The Middle of Somewhere(99)

“All I remember is the route splits near the top. One is steeper and closer to the hut. The other is a longer traverse farther up the ridge.” She pointed in front of them, where the rocky plane curved away and disappeared.

“Which do we want? The traverse?”

“I think so. If we can find it.”

The air crackled. Dante grabbed hold of her good arm and pulled her into a crouch. She screamed as a bolt of lightning struck between them and the hut, puncturing the air with sharp white light. Liz concentrated on Dante’s touch, binding them, a force equal to that of lightning. A thunderclap sounded above their heads and echoed off the distant peaks. She steadied her breathing, and stayed small.

After a few moments, Dante stood, lifting Liz with him. “Let’s be mountaineers.”

They moved slowly up the main trail, searching for side paths to the right. The first two they followed fizzled out before nearing the edge. The third was more distinct and angled to the west, a direct shot to the summit for climbers coming up the traverse. Liz and Dante increased their pace as they neared the lip.

Dante pointed ahead. “Look! Isn’t that a carn?”

Liz saw the pile of stones and smiled. “A cairn, amigo. Yes, it’s a cairn.”

They reached the cairn and peered over the edge. A rough path through scree, a foot wide, ran diagonally across the face. The way off the mountain. Patches of snow and ice clung to shadows under the overhangs.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Dante said, convincing himself. “I should go first.”

Liz heard the unspoken clause. In case you fall.

She watched as Dante began the descent, the wind whistling up the face behind her, throwing rain against her back. He hadn’t made it ten steps before his boot slipped a few inches, sending a cascade of stones down the slope. She tensed, stock-still. He paused a moment, and started again, with smaller steps. She was relieved to see the technique seemed to be working better. She exhaled and followed him. Her pole on the downhill side proved useless, as the scree was too loose to offer any support. She was desperate to make progress and her mincing steps frustrated her, but one look at the alarming distance she might fall kept her steps short.

The traverse ended a half hour later at a small level area, perched at the top of a three-hundred-foot cliff. A lake lay two thousand feet below. Liz stepped back, overcome with vertigo. She waited for the feeling to subside, then examined the narrow chute above them. The other way down. No way she’d have managed it. The sky above the chute was black as coal. The Root brothers were somewhere up there, perhaps searching for this trail. The cold hand of fear moved inside her again. She stood anchored to the spot.

Dante was putting away his poles, knowing they’d soon have to use their hands to descend. He reached for her poles to stow in his pack, but she gripped them tightly.

“Liz? They’ll get in your way.” He saw her distress and placed his hand on top of hers. “Trust me.” Her grip loosened. He took the poles and handed her the water. She drank, the cool liquid erasing the metallic taste of fear.

They headed down to a scree-filled gully to the north, the only obvious route. Dante cut across to stable rock at the edge, but soon returned to the center, as the rock was dangerously slick. They placed each foot with care, but nevertheless set off landslides, which sent Liz’s heart racing. A person could tumble to the bottom as easily. When she followed the flying stones with her eyes, it induced vertigo, so she turned away. Her thighs and calves ached from the effort of positioning each foot before putting weight on it, and from bracing herself when she slid. The strain of the descent showed on Dante’s face. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his mouth was taut with concentration. He stopped frequently and watched her progress with concern.

Finally, the edge of a lake came into view. Halfway down the gully, they could see the entire circle of the lake carved in barren rock. Two shapes—orange and yellow—huddled near the north edge.

Dante said, “Are those tents?”

“Looks like it.”

He grinned at her. “Don’t run, okay?”

She’d never been so glad to see signs of other people. She wanted to fly down to the lake. “I won’t. It’s a long way.” Liz knew they had about four thousand feet more to descend when they reached the lake. But the sight of the tents lifted her spirits, as did the increasing likelihood they had finally escaped the Roots.

They crept down the scree and talus, periodically trying the more solid rock at the edge. The rain began to ease. Liz’s knees ached from the strain of the pitch, and her elbow hurt whenever she moved her arm, as she was forced to do several times when she skidded. Three sections required actual climbing where being short a limb terrified her. Dante gripped the rock face directly below her, showing her the footholds, or moving her foot into position. Once he was the foothold. Unable to move to the right because of her arm, she couldn’t reach the jutting rock Dante had used. He braced himself and she placed her foot on his shoulder to attain the next hold. She thought about being stranded on the steep face of Whitney alone and her throat pinched shut.