The Middle of Somewhere(63)

Paul dressed Linda’s leg as best he could and gave her three ibuprofen. Liz and Dante offered to carry some of her belongings. At first Paul objected, but when Linda said they were in no position to refuse help on account of pride, he relented. They arranged to make camp near one another to facilitate returning Linda’s gear. And Liz suspected they all felt as she did: until they found out what, if anything, was causing all these mishaps, it wasn’t a bad idea to stick together.

At the top of the Golden Staircase, the terrain leveled out. The trail bent eastward along the base of the lofty peaks forming the Palisade Range, Disappointment Peak among them. Liz and the others crawled up and over a series of small rises, water crashing down a steep chute on their right. More than usual, she scanned the area ahead and above her. Her vigilant anxiety marred the beauty of the surroundings—the white noise of the river, the sweet smell of pine in the pure air, the unbroken sky of That Color—but she gave silent thanks that it appeared they would not have a storm to cope with that evening.

Lower Palisade Lake, like so many others she’d approached, came upon her all at once. The aquamarine surface stretched from her feet to a low saddle a half mile away, above which lay its twin: Upper Palisade Lake. Beyond it were the mountains containing Mather Pass, over twelve thousand feet. On her side of the lake, a slope comprised of ledges dotted with pines met the water gracefully. But the opposite side was a near vertical wall. Liz’s eyes followed its trajectory into the water. It was a deep, deep lake.

Dante had already abandoned his pack to search for a place to camp. She could tell Linda’s injury had shocked him, and he was undoubtedly eager to become absorbed in the duties of making camp, of creating shelter. She had the same impulse and wondered if this was the reason she felt energized once she’d pitched the tent each evening. Being on the move invited uncertainty. She never knew what was around the next corner, or over the next rise. She believed in her strength but could never be certain it would get her over these monumental passes. Walking multiplied the degrees of freedom, additional rolls of the dice that might engender a change of fate. A stream to cross (and perhaps fall in), a rock to misjudge (and perhaps twist an ankle), a willow grove to push through (and perhaps startle a bear). A set of switchbacks to climb (and perhaps succumb to falling rock).

Simply by stopping, the degrees of potentially dangerous freedom were reduced. When she lowered her pack to the ground at the end of the day, she knew where she would be for the next fifteen hours or so. Sure, the physical relief from throwing a thirty-pound monkey off her back was considerable, and certainly she looked forward to getting clean, eating and, finally, lying prone. But as she stood on the shore of Palisade Lake, she felt what she supposed was an ancient feeling: knowing she would not be wandering in the wilderness when night fell.

Dante waved to her from atop a ledge twenty feet above the lake, near its outlet. She joined him and he proudly showed her the site on the other side. Two flat areas for tents were separated by a stand of pines, the entire site nestled between the ledge and another wall of boulders.

“Good scouting, Tonto,” she said, then had to explain about The Lone Ranger.

After organizing the camp, they sat on the ledge where they could spot anyone coming along the trail. Liz took a handful of cashews and passed him the bag.

“What Paul did down there was pretty amazing,” she said. “The tent repair kit!”

“No kidding. He reminds me a lot of you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Very focused and calm. Resourceful. Injurious.”

“Injurious? The boulder was injurious. Do you mean ‘ingenious’?”

“Yes, my little genius.”

“Does that mean I’m free to perform surgery on you if necessary?”

“Absolutely.” He turned to her, suddenly serious. “I trust you.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but couldn’t form the words.

He answered her anyway. “I trust you, carina. Absolutely.”

She moved closer to him. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the majestic landscape before them, in a silence as deep as the lake.

The moment would have been perfect, but for the secrets she yet held from him. She wanted to believe if he could push aside one misstep, he could push aside others—he loved her that much. But an affair during an unhappy marriage, while serious, was much more forgivable than getting pregnant, not telling the father (with whom you lived), and doing away with the child—his child. And Dante had said he always wanted a family. Of course this made her all the more reluctant to tell him. He would, she was sure, have wanted the child. And they would have had to get married. Right away. Liz, who had barely come to terms with her decision to move in with him, could not contemplate, much less embrace, this chain of events. Dante’s reaction to her confession concerning Gabriel was more accepting than she expected. Had she known that, had she trusted him enough to tell him before she had gotten pregnant, she might have been able to be honest with him about it at the time. They might have had a conversation, or several conversations. They might never have agreed about starting a family, and she might have chosen to have an abortion anyway, but at least they would have walked through it and considered their options. Together.