Up

by Patricia Ellis Herr

  Alex and LRiz are behind me when the grouse steps out. MadRiver is not yet with us, as he preferred to start later in the morning and catch up to us on the trail.

  “It’s the grouse, it’s the grouse!” I gasp, my words running together in surprise and fright. My hands reach for my camera, for I absolutely must document this encounter.

  LRiz draws in a horrified breath. She’s met this critter before, on a previous trip up Mount Isolation. When she sees what my hands are doing, she emphatically whispers, “Don’t take its picture! That makes it really angry!” I look into her frightened face and realize she’s not kidding. I leave my camera where it is.

  “What is it?” Alex asks as she squeezes between LRiz and me, trying to get a better look.

  “Just a bird, honey,” I say, but my voice wavers.

  The grouse has edged closer to us during our few seconds of commiseration while continuing to walk back and forth across the path. It keeps one red eye fixed on me while it bobs along, and its loud chatter informs me that it Is Not Afraid. It is telling me that it can beat the crap out of me if it really wants to. I believe it.

  “What are we going to do?” Alex wants to know. Okay, time for me to mother up.

  “Well, we have to keep going, right?” I try to sound brave, I really do, but that waver just won’t leave my voice, and the expression on my daughter’s face turns from curiosity to fear.

  “Okay, just stay between LRiz and me,” I direct her. “Let’s all move together. Alex, you stay in the middle, and we’ll casually walk past it. The worst it can do is peck at our boots, right?” I plaster a fake smile on my face, gather my courage, and take one step forward.

  The grouse reacts instantly. Screaming in outrage, it quick-steps directly toward my leading foot.

  I let out a small shriek and hurriedly retreat, running into Alex and pushing her against LRiz.

  The grouse halts its charge and goes back to its former pacing, remaining much too close to my foot. Its red eye gleams with triumph.

  LRiz takes a deep breath and does the bravest thing I can imagine under the circumstances. She volunteers to go first. I ask her if she’s sure, and, after taking the proverbial gulp, she answers in the affirmative. Then, with a look of admirable determination, she steps boldly along the path toward the grouse.

  Again, the grouse reacts instantly. This time, however, instead of striding toward an advancing boot, it leaps off the ground and makes a flying dash toward LRiz’s chest. LRiz lets out a high-pitched cry of surprise, then manages to dodge the grouse and flee down the trail. The grouse rounds and attempts another attack, this time at LRiz’s back. I follow close behind, shouting in a desperate attempt to distract the flying menace, keeping Alex close behind me all the while. Finally, the grouse drops back down to the ground and stalks away into the neighboring brush, looking highly satisfied.

  Alex and I catch up to LRiz, and I ask if she’s all right. I’m convinced there will be blood and peck marks all over her, but miraculously, she is fine. There are no holes in her pack or clothing, and she claims she didn’t feel any contact. Apparently, it was all one big noisy bluff. I thank her profusely for taking the hit, and I apologize for not having the courage to go first myself. She’s a very good sport about it.

  Not five minutes later, we hear footsteps coming from behind. It’s MadRiver.

  “Did you see the grouse?” I ask, thinking he must have, since it so recently bullied us.

  “No,” he answers, with a twinkle in his eye. “But I know you ladies did, ’cause I heard the screams.”

  It’s now an easy mile or so to where we will later spend the night. The only difficulty between here and the shelter is a twenty-foot-wide brook. The water is not so high as to present a danger, but it’s a slight challenge to cross nonetheless. I am able to guide Alex to the other side by leading her across the tallest rocks. Her boots get wet, but her feet do not. No big deal.

  This time around, anyway.

  We take a quick break at the three-sided wooden structure that will later serve as our sleeping quarters. MadRiver stashes half the contents of his pack in one of the corners and unrolls a mat diagonally across the floor. Our informal reservations now made, we pull the straps of our packs back over our shoulders and stand, ready to continue onward. My back does not want to straighten all the way and the muscles on either side of my spine spasm sharply. I briefly consider taking out half my gear and leaving it alongside MadRiver’s belongings in the corner. I let the thought pass, however, as I don’t want to risk not having something I might need. What if I fall and break my leg a mile from the shelter? What if the temperatures drop unexpectedly? What if we are forced to spend the night near the summit for some unforeseeable reason? The weight of the what-ifs is much heavier than the weight of my pack. Better to keep the tent and sleeping bags with me, for I’d much rather deal with the backache than the constant worry.

  Two more miles behind us. That’s almost six since we left the car. The summit is now a mile and a half away. Of course, after we tag it, we’ll have to turn around and hike all the way back down to the shelter. My legs ache, and I feel an intense urge to whine. Alex’s legs must be about to fall off; I don’t know how she manages to keep going. I stare at her back as she tromps up the trail ahead of me. Her body looks strong; she looks capable. She has to be tired, though. Perhaps I should call for a break. We do, after all, have headlamps with us. Is it really necessary to make it back to the shelter before nightfall?

  Rummmble. The distant sound wipes the musings from my mind, and my daughter comes to a sudden halt. MadRiver and LRiz stop moving as well, and for a moment I hear nothing but my own heavy panting.

  RUMMMBLE. I take a step toward Alex, and she turns to me wide eyed, her lips tightly pressed together. Yes, I tell her with my gaze, that is what you think it is. Her complexion fades to a spectral shade of alabaster.

  The air around us suddenly changes. A cold wind pushes away the summer’s heat and forces its way around us. Shivering, I look up and watch the last of the blue fade from the angry sky.

  MadRiver drops his pack and tears open the top compartment. A few seconds later, a large plastic tarp and a few bungee cords lie at my feet. “It won’t help if there’s lightning, but at least we’ll stay dry,” he mutters as his eyes survey the neighboring trees.

  The wind picks up. The rain is coming soon, so we have to hurry. LRiz and I help MadRiver attach the bungee cords to the sides of the plastic. We then stretch the material over our heads and fasten the other ends of the cords to trees. The result is a roof just large enough to shelter the four of us and our packs. We huddle together and wait for the inevitable downpour.

  BOOM!

  The rain arrives all at once. The heavy drops bounce off our plastic roof and splatter onto the dirt below.

  LRiz asks Alex how she’s doing. Alex answers, “Fine.” Her voice is faint and unconvincing.

  Thankfully, the storm moves away as quickly as it came, departing only five minutes after its arrival. Grateful for the lack of hailstones and the presence of two other adults, I help MadRiver fold the tarp and retrieve his bungees. Alex stands off to the side, looking relieved and a little surprised. I ask her what she’s thinking. She tells me that this thunderstorm wasn’t very scary.

  “Not all of them are like the one on Mount Tom,” I tell her.

  “Good to know,” she replies.

  Just one more mile stands between us and the summit. One long, miserable mile. The recent brief but heavy downpour has turned this trail into a fast-running stream, and I slosh through ankle-high water as I unhappily push myself toward the top of this blasted mountain. The water is calf-high to Alex. My daughter valiantly splashes onward, a little bundle of can-do attitude in the midst of three tired and cranky adults.

  LRiz suddenly bids adieu and picks up her pace. It’s time for her to move at her natural speed, which is light-years faster than ours. She wants to get back to her car before nightfall. I envy her. She’ll p
robably be warm and dry in her home before we’ve made it back down to the shelter. I watch as she quickly disappears up the trail.

  An outrageously short amount of time later, LRiz reappears. She’s touched the summit cairn already! “It’s beautiful up there!” she yells as she flies by. The three of us stare after her for a second, then turn our weary bodies to resume our slow trudge.

  Maybe it is actually beautiful up here. I’ve no idea. I don’t think Alex does, either. We’re at the top, and the skies are mostly clear, and we can see out and down into the valley. There’s even a rainbow arching over half the landscape. I suppose if we weren’t completely worn out, we would think of all this as pretty. I look at Alex, sitting by the cairn and staring dully into the distance. My daughter has not complained once on this hike, but she must be tired. I’m tired. I’m more than tired. I’m ready to forgo the shelter and curl up right next to the pile of rocks at my feet.

  “Hey, Alex,” I say.

  “What?” she answers. Ah, there it is—the fatigue is evident in her voice. She sounds exhausted. No problem. I have our tent, I have our sleeping bags. If she can’t make it to the shelter, then we’ll just sleep close to here.

  “How’d you like that grouse?”

  Alex pauses briefly before giving her answer. “I didn’t.”

  “What about the thunder?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about the rain? Did you like the rain?”

  A hint of a smile plays at the left corner of her mouth.

  “Uh, no.”

  “How about that river-trail we sloshed through? You must have loved that.”

  Some of the twinkle comes back into my daughter’s eyes. “Still no,” she answers.

  “Now for a serious question. Are you too tired to make it back to the shelter? We can sleep near here if you like. That’s not a problem.”

  Alex turns her face away from mine and gazes back out at the landscape. The rainbow has brightened a bit. Its red stripe is particularly bold, and it overshadows the rest of the spectrum.

  “I’m okay,” Alex says after a few minutes.

  MadRiver calls to us from a dozen yards away. He is ready to head down. Alex and I struggle to our feet and follow him.

  We make it to the shelter a few hours later, feet soaked, legs aching, and stomachs rumbling. MadRiver cooks some stew on his portable stove while I put fresh clothes on Alex. Soon after eating, Alex crawls into her sleeping bag and falls silent. She doesn’t move for eleven straight hours.

  The morning is bright, our socks are dry, and our attitudes are cheery. We leave the shelter in fine spirits after a peaceful night’s sleep and immediately encounter an unrecognizable river.

  We did, of course, cross this water yesterday. Then, however, it resembled a brook. Now it looks like a crazy rush of water flying over a multitude of submerged rocks with alarming speed. None of the stepping stones Alex previously used are visible. MadRiver and I look at each other with concern, and I am grateful I have enough food to sustain us for another day. If we can’t safely cross, then we’ll have to hole up for another night at the shelter.

  One can’t step casually through such water. It can, if you’re not extremely careful, knock you off your feet and slam your head into a dozen rocks as it carries you down the mountain. My eyes scan the surface as I weigh the risks. Should we just hang out at the shelter for a few more hours and see if the water level diminishes throughout the day?

  I notice MadRiver unbuckling his pack and I give him a curious look. He nods at me before taking a careful step into the water. He’s going to give it a try. The unfastened buckles are a precaution. If the water knocks him off balance, he will attempt to ditch his pack before it snags on something and forces his head underwater.

  MadRiver moves slowly and carefully, using his hiking poles for support and balance. There are a few places where the water rises above his thighs, but, for the most part, it’s only knee deep. He reaches the other side without incident, then turns and looks at me.

  I take Alex’s pack from her, then tell her to sit down and wait for me to return. My strategy: get my backpack and Alex’s backpack across, then return for Alex. This will give me a chance to experiment with my footing and look for the easiest places for Alex to step. I am not allowed to carry her, as that would disqualify her for the Four Thousand Footer Club. She has to hike every step on her own two feet. Alex will walk across if I think it safe for her to do so.

  I unbuckle my straps, sling Alex’s pack over my wrist, and step into the cold water.

  The force of the moving water is surprising. Even though I’m only up to my ankles and standing immediately next to dry land, my feet are roughly shoved by the current. In go my hiking poles. I anchor them between stones and start to shuffle my feet, taking small steps to better secure my balance.

  I’m halfway across when I come to a depression in the bottom of the brook. My next step submerges me up to my thighs, and I must move extremely slowly so that I don’t lose my balance. The depression is only a few feet wide, but it presents a danger for Alex. Water up to my thighs means water up to Alex’s chest, and this water is extremely cold and moving fast.

  When I reach MadRiver, I turn and wave at Alex, who smiles and patiently waves back.

  “I’m going to need your help,” I say.

  “Sure. What can I do?”

  I ask if he’ll meet me halfway with Alex and spot us as we go through the deeper part of the water. He agrees, and we carefully wade through the rushing brook until we reach the middle. He anchors his poles between rocks and grips the handles tightly as I return to Alex.

  I explain to her that the water is very cold, and that she will feel as though her legs are being strongly pushed. I tell her that in order to keep her balance, she must move very slowly, and she must bring her feet through the water instead of trying to bring each foot up and over with every step. I also tell her that I will keep a firm hand on her at all times. She nods, then looks at MadRiver standing in the middle of the brook.

  “He’s going to help us across a deeper part of the stream. When we get close to where he is, you must listen to me and do exactly what I tell you without question.”

  Alex agrees.

  “One more thing. Always respect the water. It can knock you down and carry you away if you become too quick or too careless. Respect the situation we’re in.”

  “Got it,” she says. I grip her upper arm, and we start to cross.

  I feel wonderful without my backpack and certain of where to step since I’ve just crossed the brook twice. Alex is nervous at first; I can feel her arm shaking within my fingers as she takes her first few steps. Her breath comes quickly, loudly.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she breathes as her eyes dart here and there.

  “Just keep your feet in the water and take slow, small steps. I won’t let you go.”

  “Promise?” she asks. I can feel the hairs of her arm standing up; they tickle the sides of my gripping fingers.

  “Promise.” My hold on her is unyielding. We inch our way toward MadRiver, who patiently waits on the other side of the gap, his hands gripping the two poles that are anchored in the rocks around him.

  “What if I fall?” she asks.

  “Then I fall with you,” I answer. “So don’t fall.”

  We reach the depression in a few careful minutes. The water has not yet touched the bottom of Alex’s shorts, though her knees are now fully submerged.

  MadRiver stands three feet away. I look at him and raise my eyebrows. He gives a small nod, then stretches out his hand, ready to assist.

  “Alex, this is the part that’s too deep for you.” The rushing water competes with my voice and I must raise my tone in order to be heard. “Between here and where MadRiver is standing, the water goes up to your chest.” Alex’s eyes grow wide.

  “I want you to stay here while I step down.”

  Alex looks worried, but says nothing.

  K
eeping my hold on Alex, I step down and feel the frigid water touch the bottom of my hiking shorts.

  “When I tell you to, I want you to jump toward MadRiver. I will have your arm and I will not let it go until MadRiver has you.”

  Bracing myself, I nod to MadRiver, then tell Alex to go for it.

  She immediately jumps. There is a split second between my letting go and MadRiver’s catching her—but then he’s got her, and she’s safe in his arms. He guides her body toward a sturdy rock and places her back in the water. The two then wade hand in hand toward the other side of the crossing while my heart vacates my throat and descends to its proper place.

  Wet feet, wet boots, wet knees. At least it’s all downhill hiking from here. The three of us chat amicably, then Alex and I go ahead of MadRiver while he takes a break to answer the call of nature.

  There’s something I’m supposed to be remembering; there’s something that’s at the back of my mind that I can’t quite bring to the forefront. No matter, I tell myself. Whatever it is, it can wait until we’re happily back at the car.

  And then that infernal grouse steps out directly in front of my left foot.

  Ah yes. That’s what I was supposed to remember.

  I place my hiking pole between me and it, and I tell Alex to stay back. Curiously, I am not frightened. MadRiver is several tenths of a mile away, and LRiz is no longer around to sacrifice. It’s just me, Alex, and this bugger of a little bird, who is actually trying to get around me to peck at my daughter! There is no room for fear, for I am alone with a kid to protect.

  The grouse keeps bird-stepping toward Alex, who stays behind me while the bird and I circle each other. Finally, the three of us rotate so far that Alex and I end up standing on the side of the path closest to our car, while the bird stands between us and the trail we’ve just traveled. My daughter and I retreat from the bird slowly, stepping backward, not showing it our backs. The grouse’s fussing grows louder as we increase the distance between us and it. When the bird is convinced of its apparent success, it turns and triumphantly shuffles back into the woods.