Occasionally, McCain would play catch with Austin, and he would take him fishing over to the river near their houses. Austin’s father had divorced his mother three years before and wasn’t around much, so McCain tried to give the boy some guy time as often as his schedule allowed. Of course, it helped that there was a pretty good attachment that had developed between Austin and Jack.
“I do know how dogs are,” McCain said as he handed Austin a fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks so much for looking after Jack. And please tell your mom thanks too. I’d like to hang and chat, but Jack and I are needed up near Chinook Pass right away.”
“Really?” Austin asked. “What’s going on?”
The neighbor boy was always interested in what McCain was doing with his job.
“Don’t know all the details yet, but as soon as I know, I’ll fill you in. Thanks again, Austin.” He patted his right hand on his thigh, and Jack fell in at heel, right next to McCain as he headed to his house.
Ten minutes later, with the big yellow dog sitting next to him in the passenger seat of the Ford pickup, McCain backed out of the drive and headed west. In the quick turnaround in the house, McCain had changed out of his standard uniform—khakis and a tan button-up shirt with his name stitched on one side, his WDFW badge on the other—and jumped into what he called his “field” uniform. He still wore a tan shirt with badge, but he had put on his Wranglers and his favorite pair of Kennetrek hunting boots. His daily uniform also included his utility belt which he always wore. The belt held his holstered Glock semi-automatic pistol in .45 caliber, an ASP collapsible baton, pepper spray, a Taser, a flashlight, and handcuffs.
As he headed out the door he also grabbed his backpack, ready to go in a moment’s notice. The backpack included just about everything a person might need to survive a night or two in the mountains. The pack held raingear, an extra couple layers of polar fleece, a waterproof stocking hat and gloves, some freeze-dried food, three bottles of water, a backpacker’s stove, a few energy bars and some special dog bars for Jack. For safety and communication he carried a GPS unit for marking and tracking his movement, a handheld radio, and his cell phone. In the storage bin in his truck, McCain always kept a sleeping bag rated to minus 20 degrees, a packable one-man waterproof tent, a down vest and a heavy coat. If he thought he was going to need that stuff tonight, there was room in the pack for it too.
“What do you think, boy?” McCain asked Jack as they ran west on Highway 410. The dog turned and looked at him, barked once, and then went back to watching the road.
McCain had a pretty good idea where the hunters had shot the bear. This time of year, it was difficult to get high in the Cascades because of the snowpack. Some years there was only a few feet in the higher elevations while in other years, like this one, there was thirty feet or more. It had started snowing in mid-November, and a continual parade of storms swinging around from the Gulf of Alaska had dumped snow in the mountains off and on for three months. The deep snow in the high elevations wasn’t a problem for the wildlife. They migrated down to lower elevations where normally the snow was either manageable or non-existent. It was on those years when the deep snow hit in the lower elevations, and, combined with persistent below-freezing temperatures, stayed for a couple months or more that created winter mortality with the deer and elk.
Warmer temperatures in February and March meant the snowline had receded to about the 2,300-foot elevation, and it was McCain’s guess that the hunters had found their bear in that zone. It was the time of year the bears were coming out of hibernation, and they would actively be feeding to restart their digestive system after being shut down for a few months. During this time most bears will eat grasses and roots, along with the occasional grub if they can find them. Sometimes they’ll even feed on carrion—any dead animals that, for whatever reason, didn’t make it through the winter. Most bears still have some fat stored as they come out of hibernation, so they don’t have to eat. But even then, most are hungry. Evidently the bear that had been killed by the hunters was one of those hungry ones.
McCain turned off the two-lane highway onto Forest Road 1705, known as the Gold Creek Road. The group of law enforcement folks had gathered at an old elk camp on a flat on the ridge just short of Summit Spring. After fifteen minutes of climbing on bumpy, twisty-turny roads, McCain finally saw smoke rising from a campfire just ahead. There were three county sheriff rigs and a WDFW rig parked in the flat. He knew that fellow WDFW officer Stan Hargraves would be here. Williams had told him that. In fact, Hargraves had recommended that the Yakima County Sheriff’s Office call McCain.
The three sheriff deputies at the campfire were Williams, a tall and lean man of about fifty, and Paul Garcia, a shorter and rounder man of about forty-five who McCain also knew. When the two stood close together they looked like a lowercase letter “b” or “d” depending on whether Williams was on the left or right side of Garcia. The third deputy, a man of about six feet, in his thirties and fairly fit,
