The Middle of Somewhere(14)

She’d been excited about the day’s hike—the first on her own—but the trail conspired against her. Now that she had left Yosemite National Park and entered the Ansel Adams Wilderness, she could plainly see which organization had more money for trail maintenance. The footing was rough, even dangerous in places, and absorbed so much of her attention that she could not enjoy the walk. In places, stone steps had been cut into the slope but were sized for mules, not people. She was forced to use her poles as crutches, bracing before each long step and lowering herself down. On other sections, the trail consisted of grapefruit-sized rocks with sharp edges, which shifted and ground against each other as she trod on them. She worried about twisting an ankle.

The poor trail persisted all morning. She stopped at midday above Thousand Island Lake to eat and give her feet a short break.

The trail might have been brutal, but the scenery did its best to compensate. The lake lay at the base of Banner Peak, the most glamorous mountain Liz had seen so far. Unlike the pale gray granite predominant in the Sierra, this mountain was dark as charcoal, dialing up the contrast on both the deep blue sky and the white of the snow traces along its ridge. The peak and the lake, sapphire blue and dotted with rocky islands, reminded her of those drawn in the final chapter of a storybook, the land in which the heroine finds the object of her quest.

You’re not going to complete your quest sitting on your ass, she thought.

As she closed her backpack, a bearded man approached, heading the way she had come. He was about her age and moved with the steady gait of a seasoned hiker. They exchanged greetings, and he asked where she was going.

“Mount Whitney.”

“Yeah? I’m doing the whole thing, too. In the other direction, obviously.” Nearly everyone who attempted the JMT traveled southward, as Liz was, to avoid climbing the highest mountain in the continental U.S. on the first day.

“That’s good. Because the trail’s going to wear funny unless people walk it both ways.”

He laughed. They chatted for a few minutes about trail conditions and campsites, then the man pointed over her shoulder. “Looks like there might be weather in our future.”

She pivoted. Sizable cumulus clouds had gathered to the north, some with bruise-colored undersides. Overhead were just a few small clouds, but she reminded herself to be vigilant. She asked the man if he would attempt to go over Donahue Pass today.

“Not if those clouds mean business. I’m not in that much of a hurry.”

As if to punctuate his meaning, a gust of wind pushed past them with a low whistle. The surface of the lake turned dull. Liz wished him a safe hike and, strapping on her pack, resumed her descent toward whatever patch of ground she’d call home tonight.

Liz had hiked and backpacked in the southern Sierra—near Mineral King and all around Kings Canyon National Park—but never here in the north. She had been avoiding Yosemite and the area she was now traversing because of crowds, and because, when she’d lived in Santa Fe and Los Angeles, the southern hikes were closer. As she skirted the shore of Thousand Island Lake, ever more scenic with clouds casting dramatic shadows, she realized that places this gorgeous were crowded for a reason.

She had first planned to hike the JMT seven years ago, when she was married to Gabriel. They had done a few short backpacking trips together while they were dating, but nothing approaching this marathon. Gabriel postponed the trip several times for one reason or another. Two seasons went by before she realized it would never happen, and it had nothing to do with hiking. By then their marriage was unraveling, without discussion or argument. To this day, she didn’t know whether Gabriel had seen the end for them coming. But this was clear: the day he knew for certain was also, and not by coincidence, the day he died.

Until late June, when she and Dante attended Gabriel’s sister’s wedding, Liz thought what had happened with Gabriel was behind her, like Tuolumne Meadows and Donahue Pass. She had believed, or at least hoped, that if she kept walking, the past would disappear beyond the horizon, and she could carve a new path, with Dante. She had been wrong. She’d lost her bearings, and twisted in on herself, entangled and bound tight, unable to gauge the direction of the wind or the magnitude of the coming storm.





CHAPTER FIVE





The first raindrops fell as she arrived at Garnet Lake. A group of young Japanese girls huddled around their GPS unit, which was powered by a solar panel the size of a magazine attached to the top of a pack. Liz almost asked if they needed help, but decided against it. The trails were well marked. The only reason she consulted her map was to assess her progress and learn the names of peaks, rivers and passes.