Good idea. A dirty gun is a misfire waiting to happen at the worst possible moment. Yesterday's events demonstrated the foolhardiness of being unprepared.
Once that's done, you and Brett load up the Land Rover and set out, marveling at the giant redwoods and other unfamiliar old-growth trees. Some of them must be ten feet or more in diameter. It's tricky driving where they've tumbled down, especially when their tops are submerged in the lake, forcing you to detour from the shoreline. And then farther still inland.
After a series of annoying dead ends and backtracks, you say, "We've made more twists and turns…"
Brett finishes your thought: "than a twisty, turny thing."
There's nothing to do but to keep going. Bit by bit, the ground grows damp, then muddy in spots. That proves to be a good thing.
"Stop!" Brett yells. You jam on the brakes. She hops out and backtracks a few paces. You follow her. "See that?" She points at an irregular depression in the mud that looks like nothing much. "Footprint!"
Now you see the outlines of the print, and it's huge. Three toes splay out from a partial heel impression, almost two feet in length and wider still. The footprint crosses your path at an acute angle.
Brett's gone pale. "T. rex has three toes." Your friend twists this way and that, peering through the dappled green canopy.
You Wince