Wes Coffey

Each circle was visible as a ring of pressed leaves and dirt impressions.

The innermost circle was no more than six feet from the trunk.

I climbed down that ladder faster than I've ever moved in my life.

I didn't pull my bow down.

I left it on the platform.

I didn't grab my pack.

I left it hanging on the hook.

I climbed down, hit the ground, and I ran.

I ran the entire 45-minute walk in what I estimate was about 12 minutes.

I didn't follow the two-track.

I didn't follow the ridge.

I ran in a straight line toward the logging road, crashing through brush and deadfall and alder, tripping and getting up and running again.

I hit the road about 200 yards south of my truck.

I ran to the truck, got in, started it, and drove.

I didn't stop until I hit Highway 13.

I pulled over at a gas station in Mellon and sat in the parking lot with the engine running and the doors locked for 45 minutes.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I couldn't feel my fingers.

I realized I'd left my jacket on the hall line at the base of the stand.

I'd run in a long sleeve base layer in 20 degree weather for almost a mile and I hadn't noticed.