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Overview
POINT LAST SEEN
Escaping an abusive marriage, her children abducted by her violent husband, Hannah Nyala was left alone to pick up the pieces of her life, to heal physically and spiritually. She wanted her children back...but first she had to fight for her own future, by teaching herself the skills of tracking in the Mojave Desert. She became a search-and-rescue tracker, dedicated to saving the lives of the lost, and so attuned to nature's messages that she can read the history of a footprint, the clues in stones and desert sand. That's just the beginning of her incredible story. For Hannah would soon make the most chilling discovery: someone was tracking her, on a vicious quest to do her harm.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780743457552 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Gallery Books |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2002 |
| Edition description: | REPRINT |
| Pages: | 192 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.33(w) x 8.25(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
CUTTING FOR SIGN
MAY 1987
JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL MONUMENT
When the park radio beckoned a while ago, I was stretched out in the backyard hammock eating a bowl of fresh strawberries, reading a pleasantly unchallenging book, and planning to spend the rest of the day doing little else. But five minutes after the ranger's voice crackled over that box, I was throwing a search pack into the back seat of my car—and the hammock is probablystill swinging my book to sleep under the palo verde tree as I drive toward the staging area for the search already underway. Probably should've put the book inside the house, but can't go back to do it now. Oh well, this is the desert—the book could sit there for three years and not get rained on, so it'll probably survive a night or two. With any luck I might be back before dark anyway. On searches, though, the return home is impossible to predict. Today there's a sixty-five-year-old woman lost in the Cottonwood area—that's all the information I got over the radio—so we could be finished in two hours or stay out for the next two weeks. At this point I wouldn't be willing to bet a dime either way. So much for relaxation.
The Cottonwood Visitor Center is crowded, as usual this time of year—spring's flowers lure visitors from all over the world—so I park and wend my way through clumps of tourists who have no idea that one of their fellow humans just took off down a trail and didn't come back. But the back office is a different story, because everyone here knows there's a problem: the agitated young man clenching and unclenching his hands and repeating over andover, "But when she left us you could still practically see the parking lot!" and his wife, trying to pat her husband on the shoulder every few seconds (hard to do when somebody's pacing, even if it is in a six-foot-square space); Alan, the campground volunteer, shaking his head in empathy, and his wife, Rita, manning the crackling radio; and the district ranger, finishing the initial lost persons report, his voice even and professional as he questions the pacing man and his patting wife. I know this ranger—married him just a few months ago, in fact—so I can tell that he's starting to get knots in his stomach now, just as I am. There is something about facing a flesh-and-bloodperson who has lost another just-as-real person that sweeps away the comfortable "careless tourist" stereotype we often use to survive living and working inside a National Park: Seeing people who have lost one dear to them yanks knots inside me as quick as anything can. Frank, Alan, Rita, and I all feel tense, but there's no need for these two frightened people to know that. The best thing we can do for them and their grandmother is to do our jobs well; that sounds corny, but it is nevertheless entirely true.
I get both an introduction and a welcome; the presence of a tracker often helps convince scared family members that the Park Service does know how to conduct a search—and does intend to do something more than just ask pages of questions. Those questions are critical, though, to what I'm about to do, and as I glance over his shoulder at the report, Frank briefsme.
"She's sixty-five, a strong hiker, in pretty good health except for a blood sugar problem, got tired of hiking so decided to return to the campsite while the rest of the family went on. She's been out now for four hours, has only a small canteen and no overnight gear, was last seen on the Lost Palms Trail about a quarter mile from the oasis."
"Shoes?"
"Haven't finished the report yet," Frank says, and we both turn to the pacing man—the lost hiker's grandson, Joe Jessons.
"What kind of shoes is she wearing, Joe?" I ask.
He can't remember, but his wife, Helen, does: "They're hiking boots and she's a size eight."
Joe stops pacing long enough to register surprise. "How do you know that?"
"Well, I was with Grandma when she bought them last year and she was saying just this morning that she needed a new pair."
"Do you remember the brand?" I ask.
"Oh yes, they're High Tecs—like yours," Helen says, pointing at my feet, "only low-cut."
Helen is pleased with herself, Joe returns to his pacing, and I pretend to be happy with the information. But in reality, the knots inside both Frank and me just cinched themselves a few notches tighter: Mrs. Jessons happens to be wearing one of the more popular hiking boots in the state right now, and there's no telling how many size eights went wandering around Lost Palms Trail in the last few hours. Mine have a distinctive bullet-shaped notch cut in both heels to identify me as a tracker (not lost). Ruby Jessons' shoes, like every other pair out there today, won't be notched—her soles will be straight from the factory. But Helen's information is a start. At least Mrs. Jessons' shoes are a year old—that means they may have signs of wear as distinctive as my notches.
The briefing is about to take a serious turn, so Alan suggests that Joe and Helen come outside and have a drink of water before finishing the report. They go, looking glad to be reminded that they're thirsty, and pleased to be out of the tiny room and momentarily distracted.
"So they've been all through the campground then? No signs that she ever got back?" I ask. Frank nods. "Then the best guess is that she's off trail somewhere?" Another nod, so I look at the topographic map on the wall. "If she's still moving, she could be miles from here by now."
"Yeah that's what it looks like," Frank replies. "Listen, I've got Riverside on standby—do you want me to bring them in?"he asks, referring to the tracking unit I prefer to work with above all others.
"She's been out for four hours?" I ask, reading from the report. "We've only got three hours 'til dark. I think we need to pull out the stops on this one—can Danny fly the trackers in?"
"They've got two rock rescues going on topside now," Frank says. "So we may have trouble getting a chopper down here for a while—but I'll see what we can do. Would you head down to the PLS [point last seen] and report back on what you turn up?" he asks without waiting for a response, already turning toward the radio to begin mobilizing search-and-rescue (SAR) resources. I reply over my shoulder, "On my way."
"Oh Hannah," Frank calls out, "We may need to move the search base over to the house—okay by you?"
"Sure, no problem," I say, thinking that had I known this was coming, I'd have done my laundry instead of reading all morning. Not that it matters much: Whenever we base a search from the house, there are so many people and things going every direction that probably no one notices the state of my laundry.
The clumps of tourists out front have gotten wind of the search now and are forming into larger groups of curious, concerned people. Strapping on my chest harness and fastening in a mobile radio, I walk over to Joe and Helen and say in my most reassuring, confident tone, "Now listen, I know you're worried—she's your grandmother—but we're going to find her, so you just hang in here, okay? We'll keep you informed, won't we, Alan?"
Alan nods and smiles, says, "We sure will," and Helen seems reassured, but Joe doesn't. "I'll go with you," he says to me, brushing off his wife's arm.
"Oh no—that wouldn't work at all. Frank needs you to finish that report, and besides, I'm going to be moving fast."
"I can keep up and she," he says, nodding toward Helen, "can finish the report."
Choosing my words carefully, I say, "Listen Joe, I'm a tracker and the best chance your grandmother has is for us to find her tracks quickly. The fewer footprints out there the better, the easier my job is. There are already a lot of people wearing hiking boots—including me—but mine are marked, see?" I raise one foot so he can see how the tread has been altered. "You can help best—in fact, all of you can help [this to the gathering crowd] by staying out of the search areas completely, okay?"
This pragmatic bit of information seems to have a settling effect on the young man; perhaps the sight of my shoe tread helps convince him that I have done this before. Joe smiles briefly and returns to pacing again, tightening the knots in my stomach, and I head for Cottonwood Springs.
During the spring, the Lost Palms Oasis trail probably has several hundred feet on it every weekend, though few people hike the full distance. Most, like Mrs. Jessons, get tired and turn around before the halfway mark. Some don't even get that far, stopping instead to look at the old mining arrastra. Children, less in awe of history than adults, make good use of the circular remains, jumping, stepping, and crawling over and on and through them. Some hikers abandon the trail to sit on the rocks that flank the spring and watch the birds, while others wander down into the wash and pick wildflowers or feed the ground squirrels (neither activity is legal here). All in their own way are enjoying their National Park experience, staying close to the trailhead, which is just about to be closed because of the ongoing search. Alan should be here in a few minutes to do the honorsfor the people who are milling around, possibly thinking about hiking the trail. He'll explain the situation, some of them will grumble, and he'll suggest alternative walks, which some of them will take. Those who had already decided not to hike the trail will probably be thankful they didn't and that they (and their grandmothers) are thus safe.
But some visitors have long since continued past the spring, following the trail I'm now on toward an even more isolated desert oasis. These people—their footprints, actually—are what concern me now. I said they follow the trail, and strictly speaking this is true. But even more pertinent for my purposes is an opposing truth: Most of these hikers "follow" the trail in only the most vague sense of the verb. They get off the path regularly, taking short side trips to inspect a cactus bloom or a chuckwalla, to photograph themselves or an especially appealing pile of rocks, to rest before starting up the next hill, or to relieve themselves. Because Mrs. Jessons's footprints might be mixed up with anyone else's, I can't afford to misread these sidetrip tracks. I work parallel to the trail, seven or eight yards from it—we call this strategy "cutting for sign." Sign cutting operates on a couple of basic assumptions: For one thing, few of the side trips made by most visitors ever bring them this far off the trail, so there are fewer prints to work through; for another, if Mrs. Jessons left this area, I'm assuming she went on foot, which means that I should find her tracks in the sign cut on one side or the other of this trail. I'll work the side nearest the campground first, since I know she was heading there and can reasonably infer that she may have decided to take a shortcut.
The going is rough in places, steep and rocky on this side of the trail. I find more tracks than I'd expected. A few people had several beers and an illegal campfire out here a couple of nights ago, leaving a used condom behind; two people were exceptionally modest, judging by how far off the trail they went in order to urinate; and one kid managed to get almost thirty feet off the trail before a concerned adult caught up with him and carried him back to the trail. I say "him," even though I really have no idea whether the kid was a boy or girl—the behavior gives no clue (girls can hie off just as quickly as boys) and neither do the shoes (waffle soles don't hint at gender). Compared to the trail, though, out here the traffic is light, and I move quickly, staying on the easiest tracking surfaces (sandy dirt or light gravel) when possible, taking my own side trips when a possible size eight shows up: one set of Adidas running shoes, two pairs of Nikes, and one pair of Birkenstocks. There are quite a few lug-soled boots out here, but most of them are way too large to belong to a woman who's only 5'4" and 120 pounds. I see no prints that could pass for High Tecs but my own and one pair of size fives. So much for my earlier worries about the most popular hiking boot problem. As I encounter each set of possible prints, I draw a circle around them and tie a small piece of orange flagging to the nearest bush—just in case Helen was wrong about the brand and we need to follow up on any of these tracks later. I even mark the size fives, figuring it can't hurt to know where they are. For now, after radioing the information in to search base, I will continue to look for size eight High Tecs (but will ask Frank to have someone query Helen again, just in case).
Could Helen have been mistaken about her grandmother's shoes? That question looms larger as I cross over the trail, well beyond the point where Mrs. Jessons turned back, to start working the other side. But then the radio crackles and Frank says to go with the High Tec eights. Clearly Helen is sure about this, so for now I'll flag, mark, and leave everything else, a luxury trackers seldom have in searches since there are very few Helens in the world of lost people—most of us, myself included a few years ago, wouldn't have noticed such a trivial detail even if our grandmothers had started out the day barefoot.
On this side of the trail, much of which heads downhill, even more side trips are evident. One bunch of purple lupine has attracted no less than six photographers, probably because it is photogenically growing out of a crack in a vertical rock wall. And somebody stepped off the trail into soft dirt that gave way—and wound up sitting on his or her backside about six feet below the trail a few seconds later, narrowly missing the spines of a yucca. Oh, here's the kid from the other side, making another trip off trail, gender revealed (girls can't stand in one spot and pee eighteen inches in front of themselves). Not ten feet further and I find what I'm looking for: a pair of size eight High Tecs heading down the hill. Mrs. Jessons. Joe and Helen's Grandma. It's got to be her. God, let it be her, I think, while radioing my location in to base and once again marking the spot, but this time with orange and blue flagging. The nearest trackers are at least three hours away, so Frank tells me to carry on solo—not the best search tactic, but one we'll have to use for now. Grandma Jessons has too big a head start on us.
Mentally, I have taken the tracker's step forward: Now that I have connected with her footprints, Mrs. Jessons is "Grandma" to me too. For an unspecified part of the immediate future, I must get as close to Joe and Helen's grandmother as possible, must know her as intimately as I can, and fictive kin terms work as well as anything to help me establish cognitive proximity. I'm not getting inside Grandma's head here, nor am I trying to, but by using an informal, even affectionate form of address I make her seem more real to me and create a conceptual bond with the lost stranger. Nor is the affection feigned. Searching for someone means I care deeply, intensely for them. Kin terms simply help me express that emotion without undermining my ability to do what I need to.
Grandma has headed down a natural drainage that the poetically inclined would describe as a tiny canyon. What is most relevant about this feature now is the fact that it eventually crosses the Monument's main road. Before I even finish knotting the flagging, Frank has dispatched Alan to the road; before Al has had time to reach his truck I'm a good city block down the drainage, tracking Grandma as fast as I can see and trot. I'm staying a couple feet to the right of her prints so as not to destroy them—I may lose her and have to come back and restart the track, and that would be harder to do if I've trampled all over her signs.
Grandma takes a sudden turn up a hill, leaving the drainage (so much for SAR theories that old people and children are most likely to take the path of least resistance), and I follow, attempting to figure out what on earth she is looking for. Oh, she came up here to look at this blooming brittle bush—she apparently doesn't know she's lost yet. We take a circuitous route past several flowering plants and one newly smashed barrel cactus—the bighorn sheep must've been here this morning—back down into the drainage, and continue moving toward the road. Alan's down there now, driving slowly back and forth, reporting to base that he sees no one yet. Too bad we don't have another tracker to cut for sign on the road. The temperature will drop fifteen degrees by sundown, and Grandma's not carrying a sweater. The knots tighten. I move faster. Up the right bank we go to inspect a rock fissure (Grandma probably saw a lizard up here), all the way to the top to look at a clump of mistletoe (maybe there was a shiny black phainopepla perched here whenshe came by), then drop partially down into the next drainage before circling around and crossing back into the first one. Suddenly, crossing a short rocky section, Grandma disappears, and I come to a screeching halt myself, sending tiny rocks skittering over the flat surface.
Where did she go? People can't fly, but if I didn't know better I'd say Grandma levitated herself out of here. Looking ahead, eyes shaded, to where the rocks give way to sandy dirt again, I see human tracks—but not Grandma's. By now I know her stride, the slightly turned right shoe, the soles worn down along the outsides of each track, the way she tends to drag that left foot whenever she's going uphill—wherever she went, she didn't go down this wash. Time for me to move again. Another fast perimeter cut—this time in a 360-degree circle around the rocky area—brings me alongside Grandma's tracks once more. She's headed up another side hill—no, she's going back down—well, maybe not. We are both now headed up the hill, and it seems that for the first time Grandma may be a little disoriented. At the top of the rise, she pauses and looks around (clearly a seasoned hiker, trying to reorient herself), takes a few steps forward, then stops and turns around. You've been too busy looking at flowers, Grandma, to recognize any of these landmarks behind you now, so why don't you sit down for a while and let me catch up with you?
That's exactly what she does next—sits down, digs her heels into the hillside, and taps her fingers on the ground beside her—but then obviously decides that waiting a few hours isn't the best use of her energy because she starts moving again, this time heading down into a different drainage. Getting set to go with her, I radio my location to search base from the hilltop (radio reception is poor to nonexistent from the wash bottoms here) and start off once again. Grandma's not looking at the flowers anymore, and she's probably moving faster, but she's winding around a lot, looking in every direction for something, anything, familiar. She is, in fact, doing the most natural—and the very worst—thing for a lost person to do: She's moving.
And she's no longer picking her routes so carefully either, I think, stumbling and sliding down a steep incline after her (at this rate she'll be lucky not to have me find her with a broken leg or something around the next bend, and I'll be lucky not to have broken my neck getting there). Suddenly my mental grouch session is interrupted by the sputter of the radio in my chest harness. It's Alan on local, coming through loud and clear (he can't be more than a quarter mile to the southwest now), saying, "They've got Mrs. Jessons at the VC [visitor center], Hannah, do you read?"
"All right, Al! Is she okay?" (On the local channel we use plain English and save the technical radio jargon for parkwide communications.)
"Yep, other than being thirsty and tired, she's in good shape. She came out onto the road about fifteen minutes ago and caught a ride up with some folks, missed me completely, but at least she got in all right."
Alan signs off, heading back to the VC, promising to sign me out with Frank, while I sit down to empty the sand and small stones out of my boots. One more live one at Cottonwood. We're setting records here these days—no dead lost people in over a year now. In the fading daylight I decide to work backward to the springs, removing the flagging I tied out on the way down and checking the route to see what else I can learn from it.
Moving slowly, feeling the tension leaving my body, I turnback toward the trail Grandma and I have made. On reaching the rocky spot that stumped me earlier, I drop my pack and get down on hands and knees, and then stare at that stretch of ground from every conceivable angle until I finally convince myself that I can see where Grandma crossed it. Lying flat on my back, I drink from my water bottle without bothering about the tepid water that trickles down my neck and shirt collar. My bright yellow SAR shirt will go straight in the laundry tonight anyway. By now the sun is starting to set, and my knots have become small bumps of unexpended energy evenly distributed throughout my body: running will help. I backtrack Grandma and me at high speed (it's fairly easy to see footprints when you helped to make them yourself and were paying attention at the time), pausing only to remove the flagging I tied out on the way down. Soon after I reach the Lost Palms Trail I slow down to a walk, abruptly winded, just in time to see Frank coming toward me, wearing civvies—t-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. He's working his tension out too. Seeing me, he waves and grins and comes alongside to say, "Hey, want to go for a run? I can wait while you go change."
"Not a chance! Unlike you upper management types, I have been running all afternoon!"
Frank continues down the trail and I resume my backtracking, thinking how good it is finally to be married to a man who never shows the slightest desire to hit anyone. Pulling the last piece of flagging off a creosote bush, I head home with rubbery knees. Curious, isn't it—this tracking business? For the last few hours I have walked closely alongside a woman's footprints, helping lay a second set of size eight prints on the same trail, and now she's gone without my ever having laid eyes on her. We shared a path for a few hours and never met, but neither of us will soon forget this afternoon.
Two women heading home. One safe with her grandson and his wife. The other safe with her laundry.
AUGUST 1977
Kevin quoted the bible to me again today.
The parts about wives being submissive to their husbands and turning the other cheek. And then he hit me hard on the right side of my face with his open hand and yelled, "Now what are you supposed to do—or have you forgotten already, bitch?!"
Slowly I turned my head—and he hit my left cheek twice, fast and very hard.
"That's one for good measure, whore," he said angrily, turning away, then quickly back again. Grabbing my arms he threw me backward into the refrigerator, slamming my whole body up against it once, twice, three times, and then I lost count.
I don't remember the next part, only that I woke up on the floor with Kevin standing over me, holding his glass of iced tea and pointing first at it, then at me.
"Now the next time you serve me iced tea, you had better remember this: You're supposed to put in six ice cubes—that's six, not four, not seven, not five and one broken one—six ice cubes and ONLY SIX. That's the way I like it and that's the way you will fix it 'til the day you die—got that, idiot bitch?"
I nodded.
Kevin raised his arm high and threw the glass of iced tea hard at the tiled floor, then walked into the living room and picked up the laundry basket of clothes I'd just finished folding before he came in to dinner. Carrying them back into the kitchen, stomping so hard the whole trailer shook, he turned the basket upside down in midair, dumping all the clothes onto the wet floor. Kicking them around with one foot, he said coldly, "I'm going out for a few hours—you'd better have this mess cleaned up before I get back here!"
His truck roared away, and when the sound had gone with it, I got up and put the laundry back into the basket, picked up the broken glass and the ice cubes—seven of them melting fast into perfect puddles—and mopped the floor. Neither of us had taken even a bite of dinner, so I dished the food back into its bowls and set it on the stove. Only when I started the washing machine did I realize there was moisture on my face and lower lip. Not tears: I don't cry anymore. It was iced tea mixed with blood, dripping down the left side of my face, falling into the soapy water, and sinking beneath the bubbles with no sound and hardly a trace.
"And whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also." I didn't know this was how marriage would be. Leaning over the washing machine I wiped my face off with one of the tea-stained towels and tried to ignore the bitter nausea rising into my throat. Inside my stomach my baby shifted around slightly, a good reminder that I needed to work harder at being a better wife—and mother: somebody else was already depending on me. six ice cubes. I vowed not to forget again.
That night Kevin returned, quiet and remorseful. "I'm so sorry," he said, holding me close and flinching when he caught sight of the bruised skin behind my ear. "Are you all right?"
I nodded, not knowing what to say.
"I promise never to hurt you again—can you forgive me forthis?" he said.
"Yes," I nodded, and felt Kevin exhale deeply. He was very sad to have hurt me—and relieved to know I was all right.
"I love you so much—do you still love me?" he asked, holding me away to look into my eyes.
I nodded again. He still loved me. Things would work out. They had to.
Sometimes love reverses itself so subtly and swiftly that its principals go on living, entirely unaware of the reversal until years later. Few emotions have love's ability to chain people into tightly interlocked cycles of joy and anger, laughter and silence, desperation and intense hope. I have repeatedly been asked, "But weren't there any warning signals before you married Kevin?"
The answer is yes, of course. But as a teenager, I had no language or concepts, no analytical frame whatsoever in which to sort out potentially abusive behaviors. I had only ideals and hopes and dreams back then. The rest had to be learned along the way.
AUGUST 1976
He seemed lonely. Quiet and sensitive. Standing on the edge of the group of young people after the morning's church service, Kevin was an auburn-haired, handsome young man of medium height. Tastefully dressed, he walked up to me and said with a friendly smile, "I like to hear you talk." My southern accent apparently was even noticeable in Missouri, where my parents had sent us that summer to attend a camp meeting.
Later that afternoon, over pizza, Kevin and I had a heated debate about the philosophy of predestination, and I left the local Pizza Hut assuming I would never see Kevin Myles again. But at dusk, he reappeared with a piece of paper in his hand.
"Not many people are intelligent enough or have enough nerve to argue with me," he said, adding, "I wrote something for you."
It was a poem about a young woman who suddenly walked into a lonely man's life and brought him an unexpected joy and a love he'd long since forgotten to hope for. As Kevin read the words to me, his voice husky with emotion, I realized for the first time ever that maybe someone could love me just for who I was. Who I was, it seemed, was finally enough.
Two weeks later, the night before I returned home to Mississippi, Kevin proposed marriage with another poem, and I said yes.
LATE SEPTEMBER 1976
MISSISSIPPI
My class elected me Senior Beauty this year, and today while we were having yearbook pictures taken, Kevin showed up. He had driven 750 miles, stopping only for gas. Motioning for me to come over to his car, he said we needed to leave. I said I couldn't do that, so he sat across the room watching me with angry eyes until the photographer had finished and then we left. Instead of driving me home, Kevin pulled into a remote old country cemetery, got out of the car, and lay down on one of the graves.
From where I was standing by the car, I asked, "What are you doing?"
"I think drugs have fried my brain," he responded and laughed.
"I thought you weren't taking drugs anymore," I replied.
"Oh, I'm not—this is old stuff."
Then he began saying how he felt God had given me a chance to either marry him or graduate from high school, but not both, and that I had to choose between worldly honors and pleasing God. When I reminded him that we were planning to be married after graduation, he simply replied that if I insisted on graduating, he could not marry me. Thinking, trying to decide what to do or say, I heard Kevin say, "Remember, you promised to marry me, so if you change your mind now, you'll be breaking your vow before God. And anyway—nobody else would have you."
Unfortunately, I couldn't argue with the logic of that.
Kevin got up off the grave, talking normally again, and took me home. Then he drove 750 miles back to his house, stopping only for gas.
Seven months later, a couple weeks before graduation, we were married, and within a matter of days, I began learning a new set of rules for behavior, an entire set of details to avoid and fear.
Table of Contents
| SEARCHER'S BRIEFING | 1 |
| CUTTING FOR SIGN | 7 |
| WALKING THROUGH FEAR | 30 |
| LOSING THE WAY | 56 |
| POINT LAST SEEN | 75 |
| WALKING THE PERIMETER | 90 |
| MARKING THE TRACK | 126 |
| SEARCH AND RESCUE | 148 |
| SEARCHER'S DEBRIEFING | 159 |
| ACKNOWLEDGMENTS | 166 |