The Tracking Stick.

Taken from “Wildwood Tracking”

The Tracking Stick, as well for Man tracking as for animal tracking, introduced in a sort of “official way” by Jack Kearney, is no doubt a valuable tool for the Tracker to determine the Rob Speiden so-called Prime Sign Area (Foundations for Awareness, Signcutting and Tracking) where you can easily find the next track once detected the stride of the missing person (or quarry).

The Tracking stick can be very helpful (especially in relocating the track) even if its use can involve a bit of your time and your efforts due to the placement and the detection of the right measurements. Not to mention when your missing person or quarry had suddenly changed his/her gait. In this particular case, you have to detect again the brand new stride and the place the tracking stick again, taking new measurements and come along with that.

Personally, I infrequently use it, but I’m working on a personal project which I will show you in the next post.


The chase. Part seven.

JB did not like to have bad thoughts of Lorna at all, he never did. He had given her many more chances than any other good Tracker he had to deal with, and why she was stuck in his head like a completely rusty nail but he did not let it surrender. He liked to think that he had torn her off to something, written in a little way and elsewhere, that would mark her destiny. JB believed, that the comparison with Gary Cooper in The Hanging Tree was not so blurred. First, because some Westerners still liked it, because there was so much out there, signs so tiny that they could not even be visible to certain beetles, which Lorna had the duty to decipher. If it had been for him, he would take it long before, in short, to say, he would start the tracks when she was still a child, or something like that. There was something in her that escaped her all. When he was a boy it was a feeling of holding a horse in the lazo, but not having done the nod to tighten around the horse’s neck. It was a feeling, though he usually hated that kind of words. For him everything must be concreteness and dedication. The reading of the tracks was. But she had looked at her before in the picture and then through the lenses of her big glasses, and had – yet- the feeling she could be up to. It was about finishing it, everything here. Of course, it would take time, and after all it was some investment, but he would do it. And so she had taken it with her. He had thought of everything, or perhaps somehow, he always wanted it. The more she was holding her and the more she understood that there was much, much to sift. In short, it was a workmanship, it was like training a dog who until the day before was in the midst of coyotes. He was not exactly younger, and certainly the distances, and some weights, had led him to slow down every movement, to weigh everything. Did she make her cry? You can bet that he did. She had eradicated everything she had learned, in her own right, almost right, and had thrown her away. She had looked at her for a long time without telling her anything. He had forced her to lie down on the ground to see it better.He had left her alone at night and then even at dawn, and then beyond, because she had to learn. Just because she had to learn the art of tracking properly. And there was much more. Would he  help her? No, no, it should not be helped at all. She had to understand that each step would cost her a lot. To get people out of hell is sweating, he repeated it repeatedly. Yet she had something she had not found in anyone else. In short, something unusual, unpopular. Discontent was a term he personally hated. And he hated it because it was all that others had turned out to be. What had passed through her head when she realized she was receiving worse treatment than others was hard to say. It seemed as if they always fly large birds over her head, as she was invited to spend hours beside a trace. – It is the only way to learn – he repeated it repeatedly. His voice, that clenched passage he had never thought of correcting simply because – he did not care at all – had become somehow the passage of hours, and more than an hourglass, or an odometer, or call it as you would like, seemed like a flush Of a windmill that is still incredibly still standing.

We can only tell you that he had decided it was worth it. That was what kept thinking even when he felt more tired than her, yet the light did not dare to drop. Those minutes passed under the sun straight, an implacable sky you would have said, under which many others before and after had given up. It was just like driving a wagon on its shoulders that lost all four wheels, yet there is nothing else to say about this. Then, suddenly – perhaps not too far beyond his expectations – she had become like a small mechanism. He liked to say she saw, recorded and followed, not even a videocassette player of the latest model or something like that. That evolution was like to put wings, it was a no longer crawling. In fact, she was making her crawl, and she liked to see her do it – it was application, devotion, it was mud on the eyelids. It was to identify every small sign and call it by its name; and yet, it was to follow uninterruptedly, because of that, of an unstoppable pursuit, like the scalloping of the hooves that squeaked on the earth for centuries. Or at least, something like that. Each time he thought of the tracks, he was thinking of something poetic, but he could not give a precise name. A moment before he heard that he had ready-made words, the right ones, and it seemed to him that no one was able to describe exactly what he was feeling, and for years now. She was with her with the same story. Maybe he deserved some encouragement, but his lips were worse than an extreme period of drought. So she just looked at her and turned her head on the other side.

[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]

The chase. Part three.

And in the end she really came. The Local Police cars were semi-circular, and the area was clearly, at least once, a part of a forest. Now the Douglas Firs had been torn for a long time, and here there were only the blades of those who were big logs. The moss had done the rest, covering that scoundrel in a gentle manner. The smell of the rain that had been in the days before was intrusive, and held back by whatever was there. The cars had all the doors open, a bizarre drive in really thought of her. After all, they understood the county police always before the others, in short, they were the first to arrive, especially in areas like the one where a lot of people did not pass. They all had a cup of coffee in their hands and the Thermos in the free one, and they talked to each other in a continuous buzz, which reminded her of a lumberjack meeting in a synchronized work of chain saws. Certainly the comparison was blatant, even misleading, but it occurred to him that it had to have gone exactly in that square, in the sense that it had become a desperate place, without any Douglas Firs, just because a woodcut meeting had decided it would become , Which was the most suitable place. At that time the thermos were the protagonists of the scene: dancing thermos that sparkled, spreading their heat, creating a sharp contrast with the cold air that pulled that morning.

It would have come to snow – there is to hurry then-we will not take it anymore if snow-damned snow will be a serious problem. She also thought that from then on she would start to snow, she felt from the air that had become warmer. The drowsiness was dissipated in a moment, and she sank her hands in her fake jacket, and kept herself away from the county police group, at least until someone caught sight of her with her neighbor’s companion. If even one of them had known his name would not have said it, that was certain. Some had read about her in the local newspaper, even on the neighboring county, but they were too taken by themselves to mark it, let’s remember it. They were screwing the thermos cautiously as they did everything to not look at her, in order not to fall into the mistake of crossing her gaze. They remembered the little stones of which the red earth was scattered, rather. It was another story, if she was there, so everything would take a very different turn. In the end, BJ came forward, who, among them, was the last one to arrive. He had his hands still red for the cold, and holding the thermos in his hand did not help him at all. She watched her look at journalists, until someone else grabbed him by the arm, hissing something in her ear. Did not they have started already had to stop to leave room to someone else? No, it was out of the question. BJ was the last one to arrive and had received training like the others, in short, he did not blame. She did not say anything while she was offered a cup of coffee from the dark green thermos that everyone had. From that square that once was full of Douglas Firs, she felt even colder.

[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]

FLETC Journal, Summer 2013

“Recent high profile events around the country have illustrated the need for tactical tracking for law enforcement officers and agents. The murder of Park Ranger Margaret Anderson in Mt. Rainier National Park, Peter Keller’s murder of his family in Washington State, Aaron Bassler’s murder of a public official near Fort Bragg, Calif. and the recent murder committed by Eugene Palmer in New York State all required law enforcement personnel to utilize tracking techniques to locate and apprehend the individuals involved in these crimes. As of this writing, Mr. Palmer is still at large. In addition to the instances referenced above, officers and agents trained as trackers can utilize these skills when investigating marijuana growers, conducting search and rescue, investigating game and fish violations, and investigating various crime scenes […]”

Download the complete article: 2013-Summer-FLETC-Journal