The Last to Vanish(26)
Still, I had to get back out there, and this was as good a time as any. But I was struck by an extra surge of nerves, and I wasn’t sure whether it was from the prolonged time away, or Trey’s presence, or the images on Farrah’s camera. The feeling that there were secrets here.
I performed one last check of my gear, trying to get back in the habit:
Bear spray in the side compartment of my pack, which had never had to be deployed, and was probably expired by now. Snacks and metal bottles full of water and a pre-packed first aid kit. A small poncho rolled up in case of rain; a knife, folded up, in the outer pocket of my hiking pants.
Most of my gear had been acquired from the lost and found bin we kept in the storage area of the basement, full of the clothes and supplies that guests had forgotten over the years. We labeled what we knew of—if something was left in a room, we’d place it in a bag with their name, in case they called. But after enough time had passed, those items, too, joined the bin with what had been abandoned in common areas across the property.
Our guests left behind brand-name gear I could’ve never afforded on my own, and the consistency with which they did not seem to miss it was something I still couldn’t get used to. When I started working here, Celeste had told me to help myself to anything I needed—I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay, couldn’t justify buying anything on my own—and this pack was the first thing I’d claimed, from the place it had been buried, for who knows how long, all the way at the bottom. The pack was a dark beige, so you couldn’t tell whether it was particularly dirty, and the straps had a bright orange threading running down the center. The only imperfections were the label that had torn off the back, leaving a darker rectangle underneath, and a broken zipper clasp on the smallest pocket. I’d threaded an orange zip tie through the loop of the zipper, and then it felt like mine. It continued to serve me well a decade later.
I rarely brought my phone on hikes; it was pointless, since there was no service from the span of the inn to the intersection with the Appalachian. But this morning I slid it into the other pocket of my pants, thinking of Farrah’s pictures. Wondering if I could try to stand in that same spot, see what it was she was looking for, capture that same image, and feel what must’ve happened next.
Then I laced up my boots, hoisted the bag onto my shoulders, and passed Georgia’s room on the way out, where the blare of her alarm clock was cutting through the sound of the radio.
Upstairs, the lobby was empty, but I saw a shadow through the glass of the front doors, shifting back and forth. I left Georgia a note beside the computer, still shut down: Went on AM hike with guest. I couldn’t bring myself to leave his name. Then I added two hash marks to tally the walking sticks we’d be bringing and grabbed one from the barrel. The sticks wouldn’t really be necessary today, but I knew Trey had one already, and I didn’t want to be without my own. There was a safety in the grip, in the solid wood. An extra layer of protection against both falling and predators.
I stepped outside and found him waiting, as the sky was lightening in shades of pinkish purple behind him. He looked, somehow, like he’d slept, which I didn’t think was possible. He had his own bag, which didn’t look new, but also didn’t look like it was best suited for a day trek—it was mostly empty, built more for camping, meant to carry a sleeping bag, a tent. And he wore those same hiking boots that had squealed against the lobby floor, a telltale sign of disuse. He would probably have blisters by the time we reached the falls.
“Ready?” I asked.
Trey stepped to the side, letting me take the lead as we veered right from the entrance of the parking lot—in the opposite direction from town. There was no paved road here, but loose gravel gradually gave way to a dirt trail marked by time and use. People sometimes tried to park here, tucked just out of sight, and there was an old dirt-streaked sedan there now, with a bumper sticker of a multicolored peace sign.
The air was crisp and the sun was rising behind us, casting the trees in an eerie glow, shadows stretching into the distance. I heard nothing but the sound of the morning birds, our steady breathing, and our steps falling in unison as we approached the wooden sign for the trailhead.
The letters were carved into the wood post, just before the tree line. I stopped once, gazed over my shoulder, and had to shield my eyes from the rays of light coming up over the inn.
“This,” I told Trey, “is the last place Farrah Jordan was seen.” I imagined her feet planted into this very earth. The others who had stood here before and felt the pull of what awaited just inside the tree line. Her thinking, Just one step. Just one more. Just a little farther—
“How far to the falls?” he asked.
“It’s about two and half miles,” I said. And then, imagining Farrah taking a step across some unseen threshold, I did the same.
The trail started in a steady, gradual incline before dipping down toward the falls. We had only been walking about five minutes when Trey stopped. He had turned around, staring back at the trees and rhododendron, our path narrowing. “You can’t even see the exit anymore,” he said, with the vegetation pushing tighter and tighter, a tunnel-like descent.
“It happens fast,” I said, the foliage growing in thicker each year, and every spring, a volunteer team coming through to keep nature from encroaching too far. Making sure the ground beneath the flat rocks that worked as steps hadn’t eroded too much; checking that the path was wide enough; adding a fresh flash of yellow paint to a tree trunk at each switchback, to mark the way.