“I’ve … always needed people. I’ve always been a follower. Out here on the trail, I want to learn how to grow up. Depend on myself. Learn how to be alone.” The last answer slips past me before I can catch it.
A bird flutters out of the brush. A quail, I think. Its light-brown body lifts off, and it disappears into the trees.
Sean does not respond, and we spend the next hour in silence, lost in our own thoughts. We pass through muddy trails slick with new rain, up a steep mile to the top of South Kinsman, down a rocky scramble, up again to the peak of North Kinsman, and make it to Kinsman Pond Shelter an hour after all our stomachs have started to growl.
No one else is there, and we take over the shelter, flopping our backpacks into the corner. I think about hiking the extra couple of miles to Lonesome Lake so I can get more food, but I quickly decide against it. After my hypothermia scare earlier today, I don’t trust myself to not mess up. Plus, it’s getting dark and I don’t want to leave the protection of my rescuers.
Sean and Denver break out their cooking equipment and make their dinner, a soupy mess of jasmine rice and plump red kidney beans floating among thick slices of summer sausage, all simmering in a heap of Cajun seasonings. As the stew cooks, the smell is unbearably good.
But when Denver offers to share with me, I say no. Instead, I eat my second-to-last Snickers, forcing myself to chew slowly. I count to twenty for every bite, making each mouthful last as long as possible. I want to prove to Sean that I am taking responsibility for feeding the dog. That I’m not going to depend on luck and the generosity of others to make it on the trail.
It’s not enough. The hunger in my belly takes over, and I snatch my final Snickers and rip open the wrapper. It is halfway gone before I can force myself to stop. I clamp my mouth shut and tuck the last half in the top pocket of my backpack. I’m not out of food. I’m not desperate. Yet.
There is no flat place to pitch a tent, and the ground is soggy from the day’s rain, so after dinner we all decide to stay in the shelter. We roll out our sleeping pads on the dry wooden floor and fluff up our sleeping bags on top of them. Night comes, and each of us shuffles into our patch of warmth for the night.
It is when we are all inside our bags, breathing the cool summer-night air, and I’m wondering if either Sean or Denver snore, that Sean puts his hands behind his head and studies the roof beams above our heads.
“Hey, Tony,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. You want to learn how to be alone?” He scratches his neck. “Just give up on everybody.”
I am confused. “What do you mean?”
Sean unclasps one of his hands and runs his thumb across his cheek. The moonlight glows against the dark line of his scar. “When you can say screw you to everyone, when you can feel them not caring, and not care about them, then you’ve made it. You’re alone. You trust no one but yourself. You look out for no one but yourself. And you survive.”
“But what about your family?” I think about Gran. The way she had hugged me so hard after what happened with Lucas, I thought my bones would crack. “Don’t you trust them? Don’t they look out for you?”
“No,” Sean says.
It’s only one word, but there is so much venom behind it that I know it’s true. “What about your brothers or sisters?”
“Only child.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“So what? That doesn’t make us friends.” Sean shifts so his dark eyes reflect back at mine. “And anyway, having siblings doesn’t mean you’re less alone. Take Denver. His brother, Harry, is a real piece of work.”
“Sean, let’s not talk about it.” For the first time I hear anger in Denver’s voice. And something else. Sadness. Fear.
“Fine. I’m going to sleep,” Sean says. He turns his back to me.
“But—”
“Shut up, Tony,” he growls.
It is quiet. I stare at the moonlit cobwebs as Sean’s breathing grows deep and even. I guess I can see what he means. About not trusting anyone.
But I don’t want that kind of alone. I want to be able to trust myself and rely on myself, but I want to be able to trust others, too. Being alone is not the same as being lonely.
Just as I’m about to drift off, Denver’s sleeping bag rustles. “Hey, Tony. You still awake?”
“Yeah.”
“I know Sean can come off as a little harsh. But he’s a good guy.”
I think about how different Sean and Denver are. I wonder why they’re together—Sean’s coldness and Denver’s friendliness are like night and day. “How’d you become friends?” I ask.
Denver is silent, and I don’t think he’s going to answer. Then, when I’m just about to close my eyes, he clears his throat. “When I was twelve, my dad caught this scrawny, scraggly kid stealing the garden gnomes off our front porch. But instead of calling the cops, my dad took him into the house and told my mom to make extra for dinner.
“That night I came home to see Sean in the kitchen, scarfing down a huge plate of food. The first thought I had of him was ‘Man, that kid is skinny.’ You could see his ribs through his shirt. Later, Sean told me that until that night, he hadn’t had a real meal in a week.
“Anyway, after dinner my dad told Sean he could stop by anytime for a meal. He soon became a regular at our house.
“I wasn’t sure what to think about Sean at first. He was really quiet. Wouldn’t touch anything. I think he was scared that he would somehow mess up. That he would prove that a kid from the bad side of town could only be bad.
“When he started inviting Sean over, my dad sat me and my brother, Harry, down. He told us that even though Sean had stolen from us, we had to trust him. ‘Trust builds trust,’ he said.
“I listened to my father for the most part, but I still wasn’t sure about wanting Sean as a friend. Then, one day, I saw him riding down the street on the way to my house. He was on this old, beat-up skateboard. The paint had been worn to nothing, and the wheels were rubbed down almost to their axles. But Sean was double-flipping and high-jumping on that board as if it were a stroll in the park. I asked him to teach me. We ended up meeting at the local skate park almost every day after school. As we spent more time together, I never worried about trusting him again.
“But Harry was a different story. He never liked Sean. When my parents were away and Sean was over, Harry would always tease him about his Walmart jeans and his ragged homemade haircuts. He constantly accused Sean of wanting to steal our Xbox or PlayStation or whatever new toy we got for Christmas or our birthdays.
“And he wouldn’t let up about Sean’s shirts. Sean was always wearing long-sleeved shirts, even in summer. They were the really cheap kind, the ones you get in three-packs at the dollar store. Harry would ask Sean why he didn’t have T-shirts like a normal person, but Sean just wouldn’t answer.
“I couldn’t figure it out, until this one really hot day in August. It was about a year after I met Sean. Harry and I were horsing around in the pool in our backyard. Sean was with us but refused to go swimming. Said he was afraid of the water.
“Harry and I got into a wrestling match. Harry has always been stronger than me and liked to prove it, especially if there was an audience. He would hold me under and then lift my head up only enough to get a half breath in before jerking me down back into the water. Each time he dunked me, he held me under for longer. Then he finally got to the point where he wouldn’t let me up.
“Later, Sean told me that he had seen my eyes bulge and my mouth open and take in water, and he had screamed to Harry to let go. Instead of pulling me up, Harry had taunted him. Had told him that he was a wuss for not trying to save me. I couldn’t hear. I was too busy drowning.
“Sean jumped in. He still had his sneakers on. He really didn’t know how to swim. But he could kick and bite, and that’s what he did. Harry has a scar from where Sean left teeth marks on his arm.
“Harry let go of me. I got to the surface and pulled myself from the wate
r, choking out half the pool. Harry and Sean were thrashing around in the shallow end. Harry was screaming at Sean that he was fighting dirty, and Sean was screaming back that Harry was a bully and a coward.
“Harry dragged himself out of the pool. He called us horrible names and went inside to take care of his bleeding arm.
“After a while, Sean and I went inside, too. I took Sean to my room and gave him some dry clothes. I went into the bathroom to change, and it occurred to me that Sean didn’t have a towel to dry off. I got one from the bathroom shelf and opened my bedroom door.
“Sean was in the middle of dressing. His shirt was off and he was facing away from me. His back and arms were covered in bruises and welts. And not the kind you get from falling off a skateboard.
“Sean had heard the door open. He knew I was behind him.
“ ‘Don’t tell,’ he had said.
“ ‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘But you have to.’
“I handed him the towel and Sean covered himself. He began to shake. We sat on the floor and he told me about his father. About the alcohol, the drugs, and the violence that happened in his home. About the threats of what would happen if he told anyone.
“I didn’t know what to do. But I knew someone who would. That night, after supper, I got my dad and Sean in the living room. I got Sean to talk. My dad called Child Protective Services that night, and a week later, Sean was living with us. And a few months later, I was teaching him how to swim.”
A loon calls out in the night. It is a lonely, mournful sound. After a while, Denver begins to snore.
I tuck my head down and close my eyes. I still don’t like Sean much. But I don’t mind his meanness anymore.
HUNGER WAKES ME. My stomach feels like it has shrunk to the size of a robin’s egg; it’s searching for any last bits of food so it can expand again.
In the gray dawn light, I unscrew my water bottle and take a gulp, then another, hoping to quiet my growling stomach. I unpeel the last bit of wrapper on the last half of my last Snickers bar. This time, I hold each bite and count to fifty.
“Morning, Tony.” Denver is pouring hot water into a bowl at the other end of the shelter. The smell of oatmeal hits my nose, thick and rich with brown sugar and cinnamon.
I have to leave immediately, or I’m going to pounce on Denver’s breakfast. “Morning.” I crumple my Snickers wrapper into my empty bear bag and shove it into my pack, along with everything else. “I’m going to hit the trail early.”
“Sounds good.” Denver holds a spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth and blows. I can barely look at him. “But when you get to Lonesome, wait up for us. The next stretch of trail is going to be pretty tough, and you shouldn’t be doing it alone.”
Sean looks up from stuffing his mouth with a peanut-butter-covered bagel. “Denver! We’re not dragging this kid with us for our entire trip!”
“Sean. Chill out.” Denver glares at his friend.
“Fine. If he can keep up, he can stay with us. But if not, we’re ditching him.” Sean takes another bite of his bagel and turns his back to me.
I try not to let Sean get to me. “See you guys,” I say as casually as I can, and head out.
Lonesome Lake. Lonesome Lake. Lonesome Lake. I match the name of the place with food to the beat of my hunger pangs. I have given up looking at the forest around me. All I want to do is eat.
I start thinking of the delicious things Gran would make for me. Homemade waffles, hot from the waffle iron, covered in strawberries and whipped cream and drizzled with Hershey’s chocolate syrup. Lasagna, with its layers of wide noodles and soft ricotta and beefy tomato sauce, covered in melty, bubbling mozzarella. A whole roast chicken, with brown-crisped skin, sliced into long tender pieces and eaten with smooth heaps of buttery mashed potatoes. Apple pie, still warm, served with a wedge of cheddar cheese and a tall glass of milk.
Gran. A pang of guilt shoots through me. I think about the letter I wrote her the night before leaving for the trail, hunching over a piece of loose leaf, biting my pen so hard between every couple of words that the plastic shell broke before I was done.
Gran,
You have always been there for me. When Mom and Dad left me at the hospital, you stayed and held my hand and kept me safe. After what happened with me and Lucas, when I just wanted to hide from the world forever, you made sure I got out of bed every morning. You made me brush my teeth and eat my breakfast and face the day. You are awesome and I love you.
But I have to go away. I know you probably know where I’m heading, but please don’t come searching for me. I need to be by myself for a while.
Don’t worry—I’ll be back before school starts. I promise.
But I need to do something first.
Love,
Toby
I had placed the note on the kitchen table the next morning when she was out on her weekly errand run, knowing that she wouldn’t be back for hours. Then I had put on my pack and headed for the trail.
Now I am staring at my feet, pushing one foot in front of the other, thinking about food and Gran and trying so hard not to collapse that I barely notice anything until the silver glimmer of Lonesome Lake comes flashing through the trees.
Then I look up, and I see a dash of movement out of the corner of my eye. Four legs, a familiar scruff. Ratty fur as gnarled as a bird’s nest.
It’s the dog. He is uncertain, skittering forward two steps, then hopping back one.
I stop and unsling my pack to look half as intimidating. Slowly I bend my knees until I am level with him. A soft, clumsy whistle comes through my mouth. My hand stretches out, open palmed. “Here, boy,” I say.
The dog’s nose quivers. He is suspicious. If the only kindness he has received is food, then an empty hand must mean something bad.
I keep my hand still. “Hey. I’m not going to hurt you. But I don’t have any food left.”
I am talking to a dog. It feels natural and good. I push my hand out a tiny bit more.
Long seconds pass. My thighs are burning and my knees start to jiggle back and forth. But I keep my hand steady.
The dog comes. His wet nose brushes my fingers and he licks the palm of my hand. He must have found a smudge of food because he keeps on licking. But he does not bite.
My heart jumps with a fierce kind of joy. For the first time in my life, I feel needed. This dog has eaten my spaghetti supper and my block of cheese, and now he’s looking to me for help. I reach down to pet his head.
Instantly the dog is crouched backward with his lips arched, a low growl in his throat. I can see his yellow-stained teeth, the dark pink of his inner cheeks. He’s telling me with every bristling hair that he doesn’t want to be touched.
I feel a pang of hurt. He doesn’t trust me yet.
And then I stand and turn around and the dog is still growling and now I see why.
Fifty feet away, its hooves sinking in the soft mud of the trail, is a moose.
I have only a moment to take in the size of the animal—its chest bigger than a raging full-grown bull—before its massive shoulders tighten. It lowers its head and paws the ground.
I turn to run, and a calf with gangly legs stumbles out from the bushes onto the trail. I had been concentrating so hard on making the dog my friend that I hadn’t noticed that I had gotten in between a mama moose and her baby.
If I run toward the calf, the mama will think I’m attacking it. If I run toward the mama, I will be heading straight into a beast with horrible eyesight and a blind desire to trample whatever may be harming her baby.
The mama moose snorts. Her long, narrow ears flatten backward and she lowers her head. She doesn’t have antlers but doesn’t need any for me to be squashed like a grape.
A charging moose. It’s a big thing. And a bad one.
The mama moose starts galloping toward me. I scream at myself to get out of the way, but suddenly I am back in the car that hurtled me toward Lucas, with the rise of the other moose’s body rocketing toward the win
dow by my head. I hear the sounds of glass shattering and sirens wailing, and then I see me and Lucas in the hospital and the bright white of our new casts. I know I have to move, but my boots are pinned to the dirt.
There is a blur of dirty fur, and the dog hurtles out from behind me. He plants himself directly in front of my scared, shaking body and barks three times, loud and low.
The moose thunders toward us. As she nears, the dog leaps up, nipping at her broad chest. She swerves to avoid him and crashes into the underbrush off the trail. She does not slow down as she heads toward her baby, and as she passes, I take in the short coarse hairs on her side, the dark scabs around her knees, the sloping hump of her neck, her powerful jaw muscles bulging, her wild smell of swamp and mountains.
And then she is past me and with her calf, and they both go running down the trail toward the lake.
The dog trots back to me. This time, when I put my hand out, he nuzzles his head under it.
“Good dog,” I say. The words don’t feel like they’re enough. It feels strange, not to have a name for an animal that saved your life. I scratch behind his ears and look him full on in the face. “You know what? Your name is Moose from now on. I promise to take care of you. And when we get to Lonesome Lake Hut, you’re going to have a feast like you never had before.”
A FEW MINUTES later, Lonesome Lake Hut comes into view. Weathered shingles cover the sides and a hodgepodge of tin chimneys and solar panels stick out from the green metal roofing. There’s a wraparound wooden deck that overlooks a patch of trees and the lake below. An unbearably wonderful smell of pancakes hovers in the air.
I scratch Moose under the chin and tell him to stay outside before climbing the hut steps and pushing open the door. I want to be quick. If Gran did report me as missing, I don’t want anyone to see my face long enough to make the connection.
I’ve been on the trail for less than a week, but it still comes as a shock to be back indoors. Going inside of Lonesome Lake Hut is like being hugged by civilization. The temperature is warm and cozy. Tall windows let the sunlight in but keep the wind out.
The Trail Page 4
