Eric Rudolph Slept Here (Cont.)

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Outside Magazine September 2003

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Eric Rudolph Slept Here (Cont.)

MAYBE RUDOLPH OVERWINTERED in somebody's attic or burrowed into a vacation cabin. We may never know. What we do know is that he spent part of his time in those two camps. What was it like there? To get a feel for that, I return to his winter camp, nine miles from Murphy, and spend a night.

Although the camp slope is gentler than the rest of the ridge, I can find only two spaces level enough to lie down on without rolling. Beside one is a blackened smudge where Rudolph tended a tiny fire. Near the other is a long oak branch stripped and sharpened into a tarp support. I roll out my bag by the fire spot.

A light rain falls, but not on me. The overhang of mountain laurel, oak, red maple, and hemlock stitches into a natural roof, and underneath this canopy, the terrain is as wide open as a parking lot. From a security standpoint, it's brilliant; Rudolph could have come and gone via a dozen routes without creating a trail.

Sitting out here, I begin to imagine the

As darkness falls, I began to imagine the anxious world of sound that Rudolph inhabited. Every rustling leaf and cracking twig might have signaled the approach of the law.

anxious world of sound that Rudolph inhabited. Every rustling leaf and cracking twig might have signaled the approach of the law. I count the planes passing overhead. Two every hour. Those must have quickened Rudolph's pulse. During the early years of the manhunt, FBI agents flew sorties day and night in surveillance aircraft armed with infrared sensors to pick up body heat.

Darkness creeps up the hill. Was this the toughest part of Rudolph's day—the moment when diurnal creatures feel the instinctive urge to get home? Maybe not. Maybe the dimming light brought him relief. He could light a fire and rest assured that he probably wouldn't be captured—for another night, at least.

At 5:40 a.m., the Carolina wrens start up, and hunger and thirst force me out of the tent. The creeks that trickle down the ridge seams in winter are dry now, but Rudolph's grub remains. I skim away the rotting top layer, pop a handful of the fugitive's corn into my mouth, and chew. In a gagging instant, I understand why Eric Rudolph went to Murphy: for the food.

The next night I carry the experiment a step further by casing the area Rudolph haunted when he came to town. Officer Postell caught the fugitive prowling around the Save-A-Lot in the predawn hours, so I park my car outside the same store at 4 a.m. and hit the dumpster. No food. I hop a low fence and stumble across a dark, grassy field toward Rudolph's summer camp.

When you consider the Murphy hideout through the eyes of a hungry man, the advantage becomes obvious. It sits atop a wooded hill, separated from Murphy High School and the rest of town by I-74, a four-lane interstate. Within a quarter-mile there are three supermarkets, a Wal-Mart, a Taco Bell, a Domino's Pizza, a Burger King, a KFC, a BP minimart, Capt'n Joe's Galley, and the New Happy Garden Chinese Restaurant. Each keeps a dumpster in the back. Once the trees leaf out, you could spend the summer like Yogi Bear, picnicking in the garbage, without anyone seeing you come or go.

At the Ingles Market, on the other side of the field, two bread-truck drivers are unloading pallets of loaves. A fringe of heavy brush rings the parking lot. It's scratchy going, but the cover gets me to the Ingles trash bins. My hand comes up wet with some strange, overripe fruit. Chow time.

Once fed, Rudolph probably headed back to camp. I decide to re-create his trip, to see if I can make my way back undetected, as he would have had to do. The problem is, the deep Valley River cuts off Rudolph's camp from the food. He'd have had to swim across, or walk over the high Interstate 74 bridge.

Five-fifteen a.m. finds me at the bridge. It's still dark. Long stretches pass between cars. I pick my moment and bolt from the brush, hustling across in a comically suspicious trot. Forty-seven seconds, 116 strides. No passing vehicles spot me.

Jogging back over, I catch the glow of southbound headlights coming at me and start running fast. Did Rudolph really cross this bridge twice a night?

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