Page 50 of Wilderness Daddy

Chapter Eleven

Landon

It’s been a month and I’ve developed a good routine. Part of that still includes not only thinking of Akari, but talking about her too. It keeps the loneliness at bay and I feel safe that Grant will cut it all. He’ll give me a hard time about it no doubt but I can take his razzing.

I’m a decent distance from my camp gathering wild leeks. When I shove the leeks in my pocket the aroma, a mixture of onions and garlic, permeates the air. If there’s one other thing besides Akari that I think about as often, it’s food. I spend a lot of time dreaming of food that isn’t bland and mushy so the scent makes my mouth water with thoughts of crisp, garlic roasted potatoes. But the cracking of twigs in the bushes twenty feet away shoves those thoughts aside.

Something large is moving about and I’m instantly alert, my eyes exploring the foliage around me. I’ve kept watch for signs of large predators, bears, cougars, wolves, and even moose, which can be extremely territorial, on my hike but have seen nothing.

Keeping low to the ground I scan the area until I see movement in the brush now ten meters away. I’m about to call out and make myself known since animals tend to avoid human confrontation when a shot rings out from the opposite direction. I dive to the ground, my nose tingling with the strong aroma of the leeks I’ve just crushed beneath me.

Chunks of bark fly off a tree less than a foot from me as another shot blasts. I throw my hands over my head as the chunks fall around me. Boots, more than a few, start stomping through the forest around me. Hunters are usually quieter so my gut cautions me. I rise up slowly onto my elbows so I can see better and maybe let the hunters know I’m there, but an angry voice stops me.

“I’ll kill the bastard. We spent days baiting and setting those traps. Just wait till I get my hands on him.”

“You know who we’re tracking, Gillie?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. First bastard we come across is dead. No one is going to get in the way of our hunt.”

“Could it be that girl?”

“Nah. If we find her don’t shoot though. Eh, Red?” There’s a catcall whistle.

“She’s a looker. And I want to know what she’s up to.” The sentence ends with a lecherous laugh that makes my skin crawl. The action cam is recording, but I doubt it’ll get much more than muffled voices and blobs resembling people in the forest.

“Think it’s the Sasquatch?”

“Don’t be an idiot. No dumb Bigfoot could screw with our traps. It’s human and he’s poaching on our territory.”

“We don’t own the mountain.”

“We damn well do. And we own that damn Bigfoot too. He’s ours and anyone that tries to take him, we take out. Got that, shit-for-brains?”

“Yeah, ours.”

“I don’t feel good about this.”

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