by Sonja Yoerg
“Tell you what,” she said to Brensen. “Dante’s about to have a cold bath in a saucepan. You’re more than welcome to join him.”
• • •
The next morning, as soon as she judged it light enough, Liz crept out of the tent, leaving Dante dead to the world. Their body heat had warmed the interior; leaving it was like walking into a freezer. She pulled her fleece hat from the pocket of her down jacket and slipped it on, tugging it over her ears.
She poured water from a Nalgene bottle into the pot—the only one—and lit the stove. The quarter-sized circle of blue flame hissed, and she smiled. Morning in the mountains. She climbed a nearby granite shelf to get a better view, her thighs complaining about yesterday’s hike.
No questioning how Sunrise Camp got its name. The meadow stretched two miles in front of her, cast in near darkness, but the sun had found the Cathedral Peaks, painting them a warm orange, a promise for the coming day. The air was completely still, her breath in her ears the only sound. It was morning distilled, the sun rising on a quiet world, a mute witness. To Liz, it was both the oldest miraculous event, and the newest. This one belonged to her, and she to it.
She swallowed hard and shivered. Hugging herself, she descended to the campsite. The water would be ready. Coffee beckoned.
While Dante slept on, she prepared for the day. She retrieved the bear cans from where they had stashed them last night. The cans were large bear-proof plastic cylinders in which the Park Service required they store all their food, toiletries and trash. Liz and Dante each carried one, which, with careful planning, could hold food for ten days. Although, as Dante pointed out, not the food you really wanted and not enough of the other kind either.
Numb with cold, her fingers fumbled with the catches on the lids, so she used a spoon handle to open the cans. She rehydrated milk for granola and set aside the food they’d eat during the day (energy bars, trail mix, wax-wrapped cheese and dense bread) so the bear cans could stay inside the packs. After she drank her fill of water, she went to the standpipe and refilled the bottles. Brensen’s pack rested against a tree. Next to it lay a gigantic larvae—Brensen in his bag. Only the top of his hat showed. He’d been too pissed off to bother with his tent, a fine decision as long as it didn’t rain.
She returned to their site, stuffed her sleeping bag into its sack and deflated her air mattress. As she worked, the line dividing dark from light marched across the meadow. She looked at her watch. Seven thirty. Time to wake Sleeping Beauty.
Dante had never been a morning person, and he certainly wasn’t going to be a convert this morning. The sleeping bag was warm, he mumbled from inside, and his legs and shoulders felt as if he’d been pummeled by a prizefighter during the night.
“Wasn’t me,” she said, cheerfully. She reminded him that today was mostly downhill.
“As in ‘it’s downhill from here’?”
She bit her tongue to stop herself from reminding him he had asked to come, that it had been his idea. It was too early in the trip, and too early on a pristine morning to go down that road. Instead, she began disassembling the tent around him. He held out while she removed and folded the fly, but when she slid the pole out and the tent collapsed on him, Dante relented. Once he was up, the cold accelerated his preparations and within twenty minutes, they were on their way.
The trail took them past Brensen, firmly lodged in his cocoon. Liz commented it was a shame his face wasn’t visible so they could take a photo and send it to the tabloids when they got to Tuolumne Meadows.
Dante twitched with excitement. “There’s reception there?”
“So they say.”
“Bueno!”
“And a store with lots of food.”
“Really?”
“And beer.”
“Beer!”
“And campsites with plasma screen TVs, Dolby sound and reclining chairs with cup holders.”
His footsteps stopped. “Really?”
Liz turned, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. “No.”
“But you weren’t joking about the beer, right? Because there’s nothing funny about that.”
• • •
The prospect of evening refreshments buoyed Dante’s mood for several hours, right up until the moment he was splashing water on his face and slipped into Cathedral Lake. He was soaked from the knees down. All he could do was change his socks and march on. The moisture would worsen his blisters, but at least the terrain over the remaining five miles to Tuolumne Meadows was relatively flat.
They knew they were close when they passed three dozen Korean tourists wearing sneakers and Vans instead of boots. Signs pointed them to the campground, an enormous maze of sites, most of which were occupied. And not simply occupied but fully inhabited. TVs glowed through the windows of RVs bigger than school buses. Generators hummed. People in tidy clothing watched them pass from screened-in picnic tables and lounge chairs. Liz felt like a refugee carrying all her worldly possessions through a city that had never known war.
She couldn’t understand the attraction of parking a rolling house in a national park. For her, the section of the John Muir Trail from Yosemite Valley to Tuolumne Meadows was a gauntlet to run. Sure, the scenery was beautiful, but she resented having to suffer crowds to enjoy it. They would be turning south tomorrow, toward the wilder reaches of the trail. It could not happen soon enough.
In an ocean of RVs, the backpackers’ campground had a throwback feel, but with the amenities of a picnic table, a fire ring, a bear locker and access to a store, running water and real toilets, it was barely camping. Dante was delighted. He dropped his pack at the first open site, changed his shoes, asked her what she wanted from the store and took off.
Liz did some reconnaissance to find a quieter site. Not far from the entrance she passed a yellow tent. No one was around. On the picnic table were two blue backpacks she recognized as belonging to the brothers they’d met yesterday. She headed in the opposite direction and selected a site with a measure of privacy. She tore a page from a small notebook, drew an arrow on it and returned to Dante’s pack, where she wedged it under a strap. Returning to the site, she began to make camp.
A half hour later, Dante showed up with his arms loaded. He grinned and said, “Guess who I saw at the store?”
“Another celebrity?”
“No, those guys from yesterday. Remember?”
“How could I forget? They were pretty weird.”
“I don’t understand why you say that. Payton and Rodell were extremely friendly.”
“You’re kidding me, right? About the names?”
“No. Payton and Rodell Root. From Arcata, wherever that is.”
“Northern California. Way, way north.”
“Maybe it’s a regional thing. Anyway, they didn’t name themselves.”
“I guess not.”
“They met some guys having a bocce game later. They invited us.”
“Later? When later?” She checked her watch. Nearly six already.
“Eight or so.”
“Eight or so, I’m asleep. We have to leave early tomorrow. Aren’t you tired?” Stupid question, really. If there was a social activity, he was game. Always.
“No! My feet hurt, but I’m good.” He unpacked his haul: beer, cold cuts, bread, chocolate and ibuprofen. Dante’s food pyramid.
“Dante, I’m serious about leaving early.”
He frowned. “What’s the rush? I love it here.” He held up his phone. “I’ve got three bars!”
“You know what the rush is. We have to make it to Muir Trail Ranch, the halfway point, before they close for the season. Otherwise, we have no food for the last nine days. If we don’t walk an average of fourteen miles a day, we won’t make it. You know all this.”
“Okay, but I also know this is supposed to be a vacation. And so far it doesn
’t feel that way.”
“It is a vacation. A strenuous one.”
“That’s a . . . what do you call it? An oxymormon.”
“That’s a detergent popular in Utah. I believe you mean ‘oxymoron.’”
“Yes, a moron. Because only a moron would design such a vacation!”
She leaned toward him and met his gaze. “Is this you giving this your best shot? Because I’m distinctly underwhelmed. I didn’t come here to play bocce. I didn’t come here to drink beer, although I’ll be having one in a minute. And, to be completely frank with you, I didn’t come here to be your cheerleader, your butler or your mother.” She stood. “Do what you want. I’m leaving at seven thirty tomorrow.” She grabbed a beer and walked away.
She went to bed alone. As exhausted as she was, she didn’t fall asleep for a long time. Someone setting up camp in a neighboring site repeatedly shone their flashlights on her tent. Then they spent ages talking loudly on their phones. Several times she thought about getting up and confronting them, but the freezing temperature kept her inside. Besides, she’d had enough confrontation for one day.
Dante woke her when he unzipped the tent and wriggled into his sleeping bag. He didn’t say anything, nor did she. She checked her watch—it was one fifteen—but she was past caring.
She awoke at dawn and crawled over Dante to get out. He was a champion sleeper. He fell asleep the second he closed his eyes and slept through earthquakes, parties, fireworks, thunderstorms and, most impressively, the frantic high-pitched barking of their neighbor’s dog. Usually she thought it indicated he had a clear conscience. Today she thought it indicated he was lazy.
When she retrieved the cans from the bear locker and placed them on the table, she saw Dante had left out his socks—the relatively dry ones. They had absorbed the dew and were primed to maximize blister potential. She shook her head and gathered what she needed to make coffee. Not long afterward, Dante surprised her by emerging from the tent of his own volition. He was no beacon of joy, but at least she didn’t have to collapse the tent on him.
They left the campground and picked up the trail at the bottom of a gentle slope, Liz in the lead and Dante trailing behind. At the bridge spanning the Lyell Fork of the Tuolumne River, an older couple was poring over a map and sharing an apple. They exchanged greetings but Liz didn’t stop to chat. She was chilled and wanted to keep moving. Today they were finally going to leave the developed part of Yosemite, and she was eager.
“You don’t have to walk so fast,” Dante called after her.
She slowed a little. “I’m not walking fast. I’m just not hungover.”
He caught up to her with a hobbling step. “I’m not hungover either. I’m disabled.”
“Wet socks plus new boots equals unhappy feet. Isn’t the moleskin helping?”
“I didn’t have time to put it on. You were in such a hurry.”
She whipped around and stared at him. “So it’s my fault? Dante, how have you survived thirty-two years?”
“By driving when I need to go ten miles, and occasionally taking public transportation.”
She picked up her pace. “If you have reception, try calling a cab.”
Complaining, Liz believed, was a matter of opportunity and practice, and Dante had had plenty of both. As the youngest of four children, and the only boy, he was routinely indulged. Had he contained an ounce of malice, he would have become a despot. His sweet nature and abundant charm guaranteed that when he did grouse about the fundamental unfairness of life, he would be forgiven. Because he was an optimist, he did not complain routinely. That, and because he never had it that bad.
Liz was the only child of an egocentric mother and an absentee father, and had lacked an audience for her grievances. Her practical nature also made her disinclined to complain. A problem could either be fixed (usually by her) or it couldn’t, and confusing the two was a waste of time. She instead directed her efforts at improving what she could—hence her job providing limbs for people who needed them—rather than railing at an obviously flawed universe. Find a problem that matters, fix it and shut the hell up about the rest. Growing up, she kept her own counsel, eschewing the gossip and social maneuvering that drove other girls’ relationships, and had few friends because of it. She never intended to be awkward, or to hide. It was simply who she was and how she was raised.
Eventually, as her world widened, her habit of not expressing her hopes, disappointments and desires tripped her up. Because a lie or, more accurately, the absence of truth, was akin to grit in an oyster. Once it had been covered with a silky crystalline coating, again and again, it didn’t feel the same. No one could see it—it’s not as though someone could pry her open—and the currents of time kept moving past her. But Liz could feel pearls of the lies and subverted desires inside her, lodged in her soul. They presented a problem she didn’t know how to fix.
CHAPTER THREE
The trail up Lyell Canyon required little concentration. The base of the canyon was broad and flat, with golden meadows on either side of a winding river. The trail didn’t do anything fancy, starting on the west side of the riverbank and continuing along for nine miles. After that, the map told her, the river narrowed to a rushing creek, and the trail climbed steeply to Donahue Pass. But for now, it was either easy going or monotonous, depending on how one looked at it. River on the left, forest on the right, and Potter Point and Amelia Earhart Peak dead ahead. The sky was clear, and the warming sun lifted the dew off the grass. A walk in the park.
Which was why Dante’s silence worried her.
He was thinking hard about something, something serious enough to overwhelm his usual compulsion to talk. Normally she would welcome the quiet, content with the company of her own thoughts. But now her only thoughts were what Dante was contemplating as he took one step after another behind her. There was no point in asking him before he was ready, only a matter of how far up the canyon they would travel before he let her in.
It turned out to be six miles. She told him she was ready for a snack. She left the trail and set her pack down a few feet from the river’s edge. He joined her and accepted the energy bar she offered. As she unwrapped hers, she scanned the water for trout. Within a few seconds, she spied a fish whose wriggling disrupted its camouflage against the mottled olive green riverbed. It darted under the shadow of rock and vanished.
“Liz,” Dante said from behind her. “I think I made a mistake.” She turned. His eyes were dark and a knot had formed between his eyebrows. “I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed home.”
“The blisters are bad, huh?” she said, knowing blisters weren’t the issue.
“Yes, but that’s not it.”
Her stomach twisted. All the frustration she had been swallowing over the last three days rose to the back of her throat, acrid. “It’s hard! This hike is really hard. I tried to be realistic with you about it. I warned you.” The chastising tone of her voice made her wince. She coiled the wrapper of the energy bar around her finger, unfurled it and coiled it again.
“You’re not understanding me. I didn’t come because I was sure I could do it, and I’m not thinking about leaving because I can’t.”
She bit her lower lip. It wasn’t about the hike. Of course not. She just wanted it to be. “Why did you want to come then?”
He picked up her hand and held it between his. “Because I thought I would lose you if I didn’t.” His voice dropped. “I thought you knew that.”
She did. She didn’t.
She wasn’t certain what she knew. She was angry with him, but was that fair? He’d acted out of desperation, fueled by fear and love. Why else would he have insisted on coming? It was so obvious she almost laughed at the audacity of her stubborn denial.
He squeezed her hand. “Say something. Please.”
This was the moment in which she should explain everything. Valerie’s v
oice spoke in her head, telling her not to be such a pussy and spit it out. Liz could tell him about the pregnancy and how confused and scared she had been, and how sharing the news with him (clearly the right thing to do in retrospect) had been impossible because she was certain he’d want to have the baby. He was Catholic and had a moral streak as wide as Lyell Canyon. She, on the other hand, maintained she had nothing against religion but was holding out for one that revered the periodic table. Unfortunately, as much as humor helped her cope with the mistakes she’d made, it appeared useless in preventing them. If only she could graft a simplifying moral structure into her brain using the technology she designed for artificial limbs.
Telling Dante she’d been pregnant would lead to confessing to the abortion. During her interior rehearsals, this was where she forgot her lines. That confession, however worded, would inevitably lead to owning up to her ambivalence about living with him. Except for fleeting moments when she forgot her own painful history and she was simply happy, she hadn’t found level footing, the graceful certainty she’d done the right thing by moving in.
If she somehow managed to admit to the abortion (highly unlikely), and if Dante was still listening (inconceivable), she would have no choice but to explain why her actions had nothing to do with him. He would be relieved, and possibly encouraged, because it meant they’d have a chance after all—assuming he suffered an episode of amnesia regarding the abortion. But his relief would be misguided. And to explain why, she would have to voice something she had never told anyone, not even Valerie. When he heard that story, he would leave and never come back.
Which, from the look of things, might happen anyway.
She took her hand away on the pretense of pushing her bangs from her eyes.
“I wanted to do this hike alone. I wasn’t leaving you.”
He shook his head. “But you’ve been distant for a while. Like you’re making plans without me.”
“I was. I was planning this trip. And then you started having an issue with it.”
