The Middle of Somewhere(31)

“And you memorized them all?”

“They are fascinating creatures. At least on paper.”

While she filtered water, Dante examined the map. “Squaw Lake, Warrior Lake, Chief Lake, Papoose Lake, Lake of the Lone Indian. How charming to have a theme. Oh, here’s another one.”

“Teepee Lake?”

“No.”

“Native American Lake?”

“I think this was pre-P.C.”

“Casino Lake?”

“No. It’s Brave Lake.”

“I was about to guess that.” She pointed at the darkening sky. “We need to make tracks. Those clouds mean business.”

“Silver Pass is only another mile and a half. Then again, it’s a doozy. Almost eleven thousand feet.”

“Hi-ho, Silver.”

Liz set a blistering pace to the pass. Her arms worked like pistons, pushing down and behind on her trekking poles to take a portion of the strain off her legs. She’d been hiking nearly a week now, and was stronger and lighter than she had been at the start. She had adapted somewhat to the altitude, although when climbing rapidly up a steep grade, she would have paid good money for more oxygen.

Dante, she could tell, was suffering. He hadn’t put in the miles she had. But he was doing his best not to fall behind and wasn’t complaining about his feet or anything else. She hoped he could keep it up until they got over the pass, and down the other side, because with the possibility of a thunderstorm brewing, she couldn’t imagine waiting up.

They left the tree line behind and pushed onward. In a short while, they passed an overweight man resting against a boulder taking photographs—the first person they’d seen all day. They exchanged greetings but didn’t pause to talk. Liz considered warning him that, if he was going to go over the pass, he should hurry, but figured anyone could see what those clouds meant.

She reached the top first and strode across the small flat area to see what lay on the other side.

“Shit.” She had hoped for a protected area—with lots of trees—closer to this side of the Silver Divide, an east-west ridge. Instead, what she saw was a barren plain stretching for miles. In the center was the trail, a line drawn down the middle of a page.

Dante appeared next to her.

“Congrats, amigo,” she said. “Your first real pass.”

He swept his hand in an arc. “It’s fantastic.”

And it was. She had been so preoccupied with the weather she hadn’t taken in the view. The long, sloping escarpment, dotted with stands of whitebark pine and tiny lakes, gave way to row upon row of granite crests. Above them, the clouds, paler in the distance and also stacked in rows, cast bands of sunlight and deep shadow onto the mountains, highlighting the relief.

Liz felt small, and fortunate.

A raindrop landed on her arm.

“Time to boogie.”

They scrambled down the switchbacks on the steep south face of the Divide, gravel crunching underfoot as they descended. At every turn, Liz glanced at the darkening sky. She wished the switchbacks would end so she could put distance between herself and what the clouds foretold. She needed to go away, not just down. She dared not go faster, though, and risk a fall. A long fall.

At last they arrived at the open slope tilting downhill toward the forest. Silver Pass Lake lay on their right, but even from the trail they could see there was nowhere to camp. Not during a storm. Liz looked over her shoulder at the pass where inky clouds had formed a solid shroud. Midafternoon and it was as dim as dusk. She picked up her pace.

Dante called out from behind. “It’s okay, Liz!”

A crack of thunder rang across the plain. She cried out. A wave of panic flowed through her and sloshed in her stomach. She concentrated on the trail in front of her and fought the urge to throw herself on the ground and cover her head with her arms as she had in Bandelier when she was small.

Dante was at her heels. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

She was not fine. Several oversize raindrops fell. Above the pass, the thunder rolled and boomed. Her heart beat in her throat. She was compelled now not to prostrate herself, but to flee. She would have broken into a run, but her pack was too heavy. Instead, she strode as if she was cross-country skiing, poles flying out behind her.

A gust of wind carried the smell of ozone past her.

The rain fell harder and the wind picked up. Her thighs and shirtfront were soaked. She tucked her chin as rain needled her face, eyes glued on the trail. From the pass, the plateau had appeared immense. Here, with the storm chasing her like a runaway train, it was endless. Her breath was loud in her ears as she fought to ignore the burning in her legs. She hoped Dante had not fallen behind but she dared not turn to face the storm clouds.