The Middle of Somewhere(56)

“You’re right. That makes no sense.”

“Unless they were after Brensen.”

“Why would they be after Brensen? You sound like a conspiracy terrorist.”

“Theorist.”

“What?”

“Conspiracy theorist. Not terrorist.”

“Who cares, Liz!”

He was exasperated with her. She couldn’t blame him, not after last night. She had half expected to be relieved having unburdened herself of a secret she’d held for years, but she wasn’t. She felt tenuous. And she couldn’t get the Roots out of her mind. “I’m just thinking aloud. Did you see Brensen at Evolution Lake?”

He shook his head.

“Me neither.” She took a bite of tortilla. “I kind of miss his bitching.”

Late that afternoon at Le Conte Canyon, they chose the largest of three campsites arrayed between the trail and the stream, the Middle Fork of the Kings River. The site was closer to the trail than she would have preferred, but they’d logged thirteen miles since Evolution Lake and it would do. A newly built rangers’ station was visible a hundred yards away, nestled among the pines on the other side of the narrow stream.

She erected the tent, crawled inside and fell asleep instantly. She awoke to low evening light. Tempted as she was to put her head down again and sleep until morning, hunger drove her outside. Dante wasn’t around, but he had set up the kitchen. She opened a bear can and grabbed a handful of trail mix. Other than the night at Muir Ranch, she hadn’t been full since they’d left Yosemite Valley ten days earlier. She’d gotten used to being somewhat hungry much of the time. But every once in a while, like now, if it wasn’t for the obligation of rationing, she’d have eaten her way through the contents of both bear cans. And then crawled into the tent for another nap. Eight hours a day of hard exercise had turned her into a lean animal—a large cat that walked across its expansive territory and, after feeding, slept for days. At least that was her fantasy.

She scouted the area for dry wood to burn. On her way back to camp with a small armload of kindling, she spied Dante with two men on the bridge spanning the creek south of the camping area. He shook hands with them and left. When he noticed Liz, he raised a fuel can in the air.

“You can return that wood to its native habitat. This is almost full.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“On the map I noticed there’s another trail not far from here, coming out of Bishop. I figured there’d be people doing short trips, so I asked everyone who came by and scored on the third group.”

“They just gave it to you?”

“They only had one night left, so I traded our nearly empty canister. I offered them five dollars, but they wouldn’t take it.”

She smiled. “I never thought of salesmanship as a wilderness skill before.”

“Wherever people are, there’s a deal to be made.”

She admired his ease with people and his trust in the practice of give and take. He assembled transactions the way she assembled objects. His skill was more delicate than hers, as no deal was ever made without emotion: loyalty to a product, or a person; love for an idea; jealousy in not getting everything; and pride. Pride was always at the table. Dante respected all these feelings when he made a sale, and recognized them in himself. It made him an invincible negotiator. She had no clue how he made it seem effortless.

They needed to conserve fuel on behalf of Paul and Linda, and had collected the wood, so they built a fire anyway. She demonstrated how to arrange the kindling upon the ashes within the stone circle and handed him the lighter. “Torch it.” Once the kindling caught, they angled larger pieces of wood against it.

“Wait a second,” he said, taking a branch from her hand. He examined the Y-shaped piece. “We have a spare bungee cord, don’t we?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. You’re about to see some real wilderness shit now.”

Within ten minutes he had fashioned a slingshot. He scoured the campsite and creek bed for ammunition and rejoined her at the fire. Selecting a golf ball–sized rock, he pointed at the roll of toilet paper he’d placed on a log fifteen feet away.

“I am no doubt—how do you say?—rusty.”

He cupped the rock in the sling made from a bandanna, raised it to eye level, squinted like an archer and released the rock. It hit the toilet roll with a soft thud.