along the Rim. It is simply a matter of logic and smokechasing. We will get to it. We must get to it. I drive another half mile down the road. This time we will walk to the Rim and traverse along it back toward Swamp Point. Kent inserts a spare set of batteries into his headlamp.
We walk for an hour, confident that I have found the Rim—a high mound—and are contouring along it. Any moment now I expect to discover the eerie glow of the fire. Then Kent points. Ahead of us, caught in the beam of our headlamps, glare two yellow eyes. Too small for a coyote, they can belong only to a mountain lion. We drop to our knees and slide behind a tree. We turn off our headlamps and approach cautiously. As nearly as we can tell, the eyes, now dulled, watch our every move. We are stalked and stalking. Abruptly Kent stands up and flashes on his headlamp as we stare slack-jawed at the rear of our truck. Two yellow reflectors stare menacingly back at us. We have come full circle.
We drop our packs and spread out sleeping bags and listen to the Park radio. It is nearly midnight. Other crews have reached and controlled their fires and prepare to rack out for the night. “You’re right,” says Kent, as he tosses empty ration cans into a sack. “There is a fire out here, and I’m going to make it.” He gathers needles and branches and starts a cooking fire and warms up a can of chili. The Park dispatcher tries to contact us; but we are in a dead zone and cannot reply. The radio is worthless. Everything is worthless. “How do you figure it?” Kent asks matter-of-factly. “Seven hours of OT, no hazard pay?”
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