The Middle of Somewhere (17 page)

Indeed, her shame burned hotter reflected in Dante's eyes. And the disappointment in his voice when she revealed her affair—she hadn't figured on the pain from that. Maybe in telling the truth she had only traded one variety of emotional anguish for another. Time would tell. Or it wouldn't.

At least Dante still loved her enough to stay by her side on this journey. And on this September morning, at the bottom of a canyon, sunk deep in the stony wilderness, that was enough.

The other source of revelation occurred below Muir Pass when she entered the landscape as she had entered paintings years before. The experience didn't leave her more connected with the mountains and the sky. Their scale and impassiveness prohibited it. Rather, Liz came away more rooted in herself. These discoveries were hers, and defined her even if she couldn't say precisely how. When she was young, naive and unbridled, she had found her love for tinkering and, later, engineering. Her upbringing may have left her in the dark about relationships, but she never shied from her instincts (what else did she have, as a child?) nor relied on others unnecessarily. To be alone, curious and calm, is to be free. Even while she ached with feelings she could not name for the socially enmeshed lives of others, she understood they came at a cost.

Gabriel, she now suspected, had arrived at college with the hope of experiencing a modicum of the freedom she had routinely enjoyed, and suffered under. To him, she was the kite already loose in the sky, and he was enthralled. But after college, the routines of work and marriage bore down on him. Liz pursued her dreams as if she were a child building a tower of blocks on a sunny rug. He took the job he knew he should take and flailed at his dreams in the off hours. Both were employed in their chosen fields, but only Liz had had the clarity to choose wisely, with her heart. Gabriel's family was consumed with doing for others, and doing it together, so he never found his wings, much less spread them. He might have been depressed, but more likely he was frustrated and emotionally unprepared to summon the courage to change his life.

Liz recognized how similar she was to her mother in finding her life's work. Claire might not have been blessed with prodigious talent, but she was committed to her art, and supported her fellow artists. While Liz could have benefitted from more attention, and a larger family life, at least her mother did nothing to discourage her from becoming who she was, which included, ironically, someone who could soothe herself in the imaginative exploration of a painting.

The morning after Gabriel had died, Liz had been awakened from her sleep in the chair by a knock at the door. She was surprised to find her mother on the doorstep.

“Look at you,” Claire said, laying a hand on her daughter's cheek. “The things life does.”

In a single stroke, Liz's troubled marriage, her adultery and her husband's death had been swept into a generic box. That day, she was grateful for her mother's nonchalance.

Claire walked past her, heading for the kitchen. “Gabriel's mother called me, if you're wondering.” There was no resentment in her voice for not receiving a direct call from her daughter.

Liz found her mother pulling mugs from the cabinet. “I don't know how your coffee works. Just start and I'll take over while you shower.” She looked at Liz, who hadn't moved. “Come on, now. Coffee and a shower. One foot in front of the other.” She took her daughter by the shoulders. “Talking about this sort of thing is useless. You'll be sad no matter what.” Before she let go, she squeezed. “So, one foot in front of the other.”

And that was how it would be with Dante on this hike. She had more to tell him, worse than what he'd already heard, but there was no way around it. It was a boulder in the middle of the trail. Where in the trail, she couldn't say, but they would get there, one foot in front of the other. And, if they were able, they'd continue on to the other side.

A
fter breakfast, Dante headed to the ranger station for a weather forecast. Liz picked her way through the trees to the stream to rinse the dishes. Squatting on a sandy patch, she swirled water into the cups and flung it into the bushes behind her. Breaking twigs drew her attention to the far bank, clogged with willow. The sounds proceeded upstream. She stood, slowly, in case it was an animal, and placed a foot on a half-submerged rock to improve her view. The willows shook like a cheerleader's pompom. The branches parted and Payton Root appeared, fixing his eyes on her. Liz gasped. Her foot slid off the rock and hit the water with a splash. Wheeling her arms to keep her balance, she stumbled, knocking the metal dishes onto the rocks.

He was in front of her, unsmiling. “Good morning.” His beard had grown in since she'd last seen him three days before. Somehow, he appeared even larger.

She glanced toward the campsites, but they lay invisible beyond the steep bank.

He came half a step closer. “Surprised to see me?”

She stepped back. “I thought your brother was hurt.”

“Well, he was. And now he's better. He's small, but he's tough.”

Rodell wasn't small. He was as tall as Dante, but Payton dwarfed them both.

She said, “And yet a knee injury is so unlikely to heal in—what?—half a day. Must be some genetic peculiarity.”

“You got a sharp tongue, don't you? Like a rattlesnake.” He showed his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Don't get me wrong. I prefer feisty.”

Her stomach clenched. She wanted to leave, but picking up the dishes would make her too vulnerable. Instead, she met his eyes. “And with your charm and debonair ways, I'm sure you have your choice.”

“Hey!” Rodell appeared from the direction of her campsite. “How're you doing?”

She used the distraction to scoop up her dishes. “Great.” Rodell blocked the path. “If you'll excuse me . . .”

He ignored her. “I just saw Dante on his way to the ranger's.”

“That's great. Now, Rodell, I need to get going.”

“Aren't you going to ask about my leg?”

“I can see it's fine. Miraculously so.” She regretted her comment immediately.

The younger brother, usually cheerful, jerked his shoulders into place. Pointing a finger at her, he questioned his brother. “You still fancy this one?”

Payton narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue slowly across his lips. “More all the time.”

She clasped the dishes against her and took a giant step onto a tall boulder, allowing the momentum to carry her to another stone farther up the bank. She caught hold of a branch and swung herself up the rest of the way. The brothers laughed.

At the top of the bank, in sight of the McCartneys, she paused to arrange the dishes to carry them more comfortably.

“Oh, Liz,” Payton called. “I forgot to give you this. Found it on the trail.”

She turned and spotted a narrow object in the air as it caught the light before falling to the ground behind her.

A red tent stake.

They laughed again, and Rodell let out a snort.

Dante hadn't returned from the ranger station, but Liz was relieved to see he'd stowed his gear and would soon be ready to leave. She wanted to get the hell away from the Roots. She pulled a pair of used, but dry, socks from her pack and changed into them. There was nothing she could do about her wet boot. She packed the dishes, tucking them in with her clothes so they wouldn't rattle, and secured the toggle closing her pack.

Brensen's campsite was empty, so he must have been feeling well enough. Paul and Linda seemed to be getting a late start, probably with the intention of putting distance between themselves and Brensen. She was about to walk over and tell them about her encounter with the Roots when Dante came up behind her.

“Good news! The ranger says the weather should be fine for the next couple of days.”

“That's a relief.” She pulled the top of her pack closed. “Dante, you won't believe it, but I just ran into Payton and Rodell at the river.”

“I thought Rodell was injured.”

“I know. Listen.” She told Dante about her encounters with Payton: the time at Purple Lake when she'd been trapped between him and the stream, and today. He listened without interrupting.

“So,” she said, “I might not be a social genius, but I can't ignore the fact that every time Payton opens his mouth I feel like I need a shower—or a bodyguard.”

“He's definitely strange. Both of them are. But dangerous? Maybe he just likes to get a raise out of women. Maybe he considers that kind of talk flirting.”

“I think you mean ‘get a rise' out of them. Provoke them.”

“Yes. Maybe if you refused to respond, it wouldn't be fun for him anymore.”

So, it's me? Liz thought. The nerd who blew her first marriage and was about to blow this relationship needed the behavioral adjustment. Well, he had a point. She hadn't tried ignoring Payton. But her instincts—and recent events—said it wouldn't work. “And what about the tent stakes? And the fuel? And that little present in our cabin?”

“We can explain those in other ways.”

“How? That we're just incredibly careless and unlucky?”

He shrugged.

Liz didn't want to press any further. “Let's just get out of here, okay?”

They applied sunscreen and lip balm, drank water and put on their packs. Liz scanned the site one last time and led the way to the trail.

She wanted to mention the Roots' reappearance to Paul and Linda, but although their gear was still at their campsite, the couple was nowhere to be seen. Liz figured they were upstream collecting water or perhaps had gone to a nearby clearing to take in the view.

They crossed the bridge and continued south on a gentle descent along the Kings River. After less than a mile Dante called to Liz. She heard him stop, so she leaned on her poles and regarded him over her shoulder. He removed his sunglasses and turned to the sky, as if for guidance. Then he looked at her squarely. “I'm sorry I didn't understand before how much the Roots bothered you. If you want to stay away from them, that's fine. We don't have to talk to them.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“What do you think they want from you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, don't worry about it. We'll avoid them, okay?”

“We can try.”

As they resumed hiking, she wondered if it would prove possible to avoid the Roots; it certainly hadn't been thus far. The Sierras encompassed a vast area, but in certain ways, not vast enough. For the rest of the trip, it would be harder to avoid other hikers. The passes were about a day's walk apart. Most hikers preferred to cross them in the morning, when their legs were strong, which meant camping on the north side of the passes. To shake the Roots, they would have to go over two passes in a single day, and not get caught in an afternoon storm on the second pass. Some hikers managed this, even covering the entire two hundred twenty miles in a week or less, but it was too difficult for most, including her and Dante.

Today's hike was a case in point. Mather Pass (the highest yet at twelve thousand one hundred feet) was fourteen and a half miles away. The map showed a massive basin on the far side. After the pass, a hiker might have to continue for a few more miles to find a protected site. But, a mile or two shy of this side of the pass were the Palisade Lakes, tucked into a partially forested canyon with ample shelter. She expected to see familiar (if not welcome) faces there.

In an hour they reached Grouse Meadows, where the river spread wide and smooth. Mist clung to the tall grasses, waiting for the sun to gain strength and unravel it into the sky. Here the abundance of water had helped the wildflowers stretch their summer into fall. Periwinkle blue lupine, red Indian paintbrush and creamy yarrow bordered the trail. Liz pointed out a mariposa lily, a delicate tulip-shaped blossom on a slender stalk, the inside of its three white petals touched at their base with a dab of maroon. As they returned their attention to the trail, a deer crossed not fifteen feet in front of them, unhurried.

Liz caught Dante's eye and smiled. If only they could be alone this way for the whole trip, sharing these simple, exquisite moments. She considered suggesting they follow a different route, forget the JMT and leave the Roots (and Brensen and the McCartneys) to wonder where they'd gone. But in her heart she held out hope they could finish the trek as planned, and experience it on their terms. They'd just keep their distance from the brothers as much as they could.

At the next trail junction, they turned east into the Palisade Creek valley. The trail climbed more steeply, and soon they left the pine forest behind and emerged onto a rocky slope. Quaking aspen bordered the creek and spread as high up the mountainsides as they dared. It was the largest stand of aspen they'd seen—a field of green and gold trembling in the morning breeze. Out in the open, the sun roasted them. Sweat broke out on their backs and foreheads. They climbed ever higher, and the temperature moved into the low eighties. By early afternoon they arrived at the base of the Golden Staircase, the last section of the JMT to be built.

“I'm guessing they didn't save the easiest for last,” Dante said, craning to make out the route.

“Fifteen hundred feet, straight up.” The cragged wall rose before her like a medieval skyscraper. Stare as she might, she couldn't make out the trail.

They rested frequently to drink in gasping gulps and take in the view. Palisade Creek, from this perspective a strip of dark green, took the direct route to the valley from which rose the Black Divide. Instead of the typical silver granite, these peaks were carved of charcoal and ebony, accentuating their contrast with the sky they thrust upward to meet.

The mostly dry and rocky trail was interrupted by rivulets flowing from unseen waters above, creating patches where grasses and wildflowers took hold—miniature oases amidst rock slabs and talus chunks. Halfway up, the switchbacks began. Liz took off her pack and Dante followed suit. He pointed downslope.

“Two people coming up. Paul and Linda?”

“I think so. Boy, they've made up some time on us.”

“Good thing they're not the ones we're trying to avoid. They're rabbits.”

She thought, not for the first time today, that Payton and Rodell were fast hikers as well, having arrived at Le Conte Canyon before anyone. Then she realized they may not even have slept at Muir Ranch. While everyone assumed the Roots were headed for a doctor, they could have been en route to Evolution Valley. As for today, they might be behind or ahead, and it worried her not to know which.

They admired the view for a few minutes more, and continued upward, crossing the headwall from one side to the other like a shoelace being guided through a tall boot. Looking toward the top, Liz could discern perhaps two switchbacks above her, but beyond them the scramble of rocks yielded no clues.

Dante paused at a corner, a sheer wall forty feet high looming behind him. “How much farther do you think?”

She stared downhill. “Maybe another third?” Paul was taking a photograph several switchbacks below. Linda was beside him. She tipped her head back, drinking deeply from an orange Nalgene.

A scraping sound came from above. Liz, in the center of a switchback, oriented to it, searching for movement. A boulder the size of a basketball tumbled over a ledge some thirty feet up, and bounced with a crash, sending smaller rocks cascading toward her. She scurried backward as the boulder flew by, missing her by a foot before hitting below the trail and dislodging more rocks.

“Look out!” she shouted.

The boulder headed straight for Paul and Linda. Paul, eyes huge, jumped back. Linda did the same, but her backpack was propped against a rock behind her. As she threw herself backward, her heel hit the pack and she fell onto it, legs in the air. The boulder careened off a ledge above her, and grazed her leg. She screamed. The boulder plunged out of sight, but the crush of rock upon rock echoed up to them.

Dante, plastered against the wall, stared at Liz in shock.

She quickly undid her pack and threw it to the ground. “I'm going down.”

Without a pack and traveling downhill, she flew. In two minutes she was there. Paul bent over his wife's leg. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, and she bit her lip to stop from sobbing. Her calf was covered in blood, oozing from a four-inch gash. The skin on either side was deeply abraded.

“How bad is it?” Liz asked. Dante appeared at her side and placed a hand on the small of her back.

“It's not out of alignment and when I pushed on her heel, she didn't scream, so I doubt it's broken.” He turned, nodding at the pack behind her. “In my pack, on the left hand side, there's a medical kit.”

She opened the pack, pushed aside some clothing and found the Ziploc bag. A quick scan told her the contents were similar to hers: adhesive tape, antibiotic cream, alcohol wipes, gauze, ACE bandage.