PIT
(Peak Wilderness, Day Eleven)
I continue as leader on Day Eleven, the second-to-last day of the hiking portion of the trip.
This time I’m not taking any crap or playing any stupid games, on the beach or off, when we get there. I have stepped out of that trap for good. This many days in a damp sleeping bag and wearing clothes so stinky, they’re ready to hike on their own, is enough. I am so disgusting, I want to climb out of my skin, and I am getting that dealt with. Today.
Order on the outside will bring order to my insides.
We break camp with precision and get on the trail. As the morning goes on, I realize that I tend to stop crying when I’m hiking because . . . I like it. I might even love it. There’s a visceral pleasure in finding my footing over tree roots and flexing my quads and glutes and hamstrings to climb a hill; there’s satisfaction in having to fight, relief at having something to fight, with each step. And there’s a rhythm to the whole thing—heartbeat, steps, breath—that’s challenging and soothing at the same time.
And unlike the tangled, humid, bramble-and-bug-filled, oppressive section of the forest we started out in from the original beach, this part is populated by tall, majestic trees, with most of the leaf cover being higher up, so the effect is almost of walking in an outdoor cathedral, multiple dappled shades of light filtering down.
I’m a wreck, but it’s beautiful.
And so we march on.
Then, from behind me, comes a loud whisper. “Hey, Ingrid . . . ?”
It’s Tavik, who doesn’t usually talk on the trail.
“What?”
“Are you really keeping your shitty TP in the bag?”
My jaw drops in surprise, then I glance back to see a look of positively evil glee on his face.
“Are you?” I ask him.
“You tell me first. Worst case, you’re not and I tell on you and . . . what are they going to do—make you go back and get it?”
“Okay, no,” I say quietly. “Wait, lemme rephrase that: no way.”
“Me neither. I’m just burying it.”
“As your tentmate,” I say, “let me be the first to thank you for that.”
“Are you always such a rebel?”
“Ha,” I say, the question bringing up all kinds of thoughts I then have to shove aside.
“No?”
“No,” I say. “More like never.”
Dear Mom,
What they didn’t say on the map—you know, the one where there was the direct route and the scenic route—what they didn’t say, and what is nowhere in evidence on that map?
The mud pit.
The massive, unsurpassable mud pit, maybe a hundred feet long and six feet wide, with two long ropes suspended above it, presumably for use while attempting not to sink into the mud and die.
Oh, and on both sides? Rock wall.
We are taking a short break in order to assess.
Correction: we are taking a short break while I, because I’m so lucky to be the leader today, assess, and decide what to do. Perhaps they think that’s what I’m doing here—writing down the brilliant plan that I do not have.
If I end up leading us all to a watery grave, I hope someone finds this journal and shoves it down Peak Wilderness’s collective throat.
Love. Ha.
Ingrid
I put down the journal and stand to look at the mud pit again.
“Is there a way around?” I ask Bonnie.
She shrugs. By this time I know the game all too well, and I want to grab her by those shrugging shoulders and shake the truth out of her.
Peace and Henry, meanwhile, get some sticks and start poking into the mud to check its depth—one of Peace’s better ideas, actually.
I move closer to Bonnie and Pat. “Guys, we’ve been over this. You know whether or not there is a way around, and I know you know. Cough it up.”
Nothing.
“Ahem. As today’s leader, I am asking you to please share whatever information you may have that can help us. I know it’s part of the ‘thing’ to keep us in the dark,” I continue, my frustration now barely in check. “I think that’s crap. As you know. And I think it’s wrong because time after time you’re basically tricking us. Like the natural hardships and dealing with all these personalities isn’t enough. Trust me, it is enough. So. Is there a way to get around this thing?”
“There’s no way around,” Bonnie blurts out finally, ignoring Pat’s sharp look. “Only through.”
“Great,” I say. “Thank you, Bonnie.”
“There’s no way around, only through,” Pat repeats.
“Oh my God, yes, Pat, I’m making the fridge magnet already,” I say, then ask Bonnie, “Is it quicksand?”
“No, just mud,” she says.
“Bonnie!” Pat frowns hard at her.
“What?” she says. “She’s right; some of this is a bit unreasonable.”
“Thank you,” I say pointedly to her.
A few minutes later, when I’ve had a chance to study the terrain (i.e., potentially deadly bog), and after doing my own depth check with a stick, and then asking the group for suggestions, I have a plan.
The mud is at least waist-deep, possibly chest-deep for some, which means we can’t wear the backpacks without everything getting (more) soaked and filthy. So, we take our packs off and put them in a tight pile near the “entrance” to the mud.
“Everybody,” I say, when the group has gathered around, “hold the rope at all times with at least one hand, whether you think you need to or not. Get to your spot, which hopefully will be reaching distance to the next person. The goal is to be lined up, evenly spaced, from one side to the other, and then to pass the packs along, person to person, to the end. Then we climb out. Sound good?”
“We’ll have to let go of the rope to pass the packs,” Jin observes with a smirk.
“Good point. Make sure your footing is solid before you let go.”
“Why doesn’t each person just carry their pack?” Harvey asks.
“Because I don’t wish the permanently wet sleeping bag and clothes situation I’ve been dealing with on any of you, and this would be worse because it’s mud. I’m taking my boots off for the same reason,” I say, trying to sound confident even though I feel like I might throw up. “Plus I think this way is safer—for balance. Do we need to vote?”
Apparently not. I take my boots off and attach them to the top of the pack, and everyone else does the same.
“I’m also going to suggest . . . everyone tuck your pants into your socks, and your shirts into your pants. Don’t leave your skin exposed.”
“Why?” Ally asks, though she’s already doing it.
I wince in advance of my answer, then Jin saves me the trouble by saying, “Leeches.”
“Yeah.”
Ally looks like she’s going to faint. I don’t blame her.
Seth also looks extremely pale as he gazes at the pit.
“Great.” I eye the mud with ill-concealed dread. “Since I’m the leader and it’s my plan, I guess I’ll go first.”
The first step in, I’m up to my knees. I’m carrying one of the long sticks, and with it I poke the mud ahead of me, trying not to think of snakes, snapping turtles, deadly algae, live or dead amphibians. I test each step with the stick, then move. Five steps in, the mud is up to my thighs. Midway, having obviously misjudged with the stick, I go down fast, stopping chest-deep. I muffle a shriek, swear, then grip the rope above me with both hands and call out the obvious, “Guys, it gets deep here!”
“Got it,” Tavik says. “How’s the water?”
“Awesome. Just like a spa,” I say, and hear more than one person chuckling. “This is what we paid the big money for.”
The mud is rank up close. Revolting.
&
nbsp; Forget washing my clothes—I’ll just burn them.
I start moving again, slower now, pulling through roots and other unidentified stringy things that graze me at ankles, thighs, and waist. I grit my teeth, and eventually make it to the far side, where I stop, four feet or so from the edge, still thigh-deep in the mud.
“All right,” I call across before the next person starts, “the deepest part is in the middle.”
“No shit,” Peace calls back.
I ignore him. “If you guys can figure it out, you should arrange yourselves by height—so the tallest people end up in the middle section. Yeah?”
Half an hour later we’re lined up, more or less evenly spaced across the mud pit, when Seth lets out a high-pitched yelp.
“Something touched me! Something just touched my leg!”
Everyone freezes. Seth moans.
“Get me out of here, get me out of here, help me, God . . . .” He’s making terrible sounds in his throat and hyperventilating. Any second he might let go of the rope and bolt, which will be a disaster.
“Seth!” I shout. “Are you hurt?”
“N-no . . .”
“We have to get the packs across, so hang on.”
“What if it’s a snake? It’s probably a snake! Ahhhhhhhh,” he cries, “I think I felt it again!”
“It could be a root,” says Ally, who looks pretty spooked herself.
“Come on, you wuss!” Peace says.
“It’s not a root! I don’t want to die out here. Oh God, please get me out of here . . . .”
Suddenly everyone is yelling—some at Peace, some at Seth, some at me, some simply because they’re freaked. If this doesn’t stop, everyone’s going to start stampeding out of the mud, and then we’ll have to start all over to get the backpacks.
“Ally!” I holler through the cacophony.
Her head snaps toward me. “Yes?”
“Help him!”
Ally is just ahead of Seth, and now she turns back and reaches one hand out to him. She’s talking to him. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but eventually he stops screaming and takes her hand.
I call out to Henry next, because he can whistle really loud. I motion to him with two fingers in my mouth, he nods, and a couple of seconds later, he whistles. It’s loud, and it stops everyone.
“Passing the first pack, now!” I call into the momentary silence.
Bonnie sends the first pack across, and we pass it, one person to the next, all the way to me, and I take two steps out to set it on dry land, before heading back into the mud. We repeat this ten more times, with many breathless, dodgy moments where people start to lose their minds and/or balance. Three times, a pack almost goes in. We are sweating and filthy and wigged out, and I can guarantee that not one person is having a good time.
But it works.
It works!
When the last pack is across, we haul ourselves one by one through the rest of the pit and out the other side. A raucous cheer goes up for Seth when he makes it out and collapses on the path, looking green.
We are staggering, and some people are crying, including me. Seth crawls into the bushes and throws up. Jin starts laughing a hysterical laugh as she rolls around on the ground, pounding on it with her hands. Peace makes roaring sounds and, I’m not kidding, flexes his muscles. Harvey and Henry, in a currently rare moment of brotherliness, start spouting out lines from the Star Wars trash compactor scene.
Melissa, Bonnie, and Pat all begin, very sensibly, to use sticks to slough the mud off their clothing. Melissa has remained quiet over the last few days, and she did through this, too. I can’t figure out whether she is just super tough and good at being stoic, or if she’s in some kind of post-traumatic comatose state.
Everybody starts trying the stick method of mud removal, but it only goes so far, and before long we’re all just trying to get our feet clean enough to put on fresh(ish) socks so we can get in our boots and press on toward camp.
I have a few brief moments of that same rock-star feeling from yesterday—proud of myself for getting us across, amazed that we survived—but it doesn’t last. I am soaked through, filthier than I’ve ever been in my entire life, grossed out, starving, and now completely out of hope that I will ever get myself or my things clean and dry. The goal of Peak Wilderness is obviously to crush us entirely. And to make us hate the people who sent us.
OH, BOY
(Age Fifteen)
It was a regular school day in tenth grade, fall, with dried leaves on the wind, the start of iced breath in the air. Juno and I burst through the front hall doors, arm in arm, flushed from our lunchtime walk, laughing and talking.
And then I saw him across the foyer—a golden-brown-haired boy standing outside Rhea’s office. He was in profile, studying what looked like a class schedule, and something about him caused me to stop in my tracks.
It wasn’t that he was cute.
It wasn’t that he was obviously new.
It was that, as he turned, and as my eyes registered the facts and details of this well-groomed, well-dressed boy, my mind superimposed another vision, that of a gangly, blemished, geeky-looking boy with bad hair and ill-fitting clothes. The glasses were gone, the skin was clear, everything was different almost to the point of unrecognizability . . . but I knew him.
Isaac.
My insides lurched and tumbled.
I was so incredibly happy to see him, and see him looking so well. I had wondered, all this time, what had happened to him. Worried about him. And here he was, looking just fine. Better than fine.
I was astonished to find him standing there in the foyer of my school all of a sudden, and floored by his transformation. And at the same time that I was trying to process his presence, the physical fact of him brought everything back, and there I was, drowning in a flood of unwelcome memory, feeling again the isolation, the misery of being locked in that closet every single lunch hour, the embarrassment of being forced to kiss in front of a jeering crowd, and the horror of seeing Isaac go down, blood on his face.
And so maybe that’s what Isaac saw, when his eyes met mine—not the happiness I felt at seeing him, but my sudden and sharp reaction to those memories.
Because he’d started to smile, the same smile I’d felt coming when I realized who he was, big and warm and delighted, and then he stopped. His expression changed, darkened. I’d recovered by then and was walking toward him, smiling back, arms open for a hug, even, but he turned abruptly away, headed up the stairs, and disappeared.
I stood there, reeling, feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach.
After that, I didn’t know what to do. Every time I came anywhere near Isaac, he turned away, pretended I didn’t exist. When we were introduced by his “official buddy,” who happened to be Toff, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. It shouldn’t have mattered so much, shouldn’t have hurt me, but it did.
The awkwardness became mutual, and I decided to try his method and just forget about him, pretend he didn’t exist. He obviously didn’t want to be my friend, or even talk to me. Fine. But I obsessed. I got it that he’d seen a funny expression on my face, maybe. But his reaction seemed over-the-top, and I couldn’t even get near him to explain, and anyway I would need to be near him and alone with him, which seemed doubly impossible.
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. One day I heard him say he was staying late to meet with the algebra teacher. I told Juno to leave without me, parked myself in front of his locker, and sat with a book, pretending to read. Half an hour later the school was quiet enough that I heard his footsteps before he came around the corner, heard his sharp intake of breath when he saw me.
I waited until he was right in front of me to look up.
“Ingrid. What are you doing?”
“Sitting in front of your locker, looking at a book, Isaac.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice careful. “That’s evident.”
“Evident. Nice word. Wanna sit?” I patted the creaky wood-planked floor beside me.
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
“C’mon, Isaac,” I said, getting to my feet. “Are you just never going to talk to me?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Don’t be obtuse.”
“Nice word,” he said, and then did a shoulder check. “I don’t want to talk here, Ingrid.”
“Okay, then where?”
“I don’t really want to talk at all.”
“Look, either you talk with me, or I’m going to keep showing up at your locker.”
“That’s going to give people the wrong idea, don’t you think?”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh, sure you don’t,” he snapped.
“What?”
“Can I get in there, please?”
I moved aside, watched him with narrowed eyes as he shoved stuff into his messenger bag and grabbed his coat, put it on, closed and locked the locker.
He started down the hallway and I followed.
“What was that supposed to mean,” I said, “that I would care if people got ‘the wrong idea,’ whatever that is?”
“You care,” he said, not looking at me.
I kept pace with him down the main stairs and into the lobby,where a few students were still loitering. I could tell he wanted to ditch me but there were a few people still around and he couldn’t do it without making a scene. He headed to the front doors and I leapt ahead, pushing them open for him.
“We can talk there,” I said, pointing across the street to a large field surrounded by a running track.
Isaac glanced at me, then frowned. “You don’t have a coat.”
“Sweet of you to consider my comfort,” I said with an edge of sarcasm.
“It’s just a logical fact. No coat equals you will be cold.”
“I’m fine. I’ll go back for it later.”
We crossed at the light and headed through the gap in the fence.
Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined Page 14