The Walk (14 page)

I woke to strange voices. They were not speaking English. German or Lithuanian perhaps. (I don’t know why I thought that. I have no idea what Lithuanian sounds like.) Whatever the dialect, the voices were soon gone.

My legs were deservedly sore, and I stretched them as far as my sleeping bag would permit.

The air was cold enough that I could see my breath, which had condensed on the pitched vinyl roof of my tent in a plane of pregnant drops. As I sat up, I brushed the side of the tent, which brought down a shower of freezing droplets.

I opened my pack and lifted out my water and Pop-Tarts. I was famished and ate two full packages, four pastries in all. I reminded myself of Tolkien’s Hobbits, eating their elven lembas bread. Only my staple was Pop-Tarts. For the first time I wished I had brought something else.

I put on my parka, hat, and gloves, then climbed out of the tent. I walked to the edge of the water to shave, but it was freezing, so I prudently decided that one day’s growth wasn’t going to harm anyone.

I collapsed my tent and was packed up in just a matter of minutes. Even with sore legs, I was eager to get going. According to my map, Stevens Pass was about 8 miles up the road. There would be facilities there—a lodge,
restrooms, and restaurant. I was looking forward to stopping for some warm food and comfort, then crossing over to the other side of the mountain. The downhill side.

I climbed up out of the campground, threw away some trash in the camp’s garbage cans—empty water bottles and wrappers—then walked back out to the road, crossing over the falls that passed beneath.

In the morning light, I could clearly see the mountain rising ahead of me, white and silent. I was in its lap. My pack felt heavier than the day before, though I knew it wasn’t. I was just worn out.

In the next 3 miles, the road climbed to 2,600 feet, and the shoulders of the road were completely covered in snow, though fortunately the snowplows had pushed it back from the bike lane. My taupe hiking boots were stained dark umber, but they were dry inside (except for my sweat), and I was glad that I had taken the time to properly waterproof them.

After another hour of walking, I saw there was more than a foot of snow on the shoulders. I could tell I was getting closer to the summit as most of the cars that passed me were loaded down with skis and tubes. A man on foot looked ridiculously out of place.

There was a rise of another 1,000 feet between the falls and Stevens Pass—which is both the name of the mountain pass and the ski resort perched at its peak. I arrived by mid-morning. The sign outside the resort placed the elevation at 4,061 feet. In the past two days, I had climbed more than 2,500 feet.

The resort was crowded, and the snow-packed parking
lot north of the highway was filled nearly to capacity with traffic waiting on both sides of the street to enter.

I fell in with the bustling skiers and walked up to the lodge. The building was crowded with people milling about in brightly colored parkas and ski caps. I was no longer bothered by the crowds, though I felt no sense of belonging either.

I slid my pack off my shoulders and carried it inside the lodge. The first thing I did was use the resort’s restroom, which under the circumstance was an unspeakable luxury. Especially the hot water. I didn’t shave. The men’s room was too busy for that. But I took my time washing my hands and face in the warm water. Afterwards, I went to the restaurant to get something to eat.

The dining room was already crowded for lunch. I found a small, unoccupied table near the front window and laid claim to it with my pack. Then I went up to the counter where I grabbed a plastic tray, then ordered a large hot chocolate, a glazed donut, a double chili cheeseburger, and an extra-large order of cheese fries. The food was expensive compared to what I had been paying, and for the first time I used my debit card. I was happy that they accepted it as I had no idea how much money was in my account.

I carried my food back to the table and devoured it. When I finished eating, I got myself another tall hot choc
olate and an apple fritter. For the first time in my life such gluttony brought no guilt. I was steadily losing weight and would probably burn the calories off before dinner.

I took off my parka and hung it over the back of my
chair, then just sat, dunking the fritter in my cocoa and taking in the ambience. I wondered why McKale and I had never come here before.

At the table behind me, a pair of stylishly outfitted yuppie parents was trying to talk their little girl into going back out to ski. She didn’t want to and wasn’t shy about telling them or anyone else in the dining room. The room’s occupancy and noise level was such that hardly anyone paid attention to her screaming. The couple was helpless. They first bribed her with a Hello Kitty parka but quickly upped the ante with a karaoke machine, then, pulling out the big guns, went right for the puppy, but she was already out of control (though clearly in control of her parents) and past appeasement.

While I was musing over their dilemma, a short, bowling pin–shaped man with his ski bib pulled down to his waist waddled into the dining room. Something was familiar about his walk and shape. When he removed his ski goggles, my chest constricted. I immediately recognized the bright red hair and thin lips. (And ferretlike face.) It was Ralph, my former head of design and Kyle’s new partner.

He sat down only three tables away from mine where his wife and children were already eating. They were situated near the front door, and I had probably walked right by them on my way in. I was surprised that I hadn’t recognized his wife, Cheryl, but even more so that she was with him. Over the last year, I’d rarely seen them together, in part because she had no apparent interest in his
occupation, or him, but more likely because he was having an affair with a woman he met a year earlier at a graphics convention. I don’t know why his betrayal of me surprised me. Cheaters cheat. If he’d cheat on his wife, why should I assume he’d be loyal to me?

Anger warmed through me. I considered either punching him out or telling him off, and preferably both. But as I watched him interact with his wife and children, I decided against either. I was already treading water in an ocean of emotion, and an embarrassing showdown in front of his wife and kids—no matter how much he
deserved it—would not really make me feel better.

I took my Ray-Bans from my pack and slid them on, pulled down the brim of my hat, and became invisible. As I sipped my hot chocolate, both Ralph and Cheryl looked my way several times, but neither recognized me. Dressed like this, and with my furry face, I could be Brad Pitt and not be recognized.

Unfortunately, sitting that close to Ralph ruined my stay. I finished my cocoa, then put my parka back on and lifted my pack up over my shoulder. As I approached Ralph’s table, I heard him say to his oldest son, Eric, “Where did you get that thing?”

Eric, a straw-blond twelve-year-old, was playing with some kind of a radio and looked up defiantly. “Nowhere. Someone left it on that table.”

“Well, put it back,” Ralph said. “It’s not yours.”

“Take it easy,” Cheryl said. “He just found it.”

“I don’t care. It’s not his.”

The irony was too great to pass up. It was as if fate had handed me the assist. “He’s right,” I said to Eric. “You don’t want to take something that doesn’t belong to you. That would be wrong.” I looked at Ralph. “Wouldn’t it?”

Ralph and Cheryl looked at me, blinking with surprise. “Excuse me?” Ralph said.

“No, I won’t.” I leaned forward. “Remember, Ralphie, whether it’s Cheryl or me you’re cheating on, it’s all the same. The reward for cheating is you end up in bed with a cheater.”

I turned and walked out of the lodge, sure that Ralph’s eyes were glued to my back. He probably had figured out who I was, but I was the least of his problems now. At least he and Cheryl would finally have something to talk about.

The air braced my skin as I walked back outside and down to the road. The east side of the pass was all downhill, a decided advantage for hiking, except for the fact that the walking conditions on that side of the mountain were less favorable, and snow covered the lines marking the bike lane. I wasn’t sure if it was the eastern winds that had caused the unfavorable conditions on one side of the mountain, but the pass was the dividing line between King and Chelan County, so politics might have had more to do with it than weather. Even with the traction of my boots, I found the road slippery, and as I left the resort, I slipped and fell in front of a line of cars, which was more embarrassing than painful, and I hoped that Ralph wasn’t watching. I almost fell two other times, and I began mentally drafting a strongly worded complaint to the county roads department.

Fortunately, by late afternoon, the elevation had fallen to 2,800 feet, and the snow was considerably diminished on the road, gathered only in occasional crusted patches that I just stepped over.

My thoughts kept wandering back to my Ralph encounter. I wondered if Cheryl already knew he was cheating. I didn’t regret saying what I did. Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. I have no idea what that means, but it seemed especially apropos for a ski resort. At any rate, I could have done much worse.

At twilight, an Acura MDX that was headed down the mountain slowed down next to me and a blond teenage girl leaned out the passenger window. “Want a ride?” she asked. I guessed she’d been drinking. Coldplay blared from their stereo.

“No thank you.”

“Where you going?”

“Florida.”

“Where is he going?” the driver asked. She was also a teenage girl. I hoped she hadn’t been drinking. Just then a car pulled up behind their car, honked, then swerved around them.

“He said Florida,” the window blonde said.

The driver said something I couldn’t hear. Then the girl leaned back out the window. “We’ll drive you.”

“Thanks. I’d rather walk.”

She laughed. “Have fun.”

The car sped off.

After two more miles, there was no more snow on the road or shoulders, which I was especially pleased about since it was time to make camp. According to my map, there was a town ahead, but I wasn’t sure how far or how big it was, or even if there would be any place to stay. I hoped there would be. I was chilled to the core and desperately wanted a warm bath and a place to wash my sweat-stained clothes.

In spite of the time I spent lingering at the pass, I had covered a lot of ground—the most of any day so far—nearly 30 miles. My legs were okay, except my knees hurt a little from walking downhill.

As I came around a gradual bend in the road, I saw something set back through the trees. There was an unpaved, gravel pull-off, and not far behind it was a collection of dilapidated yellow shacks. They looked like they may have once been one-room rentals for skiers,
but they had obviously been deserted for many years. One of the shacks was completely collapsed, the roof now lying on the ground, its asphalt-tile roof covered in moss and leaves. The other structures were in varying degrees of disrepair.

There was something about the place that made me anxious, and as I approached the first shack, I had the sudden macabre thought that I might find something inside that I didn’t want to see. I suppose it reminded me of the kind of place serial killers hid things in True Crime stories. I didn’t know what made me think of that.

I looked inside the first structure. There were no bodies, but it was clear that I wasn’t the first human to find the
place. The interior was a man-sized rat’s nest. The room was filled with some bizarre junk—drained beer bottles, a molded mattress, an army jacket, the back seat of a Ford Pinto, a purple brassiere, empty plastic antifreeze bottles, and shredded newspapers.

I checked out the other shacks. They also had wood floors likewise heaped with their own eclectic contributions from past occupants. Two of them still had remnants of the original carpet—rotted and spotted black with mold like a leopard’s hide.

The windows were all broken out of them, and they offered only a little shelter, but there is something about a roof overhead that makes one feel more secure.

The shack I settled on was structurally the most sound of the four and had a fireplace that was still intact. I inspected the hearth and chimney, then gathered wood from one of the fallen structures and started a fire. The hearth was filled with wet leaves, and the chimney was partially clogged, so smoke backed up inside the room, which wasn’t much of a problem, since there were holes in the roof and walls.

The flame was a thing of beauty as the shack filled with heat and light. I wondered if anyone would notice the fire at night, but I didn’t worry about it. People driving by were going somewhere. They didn’t have time to care about such things.

I laid out my pad and sleeping bag, then rooted through my pack for dinner. There wasn’t much left to eat—an apple, jerky, trail mix, and two energy bars. I should have bought something at the resort; I had planned to, but I
was in a bit of a hurry to leave. I finished off the trail mix and jerky, then sat back and slowly ate my apple.