The supplies were mostly intact, just in disorder and wet from the recent rain. He would have grumbled about weekend hikers leaving trash behind, but this looked different. The contents lay scattered under the blueberry bushes-a packed sleeping bag, a flashlight, two empty water bottles, rumpled clothes, a pair of hiking boots, a towel, packs of dry food, a few cans, and a big container of protein powder. He strode closer and jumped over the ditch that ran along the road. It was a backpack, the red shining brightly against the dark green of the forest. What was that? A flash of color in the thick vegetation. Pants damp and boots caked with mud, Travis stomped along the gravel path back to his Jeep. Here, deep in the forest, he had no phone service. He would call the sheriff as soon as he was closer to the park border and his chalet. Travis had visited both bridges on the road, and they were intact. However, Sheriff Callaghan would be glad to hear that the road winding along the slopes up to Fool’s Mountain Station was clear. The torrential rain had caused havoc in the lower parts of the National Park, and the way to Birdsview was flooded. The rain had stopped, finally, but heavy gray clouds still hung above the forest, obscuring the view of Fool’s Mountain. His feet ached, and his shirt was damp with sweat underneath the waterproof jacket he wore. Looking up at the darkened sky, Travis winced.
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