Winslow- The Lost Hunters

by David Francis Curran

  I was driving slowly looking for places where vehicles had pulled off, and the drivers had gotten out. I found the first such spot on a corner of the mountain where a little spur dotted with lodgepole shot off.

  I stopped my Jeep Cherokee and got out after gesturing for Adahy to stay put. A bloody drag trail, deer-sized, snaked back in among the trees. The tracks along the drag trail all belonged to men with big boots. No size-eight boots had left tracks in the snow. I got back in the Jeep, shook my head to let Adahy know it was not the right spot, and drove on.

  But I quickly got lucky. The next turn off went into a road that split further in: one fork climbing to a high ridge and the other dead-ending about a half-mile in. The entry was by a bend in Murkey Gulch road where an area had been cleared and leveled by bulldozers, so a long-ago logging operation had a place to store logs for their logging trucks. The turn onto the side road was so sharp you could only reach it from the opposite direction.

  As I turned around in the leveled area, I saw someone had built a campfire off to the side. I stopped, and we both checked around the fire. There were no size-eight tracks. When we were both back in the Jeep, I drove up to the entrance to the side road.

  I knew about this turn up to the ridge and the dead-end road because I'd been here many times over the years. But it was partly hidden, and few knew about it.

  I got out of the Jeep, again telling the dogs and Adahy to wait, and looked down at the tracks going in. There were only two sets of ruts. One set was definitely wide enough for vehicles the size of a Chevy Silverado. How many vehicles that size had driven in or out I could not tell.

  The area the road traversed was wide open for a bit. It was a large logged field dotted with widely-spaced stumps. I got back in the Jeep. Adahy was standing on the seat looking down at the ruts in front of us.

  "They are the right size for a Silverado," Adahy said. He was one of the smartest kids I'd ever met. His grandfather, William Longbear, my father-in-law who had a Ph.D. in Philosophy from Harvard, home-schooled the boy. But during hunting season school was closed. William Longbear always hunted alone.

  We drove in slowly; looking for sign that showed hunters had stopped and gotten out. Across the white snow, deer tracks crisscrossed everywhere. At one point, not far in, someone with man-sized boots had walked to the ruts and then, as his tracks vanished I assume he'd walked in them. I decided to check that out later. At a spot about three hundred yards from the entrance to the road, the vehicle tracks split. One set headed up to the ridge and the other toward the dead end.

  Adahy and I got out this time, leaving the dogs in the Jeep, and examined the tracks.

  Adahy pointed to the set of tracks going up to the ridge. "Those tracks are too narrow for a Chevy Silverado."

  I nodded and looked at the tracks that were wide enough that headed toward the dead end. We walked along the wider tracks for a bit. At a spot just past the turnoff two separate sets of ruts were clear. Either two identical vehicles had gone in, or the one that had gone in had come back out again.

  Back in the Jeep, we drove along the road slowly, scanning the snow on both sides. Bare larch, which had shed its needles, and green lodgepole closed in, though not too thickly. The woods on the edges of the road were more parklike.

  As we neared the dead end, I slowed. This was a spot where huge old trees stretched out their branches overhead. The land sloped down on my right and rose on my left. When the tracks ahead indicated the vehicle had made a K-turn, I parked. We were twenty yards from where that truck had turned. Leaving the dogs in the Jeep, Adahy and I got out. Adahy stood and watched as I walked ahead. After a few steps, I saw a large boot print heading toward where that truck had been parked. A man, returning to the truck, had most likely walked back to his truck in his truck's ruts then driven over his own tracks. I thought back to the man-sized tracks I had seen earlier. Was this the same man? Unfortunately, the tracks leading back to where the man had walked from had now been driven over twice.

  "I would have turned the truck around when I arrived," Adahy said.

  I nodded in agreement. Where the truck had been parked, two sets of tracks led off from either side. If Adahy was correct about their turning the truck around the larger hunter's tracks led off and back from the driver's side and a smaller set of tracks from the passenger side. My heart raced. There were also tracks where the back of the turned around truck would have been.

  "What do you make of these?" I asked.

  Adahy looked the tracks over. "I think they were camping in the back of the truck. They got out here."

  I nodded.

  The tracks leading away from the truck as they, I assumed, went hunting were the clearest. One set were definitely from man-sized boots and the other from a set of size-eight boots. I didn't know for sure if we'd found Cassie and Greg or not, but in my gut I was sure. The only thing I could do was follow.

  I let the dogs out of the Jeep. Unless I gave them the signal to run they would follow us. I wear Muck Wetland boots in the snow and have always been comfortable walking around, even for hours in fairly deep snow. Adahy wore Minnetonka laced boots that William Longbear bought and waterproofed for him.

  We went slowly following next to the truck’s occupant’s footsteps. After an hour we were headed back toward the open area and the fork where we'd both turned onto the dead end road.

  The trees got thinner. The tracks led through low brush covered with snow and the occasional tree, followed by the wide clearing I had just driven through before turning onto the dead-end road, which was now below us to my left.

  The tracks led to a spot where the person with the smaller shoe size had taken a prone shooting position, apparently changed their mind, and then knelt in the same spot in the snow.

  Adahy laid down on the snow next to the impression the hunter had left. "I cannot see above the grass like this," he said. He rose and got down on one knee. "I can see fine from here."

  He pointed to a disturbance in the snow a foot away from where the kneeler must have been. "I think this person picked up an ejected shell."

  Adahy had good eyes.

  I looked down across the clearing. A gust of wind threw snow devils into the air. There were no animals in sight now. How far away had the shot been?

  I paced it off as we followed the tracks of the big hunter and the small hunter. They actually crossed the tracks of the smaller vehicle that had gone up to the ridge. The tracks were far enough away from the place where we'd turned off for the dead end that we had not seen them.

  Irene and Mariah ran far ahead, stopped, and began sniffing the ground. I found deer tracks where they were sniffing. I found spots of blood by the tracks soon after and before Adahy saw them. I pointed them out to him. My pacing set the distance as two hundred and twenty-seven yards from where the shooter had knelt. The dogs kept sniffing the blood excitedly. From the tracks, we could tell the hunters had apparently not seen the deer tracks at first. But then it was clear they had found and followed them. We followed their tracks. The gut pile was not that far from the spot where I had first seen the deer tracks and the blood. Drag marks showed me they had eventually dragged the deer to Murkey Gulch Road, which was closer than the road to the dead end. If I had a deer fall where this one did, I would have loaded the deer there, too.

  I studied the tracks by the gut pile.

  "I think the girl sat here for a time," Adahy observed. He pointed to a spot where snow had been compressed on top of a flat stump as if someone had sat there. Tracks suggested small boots had moved her feet about as she sat there. Another set of tracks showed large boots had walked back toward the road. My guess was she'd waited here while her father got the truck.

  I told Adahy to keep looking around as I ran back along the road to my Jeep. The dogs, as if understanding the urgency of the situation, were right behind me and jumped right in when I opened the driver's door.

  Luckily, my cell phone worked. I called the sheriff's office. A woman, Nadine, an
swered. She told me that the sheriff was out of the office. When I gave her my name, there was a pause. "Hold a second," she said. I looked off into the snow-covered pines below me. While I watched a doe peeked out, looked up at me, then backed back into the trees.

  "Mr. Doyle, sorry to keep you waiting," Nadine said. "I knew the sheriff was actually looking for you, and I wanted to make sure…" She paused. And I realized what she meant.

  "That I wouldn't run," I said, and laughed.

  "Yes," she laughed too.

  I explained what I'd found, and then said, "I'm in the Murkey Gulch area now, so if you can get him on the radio?"

  "Mrs. Carew called, so he was headed that way," Nadine said.

  "Well, if you can get him, I'm back in a ways at the moment, but I'll walk out to the Murkey Gulch road and wait."

  A Surprise

  October 23: Early Afternoon

  I drove the Jeep over to where I'd first found the blood, and honked the horn. Adahy appeared and got in. I asked him to wait, as I didn't want the sheriff to know I had a young brave with me. He understood. I got out and headed for the gut pile intending to follow the hunter's drag path to the road.

  I had just found where big tracks and small tracks had dragged their deer to Murkey Gulch Road to load it up when the sheriff's 4-wheel-drive SUV pulled up alongside me. He was driving in the opposite direction from where I had come which meant he had come the back way from I-90. Paul Goldstone is a heavy man in his forties with close-cropped red hair beneath a brown Stetson with sharp creases. He wears gold-framed glasses, has blue eyes, and he seems to always have a smile, which is why he was reelected over and over by voters. This time, though, he looked flustered. "Can you come around this side?" Paul asked through the open passenger side window, tilting his head to indicate the driver's side window.

  I walked around quickly, as he power-closed the passenger side window and opened his driver’s side window. That he did not want to get out of his vehicle meant he was pressed for time. He obviously wanted to show me something.

  As I looked in the driver’s side window, he seemed to be evaluating me. ”Just heard from Nadine that you found out they got a deer,” he said.

  I nodded and pointed into the brush on the side of the road. "Just about twenty yards in," I said.

  Paul nodded. "I've been thinking on this," he said, "and my staff is just a bit…" he paused, "…hell, we're so damn busy, I haven't got enough personnel to do all we have to, and I just got a call that I have to go back to town for."

  He looked me up and down. "Raise your right hand," he demanded.

  I raised my hand.

  "Do you, Winslow Doyle, swear to uphold the laws of the State of Montana?"

  This was a surprise. "I am not sure I want to be a deputy. I just want to find these missing people," I said.

  "That's all I'm going to ask you to do. You'll be part-time."

  I still had my hand raised. "I do," I said.

  Paul fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out a badge. He handed it to me through the window. "Well, now you are official. See what you can do as far as locating these missing people. I think we both know that if they didn't just take off, it’s likely they went off the road somewhere on their way home. I'll pay you for your time, just keep track of it."

  I looked down at the badge I held in my hand, thinking Paul was probably right.

  "If you find them…" Paul hesitated. "Wait," he fished around the seat next to him and handed me a small two-way. "If they're alive, call for help. I’d try your cell phone first but if that doesn’t work, this might.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “If they are not alive, get ahold of me. I can make the notification."

  "I can do it," I said.

  Paul shook his head. "No, it has to be me."

  "I'll go with you if it comes to that," I said.

  Paul nodded. He paused, then said, "One more thing." He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and then some glassine envelopes. "Just in case you find any evidence."

  Goldstone didn't explain as I quickly pondered the implications the word 'evidence' brought to mind.

  I took the gloves and evidence bags and divided them between my pockets. Then I stepped back from the cruiser, and he began backing up. When he reached a wide part of the road, he did a K-turn and drove off, going back the way he had come.

  I stood there thinking about Callie Carew and Geoff. I really hoped I wouldn't have to share telling them bad news. But the likelihood of there not being bad news was now very remote.

  A Road Hunt

  October 23: Mid Afternoon

  We drove slowly. There are about twenty-five miles of dirt roads between the spot where Greg and Cassie Carew had put their deer into their truck and the highway. There are many twisting curves and the roads, snow packed by the wheels of vehicles, can be icy and treacherous.

  Adahy had been studying the badge the sheriff had given me. "Now that you are a sheriff I suppose I have to be good."

  "You should be good whether or not I’m a sheriff. And I'm a deputy, not a sheriff."

  "I suppose if you are only a deputy I don't have to be that good," he said with a smile.

  I knew that only certain parts of the road have spots where a vehicle could slide off an embankment and vanish. I was almost done checking the first and most likely area. This was a steep climb up a mountainside where almost any spot along that stretch had a sharp drop-off to the side where a vehicle could slip off and fall quite a distance before any trees might stop the fall. As we drove, I carefully scanned the cliff side for any sign of disturbance in the snow, and there hadn't been anything to see.

  However, as we drove the last leg to the top, which curved to the right, I saw up ahead on the mountainside visible on my left, the unmistakable reddish-white of a newly broken tree. I felt a little sick to my stomach as I pulled over as far as possible to the right, hugging the mountain so other vehicles, which might come along, could pass. Leaving the dogs and Adahy in the Jeep, I walked along the right side of the road without looking down the slope to my left until I was just opposite where I had seen that broken tree. I heard in the distance a vehicle coming. There were no tracks indicating a vehicle had gone off. Still, I had a bad feeling about my search.

  This was not a well-traveled road. The few hunters driving by drove in the ruts of others. Even with a covering of snow, the ruts could be slick and to walk in them would risk a fall. I stepped over the icy ruts, keeping my feet in the snow and eased close to the edge and looked down. The broken tree I had spotted was indeed below me. But the large broken subalpine fir was the only sign of disturbance in the area. It was just an old tree broken by the weight of the latest snow. No vehicle had gone off the road here.

  In a way it was strange. This mountainside was the most dangerous section of the entire drive back to Potomac. There are spots along the rest of the drive where a vehicle could go off. But the embankments did not involve deep drops. The steepest I guessed was no more than fifteen or twenty feet. I wasn't an expert on truck crashes, but I could only imagine that it would take both the driver and passenger not wearing seat belts and going fairly fast for such a drop to prove fatal to both. I wished I had asked Callie Carew if her husband and daughter regularly wore seat belts. I wouldn't call now. Such a call would only alarm her.

  I was turning to get back into my Jeep and continue the search when a horn blasted from above me. The rusty Ford pickup was twenty yards away. It was the vehicle I'd heard. I crossed the road to the mountainside and waited. The truck slowed by me.

  "See any elk?" a barrel-shaped, bewhiskered man with prune-like features asked through the open window. His words were slurred. He held a Pabst Blue Ribbon can in his left hand as his right held the steering wheel at 12 o'clock. His passenger, with a dirty black ponytail and an acne-scarred face, also had a can in his hand, but his was lifted to his lips. Through the open window, I smelled rancid sweat and stale beer.r />
  "No, sorry," I said. They were coming from the direction I was heading. "I'm looking for my friends," I added. "Have you seen a blue Chevy truck with a man and a young girl in it today on your way here?"

  The driver shook his head. The passenger said, "Haven't seen but one truck today, and that one had three guys in it."

  If the passenger had sounded any more sober than the driver, I might have suggested, in my new role as deputy, that he drive. But he seemed as drunk as the driver if not drunker.

  "Thanks," I said, hitting the roof of the cab with my hand. "Good luck to you."

  They waved and drove off. I wondered for a moment if my responsibilities as a deputy included stopping drunk drivers. Or if I'd be responsible if something happened to them now that I had witnessed their drunkenness.

  As I got in my Jeep, Adahy said, "The lost hunters are more important than drunk drivers."

  I nodded and drove on, looking every foot of the way over as carefully as I could, even if the spot was not one where a car could go over a cliff or embankment. My encounter with the drunks had reminded me that going over a cliff in a single vehicle accident was not the only possible thing that might befall a hunter on this road. I had met quite a few drunken hunters on these roads over the years, narrowly avoiding getting hit by them more than once. A drunken driver might have run into them. But if that was the case and no one had reported it, then the prospects became even more sinister.

  I had driven for another thirty-six minutes and was about midway through the route I suspected the father and daughter had gone on when I saw something that made me stop my Jeep.

  I was traversing an almost circular curve in the road that had its own name: Octopus Tree Curve. I was at four o'clock on this curve, driving counterclockwise toward three. Off to my left, was a now snow-covered parking spot made by a man who had mined a claim there years back. He had removed what remained of the Octopus Tree and cleared the approximately twenty by twelve spot so he had a place to park where vehicles coming around the curve on this single lane dirt road wouldn't hit him. The parking spot angled into the woods much like a clock hand at four o'clock if you followed the hand back to the clock's center.