“Hair snares, eh?”
“I don’t suppose you have a DNA lab tech on your payroll, do you?” she asked hopefully.
He smiled. “Nope, but we have a volunteer who’ll run DNA.”
“Great! I’d like to see how many individual wolverines are using the preserve.”
“I’ll give you his contact info.” Ben fished around in his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He thumbed through a collection of business cards, then found the one he was looking for. “Here. Take it. I’ve got another one at my office.”
“Thanks.” She slid it into the back pocket of her jeans. “Once the snowpack starts forming, I can get out there on skis and look for tracks.”
“That reminds me. There are plenty of cross-country skis and boots in the maintenance shed, some almost-new ones donated to us, some old-school ones left over from the lodge.” He gazed up through the windows at the mountains beyond. A white wind-sculpted cloud hung over one of them. “I envy you. I miss being out in the field. I’d love to stay out here and not fly back to Washington, DC.”
“Does most of your work require being in the city?”
He looked back at her. “Unfortunately. I used to be like you, doing a variety of surveys, traveling. Now I’m just in business meeting after business meeting. But it’s all for a good cause.”
“Definitely.”
“And this wolverine study could entice more donors to give money to protect this amazing place and others like it.”
She smiled. It felt good to be on a piece of land that was already protected, knowing that if she did find any imperiled wildlife here, it would be safe, at least as long as it stayed in the area. But she knew that for wolverines, this was highly unlikely. An individual wolverine’s range could extend for hundreds of miles.
He gazed around the room, then stood, thinking. “I think that’s it for the skinny on this place. Keep these maps. I’ll bring in the equipment from the car before I leave.”
“Fantastic.”
“Do you have any questions?”
She thought a moment. “I don’t think so.”
“Let’s go fire up the truck. Be sure it works. Want to go grab a beer while we’re at it?”
It wasn’t what she was expecting and she laughed. “Sure. That sounds great.” This was definitely the most low-key job situation she’d been in.
As he rolled up the maps, she tried not to notice if he wore a wedding ring, and when she saw he didn’t, she tried to stifle the little tingle of electricity that rose in her stomach. He’s a coworker, she chastised herself. And you’re still not sure what’s happening with Brad. But it was just nice to meet someone who really understood the lure of the wild. She’d been defending her desire to be out in remote places for so many years—to Brad, even to Zoe, both of whom were utter city spirits.
They locked up the lodge and walked a couple of hundred yards behind the main building to a rickety maintenance shed. A padlock secured the decrepit wooden door, and Ben messed around with his own set of keys until he found the right one. Then he swung the door open. Before Alex stood the old truck, but it wasn’t what she’d thought. She’d expected a beat-up old Ford F-150 or something. This was a gorgeous 1947 red Willys Wagon.
“What do you think?” Ben asked.
“Wow.”
“The resort caretaker heaped attention on it, kept it pristine. You drive a stick?”
“Learned on my parents’ 1980 Volkswagen Rabbit.”
“You want to drive?”
“Sure.” She pulled out her keys, searching for the right one. Its old-fashioned contours were easy to spot. Stepping into the shadows of the shed, she took in the place. Shelves of old paint cans, gardening tools, and gasoline canisters lined the walls. In the corners stood collections of shovels, rakes, posting tools, and spare lumber. Cross-country skis leaned against the far wall, some wooden with decayed leather bindings, others looking almost new. A variety of boots were stacked neatly beneath them. She examined them, finding a pair in her size.
Ben went around to the passenger side and climbed in. The wagon was unlocked. She slid onto the bench seat, taking in the wonderful old dials on the dashboard, the thin steering wheel. She inserted the keys and it started right up.
“There’s a little pub in the town to the east. Caters to people driving from Vancouver to Glacier National Park, so it’s got a nice rustic lodge kind of atmosphere, and even serves all kinds of elaborate coffee drinks with soy milk, all in compostable cups. There’s even a small little bookstore there in one corner of the place. Field guides, thrillers. It’s pretty sweet.”
“Just tell me the way,” she said, shifting into reverse and backing onto the road.
The nearest town to the east was twenty-six miles away, quite a distance to get a beer. But the company on the drive was great, and she didn’t mind. She fought back memories of the shooting, glad to think about something else. They talked easily with each other, at first chatting about their flights and the weather, and soon getting into more serious topics like poaching and climate change. It was refreshing to talk to someone with similar viewpoints.
By the time they pulled into the parking lot of the pub, Alex felt like they were fast friends. The town, Bitterroot, was tiny, with a population of only 1,100, but it had a hardware store, she noticed, which she’d have to visit before going out into the field. She had schematics of how to build a combination camera trap and hair snare. The store had closed at four p.m. that day, so she’d have to come back tomorrow.
Inside the pub, they ordered beers and told each other stories about different wildlife surveys they’d been on over the years. She told him about the time she’d lost nine pints of blood recording threatened northern long-eared bats in the mosquito-infested Northwoods of Minnesota, and he described a narrow escape from rhino poachers on a preserve in South Africa, which ultimately led to the men’s capture.
He was funny and kind, and when the time came for them to drive back, Alex found herself reluctant to say goodbye to him. They drove back still talking, but comfortable silences had begun to spring up, and they rode together companionably, enjoying a gorgeously red sunset over the mountains.
Back at the lodge, they unloaded all the equipment from his rental car, and she walked him back outside. “I hope everything goes well in Washington,” she told him.
He smiled. “Me too. I’m going to be beat after this red-eye flight, though. Two flights in one day can really wear you out.”
“Hopefully you’ll be able to sleep and won’t have a kid kicking the back of your seat.”
“Or a person who takes three hours to tell me a tedious story that should take only two minutes, like how they built the deck on the back of their house.”
She laughed. “That might actually put you to sleep. I sat next to a man once who wouldn’t shut up about his sexual exploits with flight attendants. And to make it more creepy, I could tell he was making it all up in an effort to suggest he was some sex god and that I should join the mile-high club with him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s just push that thought away. I’m going to end up sitting next to someone content just to read a book.” He smiled, looking at her thoughtfully. “Goodbye, Alex. Be careful out there.”