The Trail

by Meika Hashimoto

  On the other hand, Sean does not seem impressed with Abbey’s green eyes and long, dark, silky hair. “I’m refilling my water,” he says gruffly, and heads inside the hut.

  “I hear tomato juice is great at getting the stench out,” Denver says to Abbey.

  “No, that’s a myth,” I interrupt. Denver has been nice to me, but I’m eager to prove to Abbey that I know a thing or two about skunks. “It just covers the smell—it doesn’t get rid of it. A few years ago, me and a friend of mine were volunteering at a rescue shelter. A dog came in after being skunked, and the way we got rid of it was with hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish detergent.”

  Abbey pulls out her phone and double-checks my facts. “Looks like Tony is right,” she says.

  I silently cheer.

  “We’ve got that stuff in the hut. We can de-skunk Moose out back. Follow me,” Abbey says.

  I call to Moose, and he hops off his rock. He follows me and Denver as Abbey leads us down a rugged path that cuts through grass and rocks to a hidden corner of the hut. It’s like a little hideaway, surrounded by trees and protected from view of foot traffic.

  It’s a surprise to find a secret place so close to the hut. It’s even more of a surprise to find a turquoise kiddie pool dotted with pink dolphins, full of water, with a guy in a Speedo and a forest of curly hair on his chest lounging in it, reading a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. He looks up as we approach, then goes back to his book.

  As we get closer, the guy’s nostrils flare. He gives two short sniffs, and then he is out of the pool and hopping about, holding his nose, as water dances off his tight swimsuit. Miraculously, Harry Potter has stayed dry.

  “Pool time’s over, Dan.” Abbey gives Moose a tentative pat. “Pepper skunked this little guy. We’ve got to get him soaped up.”

  Dan wraps a towel around his waist. “I’ll heat some water,” he says, and disappears through a side door into the hut.

  “Wait here.” Abbey follows Dan and reappears shortly with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a box of baking soda, liquid soap, a sand pail, and an old threadbare towel. She mixes the de-skunking ingredients in the pail and fills it with water so it bubbles up. “Here, Moose,” she calls.

  Moose skitters back, whining.

  “Here, let me try. I’m good with dogs.” Denver rolls up his pant legs and steps into the kiddie pool. “C’mon, boy,” he coaxes, clapping his hands softly.

  Moose hesitates, and Denver crouches down. “Here, boy. We’re going to get you cleaned up.” Denver reaches for Moose and hoists him into the pool.

  Moose holds still as Denver lifts him up, but as soon as his paws touch the water, he explodes. His legs pummel the air, and his body twists like a seal. He head-butts Denver, and the two of them pitch backward, sending a massive wave across the pool.

  Sputtering, Denver emerges from the water still holding Moose, who is yipping in terror.

  “Moose. Moose. Hey.” A moment later I am in the water with them, my arms hugging Moose’s stinky body. Denver has let go and is busy wiping his eyes clear of water.

  I ignore the horrible reek of skunked dog hair and put my chin on Moose’s head. I scratch behind his ears and whisper, “It’s okay, buddy. Shhh. It’s okay.”

  Moose trembles and quiets down. I stroke his matted fur, feeling the skin drawn tight over his still-showing ribs. Even though he has feasted on bread and pasta for the past couple of days, a lifetime of starvation has kept him horribly skinny.

  Keeping one hand on his head, I dip the other in the water and slowly wet Moose down. Abbey hands me the pail, and I pour the mixture over Moose’s back. I work my hand through his fur, gently scrubbing one side. I pick out twigs and untangle knots and work out clumps of dirt-encrusted hair.

  Moose has closed his eyes and sits perfectly still. Where before he was frightened of the bath, I think he’s enjoying it now. When I have scrubbed away all the layers of dirt, I use the empty sand pail to rinse him off.

  Dan arrives with a large pot of warm water, and I pour it over Moose. When I am done, he jumps out of the pool and shakes himself off. He is clean for the first time since I met him, and now I can see that the splotch of fur on his chest is pure white. I pick up the old towel that Abbey has brought and rub him down. He still has a whiff of skunk on him, but only a whiff.

  As I dry his head, Moose gives my face a single lick. It’s like he’s telling me that it’s okay. That it wasn’t my bad luck that got him, but just something bad that happened. And I figured out a way to make it better.

  It is then when I feel like Moose is really and truly my dog.

  ABBEY INVITES SEAN, Denver, and me to join the crew after the guests have been served dinner. After the leftovers are scraped into mustard-colored plastic salad bowls, we feast on ham and rice, slices of challah dipped in minestrone, and boiled broccoli. The guests have gone through all the homemade dessert, so Abbey breaks out Oreos and pours us glasses of milk.

  I break an Oreo in two pieces. I casually flip one half into the air and pray that it lands in my mouth and impresses the socks off Abbey.

  I succeed, but a little too well. The Oreo chunk bull’s-eyes my throat, and a second later I am choking and swigging down milk, coughing with little explosions that send the milk spurting out of my nose. “I’m fine,” I whisper hoarsely when Dan offers to give me the Heimlich.

  Denver breaks an Oreo into quarters. He takes a swig of milk and tilts his head back. A piece of Oreo flies behind his back and over his shoulder, landing with a plop in his open mouth.

  “Where’d you learn to do that?” asks Abbey.

  Envy wriggles through my veins again. I dab milk off my nostrils.

  Denver flips another quarter of Oreo into his mouth. “My older brother, Harry. He had the sharpest eye and best aim of anyone in the neighborhood. When we were in middle school, he could pitch a dime into a water glass from fifty feet away.” A third quarter of Oreo lands neatly onto his tongue. “Almost made it to the big leagues last year.”

  Dan lifts his eyebrows. “Why almost?”

  The last piece of Oreo clicks off Denver’s front tooth. He tries to grab it, but his hand goes wide and the cookie tumbles to the floor. Instead of picking it up, he just stares at it blankly.

  “Did something happen to him?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Denver’s voice is short.

  A thick silence fills the air.

  I shouldn’t press. It would be mean, and I know it. But I’m so jealous of Denver’s neat little Oreo trick that’s making Abbey’s eyes shine that I lose my head. I press. “Was there an accident?”

  No answer. Denver’s shoulders hunch. He stares mutely at the fallen cookie with dimming eyes, lost in the memory of what happened.

  I know that look. Of grief and numbness and disbelief at the unfairness of life.

  I’ve gone too far. Suddenly I feel horrible. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  As if shaking off a nightmare, Denver’s eyes come back into focus. He looks at me and sighs. “No, it’s all right.” He takes a deep breath. “My brother was the star of the baseball team all throughout high school. His senior year of high school, they were 18–0. Three of those games had been no-hitters. Harry threw a mean curveball, but it was his fastball that pegged him for the major leagues. He had it up to ninety-one miles per hour by the time his team got to the state championships.

  “A big talent scout was going to be there. Harry was certain he was going to be drafted into the major leagues. He just had to pitch one perfect game.

  “Then the night before the big game, Harry and I got into a fight. It was over something stupid—what Netflix show to watch; I don’t even remember.” Denver bends down and picks the piece of Oreo off the floor. He turns it in his hands, as if it is a Magic 8 Ball with all the answers. “Funny how little things can change your life.

  “We ended up wrestling for the remote. At one point I grabbed it and yanked. Harry tripped over the couch. His r
ight eye landed on the corner of the coffee table. And that was the end of his baseball career.”

  Without dusting off any dirt, Denver puts the Oreo in his mouth and chews. “A few weeks later he ran away from home. My parents went crazy trying to find him. But he was eighteen. Legally he could disappear if he wanted to. And he did. We haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year.”

  Except for the soft ticking of a wall clock above the sink, it is quiet in the kitchen.

  Sean puts a hand on Denver’s back. “C’mon, man. Let’s go to bed.” He keeps his hand on Denver and guides him out the front door. As they head out, the glow of the hut light silhouettes them against the wooden floors—two shadows melting together to keep each other standing.

  Later, I head over to the tentsite and set up next to Sean and Denver’s tent. As I crawl in and zip up the mosquito netting, Moose hops up on the platform. He turns a couple of times before settling down in front of the tent.

  As I fall asleep, I think about how surprising life is. I started on this trail because I wanted to get away from the bad luck and hurt in my life. I had run into plenty of trouble at the beginning of the trail, but right now Andy’s marble seems to be protecting me. But it hasn’t stopped me from running into the bad luck and hurt of others.

  Yet somehow, through sharing stories of the ways life can knock you down, there’s friendship. Understanding. Strength.

  I think about Denver. How he’s such a good guy. And how that goodness became twisted into guilt over something that wasn’t his fault. He’ll probably feel responsible for his brother’s accident for the rest of his life. Even though it was just bad luck.

  I can hear Sean and Denver shifting on their sleeping pads in the tent next to mine. I’m glad they have each other. I think about the story Denver told me about how he and Sean became friends. How they protect each other. Then I think about the story Wingin’ It told me, how people are thrown into bad situations that are none of their fault, and how they figure their way through it.

  Maybe life isn’t about luck, good or bad. Maybe it’s a lot about leaning on others when things get rough. And being leaned on in return.

  Outside the tent, Moose lets out a long, slow fart.

  I smile. I started alone, but we’re going to finish this trail together. Me and Moose and the other half of my shadow—Lucas.

  “I promise,” I whisper. “I will see us through all the way to Katahdin.”

  THE NEXT MORNING I wake to thick fog. A cold wind presses against the tent, and I close the vestibule to get an extra bit of warmth while I dress. Unlike the hot, sticky mugginess of the day before, this day promises to be wet and chilly.

  A black nose appears in the tent the second I unzip it. I have to push Moose back so he doesn’t invade my sleeping bag. He’s clean, but he still smells like damp dog.

  Sean is on the platform stirring oatmeal into a pot of boiling water. “There’s a storm coming,” he says as I clamber out of my tent.

  “How can you tell?” I break out two Clif Bars and a hunk of cheddar cheese. I toss one of the bars to Moose.

  “I checked the weather forecast at the hut this morning. Gusts on Washington are going to be over sixty miles an hour, and the wind chill is expected to get to about twenty degrees.”

  “But it was so hot yesterday!” I can’t believe there could be such a huge difference in temperature in less than twenty-four hours.

  Sean shrugs. “Welcome to the Whites.” He takes out a jar of peanut butter and adds a couple of spoonfuls to the oatmeal mixture. We eat our breakfast in silence.

  “Where’s Denver?” I ask as I finish off the last of my cheese and crumple empty wrappers into my food bag.

  “He left early this morning. He told me to meet him on top of Washington. Wanted to do the last bit of hiking by himself.”

  “That’s right—you two are finishing your trip today.” I feel a twinge of sadness. Denver and Sean had saved me on that rain-drenched day when I had nearly given up. Without them, I would probably have quit the trail. But now they are leaving and I will really be on my own.

  I lick my bowl and spoon clean, then tuck them back in my pack. After breaking down my tent, I stop by the hut quickly to say good-bye to Abbey. I call to Moose, and as we turn back down the trail, I see Sean. He has a scowl on his face.

  “Hurry up,” he says.

  When I tell him that he doesn’t have to wait for me, his scowl deepens. “Normally I’d agree. I hate waiting for you. But you’re not hiking in this weather by yourself,” he says curtly. He turns his back to me and starts hiking.

  I grin and follow him, with Moose not far behind.

  A mile later, the rain begins. We pause for a moment to shrug into our raincoats, and I ask Sean a question that I had been wondering about since that morning. “Did you know about Denver’s older brother?”

  “Yeah. Denver worshipped him.” Sean turns his head to the side and puts a finger over a nostril. He exhales hard, and a snot rocket flies out to the side of the trail. “When Harry disappeared, Denver nearly went crazy with guilt.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Sean clears the second nostril. “Come to think of it, it was exactly a year to this day that Harry ran away.” He goes utterly still for a moment. “I have a bad feeling about this. Maybe I shouldn’t have let Denver hike by himself this morning.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” I say. Nevertheless, Sean hitches up his backpack and shoots down the trail as though a swarm of bees were after us. Before long we are above the tree line. The rain has increased to a pelting clatter, and we can barely see the trail ten feet in front of us. I pull my rain hood over my head and cinch it tight. Moose whimpers. “Sorry, buddy,” I tell him. There will be no shelter, no trees to break the wind, until we reach the next hut over, Lakes of the Clouds.

  The higher we climb, the more the temperature drops. Without the trees to protect us, the wind rises to a sideways howl. I lean against it and hope that it keeps up. With a steady wind I can adjust my body to constantly battle the pressure. If the wind stops, I’d go tumbling.

  The trail becomes all rocks and boulders, slippery with lichen and rain. It is only 4.8 miles between Mizpah and Lakes of the Clouds, but it seems like an impossible distance as our pace slows to a crawl.

  A jagged arc of lightning cuts through the rain and fog. It flashes across the sky like a glowing warning finger. Moose lets out a high, frightened bark.

  Nobody should be above the tree line in a lightning storm. Odds are, you’re the tallest object sticking out from the mountain. The weather has just turned from bad to dangerous.

  If I had been here with Lucas and his dad, there would have been no question about it. We would have turned around and gone back into the trees as fast as possible.

  “I think we should go back!” I shout.

  Sean doesn’t answer but quickens his pace. “I need to find Denver,” he says. His voice is low. Urgent. His strides lengthen. His legs are long. Too long. Behind me, Moose stumbles on a slippery boulder.

  “I can’t keep up!” I yell. Sean is a couple of yards ahead of me and adding more distance between us fast. He doesn’t stop. I can’t tell if he hasn’t heard me. Or if he doesn’t care.

  The rain turns to hail. I tuck my head and scurry along as fast as I can, making sure that Moose is still with me. The chattering hail becomes a roar of clicking ice. I feel like I’ve stepped under a falling frozen waterfall. I concentrate on my boots and putting one of them in front of the other. When I finally look up, Sean is gone.

  ABANDONMENT HITS ME harder than any slap of weather. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was counting on Sean and Denver to keep me safe. For their knowledge and food and gear and companionship to protect me, at least for a little bit. Now both of them have disappeared.

  The wind and hail are relentless. All the energy drains out of me. Once again, I am alone in a storm.

  Grief comes, hard and fast as a bullet. I sit down on a rock and pu
t my head in my hands. I miss my best friend. “I’m sorry, Lucas,” I whisper. “I can’t do this. Not without help. Not without you.”

  I think about what had happened after the blueberry-picking disaster. We had patched things up and kept going with the List. But something felt broken between us. We had built a raft and floated down the Connecticut River, only to have it tumble apart as we were trying to land it. The night on Chimney Hill hadn’t been spooky at all, but I forgot to zip up the tent door and we ended up covered in hundreds of tick and mosquito bites.

  But it was when we were popping wheelies in the school parking lot that it really all fell apart. Lucas had mastered the one-wheeled trick almost immediately, but hours passed and all I had to show for it were dozens of scrapes and bruises on my elbows and knees.

  “Maybe we should try again tomorrow,” Lucas had said.

  I hopped on my bike for one last go. I pedaled as hard as I could, then jerked my handlebars up. The bike flew over my head and I went sprawling, cracking the back of my helmet against the pavement.

  Lucas rushed over and bent down to pull me up.

  “Don’t help me,” I snapped. “I’m tired of you protecting me. You never let me get up by myself. Or stand on my own two feet.”

  Lucas drew back as if I had punched him in the face. “Toe, that’s not true.”

  “Sure it is.” I struggled to my feet. Blood ran down my calf. “Why do you even hang out with me? I’ve been nothing but bad luck since the day you met me.”

  Lucas shook his head. “I hang out with you because we have fun together. So what if bad stuff happens to us sometimes?”

  “Or maybe you like being the hero.” I could feel my tailbone throbbing. “Maybe you need me to mess up so you can fix everything. Maybe that’s why you keep me around. So you can feel good about yourself.”

  Lucas’s shoulders straightened. He walked past me and picked up his bike. “You know what? Maybe you are bad luck. Maybe it’s time I started making new friends.”