by Zoje Stage
The little devil in Imogen hoped that was where the snack-stealing asshole was heading. Would serve him right to get in deeper over his head.
9
We will neither tarry nor hurry,” Beck replied when Tilda asked about their schedule.
The three-and-a-half-hour hike out to Boucher was mostly along the Tonto Platform, which was the easiest of Canyon walking—except for the few places where it…wasn’t. Imogen was looking forward to getting out to Boucher and setting up their domicile for the next four nights. Even in the out-of-doors it felt good to have a familiar nest to return to; in a few hours, Boucher would be home.
They all appeared calm as they prepared for the day ahead, and Imogen was glad no one could see her as she felt inside: purple paisley. Hot and cold swirls, her blood zinging with jitters. She tried not to think about the Scary Spot, where their dad had once feared Beck might lose her life. At home she sometimes took a tiny dose of her tincture while readying to leave the house, but despite its low amount of THC she couldn’t risk being even a little foggy here. It was already easy to space out while walking, and she needed to be able to concentrate and not jeopardize her balance.
Two evenings before, Tilda had quite literally tiptoed around the packing operation, but that morning she embraced it—stuffing the sleeping bags one by one into their sacks before rolling up the mattress pads.
“Want me to take your picture? Before you pack up your camera?” Imogen asked her, conscientious now about practicing her peacekeeping skills.
“Sure!” Tilda handed her the camera, and posed, smiling. Imogen took a variety of shots—close-ups, and wider pictures that included the gear and landscape—and then handed it back.
“Thank you. I thought I’d photograph everything, but half the time I forget I even have it with me.”
Smiling, Imogen went down to the creek to top off their canteens, leaving Beck to finger-wash their breakfast dishes with splashes of boiled water. As Beck had instructed (or predicted) they neither hurried nor dallied, but soon were packed, their teeth brushed, sunscreen applied, and were ready to embark on the next leg of their journey. Anticipating a warm day on the Tonto, they wore windbreakers over short-sleeved shirts.
On their way out of Hermit Camp they passed the pit toilets and after a cumbersome dismounting of packs, they took turns having a last sit-downish pee.
“Adiós, civilization! Hasta la vista!” Tilda waved goodbye to the primitive restroom and off they went.
It was a lovely morning, the sky vivid and clear. They traveled in the formation they’d used the day before—Beck, then Tilda, then Imogen—and headed north to climb out of Hermit canyon. Just a few feet up from the creek and they were on the Tonto Platform, a five-hundred-foot-thick terrace of soft Bright Angel shale. It varied in width from a few miles across to a few feet, and the bottom edge stopped a thousand feet above the Colorado River.
For a good half mile their path was straight, and they all took advantage of the relative ease of the walk to keep their eyes on the landscape rather than their feet. It was effortless, with such surreal terrain, for Imogen to imagine she was on another planet, Mars perhaps—though the Canyon offered more in the way of color variation (and vegetation). Periodically washes came in on their left, plunging into Hermit canyon, which became continuously deeper on their right as they walked on. By the time they turned west, Hermit Creek lay in its gorge several hundred feet beneath them.
The Tonto Trail could become a drudgery, where Imogen felt like the trail went on and on and on and camp seemed hopelessly far away. So, beginning with her first trip when she was twelve, she used a mental trick to help her stay motivated. Shortly before that trip she’d read The Long Walk, written by Stephen King’s alter ego, Richard Bachman. She’d connected to the young people and their quest to be the sole survivor of a long walk, made nearly impossible by the promise of being shot in the back if they fell below a pace of four miles per hour. It was a grisly mantra to think about in such a heavenly place, but it had worked: four miles an hour or get shot in the back, four miles an hour or get shot in the back. Even when she was dead tired Imogen always made good time on the Tonto (though not at the pace of a fifteen-minute mile).
The mantra came back to her now, but instead of helping her pick up her pace it filled her vision with red. Juxtaposed against the golden leaves of a ginkgo tree. Or maybe it was a maple tree. A red maple. No. How had imagining a gun at her back ever made her walk faster? Hide. She shuttered the mantra and focused on the distant rock formations, the here, the now. With each breath she forced away old images—from a book, from life. Here, now: this was enough. This was everything.
Traveling within the Canyon meant a lot of ups and downs as they traversed inner canyons. Tilda had struggled with this notion of “inner canyons.” When the three of them had their first Skype planning session, Tilda had been confused that Boucher was their destination. “But I thought we were going to the Grand Canyon?” But any one of the inner canyons—created by creeks that fed into the Colorado River—might be a National Park of its own if it existed anywhere else. Imogen had been shocked when her dad had claimed that Hermit canyon was larger than all of Yosemite. When she explained it Tilda had just blinked and blinked, and Imogen saw her mentally picking up Yosemite, an invisible plastic model, and dropping it into place on the map laid out in front of her. So many things about the Canyon were difficult to describe; maybe that was the simple explanation for why Beck had disclosed to Tilda so relatively little.
Halfway between Hermit and Boucher lay Travertine canyon, which they crossed by descending partway into the dry creek bed and clambering back up the other side. Though the hiking had calmed her nerves to a degree, Imogen still couldn’t resolve the mystery of the theft; it blurred the division she’d created between her city life and her return to nature.
After navigating through Travertine, the next landmark on her mental map was the Foreboding Rockslide—which would mean they’d almost reached the section she’d been dreading. Beck might not have painted a full picture for Tilda, but Imogen’s dad had been more than happy to give her every brushstroke (though she came up with her own names).
She’d always been the sort who worried about losing control while walking across a bridge or standing at the high rail of a balcony and suddenly plunging herself into the void. It wasn’t a suicidal urge, but a fear of succumbing to a deadly impulse. She remembered a stretch of trail she’d crossed on her last trip with her sister, heading into Clear Creek canyon. There, the footing narrowed to just a few inches, angled at a downward slant across scree. It was like walking on broken M&M’s. If you started sliding on the slippery rock particles you’d just tumble on down, with no way to stop until you unspooled at the bottom a hundred and fifty feet below. Twenty-four-year-old Imogen had squelched her dark impulses and crossed with excessive care, firmly planting each step. Later, when she told her dad about the trip, he’d confirmed the peril of it: “Yup, woulda killed you, tumbling at a hundred miles an hour.”
The section heading out to Boucher sounded a bit different—not scree, but a passage right on the lip of a cliff. “Exposed,” as the mountain climbers would say. With an eight-hundred-foot drop-off. A never-recover-your-body sort of drop-off.
They’d been close to the edge of a bluff for quite a way, the empty space hovering just beyond Imogen’s line of sight as she kept her eyes on the ground. Movement made her look over and there was a raven, gliding over the chasm, nearly level with her. It was so close she could hear the air moving through its wings. She could have sworn the bird made eye contact with her before swooping away, and when she faced the trail again she spotted a rockslide ahead of them.
She paused for a second to confirm it was the Foreboding Rockslide, and the purple paisleys churning in her gut sparked into fireworks. Her father had described what to look for: a place where a large boulder had crashed down centuries before, stopping just inches from the cliff’s edge, blocking the trail (or so it l
ooked).
Fuck.
Sure enough, Beck slowed down and waited for Tilda and Imogen to catch up.
10
Little tricky spot up ahead,” Beck said, a casual understatement for what Imogen had just decided should more aptly be called the Promontory of Catastrophic Possibilities. “It’s short, just ten or twelve feet to get around that rock.” She pointed with her walking stick toward the ominous boulder, which sat surrounded by the dirt and rubble it had pushed along in its tumble. “Then be prepared to make a left—you can’t see it from here, but don’t miss the left. And keep your eyes on your boots, on your next step. Don’t look at anything but where you’re walking.”
What Beck didn’t say was that missing the left turn meant walking off the cliff. Plunging into nothingness. Goodbye.
A line formed between Tilda’s brows and her mouth opened but the question didn’t leave her lips. She stepped closer to Beck to get a better view of what lay ahead. Like a cartoon character, she stuck her neck out, squinting as she followed the trail with her eyes. It sloped downward, covered in what looked like gravel, the rock wall on the left, empty air on the right.
“Oh dear God,” said Tilda.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Imogen almost laughed. Beck and her refined ability to downplay the worst. Maybe she should’ve become an oncologist rather than a general practitioner; she was probably fantastic at delivering bad news to her patients.
“I’ll go first,” Beck told Tilda. “Watch where I walk. Then Imogen can go next if you want to watch another person do it.” To both of them she advised, “Steady breaths. Eyes on your feet. Concentrate, and keep walking.”
With that, she turned around and headed across the narrow strip that divided their world. She kept her walking stick in her right hand and jabbed it into the gravelly ground ahead of her. Judging by Beck’s pack, the trail was little wider than a window ledge, eighty stories high.
A plug ballooned in Imogen’s throat, the tears she would shed for her sister if anything happened to her. Sometimes they grumbled at each other, but Beck was her person—the person she needed more than her parents, more than her friends.
When Beck was out of sight—as gone as if she’d rounded a building on a street corner—Imogen inhaled deeply. Their dad was right: it was hard to watch. But Beck was fine. The whole discussion and crossing had taken a mere minute; she’d made it look simple.
Now what? Imogen felt abandoned. Who was going to go next? She visualized herself walking in her sister’s footsteps, crossing the abyss…and quickly had to smother the little monsters who taunted her with shitty ideas. Swan dive!
Tilda and Imogen looked from the trail ahead to each other.
“She didn’t tell me about this,” Tilda said in a shaky voice.
“She didn’t want you to worry.”
Though still on solid land, Tilda bore the haunted look of someone who’d already glimpsed the perpetual void. “I’m not sure I can do this. What if I can’t do this? I didn’t think it was gonna…” The fear abruptly vanished and became anger. “Someone should have told me!”
The glare she gave Imogen implied that Imogen was the one who’d betrayed her. “I haven’t been out this way either,” she said in her own defense.
“You’re the chatty one. Except when we aren’t really on speaking terms and then a fat lot of good that does.”
“Beck just didn’t want you to freak yourself out. I’ve been a nervous wreck all morning, at least you didn’t have time to worry.”
“Everything okay?” Beck’s voice traveled across the chasm.
Tilda took a step forward, as if that would put her in Beck’s face. “Seriously what the fuck! How do you just leave this part out? Don’t we need ropes for this? Shouldn’t there be something to hang on to?”
There was no point in answering. Where would someone string a rope?
“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could do it,” said the unseen wizard, the disembodied voice of calm certainty. “I’m serious that doing it is just like walking—it’s the knowing what’s beside you that makes it difficult.”
Tilda made an expression like a grimace, unimpressed, doubtful. But Imogen was bolstered by her sister’s confidence. Beck had been right about everything so far—this trip was exactly what Imogen needed—and she wouldn’t have given them a test she didn’t think they could pass. But Tilda didn’t seem to draw on Beck’s faith the way Imogen did.
“Do you want me to go next?” Imogen asked. “So you can see another person—”
“No. I understand the concept,” Tilda growled. “It’s really fucking simple. I just don’t want to do it.”
Imogen looked at the boulder, smug on its patch of oblivion. She expected Beck to come back around, join them on the safe side and do her smooth-talking thing until they fell in line behind her. But Beck didn’t come back. Imogen considered the possibility that this was intentional, leaving her alone with Tilda to figure out—quite literally—how to move ahead.
Tilda leaned on her stick, facing away from the crossing, a childish show of rebellion. This was part of it, Imogen told herself. Guiding Tilda. Having, for once, to be a leader. She put herself in Tilda’s line of sight.
“Remember all those years ago? In Schenley Park? You did a handstand on the curb, like a balance beam. If you can do that on your hands, you can walk across a short section of trail.”
Tilda considered her. “I was stoned. And young. And an idiot.”
“You had good balance. Even on your hands. Beck knows that too. She knows you’re strong, she knows you put in the extra effort to be in good shape.” Which was more than Imogen had done. “You can do it, Tilda. And I know, you’re right, I’ve underestimated you. But not about this. Beck would never want to see you get hurt.” Die. “I would never want to see that either—and you can do this. You may not want to, but you’re capable of it.”
Tilda sighed. A rivulet of sweat crept out of her hairline. Her anger melted, leaving her defeated. “I don’t want to be that person. And I never thought I’d be that person—for fuck’s sake I make a living encouraging people not to accept defeat. But apparently I’ve never actually tried to do something that could kill me. Feeling like a total fucking hypocrite and failure now.”
“You’re not a failure. Most people never face an obstacle like this. And it’s scary…but not the bad kind of scary.” It was almost a relief to see this vulnerable side of Tilda, without her makeup and peppy words. A person with fears was someone Imogen understood.
Tilda met her eyes—no, Tilda peered into her soul, that was what it felt like (cheesy as it was). “I’m sorry I haven’t been a better friend this last year.”
The apology was so unexpected that now Imogen felt like the cartoon character, blinking and widening her eyes. She nodded, unsure how to respond.
“There were many times…” Tilda faltered. “It’s little consolation, but I thought about reaching out. I guess…I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”
Imogen nodded again. A memory surfaced, coming on like a lightbulb, and just as quickly she switched it off. A tsunami of emotions—regret, longing, apprehension—flooded her and Tilda was suddenly someone who Imogen really missed. For a moment they were teenagers, in Schenley Park. And then they were adults again, with a gap between them as deep as the gorge.
“I’m sorry I don’t know you better.” It was almost a whisper.
“Well, there’s still time,” said Tilda. “As long as we don’t die crossing this fucking trail.”
They turned around and contemplated the boulder ahead of them. Imogen had a powerful sense of them being in this together, which was something she hadn’t felt since high school.
“Just see it in your mind as a sidewalk,” she said, “with people on either side of you who you don’t want to bump—you do that every day, move around in narrow spaces without thinking about it.” Imogen liked that image; she’d try to take her own advice.
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“Can you go first?” Tilda meekly asked.
The delay had kept Imogen too distracted to fantasize about spreading her arms open to see if she could fly. No, she would walk. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Twelve steps.
She counted them as she went. Watched her feet. Used her walking stick to keep from slipping on the loose stones. Ignored the emptiness beside her.
Before she knew it she had made the left turn—and there was Beck, relaxing on a boulder. Imogen exhaled, grateful for solid ground.
“See, toldja you could do it.”
Imogen saw pride in her sister’s face. She was pretty proud of herself too, and in the happy rush of accomplishment the purple paisleys blinked out of existence. She took off her pack and propped it beside Beck’s.
“Is she on her way?” Beck asked.
“I think so.”
“You made it seem easy, that should help.”
“Thanks.” The compliment meant everything. She remembered Afiya expressing how much faith Beck had in her work. Beck believed in the many things Imogen could do, even the things she struggled with. It suddenly seemed possible that her writer’s block wasn’t so different from this Scary Spot. Perhaps she’d allowed herself to become distracted by her awareness of the metaphorical abyss. No one could move forward over perilous terrain by gazing at the empty space instead of the trail.
She felt triumphant, but for now there was nothing to do but wait. How had Beck been so patient? And what was keeping Tilda?
The soft sound of crying drifted across the divide. Beck hopped off her boulder. “Tilda? What if I come back over and carry your pack across. Would that help? You’d have a better sense for your center of gravity. Nothing to throw you off-balance.”
