The Dead Season by Donna Ball Read Free Book Online Page B

help.” And I hung up, still thinking about Buck in Florida.
    And Miles in Portugal.
    I called Paul Evans and took the job. He was delighted. “Report here Saturday morning at seven,” he told me. “We’ll provide your backpack, tent, sleeping bag, food and other supplies, and you have the list of personal items you should bring.”
    “I’ll bring my own provisions,” I assured him. Packing a backpack for a wilderness expedition was, in my opinion, like packing your own parachute. If you left the chore to someone else, you had no one but yourself to blame when things went wrong.
    “That’s really not necessary—”
    “Thanks, but I prefer it. Besides, I have to pack for Cisco, too.” Cisco was trained for backpacking and could carry most of his own food and water, but that was certainly not something I would trust to anyone but myself. “What kind of fresh water sources can we expect?”
    Most people think that the cold is the biggest danger of winter camping, but it’s actually dehydration. A smart camper always carries plenty of water purification tablets and makes sure his route takes him close to fast-moving streams that are unlikely to freeze.
    He chuckled a little. “Plenty of fresh water, Miss Stockton. We have done this before.”
    I assumed that meant they would have jugs of purified water stashed along the route for the city kids. I’d bring my own water purification kit anyway.
    We talked for a few more minutes about some of the demos I had planned, and he was enthusiastic. When I hung up I was feeling quite pleased with myself. Who needed Florida? Or Portugal, for that matter. I was going to have a real adventure.
     
    ~
    I got up early the next morning and drove to Asheville for the supplies I needed: protein bars for both Cisco and me, freeze-dried dog food in pre-measured pouches that were both lightweight and nutritionally balanced, and MREs that actually tasted like the food they were purported to be. I kept most of those things on hand, but when Cisco and I went into the wilderness it was rarely for more than a day or two and I was not accustomed to supplying for over a week. I also bought Cisco a set of protective rubber booties, because you can never tell how the weather is going to turn above 3500 feet, and nothing will slow a dog down faster, or make him more miserable, than ice between his paw pads. I had a perfectly good camp stove, collapsible cup, water pouch and sleeping bag, but I spent more time than I should have in the camping store, marveling over the high- and low-tech equipment that was guaranteed to make the great outdoors as comfortable as your own living room. In the end I bought a new set of wicking long underwear, some extra wool socks—because you can never have too many pairs of dry socks—and a couple of extra lightweight heat packs. I could have spent my entire paycheck in the camping store, but made myself leave before temptation got the better of me.
    The night before, I had watched the four-minute news clip Miles had sent me about wilderness rehabilitation programs for troubled teens, which were, as I suppose anyone with a troubled teen would know, fairly prevalent across the country. The programs lasted anywhere from six weeks to six months and centered around a holistic approach to wellness and recovery. In addition to psychological counseling and team-building exercises, the teens spent weeks learning wilderness survival skills and practicing them on day hikes in a relatively safe environment. Toward the end of the program, their skills were tested in the wilderness on a hike of one or two weeks’ duration. Graduates of the program were said to have a 50% less likely chance for recidivism than those who attended traditional rehabilitation therapy, and in the past ten years, only one provider had fallen under scrutiny when charges of child abuse were brought—charges that were, according to the report, eventually dropped.
    While I was waiting at the