Lost in the Wild

by Cary Griffith

  And the undersheriff can tell them little. Rescuers are converging on the point. Apparently, it is remote. He will contact them as soon as he knows anything more.

  The Rasmussens ring off. In the house on Quinn Road, they feel reasonably certain they will know Jason’s fate within a matter of two to three hours. They feel their last hope of seeing their son alive start to waver.

  Deputy Milkovich explains that in order to reach the site all crews will have to go over some nasty swamp, bog, maybe even a river. But they will keep circling, giving them a good idea of the location. In the chaos of radio blather, Milkovich and Lee don’t even know that Kipp Duncan and Marty Stage are slogging across the heavy terrain.

  For the next hour the two COs struggle through bog and swamp. In places they are almost hip-deep in muck. It is hard going. Their feet and calves grow numb in the icy waters. But their goal keeps them focused.

  Back at IC, the group in command doesn’t know what to tell the two officers. They are having trouble keeping contact, and they begin to worry about corrupting the tent scene for the dogs. At one point they try to tell everyone to pull back to the staging area, where they will reconnoiter and figure out the next step. But by now the two officers are well on their way.

  Marty Stage hears the order to return to IC. He is shocked. “Don’t they want to see if the kid’s in there?” he asks Kipp Duncan.

  Kipp has been a CO for less than a year. He is over a decade younger than the seasoned Marty Stage. “Maybe we should wait,” he suggests.

  “Wait for what?” Stage wants to know. “We’re not walking all the way back. That’s crazy.”

  They have heard the talk about marring what may be a crime scene. But they are officers, for Christ’s sake. They have the training to deal with a crime scene, if it comes to that. “Let ’em jabber,” Stage finally says. “We’ll be careful, and we’ll find out if the kid’s in there.”

  Over the next half hour they make slow progress through three swamps. They are careful to flag their trail, leaving an obvious path for everyone to follow—at least those who can get there.

  By now, IC has radio contact with the two officers and approves their actions. Milkovich and Lee, still circling over the spot, cannot see them from the air, even though they’re wearing burnt-orange coats. It isn’t until they are within 170 yards of the tent that Milkovich finally catches a glimpse of the two. Dean Lee swings the plane down over the men, turns it around, and indicates by flight path the trail they should take, such as it is.

  Other than the occasional drone of the overhead plane and the diminishing radio cackle, the world is eerily still. The rising temperature has filled the air with moisture. It is not fog, but it seems thick, and there is little wind. To Kipp Duncan it looks as though no one has ever passed through this country. It is as though they’ve entered an ancient burial ground, and the spooky stillness makes them pause.

  It takes the pair another ten minutes to close the distance to the tent. By now they are both heated by their effort, heavy with perspiration. When they finally approach the tent through a rise of trees along the western side of the long beaver pond, they aren’t thinking about the cold. They are calling out for Jason Rasmussen. They yell his name, but off the surrounding ring of trees their cries echo back unanswered. They push forward.

  Overhead, Milkovich and Lee keep circling, but there is no radio chatter. The silence around the two COs is intensified by the sudden absence of talk and static. Everyone is holding a breath, waiting for the two men to reach the tent and look inside. The entire area is quiet as a grave. And that’s what the two men believe they will find here. Jason Rasmussen’s grave.

  They push up through the last small stand of pines and come out near the top of the rise, yards away from the tent. Both of them stop, examining the surrounding area for anything—prints, wrappers, a charred ring of stones.

  The tent is sagging on the rise. There are no tracks in the snow around it. Down in front of it, the slope to the long beaver pond—practically a lake, now that they are on the rise above it—is steep and treacherous.

  But right now the two men focus on the tent opening. The front of it is clear, uncovered in the snow. Beneath the orange overhang, the green tent entrance is closed.

  “We’re at the tent,” Kipp Duncan radios back to IC. “Request permission to open it.”

  Back at IC, Pete Smerud, Pete Walsh, Rebecca Francis, BJ Kohlstedt, Steve Van Kekerix, and the others consider the officers’ request. None of them can think of a single reason not to open the tent. They have already warned the officers to be careful about disturbing or contaminating the scene, and they know the COs are well trained to handle the situation.

  Finally the two Petes nod, and BJ gives the okay. “You have permission to look in the tent,” she says. “But don’t enter it. Repeat,” she says, “do not enter the tent.”

  “That’s a 10–4,” Kipp Duncan echoes back. “Open, but do not enter.”

  The officers are certain that Jason’s body lies inside the tent. They smell none of the fetid, cloying odor of death, but then they wouldn’t—given the temperatures over the last eight days, cool as a morgue.

  Kipp Duncan moves forward, carefully stepping over the ten feet in front of him. He reaches down in the wet air. The sound of the zipper cuts through the late morning air. Kipp holds his breath and parts the flaps.

  There, lying inside the tent, are the neat, well organized contents of Jason’s pack, sleeping mattress, and down bag. Kipp looks it over, stunned. His heart is pounding and he can hear the rush of blood in his ears.

  “Nothing,” he manages to call back to Marty Stage. “Nothing but his supplies,” he adds.

  He hears Marty Stage radio back to IC. “The tent is empty,” Stage reports. “Repeat. Jason Rasmussen not found in tent. Over.”

  Kipp looks through the opening. The tent’s contents are neat, straight, put away, and laid out as though their owner had a penchant for order. But where in the hell is Jason? And at this point they don’t even know if the tent is his. But who else could it belong to? The place is as stale as a burial crypt.

  The two COs know the routine. Secure the potential crime scene and wait for backup. But at this point they can’t see anything that remotely suggests a crime.

  Still, they zip up the tent and back away from it the same way they approached.

  “The site is secure,” Marty Stage reports.

  “The dogs and Deputy DeRosier’s party are on their way,” BJ radios back. “Keep the scene clear and wait for the other teams.”

  “10–4,” Stage confirms.

  The two COs are beginning to feel the effects of their struggle through three swamps, the bogs, and the marsh. Now that they’re not moving, the cold is starting to settle on them. After several minutes they decide to move well away from the tent. They hike over fifty yards south-southeast, to an area they know the other teams will have to pass in order to get to the tent. Then they build a fire and wait.

  In the Cities, Jason’s parents are waiting for Steve Van Kekerix’s call. When it finally comes, Lee answers the phone. He nods into the receiver. Linda senses bad news. There are other cursory comments, but she knows she is not ready to hear the worst. She will never be ready. She feels a dull panic, an anxious mania rising inside her. She doesn’t want to know, but she has to listen. She closes her eyes and prays.

  When Lee signs off he turns to her. “It’s his tent, but Jason’s not in it,” he repeats. They don’t speak. The days have taken their toll. And now, when they were so close to an answer, confounding it is a calamity they aren’t certain they can endure.

  Later, when Lee is coherent enough to think, he places a call to Jason’s sister, Heidi, in Washington, DC. “I think you’d better come home,” he says.

  More than three hours later, a little after 2:00 PM, the COs hear
the dog teams and the others approach from the southeast. The teams are happy to come up out of the area to a warm blaze. Deputy DeRosier, Jeff Hasse, Carla and Dale Leehy and their dogs, Jim Couch and his dog Tanner, another air scenter—they are all wet, tired, and ready to take a break. It is a convivial gathering, though everyone complains about the effort it took to get here.

  They quickly formulate a plan. The handlers will take the dogs to the tent and see what they can pick up. Then Deputy DeRosier and the COs will examine and catalog the tent’s contents. They will begin searching the area in concentric circles, starting close in and widening the distance from the tent as they work their way outward. They are all to keep a sharp eye out for any signs of Jason’s passing.

  By the time the dogs begin working, the skies are beginning to thicken and the wind starts to rise. The dogs whine over the area. One of them picks up a scent and goes down to the water. The other follows a meandering trail to the northeast. Jim Couch works with Tanner to the south.

  Inside the tent, DeRosier makes a careful inventory of the contents. Jeff Hasse is behind him, radioing back DeRosier’s list. They are struck by what they find. First, the contents are neat and orderly. He didn’t leave in a panic. Second, there are no personal items to confirm that this is Jason’s tent, though from the parents’ recollection of what was packed, there is little question that it is. Third, Jason is an excellent environmentalist. They locate his trash bag, and a quick survey of its contents yields an exact accounting of his meals. They determine he probably left his tent last Wednesday, meaning he has been away from his tent with almost nothing—and apparently no matches—for almost a week.

  Their last two observations are perhaps their most disconcerting. The parents described Jason as an expert backpacker. But Jeff Hasse notes several equipment details that contradict that notion. “His tent is in okay shape, but it’s old and worn. It’s a Eureka Timberline—blaze orange—from the late seventies. His backpack is really more of a travel pack. And he has a full-sized bow saw and a stove.” Hasse shakes his head at the size and heft of it. “Rather than waterproof matches, he’s got one of those grill lighters. Rather than a good-quality sleeping pad he has an air mattress. For a backpacking trip, he has lots of clothes. He has clean pants and a couple of shirts folded in his gear. He’s carrying ten times the weight he needs to carry.”

  He may have been experienced, but not in this particular kind of camping. Their quick survey of Jason’s equipment suggests that Jason may have known park camping, but not true wilderness.

  And finally, the book Wilderness Survival, leaning against the side of his pack, has one dog-eared page. Officer DeRosier opens it and starts perusing the section on hypothermia. It makes everyone wonder if Jason may have contemplated suicide. That might explain why he walked off into the woods with no equipment, food, or matches. The dog-eared page is a bad sign.

  They are careful to document all the contents in the tent, radioing their list back to the staging area. DeRosier and Hasse conclude Jason voluntarily left his camp and for some unknown reason didn’t return. They cannot imagine any good scenarios. When they finally step back from their tent inventory, the dogs are still working the immediate area.

  At 3:20 Ken Anderson radios Jeff Hasse and tells him there is a bad front moving in. Ken has been monitoring the plane traffic and Nick Milkovich and Dean Lee corroborate Ken’s weather report. They have seen dark clouds building in the north-northwest, clouds that are coming in fast. The weather report from the hangar is bad. A nasty freezing rainstorm is moving in. The plane has to return to Shagawa Lake, and they suggest the searchers contemplate getting back to the staging area.

  Back beside the fire, the searchers hold a general meeting. The dogs are still searching, but don’t seem to be picking up anything definite. They believe, from their animals’ behavior, Jason was definitely here, but the dogs don’t seem to be identifying a particular direction. One of them repeatedly works the shoreline of the small lake, making some of them suspect Jason is somewhere underwater, anchored in its muddy bottom.

  As they stand and sit around the fire, one of the searchers—dressed in hunting gear—reaches into his backpack and pulls a sandwich out of a zippered pouch. Jeff Hasse admires the gesture. He surveys the group, and notices that everyone here is properly equipped and clothed for the expedition, carrying plenty of survival gear should any one of them get lost in the woods. He cannot ever remember being on a search with a better equipped and more experienced crowd.

  But only one or two have brought the proper equipment to spend the night. IC orders everyone back to the staging area. They will reconnoiter, let the storm pass, and return at first light.

  Reluctantly, the searchers begin to clear the scene. Everyone, including the dogs, starts back through the bogs and swamps. It’s going to be a long haul out. They probably won’t reach IC until well after dark. And from the looks of it, they will be bone cold and covered with rime ice.

  Less than a half mile away, it has been another tiring, long day. Jason has heard the plane overhead, to the southeast, almost the entire morning and afternoon. Earlier it passed overhead twice, but he was too tired to climb to the top of his stump and wave. From his perch on his log home he simply waved, exhausted, and then blew his whistle.

  The previous night wasn’t good for his feet and legs. The cold settled into his feet and began working its way up his legs. By morning he was numb to his lower calf. And now he doesn’t have the energy to get up and move around, working the circulation back into his limbs. He is exhausted. He has one more cup of water and manages to fill up his bottle with snow, to bring it into his hovel for the night. But he is cold. Throughout the day his shivering rarely abates, and the periodic bone-rattling contributes to his misery and fatigue.

  Jason knows he is freezing.

  Now and then, he hears things in the woods. Ravens appear in the nearby trees, and he tries to speak with them. Later, he thinks he hears wolves. He talks to the wolves, tells them how wonderful they are, how much he admires their cunning.

  Finally, in late afternoon, he turns to complete his letters. Once he finishes with his lists of usernames, passwords, accounts, he starts to let his parents know he loves them and does not want them to suffer. He wants to let them know he has been happy with his life, fulfilled. He writes about how deeply he cares for them, how lucky he has been. He loves them all more than he can possibly convey with a pen and a stretch of bark. The lunacy of writing this on birch bark makes him smile. And then he feels a surge of emotion he cannot contain. He begins weeping in the woods. He is not ready to die. He doesn’t know if he’s going to awaken. After he crawls into his hollowed-out tree, he is not certain he will have the strength to crawl out.

  The notion that this may be his final night, at least his last night sitting upright, brings a deep melancholy that weighs on him like a pile of stones. He is surprised he has tears, given his meager intake of water. And then he says out loud, as the dusk light is overcome by clouds, “I love you. I love you all.”

  The wind picks up in the branches. Up on the rise to the west of his tree he swears he hears the distant strains of Mexican music. It’s faint, but reminiscent of the music he sometimes heard in southern California. He smiles now to recall it. He knows it is impossible that a mariachi band could be playing in the darkening north woods. But he appreciates the minor hallucination.

  His disposable camera has twenty-four pictures. He has saved the last one. He wants to wave goodbye, to give his parents and his sister one last glimpse of him on the evening of his last day.

  Near dusk, with storm clouds moving in fast, he holds the camera at arm’s length and positions the lens. He doesn’t have the strength to hold the camera long. He summons the best face he can muster. He tries to smile. His large blue eyes try to convey to his family that he’s okay, he loves them, and that he will be okay. He is ready to accept whatever c
omes.

  He raises his right hand and waves, then snaps the picture. The flash goes off, and he thinks it probably worked. Now, though, he’s just too tired to care.

  For one more night he crawls into his hollowed-out tree.

  Jason has never experienced this kind of fatigue. He pulls the branches over his head, sealing the hollow tree opening. Not long after he huddles inside he hears the rain begin. Throughout the night the steady rainfall seeps into his shelter, its icy fingers wetting his shoulder, hip, and leg. The cold grip rattles his body with shivers and shakes, though some time after dark, consciousness lapses into a place where he can no longer feel the cold—where for a brief time he can no longer feel anything.

  Jason Rasmussen’s last picture (courtesy Jason Rasmussen)

  On their way out across the swamps, leaving the tent behind, no one talks about Jason’s fate. But Kipp Duncan is certain about one thing: there’s no way Jason Rasmussen is alive. No one knows what happened to him, but everyone agrees that he is dead. For obvious reasons they will continue as though it is search and rescue, but now everyone feels the words no one utters: it is recovery, recovery of Jason’s body.

  Back at IC, waiting for the teams to come out of the field, BJ makes a call. She contacts SARDA and requests cadaver dogs. She knows there are several in the state. She’s not sure where Jason is, but she suspects he’s at the bottom of that lake. Cadaver dogs are trained to scent corpses in wilderness and water. She suspects this one will be found in water. She’s already thinking ahead, knowing the recovery could be much faster with as many cadaver dogs in the field as possible.