This thin fabric won’t stop a bear. Or even a determined mouse. But it’s my fortress in the wilderness.
An owl hooted. Two raccoons scuffled through the brush.
I’m in one of the most peaceful places on earth. It can’t get any better than this.
Chapter 19
Grace awoke the next morning to the sound of a man’s voice echoing over the lake.
Lone Star?
She sat up.
There it is again.
She peered out but couldn’t see anyone in the strong morning light. She shrugged.
He’ll be amused when I tell him I hear his voice in the trees.
The day’s hiking brought more river fordings. Grace’s pace slowed the steep, zigzagging ascent to Mather Pass.
At the top of the pass, fourteen thousand-foot mountains pierced an endless sky. Northern harriers circled on thermals. She picked a rock for an early lunch and afterward tightened her pack straps to prevent swaying on the knee-breaking, gravity-assisted descent on the infamous Golden Staircase.
***
Fifteen miles ahead of her, the sun was still high in the sky when the Sideways Seven settled in for a rest. They had cruised up and down Pinchot and Mather Passes the day before, and that morning had predicted pulling down at least twenty miles. But their plans took a sudden turn after they ran into a group of horse packers at Little Pete Meadow.
The Seven knew a pack animal meant alcohol. They pulled worn ten and five dollar bills from plastic baggies and waved them at the passing riders, who jerked their horses to a stop and negotiated steep prices for beer and hard liquor. With enough booze to last them well into the night, the Seven started drinking before their packs hit the ground.
They sat in a flattened circle of crushed meadow grass. Bottles of beer, vodka, and gin passed from mouth to mouth. Stoli leaned against a rough pine log, using a twig to poke carpenter ants excavating a burl. Whenever one emerged from the hole carrying a piece of bark, Stoli flicked it into the grass with a laugh. “Better luck next time.”
Bud and Bacardi lay on their stomachs and dozed. Southern Comfort rolled a can between rough palms and hummed an ad-libbed version of Beer, Beer, Beer. Others joined in.
In the early afternoon, their voices wafted across the green meadow and into the nearby woods, frightening curious deer.
***
Breeze woke earlier that same day, not far behind Grace. He had spent an uncomfortable night at the top of Pinchot Pass and now hiked at full speed to gain warmth and time. The night at Pinchot had been the worst of his hike, and he kicked savagely at small rocks that flew in all directions like scattershot. He’d lost his headlamp, nearly lost his tent, and now directed his foul humor at Jerry.
That bastard is probably miles ahead at some grassy campsite, getting wasted with his friends. I’ve been out here almost seven weeks, and I’ve never caught him alone. What kind of sitting duck goes around with six fricking bodyguards? High time I stop caring. Time to go after him, alone or not.
It was still early as he, muttering loudly, passed close to the edge of the lake where Grace’s tent was set up out of sight. At mid-morning, he reached the top of Mather Pass.
Grace, by that point, was a few hours behind him on the trail.
And twelve miles ahead, at Little Pete Meadow, Jerry was getting wasted with his friends.
Chapter 20
That day, the Golden Staircase descent wore Grace out, so she chose to rest her aching legs at Le Conte Canyon, well before Little Pete Meadow.
After a quick dinner, her head lay on the sack of rolled up clothing. She replayed a frequent internal monologue she called “When this hike is over.”
When this hike is over, I’ll go back to San Francisco—to freeways and rush hour traffic, clients in crisis, work email on my iPhone, mortgage payments, staff meetings, yoga wait lists, and forty-minute stress reduction workouts at the gym. The off-trail life that used to seem so easy. Now it feels so hard. And where does Lone Star fit in? Out here, there’s room for him. But how do big hands, an El Paso law practice, and dust storms align with short legs, psychotherapy, and fog? We’ll have to work it out. But it sure is easier here, with a tent, some food, and a heck of a lot of peace.
Before first light, a shower of needles peppered her shelter like soft rain. Birds twittered in the branches overhead. Grace disassembled her tent in the darkness, the tent poles snapping easily back into their sections. She rolled the ground cloth into a tight bundle, careful not to include any sand or gravel, stuffed her camp shoes in with her sleeping bag, and stowed the remainder of her gear. When the sun rose above the horizon, she walked to Dusy Branch Creek, filtered water into two bottles, and set out for Muir Pass.
She saw no other hikers until she passed Little Pete Meadow. There, two tents, each with a pair of shoes at the entrance, occupied opposite ends of the narrow field.
I wonder who’s sleeping late.
She passed quietly as screeching hawks circled, looking for prey in the grass.
When she reached Muir Pass and a beehive-shaped stone hut, the east slopes were covered in snow.
Thank goodness I started early.
She pulled on spikes and followed the frozen footsteps of countless previous hikers. The ascent felt easy at first. But as it progressed, weariness from the previous day set in again. By mid-afternoon, Grace felt her thirty-four years. The sun still glinted high in the summer sky when she reached Evolution Creek.
Seventeen miles so far. That’s a record for me in the Sierras.
She looked at her map.
I’ll get to the campsites near the Hell for Sure Pass Trail. Then I’ve had it for the day.
The “creek” was wide. She searched for a reasonable place to cross. Skeletal pine trees towered between boulders, shadowing the low grass at the water’s edge.
She chose a spot far above a narrows where the creek cascaded over several ledges in a series of waterfalls. The foam camp shoes she pulled from her sleeping bag sack floated in the shallows while she tied the laces of her hiking shoes together and cinched them under the compression straps of her pack. Icy snow runoff washed over her ankles as she stepped into the water.
Only two seconds in and my feet feel like ice cubes.
Avoiding slippery rocks, she eased her way across the stream. The water rose to her knees and she needed her hiking poles to remain upright. The surging force increased its grip as she moved, one careful step at a time until, halfway across, the creek reached her waist. Each time she looked down into the torrent, she gasped from dizziness.
Look straight ahead. Keep moving.
Grace shivered as she approached the shore. Water dripped from the pack. Wet shorts clung to her goose bump-covered legs.
At least I didn’t fall in.
With the water still mid-thigh, she wrung out the legs of her shorts. There was something hard in one of her pockets.
My phone.
Her fingers tore it out of the pocket with such violence that she lost her balance. She fell head first into the creek.
The weight of her pack pinned her down. River water filled her mouth.
After a panicked struggle, she flipped to her knees. Coughing and spitting, she clawed her way up the bank and fell panting on the grass. Her hand still clutched the phone.
She pushed buttons.
No response. She cradled the black rectangle against her face.
My entire hike wiped out. All because I forgot to put it back in the plastic baggie. I have to try to dry it out.
She spotted stone ledges near the waterfalls, a hundred feet downstream, and ran. At the rocks, she dumped the contents of her pack and searched for something dark in color.
She spread phone, battery, and SIM card on the navy nylon of her sleeping bag.
Now I’ll wait.
Water droplets on the black phone case glittered reproachfully in the sun. She shivered from fear and agitation.
You’re not hurt, Grace. Your hiking sh
oes are dry. This could’ve been a lot worse.
Small waterfalls gurgled below. The scent of warm pine needles reminded her of peaceful hours on the trail. Surrounding peaks towered, imposing and untroubled.
But her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a ball of ice. The breeze cooled her wet clothing. Her teeth chattered.
I should get out of these clothes.
A search of her pack resulted in only two completely dry items: a pair of socks and a bandana.
She looked around.
Nobody.
Her wet clothing joined the cell phone parts in the sun. She scrubbed her body with the bandana and lay down on the rock, nude, gear scattered around her like a mosaic. She closed her eyes.
I’ll be dry before anyone comes.
Chapter 21
Earlier that same day, Stoli awoke in his tent at Little Pete Meadow to the sensation of hair growing inside his mouth. As he slowly ran his tongue across the dry landscape of his palate, he tried to remember the night before.
What happened?
He made out the world through the tiny slit that was his left eye. The right lid wouldn’t budge. His fingers gingerly explored puffy skin.
Ouch. Two black eyes?
He lay back and groaned. But the fur in his mouth tickled. He rubbed his head and pushed himself upright. Something heavy fell in his lap. An arm lay between his legs.
Mine?
He poked at it, hefted it with difficulty, and let it flop to the ground.
Must be asleep. Guess I had too much to drink.
The strong morning sunlight assaulted his working eye as he crawled through the tent entrance, dragging his useless arm behind him. He dug one-handed in his pack and took a deep pull from a water bottle.
Ugh. Vodka.
He spat it out, searched again, and found a collapsible container. He sniffed.
Doesn’t smell like vodka.
He sipped carefully.
Water.
He downed the contents and took his filter in search of more, stumbling across the uneven field. Tall grass brushed against his bare legs, triggering memories of the previous day’s activities.
Yesterday started to look up when we ran into the horse packers. Yeah. That was a find. We set up camp right here.
He looked around him at the trampled grass.
So where’s everyone? We were drinking. Started around eleven. Right before that other hiker joined us. The one with the whiskey-filled water bottle. Never liked whiskey. But booze is booze. He shared. What was his name? Freeze? Something like that.
So where did things go wrong?
The poker.
***
That night, the Seven had broken out a pack of cards and started playing strip poker for a little fun, like always. The game was Stoli’s favorite, and despite his friends always making him start with a penalty, he was usually the one with his clothes on at the end.
The game started out as usual. Breeze, who had approached the group around noon, joined in. Margie and Ecstasy quickly lost their shoes, socks, and shorts. Only caps and shoes hit the pile from the men’s side. Stoli frequenly won. But his mind wasn’t on the game. He was watching Ecstasy, bothered that she was ignoring him.
Do I turn her off? Is she mad I slept with Margie? Everyone’s slept with Margie. I think even Ecstasy slept with her.
But now Ecstasy’s hooked up with Gordon. They got together right after that bear incident—a sympathy lay. At least that’s what it looked like. But they keep at it hot and heavy.
What’s Gordon got I don’t? Stupid asshole. Likes to show off. Rubs Ecstasy in my face. Ever since the first time he laid her.
At the game, Margie was the first to lose all her clothes. She staggered to her tent, clothes in hand, too drunk to remember to put them back on. Southern Comfort then stampeded to last place, preoccupied with Margie. He cheated, and the others took his shorts. He ran straight to Margie’s tent, hands between his legs.
As the others cheered Southern Comfort on, Stoli glimpsed Gordon wink at Ecstasy and pretend to throw in his cards. Ecstasy licked her lips.
When the game recommenced, Ecstasy lost hand after hand until she stood naked, scooped up her belongings, flashed Gordon a smile, and headed to her tent.
Someone in the remaining group called a bathroom break and everyone spread out, except Stoli. He watched Gordon run after Ecstasy, kiss her on the lips, and cup her breasts in his hands.
“Hang tight.” He gave them a squeeze. “I’ll be the next one out.”
He makes me sick.
The group reconvened and the game resumed, Stoli losing as skillfully as he usually won, his penalty giving him a head start to the finish. He was undressed before any of the others knew what had happened.
“I’m hitting the sack. See you in the morning.” He sulked toward his tent, stumbling deliberately to seem more drunk than he felt. He crawled inside, waited a minute, then poked his head through the flap, squinting at the circle of moving lights around the game.
Tonight I’ll get to Ecstasy before Gordon does.
The nearly full moon cast shadows. He pulled on his shorts and boots and walked carefully, heel to toe, bent low to the ground, making a wide circle around the remaining players through the surrounding field. The scratchy grass tickled his chest. He periodically glanced back toward the game, but all the lights stayed put.
He reached Ecstasy’s tent and pulled the flap aside. She was snoring. He dropped his shorts on his boots and snuck inside.
There was little light, but what there was illuminated her naked body stretched atop a sleeping bag.
Stoli rested on his knees. His heart pounded, body stiff as a rock. He stroked her calf and his fingers trembled. He ran his hands farther up her body, feeling silky dark hair, a soft depression, and smooth hips. Nipples rose at his touch and he pinched them.
She wants me. What a body. How can I control myself when she looks like that?
He pinched the nipples harder. Ecstasy moaned.
“Shhh.”
He inched closer and put his hand over her mouth. Her tongue licked his thumb, pulled it between her lips, and sucked.
Christ. She wants me to give it to her.
Pushing her legs apart, he fell between her knees, breathing hard, ears thundering, body shaking.
He pushed.
“Jesus.”
Just before his member entered her, a hand tore at his shoulder, ripping him backward and flinging him outside in one smooth arc.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Stoli recognized Gordon a split second before he felt a punch to his eye.
“You fucking loser.”
Gordon landed a hard kick to Stoli’s ribs that sent him rolling across the grass. Then he disappeared inside the tent.
Beams of light bounced across the meadow. Gordon threw Stoli’s shorts and boots at him, one boot glancing off Stoli’s cheek.
“Get out of here before I kill you.”
Stoli shoved feet into boots and bolted across the meadow, shorts in hand, to a clump of large boulders. The lights followed.
“Leave me alone.” He shivered behind the rocks. “I didn’t do anything. Nothing happened.”
The lights kept coming.
He found a hiding place and pulled on his shorts, watching the headlamp beams swing over the area around the tent. Stoli sprinted to the bordering woods for cover.
The lights hunted him for hours. He dodged beams flickering in the pines. Bark and brush scratched his legs as he ran. Mosquitos swarmed. Beer and whiskey played with his sense of direction.
What do they want? It was no big deal. I never really touched her.
Hiding in dark corners of the wood, he jogged in place to keep warm and keep away the bugs. He wanted to sneak back to camp, but one persistent light still shone in the darkness.
Who’s that jerk who won’t give up? Probably Gordon. But what’s he trying to prove? Ecstasy would have been happy to wake up wi
th me on top of her. Yeah, that’s it. I’m his competition and he wants to get rid of me.
It was almost dawn when Stoli saw a second light and heard voices. A few minutes later, the beams disappeared. He waited half an hour, then slunk back to his tent, cold, bruised, and exhausted. He found a vodka-filled water bottle in his pack and drank from it, cinched his sleeping bag tight, and fell asleep.
***
I guess last night wasn’t my brightest moment, Stoli thought as he searched for more water. I should’ve woken her. That would’ve been better. Then she would’ve known it was me giving her all that pleasure.
They’ll understand when I explain it. Maybe not Gordon, but the rest of them. I’ll tag behind till the next resupply stop. Where was it? Vermillion Valley Resort?
He gave up looking for water and returned to pack his tent.
Yeah. VVR. Things’ll be fine when we get there. I’ll play nice. Help Gordon save face. We’re the Sideways Seven, for Christ’s sake. We’re tight. We’ll clear things up.
He headed north on the trail.
Behind him, only one tent remained in the meadow.
Chapter 22
Being alone sucks, Stoli thought after an hour of hiking. Never been out here by myself. Since the first day at Lake Morena, I’ve always been with the Seven.
The more he walked, the more slowly his watch moved. As his hangover dissipated, he wished he could race Bud or Bacardi up a mountain.
Early afternoon snow at Muir Pass caused him to slide and slip. He began postholing—falling into the snow up to his knees. Extracting himself required tremendous effort.
Why didn’t I keep my dick in my pants last night? No lay is worth this.
He reached the stone hut at the top of the pass, wet, worn out, and lonely. His puffy eyes and cheeks throbbed. His legs were red from cold. Nothing on the PCT seemed half as difficult as enduring the isolation of the trail.
Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1) Page 15
