Starry Eyes(23)

“Why?” I ask.

“I have my reasons.”

“Which are . . . ?”

Lennon stares at his fudge for a long moment. Then he seems to change his mind about what he was going to say and hands me the open canister. “Get this. And maybe a bear bell,” he says, pointing to a display of big silver bells designed to be clipped to a backpack. “It gives bears a gentle warning that you’re in the area, so that you don’t surprise them. A surprised bear is a defensive bear, and a defensive bear kills.”

Is he serious? I think he is, but I’m not totally sure. And before I can ask for clarification or point out that he’s avoiding my question, he retrieves something from his pocket and dumps it inside the open canister. Then he walks away.

I look inside the canister. Sitting at the bottom is a square of peanut butter fudge wrapped in wax paper.

What am I supposed to think about this?

I retrieve the fudge and return the canister to the display shelf, abandoning Kingsly the Bear to catch up with the others. Just because Lennon cries bear vault, doesn’t mean I really need it. It’s insanely expensive. Besides, Lennon has a penchant for being super technical and obsessive about details. I think he’s exaggerating the urgency of bear protection.

Probably.

At the last second, I double back and grab a silver bear bell off the rack.

Better safe than sorry.





Part II





7




* * *



The monotonous fruit fields change to rugged foothills covered in lodgepole pine trees as we head west. When we turn off the highway, gray granite cliffs flank the twisting uphill road toward the national forest. Carved wooden signs with painted white lettering point the way to a variety of sights, each marked with distance and pertinent details:

CANYON WALK, 6KM. 3.5 HOUR RETURN.

SCEPTER PASS, 4KM. WEAPONS PROHIBITED.

BLACKWOOD LAKE, 10K. NO PETS. NO FIRES. OVERNIGHT STAY REQUIRES WILDERNESS PERMIT.

And then finally, our destination:

MUIR CAMPING COMPOUND: 2K. 1 HOUR RETURN. WHEELED VEHICLES PROHIBITED PAST PARKING AREA.

Wait, what?

“This is us,” Reagan reports, turning. I make a mental note of a High Sierra bus stop here and wonder if this is the route I’ll need to use to get to the star party on Condor Peak.

A small, paved parking area sits at the end of a rocky driveway. A dozen or so cars are parked here, most of them luxury vehicles. We find an open space near some wooden steps that lead into thick forest. Another sign sits near the steps, stating that the trail is private property and only for guests of the compound. People using the trail must fill out a form and deposit it inside a locked box.

There is no road past the parking lot.

“Get everything you’ll need,” Reagan reports. “Unless you want to spend all your time hiking back and forth to the car. The walk back is fine, but it’s all uphill to the compound.”

“We’re hiking to the compound?” I say, staring at the sign. “Two kilometers?”

Reagan gives me a labored look. “Don’t start, Everhart. I warned you about hiking.”

I’m not even that upset about the hike. It’s just unexpected, is all. “I didn’t—”

“How long is two kilometers?” Brett asks.

“It’s nothing,” Reagan tells him brightly.

“A little over a mile,” I elaborate.

“Oh, cool,” he answers, but he’s smiling at Reagan.

And Reagan is smiling back at him. “Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.”

Why are they smiling so big? Did I miss a joke? And now they’re high-fiving each other—hard enough to hear the smack of palm-on-palm. It’s so . . . goofy. Lennon’s head turns toward mine, and even though a fringe of black hair obscures one eye, a single dark brow rises in shared judgment of the stupid high five.

Or maybe he’s judging me.

We all fill out the trail registration cards at the information sign—in case anyone goes missing or gets murdered along the way, they’ll know your name and next of kin. And after Brett and Lennon haul down everyone’s stuff from the rooftop travel carrier, I’m soon reminded that I’m a human Weeble toy, barely able to stand under the misaligned weight of my backpack. But it’s not as if I can repack everything in the middle of the parking lot. So I do my best to strap it on and adjust my stance.

“Saddle up, team,” Reagan says loudly to the group. “Luxury awaits us at the end of the trail.”

It’s just two kilometers, I tell myself. And the woods are pretty amazing, all shady and smelling of pine needles. Birds are chirping, and it’s not too warm. I can do this. About five minutes up the first steep hill, I begin to have doubts. Ten minutes up an even steeper incline, I’m picturing Reagan with one of those prospector axes from the general store lodged in her skull. By the time we reach the final stretch toward the compound, I’m just wishing I could drop into a fetal position.

The sign for Muir Camping Compound appears, and I nearly weep when I spot a big building inside a break in the trees. My head is sweating, and I’ve been walking uphill in a hunched-up position for so long, I’m a hundred-year-old woman with osteoporosis.

But it doesn’t matter. The promised land is in front of me, and by God, it may have been worth all that misery, because the compound is gorgeous. A modern cedar lodge sits at the forefront: walls of enormous windows, fat timber beams, stacked-stone fireplaces jutting from the roof. Lush forest surrounds it. Jagged mountains in the distance. The whole scene looks like something out of a dream. We head inside.