go

I’d noticed them on a few other trees near base camp, light pink rings of fungus decorating the bark, centered a darker crimson like a bulls-eye. Now as I hiked up the steep incline past the jutting bones of Buffalo Mountain, I noticed them again. Natural targets everywhere. A few of the trees appeared as if a woodpecker marksman had been practicing, which led me to wonder if the local Indians had ever thought to use them for archery practice. Working as a camp counselor all summer, I’d made up elaborate stories about the local Indians, the Shawnee Tribe. Tall men with fierce hawk faces and uncanny raccoons-tracking skill. Bold women who ate crawdads and knew how to make weapons out of daisy chains. Their skill with the bow had grown to mythical proportions yesterday, as I was running the archery range, and right now I had seventeen ten-year-olds hiking up Caleb’s Trace behind me. . . as soon as they caught up they would want another story. Hmmm. It ought to involve a bear. Or better yet, a whole posse of bears. Bright Otter was a young brave. . . but wait, I was supposed to be scouting out our campsite. This wasn’t the time to be distracted by Indian boys or tree-fungus, however pink.