Lily's Mountain
Page 10
“I took a tumble,” I say, “and I think I have a broken rib. But it’ll heal.” The man ranger looks at me like I’m officially crazy.
“Are you two hungry?” Ranger Collins asks, like it’s no big deal. “We brought sandwiches.”
“Ravenous,” I say, using Dad’s word.
“We’ve been rationing big time,” Sophie says.
“Until I gorged myself last night,” I add.
“So that’s why you wouldn’t give me any food?” Sophie asks, her eyes wide.
“Sorry,” I say, meaning it.
Ranger Collins pulls out a bag of food. Salami and cheese sandwiches have never looked so good.
“I have a story to tell you. It’s about your dad,” Ranger Collins says while we’re scarfing down our sandwiches. “I talked to him at the beginning of the expedition. He came by the station with his climbing partner and their two monstrous backpacks. I invited them in for a cup of tea, and your dad settled in for a long while. I’ve never seen a man so excited to be headed for Denali.”
I can see Dad’s face now, and the way he would have grinned while holding a mug of hot tea.
Ranger Collins continues: “He told me this would be his last big climb for a while, so he wanted to enjoy every minute. Then he told me about his daughters, how they were the best in the world.”
“Did he really say that?” Sophie asks.
“He said it more than once, and he told me you’d be back to Wonder Lake later this summer, all four of you.”
Sophie’s eyes brighten.
“He even had a photo of you two in his pocket. ‘My lucky charms,’ he called you when he showed me the picture.”
Hearing the ranger talk about Dad reminds me how much he loved this mountain and how much he loved us. And it makes me happy to think he has—or had—a picture of us in his pocket while he climbed.
“Here,” she says, pulling a thermos of tea from her pack. Sophie and I instinctively pull out our model canoes, and the ranger looks at us strangely.
“Our cups,” I say.
She nods like of course they’re our cups, and then she fills them with tea.
“To Dad,” I say, and I click my canoe against Sophie’s.
“I love you, Dad,” Sophie whispers, and she whispers it like she believes Dad can hear. In that moment—when our canoes click—we both know it completely.
Dad’s gone in some ways, but he’s also here at this mountain.
With us.
And if Dad had to die somewhere, this mountain was a pretty good place.
“It’s time to go,” I say, and it’s the readiest I’ve felt on the whole trip. The sun filters through low clouds, making McGonagall Pass misty and dreamlike.
“I’m ready this time,” I say, and I mean it.
I’m ready for Mom’s spaghetti and a hot bath. Ready for dry socks, carpet between my toes, clean sheets, and sleep. I’m even ready for the long walk home.
In a perfect world, Dad would be here too, but I know now he won’t be.
“What about the Scrabble game?” Sophie asks, after she has crammed all our stuff into her pack.
“Let’s leave it just like this,” I say, peering down at the wooden Scrabble tiles built into words on the tundra—with extra letters scattered for Dad. Sophie holds her silver feather up to her lips and nods.
Then we turn toward Wonder Lake to head home.
It’s hard to walk away from the mountain. Every time I glance back, the glacier sparkles, as if Dad is winking at us.
The hurry is over. The hunger is over. The wondering when I’ll find Dad is over too. The pain in my rib is my constant reminder that not all is well, but even so, the walk home is the first time on the whole trip that a few minutes pass and all I think about is the wind at my back, the tundra beneath my blistered feet, and absolutely nothing else.
I settle into the landscape.
The hike is long, but the hours pass more quickly with Ranger Collins and the other ranger in the lead and salami sandwiches in our bellies. They brought a tent for sleeping, too, and they used their satellite phone to leave a message for Mom that we were safe and okay.
The best moment happens when Sophie’s in the lead. She yells, “Whoa!” and I’m afraid it’s another grizzly. Then she chuckles.
“Just a silly ptarmigan,” she says, and the brown bird scuttles across the trail —wearing its full set of summer feathers.
The next day I look for the wolf when we get close to the McKinley River, but I don’t see him. It’s as if that wolf was a dream—a gift from another time and place.
The sun is high in the sky when we reach the river. Middle of the day is the worst time to cross, since the sun melts the glacier ice, which causes the river to rise. But the rangers don’t look worried. And we’re only a few hours from Wonder Lake.
The four of us link arms, and we cross all four strands easily. No wobbles. Maybe it’s because after all this travel, the rivers have become part of us—and the cold isn’t so cold anymore. Analyzing a river is about as tricky as analyzing why glaciers behave the way they do.
On the far bank, Sophie pulls off her backpack and rummages through to find something. She pulls out Dad’s canoes. They’ve become old friends on this trip—faithful cups and constant reminders of Dad.
“So?” Sophie asks.
I nod in agreement. It’s time.
Time to return them.
Sophie hands me one, and she keeps the other.
Together we walk to the edge of the water.
No words. Just simultaneous nods, and we drop the canoes—our improvised cups—into the McKinley for Dad’s last race.
The boats zip down the river braid and arc around the left bend, where I washed up a few days ago. Then they fade into little brown specks bobbing on a silver current, until they disappear. Forever.
We walk for two more hours in complete silence—through the spruce forest, then the swamp, and finally across the rolling tundra path. It’s a good silence. We might not be scaring away any bears, but with each step I feel closer to home.
When we’re almost to the trail’s end, Sophie says, “It’s a miracle we made it.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “Dad taught us exactly what we needed to know.”
When the McKinley Bar Trail meets the campground road, the rangers turn right toward the station.
Sophie and I need to go left to get to the campground.
“Thank you,” I say to them, even though thank you is not even close to enough.
“You’re welcome. No more trouble today,” Ranger Collins says, and winks. “I’ll come check on you two in a few minutes. I’m going straight to the phone to call your mom again. Lily, your backpack is in the bear locker.”
Ugh. We’re going to be in big trouble with Mom. At the same time, I can’t wait to tell her everything.
Sophie heads to the tent first, but I go straight to the bear locker. I can’t wait for dry clean clothes and my warm sleeping bag.
I see her when I’m walking up the path to the locker.
“Mom!” I say, and run toward her.
It’s really her.
She doesn’t even look mad. We hug, and it’s a real Mom hug. So real that I don’t cringe at the rib pain. I’m here with Mom, and everything will be okay.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Sorry for what?” Mom asks.
“For disappearing off to Dad’s mountain.”
“You did what?” she says.
“Wait . . . Why did you come out here?” I ask.
“Home wasn’t home without you two girls,” Mom says.
That’s when I get it. Mom doesn’t have a clue about the adventures we’ve had. She must not have received the phone message from Ranger Collins. She came out here to find us because she couldn’t stand to be away from us—and from the place that Dad loved.
We hug again, and I don’t ever want it to end.
The t
hree of us sit together at the picnic table and scarf down Mom’s mac and cheese. Nothing in the world has ever tasted so delicious.
The mountain is in full view, but she’s less huge now.
“Can you believe we were out there?” I say, pointing to the shimmery whiteness filling up the horizon.
“I’m glad I never knew,” says Mom, but she’s not angry. She has a tired twinkle in her eyes.
Mosquitoes buzz around us, but they can’t ruin our dinner or this place with Mom.
“How was the river crossing?” Mom asks.
“You don’t really want to know,” says Sophie.
She chuckles. “Well, all that matters is we’re all here now.”
Here. Now. All of us. Well, not even close to all of us.
But being here with Mom is something.
“Did you wonder if we’d sneak to the mountain?” Sophie asks.
“You two are your father’s daughters,” says Mom. “If I’d thought much about it, I would have guessed so.”
Mom’s words, combined with her mac and cheese, warm me on the inside.
“But let’s avoid glaciers for a little while, okay?”
“Deal,” says Sophie.
“Absolutely,” I add.
“My heart can’t take any more,” says Mom, and I know her words are true.
Mom pulls out the no-bake cheesecake, and we gobble up every last crumb.
“The most amazing thing about the Muldrow Glacier was the color of the snow and ice,” I say. “I mean, it’s not one color . . . it’s always changing.”
Mom smiles. “That’s why your dad always had to go back there.”
A raven circles overhead, and I wonder if it could be the same raven that dropped its feather before our trip to the mountain.
Mom continues: “I finally talked to John about Dad’s fall. It was a clear Denali day with easy walking. The crevasse just opened up underneath him.”
I swallow hard, and take the deepest breath I can muster.
“There was no way to see it coming,” Mom says. “It was just one of those one-in-a-million chances. Pure unlucky.”
“So that’s why he didn’t rope up?” I ask.
Mom nods slowly.
“Cheep, cheep, cheep.” An arctic ground squirrel pops his head out of the ground and scans for predators. This land is alive—harsh and changing—and it’s right where I want to be.
I’m the first back to the tent for sleep. I fluff up my fleece jacket to be my pillow. Then I crawl into my own dry sleeping bag and settle in. No nightmare this time. When I close my eyes, I see Dad. He’s sitting on the tundra eating peaches and gummy bears, sipping brandy, and playing one last game of Scrabble on earth.
MiddleGradeMania.com
About the Author
HANNAH MODEROW is a lifelong Alaskan. She holds an MFA in writing for children from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She currently lives in Anchorage with her husband, daughter, and sled dog. On a clear day, she can see Denali.
Visit her at www.hannahmoderow.com
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