Page 17 of Gator
Carmine said they were working a couple of leads, but so far, nothing had panned out.
The sun was barely up when I stepped out of the black SUV with a thermos of coffee in my hand. A small group of people were up and meandering around their cabin, waiting for me. I’d told Crowe I wanted to get an early start, so he’d made sure they were ready and waiting for me.
“I see you brought your own coffee,” Crowe said.
“I’m not about to drink that sludge you make.”
“Suit yourself. Everyone here is ready to go if you are.”
“I’m ready.”
Crowe put his fingers between his lips and whistled, getting everyone’s attention. “Everyone over here.”
This particular group wasn’t law enforcement, but they were a group of people who’d signed up for survival training. I hadn’t been sold on including it as part of our offerings, just because I didn’t really expect there to be much interest, but Crowe had insisted there was a market for it, and to my surprise, he’d been right. So far, he’d been able to book quite a few groups for the course.
“Alright, everyone, this is Gator. He’s the best tracker I know, and back in the day, he used that skill to save our asses more than once. I’m not going with you, but you’re in good hands, so pay attention and you just might learn something.”
I took stock of the group I’d be working with. It was a smaller group of five people, two women and three men. They all looked fairly fit and were dressed appropriately, which was good to see.
I stepped forward. “Like he said, my name’s Gator. Tracking is a very useful survival skill. Not only can it help you find missing team members and hunt for food, but more importantly, you can backtrack your own trail to find your way if you get lost. Plus, learning how to track someone else teaches you what you need to know to make sure you don’t leave a trail if you want to avoid detection. Does everyone have a full water source?”
They all nodded, and a couple of them held up canteens or water bottles.
“Great. Then let’s get this show on the road, or off the road as the case may be. This ain’t the movies,” I said, loud enough for them to hear me. “You’re not gonna see a line of perfect boot prints in the mud. Hell, you’re lucky if you see one. Especially in this part of the country.”
They walked with me to the edge of the wooded area where it was bushy but walkable, with some decent animal trails winding through the mesquite and scrub oak. I’d come out here last night just before sunset and laid out a track, making sure to keep it subtle. No deep prints, no bent branches tied off with neon tape.Just the kind of disturbance a person might leave if they were wandering around.
“Tracking isn’t just about prints. It’s about paying attention. A person who’s scared? They’ll glance back over their shoulder, checking to see if they are being followed. You can see it in how they move. The way the prints have a little twist to them as they turn to look back. Or sometimes, when people are scared, and most people who are lost are, they’ll move in a hurried, frantic way that leaves an easy-to-follow trail. A person who’s confident? They won’t give a damn what they break or what noise they make. Again, they’ll leave an easy-to-follow trail, but not because they were scared, but because they don’t care. The ground tells a story. Your job is to listen.”
We moved deeper into the brush, following the path I’d laid while I pointed out what to see and what they should be looking for.
About thirty minutes in, one of the guys called out, “Got something, but it’s not human.”
I walked over and crouched beside him. He pointed to a print.
“Coyote,” I said. “Look close at the pad shape. You can see the claw marks.”
Everyone crowded in to get a look.
“Good job. It’s not the sign we were looking for, but itisa sign. You gotta train your eyes to notice everything. Patterns,differences, disturbances. Even if it’s not your guy, it tells you the land’s been touched. It’s a good idea to spend some time learning about different animal tracks. That will help you not only to remain safe, but to find food if you’re ever in a survival situation.”
We went on a little further, everyone looking from side to side, trying to identify any tracks I’d left behind.
“Right here,” one of the women said, pointing out a trail of small scuffs and a broken bit of cedar branch. “And look at this.” She pointed to a spot where a footprint had smeared in a way that meant someone had twisted mid-step.
“What was your name?” I asked.
“Elaine.”
“What do you think that means, Elaine?” I asked to see if she would be able to figure it out.
“Maybe they were turning around,” she said.
“Could be. Or stumbling,” I said. “Could’ve been fatigue, uneven terrain, panic. Don’t assume one cause. Rule out what doesn’t make sense and build the story from what’s left. So the question is, what happened next? Follow the trail. Does it continue on forward or did he double-back? Tracking is a mind game,” I said. “It means thinking like the person you’re tracking. What would you do if you were scared? If you were bleeding? If you were trying to disappear?”
“So the tracks tell a story, and we are just reading it,” she said.
“Exactly.”