by Kelly Harms
But then there’s the other option. The one I’ve been nursing since Wyoming. This destination would serve so many purposes, not least of which is giving me another night’s sleep before I have to figure out what to say to my sister. Additionally, it’s likely that going there would answer some questions that have been weighing heavily on my mind ever since my sister’s original cry for help on Pictey. And going there wouldn’t really be stalking, because I know from the metadata that my quarry isn’t there anymore. So I wouldn’t have to worry about running into her, taking her by the shoulders, and accusing her fake life of misinforming my sister’s very real one.
I certainly wouldn’t want to do that.
Thus decided, I instruct my phone to navigate me to the Inn Evergreen, the site of about 80 percent of Mia’s prewedding geo tags. It’s an hour from my sister’s hospital and a good two from my mother’s house. It’s got an advertised vacancy and high-speed wireless. It also boasts of local restaurants and entertainments in walking distance and a variety of spa-brand toiletries and linens. What more could I want from my lodgings?
Besides, I can be sure it will be an appealing night’s stay. After all, I’ve seen many, many recent photos of the place.
MIA
Darlings, will you forgive me if I take a few days offline? I know you will. Thank you for being the most wonderful followers a girl could have. Be kind to one another. I’ll see you soon, with comment replies and posts and all the good stuff I love sharing with YOU. xoxo Mia #missyoualready
In the end it is just like my mom says. On the morning I run out of prescheduled posts, while Mom goes out to escort a new life into the world, I hike to the top of the little minimountain, 10,500 feet above sea level, that rises up behind my mother’s neighborhood. It’s a fold, like the rest of these amazing Rocky Mountains, but the horst is one sided, so it has a flatter side and a steeper side. The steeper side is fun for climbing, or so I’m told. On foot, it’s suicide.
The gradual hike up the flatter side is mostly shaded, with periods of trail that open up to wildflowers and then close up again into towering trees. Halfway up is a mountain pond, not big, and the creeks that feed it are low trickles of snowmelt. As I hike, I try to take it all in, but really I am listening to a podcast feed that is new to me, because they’ve invited me to speak in a few weeks. The thrust of the podcast is general lifestyle, with sort of an antisitting/prostanding perspective, and I’m going on to talk about my own audio series, several guided twenty-minute yoga classes for encouraging different states of mind. I had such fun with that one. There are a lot of cool studies out that show how even a tiny amount of exercise and deep breathing can change how your brain works and encourage creativity.
That said, this podcast does not encourage creativity. It discourages people from listening, by scolding us constantly about the dangers of sitting, which is not just the new smoking but the new smoking while taking antibiotics and using a nonergonomic mouse. I hit pause, round a corner, tell my phone to remind me to buy an ergonomic mouse, and then look on GPS to see how far I still have to go till I reach the summit.
I have no intention of throwing my phone over the edge of Mount Wyler, and my mom knows full well that’s true. But I am going to take a picture of the scene and post a “bear with me” kind of message, then go dark for a few days, maybe a week. It’s not great for my empire, so to speak, but it’s not the worst thing I could do either. A week off social media sounds downright healthy, really.
I’m making good time. It takes about three hours up unless you cut the switchbacks, and I hate doing that. For one, it’s harder work. For another, if you want a steep climb, don’t hike Mount Wyler. A trail is cut already here, and that is where a hiker should stay, in my less-than-humble opinion. But I am alone in this; there’s a hiker-made trail on the short side of the looping trail that draws a straighter line up the mountain. It’s probably better cardio, I have to admit. Never mind; I have no place to be.
Because Wyler is a foothill among giants, the view from the top is mostly of taller mountains. But I love it up here; there’s no denying it. Mom moved to the mountains from my childhood bungalow in Denver, and I’ve made the hike a tradition of my visits ever since. I usually pack a lentil salad, which is slightly naughty if one believes in the danger of legumes, as I maybe do. My mom had some chèvre left over, and I put it in this time, so it’s totally naughty. Dairy and legumes. Gasp. I get to the top, sit in the full sun on my jacket, take out my earbuds, eat my lentils. I think to myself, Mia, feel the sun. It’s like a bath of light. I feel like a solar panel, charging, charging. A week off social media. Every time I think it, the tuning fork effect starts again. My soul whispers, YES. My heart skips an actual beat. It will be pure bliss.
After my meal, I hike down a few hundred feet to the west, where a photo vista with a sturdy pipe safety railing is built right at the edge of the steep side, just inches from where the gradual peak descends into a sheer cliff formed by millennia of rockslides and schisms. From there, I take as many photos as I can bear, plus some selfies. The landscapes work best, so I pick my favorite of those, turn up some of the warmth and increase exposure ever so slightly, darken the blue of the sky so it looks more stark against the higher peaks, and then post it. The caption is simple and to the point. Going dark now, my dear friends. Just indulging in a bit of #metime before leaping back into real life. Please keep the light on for me—I’ll be back soon! xo Mia #selfcare
The reception here isn’t amazing, but it posts, slowly, slowly, and after I see a few likes come in that confirm it’s live, I turn off Pictey, really turn it off, going so far as to delete the app on my phone. Then I delete several other social apps. Basically, if it pings in the next ten minutes, I delete it.
There. When I’m ready to come back, it will take only seconds to reload everything I just deleted, but for now I have created some space for myself. I can spend the week crying over Tucker, I can spend it hiking every day, I can spend it watching Vimeo or binging on Netflix or just catching up on the zillion emails I never can get through. Whatever feels good, I’ll do it, and no one will be watching.
In relief, I drop my phone on the soft ground and turn to the view, leaning myself against the strong, reassuring railing, and let some of the thin, sharp air fill the lowest recesses of my lungs. I think of the loving-kindness meditation I only remember when I’m already feeling good, and I take myself through it slowly. I move through the blessings: from myself to someone dear (today it has to be my mom, even though she is annoying) to someone neutral (the innkeeper) to someone who I feel negative about. Tucker, of course. By the time I’ve blessed him with prayers of health, happiness, and safety and asked May all be happy, I feel it, the tug of happiness I sent out, pulling back at me, as it always does. My eyes are softer now; they seem to see better, and my lungs are used to the altitude. For the first time I notice some of the sounds of the mountain: a stream below, wind, wingbeats. I feel almost alarmed that I have this luxury, the luxury of sending wishes of well-being to the man who has hurt me, the luxury of standing on this mountain on a weekday on an impromptu vacation, the luxury of a mother who suggested such a thing and will put me up while I do it. And the luxury of the mountain alone, I add, because it is so, so easy to have some perspective when you’re alone in a place like this.
And then I realize I am not alone.
I hear footfalls. I spin and see a guy, a panting guy. A runner. But he’s not exactly runner shaped, I notice as he comes closer. He’s broad and tall, not the wiry type at all, no kind of ultramarathoner. He’s not wearing compression tights, he’s not in a race jersey, and he’s not wearing special shoes with pockets for every toe to help him achieve a more natural stride. He’s just a guy, in shorts, regular athletic shoes, and a T-shirt with zero wicking power, from the damp look of it. He’s dressed way too normally to be dashing up the side of a mountain in top gear. And from the way he’s breathing, I start to wonder if I’m going to be doing CPR on the poor
guy when and if he makes it to where I am.
But he doesn’t make it here. He comes through to the clearing, spots me, and freezes, like he’s discovered the yeti. He doesn’t actually freeze, I guess. He stops moving forward and doesn’t move back, but he keeps jogging in place, like he’s at a stoplight, but I am the stoplight.
I will myself to turn green. “Hello,” I say casually.
He keeps staring and jogging, bounce bounce bounce.
“Am I . . . in your way?” I ask, because I know you can’t actually be in someone’s way on a mountaintop, but I’m not sure he knows this.
The question wakes him up, which is a relief, because if he doesn’t answer me by now, we are seriously in weirdo territory, and I would hate meeting a weirdo at the top of Mount Wyler. It would ruin it for me. He stops jogging, then says, “Sorry,” and then starts walking toward me, and he is smiling warmly now, looking less shocked. If he is a weirdo, at least he is a handsome weirdo. “You took me by surprise,” he says. “I’ve been doing this run for a long time and never seen you up here before. You must be from out of town,” he adds.
I nod. “I am,” I say. But then I think of the upcoming week. “And I’m not. My mom lives on County AB.” I point straight downward, like if you were to bore into the rock face, my mother would be standing there at the bottom. “I’m visiting.”
This elicits a nice smile from him, and for a second I swear I can actually hear my eyes telling my brain, Holy crap, this guy is cute when he smiles, and my brain saying back, Shut up and look away, and as usual I heed my brain. This is no time for cute smiles.
“Well,” he says, breath starting to recover, “that’s a relief. I had this moment where I thought maybe word had gotten out about this trail. It’s categorized as a county natural area, not a county park, so it doesn’t come up in any route apps. I hate to be greedy, but I like it that way.”
“But someone else has found it,” I say. “There are shortcuts stomped down on the switchbacks.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “It’s the muleys.”
“The muleys!” I say. Mule deer. “Well, that’s a better explanation.” I notice the guy is already breathing normally, and it’s clear that while he’s largely built, he’s fit too. Switchbacks or no, there’s some serious elevation on this run. Unless he only ran the last fifteen feet. But then, if that were the case, I would have seen or heard him below me on one of the switchbacks on the way up.
“You run all the way up here?” I end up asking, even though I’m pretty sure of the answer.
“I run up, yep. I run up, but full disclosure, I walk down. My knees hate the descent. And I love my knees.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say, then frown at myself, because it sounds like I’m judging his legs somehow, and of course I’m not doing that, though ok, now I am, and the legs are good, strong and bulky, with a dusting of hair two shades lighter than the brown on his head, as well as a slight tan. I fish around for how to categorize them, and dammit, the words tree trunks pop into my head.
“We need knees for so many things,” he says.
Is he talking about sex? Do we need knees for sex?
“Sitting,” he goes on. “Deep knee bends,” he adds.
I breathe out. “The Charleston!” I say, and I’m so impressed with myself for coming up with something witty after my brain went on such a sexcapade that I actually do the Charleston right there, and that gets me enough of a laugh that I can get grounded again and am able to interact more normally. “Do you live close by?” I ask.
“On route AB, just like your mom,” he says. County Highway AB is the road that meanders from the outskirts of Copperidge, goes downhill a bit, and then winds up into the hills, getting smaller and smaller, until the road is only a lane and a half. Set on either side are modest little homes like my mom’s, and developers have yet to fill in the gaps with mansions and chalets, because there’s not much depth between the road and the rock to build in, and there are still so many better places to plop a zillionaire.
“My name’s Dewey,” he tells me.
“Mia,” I say. “My mom is Marla Bell. She lives in the little white ranch with the big porch.”
“Love that porch,” he says. “Your mom’s a nice lady. A nice lady with a nice porch.”
“She is,” I admit. “And I love the porch too.” It’s too folksy the way she has it, but I always imagine it without the rocking chair with the heart-shaped back and the wicker porch swing with chintz pillows, and it holds so much promise when I do. Maybe it’s Hollywood’s doing, but I think porches like that are for first kisses and fond reunions. To my knowledge, neither thing has happened on that porch, but maybe it would if Mom would just let me paint the floorboards blue and the railing white. That and some tulips . . .
“I didn’t realize she had a daughter,” he says.
“I don’t visit much. Once a year.” That makes me sound neglectful. “She likes to come to me. And we travel together.”
“I’m glad you’re here this time. It’s nice to have company on my run.”
I take him in. Sweaty. Rectangular. Strong and broad. He has a mess of thick brown hair and a beard that looks hot. If I were a man, I’d shave my beard during the summer and grow it in the winter. I wonder why he hasn’t shaved. I wonder if he has a chin or if that chiseled shape is just a facial-hair illusion. Something inside me is telling me not to look him too hard in the eyes, but I already know they are hooded and bright—maybe not brown, maybe hazel, blue, green. Maybe just really light brown.
“It’s so pretty up here,” I say. I wonder why I’m finding someone attractive right now. It must be the meditation, the air, and the breakup. Oh, duh! Of course it’s the breakup. This is what always happens to me after a romantic disappointment. I have a natural instinct to get under one guy to get over another, so to speak. It’s not the worst idea.
“The funny thing about this bump is that it looks so small out here,” says Dewey. “It looks like nothing set against the bigger mountains. But if you put this same bump in, say, Kansas, just this little hill, Mount Wyler, we’d never miss it, but it would make Kansas a wonderful place.”
I laugh. “How do we know Kansas isn’t a wonderful place already?”
Dewey shakes his head. “There are wonderful places in Kansas, but Kansas itself is not my favorite state. Yet. When I figure out how to move this mountain there, Kansas will become heaven on earth.”
“Isn’t Kansas the state that teaches creationism in science class?”
“I think it is,” he says with an emphatic nod.
“I don’t think we should give them a mountain. It’s much too old to make sense there.”
“You’re being greedy,” he says.
“I think we should offer them the mountain for changing their textbooks. How could they say no? They could ski on it, hike up it; they could put up gondolas for scenic tours. And think about property values! I personally would want to move to Kansas if they had this mountain.”
Dewey laughs. “Where do you live now?” he asks.
“Los Angeles,” I say. “I have a town house in Mar Vista.” I’m not sure why I volunteer this information so early. Until I realize I used the singular pronoun. Jeez. What’s wrong with me? I’m basically lying down in front of this guy naked. Did he miss it? Please let him miss it.
“Just you?” he says. Oh, come on!
“And my dog,” I add. I don’t know why I say that. Mike has been dead for almost a year now. But Mike would have loved this guy. He was very goofy. “What about you?” I ask, then cringe. I want to stop saying such ridiculously obvious things.
“No dog,” he says. “One kid.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “Well, you should get a dog. The dog could run up the mountain with you every day and keep you company.” Oh my god, Mia, what did I say about not talking!
“Do you run with your dog?”
“No,” I say. “He only has three legs.” Mike was thrown out of a mov
ing car when he was younger, before he came to live with me. I got him a little set of boots for his other feet, plus a bow tie. He loved the attention he got in his bow tie.
“Oh,” he says. “Poor fella. I’m sure he’s still a great pal, even if he’s not a running buddy.”
I decide I should stop talking about Mike as though he is still alive. It’s disrespectful. “Yes,” I say, “the best,” and I try to say it in a way that makes it clear that I want to talk about something else.
He picks it up. “We’re having a coyote problem right now,” he says. “Around my house. Has your mom said anything?”
I frown. I don’t have anything to say about coyotes. “No, I’m sorry,” I say.
I must go glassy thinking about this, because Dewey turns around on me. “I’m heading back down,” he says. “I’ve got to keep moving; I get cramps in my hammy otherwise.”
Oof. The word hammy breaks the spell. Why did he have to say hammy? Or maybe it’s good, because I can’t even fantasize about sex with someone who says hammy. I’m safe now. “I’ll walk you down,” I say without thinking.
“Great,” he replies. “If you can keep up.”
For a second I can’t tell if he’s joking. Then he turns on the smile again. Hammy, I whisper to myself. I grab up my raincoat and my empty salad container and my water bottle and gallop after him. And in the end, I kind of do have to race to keep up with his long legs. But talking the whole way down is easy, and I get home feeling loftier than I thought I could this soon after being jilted. In fact, I’m feeling so lofty it’s not until I get to my mother’s house that I realize I left my phone at the top of the mountain.
PAIGE
Here is what I know, or think I know, about Mia Bell:
She is a yoga instructor, and after college she started a yoga studio in Southern California, which she sold to Hastings Management Group in 2018.
