The Middle of Somewhere(78)

Dante regarded her. “Are you all right?”

“Just thinking about Brensen. I’d forgotten until now.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking of him, too.” He folded the map and handed it to her. “Do you know if he had children?”

Her fingers paused for a beat on the smooth, plasticized paper before taking it from him. “No. I mean, I don’t know.”

“It’d be especially sad if he did.”

“Yes, it would.” She stood and tucked the map into her pocket. “Thanks for getting everything ready, Dante. And I’m sorry I’m so late. Let’s eat, okay?”

They broke camp as quickly as they could and set off. The Rae Lakes sat at ten thousand five hundred feet and Glen Pass, two miles ahead, was a few feet shy of twelve thousand. They climbed steadily across talus slopes and wide granite slabs, pausing only to admire the changing view of the lakes below. More lakes appeared, tucked into the folds of mountains’ cloaks, bottle green remnants of last winter’s snow. Liz pictured everything around her blanketed in drifts of snow and wondered how anyone, or anything, could find its way through a boundless nowhere of white upon white. Perhaps the peaks and, at night, the stars above, were enough.

The pass was a knife edge. Talus tumbled precipitously down either side. The wind howled up the north side and over the gap. Liz and Dante stopped a moment for one last look behind them, then continued down switchbacks winding through rough scree until they found a windbreak. They shared a liter of water and some trail mix, and resumed their descent.

Below the tree line, the trail softened. They walked together through sparse lodgepole forest on a gentle downhill course. They had become so accustomed to their packs, it felt like a day hike. In a few hours, they might return to the trailhead parking lot and discuss what they should have for dinner on the ride home. Liz allowed this illusion to infuse her, and something akin to happiness lightened her step further.

They had lunch at an intersection. To the left was the trail the McCartneys would have taken earlier toward Kearsarge Pass and the Onion Valley trailhead. To the right was the way down to Charlotte Lake and another ranger station. As they ate, they talked about where Paul and Linda might be at that moment and whether there was any point whatsoever in seeking out the ranger.

“I’ve come to the conclusion they are mythical creatures,” Dante said. “Like the Yeti.”

“What about the one at Lyell Canyon?”

“A clever avatar, perhaps. Or a mirage.”

“Maybe they’re all together at a party. A ranger rave.”

“Yes. Drinking home-brewed beer and swapping stories about ignorant hikers.”

“And the worst thing they ever found at a campsite.”

He grimaced and put a hand on his belly. “Stop right there.”

Liz laughed for the first time in days, and Dante joined in, his tanned skin crinkling around his eyes. Their laughter died down, then stopped abruptly. Liz was thinking of a ranger finding Brensen wrapped in his tent, and she could see Dante was, too.

She bent her head as a swirl of emotion moved through her. “The authorities in Independence will know about him by the end of the day. I say we stick to the trail.”

“Agreed.” He reached for her hand. “And I’m so sorry, carina, that your trip has not been as you dreamed.”

She smiled at his kindness, and at the notion that this trip was ever about fulfilling a dream. She’d sought clarity, solitude, escape and, under duress, the purge of confession. It was hardly the stuff of dreams.

They finished lunch and continued their descent on a south-facing slope toward Center Basin, a broad, sloping valley between the towers of East and West Vidette peaks. The afternoon sun bore down on them and they stopped at the crossing of Bubbs Creek to refresh their water bottles and themselves. The creek stayed on their right for most of the day, at times so close they felt spray from the cascades, other times so far below the trail Liz wondered if they might run short of drinking water. On the western slope, the aspens burned gold in the sun, quivering in wisps of breeze. The pines shaded the trail until late afternoon when Liz and Dante emerged onto a boulder-strewn plateau. The heat climbed onto their backs, and wrapped itself around them like swaddling cloth.

They spoke little. Liz concentrated on the trail in front of her, or on the sky, a blue as deep as a lake. The business of walking, and of ignoring the heat and her growing exhaustion, occupied her completely. They stopped to talk with the handful of hikers they passed. None were going past the Woods Creek bridge, so neither Liz nor Dante mentioned Brensen. They’d agreed earlier there was no point in casting a pall on someone’s hike without reason. By now Liz thought it likely Brensen’s death was accidental, and that she’d suspected the Roots only because of their interest in her. Nevertheless, she found herself rounding blind corners with a measure of caution and was relieved whenever the trail ahead of her was empty. The last time they’d seen Payton and Rodell was two days before at Lake Marjorie—a lifetime ago—and she hoped their paths would not cross again.