2. CHAPTER 2
Tate
The bin at nineteen is on its side, lid wrenched back on its hinge, and the story is written all over the gravel for anyone who wants to read it.
I crouch and examine the evidence.
Hot dog wrappers dragged eight feet toward the brush. A flattened marshmallow bag, licked clean. Chip crumbs in a scatter pattern that says he took his time. And in the soft dirt at the bin's base, one clear print, front paw, maybe four inches across. Small. Young. Definitely our juvenile bear.
"Latch failed?" Neely asks behind me. She's kept back a respectful distance, notebook already out, which I appreciate. She seems to be as detail oriented as I am. I think we’ll work well together.
"Latch didn't fail." I point to the hasp, bent outward, and to the bungee cord somebody looped through it. "Latch got left unsecured because someone's cooler wouldn't fit inside, so they bungeed the lid down over the overflow. Bear peeled it like a can."
The camper wearing a fishing vest—Mr. Dressel from site seventeen, he informs us—hovers with his arms crossed. "So, it was a bear. I told Karen it was a bear."
"It was a bear," I confirm. "Young male, been in the area a few weeks. You did the right thing flagging me down." I say it because it's true and because a camper who feels useful will report the next thing too. "Anything left out at your site last night? Cooler, stove, dish water?"
"Everything's in the box." A pause. "Well, Karen's hand lotion might be on the picnic table."
"Hand lotion goes in the box, too," Neely says, before I can. Her tone is friendly, and she’s jotting something in her notebook. "I'll do a walk-through this evening and remind campers about things like lo. tion, bug spray, and sunscreen.”
Dressel nods at her obediently. She's got that thing, whatever it is, that makes people stop and listen. A voice that makes you feel taken care of instead of policed. It’s not a quality that can be trained. You either have it or you don’t.
I'm still cataloging that when the maintenance truck rattles up, and Ollie Barnes unfolds out of it, all elbows and sunburn, cap on backward like always.
"Heard 'bear' on the radio," he says. "Is it the little guy? I've been calling him Doug."
"Don't name the bear, Ollie."
"Too late. He's got a face, Tate. I couldn’t help myself.
And he looks like a Doug." Ollie catches sight of Neely and sticks his hand out.
"Ollie Barnes, trails and maintenance and whatever else nobody wants to do.
You're the new host? That your rig at the front? Sweet setup. My cousin had one like it, maybe a touch smaller, but it caught fire. A wiring issue. He should have let me look at it. I would have—”
"Ollie," I say. "The bin."
"Right." He hauls a replacement latch kit from the truck bed. "Third one this month, if you count the trailhead."
"I count the trailhead."
While Ollie works, I walk Neely along the drag path to the brush line and show her what I'm seeing.
The parallel scrapes where the bear pinned the bag.
The half-moon of the rear pad print near the fireweed.
She crouches to look, asks how old the print is and how I can tell, and writes down the answer.
"So, what happens to him? Doug." She winces. "The bear. If this keeps up."
"First, we make the food stop. Every scrap, every night. When the food stops being easy, most young bears drift back to doing bear things. Berries are coming in up on the ridge, and that will help. But if he doesn't stop breaking into trash cans, Fish and Game gets involved. They’ll try hazing first, using loud noises, lights, and non-lethal slugs. Maybe dogs. If that doesn’t work, they may try to relocate him.
But the fact is, a bear that’s too comfortable around humans almost always ends up being put down. We don’t want that.”
She's quiet for a second. "No. The bear shouldn’t have to pay the ultimate price because someone used a bungee cord instead of the latch.”
"Exactly. The good news is this campground now has a host who can help me make sure folks follow the rules. We can still salvage the situation, keeping the people here safe and the bear safe, too.”
She looks up at me with those hazel eyes, and my breath catches. Neely Quinn is a beautiful woman—and she’s also smart, outdoorsy, and cares about nature. It’s enough to make any park ranger’s heart skip a beat.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, neither sure what to say. Ollie, God bless him, fills the sudden silence by dropping a socket wrench on foot.
“Ouch,” he shouts, shaking his foot. “Sometimes, I wish I had a desk job.”
The thought of Ollie sitting at a desk makes me chuckle. “No way, Ollie. You’re like me. We’d die of boredom if we were chained to a desk.”
“True enough, brother. But my toes would be happier.”
By late afternoon, Neely’s back at the campground kiosk sorting fee envelopes, and I’m back in my truck. I've got no operational reason to still be at Ponderosa Flats, so naturally I'm doing a third unnecessary pass of Loop C. I’m not quite ready to leave the pretty campground host on her own.
An hour later, I find myself parked where I can see the host site through the trees, watching her carry firewood and laughing at something a kid on a bike says to her.
She's got her sleeves shoved up and her hair falling out of its knot. I can’t help but watch the sway of her curvy hips as she crosses the pad, or the way her faded jeans stretch tightly across her ass.
I have to keep myself from whistling in appreciation.
Forty-one years old and staring through trees like a teenager. Or like a weirdo stalker.
There’s no use pining for what I can’t have. She’s only here for fourteen weeks. Then she’s moving on.
It’s fine. I’ll be fine.
I have a good life, in a town I love, a job that matters, a niece who thinks I hung the moon and a nephew who thinks I’m the coolest man alive. Sure, I sometimes think about meeting a woman and building a family together, but I’m content.
Or I was. Until I met my new camp host.
Movement at site thirty-one catches my eye. There’s a family with a cooler sitting out on the table, and all four of the humans are piling into a minivan in swim gear.
I roll down my window. "Folks. Cooler goes in the box before you leave."
"We'll be back in an hour," the dad says, already pulling the seatbelt across his chest.
I get out of my truck and stand in front of his van with my arms crossed. “Now’s a good time to teach your kids the importance of following the rules. Or we can teach them about consequences. Your choice.”
The man exits the van and puts the cooler in the bear box.
I tip my head to him. “Thank you for doing your part to keep the campground safe. Y’all have fun at the lake.”
As the van pulls away, I come to a decision. With a food-conditioned juvenile bear in the area and a new host starting, this campground warrants increased patrols. Morning radio checks aren’t going to cut it. We’ll need in-person patrols, morning and evening. Daily.
An increased presence is completely justifiable.
The fact that the host has hazel eyes and hair I long to run my fingers through doesn’t need to be the official report.