The Middle of Somewhere (16 page)

D
ante was waiting for her at Muir Hut, a stone shelter built by the Sierra Club in 1930. He smiled for the first time that day.

“Welcome to Muir Pass. I finally beat you to the top of something.”

She lowered her pack, pulled off her hat and wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “Lack of oxygen seems to suit you.”

“I slept more than you did.”

“Your conscience is clearer.”

He took a step toward her. “I have things I'm sorry about. Everyone does.”

She wondered what he meant. Probably something innocuous. “Thanks, but let's not have a sinning contest.”

He put a hand on her arm, and looked as if he had something to say, but changed his mind.

“What?”

He picked his water bottle off the ground. “Here. Drink. You lost a gallon in tears last night.” She accepted the bottle. “Oh, I forgot to tell you.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Look what was sitting in front of the hut.”

A red tent stake.

They took a break from the long descent from the pass to eat lunch. Dante retrieved the tortillas, cream cheese and smoked salmon from his pack. Liz filtered two liters of water, and took a seat next to him on the grass.

“Someone's messing with us, Dante.”

“Who would do that?”

“The Roots come to mind.”

“You think they're behind everything. Rodell was injured, remember. They aren't even hiking anymore.”

“So it seems.”

“Why would they fake an injury?”

“I have no clue. It doesn't even work as a dare. ‘I dare you to fake a wrenched knee so we can get those two to hump your stuff downhill'?”

“You're right. That makes no sense.”

“Unless they were after Brensen.”

“Why would they be after Brensen? You sound like a conspiracy terrorist.”

“Theorist.”

“What?”

“Conspiracy theorist. Not terrorist.”

“Who cares, Liz!”

He was exasperated with her. She couldn't blame him, not after last night. She had half expected to be relieved having unburdened herself of a secret she'd held for years, but she wasn't. She felt tenuous. And she couldn't get the Roots out of her mind. “I'm just thinking aloud. Did you see Brensen at Evolution Lake?”

He shook his head.

“Me neither.” She took a bite of tortilla. “I kind of miss his bitching.”

Late that afternoon at Le Conte Canyon, they chose the largest of three campsites arrayed between the trail and the stream, the Middle Fork of the Kings River. The site was closer to the trail than she would have preferred, but they'd logged thirteen miles since Evolution Lake and it would do. A newly built rangers' station was visible a hundred yards away, nestled among the pines on the other side of the narrow stream.

She erected the tent, crawled inside and fell asleep instantly. She awoke to low evening light. Tempted as she was to put her head down again and sleep until morning, hunger drove her outside. Dante wasn't around, but he had set up the kitchen. She opened a bear can and grabbed a handful of trail mix. Other than the night at Muir Ranch, she hadn't been full since they'd left Yosemite Valley ten days earlier. She'd gotten used to being somewhat hungry much of the time. But every once in a while, like now, if it wasn't for the obligation of rationing, she'd have eaten her way through the contents of both bear cans. And then crawled into the tent for another nap. Eight hours a day of hard exercise had turned her into a lean animal—a large cat that walked across its expansive territory and, after feeding, slept for days. At least that was her fantasy.

She scouted the area for dry wood to burn. On her way back to camp with a small armload of kindling, she spied Dante with two men on the bridge spanning the creek south of the camping area. He shook hands with them and left. When he noticed Liz, he raised a fuel can in the air.

“You can return that wood to its native habitat. This is almost full.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“On the map I noticed there's another trail not far from here, coming out of Bishop. I figured there'd be people doing short trips, so I asked everyone who came by and scored on the third group.”

“They just gave it to you?”

“They only had one night left, so I traded our nearly empty canister. I offered them five dollars, but they wouldn't take it.”

She smiled. “I never thought of salesmanship as a wilderness skill before.”

“Wherever people are, there's a deal to be made.”

She admired his ease with people and his trust in the practice of give and take. He assembled transactions the way she assembled objects. His skill was more delicate than hers, as no deal was ever made without emotion: loyalty to a product, or a person; love for an idea; jealousy in not getting everything; and pride. Pride was always at the table. Dante respected all these feelings when he made a sale, and recognized them in himself. It made him an invincible negotiator. She had no clue how he made it seem effortless.

They needed to conserve fuel on behalf of Paul and Linda, and had collected the wood, so they built a fire anyway. She demonstrated how to arrange the kindling upon the ashes within the stone circle and handed him the lighter. “Torch it.” Once the kindling caught, they angled larger pieces of wood against it.

“Wait a second,” he said, taking a branch from her hand. He examined the Y-shaped piece. “We have a spare bungee cord, don't we?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. You're about to see some real wilderness shit now.”

Within ten minutes he had fashioned a slingshot. He scoured the campsite and creek bed for ammunition and rejoined her at the fire. Selecting a golf ball–sized rock, he pointed at the roll of toilet paper he'd placed on a log fifteen feet away.

“I am no doubt—how do you say?—rusty.”

He cupped the rock in the sling made from a bandanna, raised it to eye level, squinted like an archer and released the rock. It hit the toilet roll with a soft thud.

“You nailed it!” she said. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“From the same uncle who was crazy for birds. He photographed them at the feeder. My job was to scare the squirrels away.”

“Did you kill them?” She couldn't imagine Dante killing anything.

He shrugged. “A few. I tried not to. Most of them ran away as soon as they saw me.”

They entertained themselves for a while setting up more difficult shots. Dante hit nearly everything.

“The fire's hot,” he said, carefully adding another log. “We should eat.”

She boiled water and rehydrated the lentil soup. They ate quickly. Dante moved to pick up the dishes, but sat again when Liz spoke into the fire.

“I never understood why Gabriel changed the way he did. He was so in love with me, so into me, and then he—” Her hand mimicked the flames disappearing into air. “I don't get it.”

“Neither do I.” He hesitated. “Something was going on with him.”

“Clearly.”

“Did you ever think he might have been depressed?”

“Only long after it was too late. My go-to response—especially back then—was it's me, not the other guy.”

“It must have been so terrible to not understand what was happening.”

“Yeah, but Dante, if you're me, it almost always feels that way. And everyone called us the perfect couple. I loved Gabriel, but as for the rest, I had to take their word for it. Relationships were this big intricate mystery. Are.”

He poked the embers, and a flame awoke and licked a charred log. “I can see why you think that, because you spent too much time alone when you were small. And you never saw your parents together, being a couple. Living together, being happy, being angry, being bored.”

“Even an evil stepparent would have been more informative.”

“Exactly. You're the same as someone who learns to ski when they're already an adult. It's hard to be natural at it. You've got no snow sense.”

“Well, that's very encouraging.”

He put his hand on the nape of her neck. She turned to him. “But we are not skiing. We are loving, and it's not as difficult.”

“It's not? Remember I'm a shitty skier, too.”

“I think it's actually very simple. I don't know what happened between you and Gabriel. Maybe you were too young—both of you. But don't blame it on love. There's nothing wrong with love.”

•   •   •

It was dusk when they returned from filtering water at the stream. Linda and Paul were coming down the trail and eyeing the campsite next door. They spotted Liz and Dante.

Linda approached. “Are you going to think we're stalking you if we camp here?”

Liz laughed. “Better you than anyone else.”

“Brensen's right behind us.”

Liz pointed out the third site near the bridge. “It's tight, but it'll give him something to complain about.”

The McCartneys lowered their packs with a shared groan. They both looked as if they could use a stiff drink.

Dante said, “Our fire is still pretty hot if you want to use it.”

Paul glanced at Linda, who nodded consent. “Fantastic. I'll put up the tent, darling, if you want to get dinner started.”

Liz observed the McCartneys unloading their packs in the near darkness. She couldn't recall when they'd ever hiked this late into the evening. Whenever she saw them late in the day, they were already kicking back, clean and organized. Linda approached with a pot, two bowls and two sporks.

“Pull up a log,” Liz said.

Linda nestled the pot in the embers. “I dislike cooking over fires. Makes such a mess of Harold.” She noted their quizzical looks. “Harold's the pot.”

Dante told her about the fuel.

“That was resourceful of you. Thanks.” She peered over Liz's head at the trail. “I want to tell you about Brensen before he shows up. Last night, in all that wind, one of his guy lines got loose. The fly was flapping wildly, so he went outside to secure it. He forgot about a huge branch hanging over the tent and smacked his head on it.”

“Ouch,” Liz said. “How bad was it?”

“That's the thing. He says it was nothing, but he's got a lump on his forehead you wouldn't believe.” She lifted the lid off the pot and stirred. “Not only that, but he's acting strangely.”

“Brensen's normal is already strange.”

“I know what you mean, but we think he might have a concussion. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet and twice he couldn't find where he was on the map.”

“Sounds like me,” Dante said.

Liz smiled at him indulgently.

Linda sighed. “We followed him all day because we were afraid he'd fall, or get lost.”

“So what happened?”

“Paul got fed up. I can't blame him. Brensen wouldn't admit there was anything wrong. He kept yelling at us to stop babysitting him. Said we were ruining his preparation for his role.” Her eyebrows flashed upward in disbelief. She peered into the pot again. “Harold has completed his work. Paul! In two minutes I'm eating yours!”

They all ate dinner, cleaned up and headed off to bed. Liz and Dante were in their sleeping bags, drifting off, when a light swept across their tent. Someone swore under his breath. Light beams broke the darkness several more times, accompanied by the rustle of nylon and the clatter of gear falling to the ground.

Liz could hear Paul whispering nearby in his tent, but she couldn't make out the words.

“No, I got it!” Brensen said. “I can take care of my own tent!”

Paul hissed, “I'm not offering to help out of charity, you pompous idiot. I just want your lights off so we can sleep.”

“So there's a curfew out here?”

“Sadly, no, but perhaps wilderness permits should require mental health screening. Good night.”

Liz stuck her face into her pillow to stifle her laughter. Dante, suppressing a laugh as well, kissed the top of her head and wished her a good night.

She slept, then, a dreamless sleep, which lasted unbroken until dawn. She awoke, warm in her bag, and gazed at the tent ceiling, a few feet away, as it slowly changed from dark amber to yellow. Outside, a chipmunk, or a squirrel, sprinted in hesitant bouts: feet scuttling, silence, more scuttling, silence.

Yesterday had been revelatory—twice. In the wee hours, with the howling wind as her orchestra, she had screamed her confession to Dante, and survived. She supposed she'd always known she would survive it—that was simply rational—but had feared the emotional fallout from exposing her secrets. She had been a coward. The way she had chosen to move forward, to live her life, was to push away her culpability and guilt. Until yesterday, she had chosen to be a fraud and hide behind the unassailable veneer of a tragically dead husband.

But everything that keeps you comfortable keeps you from being known. And Dante said he wanted to know her. Finally, she wanted that, too, for better or for worse. He was struggling to understand what had happened in her marriage, as was she. He would judge her according to whatever principles he chose to apply. She had no control over it.