"A plane crashed here, Whip. My Mountain Air Research plane. I lost my nephew, Brent, here. I can feel it."
"If a plane crashed here, where is it, Seldom? No, I don't believe it."
Seldom Seen Smith pointed to post-size trees lying unevenly broken in a swath forty feet wide and a hundred feet long. Jagged stubs, a forest left in the wake of a giant moving machine. "Look, it came in hot from the east, clipped those tree tops...
"My plane damn it, my nephew, Cat Bonner's Fish and Wildlife Service biologists...its been a year..."
Whip Sawtell remembered what he'd heard about the mysterious crash of the wildlife survey plane piloted by Brent Smith.
Could all traces have been removed? Spilled oil and gas, broken glass, blood, bodies, wreckage. Maybe, but why bother?
"Whip, I sent these guys to their death."
"Damn it, Seldom, both you and Cat are blaming yourselves for a crash over which you had no control. And, you are seeing ghosts. The closest road is miles away through rugged terrain. There is no plane here, and nobody would bother to make a wrecked plane disappear from a crash site this remote. What would be the point?"