Camping Family

Leaving their Massachusetts home behind, a man and his family set out for upstate New York in a recreational vehicle he'd rented for the summer. His wife rode alongside him at the front, reading the map and telling him when and where to turn. Their two children, a young girl and her even-younger brother, entertained themselves in the back.

Arriving at their destination, a secluded plot on the banks of a northeastern lake, they unloaded the vehicle and began constructing a proper campsite. After pitching a small tent for the children and a larger one next to it for them; the man and his wife unpacked chairs, food, lanterns, and other items before starting a fire upon which to cook. Sitting comfortably around its flames, they all unwound from the hours of travel to the hums of a portable radio.

Sometime later—hot dogs digesting—the man snuffed out the fire for fear of wandering embers in the night. Retiring to their respective tents, the camping family officially turned in; echoes of the unrestricted wilderness lulling their tired minds to darkness.

. . .

Waking the next morning, the man emerged from his tent, started a new day's fire, and began cooking breakfast. A while after, the sizzling sounds and savory scents of frying bacon woke his wife and daughter. Emerging from their neighboring tents, they joined him outside and spoke of plans for the day while preparing to eat.

Having been sent to wake her brother, the girl ducked back into the smaller tent but didn't see him inside; their mess of blankets, pillows, and sleeping bags having become strewn about during the night. She pressed down on the pile in search of his buried body but felt nothing. Having scattered them further to no avail, she left the tent and strolled the short distance to the R.V. at the edge of the site. But her search of its interior revealed no evidence of him.

Alerting her parents, she was instructed by them to sit quietly at the food-filled table and told not to move a muscle. Unsure of how literally the order was meant to be followed, she refrained from beginning to eat.

Initiating their own search, the man explored areas of thick grass and brush close by while his wife walked down the narrow, dirt access road by which they'd arrived—both of them shouting the boy's name as they did. At one point, the man strayed as far away as a nearby stream, hoping the curious youngster'd wandered there in the early-morning hours in search of the source of its burbling sounds. But he found nothing. The woman continued down the road for some time, hoping to encounter a patrolling park ranger or friendly angler who might help her look. But she saw nobody. Eventually, they both returned to the camp.

Upon doing so, their rule-breaking daughter approached them, grabbed their hands, and led them around the back of the tent in which she and her brother had slept. Facing its backside, she pointed down at a large flap-like hole in its surface, near the ground. Squatting down to inspect it further, the man immediately demanded that his wife and daughter board the R.V. Realizing that the hole had been cut, not ripped, he knew it was time to contact authorities.

. . .

Speeding into the nearest town and arriving at its police station, the panic-soaked air about the vehicle's three occupants was immediately clear to the officers with whom they spoke. Despite the situation's palpable urgency, law enforcement remained calm and responded to the family's concerns with composure.

When faced with criticism in the years after, officers attributed the relaxed nature of their collective reaction to the Academy's training.

The station dispatched several officers to the campsite, reaching it via a crude map drawn by the couple while they, and their daughter, were instructed to remain in the custody of those unsent. What's more, each of the three was brought into a separate room in the building for questioning—the nature and intensity of the inquiries with which they were confronted varying depending on the officer administering them. Hours later, with those dispatched having returned, the consensus throughout the department became that one of two possibilities were true: either the child wandered off during a window of insufficient supervision, or the boy's father was somehow responsible for his unknown whereabouts.

When asked to explain this conclusion in the years that followed, many officers cited the man's demeanor during questioning as revealing his involvement, often using the phrase cold and unresponsive to describe it. Those dispatched to the campsite and who weren't present during his questioning simply alluded to the absence of any evidence of suspicious third-party activity as convincing them of his responsibility in some capacity.

Still, in the days after the boy's vanishing, law enforcement continued to examine the campsite and surrounding areas for clues, expanding its search efforts in both manpower and geography. It took nearly two weeks of continuous 'round-the-clock combing of the vast wooded and mountainous landscapes before anyone involved felt comfortable admitting that they were running out of places to look. It took only days after that for investigative efforts to begin dissolving. Before long, they'd grown completely stagnant given the lack of any actionable information.

. . .

Even until his own death, the boy's father never wavered in asserting that his near-catatonic affect in the period after his son's disappearance, that which officers interpreted as being probative of his involvement, was merely the product of shock and disbelief at the reality of the unimaginable situation. For the rest of his life, however, there persisted an insurmountable guilt inside him upon admitting—though only to himself—that he'd always held an affection for his daughter that he never felt as strongly for his son.

His daughter lived the rest of her life largely unaffected. While the logic of the incident sat intact in her memory, it did so void of any debilitating emotional component. She understood the course of events and never struggled to appreciate the reality that she'd never see her brother again. But the gravity of any danger she herself may have been in that night eventually became overshadowed by more traditionally-formative life events which occurred in the years after, and which came to define her youth with greater profundity.

The boy's mother struggled mightily, however. Comprised largely of bouts of mania and rootless sobs, the subsequent tear-filled years of hysterics at the thought of her son eventually silenced any mention of him. And while the items of his which she kept—the pill-surfaced ThunderCats pajamas which she continued to wash; the Lite-Brite on which he'd spelled out his name and whose batteries she continued to replace—remained forever haunting, nothing jolted her core as violently as the sound of the ringing telephone. Sat perched immovably upon the wall in the family's kitchen, the note it expelled became an illusory sound which, to her, seemed to slight eternally upward with a brand of hope that proved impossible to suppress—a foolish hope that an investigator may be on the other end, calling to share a breakthrough in her son's case; a desperate hope that whomever was responsible for whatever befell him may simply be calling to tell it to her; a delusional hope that the voice on the other end might be that of her son himself, calling to say that he still loved her. But the other end never brought any of those things.

Yet the note rang out still—rising, but never dying. Continuing up and up and up, to nothing. No resolution. No catharsis. And each time, there came another climbing behind it. And then another after that.