Swallowed Up

"Rescue Hut #1, come in. Another missing skier. Over," a static-filled message came across the radio.

"Copy. Location? Over." I replied.

"Copy. Windhill West. Partner said they just disappeared. No trail to follow. Over."

"Copy. That's ridiculous. There's always a trail. Are they high? Drunk? Stupid? Over."

"Copy. Funny. Just grab a snowmobile and meet me, dude. Hurry. I'm freezing my ass off. Over."

"Copy."

Shit, the game isn't half over, and the rescue hut is nice and warm, I thought, pulling my cold-weather gear on. "Yo, Diane, some idiot got lost on Windhill West."

"What? Again? That's weird," she replied.

"Keep track of the score for me, will 'ya?"

"Ha! Not likely," she said, flipping me the bird as I trudged to the Arctic Cats.

Revving up number one, I swung a wide turn out of the snow-packed upper lot toward the target marker. This would have been an exhilarating ride if I didn't have to waste it looking for some novice skier. The snow-covered evergreen boughs shook their powder on me while the stinging cold slapped my face, making me feel more alive with each mile.

The marker for Windhill West appeared in the distance. As I neared it, Brady and the victim's partner were nowhere to be seen. I switched on the radio at my shoulder, "Copy. Rescue unit 1# on the scene. Brady, dude, where the fuck are you? Over."

Nothing but the moaning of the snow-covered evergreen boughs and the forest's hushed echoes answered me.