mac set a small box on the ground.
"What are these?" asked Christy, picking up the little clear plastic box and examining the contents, which looked like tiny cylindrical pills. She handed the box to him. "Are these for the salmon?"
Mac opened the box, removing one of the tiny pills and handing it to her to look at. "These are individual tracking devices developed by the Phoenix Foundation. We can use handheld satellite radio receivers to track the path of individual fish after they have had these trackers injected under their skin. I'm hoping to be able to catch some young roe and use these to track an entire migration path over the next year."
"Wow," she said in admiration as he finished zipping up his pack and hoisting its weight back onto his shoulder, settling the waist belt and tightening it. He whistled for Puck and harnessed him again.
They hadn't walked more than a couple of miles when Christy exclaimed, "there's Bear Creek! I'm sure of it!"
Mac could hear that the ever-present river was rushing and swirling with even more agitation as the large creek joined it.
"Do you see a good place to cross?" he asked. "Wide and shallow?"
"We passed one just back there. The water isn't too high this year," said Christy, standing on the edge of the river and scanning the water.
MacGyver had collected a sturdy branch to use as a walking stick and help himself balance. He used it now to feel his way down to the river's edge. Christy was right; the dry stones exposed at the edge of the water showed that it had at one time been much higher.
"I'm going to change my shoes," she commented, and Mac agreed. They both took off their hiking boots, tying them by their laces to their packs. Mac had brought a pair of old tennis shoes to wear in the water, and he put these on now.
Unhooking Puck's leash and putting the dog food pack on top of his own pack frame, he stepped into the water, sliding on the algae-covered rocks that lined the riverbed. The fast-flowing water tugged at his knees, and he leaned on his stick for balance. At one point in the middle, he felt a flash of fear. He couldn't hear anything but the water and the movement around his feet and legs felt dizzying and disorienting. He wondered for a sickening moment if he was about to lose his balance and fall entirely in the water. He stood, feet braved against the slimy rocks and took a deep, steadying breath.
"You ok?" called Christy.
"Yeah," he yelled back, and the moment passed. He continued the unsteady crossing until the depth of water gave way to dry rocks on the other side. All in all the river hadn't been above his knees, but he was still glad to be across.
Puck splashed up beside him, and as soon and he was close to Mac, gave his fur a hearty shake, spraying Mac with dog-flavored river water.
"Ugh, thanks Buddy," said Mac sarcastically.
Christy was next and she commented lightly on how easy it had been to cross the river. Mac didn't reply, but took a long drink from his canteen and set about changing his shoes and replacing Puck's pack on his already-drying back.
The place where they had crossed did not have a trail on the other side of the river, so they started up the hill at a sideways slant aiming for Bear Creek.
At last they found the trail which led to their surprise to a narrow suspension bridge across Bear Creek.
"It must be right up here where the Salmon Hole is that Randall told us about," said Christy.
In reality it took a couple of hours for them to find it, unfamiliar as they were with the area. At last they found it, a deep quiet place where most of the water seemed almost still. A finger of land jutted into the water creating a natural half-dam that protected the water just downstream and created a miniature lake.
"Let's find a place to camp," suggested Mac. They decided on a sand bar just upstream from the salmon hole. Unfortunately it was on the other side of the creek, which meant more wading. Mac was glad to reach it and begin setting up camp.
He had planned to fish for trout for dinner, but discovered that he was too tired. Hiking blind meant being constantly on guard against tripping or stumbling and it took a lot out of him. He contented himself with a granola bar and a handful of trail mix.
He needed to filter more water for his canteen and hang up his wet clothes. These chores done, he lowered himself onto his sleeping bag to rest.
He awoke with a start, and with the knowledge that something was wrong. Terribly, utterly wrong.
He lay silently on his sleeping bag, trying to discover what it was. Bear Creek with its ever-changing, never-varying layers of sound lay to his right. The light had faded toward twilight, meaning he had slept for a couple of hours. The summer air had cooled, and mosquitos buzzed around his face.
He closed his eyes, listening with his whole body.
Nothing. That's what was wrong. No noises from Christy or Puck. The dog usually curled up near his feet, but this time there was no bulk, no breathing or sighing as Puck usually did in his sleep.
There were also no strange noises. No footsteps, no rustle of cloth, no voices.
"Christy?" he whispered. No answer.
"Puck? Come here, boy!" he called in a stage whisper. No response.
Mac carefully sat up, wondering if bullets were about to start whizzing toward him.
"Christy?" he said louder. "Puck?"
Silence, punctuated only by the creek and the midges and mosquitos, surrounded him. He was completely alone.
Why would Christy leave? He wondered. And why would she take Puck? If strangers had entered their camp, wouldn't Puck have barked?
Starting from his sleeping bag, and working his way outward, Mac began to systematically explore the sand bar with his hands. With a feather touch, he took in the sand, river rock and a few small bushes that comprised their camp site. About six feet from his resting spot, he found some larger stones and felt that heat from a still-warm campfire that Christy had obviously made. To the right of the fire lay her backpack, with only one pocket opened. Probably her fire kit, Mac guessed. His fingers touched something else in the opened pocket. An inhaler. Why didn't she take that with her? Mac felt prickles rise up his spine. She needs that. He held it in his hand for a moment, and then slipped it into his pocket.
Continuing past Christy's pack, he didn't expect to find anything, so he nearly jumped back in surprise when his fingertips brushed against fur.
No! No, no, no, no, his mind cried. The very thing he had feared had happened. He had imagined himself learning to love a dog, trust a dog, and then losing it as a casualty of his dangerous lifestyle. He stayed frozen in place, right hand outstretched as the wind blew a tuft of fur against his outstretched fingers. Soft, dog fur, not bear fur. River rocks pushed against his knees and the breeze lifted a lock of his hair off his forehead.
Finally, he gave himself a mental shake. Touch the dog, he told himself sternly. You have to. Do it. Touch him.
Leaning forward, he placed a hand on the dog's side. Warmth. A shallow breath. He's still alive, Mac thought in profound relief.
Quickly he ran his hands all over the dog's body, looking for wounds or broken bones. He seemed to be fine. Except that he was sound asleep in the middle of the day and hadn't stirred or awoken at Mac's touch.
He felt Puck's side again, his gesture more of a loving stroke than anything else, and his fingers encountered something small and hard with a tufted end. It was a tranquilizer dart.
MacGyver sat back on his heels, thinking. Christy gone without her inhaler. A tranq dart that had not come from him. These clues could only add up to one conclusion. There were more people nearby than he had realized. And they didn't have friendliness in mind.