The Middle of Somewhere(91)

They stashed their packs and began searching together. The rain fell in torrents. Twice they broke off their search and went to the edge of the shelf from which they could survey the lower trail and most of Guitar Lake but saw no one.

After forty minutes, they discovered a tiny patch of crushed gravel wedged between a sloped bank and a slab of granite the size of a garage. They returned for their packs and confirmed the location was invisible from the main trail. Someone at the lower Hitchcock Lake might detect them, but the chance the Roots would come this far was slim, especially in bad weather.

Once they were secure in the campsite, Liz and Dante relaxed a little. The rain let up. Dante fished the salami from a bear can and divided what remained between them. Liz sat on a rock, bit off a large chunk and chewed, allowing the pleasure of salt and fat to overrun her.

They pitched the tent and Liz placed the mattresses and sleeping bags inside. Everything smelled of smoke, an insistent reminder of last night’s close call. She finished setting up the beds in haste, eager to return to the fresh air.

Although it was not yet four o’clock, they were desperate for more food, so Dante began to prepare dinner: vermicelli with pesto from a tube. Liz carried the filtration kit and the water bottles to the nearer lake, taking a long look up the gulley before she hurried to the shore. She crouched behind a boulder and pumped water into the bottle between her feet, recalling the first time she’d done so on this trip, high above Yosemite Valley, chatting to Dante about how the water from every stream tasted different. They’d sampled dozens of creeks, rivers and lakes during the last seventeen days, often too distracted, too tired, too scared or simply too thirsty to taste it. She pumped three more times. The bottle was full. She pulled the adapter out and took a long drink. Cold. Flinty. A little salty. Sweet.

She filled the other bottles, tucked the filter into its pouch and looked at the sky. Above the craggy summit of Mount Hitchcock, banks of clouds were piled high like whipped cream on a sundae. A sudden wind blew up from the Kern and set the clouds in motion over her head. The billows flew by and parted. Blue sky. Sunlight angled through the gaps, searchlight beams of yellow-white touching down upon the lake, the granite, her. A shaft of light, a passing moment of warmth. The beams sped along the earth until the wind relented and the edges of the clouds met and joined, trapping the sun again.

She retraced her steps to the campsite, keeping watch for movement in the direction of the trail. She wondered whether Dante had seen the sunbeams and the patch of blue sky, too. Then she remembered such shared moments were probably a thing of the past, and felt anew the ache that had taken up residence in her chest. This was their last campsite, probably forever. Even in this stony wilderness, twelve thousand feet above the sea, unchanged for millennia, forever was a heartbreakingly long time. She found the campsite and said nothing to Dante about the taste of the water or the beauty of the sky.

They wolfed down the pasta and discussed the next day’s plan. Dante set his watch alarm for five o’clock. They’d have coffee, maybe two servings each, and break camp, stashing energy bars and trail mix in the top of their packs to eat on the way up, or at the top. Despite their acclimation, the extreme altitude was a concern. Liz had read it was better to face the ascent on an empty stomach. They could eat as much as they wished on the way down and that evening in Lone Pine. There was no point in discussing what they’d do if the Roots confronted them, as it would depend on where they were. If by some miracle they were left unmolested, they’d arrive at Whitney Portal in the early afternoon.

“For a burger,” Dante said.

“And fries.”

“And maybe a second burger.”

“And more fries.”

They were silent a moment, lost in a reverie less about food and more about normality, and safety. Dante turned to her. Exhaustion had left fine wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, but his gaze was level. She waited for him to speak. He had said so little since she’d confessed to him, but knew he must be thinking about her, and about them. He rubbed his fingers across his chin and pursed his lips, as if moving his thoughts around into spaces where they might fit. She would not press him.

He pushed his hands against his knees and stood. “Ready for bed?”

The sun faded into the clouds at the horizon, blurring the sky with wash upon wash of pastel. Liz crawled into the tent and shed her outer layer, folding her fleece jacket into a square pillow. Dante followed suit. They lay there for a long time, alone with their thoughts, watching the fabric of the tent change from yellow to amber to brown. A breeze luffed the fly from time to time, reminding them of the outside world, huge and empty all around them.