A Method of Reaching Extreme Altitudes by Nancy Allen (Fiction ’12)

Camouflage

In the late afternoon, inside the silence of the forest—the only movement the looping flash of a cardinal’s now-here-now-there—a man in jungle camouflage steps out of the wall of woods. He’s cradling a rifle, his face painted to match his coveralls. I look toward Jane’s tidy backpack twenty yards ahead. Jane hikes point, the one who leads the way. I hike shepherd. The shepherd brings up the rear, catches strays, makes sure everyone’s safe. Gracie hikes between us. Her pack is large, lopsided, wagging from side to side. The three of us have been at it all day. The trail that had plunged down in the early morning mist, rocky and steep and ankle-deep in fog-damp leaves, is now sun-dappled and wide, almost a road. Wilderness surrounds us— thousands of acres of pine and hickory and oak—but the trail has been trafficked by a bulldozer, rutted. The man has materialized at the edge of this trail, facing me.

I don’t move. I pitch my voice loud but I don’t yell. “Jane?”

A silent space, then Jane sings out—“Hello!”—and within half a minute she’s sailed in between me and the man. I move to stand beside her. Gracie stays where she is.

The man is as tall as I am with a long, dark-painted face; his eyes, behind the stiff paint, the living blue of a gas flame. I avoid the eyes and concentrate on the camo. My mind moves down and in like a microscope, closer and closer, until the spots on his coveralls transform into single-celled protozoa.

“Hello,” Jane repeats, holding her hand out. “My name’s Jane Templeton, and this is Alice Straw.” She might have been greeting some newcomer at the Opera’s Sunday matinee.

I retract the microscope and focus on Jane. I don’t let my face show what I feel; I maintain opaqueness. Jane’s fifty-one years old, but her fine profile, lifted up with a luminous smile, shows few wrinkles; her silver hair is neat in a girlish headband. Next to the hunter’s painted face, she’s gracious and civilized, radiating order.