The Middle of Somewhere(89)

Liz shook her head to dispel the image and scooped coffee into the first cup. The tremor in her hand rattled the spork against the edge. She breathed deep into her lungs, forcing her hand to be still. There wasn’t enough coffee to waste.

She sat waiting for the water to boil, and thought of her mother at home in Santa Fe, standing in front of her easel, surrounded by color and light. The image calmed her—Claire was content—but Liz was also struck by the irony that her lesson in the comfort of routine should come from Claire, whose thirst for freedom through art trumped schedules of any kind. Maybe in times of crisis everyone, even the highest-flying kite, returns to Earth and the complacency of time and order. Either that or go mad. Liz poured water in the cups and stirred.

“Coffee’s ready,” she said.

Dante was folding his clothes and sniffed his sleep shirt. “I’m going to throw everything away when I get home.”

Liz held her cup in both hands. She stared at him a moment, then got up and walked to the edge of the meadow, unable to guess whether “home” included her. A knot formed in her belly. She wished she could be alone, to think about what she wanted to say, what she wanted to do. She wished she could start this trip again. But why stop there? Why not rewind the clock further? To before the abortion, or before Etta’s wedding. Or before Gabriel’s death. Before Gabriel. She laughed at herself. She might run out of life before she ran out of regret.

Dante appeared beside her with his coffee. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE





After they ate and packed, Liz and Dante consulted the map. The John Muir Trail continued south from Wallace Creek another four miles to an intersection, then veered due east six and a half miles to the Whitney Trail junction. There, the north fork led in two miles to the summit of Mount Whitney. The south fork led in a half mile to Trail Crest, a pass of 13,650 feet, then continued another nine miles to Whitney Portal, a trailhead with a campground, store and small restaurant. Most hikers, Liz informed Dante, camped near Guitar Lake their last night, eight miles from where they were sitting.

“How hard is the last day?” Dante said.

“Hard. Two to the Whitney Trail junction, where, if we were going to the summit, we’d drop our packs. The round-trip to the top from there is four miles.”

“But we’re skipping that.”

“Right. Another nine to the Portal, so eleven in all, with twenty-five hundred feet up and over five thousand down.”

He frowned and shook his head. The stress of the last few days told on his face. “But the Roots will be following us, or waiting for us.”

Liz’s chest constricted. Thousands of miles of wilderness, and they were trapped.

Dante bent over the map. “Is there another way out?”

Liz pointed to trails leading out of the Kern drainage. “We could go out this way, but it’s a lot longer. Also, the way we’re headed is the popular route. Even though it’s late in the season, tons of people go up Whitney every day.”

“How many?”

“More than a hundred. You get a permit through a lottery. Except if you go the long way, like we are. But most people are day-tripping from the Portal.”

Dante looked hopeful. “So the trail to the top will be crowded.”

She nodded. “If we can make it to Guitar Lake today, there should be some hikers coming up from the Portal this morning, bagging Whitney, and stopping at the lake on their way someplace else.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Her logic was sound, but even to her own ears she was less than convincing. It was as though the Roots controlled the entire wilderness, that they’d staged Brensen’s fall to appear accidental, directed a wind to blow the fire their way, and would empty the trails of hikers. Liz was frightened and tired enough to almost believe they had the power. She glanced at the sky, a washed-out blue. Perhaps they could summon the clouds, too.

They donned their packs and left the charred campsite behind, Dante in the lead. Liz turned to look at the site as approaching hikers would. The damage didn’t appear to be the result of anything more than an out-of-control campfire, not significant enough for anyone passing by to report to a ranger.

They climbed out of the watershed onto the broad shoulder between Kern Canyon and the Whitney massif. The terrain opened, and the mountains of the Great Divide came into view. After three miles they reached Sandy Meadow. A mile farther, they left the main trail and turned east. It seemed impossible Whitney was less than ten miles away. Liz noticed clouds had formed above the peaks in the distance, although it was not yet noon. Not an encouraging sign.