No answer.
That evening, again watching television — Lancaster had few other diversions to offer a stranger — I wondered about this. It did seem a bit funny. This was November. I hadn't hunted in a long time, and I'd never hunted in this state, but I guessed we were close to the deer season: hardly the time when a hunting camp would close down. Of course, everyone might be off in the bush, or the camp might have gone bankrupt — or conceivably Mr. Evans had purchased the land for different reasons altogether. Still, as I went on trying the number and getting no response, I decided I wasn't going to let up on the caution.
The next morning, around nine, I drove into Berlin and paid a visit to the Pinkham Notch Shop, a sporting-goods store on the main street. Here, a friendly, knowledgeable Canuck sold me a bush shirt, a heavy wool sweater, a camouflage poncho, a rubberized groundsheet, two canteens, one hatchet, a Russell belt knife, a flashlight, a Silva compass, Bushnell 10-power binoculars, and a nylon pack to put everything in. He had no maps, but I assumed I wouldn't have to go far. I went on to a grocery: ham, cheese, bread, a liter of cheap Valpolicella. Back in the car, I filled up the canteens with the wine, then drove out of town.
The day was no better than yesterday, cold and drear, but inside the old Ford's comfortable fug (oil, ancient dust, cigarette smoke), the cold world turned remote, like a movie, or the miniaturized landscape toy trains pass through: the Androscoggin River was a twist of gray modeling clay, toothpicks made birches that rattled their branches against the slate sky, and the thick stands of spruce were bits of pipe cleaner dipped into ink.
Slowly, I climbed through the hills of RFD 2. Out of habit, I kept one eye on the mailboxes, and noted that a few red flags were up, signaling the mailman to stop for a letter. I recognized landmarks now: a twist in the road that revealed a long, forested valley, a hill topped with an enormous, gnarled spruce. And I even had my favorite sights: an old frame farmhouse with a white paddock and three Shetland ponies and the burned-out shell of a barn beside the white splash of a stream.
After a time, a pickup truck passed me — the first vehicle I'd seen on this road — and then, getting closer, I slowed. Once again, loose logs bounced under my wheels as I crossed over a bridge, and a hundred yards on, the road bent slightly left. As it straightened out, it passed the camp gate — still locked— and began climbing steeply again. At this point I checked the odometer. One and two-tenths miles further on, a logging road ran off to the left. It was further than I would have liked, but there was really no other place to pull over, and the ground, though bumpy, was firm. I nosed the car in. Ten yards on, the track widened a little and pulled a bit right, then became so overgrown as to be completely impassable. But this was perfect for me: the jog meant the Ford wouldn't be seen from the highway.
To keep dry, I went through the contortions of changing inside the car. The flannel bush shirt — an ugly green and black plaid — went over my regular shirt. Then came the hiking boots and the sweater, which was loose enough to be comfortable. Next I packed up the knapsack, making sure the binoculars and groundsheet went in last, and slung it over my shoulder, paper-boy style, so that it rested on my left hip. Finally, on top of everything else, came the poncho. Drawing up its hood, I stepped into misery.
Coniferous forest, especially if it's been cut over recently, makes about the worst bush in the world. After five minutes, I knew this stuff was pure helclass="underline" a northern equivalent to the Amazon jungle.
The trees, mainly spruce, grew so tightly together that you could barely move, and their thick, heavy boughs made it impossible to see where you were going. Dead branches jabbed like spikes. Underfoot, branches left from past cutting had turned slick as ice. And everything was wet — after ten feet, my pant legs were soaked. There was nothing to do but grit my teeth and bull forward — though I was ass backwards about fifty percent of the time. I blundered through huge, sticky cobwebs; branches slashed a dozen stinging cuts on my face; and the rain sifted down as an acrid, resinous haze — it was like taking a bath in retsina. To make matters worse, I'd started high up on the slope and kept sliding downhill, though I was trying to make a straight course, a little east of north, that would keep me parallel to the camp road. After ten minutes, though, I gave up on all that fancy stuff and just tried to make sure I didn't circle back on myself. Eventually, things got a little easier. I stumbled onto a deer path — running northwest, downhill, but I was in no mood to be finicky — and for ten minutes I enjoyed quick, easy going. Then the ground opened up, spruce and pine giving way to maple and oak — their leaves gleaming russet and gold in the gloom — and I was even able to glimpse the miserable sky overhead.
I took a breather then and tried to fix my position. I'd been walking for forty-five minutes but probably hadn't traveled a mile from my entry point. I'd been well up the mountain to begin with, but had definitely been angling downhill, which meant, by my calculations, that I'd eventually intersect the camp road. But I didn't want to do this; Or at least not too soon, or in an uncontrolled way. My idea was to reconnoiter the camp, making absolutely certain that I saw the occupants — if any — long before they spotted me. I looked around. I was standing in a clearing full of small oaks, but there was one tall larch nearby and I decided to climb it. Not easy: there were no low branches, so I had to cut notches with my hatchet and shinny the first ten feet, and by the time I reached the first big branch my fingers were glued together with resin and bark. But I got what I wanted — a view — and at twenty feet I hung on and peered out. Across the valley there was nothing to see, just a long gray sweep of trees. But looking backwards, up the hill I'd been coming down, I saw just what I wanted: a rocky outcrop, near the summit. I took a compass bearing on it, clambered down, and allowed myself two gulps of wine before starting out.
It was twelve-twenty when I left for the knoll; I reached it exactly two hours later.
By then, I'd begun to get the hang of these woods. For reasons of soil or climate, the evergreens — like some drab forest infantry — commanded the heights while the hardwoods marched in their bright dress uniforms along the lower slopes. And on the lower ground, as the hillside flattened out into the valley, the trees were much older, or at least larger, and grew further apart. Since all of this made the going much easier, that's where I stayed, keeping parallel to the hill, which, of course, I'd eventually have to climb. But here I could walk rather than scramble; find my way rather than blunder on blindly. My steps and my breathing fell into a rhythm, while my mind found a nice quiet spot at the back of my skull and happily dozed. Still, this comfort was only relative. I was still cold, and very wet — the rain came down hard for ten minutes, and these open woods gave me little protection. But I made steady progress, and when the rain slacked off, I even caught a whiff of that lovely forest fragrance — damp earth, fresh water, pine needles, the soft rot under logs. After I rested awhile on a rock, my breath finally stilled and I listened quietly to the soft forest drip all around me. Memories came back. Pennsylvania. Hunting trips with my father. The perfect silence that forms just before your finger squeezes the trigger; the ache you always get at the back of your legs… Five minutes later, coming into the open, I was able to look up the hillside and see my knoll, almost directly above.