Page 27 of One Step Too Far

As I watch, he fills the empty bladder with running water from the stream. Screws on the filtration top. Then, turning it upside down, he squeezes the water out of the bladder, through the charcoal filter pop top, into his drinking flask. Now I get it. And I should definitely refill both my bottles. Except that would involve standing up, and moving.

I promised I would not be deadweight. I promised I would not slow down the team. I still have to bite my lower lip as I rise painfully to my feet. Miggy is not moving much better. My impression is that Scott and Neil also wouldn’t mind being buried where they lie. There is thinking you’re active and fit, and then there is Nemeth fit.

When I turn, he’s standing right there. I try not to startle or flush guiltily. He hands me my water bottles and the filtration system from my pack.

“Final mile to go,” he says. “We’ll be camping tonight not far from a stream-fed lake. You can soak your feet in the water there. It’ll help.”

I nod.

“Today’s the hardest. Once we reach the target area and start our search, we’ll have to slow down and pay attention, not to mention respect Daisy’s need for breaks.”

I’ve never loved a dog more.

Nemeth steps back to take in the rest of the group. He might be a hard-ass, but clearly he’s also an experienced guide who knows how to size up his audience. Marty would walk to the ends of the earth without ever stopping, to bring his son home. Bob would follow because his heart is as big as the rest of him.

But for the bachelor party buddies, myself, even Luciana, this level of exertion is pushing our limits. Day one, Nemeth can’t afford for any of us to break.

“Ten more minutes,” he announces now. “Then we’ll gear up. Good news, we got plenty of daylight left, so you can take your time on the home stretch. Upon arrival, we’ll make camp, have a hot meal, then Marty and Luciana will walk us through the game plan for tomorrow.”

We nod as a unit. Nobody talking but everyone paying attention.

Then, in the distance: a strange, shrill scream that prickles the hair on the back of my neck. I drop my hand to the Rambo knife, feeling a jolt of fight or flight as the cry builds in intensity.

“Any questions?” Nemeth asks.

Scott, eyes wild: “What the hell is that?”

“Just an animal.”

The second shriek echoes disturbingly. Daisy’s ears prick forward, her body taut. I grip the handle of the tactical blade.

Nemeth remains unconcerned. “All right, break’s over. Gear up.”

That was not the ten-minute break he promised us. It makes me pay attention, catching the look Nemeth and Martin exchange while I note Bob’s posture has taken on a tension I haven’t seen before.

A third cry. Shrill. Building, higher, higher, higher. Then, a sudden sharp cutoff. Like a blade severed the sound. Or the creature making it.

Daisy whines, presses closer to her handler.

Another exchanged look between our two leaders, but no words spoken.

Nemeth shoulders the rifle, takes point. Bob prepares to bring up the rear.

They’re lying to us. Wild animals, my ass. But why? What don’t they want us to know?

Nemeth hops boulder to boulder over the broad stream before disappearing into the thick copse of trees beyond. Martin follows, then the others, one by one vanishing into the woods.

I grip my tactical blade. Very reluctantly, I follow suit.

CHAPTER 10

When I was ten, I became obsessed with camping. I don’t remember why. Probably the other kids in my class were talking about fun-filled family adventures and I grew jealous.

I pestered my parents relentlessly. My mom was firm on the subject: “You know I don’t have time off, and if I did, I’m certainly not spending it sleeping on the ground.”

My father, the appeaser, never said no, but also didn’t say yes. So around and around we went, me convinced that I couldn’t live another day without sleeping in a tent, my parents convinced that eventually I’d grow out of it.

My father had recently lost his job. Downsizing, he said as he popped open another beer. His unemployed days turned into weeks, his body slowly merging with the sofa into one hops-scented blob, while my mom, currently working two positions, returned late each evening in a state of tight-lipped rage. Furiously cleaning the kitchen, throwing in loads of laundry, collecting all the empties. She never said a word, but my father, watching her through his drunken haze, would do the talking for both of them.

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