The chase. Part seven.

JB did not like to have bad thoughts of Lorna at all, he never did. He had given her many more chances than any other good Tracker he had to deal with, and why she was stuck in his head like a completely rusty nail but he did not let it surrender. He liked to think that he had torn her off to something, written in a little way and elsewhere, that would mark her destiny. JB believed, that the comparison with Gary Cooper in The Hanging Tree was not so blurred. First, because some Westerners still liked it, because there was so much out there, signs so tiny that they could not even be visible to certain beetles, which Lorna had the duty to decipher. If it had been for him, he would take it long before, in short, to say, he would start the tracks when she was still a child, or something like that. There was something in her that escaped her all. When he was a boy it was a feeling of holding a horse in the lazo, but not having done the nod to tighten around the horse’s neck. It was a feeling, though he usually hated that kind of words. For him everything must be concreteness and dedication. The reading of the tracks was. But she had looked at her before in the picture and then through the lenses of her big glasses, and had – yet- the feeling she could be up to. It was about finishing it, everything here. Of course, it would take time, and after all it was some investment, but he would do it. And so she had taken it with her. He had thought of everything, or perhaps somehow, he always wanted it. The more she was holding her and the more she understood that there was much, much to sift. In short, it was a workmanship, it was like training a dog who until the day before was in the midst of coyotes. He was not exactly younger, and certainly the distances, and some weights, had led him to slow down every movement, to weigh everything. Did she make her cry? You can bet that he did. She had eradicated everything she had learned, in her own right, almost right, and had thrown her away. She had looked at her for a long time without telling her anything. He had forced her to lie down on the ground to see it better.He had left her alone at night and then even at dawn, and then beyond, because she had to learn. Just because she had to learn the art of tracking properly. And there was much more. Would he  help her? No, no, it should not be helped at all. She had to understand that each step would cost her a lot. To get people out of hell is sweating, he repeated it repeatedly. Yet she had something she had not found in anyone else. In short, something unusual, unpopular. Discontent was a term he personally hated. And he hated it because it was all that others had turned out to be. What had passed through her head when she realized she was receiving worse treatment than others was hard to say. It seemed as if they always fly large birds over her head, as she was invited to spend hours beside a trace. – It is the only way to learn – he repeated it repeatedly. His voice, that clenched passage he had never thought of correcting simply because – he did not care at all – had become somehow the passage of hours, and more than an hourglass, or an odometer, or call it as you would like, seemed like a flush Of a windmill that is still incredibly still standing.

We can only tell you that he had decided it was worth it. That was what kept thinking even when he felt more tired than her, yet the light did not dare to drop. Those minutes passed under the sun straight, an implacable sky you would have said, under which many others before and after had given up. It was just like driving a wagon on its shoulders that lost all four wheels, yet there is nothing else to say about this. Then, suddenly – perhaps not too far beyond his expectations – she had become like a small mechanism. He liked to say she saw, recorded and followed, not even a videocassette player of the latest model or something like that. That evolution was like to put wings, it was a no longer crawling. In fact, she was making her crawl, and she liked to see her do it – it was application, devotion, it was mud on the eyelids. It was to identify every small sign and call it by its name; and yet, it was to follow uninterruptedly, because of that, of an unstoppable pursuit, like the scalloping of the hooves that squeaked on the earth for centuries. Or at least, something like that. Each time he thought of the tracks, he was thinking of something poetic, but he could not give a precise name. A moment before he heard that he had ready-made words, the right ones, and it seemed to him that no one was able to describe exactly what he was feeling, and for years now. She was with her with the same story. Maybe he deserved some encouragement, but his lips were worse than an extreme period of drought. So she just looked at her and turned her head on the other side.

[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]

The chase. Part three.

And in the end she really came. The Local Police cars were semi-circular, and the area was clearly, at least once, a part of a forest. Now the Douglas Firs had been torn for a long time, and here there were only the blades of those who were big logs. The moss had done the rest, covering that scoundrel in a gentle manner. The smell of the rain that had been in the days before was intrusive, and held back by whatever was there. The cars had all the doors open, a bizarre drive in really thought of her. After all, they understood the county police always before the others, in short, they were the first to arrive, especially in areas like the one where a lot of people did not pass. They all had a cup of coffee in their hands and the Thermos in the free one, and they talked to each other in a continuous buzz, which reminded her of a lumberjack meeting in a synchronized work of chain saws. Certainly the comparison was blatant, even misleading, but it occurred to him that it had to have gone exactly in that square, in the sense that it had become a desperate place, without any Douglas Firs, just because a woodcut meeting had decided it would become , Which was the most suitable place. At that time the thermos were the protagonists of the scene: dancing thermos that sparkled, spreading their heat, creating a sharp contrast with the cold air that pulled that morning.

It would have come to snow – there is to hurry then-we will not take it anymore if snow-damned snow will be a serious problem. She also thought that from then on she would start to snow, she felt from the air that had become warmer. The drowsiness was dissipated in a moment, and she sank her hands in her fake jacket, and kept herself away from the county police group, at least until someone caught sight of her with her neighbor’s companion. If even one of them had known his name would not have said it, that was certain. Some had read about her in the local newspaper, even on the neighboring county, but they were too taken by themselves to mark it, let’s remember it. They were screwing the thermos cautiously as they did everything to not look at her, in order not to fall into the mistake of crossing her gaze. They remembered the little stones of which the red earth was scattered, rather. It was another story, if she was there, so everything would take a very different turn. In the end, BJ came forward, who, among them, was the last one to arrive. He had his hands still red for the cold, and holding the thermos in his hand did not help him at all. She watched her look at journalists, until someone else grabbed him by the arm, hissing something in her ear. Did not they have started already had to stop to leave room to someone else? No, it was out of the question. BJ was the last one to arrive and had received training like the others, in short, he did not blame. She did not say anything while she was offered a cup of coffee from the dark green thermos that everyone had. From that square that once was full of Douglas Firs, she felt even colder.

[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]

The chase. Part two.

As always, at that point, a few miles before reaching the PLS[1], she just needed to keep the windows down – no matter what time and temperature it was – and she needed to talk to Neil Young. She said so – I need to talk to Neil Young. Then, the song was always the same, and to be honest it was also banging with Brahms’s Hungarian Dance No.5, but in that song the Viennese Secession lived peacefully with the Old Frontier. Whatever air pulling it came in, bouncing inside the passenger compartment of the car. She still had four miles to gather all the ideas and to do it alone, on that occasion. They would have contaminated everything if she had not arrived in time. No, it was to be excluded. They had already contaminated everything, and they had not even given the trouble of delimiting the last point he was told to be seen.

Still a mile. The road was much improved, and the wheels slipped away without difficulty. The dust had in fact climbed to the Douglas Firs peaks surrounding the carriageway, which did not oscillate at the passage of the car. The last person who had gone from there had passed by for a while, so she knew it well. It was also probable that the last person he’d been there was her man. “You still do not smell your smell, there’s no trace of your smell at all.” In any case, she did not slow down, she did not look for traces of him for now. It was not yet the right time, and she had to wait for that moment.

She started to do this because she was quite tired of everything the others expected of her. She had already tried in the past, but somehow the wind had always been the opposite. She liked to think so, that the wind had been contrary and that she had not had much choice. In fact, she had had choices, but obviously it was not the right time to download all that bad and unhealthy ballast, that is, the weight of the expectations of others. Everything could be easier if only she had been docile. But that was not the way, and the wind did not blow exactly in that direction. She needed more, much more, and the history of the past was there, simply on the floor, and she loved to look on the ground, though not exactly under his feet, but further on, always a little further than ‘Last horizon available. At the end, the trains were always in the middle of broken and gray branches, or they could have been because the Pacific Trail had done too well his duty in all those miles. She really thought of how the whole affair of his life might have been in another way. In the end she was on the track, what she liked or not, and there were millions of other reasons not to show that she had failed in the rest, but not in those things, not in pursuit. That’s right.

[1] PLS: Point Last Seen.

[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]

The chase. Part one.

The road turned toward North West. Small stones continued to leap to his windshield, but she kept her eyes on the road. More precisely, on roadsides. The street returned the smell of fir trees and the dust, and it was by far better than any scent of the city – at least, she much preferred. At that moment, after yet another hairpin, she remembered the story of John Colter, and that his obsession for Yellowstone: the end found him all right, and there was went straight in the middle of what other people then began to call the Hell of Colter. Everything could have been easier then? She tried to imagine it, and that age winds her back in the face like a fire that cannot entirely be turned off. Even, she could feel the hands of those people, who pulled into the whirlpools of all the rivers in which they seriously risked their lives. Perhaps he wanted to be was she, all hell inevitable, but perhaps I was her only healthy selfishness: she loved those things, those stories, and he would never want to give up their echo.

She could clearly hear that the pickup was actually dragging by that road. It dawned on her the story of that family got lost somewhere in Idaho, on their way to California. At first, things were going pretty easy, but suddenly all went ruined, and all the things went ruined, just like you fill too much a shelving unit. She thought a lot to that story, how they could easily miss the turn into the main road. They have been said it was due to the branches which quite totally covered the signal. The wind was changing, and it was dragging on the windshield pine needles and such old, bad stories.

Yes, it was definitely because of the wind, she said, that some stories came out, and she would not be surprised if she had started thinking about one of her favorite arguments now, that Donner Party, still tormenting her with its residues. For her, certain stories could never end, not even if she had been deputy to solve that case. He tried to soften the grip on the steering wheel, but he could not. That street was tough, and the wind out was even higher, so that by the December sun, we could not see it anymore. It would be missed a long time before reaching the point where it was last seen. The name of the subject was still a confidential information. She did not even try to imagine it: in his head was simply someone whose face (especially the nose) had been erased by the wind that wasn’t diminishing and that could overwhelm everything. And that was exactly right.

[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]

The chase – a short novel by Kyt Walken.

I recently finished to write a short, very short novel that has the main character in Tracking, all over and over.

This story, entitled The Chase, is a tribute but also an analysis of what tracking can actually allow you to do and the way Tracking improves your mental approach to handle things and situations.

You will find it in short episodes as posts of my blog.

Hope you like it.


“Never give up. The trail is there, somewhere!”