by Sonja Yoerg
“Okay, thanks.”
“What do you think they want from you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. We’ll avoid them, okay?”
“We can try.”
As they resumed hiking, she wondered if it would prove possible to avoid the Roots; it certainly hadn’t been thus far. The Sierras encompassed a vast area, but in certain ways, not vast enough. For the rest of the trip, it would be harder to avoid other hikers. The passes were about a day’s walk apart. Most hikers preferred to cross them in the morning, when their legs were strong, which meant camping on the north side of the passes. To shake the Roots, they would have to go over two passes in a single day, and not get caught in an afternoon storm on the second pass. Some hikers managed this, even covering the entire two hundred twenty miles in a week or less, but it was too difficult for most, including her and Dante.
Today’s hike was a case in point. Mather Pass (the highest yet at twelve thousand one hundred feet) was fourteen and a half miles away. The map showed a massive basin on the far side. After the pass, a hiker might have to continue for a few more miles to find a protected site. But, a mile or two shy of this side of the pass were the Palisade Lakes, tucked into a partially forested canyon with ample shelter. She expected to see familiar (if not welcome) faces there.
In an hour they reached Grouse Meadows, where the river spread wide and smooth. Mist clung to the tall grasses, waiting for the sun to gain strength and unravel it into the sky. Here the abundance of water had helped the wildflowers stretch their summer into fall. Periwinkle blue lupine, red Indian paintbrush and creamy yarrow bordered the trail. Liz pointed out a mariposa lily, a delicate tulip-shaped blossom on a slender stalk, the inside of its three white petals touched at their base with a dab of maroon. As they returned their attention to the trail, a deer crossed not fifteen feet in front of them, unhurried.
Liz caught Dante’s eye and smiled. If only they could be alone this way for the whole trip, sharing these simple, exquisite moments. She considered suggesting they follow a different route, forget the JMT and leave the Roots (and Brensen and the McCartneys) to wonder where they’d gone. But in her heart she held out hope they could finish the trek as planned, and experience it on their terms. They’d just keep their distance from the brothers as much as they could.
At the next trail junction, they turned east into the Palisade Creek valley. The trail climbed more steeply, and soon they left the pine forest behind and emerged onto a rocky slope. Quaking aspen bordered the creek and spread as high up the mountainsides as they dared. It was the largest stand of aspen they’d seen—a field of green and gold trembling in the morning breeze. Out in the open, the sun roasted them. Sweat broke out on their backs and foreheads. They climbed ever higher, and the temperature moved into the low eighties. By early afternoon they arrived at the base of the Golden Staircase, the last section of the JMT to be built.
“I’m guessing they didn’t save the easiest for last,” Dante said, craning to make out the route.
“Fifteen hundred feet, straight up.” The cragged wall rose before her like a medieval skyscraper. Stare as she might, she couldn’t make out the trail.
They rested frequently to drink in gasping gulps and take in the view. Palisade Creek, from this perspective a strip of dark green, took the direct route to the valley from which rose the Black Divide. Instead of the typical silver granite, these peaks were carved of charcoal and ebony, accentuating their contrast with the sky they thrust upward to meet.
The mostly dry and rocky trail was interrupted by rivulets flowing from unseen waters above, creating patches where grasses and wildflowers took hold—miniature oases amidst rock slabs and talus chunks. Halfway up, the switchbacks began. Liz took off her pack and Dante followed suit. He pointed downslope.
“Two people coming up. Paul and Linda?”
“I think so. Boy, they’ve made up some time on us.”
“Good thing they’re not the ones we’re trying to avoid. They’re rabbits.”
She thought, not for the first time today, that Payton and Rodell were fast hikers as well, having arrived at Le Conte Canyon before anyone. Then she realized they may not even have slept at Muir Ranch. While everyone assumed the Roots were headed for a doctor, they could have been en route to Evolution Valley. As for today, they might be behind or ahead, and it worried her not to know which.
They admired the view for a few minutes more, and continued upward, crossing the headwall from one side to the other like a shoelace being guided through a tall boot. Looking toward the top, Liz could discern perhaps two switchbacks above her, but beyond them the scramble of rocks yielded no clues.
Dante paused at a corner, a sheer wall forty feet high looming behind him. “How much farther do you think?”
She stared downhill. “Maybe another third?” Paul was taking a photograph several switchbacks below. Linda was beside him. She tipped her head back, drinking deeply from an orange Nalgene.
A scraping sound came from above. Liz, in the center of a switchback, oriented to it, searching for movement. A boulder the size of a basketball tumbled over a ledge some thirty feet up, and bounced with a crash, sending smaller rocks cascading toward her. She scurried backward as the boulder flew by, missing her by a foot before hitting below the trail and dislodging more rocks.
“Look out!” she shouted.
The boulder headed straight for Paul and Linda. Paul, eyes huge, jumped back. Linda did the same, but her backpack was propped against a rock behind her. As she threw herself backward, her heel hit the pack and she fell onto it, legs in the air. The boulder careened off a ledge above her, and grazed her leg. She screamed. The boulder plunged out of sight, but the crush of rock upon rock echoed up to them.
Dante, plastered against the wall, stared at Liz in shock.
She quickly undid her pack and threw it to the ground. “I’m going down.”
Without a pack and traveling downhill, she flew. In two minutes she was there. Paul bent over his wife’s leg. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, and she bit her lip to stop from sobbing. Her calf was covered in blood, oozing from a four-inch gash. The skin on either side was deeply abraded.
“How bad is it?” Liz asked. Dante appeared at her side and placed a hand on the small of her back.
“It’s not out of alignment and when I pushed on her heel, she didn’t scream, so I doubt it’s broken.” He turned, nodding at the pack behind her. “In my pack, on the left hand side, there’s a medical kit.”
She opened the pack, pushed aside some clothing and found the Ziploc bag. A quick scan told her the contents were similar to hers: adhesive tape, antibiotic cream, alcohol wipes, gauze, ACE bandage.
Paul went on. “And on the other side is a bag with emergency stuff. I need the tent repair kit in there.”
“Paul,” Linda said, her voice shaking. “I’m not a goddamn tent.”
“The bleeding’s not going to stop until I stitch it. Just a few will do the trick.”
“Oh God,” said Dante, as he crossed himself. His cheeks were pale.
Paul poured water over his hands and swabbed them with an alcohol pad. “One more thing, Liz. There’s a silver bottle in my bear can. Tequila.”
“You guys have tequila?” Dante asked.
“A couple ounces each evening,” Paul said, threading the needle with the coarse thread. “Humped it all the way from Yosemite Valley.”
His wife said, “So is what you’re using for my leg your portion or mine?”
Paul laughed lightly. “That’s my girl.” He looked up at Liz. “Please hand me the antibiotic ointment and a couple of squares of gauze.” He held the wound open. It filled with blood. He dabbed it clean and squeezed a line of ointment inside.
Dante sat down and put his head between his knees.
Liz watched as Paul pierced
the skin with the needle. Linda cried out.
“Sorry, darling,” he said. “Only a couple more.” He pushed the needle through the other side and tied it off deftly. “Shit. Anyone have a knife? Mine’s in my pocket and I can’t let go.”
Liz reached hers across. “You’ve done this before, I take it.”
“Yes, but not on my wife. Nor a human being, come to think of it. But skin’s skin.”
Paul tied up the last stitch and blotted the wound gingerly with tequila, glancing at his wife as he did it. Her breath came in gasps as she bore down on the pain. “That’s it.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it hard. “My brave girl.”
Dante had yet to lift his head. “So very brave.”
Liz choked back tears, and wondered what brought them on: anxiety over the injury and switchback surgery, or the complete trust Linda had in Paul.
He wiped the needle on a clean edge of gauze and returned it to the bag, along with the thread. He gathered the bloody gauze and stood. A little unsteady, he looked around as if just realizing where they were. Liz fished an empty bag from her pocket. “Here, Paul, put those in here.”
He handed them over, and stared up the headwall. “We were bloody lucky. Can you imagine if that boulder had scored a direct hit?”
His wife sat up and examined the neat row of stitches in her leg. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
Dante followed Paul’s gaze. “How does a rock that size just come loose?”
“It was probably Brensen. The guy is such a klutz.”
“Or the Root brothers,” Liz said.
“You’ve seen them?” Linda said.
She nodded. “This morning.”
Paul’s face darkened. “Are they ahead of us?”
“They’re everywhere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Paul dressed Linda’s leg as best he could and gave her three ibuprofen. Liz and Dante offered to carry some of her belongings. At first Paul objected, but when Linda said they were in no position to refuse help on account of pride, he relented. They arranged to make camp near one another to facilitate returning Linda’s gear. And Liz suspected they all felt as she did: until they found out what, if anything, was causing all these mishaps, it wasn’t a bad idea to stick together.
At the top of the Golden Staircase, the terrain leveled out. The trail bent eastward along the base of the lofty peaks forming the Palisade Range, Disappointment Peak among them. Liz and the others crawled up and over a series of small rises, water crashing down a steep chute on their right. More than usual, she scanned the area ahead and above her. Her vigilant anxiety marred the beauty of the surroundings—the white noise of the river, the sweet smell of pine in the pure air, the unbroken sky of That Color—but she gave silent thanks that it appeared they would not have a storm to cope with that evening.
Lower Palisade Lake, like so many others she’d approached, came upon her all at once. The aquamarine surface stretched from her feet to a low saddle a half mile away, above which lay its twin: Upper Palisade Lake. Beyond it were the mountains containing Mather Pass, over twelve thousand feet. On her side of the lake, a slope comprised of ledges dotted with pines met the water gracefully. But the opposite side was a near vertical wall. Liz’s eyes followed its trajectory into the water. It was a deep, deep lake.
Dante had already abandoned his pack to search for a place to camp. She could tell Linda’s injury had shocked him, and he was undoubtedly eager to become absorbed in the duties of making camp, of creating shelter. She had the same impulse and wondered if this was the reason she felt energized once she’d pitched the tent each evening. Being on the move invited uncertainty. She never knew what was around the next corner, or over the next rise. She believed in her strength but could never be certain it would get her over these monumental passes. Walking multiplied the degrees of freedom, additional rolls of the dice that might engender a change of fate. A stream to cross (and perhaps fall in), a rock to misjudge (and perhaps twist an ankle), a willow grove to push through (and perhaps startle a bear). A set of switchbacks to climb (and perhaps succumb to falling rock).
Simply by stopping, the degrees of potentially dangerous freedom were reduced. When she lowered her pack to the ground at the end of the day, she knew where she would be for the next fifteen hours or so. Sure, the physical relief from throwing a thirty-pound monkey off her back was considerable, and certainly she looked forward to getting clean, eating and, finally, lying prone. But as she stood on the shore of Palisade Lake, she felt what she supposed was an ancient feeling: knowing she would not be wandering in the wilderness when night fell.
Dante waved to her from atop a ledge twenty feet above the lake, near its outlet. She joined him and he proudly showed her the site on the other side. Two flat areas for tents were separated by a stand of pines, the entire site nestled between the ledge and another wall of boulders.
“Good scouting, Tonto,” she said, then had to explain about The Lone Ranger.
After organizing the camp, they sat on the ledge where they could spot anyone coming along the trail. Liz took a handful of cashews and passed him the bag.
“What Paul did down there was pretty amazing,” she said. “The tent repair kit!”
“No kidding. He reminds me a lot of you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Very focused and calm. Resourceful. Injurious.”
“Injurious? The boulder was injurious. Do you mean ‘ingenious’?”
“Yes, my little genius.”
“Does that mean I’m free to perform surgery on you if necessary?”
“Absolutely.” He turned to her, suddenly serious. “I trust you.”
Her chest tightened. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but couldn’t form the words.
He answered her anyway. “I trust you, carina. Absolutely.”
She moved closer to him. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the majestic landscape before them, in a silence as deep as the lake.
The moment would have been perfect, but for the secrets she yet held from him. She wanted to believe if he could push aside one misstep, he could push aside others—he loved her that much. But an affair during an unhappy marriage, while serious, was much more forgivable than getting pregnant, not telling the father (with whom you lived), and doing away with the child—his child. And Dante had said he always wanted a family. Of course this made her all the more reluctant to tell him. He would, she was sure, have wanted the child. And they would have had to get married. Right away. Liz, who had barely come to terms with her decision to move in with him, could not contemplate, much less embrace, this chain of events. Dante’s reaction to her confession concerning Gabriel was more accepting than she expected. Had she known that, had she trusted him enough to tell him before she had gotten pregnant, she might have been able to be honest with him about it at the time. They might have had a conversation, or several conversations. They might never have agreed about starting a family, and she might have chosen to have an abortion anyway, but at least they would have walked through it and considered their options. Together.
But that wasn’t how it happened and nothing could change it, or the fact that, as a devout Catholic, Dante would take particular exception to the way she had handled her pregnancy, and its termination.
She was tempted, now, to keep the secret. He loved her, she loved him. She’d opened up to him about her failed marriage, about her guilt in precipitating Gabriel’s death. He hadn’t been overjoyed by the news but neither had he rejected her. If she said nothing more, they had a chance to be happy together.
But as soon as the thought ran through her mind she saw it for the deceit it was. Dante may never know, but she would. The lie would be with her, a pebble in her shoe, every step of the way.
If Dante excommunicated her (as she fully expected), she would be alone. Not as in alone-for-a-decent-period, bu
t alone. Until she turned twenty, she’d never pictured herself married. Gabriel had altered that, but after he died she’d reset her expectations to the default position. Now she was living with Dante, a tribute to his charm and persistence. But he would soon pay for his efforts, and she was sorry. It was for the best. Her mother had chosen to live alone, and had raised her without guidance of how to live otherwise. Liz didn’t fear the prospect of a lifetime without a mate, but it did make her sad. The moments when she felt she belonged to someone—to Dante—were magical. What a shame she was incapable of making them last.
The only thing Liz would never do was set out to raise a child alone. She wasn’t her mother.
Linda and Paul arrived a half hour later. Dante showed Paul the campsite while Liz helped Linda clean up at the lake. Her wound was encrusted with blood, but wasn’t worse otherwise. Liz rinsed out the bloody sock while Linda splashed water onto her face.
“I wish I could dive in,” the older woman said. “I don’t deal well with the heat.”
“Seems to me you’re dealing incredibly well with everything. You’re so strong.”
“Not really. I’m just incredibly stubborn.”
The women regarded each other. Linda’s curly hair, which had been under a cap all day, was matted to her head. Her face was ruddy from the sun and cold water, and her eyes betrayed a shadow of the pain she’d suffered that day.
She smiled crookedly at Liz, who returned the smile and said, “Enjoying your holiday?”
They burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. It was all so ridiculous, putting themselves through this. And yet neither of them was sorry to be there—Liz could see it written all over her friend’s face. The absurdity of it, combined with their exhaustion, brought on laughter in endless waves.
