Chapter 5
Five
Nature is slow but sure, she works no faster than need be; she is the tortoise that wins the race by her perseverance.
—Henry David Thoreau, American philosopher
The afternoon sun felt good. Maisie ambled down the trail alongside String Lake while her grandfather chatted with some rangers. This morning, they’d gone into Jackson for church. Pops had afternoon duty, so she’d tagged along, happy to be with him, happy to be at the park.
Being in the Grand Tetons felt like a slice of heaven, surrounded by the towering trees, the fresh scent of lake water, and the clean, sweet air. It was a far cry from bustling, noisy, trafficky city life.
Her thoughts drifted to her mom and this supposedly life-changing retreat. Mom definitely needed some changes in her life. Rebecca Woodbine had provided the money to go to this retreat, and even gave Mom extra gas money to deliver Maisie to Pops. On the drive from Denver, Mom had seemed so excited. She said that this time, everything was going to get better. Mom promised .
A wave of uncertainty washed over Maisie. Mom made a lot of promises that didn’t come true. Band-Aid-better promises. Things might get better for a little bit, but not for long.
As she strolled, the towering pines created a canopy, casting dappled sunlight on the path. The farther she walked, the more her worries over Mom slipped away. She took in a deep breath of crisp mountain air. She adored being out in nature. Even more so, she loved being with Pops. The future seemed brighter when Pops was in the story.
And then, to her delight and astonishment, she thought she spotted Frankie, trimming branches from a bush encroaching on the trail. She bolted over to him. “Hi!”
Frankie looked up, confused.
“You’re Frankie, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” He finished the bush and gathered up the branches, tossing them into a black plastic garbage bag.
“I’m Maisie. My grandfather is Tim Rivers. The ranger. Remember? We met at the visitor center just yesterday.”
Frankie grunted.
“Looks like you’re doing trail maintenance. Can I help?”
“No.” Frankie slung the bag over his shoulder and headed down the trail.
Undeterred, Maisie followed along.
“Hey.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Did your grandfather send you to spy on me?”
“Of course not! He’s telling the rangers what they need to do today. I just thought you could use some help. Or maybe someone to talk to? I’m a good listener. Well, it’s not my best quality. Talking is my best . But I’m working on my listening skills.”
“I don’t talk and I don’t listen.” He stopped at another spot and started cutting a root that was lifting up on the trail.
“You’re Coop’s roommate, right? How’s that going? Don’t you just love Coop? I adore him. I think he’s wonderful. Next to Pops, he’s my favorite person in the world. I suppose I should put my mom on that list. Usually she is, but right now, I’m a little frustrated with her, you know?”
“Man, do I ever know. Parents are useless.”
“Well, not exactly useless. But definitely exasperating. Anyway, don’t you just love Coop?”
“He’s the one who’s put me on trail maintenance today. So no, I don’t love him.”
“Why’d he give you trail maintenance?”
He let out a huff. “For a very minor deed.”
Maisie grinned. “How minor?”
“Something ridiculously small.” He whirled his finger around his ear, as if to say that Coop might be nuts. “I left my wet towel on his bed and it made his precious pillow damp to sleep on.”
“Whoa.” She laughed. “That’s not a minor deed. You messed up. You’re lucky you’re on trail maintenance and not emptying latrines.”
Frankie gave her a look, then a hint of amusement filled his eyes. He handed her a plastic bag to carry. “Here, kid. Make yourself useful.”
“I’m not a kid.” But Frankie wasn’t listening. He walked along the trail, Maisie trotting beside him with the bag of branches. She wasn’t looking where she was going and walked right into a spiderweb. “Yuck!” She swiped at her face and hair, pulling silky strands off.
Frankie turned to watch her. “Here’s a tip, kid. Always walk behind someone taller than you. That way, your face doesn’t have to be the first to make contact with a cobweb.”
“Fun fact. It only takes a spider thirty to sixty minutes to spin or repair a web.”
He tapped his head. “Something to remember on your return trip.” He stopped now and then to pick up litter and stuff it in his plastic bag. “Why do people come to the wilderness and toss their litter?”
“Maybe it falls out of their backpack.”
“Right.” He picked up a couple of empty cans of beer. “Just fell right out of their backpack.” He stuffed the cans in the bag. “Idiots. They should be banned from the park.”
“Maybe it was someone who’d been injured, bitten by a wolf, maybe. Or face-planted on one of those roots you’re cutting away. And they desperately needed an anesthetic, and that was all they had. And they drank the beer, crawled back to their car, and drove off.”
Frankie looked at her like she was nuts. “Then, hopefully they’d get pulled over for DUI on the way and be locked up in jail.”
“Well, I suppose that would be a fitting conclusion for idiots.”
Bending over to pick up another beer can, he paused at her comment. When he straightened up again, she thought he had a look on his face like he was trying to not laugh.
“Fun fact,” Maisie said, changing the subject from litterbugs. “String Lake used to be called Beaver Dick Lake. Beaver Dick was the trapper who married Jenny, the Shoshone woman. You know ... Jenny Lake was named for her. Really sad love story.” She opened her mouth to explain more, but he was walking down the trail. She hurried to catch up. “Don’t you want to hear it?”
“No. I don’t do love stories.”
“Sad ones? Or happy ones?”
“Neither. Too sappy.”
“Look!” Maisie said. “Are those Clark nutcrackers?” She pointed to a couple of birds flitting about on the ground near them.
“Wrong. Gray jays. Also known as Canada jays. In the family of blue jays and crows and ravens.”
“But they’re so small.”
“Smaller, less noisy than their cousins. Tame too. They’ll eat out of your hands.”
Maisie drew closer to see their markings, and the birds seemed unfazed.
Eyes fixed on the bird, Frankie said, “Some think a gray jay’s whistle or chatter means a predator is nearby.”
She glanced up at Frankie. She had a hunch he liked being here more than he let on. She wanted to find out.
As they walked, they reached a scenic viewpoint overlooking String Lake. Her keen eyes caught sight of a large white bird gracefully gliding on the lake. “Is that a snowy egret?”
“Not even close.” Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Trumpeter swan. See the black bill? Black legs, too. Largest bird in the park.”
Her eyes widened. “It’s a beautiful bird.”
“Yeah. It’s one of the rare government success stories. Trumpeter swans used to be hunted so much they were endangered, but they’ve actually recovered their numbers.”
She could hear a hint of pride in his voice. Even though Frankie tried to act chill, Maisie could tell he loved sharing what he knew. And wow! Just wow. He knew a ton.
In fact, once Frankie finally started to talk, he didn’t stop. “You’ll see a lot of trumpeter swans around here. They like to breed and nest in the park. Anywhere there’s water, you’ll find them. Usually two together. They mate for life.”
“Oooh,” Maisie breathed as she clasped her hands over her heart. “Don’t you just love romantic moments in nature?”
A peculiar expression washed over Frankie’s face. “Don’t your cheeks hurt?”
“My cheeks?” Her hands clasped her cheeks.
“Yeah. From all that happiness.”
She pondered the question for a moment before responding solemnly, “Yes. Yes, sometimes they do.”
His eyes softened. And then a laugh burst out of him, first one and then another. His laughter was contagious, and soon, they were both laughing. It felt as though the sun had emerged from behind a cloud, casting a warm glow over them.
That was the moment when Maisie fell head over heels in love with Frankie. She didn’t even know his last name.
Zoo Girl.
The nickname had spread fast among the other photographers. Kate had heard their whispered snickers in the quiet of the chilly, predawn morning when she’d been at Pilgrim Creek to watch for the emergence of Grizzly Bear 399 from hibernation.
No sign of the bear.
Plenty of jabs at Kate’s inexperience.
She refused to let the other photographers get under her skin. It was like seventh grade all over again, when her parents sent her to a private school because she was falling behind in the public school. That first month was horrible—she ate lunch alone each day, she was the victim of all kinds of mean-girl pranks. The only way she survived was to act like she didn’t care a whit. And in a strange way, that worked. By month’s end, she started to get included at lunch, then invited to girls’ houses after school. Before long, she was one of them.
So, maybe it was time to pull out her old seventh-grade trick: acting like she didn’t care what people thought of her. Truth is, she did care—like, a lot. But what was the harm in pretending? She had nothing to lose, right? Cool and detached, that was going to be her new vibe.
Later that day, she stood on the banks of the Snake River at Oxbow Bend, adjusting her camera with precision. She focused on the task at hand—capturing untold stories through her camera lens. She’d noticed a spot on the river with so many otters that she was sure there was a den. Wearing waders, Kate started slowly walking into the river, with a plan to photograph the river otters close to home. They used dens, often abandoned burrows from other animals, to retreat and rest, to sleep, to give birth, to wait out inclement weather or avoid predators. Using her awesome zoom lens, she hoped to get some close-ups of the den, of otters coming in and out, from the river’s view.
As she stood in the middle of the river, she paused. About fifty feet away, two otters caught her eye, leisurely floating on their backs and gracefully passing each other. They seemed utterly at ease, like two friends lounging in a pool on inflatable mats. She quickly adjusted her lens and snapped a few shots, capturing the serene moment. In her mind, she playfully captioned the scene: “I’m fine. You?”
From the bank, a voice called out, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Zoo Girl.”
“He’s right,” another one said. “You’re asking for trouble. Your camera shouldn’t be that close to water.”
She glanced back, seeing the looks exchanged between photographers. Until now, she hadn’t noticed how many photographers were situated along the riverbank, and even more up on the road. All eyes were on her, watching with mixed expressions. Trying to appear unfazed, Kate pressed forward, intent on proving that she belonged to this wilderness as much as any seasoned photographer. Her confidence was intact.
However, nature had its own plans. A submerged branch caught her foot, and with a sudden jolt, Kate found herself tumbling into the water. She caught herself before going completely under, one arm instinctively holding her brand-new camera high in the air, but the splash echoed, punctuating the stillness. The wildlife sensed her presence. Birds took flight, otters vanished. A flock of geese darted far away, leaving ripples of discontent in their wake.
Laughter erupted from the spectators on the shore. “Great job scaring off the river otters, Zoo Girl,” one of them sneered. “Scaring off everything.”
“Yeah. We didn’t come here for your theatrics,” another added.
The gray-haired pigtailed woman had come out of nowhere. She stood on the road with her hands on her hips, glaring down at Kate. “I have spent the last hour up at the crook, trying to get photos of clouds reflected on the river, and in less than thirty seconds, you have created endless ripples of wake and disturbed every wild creature at Oxbow Bend.”
The worst thing of all was that pigtailed woman was right. Instead of settling down, the birds grew noisier. They circled overhead, their irritated squawks a chorus of disapproval, a symphony of disgruntled fowl.
Humiliation washed over Kate. Her confident demeanor had slipped away, replaced by an awkward vulnerability. Discomfort, too, as icy water drenched her clothes and dripped into her waders.
As Kate made her way toward the riverbank, fighting to keep her composure, she did her utmost to block out the accusatory glances and murmurs of disapproval from the seasoned photographers. “You don’t belong here,” she heard one of them say, with another loudly agreeing. A flush of embarrassment spread across her cheeks as she stammered out an apology.
“Cut her some slack.”
Kate looked up to see a ranger— that ranger, the handsome one, Coop—heading down the steep bank toward her.
“Ranger,” the gray-haired pigtailed woman said, pointing an accusatory finger in Kate’s direction, “that Zoo Girl disrupts everything! Birds, otters, geese, the whole show.”
Halfway down, Coop stopped. “She’s learning the ropes. Give her a break.”
“Learning the ropes? We’re here for serious shots, not a comedy act,” another photographer said. “Maybe you should go back to the zoo.”
Kate shot that photographer a look .
Coop noticed. He turned to that particular photographer. “Hey, everybody starts somewhere.”
As the photographers dispersed, still grumbling under their breaths, Coop turned his attention back to Kate. He took a few more steps down the bank to reach out a hand and help her onto the bank. “You okay?” he asked, his tone softened.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just embarrassed.” She frowned. “I do wish you hadn’t told them I was a zoo photographer. My nickname is now Zoo Girl.”
“Me?” A puzzled look came over him. “But I didn’t tell them.”
She eyed him. Was he telling her the truth? “You were the only one who knew. Who else could’ve told them?”
Coop’s eyes narrowed. “Must’ve been Frankie. My summer intern.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll survive.” She was shivering, and she could feel her heels starting to rub raw from the waders. “I’d better go change.” She started up the bank, then stopped and turned to Coop. “Thanks for not throwing me to the wolves back there.”
Coop grinned. “Wolves might have been less forgiving. Listen, don’t let them get to you. Wildlife photography is no walk in the park. You’ve just added a splash of unpredictability to it.”
“Very punny.” She strode up the bank, acutely aware of the sound of water sloshing inside her waders, her clothes dripping water as she walked. Aware that Coop was watching her.
A little smile tugged at her lips.
Wade peered out the window of the plane, his eyes fixed on the rugged landscape below as the aircraft descended toward the lone runway at Jackson Hole Airport. The sight of the granite peaks in the distance and the vast valley of sagebrush meadows stirred a sense of anticipation in him. “Where are you, bear?” he whispered under his breath. “I’m coming for you.”
As the plane taxied to the gate, Wade wasted no time in unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for his phone. With a quick flick, he powered it on and tapped out a message to Feldmann, letting him know he had safely arrived. The hunt was officially on, and Wade was anxious to get started.
He hadn’t met Tony Feldmann face-to-face yet, a fact that niggled at the back of his mind. He hoped it wasn’t a mistake. He trusted the man who had given a strong recommendation of Feldmann. He’d said that this guy knew how to scout and prepare a hunt. So far, everything checked out. The information they had exchanged, the plans they had laid out over countless calls and messages. Still, there was a small flicker of doubt—what if this was a misstep? What if he had underestimated the importance of meeting Feldmann in person before contracting him as the frontman for such a significant hunt?
This hunt was going to be the ultimate test of Wade’s skills and cunning. A fitting end to his career as an expert marksman. His masterpiece.
If this was the last one, then it was going to be the best hunt of his life.