The Mountain Story (17 page)

“You don’t see them outside Alaska.”

“
Alaska
?”

“He’s lost. Wonder how he got here.”

“I didn’t know birds got lost.”

In unison, Vonn and I said, “Wish I had my camera.”

The bird flew away. We smiled and walked on, scrambling over boulders, Vonn’s borrowed wool socks wedged into the thongs of her green flip-flops, which were, lucky for her, made of sturdy foam.

“Bridget used to be into photography. She has an amazing camera.”

“Should have brought it,” I said.

“Her new boyfriend borrowed it. I hate him.”

“The realtor/triathlete?”

“She’s into body fat and curb appeal now. One of her boyfriends before this managed dog shows. Guess what?”

“She bought a dog?”

“She bought a dog
salon
with the money from her settlement from the plastic surgeon, which she’d planned to put toward nursing school because before that she was obsessed with dating …”

“A doctor?”

“A sick rich guy,” Vonn said.

“Okay.”

“What about you?”

“My father’s in jail.”

“For?”

“A long time.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“When did he go to jail?”

“Halloween night.”

“A few weeks ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry. Scary story?”

“The worst.”

“Mother?” she asked.

“Died when I was little,” I said, wishing I’d used the word
young
instead.

“You have no one else?”

I shook my head. There were a few employees at the gas station who would notice I was gone, but none would miss me. Besides, I’d left a staff schedule on the door and a note saying I was going on vacation. Even Harley didn’t check on me much anymore, since I’d told him to stay away. “You? Father?”

“
Step
father. Three of them. Second was the cosmetic surgeon who started
that
whole train in motion. Third left her for a
much
younger woman. Bridget just told me about my biological father last year.”

“Thought I recognized you,” I said. “Don’t we have Misery 101 together?”

“Second period with Mister Yurfukt,” she said.

The screaming eagle sound we heard next was not the gyrfalcon—it was Bridget, calling, “VONN!”

We charged through the brush to find her, ashen in the granite cave, pointing at Nola’s injured arm, which now we could see had swollen grotesquely in the night.

“What a nuisance,” Nola said.

Vonn bent to look at it. “Let me loosen the bandages a little.”

I barely had the stomach to watch.

Nola was in surprisingly good spirits, even as sweat pilled on her forehead. We gathered around staring at her massive forearm. “I feel like Popeye.
I yam what I yam
.” No one laughed.

“That looks bad, Mim,” Vonn said.

“Not the best,” Mim agreed.

“I went with Wolf to look around and where it
seems
like we could walk down into Palm Springs? There’s a ridge and it’s not just steep, it drops off, like a thousand miles down.”

Bridget clapped her hands, getting our attention. “I have good news. I have to share this with you.”

“Here we go,” Vonn muttered.

“I had the most vivid dream last night.”

“You and your dreams, Bridge.”

“I dreamed we were rescued.”

“You’re absolutely certain we can’t climb down?” Nola asked, turning to me, ignoring Bridget.

“Did you hear me, Mim?” Bridget asked. “I had one of my future-dreams.”

“Future dreams?” I had to ask.

“Because she’s clairvoyant,” Vonn reminded, then resumed our discussion. “The problem is that where we fell last night, there’s this wall of rock. It’s steep. You can’t climb it,” Vonn said to Nola. “And Bridget can’t. And I can’t. Wolf is going.”

“He’s leaving us here?” Nola looked worried.

“He’ll get help.”

“Listen.” Bridget raised her hand.

We could all hear the approach of the staccato motor and the distinctive whirring blades. We could hear it clear as day. We leapt to our feet, scanning the horizon, zigging this way and zagging that, jumping on boulders, climbing onto the roof of the cave, straining for a better view.

“Helicopter!” Bridget hollered, jumping up and down and shouting. “Helicopter! HELICOPTER!”

At first it sounded like it was just beyond the neighbouring peak. When it didn’t come into view right away, Nola shouted, “I think it’s coming from that way!”

Bridget waved the red poncho at the blue sky.

“Over there,” Nola pointed.

“No! This way!” I shouted, waving my arms along with the women as we waited to spot the rescue helicopter.

All this, in spite of the fact that I
knew
that helicopter searches of this part of the mountain were rarely possible due to the unstable air. Byrd’s uncle Dantay had told us sobering stories about a few dramatic mountain rescues from Devil’s Canyon, some successful, most not,
never
by helicopter. Dantay had warned us against exploring this part of the mountain.

Minutes passed and the sound grew closer and we jumped and shouted at the unseen aircraft. “Over here! Please!” The wind became a swirling vortex and I wondered if we’d be sucked up into it, but then it stopped. The sound of the helicopter disappeared, not gradually—it was just gone. We watched the sky a good while longer but eventually Bridget dropped the red poncho and Nola sat down to rest on a stump.

“Just the wind,” I said.

Bridget clapped her hands to get our attention. “He’ll come back!”

“There is no
he
,” Vonn said. “It wasn’t a helicopter. You heard Wolf. It was the wind.”

“I don’t care what you and Mim think, Vonn. I know what I know. I dreamed about our rescue. It was the most vivid dream I’ve ever had. I’m telling you. We are going to be rescued.”

“Dreams are just dreams, Bridget.”

“Unless you’re me.”

“Unless you’re crazy.”

“When I was pregnant with you I dreamed that you were going to be a girl. And you were.”

“Fifty-fifty,” Vonn said.

“I dreamed that we’d get that house by the water. And we did.”

“You and Carl put in the only offer,” Vonn pointed out.

“I dreamed Carl was going to leave me. And he did.”

“Everyone predicted that one, Bridget.”

“I dreamed I’d get that job at the Four Seasons.”

“You also dreamed Mim and Pip were going to drown on that cruise.”

“We almost didn’t go!” Nola said.

“And you dreamed you were going to marry that Norwegian guy from LensCrafters.”

“It’s true, Bridge,” Nola said. “Remember the Norwegian guy?”

“This one is different,” Bridget said. “The feeling. It was … I’m standing there and there are rescue men with the orange vests and I know without a doubt that we are going to be saved and it feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It’s the greatest moment of my life.”

“I’m sure it will be the greatest moment of all our lives, Bridget,” I said. “But forget about helicopters. Not with this wind.”

“We should put my poncho on the top of a bush or hang it from a branch like a flag or something,” Nola said. “Just in case there’s a plane. Maybe they could see it—even from high up?”

“Good idea.” I picked up the poncho, and Vonn and I stretched the red plastic fabric over some cottonwood, though I worried it’d blow away.

“Use the hand grips to secure it. See—they sew grips on the inside so you can hold onto it and it doesn’t blow around in the wind,” Nola instructed.

I looked at the sky. “I’m going to climb that wall and hike back and we’ll have some rescue guys back here with baskets and ropes in no time.”

“I do like a man in uniform,” Nola joked.

“See, Bridget, we don’t need a helicopter rescue,” Vonn said.

“Imagine being buckled into one of those baskets,” Bridget said.

“Screamer suits,” I said. “That’s what Mountain Rescue call them.”

Bridget took offence. “Because people scream? Do they think that’s funny? People scream because they’re afraid. Anyway, in my dream there were no screamer suits. And I wasn’t afraid. I was the opposite of afraid. There was no screaming. Besides, I would not let them buckle me into one of those. You would not like to see them try.”

I glanced up, checking the sun, and guessed the time to be around seven a.m. I was determined, if not confident. “Let’s go.”

Vonn and Bridget helped Nola to her feet and together we made our way through the brush to the spot where we’d fallen.

Nola manoeuvred slowly around the trees and bushes. The pain in her wrist must have been awful.

We found a collection of large, smooth boulders in the shade of some pines where she could rest her back and keep her injured arm still. “I’m fine,” she said. “You don’t need to fuss.”

“You both should search for Bridget’s bag,” I urged Vonn and Bridget. “Be careful. The cliffs come up on you fast.”

“Maybe you should wait, Wolf. Drink some water and have some granola bar before you climb,” Nola said.

I dismissed the idea of waiting for the recovery of Bridget’s lost bag. I had no doubt that I would climb the wall on my first attempt and return with help within hours—by lunch, I remember thinking. I figured we’d be on the tram heading down to the desert by noon.

Making my way through the debris, kicking the scree and scrambling up the larger boulders, I finally met
the wall
.

“No problem,” I said, and was immediately sorry.

The boulders near the bottom were the least stable, and I made several comic missteps before I found my footing. “All good,” I shouted back to the women.

The wall was shot with vertical and horizontal fractures, and bands of white feldspar and rusty manganese, like an abstract painting. I could feel the Devines holding their breath as, with sweat gathering on my upper lip, I prodded with my fingers and toes to test the stability of each boulder. One felt looser than the next, but eventually I began to pull myself, inch by inch, up the steep face toward the ironwood stump near the overhang.

My feet were not clever about how to seek out steps and my hands were not smart about where to find holds. I kicked to make toe hooks and heel hooks, felt for pockets where I could jam my fingers, and knobs to pinch and slopers to cling
to, breathing snoutfuls of dust and sediment, thrutching ever upward.

Taxed by the hot sun and the sheer physical effort of the climb, I paused to catch my breath and looked up to find that I still had three-quarters of the wall to navigate. My hands were torn and bleeding already, so I paused to wipe them, one at a time, but I lost my grip and bounced from front to back over the choss, transferred by the tumbling rubble to the bottom of the wall. I got myself up and shook my limbs to find nothing irreparably damaged or torqued in the fall.

When I turned I saw the three Devines fretting beneath the brooding pines, and called, “I’m fine! Bridget! Vonn! Start looking for the sports bag!”

They rose, disappearing together down the path we’d made earlier. I wiped my bloody palms on my parka and prepared to tackle the wall once more, now desperate for a drink from the water bottles in the mesh bag, but glad that at least I had a smaller audience to witness my thrashing, graceless ascent.

Shrill birdsong snuck up on me as I climbed again, bouncing off the jadeite in the rock. I clung, turning left to find a dozen little birds perched on the branches of a tall dead cedar. Those small grey birds inspired me. I reached for the next grip, which I could see above my head to the left, then the next, and the next. But the muscles in my forearm were so pumped with lactic acid my fingers wouldn’t grip. I cringed as the cramp took hold, grateful that I hadn’t climbed higher. I manoeuvred, one-handed, back down to the earth.

“All good!” I called out to Nola, waiting for the cramp to subside. I was pretty certain then that we would not be rescued by lunch.

Bridget and Vonn burst through the trees, clapping at the sight of the empty wall, assuming I was on my way for help. Their faces when they saw me there with Nola? Let’s just say my sense of failure was already complete and I’d only made two attempts.

“Can’t find the bag?” I asked, distributing the guilt.

Vonn shook her head.

“Maybe I took it off,” Bridget said. “Because we were moving the log.”

“Do you remember taking it off?”

“No.”

“Maybe it got stuck in a tree,” I said. “You have to keep looking.”

I wiped the blood off my palms again and returned to the wall, deciding to attempt the climb from another angle, a vertiginous route where I hoped I could reach a particular ledge, and from there grasp the longest branch of the ironwood stump. I heaved and hoisted and grunted but when I got there found the ledge was too shallow for two big feet in hiking boots. The branch of the
hand
I’d planned to grasp was broken—the only broken branch on the ironwood. I made my way back down, cursing all the while.

When I reached the rubble at the bottom I shouted, “Right side looks a little friendlier. I’ll try that next.”

“You need water!” Nola waved the yellow canteen.

I did need water. I felt faint. But I shook my head and started for the other side of the wall.

My bloody palms made the rocks slippery and my progress slow. Try and try again I did, from one angle, then another, but each time I failed to reach a safe perch from where I could grip
that ironwood. At some point I realized that I was drenched in sweat and overheating in the big coat. With some difficulty I managed to find my way to a spot where I could take off the coat, tying the arms around my waist.

The sun beat down as I climbed. No matter which direction I took I’d invariably hit an obstacle and was forced to climb back down again. It went on like that for hours.

I couldn’t escape memories of the past, voices of the dearly, or nearly, departed. My mother. Frankie. Byrd. I couldn’t help but remember the day Byrd and I first stumbled on Angel’s Peak.