BUTTE, Mont. — Mike Stevenson dropped to his knees in the dark. He searched beneath the deepening, drifting snow for the trough of snowshoe tracks marking his passage from camp earlier that day.
He detected nary a trace.
The storm blocked every glint of starlight. The night was blacker than a raven’s eye.
Stevenson had moved cautiously in the direction he believed would take him back to his winter camp. He held his arms straight out in front to avoid being struck in the face or eyes by tree limbs.
He felt a penetrating chill. Growing fatigue began to signal hypothermia’s seductive pull. Fear started to rise. He was lost.