by A. American
After hefting the pack and picking up the AK, I started back out on my trek. My plan was to hike to Farles Lake; I could refill my water from a pitcher pump there and then continue on from there. I figured three, maybe three and a half, hours, and I should be there. The hiking wasn’t too bad, a little rough in spots but not difficult. Doing my usual “take a couple of steps and listen” routine demanded a slower pace. No matter, though; it was rather comfortable out tonight, even without a coat, and I was making decent time toward home.
It was about eleven thirty when I hit the northern end of Farles Lake. The picnic area was on the south end. There wasn’t a camping area on the lake, just a “day use” area, as the forestry service likes to call it, but it did have that pump. Now I should have known that there isn’t a camping area there in normal times, but these aren’t normal times. So it was about ten minutes till midnight when I reached the south end of the lake.
My trip through the scrub to this point had been completely uneventful, aside from the usual assortment of limb whips to the face and stumbles over deadfalls. After scrambling over the ridge, I was relieved to make it to the lake. The Ocala National Forest was a vast hunk of land, acres and acres of acres and acres. Water, however, was the commodity. So, as was the case all over the world, when you found water you found life. Tonight on the south side of Farles Lake, I found life in the form of more Rainbow people.
How I didn’t smell the bonfire, or see the light from the fire, is a mystery. It wasn’t a big fire, but I surely should have seen it. The half-moon out tonight provided enough light that I had raised the goggles and was walking the trail in ambient light. Being so close to home and on very familiar ground, I was daydreaming of my girls. I was thinking of the girls pumping on the handle of that pump and squealing with pure youthful joy as the water would issue forth from the pump head. It was with this thought in my mind when I came out into the clearing on the lake side. And here was where I came out into the light of the fire, and the eyes of at least a dozen hippies fell on me.
They were seated around their fire—on the ground, in camp chairs, and on logs dragged up to the fire. There were women, men, and children. They were all quiet and peaceful-looking as I appeared before them. Of course, all that changed when they saw me. Here I stood before them with a large pack on, rifle butt sticking out of it, an AK across my chest, the NVGs on my head, and the bloused boots and the buff covering most of my face. As my presence was registered by them, one at a time, they began to react. The children naturally started to cry; one woman screamed, which brought others to the fire—armed others.
Everyone was coming to their feet; the women and children were receding from the fire, and mostly me; many armed men were gathering around it. No one had spoken a word yet—they or me. We were all standing there, waiting for someone to make the first move. I certainly didn’t want trouble with them; sure they’re a bunch of stinking hippies, but they hadn’t wronged me yet. A sudden thought popped into my mind; it almost made me laugh out loud at the thought of it. It was so damn ridiculous that it might just work with this crowd.
I rummaged around in the Devildog slung on my waist with my left hand as the grip on the AK was in my right. Finding what I was looking for, I clutched them into my fist.
“Hey, you guys, seen any of those asshole forestry cops?” I called out.
“Naw, man,” came a reserved reply from somewhere on the other side of the fire.
Pulling the two baggies out of the small pack, I said, “Cool. You guys got any papers?” If anything would break the ice with this crowd, this was it.
“No papers, man, but I got a pipe!” came a quick reply from a figure walking around the pit toward me. The guy came around to me and produced his pipe with a flourish of a smile. “Come on over to the fire and take a load off, man.”
Rusty, the kid with the pipe was named Rusty. He had kind hair, the kind you find on a mangy dog that hasn’t ever seen a comb. He had a crooked smile with an underbite; it made him look a little comical. He flopped down on a log, and I handed over one of the bags. “Hey, thanks, man, we haven’t had any decent weed in like forever.” A small crowd was starting to gather, so I passed the other bag off to a blonde chic wearing a white linen shirt. That caused the crowd to split up and give me some thinking room. I wanted a little quick info and then to get the fuck outta here.
“How long have you guys been here?” I asked to no one in particular.
A voice that I couldn’t match to a face replied, “A few days.”
“Have you guys seen any feds around here or anywhere?” I asked again.
“Yeah, they go on patrols in Hummers. They’re using the bombing range. Sometimes there are helicopters flying in and out,” Rusty answered, and then he fired the pipe and took a long drag, holding it in, his face turning darker even by the firelight. He offered the pipe to me; I took it and passed it to the first waiting hand.
“You’ve seen all this in a few days? Have they ever said anything to you?” I asked.
“Yeah, they drop off food and bring around a doc. They searched for weapons, telling us they are now illegal, but we hid them. Other than that, they leave us alone. I think they found some people who didn’t go along with their program, though; we’ve heard some hellacious shoot-outs. We watched a helicopter just kick the shit out of someone once—lots of gunfire,” a man in a leather hat answered.
“What’s the program?” I asked. The pipe was starting to make the rounds, though, and I wasn’t sure what kind of information I’d get out of them.
“Their program, Department of Homeland Security. Do what they tell ya an’ they won’t fuck with ya. Try’n argue with ’em, and they’ll bring the boot down on ya, hard,” an older man replied; he was wearing a woodland BDU top with the sleeves cut off and a boonie hat.
One of the pipes made its way back to me, I had no intention of hitting it, and I needed a way to get the hell out of here. I had a little info—about all I was going to get out of this rabble anyway. Passing the pipe off again, I stood and said, “I gotta piss. Is the shitter across the road still in operation?”
“Yeah, man, go drain yer lizard,” came the reply.
I stood up and started to walk away from the fire. “Hey, man, leave your pack an’ gear here. Take a load off.”
“I’m good, old habits and all. Gotta keep my gear with me, ya know,” I answered back.
I was heading for the road; the shitter was on the other side, the south side, and there was what appeared to be a camp past it near the tree line. Not sure who in the hell would want to have a tent near the foul-ass shithouse, though. There didn’t appear to be anyone over here. The fire across the road seems like it drew all the hippies like moths to a flame, or in this case, hippies to a pipe. Pausing by the shitter for a minute to make sure no one was around, I headed out past the camp and into the tree line again, back into the damn scrub, and without the freaking water I came here for to begin with.
I should have had enough water to get home if it really came down to it, but there are a couple of options out here if you know where to look. Not long after hitting the bush again, I hit the Florida Trail. There was no way I was going to walk the trail. Not only does it not go straight in any freaking direction but mainly because trails were for folks that want to get ambushed. So instead of trying to pick my way around the trails, I went off trail and picked my way through the scrub. I was taking an approximate heading of 170 degrees from Farles Lake to get home.
Less than a mile after starting out, I came to an east-west-running road. I took a knee by the side of the road to watch it for a minute. To the west was the range. To the east was Buck Lake. Pulling one of the stainless bottles out for a drink, I thought of walking down to the lake to refill everything. But I was still a little close to the range for my taste. While I hadn’t seen or heard anything that would give me pause, I was not taking any chances. I had just st
uffed the water bottle back into the Devildog when I saw the headlights. They were to my west and moving to the east. If they continued, they’d pass right in front of me.
I simply sat still and watched them. They were probably two miles off; I could have crossed the road and never been seen. But if they were wearing any NVG gear or had a FLIR on board, then they could see me, so I waited. About a kilometer from my position, the two vehicles turned to the north. That road was the outer perimeter of the range, probably their roving patrol, I noted.
With them out of the way, I crossed the road and found my rhythm again. Plodding along in the green glow of the goggles, I started to envision my arrival home. Walking up the driveway in the pale light of morning, the dogs ran up and barked at me and then, realizing it’s me, jumped up. Then everyone inside realizes I’m out there, and they all run out and have a big group family hug in the driveway. It brought a smile to my face just thinking about it.
Then I started to laugh a little as the real version popped into my head. It went something along the lines of me lying in the yard with the dogs all over me and Mel firing warning shots into my legs. I started to laugh; it was funny because it could damn well happen. That made me start to think about how to make that first approach of the house. Then I remembered that Danny said they had the road blocked, something else to think about.
Grabbing an empty water bottle out of the bag brought me back to my current situation. I stowed the empty and pulled the other half-full one from the other side. Blue Sink was below me somewhere. It wasn’t far, but I would need to veer back to the west a bit to hit it; it’s an old sinkhole full of nice clean water. I could only hope there wasn’t anyone around; it used to be a popular place on the weekends, but under the current circumstances there shouldn’t be anyone around.
So I modified my route back to the west until I saw a road off to the right and paralleled it. The sink would be in line with my route now. It didn’t take long to strike a small trail that led to the hole. It was fairly wide with clean white sand. As I started down it, I was more interested in the bottom of the trail than anything else—watching for footprints, tire tracks, or any sign of people. There wasn’t anything; the trail was old and windswept. Aside from the tracks of deer, coon, bear, and other assorted critters, it was clean. The number of bear tracks was a little disconcerting. I had a thing for finding bears in the woods, usually when I don’t want to.
As I got closer to the hole and could start to make it out in my goggles, I went off trail again and found a place where I could monitor the entire sink. I just wanted to take a few minutes to make sure no one was around. Sitting there in the dark, scanning the water’s edge and surrounding trees brought another thought to my mind—of the change, the massive change this had brought upon us. You couldn’t simply walk up to the waterhole anymore like you could a couple of weeks ago. Now you had to look at it like a gazelle in Africa would. Was there a predator around the banks? Was there a predator in the water? Was it safe enough for me to try it?
How weird was that? What a fundamental change in the way we lived our lives. But I sat there and watched, looking for any sign of a lion or a crocodile. After fifteen or so minutes, I was satisfied I wouldn’t be eaten, so I slipped down a little closer to the water, where I dropped the pack and took out all the containers and the filter. After pausing for another brief check, I eased down to the water and lay on my stomach. The AK was beside me in the grass. I put the filter to work quickly and got everything filled with clean water. I could probably have drunk this water straight, but I had a filter, so why chance it?
I was closing the drawstring on the bag for the filter when I heard a siren start up north of me. It started out low and rose into a high pitch where it worked back and forth. The sound of small-arms fire soon followed it. Making my way back to the pack, I quickly stowed everything, then looked back up the little trail I had come down on. The sky was brighter back toward the range. There surely was something going on over there, and it didn’t sound good.
Not long after the crackle of the small arms started, a helo rose up into the sky. It was blacked out, flying without anticollision lights. But a gunner was on board, and he was lighting up the sky. I stood there in the trail; I was a couple of miles away and caught glimpses of the bird as the pilot banked and dove the ship. They were after someone, for sure. Who in the hell would try to hit that place? And more importantly to me, who was in there? I’d seen a few helicopters, what looked like Kiowas to me, but not a true gunship. No Apaches or Cobras. If the military was out there, why didn’t they have the big guns out? But then, why would they? Shouldn’t they be trying to help people out? It was more than I could figure out right now, and I was close to home. I just wanted to get home.
Shouldering the pack again, I picked up the AK and started down the trail away from the sink, taking a minute as I did to drink the cool water I had just filtered. Thoughts of Mel and the girls were on my mind again as I walked along. I knew I shouldn’t be on trails, but this one wasn’t big enough for a car, so I felt safe in doing so. Nonetheless, they were on my mind as I watched the sand pass by. It was times like this, when the task at hand required no more thought than breathing, that I would think of home; it didn’t last long, though. A sudden thrashing of the brush brought me around real fast.
I stopped where I was and flipped the safety off the AK and held it at the ready. Damn, I wish this thing had a laser; I didn’t know how in the hell I’d make an aimed shot with these goggles on. The sound was at my eleven o’clock. Something was in the scrub and not being particularly quiet about it. There was the faintest of a breeze on my face, so the wind was coming right at me. Cautiously, I took a few steps forward and then turned on the IR source on the goggles to get a better look into the scrub. What I saw was the front end of a large black bear sticking out of the bush on the left side of the trail. He was looking right at me from less than thirty feet.
So why did I walk toward the damn noise? What the hell was I thinking? With the wind in my face, he was trying without success to wind me. In the goggles, his eyes glowed and gave him a supernatural look. Raising his head, he would sniff the air, trying to get an idea of what was out there. I stood without moving, hoping he would just pass by or turn and go back into the woods, but it seemed like it was taking forever for him to make up his mind what he was going to do. So instead, I figured I would try to ease away from him, just take a step back; that’s what I thought.
As soon as I lifted my boot, he heard it; the ears went up, and the head went down. Now it knew I was there, just not sure where or what. The bear stepped out into the trail, facing me, his head still down, and he started to chomp his jaws. That was a sure sign in bear language that the shit was about to hit the fan. All the books and experts say never to run from a bear. And there I was holding an AK that I could easily shoot the damn thing with, and what did I do? I went into what I call a blind lateral panic. I turned and ran—I mean ran like a fat kid from the neighborhood bully.
I don’t know what the bear did; I never stopped to see where he went. I made it back to the sink before I finally stopped, out of breath, and felt like I was about to die. I dropped the pack and fell on the ground beside it, trying to catch my breath. I never saw the bear again; I’m sure he did the same thing I did. As I sat there in the sand, catching my breath and sipping on some water, the sound of the helo came back out of the night. Sitting there, I listened to it for a while. It was still up north of me; however, there wasn’t any more gunfire. After a bit, it sounded like the bird landed; the sound died out, and the night went quiet again.
Checking my watch, it was now about three thirty, a few more hours of dark before the sun came up, so I needed to get my ass in gear. Getting up, I shouldered the pack and this time went off trail on my southerly route. It is hard to describe how difficult it is to walk through the scrub. The pack hangs up, and the weapon sling and the stock from that damn carbine that I
was really starting to hate hang up. You trip over snags, your boot laces get untied, and then you stop to retie them and tuck them into the boots to prevent that from happening again. Finding a line of weakness through the scrub is all you can hope for. It is truly tough going.
The next couple of hours went without incident, aside from the previously mentioned issues with merely moving through the damn woods. Sometime shortly before six in the morning, I came across a small lake. It was one I had been to before, so the sight of it brought me some confidence. I was close to home now. Baptist Lake was a typical forest pond. Nothing special about it. People go to it to go mudding in their 4x4s. The sky was starting to lighten up, and I was coming out of the tree line on the north side of the lake.
Stopping just inside the tree line, I checked the area for a minute. Something was on the south side of the pond. Staying in the tree line, I followed the shore around to the south. Three things were lying out there, but between the fog and the dim light, I couldn’t make them out. Having not seen anything to cause concern, I stepped out toward them. As I got closer, it became obvious what it was.
Three bodies were out there. Staying off to the side to look things over, a picture started to form. There were multiple sets of tire tracks, all from the same vehicle, it appeared. One of the bodies was a young girl, nude with long blonde hair. She was the last one to be dumped, it looked like. She couldn’t have been there more than a day. The other two had been there longer, one of them a lot longer. Not wanting to but knowing I needed to, I stepped toward the bodies.
