Hidden Trail E-Book

Jim Kjelgaard

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

How could more than a thousand elk disappear on a migration from summer to winter feeding grounds? Did they got lost and starve, were they killed by natural law or human enemies, or did they just find their way to some unknown spot? In a search for possible answers, the Conservation Department sent its young photograph, Jase Mason, into the wilds of Whitestone National Park. With only his big Airedale for company, Jase was to follow the herd, make a movie documentary of the migration, and find out what he could about the missing elk. He solved the mystery, but only through courage and perseverance in the face of dangerous risks. Conservation and adventure are natural companions, and no one can combine them with a surer hand than Jim Kjelgaard. In this tense, fact-based story, he dramatically points up to readers, young and old, the modern relationship between man and the wild creatures that are now in his charge.

Leseprobe

Hidden Trail 

by Jim Kjelgaard

First published in 1962

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Hidden Trail

chapter oneMystery Herd

Just in from a field trip and still dressed for the woods, Jase Mason parked his dilapidated jeep by the only vacant parking meter. Alighting stiffly, he dug a dime from his trousers, dropped it into the meter, and patted the curly head of the big Airedale that occupied the jeep’s other seat.

“Stay here, Buckles,” he ordered. “I’ll go see what the Boss Man wants.”

Buckles sighed and settled down to nap until his master returned. The dog’s bored expression and the appearance of the jeep itself brought a fleeting grin to Jase’s lips.

He’d parked between two sleek, expensive sedans. In contrast the jeep looked old and forlorn, piled high as it was with camping gear and showing all too plainly its many trips into back country where there might or might not be a trail. The impression that it did not belong here was materially strengthened by Buckles’ obvious boredom with this city and desire to be out of it.

Jase started toward the domed building, the State Capitol, that stood well back on a spacious lawn. At a brisk walk he entered the building, scorned the wait for the elevator, and bounded up the marble steps leading to the second floor. He swung along a corridor, trying to feel the proper sense of awe and respect befitting the building where the governor held sway, the legislature argued, and the destinies of the state for which he worked were decided. But all he wanted to do was find out why he’d been so hurriedly called from his assignment of photographing beaver activity in the Dannager Valley. Then, he hoped, he and his cameras would be sent right back into the woods.

Jase opened a door, the glass top of which bore a neat sign proclaiming that this office was the domain of Dr. Robert Norton Goodell, of the Conservation Department. It sounded very formal, but Jase knew better. As long as the staff, which consisted of Jase as official photographer; a talented secretary and girl of all work named Marty Simpson; and the various rangers, wardens, and technicians who were his principal contributors, knew where to find him, Bob Goodell, editor of Forests and Waters, was not one to worry as to whether his name appeared on the door or not.

Marty, whose nimble fingers had been flying over her typewriter keys, swung around and smiled as Jase entered.

“Well, well, well! If it isn’t our wild man! How’d you ever tear yourself away from the woods, Jase?”

“Had to see you again, Marty,” Jase grinned. “Did you get the pictures?”

“If you mean the beaver-dam ones, they came last week.”

“How were they?”

“So-so. Boss Man didn’t think too much of them.”

In spite of himself, Jase winced and Marty laughed.

“I shouldn’t joke about such a sacred subject, should I? They were good, Jase. Dr. Goodell is pretty excited about them.”

“That’s better!” Jase said in relief. “He sent for me. Do you know what it’s about?”

She shook her head. “No doubt some more earth-shaking conservation work.” Marty turned toward a closed door and raised her voice. “Dr. Goodell. Jase is here.”

“Thanks, Marty,” came a muffled voice from behind the door. “Be right out.”

After a moment the door opened and two men came out. The first was middle-aged but young-appearing Bob Goodell, officially the editor of Forests and Waters but unofficially the spark plug behind numerous conservation projects and unquestionably among the top men in his field. The second was Tom Rainse, the game warden who had steered Jase into his present job. Looking crisp and official in a freshly pressed uniform, the game warden ran his eyes over Jase’s rumpled clothes.

“If you aren’t a heck of a looking specimen to come barging into these here sacred halls!”

“I didn’t have a change of clothes.”

“You might at least have washed.”

“I did, but I’ve been jockeying an open jeep from Dannager Junction since half-past four this morning.”

“You aren’t exactly a model of what the well-dressed young bureaucrat should wear,” Dr. Goodell said amiably, “but I guess it doesn’t matter as long as you produce. Bring any more pictures?”

“Four films.” Jase took a carefully wrapped packet from his pocket. “They haven’t been processed yet.”

“I’ll take them over,” Marty Simpson said.

“Thanks, Marty,” Dr. Goodell told her. He was silent a moment. “Well, Jase, it looks as though your documentary film, Pine and Porcupine, is going to get you into trouble this fall.”

“Trouble?” Jase’s heart skipped a beat.

“Not serious,” Tom Rainse put in. “Jase, your boss means only that he wants you to film another classical movie of nature’s outdoor wonderland, with me as technical adviser. That’s why I’m here.”

Dr. Goodell chuckled. “That’s right. Come into the office and we’ll talk it over.”

They entered Dr. Goodell’s office, which was the despair of Marty’s heart. She waged an unending battle to keep it tidy, but tidiness was not one of Dr. Goodell’s more pronounced characteristics. Papers recently pulled from a bulletin board were scattered on the desk or lying haphazardly on the floor. In their place was a single detailed map, which Jase looked at attentively.

It was a topographical map of the rugged Keewatin area, parts of which Jase had visited. In summer the Keewatin was the playground of thousands of tourists, but the only ones who ever ventured far from the highways were those whom various dude ranchers in the area guided to remote hunting and fishing spots. After hunting season and throughout the winter, when the Keewatin was virtually deserted, it became a wilderness almost as primitive as it had been before the first white man ever ventured into it.

Dr. Goodell stepped to the map, picked up a pointer, and indicated a colored area with his pointer. “This, Jase, is Whitestone National Park, as you know.” He then pointed to a small portion of the southern part of the Park. “Down here is the summer range of the Keewatin elk herd. Are you at all familiar with the place?”

“Just vaguely, from going through a couple of times,” Jase admitted.

“All right.” Dr. Goodell moved his pointer southward, outside the boundary of the Park. “This is Taborville, near which are the winter feeding grounds of the elk, in these valleys. The herd will soon be starting its migration from the Park and heading down to the more sheltered lowlands around Taborville for the winter. The Conservation Department wants a complete pictorial record, a movie documentary, of the migration. Can you do it?”

Jase shook his head. “I’d sure like to, but I haven’t the equipment.”

“For pete’s sake!” Tom Rainse snorted. “If you add any more cameras and gadgets to what you already have, you’ll have to hitch a trailer on that jeep. You made a swell movie of the porcupines on Kinderly Ridge. Why can’t you do this?”

“Filming porcupines, under summer conditions, is different from filming a herd of elk in winter.”

“An elk’s bigger’n a porcupine,” Tom pointed out, “and some of these are about as pokey. It should be an easy job.”

Jase grinned. “You’re a game warden. What do you know about photography?”

“It’s simple enough; it must be if you can do it. You just point your camera, press the little button, and there you are.”

“Give me strength!” Jase muttered.

Dr. Goodell laughed. “Could you do it if you had the right equipment?”

“I couldn’t promise a complete pictorial record if I had a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. One man can be in only one place at a time. With luck, I might get enough representative shots to piece the story together fairly well.”

Dr. Goodell said wryly, “I can’t promise a hundred thousand dollars’ worth, and naturally I don’t expect you to come back with a complete record of every elk on the migration. But I think I can see that you have the proper equipment.”

“That’s great! It sounds like a wonderful opportunity, and I’ll do my best. Now, just what’s involved?”

“That’s what Tom will explain. Warden Rainse, take over.”

Tom seated himself on the paper-littered desk and swung his feet. “First off,” he told Jase, “we’re not sending you out into the deep, cold woods to get wolf-et or elk-chawed by your poor little lonesome. For one thing, you’ll have that hairy mutt of yours, who’ll discourage any elk that might feel ornery. For another, I’m horning in on the deal too, but you’re going first.”

“Where?”

“About fifteen miles into Whitestone. You’ll get your jeep into the Park all right, but don’t figure on getting it out again.”

“Why not?”

“Snow will be too deep by the time we’re through this assignment. So when you’ve gone as far as you can go, drain the radiator, set the jeep on blocks, and somebody’ll take you back for it when spring comes. You’ll have to pack a toboggan for hauling your camp and camera gear and grub, but you needn’t load heavy on the grub. You’ll see why in a minute.

“Now, after you’ve left the jeep in Whitestone, get on the tail of this herd as it leaves summer pasture. Begin taking your pictures there, follow the herd down, and I’ll meet you on the border of the Park a week from Monday. That’s the opening day of the elk season—outside the Park, that is; no hunting is allowed in the Park. We’ll rendezvous at the road, where it enters the Park, at five o’clock that evening. I’ll have my pickup truck and plenty of grub for both of us. We’ll go on from there.”

“Wait a minute,” Jase objected. “You say I’m to meet you a week from Monday. Do the elk know about this timetable? Suppose the herd doesn’t get to the Park by then?”

Dr. Goodell looked at the warden and laughed. “That’s a good question, Tom. I told you Jase could use his head.”

Tom Rainse nodded. “I know it; I’ve seen him handle himself in the woods. You’re right, Jase. Nobody ever told these elk that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. They’ll ramble here and there, lay over in such and such a feeding place, and that all takes time. However, this isn’t one big herd, and the elk don’t all start or finish at the same time. They travel in bunches: a dozen elk, two dozen, fifty, usually with a bull or old cow leading each bunch. When you get to their summer range in the Park, some will have left already and some will come along behind you. So you can set your own pace, photographing as you go.”

“You see what we want, Jase?” Dr. Goodell put in. “Your film should show the movements of these small groups: how they vary in size, how they’re led, how they forage, how fast they travel--aspects that only motion pictures can record properly.”

“I see that,” Jase answered, “but there’s a basic problem here I can’t figure out. If the elk are protected in the Park, but are hunted outside, why do they migrate at all?”

“You catch up with an elk, you ask him,” Tom advised. “My own opinion is that threatening storms set ’em off. Other people think it’s an age-old migration instinct, or elk just feel like moving, or they leave the high country, where snow lingers until summer, just because the foraging is easier in a milder lowland climate. There are a dozen other theories, all of which may be wrong. Anyhow, they go.”

“How many are there altogether?” Jase asked.