The Middle of Somewhere (10 page)

“Hey, Russ.”

“How's my girl?”

She bristled at the expression. “Fine. I called to say I'm getting married.”

“You don't say. Who's the lucky guy?”

“Gabriel Pemberton.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“He's somewhat fancy. The wedding's three months away, on June twenty-fifth.” She steeled herself. “I don't suppose you could make it.”

“In Santa Fe?”

“Yes.”

“June twenty-fifth?”

She could hear him riffling through a date planner.

“By golly, it's your lucky day!”

Please tell me you have a colonoscopy scheduled.

Russ said, “I'm in Colorado Springs the twenty-third. That's close, right?”

“Spitting distance.”

“Count me in, then. How old are you now, anyway? Nineteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Well, old enough anyway.”

“Claire said she'd take care of your tux.”

“She's a fine gal, your mother.”

“Yeah, you guys are the best.”

•   •   •

When Russ showed up for the wedding, Liz saw he had gained a few pounds since she and Claire had last seen him and wriggled uncomfortably in his tux. Liz concentrated on Gabriel as they inched down the aisle, ignoring Russ's stately nods at the guests, all strangers to him. When Russ handed her off to Gabriel, her groom winked at her and the second chapter—the better chapter—of her life began.

After the ceremony, they rode in a limo to the hotel reception, where she weathered the obligatory father-daughter dance. He wasn't a bad waltzer. As the song wound down, he reached into his pocket and slipped a folded hundred-dollar bill into her hand.

“For you and Gabe. Get yourselves a little something.”

“Um, thanks,” she said. “But I don't have anywhere to put this.”

“Oh, you've got lots of places. Aren't you wearing a garter? Or just put it . . .” He tucked two fingers down the top of his vest, then pointed at her chest, wrapped in white satin. “You know.”

“Wow, Russ. You must go to some fun weddings.”

“You bet I do. See you later.” He searched out Claire and finagled a dance. The sight of Russ and Claire slow-dancing was surreal, as if the people in the photos that came with a picture frame had shown up in her life.

When all the formalities were over, Gabriel followed Liz up to their suite so she could change out of her gown. He poured her a glass of champagne and undid, one by one, the thirty-two covered buttons on her spine. The bodice of the dress fell forward.

“Thank God,” she said. “Now I can eat.”

He cupped his hands over her breasts and nibbled her neck. “Me, too.”

She leaned against him and moved his hands into an embrace. “Hey, husband.”

“Hey, wife.”

“We should get back into the fray before they start spreading rumors about us.”

“Yeah, and you should get some food.” He released her. She stepped out of the dress and he took her glass while she changed. “I wanted to ask you something. Quinn and Pablo and some of the other guys are playing Ultimate in the morning. They want me to come.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah.”

“As in the morning after our wedding?”

He finished off her drink and shrugged. “I know. But most of them are leaving right after the breakfast.”

“You'll see them there.” She tucked her blouse into her skirt. “They're all invited.”

“Yeah, but a little Frisbee with the guys . . .”

Liz slipped her feet into her flats and stood.

“You look nice,” he said. “So, are we cool about tomorrow?”

She wished he hadn't asked. How could she tell him not to see his friends? But she wasn't about to start her married life yanking a leash. “Sure. Now lead the way to the buffet.”

L
iz and Dante stopped for a drink at Virginia Lake, a sapphire expanse with a broad, open eastern shore and rimmed on the far end by the Cascade Range. Horsetail clouds filled the sky like waves upon an ocean. The formation usually meant good weather, but Liz kept an eye on the clouds all the same.

They reached Tully Hole, an enormous meadow dotted with chest-high corn lilies. Fish Creek snaked through the amber grasses. The heat rose with them as they climbed steeply out of the valley, the creek babbling alongside. Over their heads, the horsetails fled and flat-bottomed cumulus clouds moved in. They arrived at Squaw Lake in the early afternoon and set down their packs.

A jaylike bird, gray as granite with crisp, black wings, emitted a harsh squawk from atop a stunted pine.

Liz asked Dante, “Who's the loudmouth?”

“Nucifraga columbiana.”

Her mind searched through the Latin roots. “Nut fragmenter from the land of Columbus?”

“Yes! Clark's nutcracker. It buries nuts from pinecones in the fall, then digs them up even before the snow melts in the spring.”

“You do know how weird it is that you know everything about birds and yet you yourself are rarely found in nature.”

He shrugged. “Blame my uncle. Every summer I spent a month with him in Monterrey. The coolest room in the house was the library, and the only interesting books—to a kid—were his bird guides. He had dozens.”

“And you memorized them all?”

“They are fascinating creatures. At least on paper.”

While she filtered water, Dante examined the map. “Squaw Lake, Warrior Lake, Chief Lake, Papoose Lake, Lake of the Lone Indian. How charming to have a theme. Oh, here's another one.”

“Teepee Lake?”

“No.”

“Native American Lake?”

“I think this was pre-P.C.”

“Casino Lake?”

“No. It's Brave Lake.”

“I was about to guess that.” She pointed at the darkening sky. “We need to make tracks. Those clouds mean business.”

“Silver Pass is only another mile and a half. Then again, it's a doozy. Almost eleven thousand feet.”

“Hi-ho, Silver.”

Liz set a blistering pace to the pass. Her arms worked like pistons, pushing down and behind on her trekking poles to take a portion of the strain off her legs. She'd been hiking nearly a week now, and was stronger and lighter than she had been at the start. She had adapted somewhat to the altitude, although when climbing rapidly up a steep grade, she would have paid good money for more oxygen.

Dante, she could tell, was suffering. He hadn't put in the miles she had. But he was doing his best not to fall behind and wasn't complaining about his feet or anything else. She hoped he could keep it up until they got over the pass, and down the other side, because with the possibility of a thunderstorm brewing, she couldn't imagine waiting up.

They left the tree line behind and pushed onward. In a short while, they passed an overweight man resting against a boulder taking photographs—the first person they'd seen all day. They exchanged greetings but didn't pause to talk. Liz considered warning him that, if he was going to go over the pass, he should hurry, but figured anyone could see what those clouds meant.

She reached the top first and strode across the small flat area to see what lay on the other side.

“Shit.” She had hoped for a protected area—with lots of trees—closer to this side of the Silver Divide, an east-west ridge. Instead, what she saw was a barren plain stretching for miles. In the center was the trail, a line drawn down the middle of a page.

Dante appeared next to her.

“Congrats,
amigo
,” she said. “Your first real pass.”

He swept his hand in an arc. “It's fantastic.”

And it was. She had been so preoccupied with the weather she hadn't taken in the view. The long, sloping escarpment, dotted with stands of whitebark pine and tiny lakes, gave way to row upon row of granite crests. Above them, the clouds, paler in the distance and also stacked in rows, cast bands of sunlight and deep shadow onto the mountains, highlighting the relief.

Liz felt small, and fortunate.

A raindrop landed on her arm.

“Time to boogie.”

They scrambled down the switchbacks on the steep south face of the Divide, gravel crunching underfoot as they descended. At every turn, Liz glanced at the darkening sky. She wished the switchbacks would end so she could put distance between herself and what the clouds foretold. She needed to go
away
, not just down. She dared not go faster, though, and risk a fall. A long fall.

At last they arrived at the open slope tilting downhill toward the forest. Silver Pass Lake lay on their right, but even from the trail they could see there was nowhere to camp. Not during a storm. Liz looked over her shoulder at the pass where inky clouds had formed a solid shroud. Midafternoon and it was as dim as dusk. She picked up her pace.

Dante called out from behind. “It's okay, Liz!”

A crack of thunder rang across the plain. She cried out. A wave of panic flowed through her and sloshed in her stomach. She concentrated on the trail in front of her and fought the urge to throw herself on the ground and cover her head with her arms as she had in Bandelier when she was small.

Dante was at her heels. “Don't worry. We'll be fine.”

She was not fine. Several oversize raindrops fell. Above the pass, the thunder rolled and boomed. Her heart beat in her throat. She was compelled now not to prostrate herself, but to flee. She would have broken into a run, but her pack was too heavy. Instead, she strode as if she was cross-country skiing, poles flying out behind her.

A gust of wind carried the smell of ozone past her.

The rain fell harder and the wind picked up. Her thighs and shirtfront were soaked. She tucked her chin as rain needled her face, eyes glued on the trail. From the pass, the plateau had appeared immense. Here, with the storm chasing her like a runaway train, it was endless. Her breath was loud in her ears as she fought to ignore the burning in her legs. She hoped Dante had not fallen behind but she dared not turn to face the storm clouds.

Rain continued to fall in sheets, but the thunder grew no closer. They descended out of the plain, and the widely spaced clumps of whitebark pine gave way to heftier lodgepole pine. No longer a bull's-eye for lightning, Liz slowed down. After a short while, the trail wound across a boulder-strewn hill and dropped to run alongside a small stream.

She shouted over the wind. “What about somewhere here?”

“Looks good.”

The rain turned to hail. The pellets stung her bare arms and bounced off the ground like jumping beans. She ducked off the trail, into the woods bordering the stream. Dante followed. They picked their way among rocks and fallen trees. A hundred yards along was a campsite. Liz threw off her pack, the hail pecking at her exposed back, and found her rain jacket. She put it on, and zipped it up. The hail stopped. In the distance, a low growl of thunder.

Dante listened, rain jacket in hand. Another grumble, farther away. The storm was leaving, at least for now. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at the sky. “Is that it? Is that all you've got?”

Liz dropped her head back and yelled, “So long, sucker!”

Dante grinned at her, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Drops of rain, or sweat, dripped from the bill of his cap. He stepped closer and brushed the hail from the brim of her hat. “Hail Lizzy, full of grace.”

She laughed, relief flowing through her like a storm-fed river.

“It crossed my mind,” he said, “that if we could arrange for more thunderstorms, we could be done with the whole thing in three days.”

“Right. But I doubt my heart could take it.”

They set up camp, marveling at what a superb site they'd stumbled upon. Nestled in the trees, they had a view of the clearing through which the trail wound. The stream was nearby and there were two large logs for drying clothes and sitting. For hors d'oeuvres, Dante cut them each a chunk of hard salami and a piece of cheese.

He pointed at several birds hopping among stones at the edge of the clearing. “Look! It's a flock of gray-crowned rosy-finches.”

“Really? Should we be excited?”

“This is their typical habitat, but I've never seen one before.”

“Well, you keep an eye on them. You know what gray-crowned rosy-finches are like. I'm going to the river to wash off the day.”

While drying her feet on the riverbank, she heard voices. She rinsed out her underwear (she wore her clean ones; these were for tomorrow), collected her things and returned to camp. Dante was near the clearing with the Root brothers, who, judging by their sodden clothing, had been caught in the same storm. To her dismay, Rodell and Payton headed into the woods, and began to search for a place to camp. She prayed there wasn't a flat rectangle of ground for miles.

Either she hadn't prayed hard enough or had addressed the wrong gods, because within five minutes, Payton lowered his pack and Rodell followed suit. They weren't forty feet away. She thought about suggesting to them, in the friendliest manner possible, that perhaps in these millions of square miles of wilderness there might be another ten-by-ten-foot spot for them tonight. But she couldn't see doing it. There was no rule, other than common courtesy, about camping in someone else's bubble. As long as it was a legitimate campsite (no vegetation, previously used, not on top of a water source), they had the right to camp wherever they pleased. And, when it came right down to it, even if it weren't a legitimate site, she'd hesitate to say anything. She wasn't a vigilante preservationist. Especially not when it came to a standoff with the Root brothers.

Thank God Dante was here.

She organized her pack and sneaked glances at the neighbors. In contrast to her and Dante, who divided their chores, the Roots worked in tandem. Rodell held one end of the ground cloth and Payton the other, lowering it to the ground like a prayer mat. Instead of a tent, they had a tarpaulin anchored at the corners with trekking poles. Rodell telescoped the poles for the head end so the tarp slanted toward their feet. They chatted in low voices as they worked, and laughed several times. When the shelter was finished and they'd filled it with mattresses and bags, Payton laid a hand on Rodell's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. They were kind to each other; Liz had to give them that. And Rodell looked up to Payton, his big brother. It was written in every gesture.

She wished, not for the first time, for a sibling. The closest thing she had had growing up was Brioche, her marmalade cat. One of her storybooks featured a cat named Muffin, so Liz asked her mother for names of fancy muffins. She rejected Danish, Cupcake and Bearclaw, seriously considered Fritter, and finally settled on Brioche. Brioche was compliant enough and tolerated dress-up, patiently listened to stories and never tired of games of chase. Still, Liz would have preferred her own species. A half sibling would have sufficed. They could have shared holidays and vacations and a parent, whom they could have fought over and complained about. Her girlfriends were the next best thing to a sister, and she was grateful for them. They all had siblings, and often two dedicated parents, in addition to her friendship. An embarrassment of riches.

Rodell caught her watching them, and waved. She returned the wave and joined Dante, who was struggling to extract the stove from its pyramidal container.

“Allow me,” she said, extending her hand.

She squeezed the sides of the container and pulled the stove out with two fingers. It consisted of a central hub, the size of a caramel, that screwed onto a fuel can, forming its base. Three pointed prongs, each the length of a finger, were attached to the hub. To fit in the fist-sized container, the prongs swiveled and folded to lie flush along the hub. She twisted and lifted each prong in turn.

“You look as if you're in love with that thing,” Dante said.

“I am. Look how they cut holes along each prong to make it lighter.” She screwed the hub onto the fuel can, and placed her hand across the open prongs. “The pot balances perfectly on these little points. The jet is an inch in diameter but boils water in a few minutes. And this is cool. This rectangular hoop is the gas control. So simple. So beautiful.”

“So hungry. Let's eat.”

By six o'clock they had finished their chili and washed the dishes. Liz was brushing her teeth (away from the camp because the toothpaste might attract bears) when the Root brothers crunched through the undergrowth separating the campsites and approached Dante. They stood talking a moment. Before she could rinse and spit, Dante pointed to a log and the men made themselves comfortable. Liz sighed and picked her way through the forest toward them, wondering how rude it would be to crawl straight into the tent.

Payton, his long legs stretched in front, followed her movements as she lowered herself next to Dante. “Heck of a storm today, huh?”