Grace hesitated. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I thought I was doing this for my brother. He wanted to hike the PCT. But…well…he can’t now. So I guess I’m hiking to figure out what to do with my life. It also sort of feels like a survival odyssey.”
“Because you have to eat the same food day in and day out?” Teva held up a stuff sack bulging with rectangles. “Chow Hound and I let ourselves get hungry. That way power bars taste better.” She smiled, shrugged, and ripped open her second. “It saves weight, not having to cook anything. But that’s not what you’re talking about.”
Grace shook her head. “No. I’m getting used to the food. It’s more about not having people around to talk to. Or going through something like that storm. By myself. Then I wonder why I’m not back in my comfortable office in San Francisco. Knowing what to expect every day. Back there I have friends. Out here I meet people I like and then they disappear. Like you guys. It’s great to sit around tonight, but I’m sure you’ll be gone in the morning. I’m not complaining. And, obviously, I haven’t quit yet…” Grace trailed off.
Chow Hound and Teva exchanged a look. Chow Hound excused himself and began setting up their tent at a sociable distance. Teva watched him clear the area of stones, twigs, and other debris. Then she scooted closer to Grace.
“I know how you feel. Chow Hound wanted to give me the trail name Cry Baby when we started the AT. I was always crying about the same things you’re talking about. I missed my family. I was scared. I had blisters and my muscles ached. I didn’t feel like we’d made a good decision. My parents argued we should save our money and go to Puerto Rico for the honeymoon, and those first weeks I was pretty sure they were right. I wasn’t exactly the best hiking partner, I can tell you. But after about a month, I got to the point where life felt okay the way it was.”
“I’m not sure I get that.”
Teva dug in the bag for another bar. “I mean, after a while, you stop worrying about the past or the future. You’re happy where you are right now. If you’re alone—and I had some time alone because Chow Hound’s mom got real sick, and he had to leave the trail for a few weeks—then you’re happy being alone. If it rains, it rains. If things are hard, then they’re hard. They’re not sucky or miserable. They’re just hard.”
She glanced at Grace. “I don’t know if I can explain it, but I guess I’d say tough it out for a couple weeks longer. If you feel what I’m talking about, you’ll know it. You’ll be happy where you are. Life will get brighter and more exciting, no matter if you’re sitting on a rock facing the bottom of a mountain wall or you’re on top of a ridge and the world is at your feet. You’ll be a thru, not someone out for a walk. Life will feel different.”
Teva and Chow Hound were gone when Grace awoke the next morning. But a power bar lay tucked inside one of Grace’s boots.
Lone Star’s ahead. Maybe even waiting for me. I can do a couple more weeks. How hard can that be?
Chapter 11
Far south of Grace’s camp, the bulk of the herd made its way north.
Most PCT thrus began at the Mexican border within the same fourteen-day period. Some, like those passing Grace, almost flew up the trail, while others found the conditions too challenging to walk more than ten miles per day. The relentless sun and heat culled a few from the group permanently. Those who persevered soon found their own pace, fast or slow. Leapfrogging was common, as one hiker passed another only to be caught by that same person hours, days, or weeks later.
Most hikers spent at least part of every day alone on the trail. Jerry Kriebel, the young man with the snake tattoo, was an exception. At the Kick Off, he attached himself to a group of six compatriots for whom hiking was something to do between parties. They stuck together like ice cubes in a glass. Jerry had no hiking experience, but weeks of walking toned even his apathetic muscles.
Ed Galeano trailed behind the hard-drinking group, unable to single Jerry out and growing increasingly frustrated. Blisters plagued his feet. His back ached from the weight of his Army surplus pack. His skin burned in the sun. But he tracked his prey relentlessly. A dull rage pounded in his chest from before dawn to the time he crawled into his camouflage sleeping bag at night.
“Why the fuck are they together all the time?” He addressed the cacti as he walked along.
Amid sandy hills and dusty brush, the scent of the group’s marijuana often lingered in the hot desert air. Rowdy shouts from their camp reverberated for miles. Ed hunched in his solitary shelter under a thousand stars and cursed.
“I’m suffering while he’s getting high. Someday soon, I’ll make him pay.”
Ed kept himself company for the long hours of hiking with a repetitive monologue. “I had a good life before that scumbag came along. I was going somewhere. I owned a store. I liked my job. Then the bike accident, that little girl, and everybody thought I did it. My life went down the tubes. It was all Jerry’s fault. And now he’s out here having the time of his life. Like nothing ever happened”
Ed kicked hard at the dirt in the trail, launching stones and other debris high into the air.
“I could smash his face into a cactus. Or bury him up to his neck in sand, leave him to dry in the sun, and come back to find his body shriveled like a discarded snake skin. I could poison his water supply. Or push him down an icy mountainside and watch him roll, flip, and bump until he’s a speck at the bottom of a mile-long crevasse.”
He picked up a rock and threw it at the pinprick on the horizon that was Jerry and his friends.
“I could do anything. If I caught him alone. I went down for the crime he committed. But I’m not going down for the one I commit. No fucking witness this time.”
With each sweltering mile of the PCT, Ed’s furor intensified. His target remained as unconcerned as a savanna warthog being stalked by a silent leopard.
***
Two weeks after the Kick Off, in the middle of May, the large mass of the herd surrounded Grace.
I’m hiking like a tortoise with an oil drum on its back. Or whatever Lone Star would say. I can’t afford to fall farther behind.
She progressed through the San Gabriel Mountains, with Los Angeles to the west and the Mojave Desert to the east. At the outskirts of the city smog, the air was crisp. Sweat evaporated almost as quickly as it formed.
She climbed nine-thousand-foot Mount Baldy, grateful to leave LA’s exhaust and fumes behind. The PCT switchbacked sharply. Small rocks slithered from under her boots and rolled lazily down the mountainside. More than once she lost her footing and caught herself with her hiking poles.
A group of people approached from far below. Grace chose a smooth rock and sat to let them pass. Behind her lay the landscape she had crossed in the past days. She gazed across the miles.
I’ll never get over covering all that on foot.
A solitary hiker interrupted her reverie. All she saw at first was a large brimmed sun hat on a tall, muscular body. Then, as he neared, she took in his regulation PCT beard and sunglasses.
Guys on the PCT look basically the same. Beards. Dark glasses. The only way to tell them apart is height and pack color. Except, of course, for the men in women’s hiking skirts. Practicality over fashion. That kind of stands out.
Grace assessed the man’s pack, shirt color, and size.
I don’t think I’ve met him before.
She smiled.
He slowed his pace. “Taking a break?”
“Letting the group of you pass me.”
“Oh, I’m not with them.” He thrust a thumb down the hill. “That’s the Sideways Seven down there.”
“The party crowd? I’ve already heard a lot about them.” Grace squinted down the trail. “I don’t know how they do it. Partying and hiking. Those two words don’t fit well into a sentence that has my name in it.”
“Mine either. And they’re always together. They never split up. I have to admit I don’t get that.” The man wiped thick, shaggy hair from his brow.
This gu
y’s probably around my age. Nice bright eyes. They light up like fire. His face’d be attractive if it weren’t so thin.
“I’ve been leapfrogging those guys most of the trail.” He pulled his waist belt tighter. “I pass their camp in the morning. By noon they speed up and pass me. Sometimes there’s a day or two between us, but we’re sticking pretty close together, all things considered.” He held out his hand. “I’m Beartrap, by the way.”
Grace returned his strong grip. “Why Beartrap?”
“It’s a mountain biking term for when you scrape your legs on the pedals. I was wearing shorts the first days out and my legs got pretty badly mangled in the bushes. Somebody gave me the name, and it stuck. I don’t mind. I do some mountain biking, so it kind of fits. How about you?”
“Mountain biking? I used to when I was a kid, but I haven’t in a long time.”
“No.” Beartrap chuckled. “I meant your name.”
“Oh, sorry.” Grace shook her head. “I’m Grace. Just Grace.” The whisper of a smile crossed her lips.
“You have to be the only person I’ve met so far who doesn’t have a trail name. Don’t you like being anonymous?”
“I guess I don’t. How are you ever supposed to find someone again once you’re off the trail? People you want to keep in touch with could disappear forever.”
Beartrap dusted his hands on his shorts. “I think maybe that’s the point. Well, see you down the trail, Grace.” He waved as he continued up the hill.
The Sideways Seven made rapid progress up the slope and were nearly on his heels. Grace studied their bodies as they soared by.
No outward sign of their dissipated lifestyle, that’s for sure. Wiry and muscular, confident stride, upright stature. I’d pick them in a lineup as college athletes or Navy SEALs. They’re talking and joking on the same incline that winded me. I thought I was fit. Guess not.
Beyond her, the group passed Beartrap.
How does he manage to keep up with them day after day?
That night, Grace befriended two older women camped near her tent. “Do you mind if I ask a stupid question? Why aren’t hikers like the Sideways Seven leading the herd? They hike so fast.”
The taller woman offered Grace a cookie. “Because they always lose a few days at resupply towns. They hit the bars, and that gives the other hikers a chance to catch up. You’ll probably run into them again. They slow down whenever they take a few zeros.”
“Zeros?”
“Days of hiking zero miles. Most thrus try to take as few zeros as possible. But people like the Sideways Seven dream about them.”
“I doubt I’ll ever catch up with them again at my slow pace. I’m becoming an expert at having people leave me behind. Passing other folks is a skill I’m working on.”
The next morning, more hikers flew by her.
Am I still in the middle of the herd? Or am I falling back toward the tail end? And how the heck would I even know? When it starts getting awfully lonely out here? I don’t want to pick up someone like Choir Master again. But it would be great to have someone to hike with. Especially if the main group is petering out soon.
At lunch, she sat at the top of a ridge with a group of fellow thrus. After eating, they packed up and Grace, once again, was left behind.
She consoled herself by reading Lone Star’s latest note.
Just Grace,
What is it about you that brings out a side of me no one’s ever seen before? Remember I told you I didn’t like school? Well, thinking of you is making me think of things that would make Mrs. Pierson, my 10th grade English teacher, throw her hat over the windmill. Like this, from Tennyson, I think: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me. See. I can do better than my own poem. Sweet dreams, my darling. Look up at the stars and think of me sharing that same blanket with you.
Lone Star
Thoughts of sharing a blanket and what they could do under the covers crowded upon her. She cocked her head.
Why is it suddenly so hot?
Grace jerked her mind back to the matter at hand.
Hiking in the herd’s like driving on a busy freeway. There’re always cars passing. But hiking alone at the back of the herd must be like driving on a country road at night. Secluded. Potentially scary.
She increased her pace.
That thought does it. The next person who catches up with me is going to be the one I hike with. I don’t need to stay with them forever. But I could use a challenge.
Twenty minutes later, Grace heard the familiar sounds of someone approaching her from the rear. Instead of stepping to the side, she took a quick look back. The man walked at a steady lope, swinging long legs and arms. So she lengthened her stride.
Just my luck. A fast hiker.
She surged on. The dusty path circled the peak of Mount Hawkins. Grace puffed slightly in the thinner air. Conifers dotted the brown landscape with patches of dark green. Here and there small grey boulders clustered, the remains of avalanches.
No time to admire the view. He’s gaining on me.
Minutes later she reconsidered.
This is silly. I’m too slow. If I want to hike with him, I should ask. Or would that make me look desperate? Like Choir Master.
After another branch in the trail, the PCT descended steeply to Windy Gap. The man picked up his pace. Grace panted.
Great. He’s gaining on me. Like a rattle snake that’s…whatever. No time for Texan metaphors. Only a few feet behind. I should be sensible. Let him pass.
She started down the slope and began an easy jog.
Let him think I do this all the time.
Her hiking poles fluttered behind her.
Real elegant, Grace. You probably look like a short Asian penguin.
A root tripped her. She flew into the air, twisted backwards, and landed on her pack. She slid down the mountain, bouncing off rocks and roots, spinning in circles. Her arms and legs flailed. For what felt like minutes, blue sky and branches sailed across her field of vision.
Then a man’s voice said, “Gotcha.”
Grace jerked to a halt. A huge pine tree obscured her view.
“That was close. You nearly collided with this tree.” The man breathed heavily and leaned against the trunk. “Don’t think that would have been pretty.”
Grace thrashed her arms but couldn’t turn over. The man hoisted her to her feet.
“You okay?”
Grace’s face was smeared with dust. She brushed dust and needles from her legs and dropped her pack to the ground. “I’m fine.” She couldn’t bring herself to look the man in the eyes. “Thank you. That was totally idiotic of me.”
The man stamped his feet and rubbed dirt from his hands. “Why were you running?”
Grace covered her face and mumbled through her fingers. “I wanted to keep up with you.”
“You wanted to keep up with me?”
She lowered her hands. “Yes. I told myself I’d keep up with the next person who was going to pass me.” His eyes met hers. “Not my brightest moment, huh?”
He scratched his beard. “Well, I guess everyone has to do something to pass the time out here. But if you want to hike together with someone, why don’t you ask?”
“I’ll remember to do that.” Grace looked back. A long streak of brown dirt wound through the detritus of old twigs and branches littering the hill. “Wow. I fell all that way?”
“I had to cut across the switchback to get to you. Like I said, you were headed right for this tree.” He patted the thick trunk.
“Another big mess. I was lucky. Again.”
“You’ve done this before, then?”
“Not this. Other stupid things. I guarantee you I never slid down a mountain on my back before.”
“First time for everything.”
Grace took in her rescuer. Little was visible beyond the standard beard, sunglasses, and hat. He wore a dark t-shirt and shorts. His hands were large and solid. The muscles in his thin a
rms rippled when he moved.
They both stared at the skid marks. Grace felt suddenly faint.
“I feel a little weird asking.” She inhaled deeply and let the air escape slowly between clenched teeth. “Do you mind if I give you a hug?”
“Not at all.” The man laid his pack next to hers. White teeth gleamed and he held out his arms.
Grace lay her head against his chest. His shirt rubbed her cheek. A strong male scent of sweat and pheromones overwhelmed her senses. Arms encircled her torso and squeezed. Grace sighed.
Nice. But I wish it were Lone Star.
After a few seconds, she disengaged herself. “Thanks. I needed that. I don’t think I’ve touched another person since Lake Morena. After one of my other close shaves.”
“Also involving a rescue?”
“I’m lucky that way.” She hoisted her pack.
“Well, happy to help. Any time.” He gazed down the path ahead of them. “My name’s Breeze. And, as it happens, I’m not in a particular hurry today. We can hike together for a bit if you want.”
“Won’t I slow you down?”
“I’ve already seen how fast you can go when you want to. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Chapter 12
When in his late teens, Ed Galeano put one of his community college classmates into a day-long coma with a well-positioned punch to the bridge of his nose.
“You’re lucky the bone didn’t penetrate his brain.” The dean turned his back to Ed and looked out the window at the concrete square that constituted the college’s central green. “We’re an inclusive community. We’re sorry to see a student go. But we can’t tolerate that type of behavior. We wish you the best.”
Ed jerked his middle finger at the dean and then hastily adjusted the motion into a sweep of his hair as the man pivoted to look at him. Ed stood and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
He strode down the hallway muttering, punching bulletin boards, and kicking trash cans. “Who needs a fucking community college degree anyway? I’m better off finding a job.” A campus police officer appeared. Ed spurted through the entrance doors, vaulted a hedge, and gave the officer the finger as he climbed a chain link fence.
Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1) Page 9