On A Mission.

I slid down the sandy embankment, trying to keep my feet in front of me so I wouldn't tumble headfirst into the stagnant water filled ditch at the base of the landfill. I hesitated for a moment, removing the thorns from my backside before continuing after the handler and her canine into the woods ahead of me. We cautiously inched our way through the perimeter of the woods, the dense trees stabbing upward like bristles on a brush, their branches weaved with tangles of thorny vines and shedded overgrowth. The pace was painfully slow as we moved deeper and deeper into the forest. What was initially solid ground turned quickly into swamp mud, a sandy brown slime that sucked at our feet if we stayed in one place for too long. We trudged along in silence, except for the occasional profanity that would slip out as low hanging thorns from a swamp vine would scratch and cling to our skin, pulling us backwards as if it were trying to prevent us anymore access into its world. Jayda, the german shepherd, had a much easier time navigating the thick woods than her handler or me, the flanker. She would dart ahead, covering her area thoroughly, stopping occasionally to sniff at the waters edge or at the remains of a dead animal, before returning to her handler as if to say "nothing here." It was difficult to keep an eye on the dog and the handler and still navigate the terrain safely. It was constantly in a state of change. The swamp mud led into the end of a creek and the creek turned back into a swamp. Logs that looked solid as we stepped onto them crumbled like cornbread under the weight of our boots. Roots and cypress knees littered the ground, and looking up was a feat in itself.

I traveled light, carrying a bottle of water for the dog and her handler in one inside pocket of my jacket, my phone in the other, and the team's ham radio in my right hand. I was thirsty but was glad I had decided to leave my camelback of water in the vehicle and instead rely on an occasional swig from the water bottle. The heavy pack would have gotten hung up on the low hanging limbs, slowing me down even more.

As we approached a clearing in the woods, the sun tried to find its way through the thick canopy of trees. We stood in silence, listening for the rustling that would let us know where Jayda had run off to. It was a depressing place. Remote and seemingly untouched in some ways, but suddenly areas would appear that showed there had been signs of life at one time. Scattered beer bottles, faded and dark with age, would appear in groupings around trees and old appliances. A white plastic lawn chair found buried in vines upside down at the base of a tree as if abandoned in a hurry and long forgotten. A flip flop, a tire, a rusty tub. We were drawn to an area rug, rolled up tightly, covered with dirt and tucked away in a rotten tree, barely visible to the eye, but seeping with enough scent of old sex that Jayda took interest in it. These woods had stories they wanted to tell. Stories about teenagers stealing alcohol from their parent's liquor cabinets, laughing together, gossiping, and making memories with their friends in the dark of the night. Stories about the meth head that would leave two-liter coke bottles and plastic tubing on the ground when he was done with his shake'n bake labs. There were the handlebars that the swamp had turned into a vase, a modern work of natural art, a rusty dusty blue tube protruding from the muck that now sprouted a tree, giving life to something old and discarded. There were stories here alright, but stories of secret lives, of lives that were mysterious and risky, stories that weren't meant to be told but were rather doomed to be covered up and forgotten. This was not the kind of place I would chose to end my life. I wondered how alone and depressed one must be to chose this as their last vision of life. I would want my last view to be of something beautiful. A lake, a mountain, a sunset. Not a forest dump at the edge of a landfill.

We reconvened with the rest of the search team by mid afternoon at Incident Command, exhausted and frustrated by a second search effort that did not turn up a body for the family to claim. It was not for lack of effort. More sections were cleared, even more were searched again, and the questions still lingered as to where she would have gone to end her life. It was definitely not for lack of effort.  Mud on the legs of the searchers' BDUs, the pruned up feet ~ collateral damage from waterlogged boots ~ walking on the cold asphalt to dry out, and the rats nests of twigs interwoven into disheveled hair told the opposite tale. We wanted a successful outcome too. We wanted to give the family closure.

I got my first taste of a real search, but Quincy had to sit this one out. It would still be awhile before we could go as a pair. In the meantime we would keep to our training plan. We had just been progressed to the next level at our team training the morning before. Now the "runaways" had me partially hidden from him at the end of my run, encouraging him to begin to become in tune with his innate scent ability. It was exciting watching him progress from week to week. He was eager and quick to learn. It would take me hearing the instructions at least three times before I could absorb them, but Quincy was good with a short "Go Find" and he was off.