The Middle of Somewhere(77)

She’d posed this question to herself countless times over the seven miles since the bridge. All the logical answers had been the same: there was no reason not to continue. She’d come a long way—over a hundred eighty miles—and following the McCartneys over Kearsarge Pass to civilization would serve no purpose. Unless she simply wanted to quit. Unless the threat of stormy weather—both outside the tent and within her—had proven unbearable. Unless she believed the Root brothers posed a true threat to her safety.

“Liz?”

The amber glow through the tent fabric was fading fast. She could barely make out his face. The merest glint of diffused light was caught in the dark pools of his eyes.

“You want to, don’t you, Dante?”

“I do. God help me.”

Words formed on her lips. They may have arisen from an atypical impulse to follow instead of lead. Dante wanted to finish, and so should she. Days ago he promised her he would and was ready to keep his word, despite everything. (Well, perhaps not everything. He didn’t know everything.)

Her answer might have signaled resignation to her fate. She had never believed in fate, nor understood its attraction. But so little of what had happened on this hike seemed within her control; she may have to alter her view. At the very least, she could throw away her map and her compass. The trail, and all the forces it represented, were leading her inexorably south.

Really her answer was straightforward. It was what she had planned. What she had wanted. And it was certainly the rational choice.

“Me, too.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX





She zigzagged between wakefulness and sleep, falling into dreams that transmuted into nightmares. She’d jolt awake, or claw her way out of the dream, but snippets hung in her consciousness like spiderwebs, forestalling both relief and rest. The nightmares told no story. Kaleidoscopes of crumbling mountains, poisonous water, falling bodies (hers? or perhaps her mother’s?), storms that made rivers run red and the earth beneath her feet alive with sparks, maps that could not be read and trails that wound in circles or led to the collapsing edge of a bottomless void. Within the arena of her dreaming mind, she had no agency and no hope, only fear. She was pure soulless adrenaline.

After each nightmare, her heart pounded and sweat ran off her forehead. She shivered in the dark of the tent until the hum of Dante’s breathing gradually restored her and she fell into another dream. Finally, after what seemed like hours, her exhausted body prevailed and the cycle ended. From then until morning, she slept as if her fuse had been yanked out.

She awoke to brilliant light and shielded her eyes with her hand. The veils of sleep lifted from her mind and she realized it was so bright inside the tent because the fly was gone. She sat up, confused, and noticed Dante and his sleeping bag had also disappeared. Anxiety nudged her wider awake and she recalled, vaguely, having had nightmares. She pulled off her hat—why was it so hot?—shucked off her bag and knelt at the door, her fingers on the zipper. She smelled coffee and released the breath she’d been holding. Crises in the wilderness were never served with coffee.

“Dante?”

He stuck his head into the vestibule. “Good morning! You slept in. It’s nearly eight thirty.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I spread the fly out in the sun. It’s almost dry. You want your coffee in there?”

“No, I’m coming.”

She crawled out of the tent and crossed to a clump of trees a dozen yards away to pee. When she returned, she found Dante poring over the map. She kissed the top of his head and retrieved her coffee from a rock where he had set out bowls of granola and milk. The coffee was lukewarm but after two sips her mind began to clear. She looked out across the lake, mirror-still but for the rings of feeding trout. The mountains were bathed in sunlight, the pines in sharp silhouette, everything scoured clean by the rain. Above, the sky was a vault of blue. Nothing broke the stillness.

“Beautiful morning,” she said.

“It is.”

“Did you see Paul and Linda go by?”

“No, but I’m sure they are over Glen Pass by now.” He looked up from the map. “What do you think? Should we camp close to Forester Pass tonight?”

“Forester already?” As soon as she said it, she knew it had to be. This morning, Glen Pass. Forester, the highest pass before the ascent to Whitney’s summit, was next. After that, a night near Wallace Creek, then the last campsite before the final climb to Whitney. Three more nights. It hadn’t registered before how near they were. “I think there are a couple spots next to a tarn”—she moved behind him and pointed it out on the map—“there. At the origin of Bubbs Creek.” Bubbs Creek. Woods Creek. The Woods Creek bridge. Brensen. She clasped her cup in both hands and lowered herself onto a log.