Chapter 9 #3
I agreed with that, but this guy was bonkers. But for the briefest of moments I wondered if my own version of worst-case scenario thinking bothered Rose at times. Maggs had laid down, her head on her paws, looking like she might die of boredom.
Louis went on. “Water purification: filter, backup filter, tablets and a kettle for boiling.” He gestured to each item. “Fire starting: waterproof matches, two lighters, magnesium fire starter, fire paste, dry tinder in waterproof container, and emergency fire starters.”
“That’s a lot of fire.”
“Fire is survival." He said it like a mantra, obviously not processing sarcasm. “Shelter: tent, backup tarp, emergency bivy, space blanket, and materials for building a debris shelter if needed.”
“When would you need a debris shelter if you have a tent?”
“What if the tent fails?”
What could I say to that?
He looked at me like I was a child who didn't understand basic mathematics. “It’s about probability management. Every piece of gear has a failure rate. You need redundancy.” I watched as he continued unpacking: rope, more rope, carabiners, duct tape (okay, that’s always useful, we’d called it hundred mile an hour tape in the Army), paracord, a camp saw, the axe I’d seen earlier, multiple knives, a fishing kit, a sewing kit, zip ties including a set of zip cuffs which was weird, and an emergency radio.
“How much does your pack weigh?” I asked.
“Seventy-three pounds." He said it with pride, and I nodded since my initial guess was close. “But that’s my insurance policy. I can handle any situation.”
I saw a couple of through hikers whispering to each other, snickering.
I remembered a reserve Special Forces team in Afghanistan that had been given a mission to occupy a blocking position on a mountain top at a high altitude.
They’d loaded several kit bags full of machine gun rounds to the point where besides their own rucks and gear they had guys pairing up to carry the kit bags onto the chopper.
The weight had been a problem for the chopper in the thin air and—
Maggs cut into my memory as she chose that moment to stand up, walk over to his pile of gear, and sniff interestedly at a bag of trail mix he'd left sitting open while he demonstrated his bear canister system—which involved three different locking mechanisms and what appeared to be a combination lock.
“Maggs!” I said in my best warning voice, which never really worked when she didn’t want it to.
Too late. She'd grabbed the bag of trail mix, looking absurdly pleased with herself.
“Hey!” Louis Prepper Guy lunged for her, but Maggs easily dodged, taking her prize to the far side of the trail.
“Maggs, drop it,” I said.
She looked at me, calculating. Then, because she's a good dog when she feels like it, she dropped the bag.
Prepper Guy scrambled to retrieve it, checking it for damage like it contained the nuclear codes. “Your dog just compromised my food supply.”
“She didn’t eat any. She just borrowed it.” I didn’t want to tell him we’d occasionally ended up on the same piece of meat, teeth locked down, staring deep into each other’s eyes. In those cases, I usually let her win the tug of war.
“’Borrowed it'?” He was repacking the trail mix into his pack, which seemed to require reorganizing his entire food system. “Dogs don't borrow things. They’re opportunistic scavengers. You need better training protocols.”
Now he’d crossed a line. I think I’d been almost saint-like with my patience to this point.
I felt my jaw tighten. “Maggs is a trained working dog. She’s got better discipline than most people I know.”
“Then why did she steal my food?”
“Because your ‘bear-proof’ system was wide open while you were showing me your seventeenth backup fire starter.”
He paused mid-reorganization. “That’s... that’s a valid point.” He looked at Maggs with new respect. “She identified a vulnerability in my security protocol.”
“Yeah. She's good at that.”
“How much does she weigh?”
Obtuse as I am, I knew you didn’t ask a woman how much she weighed.
“Enough.”
“What’s your backup if you run out of dog food?"
I kill things, I thought. “I won’t run out.”
“But what if—”
“Look,” I interrupted, trying to keep my voice level. “I appreciate your thoroughness. Really. But I’ve been taking care of Maggs for a while, and we've been in situations a lot more serious than a hiking trail in Georgia. We’re good.”
He looked genuinely distressed. “But you don’t have contingencies.”
“I have training, experience, and the ability to adapt. That’s my contingency.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“Plans don't survive contact with reality.” I almost said enemy.
He stared at me like I’d just denied the existence of gravity. “That’s . . . that’s the most dangerous attitude I’ve ever heard.”
“I’ve got to get some water,” I said, standing and needing to end this.
I walked off, Maggs trailing, leaving him in a pile of gear.
Louis was hidden away in his over-sized tent when I came back with my filtered water.
I decided on the coward’s approach, grabbing my ruck which I hadn’t unpacked and moving down the trail about a quarter mile in the gathering darkness.
The thought of waking up next to prepper man was more than I could take.
Also, the group in the shelter was making noise, chatting, laughing and it promised to go on for a while.
So far, Tom hadn’t shown up and I hoped that maybe Martinez had convinced him to take a medevac.
I just wanted to sleep. Because although I am a manly man and had moved slowly, I wasn’t in hiking shape. Hanging sheetrock is not the same as rucking. Especially when you did it wrong, as I apparently did.
I pulled out the Satphone and quickly texted a message.
Met a prepper
His ruck weighed 73 lbs
Thought I wasnt prepared
Humor. Har
Love