Leave No Trace

“Where do you fancy going for our hols this year?” I ask Ellie, to the dreary percussion of rain. 

“I’m fed up with this time of year. Let's go to summer!”

I've had enough of this winter too. It's November, the drops are heavy with sleet. I pick up the tablet and open up a brochure.

“Where shall we go this time?” I ask, flicking through heavily touched-up images. “Paris, 2000?”

“Nah,” Ellie dismisses. “Cultural stuff is too much like hard work in my time off. Somewhere with a beach?”

Last year we went to see the summer of ‘69, mostly to say we'd been there, I'd not really enjoyed it. “Up for beach if it's not a party beach. What about camping?”

Ellie gives a shrug to suggest she could go one way or the other. I'm getting excited with possibilities, wilderness holidays are much more my thing.

“Let's go somewhere with really low population density, so it can be just us, doing what we want. We can have lakes, beaches, forests all to ourselves,” I chatter. “How about we really push the boat out, go way further back than usual, like 2,000BC?”

“That'll way pre-date the CIA, or even Knights Templar though,” she wrinkles her nose in doubt. “We'll be completely without emergency rescue options.”

“Ah come on, we've done this loads now, we know what we're doing!” I cajole, browsing ice core data to find the best summer in that era. “It’ll be an adventure! What's the worst that could happen?”

Ellie shrugs again, but with a grin and a twinkle that tells me I've won her over.

###

We pack up and head down to the rental shop. On hearing our destination, the cheery young man with perfect teeth and immaculately styled hair becomes very serious.

“I can't sign this off. Let me get my manager,” he stutters, suddenly losing the fluidity with which he followed his earlier script. The manager, a grey-haired woman in severely angular spectacles, reads the request and peers at us suspiciously.

“This is outside our standard packages, you realise, and won't be covered by any Time Travel Insurance policy?” she interrogates.

“Yes, of course, we're experienced wilderness campers,” I reply.

“And you are aware that the Leave No Trace regulations get significantly more stringent as you go further back?” she snips, passing us two extremely densely-worded waivers to sign.

“Both of us have in-date LNT-4 qualifications,” I turn to Ellie, wearing her lightweight breathable gear, hair restrained in her infamous ‘camping bun’. She's grinning ear to ear. The manager begins tapping at her console with fearsome precision.

“Very well, I have your time-space envelope here,” she slaps a printout on the desk, “and your capsule is waiting in space P-24.” Was there the flash of a faintest smile? With that, she stomps away back to the office, heels clicking.

###

It's an economy capsule, no free upgrades this time. We just about squeeze in beside our tent, cooking gear and power fridge. Unlike the shiny capsules of the more tourist-friendly fleet, the ones in the Adventure section are older, tattier, with dreary green and tan paint jobs to blend into the ancient forests. Ellie squeezes my hand.

“Ready to start our adventure?” she sparkles. I squeeze her back, take a last quick mental inventory, and press the ‘Start’ button. The capsule windows slowly become opaque. There might be a slight lurch, a momentary loss of gravity; it's been so many times since my first I barely notice. After a few seconds, the windows fade into transparency once more. Instead of the dingy multi-storey concrete pod park where we entered the capsule, rolling forested hills fade into view.

We’ve picked a real doozy of a spot. It's a lightly forested hill overlooking the coast, waves lazily lapping the beach. Inland, there's a dramatic mountain range and some bright blue lakes. A gentle breeze stirs the pine needles and takes the edge off the summer heat. Ellie and I unload our tent and pitch it, get out the water purifier and set it to fill up from a pool beneath a waterfall, gather firewood for the evening. Perfect.

###

“Problem,” Ellie calls to me from the capsule. “I just opened up the fridge and the lights were off. Turns out the pod’s battery's totally drained.”

“Drained?” I sputter. “They're supposed to be able to cope with a two-way trip and have reserve to run basic power for a week.”

“Definitely drained,” she replies. “Won't tell me the time, or the date. Dunno what could've drawn that much, unless the rental didn't top it up properly?”

I'm usually rigorous at checking things like this at a rental, I hate getting ripped off or under-sold. Maybe the excitement got the better of me this time, but I'm sure a half-full battery would have drawn my attention like a loose tooth.

“I'll put the panels in that sunny spot, it'll charge back up in a few days,” Ellie chirps. The Adventure pods had solar panels as standard, just in case you lost charge and didn't feel like waiting a few millennia to get home.

###

We don't let our problems get to us and just enjoy the moment, the peace, the solitude. We sit by our small fire, watching the sunset with a now lukewarm glass of white wine, but it's still perfection. The fire burns to coals and the day's heat slips away to a cool, cloudless night, Ellie cuddling up for warmth as the stars come out. The prehistoric skies are something else: with not a blip of earth-borne light, the night is perfect black velvet coated with a generous dusting of diamonds. There are strange animal noises in the distance, but neither of us feels a threat.

“How different the night sky looks to modern day,” I chunter emptily, just to fill the gap.

“It will be different, not just the light pollution but the position of stars will change subtly. Precession!” Ellie’s a fan of amateur astronomy, she takes a little high magnification spyglass with us on wilderness trips. It's all part of the kooky fun, she says. She disentangles herself from me, and heads over to the tent.

“Star charts!” she exclaims, and I brace for an excitable lecture. “Look, this is what it would look like at home, but in 2,000BC the Earth's precession means that… huh.”

“What's up?” I ask.

“Well, it doesn't line up. See?” she flashes the tablet with the 2,000BC star chart in front of me, against the sky. “We're nowhere near. You'd have to go back to…” she fiddles with a slider, then tails off, silent.

“To where?”

“To 20,000BC. That can't be right? They accidentally typed in an extra zero?”

“How would we even tell? Anything else we can look for?”

“Perhaps certain climatic markers, plants or animals? Not sure. Best is to get the capsule charged again, that'll know.”

We lapse back into silence and cuddle closer. Being stranded in 20,000BC shouldn't be any different to being stranded in 2,000BC. And yet it is.

###

The prehistoric past, whenever it may be, is stunning. To take our minds off the situation, we do a little exploring while the capsule recharges. From a hilltop, we use Ellie's spyglass to watch herds of huge, weird beasts, with long rubbery noses, appearing from the forest to drink in the lake. We find a route down to the beach and swim in the sea, a welcome cold shock against the heat of the day. Getting back to the campsite, I open up the pod and see the ‘charging’ light lit. A wave of relief washes over me; it may not be operable yet, but at least it's able to now show me it's taking charge. It must have squeezed out every Joule of energy to get that fully flat. I shiver, despite the warmth. Maybe it did overshoot by 18,000 years.

The next day we get a bit more adventurous, boosted by the success of the solar panels. We scramble a little higher, to a rocky ridge, and see the primaeval forests stretch out for valley after valley, fading into the summer haze. We lie out, taking in the warmth of the sun, taking turns watching idly with the spyglass for more strange creatures.

“Here, look at this,” Ellie hands me the spyglass and gestures. There's movement in some bushes, down in the valley. I turn the focus and… it's a man, completely naked, very hairy. I scan around, there's a couple of women with him, equally unclothed, equally hirsute. I turn to Ellie.

“Is that… are we… 20,000BC?” I gabble. She nods.

“Anything above LNT-2 and your envelope can't be within 100 miles of human settlements. Our envelope’s all off, we're in the wrong time.” 

I goggle. Even though we'd been talking about it, finding things that did and didn't support the possibility, it's still a huge jolt to get incontrovertible proof. Ellie's expression is distant.

“Come on,” I say. “Let's get back to camp, see how the capsule is doing.”

###

The relief is seismic when we return and find the battery sat at 99%. We can get home! The chronometer confirms what we thought; 20,000BC, give or take a century or two. I take up the solar panels and pack them away. Just like our first night, the sunset is staining the sky into indescribable streaks of red, pink and peach. By the tent, I stop and watch. Ellie puts down the peg bag and rests her hand on my arm.

“It is the most beautiful here at night,” I sigh. “Shall we just stay one more night, go back in the morning?”

“I'll never see skies like this again, that's for sure,” Ellie replies. “Sure, let's do that.”

We spend another evening watching the stars come out, in silent awe. We roast a few sausages on the fire, following up with marshmallows for good measure.

“Well, despite being a few millennia out, it's been a perfect break,” Ellie chuckles as we climb into our sleeping bags.

###

I wake to the pitch black with a snuffling noise outside the tent. I reach over absently to pet the dog and then freeze in horror. The dog’s staying with my parents, 20,000-plus years in the future.

“Ellie!” I whisper, shaking her as I scrabble for the torch. “I think there's something out there!” She groans unintelligibly. “I'm going to look!” I hiss.

As I unzip the tent, Ellie sits up. She must be able to sense my tension, or perhaps hear the noise. I swing the beam of light around the campsite, across the fire. Two pinpoints shine back, accompanied by a low growl. My blood freezes.

“Ell, quickly, can you get over to the capsule please?” I hear myself say with a brittle veneer of calm. “Just get in, I'll be right behind you.”

The eyes are shining, and I can see two long fangs from the source of the growl. A sabretooth tiger, drawn by the smell of our sausages? Ellie, moving cautiously behind me, steps backwards towards the capsule, keeping facing the monster. I start to back off as well, as it paces towards me. I hear the door open, maybe three or four paces behind. That's enough. Throwing the torch towards the creature, I turn and run, jumping in the capsule and closing the door.

“Let's go!” shouts Ellie as I leap in. “This is too flimsy to keep that thing out!”

I scramble to find the key, and press the button. There's a hum, the stars fade from view. We're safe.

“That was too close for comfort!” I gasp.

“I don't think we can come back for what we left behind,” she replies, ever practical. “Do you think… I hope… leaving the tent, torch and matches behind, that's not going to change things too much, is it?”