Crow Mountain (16 page)

He laughed and jumped up, muscles loose again after the walking. ‘Let's go. Maybe we can be there by late afternoon.'

They found the Loop Trail without too much trouble, and the walking was easier. Occasionally Hope flagged, before she roused herself to pick her feet up. Butterflies and bees dipped and hovered over the wild flowers and once something Cal identified as a weasel scampered across their path. Buddy shot after it but was easily beaten and returned, tongue hanging. The sun was dropping and a cooler breeze picking up, bringing down the air from the glacier, by the time Cal turned off the trail.

‘It's up here, I'm sure it is,' he said, almost to himself.

‘Have you been here often?'

‘Yeah, when I was young. Not after Pops and Gramma died. After that, it made my parents sad to be here. We talk about coming back a lot – we just never seem to get around to it.'

The mountainside wasn't that steep, but steep enough for Hope to lose her breath. They entered a thick stand of trees, the undergrowth scraping Hope's legs.

‘Ouch!' she gasped.

Taking her hand, he pulled her on. ‘C'mon, I promise,' he said, voice urgent. ‘We're almost there.'

They emerged on the other side just as the sun hit the mountain.

There stood a ramshackle cabin. High above it was the crag. In front of it, like a vast green carpet, was a hillside meadow, strewn with wild flowers. Hope let go of Cal's hand and flung her arms around his neck, forgetting her shyness as a tiny sob of exhaustion and relief rose in her throat. He lifted her off her feet for a second, holding her so tightly it betrayed his own relief. They broke apart and headed up to the cabin with stronger steps.

Closer to, it became clear that time had taken its toll on the little house. One of the two front windows had fallen in and some boards were missing from the porch, on which stood something that had once been a cross between a small bathtub and a washing tub, split and cracked. Cal climbed the two steps and tried the door. The iron knob squealed, but it turned and he pushed open the door with a creak. Hope followed and peered around him.

‘Wow.'

Cal pushed the door further, and walked in, dust motes swirling around them. ‘Yeah. Wow.'

Inside, there were odd signs of habitation – hikers had
used the cabin at some stage. In one corner was a stove and next to it some kindling, a couple of logs and, even more precious, on top was a box of matches with one sticking out, ready to be struck. A badly torn blue windbreaker was draped over an old wooden chair and on the table was a small jar of instant coffee, half full.

By the door a row of hooks and pegs stood empty. The main hearth, designed to heat both rooms, was full of ashes that had been rained on many times down the chimney, the water running in inky lines down the stones to the floorboards. There was a shallow stone sink, a counter and, through in the bedroom, a rough pine cupboard and a chest. A very old bed with a rope-strung base had been dismantled and propped against the far wall. Hope went to check the chest. It was locked. But inside the cupboard were some old clothes. There was a heavy canvas smock, large.

‘That belonged to Pops, I think.'

Hope pulled out a plaid shirt, which was little more than rags clinging together with thread. There was also a thick knitted jersey.

‘May I wear this, please?'

‘You really don't need to ask,' he said, distracted by laying a fire in the stove.

Hope pulled it on, her hair springing tousled from the collar. The jersey came way past her hands and almost covered her shorts.

Cal was already putting a match to the kindling. ‘Let's hope this thing isn't coked all to hell and gone.'

It seemed it wasn't, and was soon burning merrily, door open. Hope came to stand next to Cal, who was sitting on the wooden chair and watching the flames.

‘You said this place was in your family?'

‘I think we did own it, once, but we gave up everything this side of the river when the national park was created a hundred years ago. Pops certainly
felt
he owned it. It's all a bit lost in the mists of time, to be honest.' He reached out and picked up the jar of coffee, twisting off the top and sniffing it. ‘That's not even that old.' He looked around, then got up and fetched a small pan from the side. ‘I'll get some water from that stream out there and take a look around. You look for something to drink out of.'

He went out and Hope began to search for cups. There were some enamel ones in a cupboard. Right at the back were two very battered tin cups, one of them almost deformed. Hope pulled them all out and put them on the counter by the sink. As she took out one of the tin cups, it rattled. Shaking it out, a key fell on to the counter. She picked it up, and looked over her shoulder, through to the bedroom and the chest that stood there. She knelt and pushed the key into the lock. For a second it bit but refused to turn further. Then it gave.

Hope pushed up the lid and peeped inside. She almost cheered. Neatly folded inside was a large patchwork quilt, delicate and faded. Carefully she lifted it out. Beneath were blankets, all carefully interleaved with pieces of cedar wood and lavender bundles, so old all the fragrance was gone. At the bottom was a huge, finely tanned animal hide that looked
alarmingly similar to Chuck's. It was dotted with small holes and she wondered if perhaps moths had eaten it over the years. There was a satchel covered in beadwork and worn with use. Taking up the coverlet, she went out to the porch and took the diary from her pocket, stripping off her still-damp boots and socks, huddling up and sitting cross-legged, finally feeling warmer.

She opened the diary and began to read. A few minutes later she got to her feet, shouting, ‘Cal! Cal!'

He appeared, Buddy on his heels. ‘What? Are you OK?'

‘They're here!'

‘Already? Someone must have found the rig wreck almost straightaway.'

‘No, Emily and the man who found her in the river bed after the crash. She's just woken up and is describing where she is.' Hope stepped down from the porch to him, reading as she went. ‘
We were on the side of a mountain, grassy tufts rolling away from the front of the cabin down to a thick stand of trees. Beyond was a vast and sparkling lake . . 
.' She looked up into his confused gaze, then turned, pointing down the mountain. ‘It's this cabin.
This
lake. It just must be.' Glancing back at the cabin, she looked down at the diary. ‘It's like they're still here.' A bird cried, far away over the water. They both looked towards the sound. When Hope spoke again, neither of them knew if a second or a minute had passed.

‘No, it's as if we've just missed them.'