The morning broke easily over Columbia Falls at half-past-five on a Thursday. The sun spilled over the Big Mountain onto the shadowed fields. The northeast side of the mountain had been sunned for two hours already, and above the crest floated a layer of steam that diffused the light so you couldn’t tell where exactly the sun was. Last night’s snowfall had painted the landscape anew as it always did, giving birth to virgin fields of white and weighed on the burdened boughs of pine. Nearer to the treeline downed limbs could be mistaken for rocks or other harmful terrain, and you’d have to steer the snowmobiles around them even if you were sure of their benignity. Earlier in the season one new patrolman trailed too far behind and didn’t see a crag under the snow cover. The nose of his snowmobile dove down and sent him over the top and he landed on his shoulder, breaking his collarbone and ending his season early on. Streams and trenches were marked on the maps, but you were a fool if you hadn’t memorized their locations.
Atop the weaving vehicles were two orange dots drawing lines through the field. The lodge had gotten a call that a cross-country skier was missing, and Phil and Daryl were out to search their territory.
In the shelter of the trees the wind had muffled to a low whistle, and further in it was completely dead and the air was silent enough to hear the trunks sway and creak under their own weight. There was also the crunching of snow underfoot and your own labored breathing, but there was nothing else. The raptors had migrated southward, most of the bears were in hibernation in the hills, and the foxes ought to be stealthy, so the only sign of life might be a misplaced elk if you were lucky enough. The pine branches started high on the trunks and it created a thick ceiling over the forest floor. The trees looked eerily identical and it was easy to lose your way among them.
“How’re we looking?” Phil yelled back.
Daryl checked his compass and looked back at the twenty-five feet of orange tape he dragged behind him to keep a straight azimuth. “Still good.” He hollered back. “Should be coming to the creek soon.”
Phil slowed his pace enough to consult the map. “Maybe another mile.” At fifty-four, he was a veteran on the patrol team and he left the navigating to the younger man because he had gone on many runs like this with him before and he trusted him. The trees and snow absorbed sound well, so you wouldn’t hear the water until after you saw it. He kept his eyes up, looking for a break in the trees that would mean the water.
They made through the tress steadily, each step sinking a few inches in the snow. Out from the tree cover they would need to strap on the snowshoes. After half-an-hour the tress broke enough to signal the creek and then they saw it and finally heard the water washing over the rocks. Daryl dropped his pack and pinched a large chaw of tobacco from the pocketed sack. His shoulders were stiff from the weight on the shoulder straps and he spun his arms around to get blood flowing again. Phil wasn’t limber anymore to hoist his heavy pack on and off so often, and he kept it on as he knelt down to fill his water bottle from the stream and dropped an iodine tablet in. He didn’t mind the rubbery tasted it left. It reminded him of being out in nature and that was his favorite place to be.
“If he came down the south side, he would’ve broken through the tree line and came to the creek,” Phil thought aloud. “If he was smart, he would’ve followed it downstream to the lake.” He pivoted on his haunches and followed the stream with his eyes.
“And if he wasn’t smart?” Daryl asked, spitting dark brown into the snow behind him. Once before he made the mistake of spitting into the creek in front of Phil, and received quite the scolding for his disrespect of nature as he put it.
Phil didn’t answer but continued staring downstream. The fresh snow had made it impossible to follow any tracks the skier might have left. These searches were more like detective work than hunting—an analogy by which Phil always worked. He scanned the area for any signs of life: broken tree limbs, dropped gear, anything. There was nothing.
Mr. Handel left early from his cabin on Emery Hill at five o’clock sharp on a Wednesday. His pack was ready from the night before, leaning on the wall between his skis and the front door. He made a large breakfast to fuel the trek; it was eggs and ham, milk, coffee with grounds still swirling in it, and schwarzbrot—ever the favorite of the German expat. He donned his coat, pack, rifle, and skis, in that order, and made southeast. He would aim for Hungry Horse Mountain, camp there this night, and rise early to hunt. He was enthralled by American wildlife and hunting them had become his favorite activity. The cabin on Emery Hill was adorned with the mounted heads of his trophies and it had become an addiction. As a young man he was a professional biathlete and even placed at the 1976 Olympics in Innsbruck, but the power he felt downing a buck or a bear was far more satisfactory than that silver medal. He proudly covered the walls with the heads of his prizes and he had the perfect spot picked out for the yield of this hunt.
It was a sharp morning and the air stung his nostrils as he breathed in and made thick plumes of steam when he breathed out. The first half of the day would be quick traveling. It was an easy downhill from Emery Hill to the creek that fed into Hungry Horse Lake, then up to the mountain itself in the afternoon. Handel reached the creek before midday, ahead of schedule, and had the luxury of taking a longer rest. He unclipped his skis, boiled water from the stream for coffee, and drank it with dried meat he packed and another piece of the schwarzbrot. It was sweet and filled him up well.
After twenty minutes he made off again, following the creek until he found a section narrow enough to jump across. The creek rose with the day, as the afternoon sun beat down on the mountainsides above, and now it was the height of his midthigh—too deep to wade through the current. He came to a suitable section and eyed the gap. It was maybe five-foot wide and he could make it. After a minute of appraising, he doffed his pack, grasped it tight by the shoulder straps, spun on his heels, and hurled it across. He was committed now. It went far to avoid landing in the water and landed hard on the skis strapped on the side. He heard a snapping noise and as the pack rolled over he saw the broken tip. Verdammt! Verdammt noch mal! Now it was time for him to follow. He stepped backwards until his back was against a large pine ten meters from the water’s edge and imagined the jump in his mind. He pushed off the trunk and started running. The snow crunched under his boots and the wool of his jacket sleeves brushed against his sides. His target was the pack and kept his eyes steady on it to stay on course. He planted his right foot on the edge and pushed off hard. The snow crumbled away from the false edge and he fell into the creek. He tried to bring his left foot underneath him but the rocky bottom rolled away and twisted the foot sideways. His ankle broke under his weight and he fell again. The current caught him and started tumbling him downstream. He clambered for the opposite bank but there was only snow to grab onto. The icy water rushed down his coat and took his breath away as the current took him further down, his contorted foot bumping the rocks on the bottom, shooting searing pain up through his knee and hip. He oriented himself, head upstream, and dropped his good leg down, driving the heel into the bottom and with all his desperate strength, sprang up out of the water to the shore. His torso was on land and he was able to pull himself up. He rolled onto his back and breathed heavily. It turned to a disbelieving laughter and then he became angry and sent up a guttural scream up to the sky. The glacial water had numbed his skin but his muscles and left ankle were on fire.
His pack lay twenty-five meters up and he pushed up to hop up to it. Immediately he collapsed under his knee. He hadn’t noticed he twisted it pushing off the creek bed. Handel lay there on the ground with a broken ankle, torn knee, and looked up at his pack where his skis too were broke and released another scream from deep in his gut, punching the ground. It shook a tear loose from his eyes.
He crawled laboriously up to his gear, dragging his useless legs behind, and pulled his pack to the treeline. He sat, leaning against the trunk and looked out at the opposite shore and the disrupted snow where he fell; he followed the stream with his eyes where it took him and battered him; he saw the crumbled edges where he grasped for something to save him; he saw the point where he made it out. It didn’t look as far as it felt. Then he looked at his foot. It was grotesquely cocked to the side in his boot and he wanted to look at it, but then it would swell and the boot wouldn’t fit over it. He was still breathing hard and he could feel the blood pulsing in his ankle and in his knee.
Home wasn’t an option—he couldn’t cross the river again. Travelling down to a town on the lake wasn’t an option—he couldn’t walk, and the broken skis wouldn’t slide in the snow any more. He would have to wait for rescue. He took his rifle and fired three shots into the air, signaling his position.
Handel was freezing. His clothes were soaked and he couldn’t gather the wood for a fire to dry them. He took out his small camp stove from the pack and attached the propane tank, lit it, turned it as high as it would go, and set it between his legs, using his pack as a shield to reflect the heat back to him. Steam started coming off his pant legs and the edges of his coat. In his pack there was two extra shirts and a sheepskin cap. He donned them all, ringing out his wet shirt next to him. A drop of the creek fell from his beard and landed on his bare chest. With the dry layers on and the stove burning, he felt revitalized. He ate more of the dried meat and schwarzbrot. The sweet, dark bread always made him feel better.
There was a movement up the creek that caught his eye. A mountain lion was drinking at the stream and had noticed him. It was following the stream down to where he had jumped, its ears up and pointed at the man leaning against the tree. Handel could see its ribs. It had been a hard winter and it was starved. This is why you’re not scared, he thought. Slowly he reached for his rifle and pulled the bolt back, loading a round. The click sound rang loud and stopped the mountain lion. Go away cat, save yourself. It paused for a time and then lowered its head. Its ears pulled back and it twitched its whiskers. He could see its muscles flex in its shoulders and the bones were like two peaks above its snarling head. You’re committed now, cat. Come die for me. He raised the barrel and found the beast in his sights. This is what you want cat. It’s face remained fearless. It gripped the ground under its huge paws and pulled itself into a sprint. Handel shot. The bullet grazed its rear hip and didn’t slow it. The cat was speeding at him, already cut the distance between them in half. He pulled the bolt again and raised the rifle again. It was five meters away now and could get to him in a single leap. This shot had to down her. Handel was calm. He loved the hunt and fear was a useless emotion. He breathed out and took aim. The cat leapt.
“Let’s go,” Phil said. “Get your pack on.”
Daryl spit tobacco juice and hoisted up his shoulder straps. The two men followed down the creek, looking into the trees on each side for any sign of the lost skier.
“We’ll follow this down to the lake and see if we can find any sign of him,” Phil said, leading the way. “Are you checking the trees?” He asked, not looking back.
“Both sides,” Daryl replied.
“Good.’’
They walked on, leaving a trail of footprints and spit, for ten more minutes.
Phil noticed the discolored snow from twenty yards away. First there was a spot of it and then a large area nearer the treeline. It was a dark brown but it was faded through the covering snow. Then he saw the skinned carcass of the cat.
“Is that a mountain lion?” He breathed, in disbelief.
“What?” Daryl said, and then he saw it. He saw a grey mound at the base of the tree. “Shit!”
The two of them ran to the scene, churning up the bloodied snow under their boots as they got close. The cat lay in a heap, exposed muscles and a small amount of fat everywhere but the head, paws, and tail. Mr. Handel was motionless under the pelt. His legs stuck out from the fur below his knees, covered in snow and lifeless, otherwise, only his face shown out of the veined skin of the mountain lion. His cap was pulled low and tied tight under his chin where his beard was grey and frozen stiff to an icicled point. The burnt remains of his pack lay charred, next to him. Then a twitch of his eyes startled the patrolmen. Phil knelt down and put a gloved hand of Handel’s shoulder.
“Sir, can you hear me? We’re with the Montana State Wilderness Rescue Service. We’re going to get you out of here.”
Handel’s eyes opened and his face came alive. He coughed his mouth open and groaned something.”
“We’re going to get you out of here,” Phil said again. Then, turning to Daryl, “Grab his arms, let’s get him up.” They lifted him and his legs hung dead below him. “Hold him up,” he instructed the younger patrolman, and took his coat off to put over the frozen man. As he helped his arms through the sleeves, Handel looked down at the carcass of the mountain lion.
“The cat…” He said through a shivered voice. “He tried to take my life. But he saved it.” The old man had enough strength left in him to laugh.
They started carrying him upstream, but he grabbed Daryl hard on his arm. “You,” he sputtered. “Bring that cat. I have the perfect spot for her head on my wall.”
