The Middle of Somewhere(90)

She pushed her concerns about the weather to the back of her mind and divided her attention between the rocky trail and the possibility of the Roots approaching from behind. She was especially vigilant in wooded areas where she and Dante could be ambushed. She glanced behind her frequently and noticed Dante looking around more than usual. They spoke little. Dante was undoubtedly as tired as she was but didn’t complain.

They ate lunch near a stream running through a pink granite gorge from where they had a clear view of the trail in both directions. The clouds had stitched themselves together above their heads, and darkened. As they finished eating, the first drops fell. They frowned at each other and put on their rain jackets and, as a precaution, slipped rain covers over their packs.

The storm was quick to gather momentum. They’d covered less than a mile before intermittent drops became continuous rain. At Timberline Lake they lost the protection of the trees, and the rain became a downpour. Piercing drops roiled the lake surface. A steep hill, mostly granite and dotted with a few pines, rose behind the far side of the lake. At the top would be Guitar Lake, sitting at the foot of Whitney, but they couldn’t see even the lower slopes of the mountain because of the rain.

The trail traced the crease between the hill and the near-vertical face of Mount Young to the left. Halfway up a set of switchbacks, they paused to catch their breath. Water ran off the bill of Dante’s cap, which stuck out of the hood of his jacket.

He pulled Liz’s rain cover aside, retrieved a water bottle and offered it to her. “I thought there were supposed to be people camping at Guitar Lake, but we haven’t seen anyone.”

“Maybe they read the forecast.”

“Maybe.”

“But it is weird.” She thought a moment. “Maybe if they were heading south, they’d have cut the corner near Crabtree, so we wouldn’t have passed them.”

“But would everyone be heading south?”

“Doesn’t seem likely.”

The absence of hikers disturbed her. Whatever courage and moxie she had found when facing the Roots in the past had evaporated, and the thought of another encounter terrified her. As it was, she was so exhausted she could barely manage hiking. The hope that they’d find friendly faces at Guitar Lake was the only breath of encouragement she could find.

They continued upward, a hard, slow slog. They came over a rise and Guitar Lake appeared before them, gunmetal gray and dull. The area around the lake was empty—no tents, no people—and barren, devoid of trees and large boulders for shelter, or cover.

Dante jammed his pole into the ground in frustration. “Where the hell is everyone?”

Liz swiped the rain and sweat from her forehead and fought back tears. “I have no idea.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on seeing other people, and the disappointment sat heavily on her. She turned and scoured the trail behind them, trying to discern color or movement in the driving rain. She didn’t see anything, but that did nothing to allay her fear.

Dante was scowling, and his voice was sharp-edged. “So we go higher, find a place to hide?”

“We have to. If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”

“We are sitting ducks, Liz! That’s exactly what we are.”

Before she could speak, he turned up the trail. She hurried after him, certain his anger and frustration did not stem solely from the threat of the Root brothers. The wounds from her actions and her deceit were deep and fresh, and the feelings they evoked would not be subjugated. She understood this well, because although the malevolence of the Roots was close upon her like a pall of smoke, the fear of losing Dante gripped her heart.

The next level terrain lay three-quarters of a mile away—nothing compared to the miles and mountains they left behind—but Liz struggled. Her pack was as light as it had ever been, but seemed filled with stone. Her legs and lungs burned. Several times she stopped, to rest or to quit, she wasn’t sure which; but Dante climbed on, so she did, too.

The switchbacks ended and a traverse brought them to the top of the hill behind Guitar Lake. An acre-sized tarn appeared on the right. The terrain from there to two lakes at the base of Mount Hitchcock sloped slightly downhill, away from the trail. Unlike Guitar Lake, there were numerous outcroppings and slabs.

Liz stood beside Dante. “This looks promising.”

Dante exhaled and squinted into the rain, searching. “Somewhere hidden from the trail.”

She pointed toward Hitchcock Lakes. “And also from this gulley.”