One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(30)

We fill all of them. Several gallons’ worth of water for the campsite—to boil for drinking water and dinner prep, I assume. Given my level of thirst and hunger, it all seems like a good idea.

Once finished, Luciana triumphantly holds up a small object I can barely make out in the shadows.

“Soap,” she announces, then in the next instant starts stripping.

I don’t have to be asked twice. Given I spent decades of my life waking up naked in strangers’ beds, I’m not one to worry about modesty now.

The water is freezing cold. Stream fed, Nemeth said. Then I’m guessing that stream came straight down from a glacier as I recoil sharply and bite back a scream. But the pain is worth it to scrub the layers of encrusted sweat and grime from my skin. I’ve never felt so itchy or, for that matter, smelled so bad.

Luciana goes all the way under, emerging with the grace of a dark otter and flipping back her long black hair. Obviously a pro, she works the tiny bar of soap through her hair, across her face, down her body. It’s a natural soap, she informs me, safe for lake water, but not so great at sudsing, so don’t be put off by the lack of bubbles.

We both quickly rinse, then return to the lake’s edge and drag our fresh outfits over our still-wet forms. Luciana attempts a brief wash of her dirty clothes, so I do the same. I’m starting to understand for the first time how thin my hiking wardrobe is, if we’re going to sweat through an outfit a day.

“We can hang our clothes near the fire to dry,” Luciana informs me. “Won’t be perfect, but a couple of days from now, they’ll smell better than anything else we own.”

“Thank you,” I tell her honestly. I don’t really have friends, which makes me even more appreciative of people who are kind.

We return to the camp, where Miguel has the fire going. He’s set up a cooking stand with a stainless steel pot dangling over the flames. Luciana dumps in the first bucket, and in no time at all, we have boiling water. My stomach rumbles expectantly.

“Exactly,” Luciana says. “Did you notice the calorie count on your MRE options? Most contain several thousand per serving. Ridiculous in normal life. Totally awesome after a full day of hiking. I’m telling you now, freeze-dried stroganoff is about to be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

More noise announces that Scott and Neil are back again. This log is smaller but works equally well. Bob appears with another slung over a single shoulder, whistling cheerfully as he plunks it down next to Scott and Neil’s labored delivery. They shake their heads at being so clearly outmuscled. But just like that, we have an outdoor living room, complete with fireside seating.

Nemeth and Martin emerge with their meal kits. The rest of us quickly follow suit. More water is boiled, instant food prepared, and by the time the daylight starts to fade, it’s a regular dinner party. We sit on the logs, waving tiny sporks and extolling the sheer perfection of rehydrated lasagna. Luciana didn’t lie: My pouch of macaroni and cheese is the finest meal I’ve ever eaten. I contemplate a second but figure I should pace myself.

Daisy scarfs down her own dinner, then hangs out in front of the fire, tongue lolling.

Conversation is light, with occasional bursts of banter. In this moment, we feel like a unified group. Eight people relaxing after a long day of physical exertion. The sky yawns above us, streaked with pink, then red as the sun works its way down the horizon.

I wonder if this is how the kids in my class felt when they went camping. This sense of awe and wonder, fear and excitement.

I think of my father, the intent look on his face as he struggled to assemble the borrowed tent. What do you remember most—the moments your parents genuinely tried, or all the times they definitely failed? I’ve never figured out that answer.

Sitting here now, I focus on the good. That this moment is beautiful and perfect, and I’m wise enough now to appreciate all the moments that came before it, even the less beautiful and less perfect ones, as they led me here.

The gift of gratitude, we say in AA. It took me a long time to find it, and I’m still not the best at remembering it, but every now and then, I almost understand. The grandeur of these mountains. The contented silence of my friend Stoney, wiping down the counter of his bar. The taste of the perfect hot dog, eaten street side.

I may not own much, but I’m a collector in my own way.

I finish up my rehydrated cheese and pasta, scraping morosely at the inside of the foil pouch. Nemeth has produced a heavy-duty, scentproof trash bag for our garbage. It and uneaten rations—similarly bagged—will be removed from the campsite and tied up high. Bear management, he explains. He looks relaxed for the first time all day. I was right before: He could’ve been carved from these mountains, appearing as natural in this habitat as the distant cliff face, the ramrod-straight pine trees, the towering peaks. He belongs to this world, I think, whereas the rest of us are merely visiting.

I expect Nemeth to be the one to break the mood first. Instead, it’s Martin.

In the rapidly falling light, he brings out his ubiquitous map, snaps it open. “All right. Gather round. Over the next five days, this is the game plan.”



* * *



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Martin has divided Devil’s Canyon into a series of quadrants. I’m no expert, but even I realize we can never cover all this ground in a matter of days. Hence each quadrant has been given a weighted value. What did Nemeth explain earlier? Probability of detection, something like that.