The Middle of Somewhere(61)

Today’s hike was a case in point. Mather Pass (the highest yet at twelve thousand one hundred feet) was fourteen and a half miles away. The map showed a massive basin on the far side. After the pass, a hiker might have to continue for a few more miles to find a protected site. But, a mile or two shy of this side of the pass were the Palisade Lakes, tucked into a partially forested canyon with ample shelter. She expected to see familiar (if not welcome) faces there.

In an hour they reached Grouse Meadows, where the river spread wide and smooth. Mist clung to the tall grasses, waiting for the sun to gain strength and unravel it into the sky. Here the abundance of water had helped the wildflowers stretch their summer into fall. Periwinkle blue lupine, red Indian paintbrush and creamy yarrow bordered the trail. Liz pointed out a mariposa lily, a delicate tulip-shaped blossom on a slender stalk, the inside of its three white petals touched at their base with a dab of maroon. As they returned their attention to the trail, a deer crossed not fifteen feet in front of them, unhurried.

Liz caught Dante’s eye and smiled. If only they could be alone this way for the whole trip, sharing these simple, exquisite moments. She considered suggesting they follow a different route, forget the JMT and leave the Roots (and Brensen and the McCartneys) to wonder where they’d gone. But in her heart she held out hope they could finish the trek as planned, and experience it on their terms. They’d just keep their distance from the brothers as much as they could.

At the next trail junction, they turned east into the Palisade Creek valley. The trail climbed more steeply, and soon they left the pine forest behind and emerged onto a rocky slope. Quaking aspen bordered the creek and spread as high up the mountainsides as they dared. It was the largest stand of aspen they’d seen—a field of green and gold trembling in the morning breeze. Out in the open, the sun roasted them. Sweat broke out on their backs and foreheads. They climbed ever higher, and the temperature moved into the low eighties. By early afternoon they arrived at the base of the Golden Staircase, the last section of the JMT to be built.

“I’m guessing they didn’t save the easiest for last,” Dante said, craning to make out the route.

“Fifteen hundred feet, straight up.” The cragged wall rose before her like a medieval skyscraper. Stare as she might, she couldn’t make out the trail.

They rested frequently to drink in gasping gulps and take in the view. Palisade Creek, from this perspective a strip of dark green, took the direct route to the valley from which rose the Black Divide. Instead of the typical silver granite, these peaks were carved of charcoal and ebony, accentuating their contrast with the sky they thrust upward to meet.

The mostly dry and rocky trail was interrupted by rivulets flowing from unseen waters above, creating patches where grasses and wildflowers took hold—miniature oases amidst rock slabs and talus chunks. Halfway up, the switchbacks began. Liz took off her pack and Dante followed suit. He pointed downslope.

“Two people coming up. Paul and Linda?”

“I think so. Boy, they’ve made up some time on us.”

“Good thing they’re not the ones we’re trying to avoid. They’re rabbits.”

She thought, not for the first time today, that Payton and Rodell were fast hikers as well, having arrived at Le Conte Canyon before anyone. Then she realized they may not even have slept at Muir Ranch. While everyone assumed the Roots were headed for a doctor, they could have been en route to Evolution Valley. As for today, they might be behind or ahead, and it worried her not to know which.

They admired the view for a few minutes more, and continued upward, crossing the headwall from one side to the other like a shoelace being guided through a tall boot. Looking toward the top, Liz could discern perhaps two switchbacks above her, but beyond them the scramble of rocks yielded no clues.

Dante paused at a corner, a sheer wall forty feet high looming behind him. “How much farther do you think?”

She stared downhill. “Maybe another third?” Paul was taking a photograph several switchbacks below. Linda was beside him. She tipped her head back, drinking deeply from an orange Nalgene.

A scraping sound came from above. Liz, in the center of a switchback, oriented to it, searching for movement. A boulder the size of a basketball tumbled over a ledge some thirty feet up, and bounced with a crash, sending smaller rocks cascading toward her. She scurried backward as the boulder flew by, missing her by a foot before hitting below the trail and dislodging more rocks.

“Look out!” she shouted.