Ice Hunter Read Online Free PDF Page A

and strike out, making his own way. It was harder going, but it let him move unobserved and appear seemingly out of nowhere.
    Fifty yards from the river he saw fresh bear scat near a fallen white cedar. The previous winter had been particularly harsh and the spring even worse, with a series of ice storms and high winds that knocked down anything with the slightest weakness. Like life, he thought. He was not afraid of bears, but it was early summer and he had no desire to play tag with a fiercely protective sow with cubs. He quietly moved on and steered a more direct route to the river.
    There was nobody in sight when he reached the water, but he sensed someone close by. Tucking his fly-rod case into a hollow snag he had used for years, he worked his way down to a bend in the river with a deep hole on the outer curve, a place he called the Geezer Hole because of the very old and very large brook trout that lived at its head. It was one of the wider places on the river, with a large gravel bar mixed with reddish blue clay in the center and the greenish orange river racing by in long smooth glides on both sides. The purple color of the clay was unusual and had always seemed odd to him, but nature had her own ways and rarely shared her reasons.
    An older man was hunkered on one knee at the far end of the gravel bar. No rod, just a camera around his neck and a strange hammer in a leather belt holster. He was scribbling furiously on a little notebook balanced on his knee.
    â€œHi,” Service called out.
    The surprised man looked up and fumbled at putting his notebook away.
    â€œDNR,” the CO said.
    â€œI’m not fishing.”
    â€œI can see that.”
    â€œI’m just looking around.”
    The man was nervous. “What exactly are you looking for? I know the area pretty well. Might be able to point you.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œWhere are you parked?”
    â€œOn the highway,” the man said.
    On the highway? It was a good ten miles of hard walking away—if you didn’t get lost, which most people did.
    â€œAre you camping in the Tract?”
    â€œHaven’t decided,” the man said.
    There was no evidence of a pack or any gear other than the camera and the hammer.
    â€œYou have to stick to designated sites in the Tract.”
    â€œI know the rules,” the man said irritably.
    â€œThe nearest camping area is three miles south.”
    â€œYes, I know.”
    With experience, you developed intuition about people. Something was definitely hinky with this guy.
    â€œHave you got a compass?” Service asked.
    â€œYes, in my pocket.”
    â€œBest use it. I’d hate to have to mount a search.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” the man said. “I know what I’m doing.”
    Service wanted to ask more questions, but before he could say anything the man got up, pivoted, and headed downstream, splashing carelessly as he went. So much for fishing the Geezer Hole, Service thought.
    The man’s brusque manner and unfriendliness had Service’s curiosity at full glow. He decided to follow, but first he waited. Most people believed that a trail couldn’t be followed in moving water, but they were wrong. This bottom had a lot of loose stones and enough clay, sand, and silt to make it fairly routine to follow just about anybody. Worst case, he could leapfrog ahead and watch for debris and clouds of sand tumbling downstream. If the water stayed clear, he would know the man had gotten out or stopped above him. He waited ten minutes and began to follow. This time Service decided to take the most direct line. What was this guy doing?
    It didn’t take long to see that the man had gotten out less than a hundred yards below the Geezer Hole. There were wet spots on the top of a dry log. An experienced man would wait until dark and get out, hoping that the lack of light would cover his sign. And animals didn’t step on logs; only men