I gathered a party to go check out the vagrant camp this past weekend. My dog, along with an old friend and his wolf-hybrid.

I figured two men and two dogs were enough to guarantee we wouldn’t be roped and raped by some drunken snowman.

We walked a mile through the woods to the camp, through the dead, toppled trees and over the massive broken shards of river ice, melting on the shore.

The camp was set in the middle of a crescent of downed trees, which opened up to the river, facing an island, filled with eagles dipping into the water for catfish.

We made our way through the trees and looked for footprints around the tent. There were none. Just a tiny path from the river to a pond, packed hard by a busy muskrat.

The wooden bench was covered in snow, as was the black coffee cup.

I wondered for a minute if he might still be inside. Frozen blue under that tarp…But probably not, as the dogs weren’t interested — they were off snacking on eagle shit.

My friend opened the flap. Inside were some socks. Cigarette butts. A bent soda can.

No body.

He let the flap close and we kept on walking.