I took pictures and recorded the coordinates. Then I placed the skull in a large trash bag that I had brought with me. I reorganized some of the items in my pack, placed the skull inside, and secured the pack, with the elk’s tines poking out the sides of the top pocket lid. My pack now weighed at least thirty to thirty-five pounds more than when I’d set out. Though I considered myself strong, I rarely carried more than forty pounds. Now I was up to around fifty. A direct route to the location where the photo had been taken would be another six miles moving uphill, and taking me into dusk if I was lucky. I opted to hike back to my vehicle, unload the skull, and then look for a closer entry point.
After I reached the truck, I drove south on 139 until I reached Route 128. From there I took a left along Philadelphia Creek, and another left onto a switchback that led me into the southeast side of State Bridge Draw. I parked the truck. Kona and I were now no more than a mile northwest of the area where the photo had been taken, a much easier hike, even though we would still be moving uphill. It was a little after one o’clock. We had plenty of afternoon light. And so we began our hike.
I enjoyed the freedom without so much weight on my back and was eager to see if what Joseph had identified was indeed a stand. At first the ascent was steady, but the last half mile began to climb drastically. I wore my crampons for the most traction. Then one more step and my left foot slipped on some slick-packed snow. I fell face forward. I kicked my crampons out behind me as my body began to gain momentum down the hill. My ice axe was within easy reach. I wrapped my right hand over the top of the axe and covered the spike of the axe with my left. As my knees bounced against the snow and my hip grazed a rock, I locked my elbows to my sides, looked over my left shoulder, and pressed the axe into the embankment. It carved into the ice and snow, slowing me until I stopped just before reaching a thick wall of pinyon. And all I could think about was the day Amy Raye went missing, the rain and the wind and the cold, and the freezing rain and the snow. I imagined myself as her, without crampons and snowshoes and a pack full of gear. I thought of the autopsy on the lion that Breton Davies had tracked. At some point after Amy Raye had shot the elk, dressed it, and bagged it, something had gone terribly wrong.
And though this wasn’t avalanche country, drifts were known to accumulate up to ten feet or more. I knew the risk I was taking in being out here alone, and for maybe a minute or more I realized how fool-headed that decision had been, and wondered at what point Amy Raye had felt the same.
Kona, who had bounded back down the hill when I’d fallen, was now by my side and licking my face. I pulled myself to an upright position and decided on another route up the hill. Kona took off ahead of me once again. Occasionally he would stop and look over his shoulder to make sure I was still trailing behind him.
A little farther and we were in thick timber. And that was when I saw the marking tape tied to a low-hanging pinyon branch. From there, I spotted the red fletching of an arrow. I couldn’t get to the arrow fast enough. She had been here, in these woods. She had released this arrow. And I felt transfixed, knowing that the memory of her lay in everything around me. I reached the arrow, photographed it, and then removed it from the branches of the tree. The elk’s blood, the consistency of dried paint, was still on the shaft. The arrow must have dislodged from the elk after he’d been shot. I imagined the elk’s surprise at the sudden impact of the arrow, imagined him charging through the trees. With the arrow in my hand, I checked the coordinates for the tree from the photo. I was heading in the right direction. I continued a little farther, maybe a hundred yards. I walked across a small clearing, the snow up to my knees.
And there was the stand, about fifteen feet from the ground, tucked into the boughs of a pinyon. “Thank you, Joseph,” I said. I removed my pack and set it at the base of the tree. I retrieved my phone and took pictures, then grabbed hold of the tree steps and climbed up to the small platform. Kenny had been right. The stand had been in place for some time, probably more than five years. It was weathered from moisture and sap and was showing some rust.
Unlike other platforms that used climbing sticks or ladders, this kind of stand hung from the tree. The hunter had screwed four-inch-long pegs a foot or so apart at a ninety-degree angle from one another. The platform was metal mesh, and the seat no more than twelve inches by eight inches. The apparatus was secured to the tree with ratchet straps. The climbing belt Amy Raye had no doubt used to attach to her harness was still intact, as was the green parachute cord she would have tied for hoisting her bow to the stand. I also found a gear hook slightly above the stand and to my right, where she would have hung her pack.