The Middle of Somewhere(32)

Rain continued to fall in sheets, but the thunder grew no closer. They descended out of the plain, and the widely spaced clumps of whitebark pine gave way to heftier lodgepole pine. No longer a bull’s-eye for lightning, Liz slowed down. After a short while, the trail wound across a boulder-strewn hill and dropped to run alongside a small stream.

She shouted over the wind. “What about somewhere here?”

“Looks good.”

The rain turned to hail. The pellets stung her bare arms and bounced off the ground like jumping beans. She ducked off the trail, into the woods bordering the stream. Dante followed. They picked their way among rocks and fallen trees. A hundred yards along was a campsite. Liz threw off her pack, the hail pecking at her exposed back, and found her rain jacket. She put it on, and zipped it up. The hail stopped. In the distance, a low growl of thunder.

Dante listened, rain jacket in hand. Another grumble, farther away. The storm was leaving, at least for now. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at the sky. “Is that it? Is that all you’ve got?”

Liz dropped her head back and yelled, “So long, sucker!”

Dante grinned at her, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Drops of rain, or sweat, dripped from the bill of his cap. He stepped closer and brushed the hail from the brim of her hat. “Hail Lizzy, full of grace.”

She laughed, relief flowing through her like a storm-fed river.

“It crossed my mind,” he said, “that if we could arrange for more thunderstorms, we could be done with the whole thing in three days.”

“Right. But I doubt my heart could take it.”

They set up camp, marveling at what a superb site they’d stumbled upon. Nestled in the trees, they had a view of the clearing through which the trail wound. The stream was nearby and there were two large logs for drying clothes and sitting. For hors d’oeuvres, Dante cut them each a chunk of hard salami and a piece of cheese.

He pointed at several birds hopping among stones at the edge of the clearing. “Look! It’s a flock of gray-crowned rosy-finches.”

“Really? Should we be excited?”

“This is their typical habitat, but I’ve never seen one before.”

“Well, you keep an eye on them. You know what gray-crowned rosy-finches are like. I’m going to the river to wash off the day.”

While drying her feet on the riverbank, she heard voices. She rinsed out her underwear (she wore her clean ones; these were for tomorrow), collected her things and returned to camp. Dante was near the clearing with the Root brothers, who, judging by their sodden clothing, had been caught in the same storm. To her dismay, Rodell and Payton headed into the woods, and began to search for a place to camp. She prayed there wasn’t a flat rectangle of ground for miles.

Either she hadn’t prayed hard enough or had addressed the wrong gods, because within five minutes, Payton lowered his pack and Rodell followed suit. They weren’t forty feet away. She thought about suggesting to them, in the friendliest manner possible, that perhaps in these millions of square miles of wilderness there might be another ten-by-ten-foot spot for them tonight. But she couldn’t see doing it. There was no rule, other than common courtesy, about camping in someone else’s bubble. As long as it was a legitimate campsite (no vegetation, previously used, not on top of a water source), they had the right to camp wherever they pleased. And, when it came right down to it, even if it weren’t a legitimate site, she’d hesitate to say anything. She wasn’t a vigilante preservationist. Especially not when it came to a standoff with the Root brothers.

Thank God Dante was here.

She organized her pack and sneaked glances at the neighbors. In contrast to her and Dante, who divided their chores, the Roots worked in tandem. Rodell held one end of the ground cloth and Payton the other, lowering it to the ground like a prayer mat. Instead of a tent, they had a tarpaulin anchored at the corners with trekking poles. Rodell telescoped the poles for the head end so the tarp slanted toward their feet. They chatted in low voices as they worked, and laughed several times. When the shelter was finished and they’d filled it with mattresses and bags, Payton laid a hand on Rodell’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. They were kind to each other; Liz had to give them that. And Rodell looked up to Payton, his big brother. It was written in every gesture.

She wished, not for the first time, for a sibling. The closest thing she had had growing up was Brioche, her marmalade cat. One of her storybooks featured a cat named Muffin, so Liz asked her mother for names of fancy muffins. She rejected Danish, Cupcake and Bearclaw, seriously considered Fritter, and finally settled on Brioche. Brioche was compliant enough and tolerated dress-up, patiently listened to stories and never tired of games of chase. Still, Liz would have preferred her own species. A half sibling would have sufficed. They could have shared holidays and vacations and a parent, whom they could have fought over and complained about. Her girlfriends were the next best thing to a sister, and she was grateful for them. They all had siblings, and often two dedicated parents, in addition to her friendship. An embarrassment of riches.