were over five thousand feet: Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Monroe, Madison, Lafayette and Lincoln. At 6288 feet, Mt. Washington was the highest, and the most famous, notorious for its extreme conditions, some of the worst in the world. At any time of the year, hikers could find themselves facing hurricane-force winds on its bald granite summit—Carine had herself. Because of the conditions the treeline was lower in the White Mountains than out west, generally at around 4500 feet.
It was said the Abenakis considered the tall peaks sacred and never climbed them. Carine didn’t know if that was true, but she could believe it.
Most of the main Cold Ridge trail was above four thousand feet, exposing hikers to above-treeline conditions for a longer period than if they just went up and down a single peak.
But today, Carine was content with her mixed hardwood forest of former farmland. Gus had warned her to stay away from Bobby Poulet, a survivalist who had a homestead on a few acres on the northeast edge of the woods. He was a legendary crank who’d threatened to shoot anyone who stepped foot on his property.
She took pictures of rocks and burgundy-colored oak leaves, water trickling over rocks in a narrow stream, a hemlock, a fallen, rotting elm and an abandoned hunting shack with a crooked metal chimney. The land was owned by a lumber company that, fortunately, had a laissez-faire attitude toward hikers.
She almost missed the owl.
It was a huge barred owl, as still as a stone sculpture, its neutral coloring blending in with the mostly gray November landscape as it perched on a branch high in a naked beech tree.
Before Carine could raise her camera, the owl swooped off its branch and flapped up over the low ridge above her, out of sight.
She sighed. She’d won awards for her photography of raptors—she’d have loved to have had a good shot of the owl. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure her digital camera was up to the task.
A loud boom shattered the silence of the isolated ravine.
Carine dropped flat to the ground, facedown, before she could absorb what the sound was.
A gunshot.
Her camera had flown out of her hand and landed in the dried leaves two feet above her outstretched arm. Her day pack ground into her back. And her heart was pounding, her throat tight.
Damn, she thought. How close was that?
It had to be hunters. Not responsible hunters. Insane hunters—yahoos who didn’t know what they were doing. Shooting that close to her. What were they thinking? Didn’t they see her? She’d slipped a bright-orange vest over her fleece jacket. She knew it was deer-hunting season, but this was the first time a hunter had fired anywhere near her.
“Hey!” She lifted her head to yell but otherwise remained prone on the damp ground, in the decaying fallen leaves. “Knock it off! There’s someone up here!”
As if in answer, three quick, earsplitting shots cracked over her head, whirring, almost whistling. One hit the oak tree a few yards to her right.
Were these guys total idiots?
She should have hiked in the White Mountain National Forest or one of the state parks where hunting was prohibited.
Just two yards to her left was a six-foot freestanding boulder. If these guys weren’t going to stop shooting, she needed to take cover. Staying low, she picked up her camera then scrambled behind the boulder, ducking down, her back against the jagged granite. The ground was wetter here, and her knees and seat were already damp. Cold, wet conditions killed. More hikers in the White Mountains died of hypothermia than any other cause. It was what had killed her parents thirty years ago. They were caught in unexpected freezing rain and poor visibility. They fell. Injured, unable to move, unable to stay warm—they didn’t stand a chance.
Carine reminded herself she had a change of clothes in her pack. Food. Water. A first-aid kit. A jackknife, flashlight, map, compass, waterproof matches. Her clothes were made of a water-wicking material that would help insulate her even when wet.
Her boulder would protect her from gunshots.
The woods settled into silence. Maybe the shooters had realized their mistake. For all she knew, they—or he, since there might only be one—were on their way up her side of the ravine to apologize and make sure she was all right. More likely, they were clearing out and hoping she hadn’t seen them.
Three more shots in rapid succession ricocheted off her boulder, ripping off chunks and shards of granite. Carine screamed, startled, frustrated, angry. And scared now.
A rock shard from her boulder struck her in the forehead, and her mouth snapped shut.
Good God, were they aiming at her?
Were they trying to kill her?
She curled up in a ball, knees tucked, arms wrapped around her ankles. Blood dripped from her forehead onto her wrist. She felt no pain from her injury, but her heart raced and her ears hurt from the blasts. She couldn’t think.
Once again, silence followed the rapid burst of shots.
Were they reloading? Coming after her? What?
She tried to control her breathing, hoping the shooters wouldn’t hear her. But what was the point? They had to know now, after she’d screamed, that she was behind the boulder.
They’d known it before they’d shot at it.
She couldn’t stay where she was.
The low ridge crested fifteen feet above her. If she could get up the hill, she could slip down the other side and hide among the trees and boulders, make her way back to her car, call the police.
If the shooters tried to follow her, she’d at least see them up on the ridge.
See them and do what?
She pushed back the thought. She’d figure that out later. Should she stand up and run? Crouch? Or should she crawl? Scoot up the hill on her stomach? No scooting. She’d be like a giant fluorescent worm in her orange vest. Take it off? No—no time.
She’d take her day pack. It might stop or impede a bullet.
Or should she stay put? Hope they hadn’t seen her after all?
Every fiber in her body—every survival instinct she had—told her that she’d be killed if she stayed where she was.
She picked out the largest trees, a mix of evergreens and hardwoods, their leaves shed for the season, between her boulder and the ridgeline. The hillside was strewn with glacial boulders. It was New Hampshire. The Granite State.
Inhaling, visualizing her exact route, she crouched down racer-style, and, on an exhale, bolted up the hill. She ducked behind a hemlock straight up from her boulder, then ran diagonally to a maple, zigzagged to another hemlock, then hurled herself over the ridge crest. She scrambled downhill through a patch of switchlike bare saplings as three more quick shots boomed in the ravine on the other side of the ridge.
A whir, a cracking sound over her head.
Jesus!
They
