All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

  “And you’re going to tell Dante soon and not wait for the absolute perfect moment.”

  Despite the cold, Liz’s palms were slick with sweat. Her boyfriend knew nothing of her pregnancy, but her friend didn’t have the whole story either. Valerie had made her daily call to Liz and learned she was home sick, but she’d been vague about the reason. Knowing Dante was out of town, Valerie had stopped by and found Liz lying on the couch, a heating pad on her belly.

  “Cramps?”

  “No,” Liz had said, staring at the rug. “Worse.”

  Valerie had assumed she’d had a miscarriage, not an abortion, and Liz hadn’t corrected her. Next to her deceit of Dante, it seemed minor. Valerie had made her promise she would tell him, but when Liz ran the conversation through her mind, she panicked. If she revealed this bit of information, the whole monstrous truth might tumble out, and she would lose him for certain.

  “I will tell him. And I’ll make sure I’ve got room to run when I do.”

  “He’ll understand. It’s not like it was your fault.”

  Liz’s chest tightened. “Val, listen—”

  “Crap! I just noticed the time. I’ve got a call in two minutes, so this is good-bye.”

  “’Bye.”

  “Don’t get lost.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Don’t fall off a cliff.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Watch out for bears.”

  “I love bears! And they love me.”

  “Of course they do. So do I.”

  “And me you. ’Bye.”

  “’Bye.”

  Liz put the phone away. She checked the zippers and tightened the straps on both backpacks. On a trip this long, they couldn’t afford to lose anything. Besides, a pack with loose straps tended to creak, and she didn’t like creaking.

  Dante was still chatting. He glanced over his shoulder and flashed her a boyish smile. She pointed at her watch. He twitched in mock alarm, shook hands with his new friends and hurried to her.

  “Leez!” He placed his hands on her cheeks and tucked her short brown hair behind her ears with his fingers. “You’re waiting. I’m sorry.”

  She was no more immune to his charm than the rest of the world. The way he pronounced her name amused her, and she suspected he laid it on thick deliberately. He had studied English in the best schools in Mexico City and spent seven years in the States, so he had little reason for sounding like the Taco Bell Chihuahua.

  “It’s okay.” She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “We should get going though. Did you get the forecast?”

  “I did.” He threw his arms wide. “It’s going to be beautiful!”

  “That’s a quote from the ranger?”

  “Más o menos. Look for yourself.” He swept his hand to indicate the sky above the pines, an unbroken Delft blue.

  Things can change, she thought, especially this late in the season. Her original permit had been for the Thursday before Labor Day. It could snow or hail or thunderstorm on any given day in the Sierras, but early September was usually dry. She’d had to surrender that start date when Dante insisted on tagging along, because he didn’t have a permit. They were forced to take their chances with the weather, two weeks closer to winter.

  And here it was, September fifteenth. A picture-perfect day. Dante’s beaming face looked like a guarantee of twenty more like it.

  • • •

  When he’d first seen the elevation profile of the John Muir Trail, Dante said it resembled the ECG tracing of someone having a heart attack. Up thousands of feet, down thousands of feet, up thousands of feet, down thousands of feet, day after day.

  “You’re going to love Day One in particular,” she’d said, pointing out Yosemite Valley at four thousand feet, then, twelve miles along the trail, their first night’s destination at ninety-six hundred feet.

  He’d shaken his head. “Impossible.”

  “Difficult, yes. But entirely possible.”

  He’d argued that since they would arrive at Tuolumne Meadows the second day, and could easily drive through the park and pick up the trail there, they should skip that nasty climb.

  “That would be cheating,” she’d said.

  “It could be our little secret.”

  “I’m doing the whole John Muir Trail.”

  He’d sent her a doleful look, but didn’t bring it up again.

  At least not until they’d been climbing for two hours. Panting, he undid his hip belt and slid his pack to the ground. Dark patches of sweat stood out on his green T-shirt. Liz stepped aside to let a group of day hikers pass. She leaned forward on her trekking poles, but did not take off her pack. They’d already taken two breaks and hadn’t yet reached the top of Nevada Falls, two and a half miles from the start.

  He plunked himself onto a boulder, took off his cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “It’s not too late to turn around and drive to Tuolumne.”

  She stared out across the valley. “Breathtaking” didn’t begin to describe it. A mile away, the falls shot out of the granite cliff like milk spilling from a pitcher and crashed onto a boulder pile before being funneled into a foaming river. She could make out the tiny colored forms of people at the falls’ edge. The tightness in her chest loosened slightly at this first hint of vast space. Above the falls was Liberty Cap, an enormous granite tooth, and beyond that, Half Dome. Its two-thousand-foot sheer vertical wall and rounded crown made it appear to once have been a sphere split abruptly by an unimaginable force, but Liz knew better. A glacier had erased it, bit by bit.

  Her back to Dante, she said, “Let’s keep going to the top of the falls. Then we can have lunch, okay?”

  The trail leveled out after Nevada Falls, no longer as steep as a staircase. After a set of switchbacks, they passed the turnoff for Half Dome, where all but a few of the day hikers left the main route. The early-afternoon sun was a heat lamp on their backs, and by two o’clock they’d finished the three liters of water they’d carried from the valley floor. At the first crossing of Sunrise Creek, Liz unpacked the water filtration kit. She’d shown Dante how it worked at home—for safety’s sake—but gadgets weren’t his strong suit. He might be inclined to coax bacteria, viruses and parasites out of the water with a wink and a smile, but she was the professional gizmologist. She designed prosthetic limbs, myoelectric ones that interfaced with living muscle. He worked for the same company, on the sales side.

  Crouching on the grassy bank, she attached the tubes to the manual pump and dropped the float into a small current. It took five minutes to filter three liters. She handed Dante a bottle. He took a long drink.

  “So cold and delicious!”

  She disassembled the filter and carefully placed the intake tube in a plastic bag she’d labeled “DIRTY!” “And what’s strange is that every stream and lake tastes different. Some are flinty, some are sweet, some are just . . . pure.”

  She zipped the pouch closed and looked up. Dante had that expression he reserved for her. His dark brown eyes were soft and a smile teased at the corner of his mouth, as if someone were poised to give him a gift he’d been wanting forever. She held his gaze for a moment—his love for her running liquid through her limbs—and got up to stow everything in her pack.

  Liz had consulted the map when they’d stopped and knew they had to climb more than five miles and fifteen hundred vertical feet before making camp. Her feet were sore and her thighs complained as she hoisted herself—and her thirty-pound pack, nearly a quarter of her body weight—ever upward. She was fit, as was Dante, but this first day was asking far more of her body than it was accustomed to. Hiking would get easier as they got stronger, but there was no getting around it: today was a bitch.

  They walked in silence, kicking up small clouds of dust. The creek stayed with them, then disappeared, and they were left with
only pines, boulders and trail. After an hour or more, they came over a rise. The trail followed the crest for a short stretch, then dipped toward a creek bubbling down a seam between steep slopes. On the near bank two hikers were resting—the first they’d seen since the Half Dome turnoff. Each man sat leaning against a pine tree. The nearer man was large, and imposing even while seated. He’d taken off his boots and socks, and his long legs were crossed at the ankle. His head was tipped back, and his eyes were closed. When the other, smaller, man swiveled in their direction and lifted his hand in greeting, Liz immediately noticed their resemblance. The same lank, sandy hair, the same square jaw and full mouth. Brothers. They even had identical cobalt blue packs.

  “Hey,” she said.

  The big one opened his eyes and massaged his jaw. “Hello.”

  Closer now, she judged they were both in their twenties. The big one was definitely older. He had the swagger as well as the looks.

  “Hello,” Dante said, stepping off the trail to stand next to Liz. “How’s it going?”

  “Excellent. Just taking a breather.”

  “I hear you. I feel we’ve climbed halfway to God.”

  The big one gave an appreciative snort, and took a swig from the two-liter soda bottle that served as his water container. “Is that where you’re headed?”

  Liz glanced at Dante to see if he thought this an odd remark. He smiled good-naturedly and said, “Well, maybe eventually, if I’m lucky. But today, just to . . . what’s the place, Liz?”

  “Sunrise Camp.”

  “Yes, Sunrise Camp,” Dante said.

  The man nodded. “You on a short trip, or doing the whole JMT enchilada?” He raised his eyebrows when he said “enchilada,” and gave it a Spanish pronunciation.

  Liz frowned at the possibility he meant it as a slight on Dante, but checked herself. He seemed friendly enough otherwise. “The entire JMT,” she said. “At least that’s the plan.”

  “That’s a lot of quality time for a couple.”

  Liz didn’t know how to respond.

  Dante stepped in. “How about you?”

  The brothers exchanged looks. The younger one said, “Depends on how we feel. Could be a long trip. Could be a short one.”

  Dante nodded as if this were the sort of freewheeling adventure he wished he could join.

  “Well,” Liz said, anxious to leave these two behind, “have fun whatever you do.”

  “We always do,” the younger brother said.

  She started down the trail, with Dante behind her, and stopped at the creek’s edge. On the opposite side, one path followed the stream uphill, while another led downstream for a while, before dissolving into the forest.

  She turned to the men, and pointed at one path, then the other, with her trekking pole. “Do you happen to know which way it is?”

  The older brother pointed upstream.

  “Thanks.”

  Aware of the eyes on her, she gingerly crossed the creek, stepping on half-submerged rocks and using her poles for balance. The added weight of her backpack meant a small slip could result in a fall. When she arrived safely on the far bank, she waited for Dante to cross and turned left up the hill.

  The trail followed the stream for a stretch, then cut steeply up the slope. Her pack felt heavier with each step. The footing became uneven, and she had to concentrate to avoid a misstep. She could hear Dante breathing hard behind her. Twenty minutes after they’d crossed the creek, she stopped, panting.

  “Does this look right to you?”

  His face was flushed with exertion. “You’re asking me?”

  “I don’t know. The trail hasn’t been this lousy.”

  “Maybe it’s just this piece.”

  They struggled uphill on an ever-worsening trail for another fifteen minutes. And then the path disappeared.

  “Damn it,” Liz said, and jammed her pole in the dirt.

  They retraced their steps to the junction. The brothers hadn’t moved. They regarded Liz and Dante from their side of the creek.

  She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice and pointed to the downstream trail. “It’s this way.”

  “Really?” the older brother said. “I was sure it was the other way.”

  The younger one added, “Thanks for saving us the mistake.”

  “No problem,” Dante said, waving.

  They started off again. Before the trail veered to the left, Liz looked over her shoulder. The older brother stared in her direction. Given the distance, she couldn’t be certain, but she thought she detected a smirk on his face.

  Sonja Yoerg grew up in Stowe, Vermont, where she financed her college education by waitressing at the Trapp Family Lodge. She earned her PhD in Biological Psychology from the University of California at Berkeley and published a nonfiction book about animal intelligence, Clever as a Fox (Bloomsbury USA, 2001). Sonja, author of the novels House Broken and The Middle of Somewhere, currently lives with her husband in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

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