“Can you hold on to the rope?” asks Denver.
Sean winces as he tries. “It hurts, but yeah.”
“Then hang on.” Denver crawls to the boulder where the rope is wrapped. He scuffs out a hole in the dirt with his good foot and braces himself against it. He grabs the rope and begins to pull.
I crouch in front of Denver and begin to pull with him. Coils of rope gather at our feet as we lift Sean up the side of the cliff.
Even with the two of us, it’s heavy work. I can’t see Denver behind me, but I can hear him grunt under the strain every few seconds. My limbs feel like they are on fire. But we keep pulling, and before long Sean’s head crests over the cliff.
Denver’s bad ankle thwacks into the dirt and his legs buckle involuntarily. His good foot gives out from under him, smashing into the boulder and twisting at a weird angle.
All of a sudden all of Sean’s weight is on me. I clutch the rope desperately, but without Denver’s weight, I go sprawling.
My face hits the cliff edge right over Sean, who has slid back three feet.
“Tony, I’m slipping!” Denver says. He is sitting down now, holding on to the boulder with one hand and the rope with the other. Both his feet are useless now.
I see the trekking pole that I had abandoned a few minutes ago. I let go of the rope and grip the pole below the handle and thrust it down. The pointed tip is eye level with Sean. “Grab it!” I scream.
He flings out his arm and grabs the pole. With Sean’s weight between the rope and the pole, Denver and I claw him back up to the top of the cliff and onto solid ground.
As we lie there gasping, I stare up at the sky and watch as the gray storm clouds break. Moose trots over to me and begins to lick my face as a slice of blue sky appears, and sunlight glimmers down on us.
I turn on my side. Denver has both eyes closed in pain, but Sean’s eyes are bright and open, staring at me. “Thank you,” he says. And like a miracle unfolding, he smiles at me.
“SO,” SAYS DENVER.
“So,” I say.
Denver is tucked in his sleeping bag. He looks like a kid waiting for a bedtime story. After we were all safe, Sean and I had pitched a tent and put him inside. Adrenaline had kept him standing while pulling Sean up the cliff, but once his friend was out of danger, Denver found he couldn’t put any weight on either ankle without collapsing in pain.
Sean and I formed a game plan. We had no way of contacting anyone from where we were—I didn’t have a phone, and Sean and Denver had left theirs in the glove compartment of Sean’s car. Sean would run to Lakes of the Clouds Hut to get a rescue party. I would stay with Denver and make sure he was taken care of until they arrived.
Sean has been gone for half an hour, and now it’s my turn to make hot chocolate. Denver instructs me on how to assemble his Jetboil stove. I twist a cylindrical white gas canister into the fuel line, then screw a pot of water onto the top of the stove. There’s a little plastic starter that lights the stove with one firm press. With a lid on, the whole pot of water bubbles in about three minutes.
“I gave you my marshmallows,” I say when I enter the tent with two steaming mugs. Moose paces outside, before settling down next to the vestibule.
“Thanks.” Denver takes the mug brimming with sticky white foam and blows on it gently. “So tell me more about yourself, Tony,” he says.
I think for a moment. “Well, first of all, my real name is Toby.”
Denver’s eyes widen. I can see him adding up in his mind all the lies I’ve told him. I half expect him to be disgusted by my fibs.
Instead he asks, “Do you really think you can make it all the way to Katahdin?”
I answer honestly. “I don’t know. But I have to try.”
Denver gives me a long, hard look. “Did you tell your parents you were going?”
I shake my head. “My parents don’t care. They’re divorced. I live with my grandma.” I swallow a mouthful of chocolate. The hot liquid runs down my throat, warming me to my toes. “My mom and dad married really young. They didn’t really know what they were doing when I was born. They argued a lot.
“Every couple of months they’d take me to see Gran. She would always greet me on her front porch with a new book and a fun-sized bag of peanut M&M’S. And when she tucked me in at night, she would make the most fantastic bedtime stories, with brave dragons and nasty princes and all sorts of magic spells.
“When my parents finally divorced, neither of them could afford to keep me. Gran took me in. She turned her sewing room into my bedroom and painted it my favorite color, forest green. She made me blueberry pancakes every Saturday.”
I smile, remembering. “Last spring, we even tapped the sugar trees in the backyard and made a gallon of maple syrup. Still haven’t run out of it yet.” My smile falters. “At least, I don’t think we’ve run out.”
Denver sets down his mug. “Do you love your grandma?”
“Yes,” I say softly.
“Does she know that you’re on the trail?”
“I … don’t know.”
“Does she care about you?”
I stare into my mug. All of a sudden the chocolate tastes too sweet. “Yes.”
“Don’t you think she’s worried sick?” Denver asks.
“No,” I say. But as the word leaves my mouth, it already feels like a lie. “I left a note.”
“And what did you say?”
“That I had to go away for a while. That I would be okay. And not to worry.”
“Toby. She’s probably scared to pieces right now. How long have you been gone?”
I count in my head. “Eight days.”
Denver half sits, resting against his elbows as he drinks his hot chocolate. “You know, when Harry was about your age, he ran away from home. He was gone for only a day, but it was enough to watch my parents go nearly crazy. They called the cops after he had been gone for twelve hours, and were told that Harry would have to be missing for twenty-four hours before they could file a missing-persons report.
“So we went home. And waited. My dad couldn’t stop pacing up and down the living room floor. My mom couldn’t stop crying. When Harry finally came strolling in eighteen hours and twenty-seven minutes after he had left, he didn’t care that he had caused such terror.”
Denver leans back in his sleeping bag and closes his eyes. “It’s something I had a hard time forgiving him for—for not caring.” He looks at me. “It’s a terrible thing, to make someone you love worry.”
I drop my head. “I’d like to let Gran know that I’m okay, but I don’t want to stop hiking. If she finds out where I am, I’ll be yanked off the trail faster than you can say hot popcorn.”
“What if someone were to give her a message saying that you were all right? I could do that.”
“You could?”
“Sure. When I get down off the mountain, I’ll give her a call. I won’t let her know who I am or where I saw you. All I’ll say is that you’re safe.” Denver grins. “You saved my life. It’s the least I can do for you.”
Denver’s cup is empty. I try to take it out of his hands, but he doesn’t let go for a moment. “I want to know more about Lucas,” he says.
I tug, and the cup comes free. “What about him?” My guard goes up. I’m not sure I want to tell the whole story, even now.
“What’s your favorite memory of him?”
That makes me pause. It has been so long since I’ve thought of Lucas without grief. I think about Denver’s question. About Lucas. I can’t stop the guilt that floods through me. But for the first time, I wade through it. I rewind past the rope swing, our fights, the morning we made the List, all the way to a day that I had nearly forgotten.
“When I turned nine, Lucas got me a brand-new baseball mitt and bat for my birthday. We went out to my backyard and played for hours. He made up this game where we pretended to be famous Red Sox players—Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, David Ortiz—and spent the afternoon hitting home runs, stealing b
ases, yelling at our imaginary ump—an old pine tree, chewing gum, and scuffing our feet in front of our home plate, a cut-up placemat from Lucas’s kitchen.
“We played until sunset and then went inside, where Gran had made a gigantic chocolate birthday cake with buttercream frosting—my favorite.”
I can’t help smiling, talking about it. “After that, we always called the tree Ump, and we’d even nail a jersey to him during baseball season every year.”
Denver laughs.
“That was the best day of my life,” I say. “But then Lucas died.” Something catches in my throat. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve been bad luck to anyone I meet.”
Denver shakes his head. “I would say you’re just the opposite, Toby. For me, at least.”
Now my hot chocolate is gone, too. I take both dirty cups and go outside, rinsing them out before tucking them back into Denver’s pack. I put away the stove and feed Moose a couple of cheese blocks and a handful of dog biscuits.
When I get back into the tent, Denver has fallen asleep. Before I curl up in my sleeping bag and let the wind lull me to sleep, I dig out a Ziploc bag from the hidden pocket of my pack’s hood. I unzip the top and take out a wrinkled piece of paper. I smooth over the creased lines. Even though I’ve carried it with me all this way, it’s the first time I’ve been able to bring myself to read it since starting the trail.
#1 Go fishing
#2 Eat a worm
#3 Spend a whole day at the movie theater
#4 Build a tree house
#5 Go blueberry picking
#6 Make a raft and float it
#7 Explore the abandoned house on Chimney Hill
#8 Learn how to pop wheelies on our bikes
#10 Hike the Appalachian Trail from Velvet Rocks to Katahdin
Screw bad luck. I’m going to do it. I’m going to finish the List. For Lucas. And for me.
“KNOCK, KNOCK.”
Somebody is tapping at the tent door. The zipper peels down, and I see Abbey’s beautiful face hovering over me. “Hey there, kiddo,” she says. She is carrying a first aid kit and a small backpack.
I rub my eyes and sit up and run my hands through my hair, yanking through the knots that have gathered. I hope I look dashing. “Wello-there! I mean, hallo well— Well, hello there! What are you doing here?” I bare my teeth in a crazy grin.
Abbey peels the tent flap back even farther, and I see a crowd of people outside.
“I’ve brought the search-and-rescue team,” Abbey says. “Lakes radioed over to Mizpah. We have crew and guests from both huts who heard about your situation and wanted to help.”
There is a chorus of hellos and Sean comes into view. His rope-burned hands are swathed in bandages. “How’s Denver?” he asks.
Denver lets out a snore.
“I think he’s going to be okay,” I say. I poke Denver. “Time to get rescued.”
Denver opens one eye. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles. He closes the eye.
Abbey clears her throat, and Denver opens both eyes. “I mean, I’m ready,” he says.
“Move over, Tony,” says Abbey. She ducks into the tent and zips up the flap to seal in the heat. “Has he had any painkillers?” she asks me.
I shake my head. Abbey opens the first aid kit and takes out four ibuprofen. She pops them in Denver’s mouth and hands him a bottle full of water. “Lie back down,” she orders Denver as soon as he has swallowed the pills.
She opens Denver’s sleeping bag until his feet are showing. She takes Denver’s sock with the tips of her fingers. Very gently, she pulls his sock back, exposing his ankle. She does the same with the other sock.
Denver hisses and bites his lip. “How bad is it, Doc?”
I take a peek. Both Denver’s ankles are purple. His right one is swollen to at least twice the size of his left.
“There’s no bleeding, which is good.” Abbey pinches Denver’s big toe. “Can you feel this?”
Denver nods.
Abbey pinches the rest of Denver’s toes. Each time he gives a nod when she asks if he can feel it. “How about wiggling your toes?” she asks.
Denver concentrates, and his toes give a little wave.
“Good,” says Abbey. “You haven’t lost circulation in your feet. Since both your ankles are injured, you’re not going to be walking out of here, but we won’t need to helicopter you out.
“Hey, Bill!” she calls.
“Yeah?” says a voice from outside the tent.
“Radio front desk. Tell them we’re taking the patient up to Washington. He’s got two sprained ankles but does not require immediate evacuation. We’ll radio when we’re at Lakes and give an ETA on our arrival. If the weather holds, it shouldn’t take us more than two or three hours to get from Lakes to the top of Washington.”
I know that Lakes is only one mile below the summit. A normal hiker would need less than an hour to reach the top of Washington from the hut. Carrying Denver out is going to be a slow task.
“Will do, Captain,” says Bill.
Abbey turns her attention back to Denver. “I’m going to make a U-splint for your ankles.” She opens her backpack and takes out a T-shirt. She rolls it into a long, tight tube. “Hold this,” she tells me.
My fingers brush hers as she gives me the T-shirt. I am the luckiest kid in the world.
Abbey puts her hands around Denver’s ankle and carefully turns his foot until it’s at a ninety-degree angle to his shin. “Wrap the center of the T-shirt around the sole of his foot. Then put both the ends of the shirt along the sides of his leg and hold them there,” she tells me.
I do as I’m instructed. It feels good to have someone who knows what she’s doing. Abbey lets go of Denver’s foot and reaches for a roll of tape in the med kit. She starts taping the ball of the foot, then wraps around the T-shirt and the rest of the foot, over the ankle, and up the side of the leg. When she is done, the T-shirt and the tape are holding Denver’s ankle firmly in place.
Abbey adds two more layers of tape before she is satisfied with her work. Then she does the same thing with the second ankle. “Now you are going to scoot yourself to the tent entrance, and folks are going to pick you up and bring you into the sleeping bag on the litter outside. After that, we will be carrying you out.”
Denver sits up and gives a little salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Abbey opens the tent, and Denver skooches himself to the entrance. A couple of hands reach down and lift him up, then swing him onto a bright orange sled with a puffy blue sleeping bag laid open on it.
Denver lies down, and Abbey zips up the bag. She jams a hat onto Denver’s head. “Lie back and relax,” she says. “You’ve got a ways to go.”
Abbey counts off a dozen people, then instructs numbers one through six to gather around the litter. Number one is at the head, number four is at the rear, and two, three, five, and six are along the sides. On the count of three, they lift the litter and begin to carry Denver. The others follow behind, ready to switch off whenever the team gets tired.
As the litter carry makes its way slowly over the rough ground, Sean stays with me while I pack the tent away. Once we’ve made sure we haven’t forgotten anything, we catch up to the rescue operation just as they are getting back on the trail.
The rain comes again in a sudden fury. It doesn’t turn to hail, but a vicious wind starts up. Everyone pauses and breaks out waterproof coats before continuing on. By the time the roof of Lakes of the Clouds comes into view, the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees and the rocks on the trail are starting to ice over.
When we clomp into the hut, icy raindrops scattering everywhere, Abbey has the rescue team set Denver down in the foyer next to the dining room. She checks Denver’s ankles again. “Looks like you’ve still got circulation in your feet. The weather’s too dangerous to go any farther tonight. How do you feel about spending the night here and heading to the top of Washington tomorrow morning? If the weather’s all right and the auto road
is opened, your parents can drive up and meet you there.”
“I think the ibuprofen is working, and I’m feeling rather comfy. And I’d rather spend the next ten hours in a hut instead of getting pummeled by the weather,” says Denver.
“Hey, Nate!” Abbey calls to one of the Lakes crew members. “Any free bunks tonight?”
Nate nods toward a long, narrow corridor with doors on either side. “We’ve got one left. I checked right before dinner. There’s a free bottom bunk in the third bunkroom down that he can take.”
Abbey directs the litter-carry to heave Denver up one more time. We walk past the tables packed with hut guests about to dig into their soup, down the hallway, and turn into a bunkroom. Abbey has the litter placed next to a bottom bunk bed with three neatly folded woolen blankets on it.
The search-and-rescue volunteers and the rest of the hut crew go back to the dining room to eat, leaving Sean, Abbey, and me with Denver.
Abbey hoists Denver out of the drenched search-and-rescue sleeping bag and onto the mattress. She checks his feet one last time. “With some RICE, you should be all set,” she tells him.
“I was just thinking I was kind of hungry,” said Denver.
Abbey cracks a smile. “RICE is an acronym. It stands for ‘rest, ice, compression, elevation.’ It’s standard procedure for sprains and strains.” She takes a few extra blankets that are on a bench near the door and tucks them under Denver’s feet.
She digs into the med kit one more time and breaks out a couple of instant ice packs. She whacks them against the floor to activate them, then drapes them around Denver’s ankles. “Rest,” she says. “I’ll be back soon with soup.”
Denver lies back and closes his eyes. “Hey, guys,” he says.
“Yeah?” says Sean.
“Thank you.”
“Get some sleep, buddy.” Sean nods toward the door. He and I tiptoe out as Denver begins to snore again.
THE WEATHER’S SO horrible that Sean and I don’t even think about heading out to set up our tents. We find the Lakes crew in the kitchen and the guy named Nate shows us an extra bunkroom called the Dungeon. The door is rusty, with badly peeling turquoise paint and a wooden sign that reads “REFUGE ROOM—EMERGENCY USE ONLY” in wind-battered red letters.
The Trail Page 11
