“How do I get in touch?”
“They’re coming back tomorrow. I was going to use Calvin, because I never know how to find you.”
“I’m here now.”
“So you are, buddy, so you are.” He smiled at me, revealing the narrow gap between his two front teeth. Owen had dark, curly hair and a broad, friendly face that stood him well with the ladies. He had come to Nelson to get away from his third wife. She was still in England, working the divorce courts to squeeze more money out of Owen.
“What’s been happening?”
“Same old, same old. Bush is threatening Iran to get people’s minds off the fact that he ruined the U.S. economy. Hey, there is a meeting tonight to plan a demonstration. Are you coming?”
“I’m busy,” I lied.
“You’re constantly ceasing to amaze me, Sierra. This country gives you asylum from those warmongers and then you just turn your back on the people that saved your ass.”
“Save it for someone who cares. I haven’t had a toke in twenty-four hours, and I’m ready to go postal. Can you front me a baggie? I’ll pay you as soon as your clients show up.”
Owen went into the back for a couple of minutes. The store had a relaxing gloom, and I surveyed the racks of comics and cards, all encased in plastic. Junk. But people were willing to pay for it.
Owen came back and laid a fat baggie on the counter. I immediately rolled a joint, and we passed it back and forth.
“Tell me, Sierra, have you ever done anything to fight the imperialism of your country?”
“It’s not my country, and not my business.”
“Okay, have it your way, but have you ever done anything?”
“Yeah, actually, I was part of a major conspiracy to stop the Vietnam War.”
Owen perked up at this. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. There was a group of us in Berkeley. We were dangerous radicals. One time we got a bunch of identical shoeboxes, like about fifty of them. Then we took a banana, put it in a box, and sent it by first-class mail to Lyndon Johnson.”
“When did you live in Berkeley?”
“After high school.”
“You told me you were climbing in Yosemite after high school.”
“Sometimes I’d stay in Berkeley for a couple of months.”
“Oh.” Owen looked at me skeptically. “So you sent a banana to the president of the United States. And that was supposed to stop the war?”
“No, no, there was more to it. The next day we took another identical box and put a banana in it and sent that to LBJ, also by first-class mail.”
Owen took a deep drag on my joint and handed back to me a much-diminished version.
“We did this for over a month,” I continued.
“Wow! That’s perseverance.”
“You don’t get it. After doing this every day, we suddenly just stopped.”
“So?”
I took a drag on what was left of the joint, extinguished it, and put the roach into the baggie.
“That just drove them crazy,” I explained.
“Sierra, you deluded, long-haired midget, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Well, the U.S. eventually pulled out of Vietnam, didn’t it?”
When I showed up at Owen’s store the next day, he started in on me again.
“Some people mentioned you last night. They’re wondering if you support the war in Iraq.”
“War is a delusion.”
“What? The U.S. killing people in Iraq is no delusion.”
“I’m saying that anyone who truly believes that a problem can be solved by war is deluding himself.”
Owen stared at me for a second. “I don’t know about that. I mean, sometimes you have to go to war. What if we hadn’t stopped Hitler? Were we deluded about that?”
“The delusion started with Hitler. He thought that by eliminating the Jews he’d solve Germany’s problems.”
“He didn’t believe that at all. The Jews were a convenient scapegoat.”
“Maybe for cynical leaders war is not a delusion. They may have a personal agenda that’s served by war, but for the common man, the one who has to put his life on the line, it’s a delusion. The average American soldier had more in common with the average German soldier than either of them had in common with their commanders and national leaders. They just wanted to live their lives, have enough to eat, keep their families safe. Only the leaders had ideological agendas that they valued more than the lives of their country’s citizens. That’s the tragedy of the twentieth century—ideologies that were so important that no sacrifice was too great. It would have been different if the leaders had been asked to be on the frontlines.”
“Sure, but you have to take a stand against evil . . .”
“Any individual who sacrifices himself for a cause is deluded.”
Owen shook his head. “So you’re a pacifist?”
“Not at all. I favor individual violence. If you attack me, I will kill you. But I will not do that for an idea.”
Owen stared at me for some moments. He shook his head again. After a long silence, he said, “You can probably bump up your rate on these people.”
“Yeah? How much?”
“Double.”
I didn’t have time to digest the implications, because just then the door opened, and two men were silhouetted against the strong sunlight from outside. The dust in the store defined shafts of light which seemed to come from their outlines. They closed the door behind them, and the gloom in the shop was restored, the grimy glass in the door effectively blocking the sun.
Introductions were made. George was above average in height, with regular features and a dark complexion. Though he was clean-shaven, black stubble darkened his strong jawline.
Thanh was short, about my height, and Vietnamese. He looked strong, packing lots of muscle on a small frame. He spoke without accent, but George had an inflection I couldn’t quite identify.
They did not argue with the daily rate I proposed, but there was an issue with payment.
“You’ll be paid when we meet our friends on the other side,” George said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I get paid up front.”
George stared at me, and for a moment I felt fear. There was a ruthlessness in his gaze, something that told me that this was a man who was used to being obeyed.
“Your standard arrangement assumes half the daily rate you’re charging us,” he said. I was starting to get a bad feeling.
“Maybe you need another guide, someone who’ll work for less.”
Thanh, who had not said a word, exchanged a glance with George and then said, “We can pay half up front, half on the other side.” It was hard to tell who called the shots. Many of the grow ops were run by Vietnamese, so it was likely that George was just a front. His aggressive manner was compensating for lack of real authority.
There would be six of them, and I would have to carry most of the food, tents, and communal gear, since they would be burdened with “personal baggage.” Another glitch developed when they insisted that I should provide transportation to the trailhead. There was no way that seven people and all the gear would fit into my beat-up Toyota. To my surprise, Owen came to the rescue.
“If we can leave early enough so that I can get back to open the store by eleven, I’ll drive you in my van.”
We arrived at the trailhead around eight in the morning. It was a clear day, and the mountains to the south shone in their pristine majesty, but the usual feeling of anticipation that I experienced when heading into the backcountry was tempered by the businesslike atmosphere of our expedition. Before driving off in his van, Owen pulled me aside.
“Be careful, Sierra,” he said once more, as we stood on the gravel shoulder of the road, away from the others.
“Jesus, Owen, don’t tell me you’re developing a conscience.”
“Fine. Fuck yourself, then.”
“You fuck yourself, too, Owen.” I smiled at him, he smile
d back, and then he disappeared, trailing a cloud of blue-gray exhaust. Needs a ring job, I thought, and then I walked back to my new best friends.
In addition to George and Thanh, there was a burly Russian in his midforties, Yuri, and Omar, probably from the Middle East, around forty years old. The other two also looked to be from the Middle East; they were Bob, a big man, around fifty, with a scar running diagonally from his right temple across his cheekbone, and Gord, who looked soft, and much younger, no more than thirty. Their accents contradicted their names, and I decided that “Bob” wouldn’t mind if, at least in my own mind, I called him Scarface.
Their ski equipment looked new and serviceable, but their packs looked like they had been picked up at an army surplus store. They were sturdy green canvas with heavy straps; not ideal for a strenuous trip in the mountains.
Since I carried our communal gear, my pack was heavy; it took a while for my muscles to adjust as we started up the steep trail. However, I quickly realized that my pace was not going to be a problem. A couple of my companions had trouble putting the skins on their skis, and Gord was in poor physical shape and had limited skiing experience. I had counted on making the crossing in three days but packed supplies for an extra day. I started to wonder whether that margin would be sufficient.
We trudged up an abandoned logging road for the first hour, and then I cut off onto an old prospectors’ trail that led more directly to the alpine. Large cedars shut off the sky, and we made our way slowly in the silent gloom. I was in the lead, and my charges struggled in single file behind me. Periodically I’d hear someone stumble or curse as their ski became entangled in some underbrush. It was my policy to ignore minor problems. Anyone who ventures into the backcountry should put up with a reasonable amount of discomfort and frustration. Learning is motivated by the desire to avoid exactly such problems.
By noon the trees were getting smaller and patches of sunlight dappled the snow. I had been stopping every hour, encouraging the group to hydrate as well as to layer down to lighter clothing. Even though it was quite cold, the effort of laboring uphill with heavy packs caused the body to overheat.
Because the trail was so narrow, these stops did not allow me to observe anyone in the party except George, who followed right behind me, and Yuri, who was behind him. They appeared to be handling the pace reasonably well, though Yuri’s clothing was drenched from sweat. He had ignored my suggestion to layer down.
Around one o’clock we left the tree line behind us, and we were treated to the alpine in its full magnificence. The terrain sloped off to our right, and the steep apron of Mount Veringer rose to our left. The vista ahead revealed a series of flat snowfields intersected by deep gullies, and beyond the plateau, the snow-clad peaks this side of the U.S. border.
I called a halt, and my exhausted troops gathered while I set up my small stove and made lunch. As I waited for water to boil, I tried to assess their condition.
Yuri had changed into some dry clothes, Scarface appeared to be actually enjoying the outing, and Thanh and Omar looked tired but okay. Gord, legs splayed wide, was sitting in the snow, his back against his pack, his eyes closed, his face of a deathly pallor. George was squatting on his heels next to him, speaking in low tones right into his ear. I went over, and George looked up at me in a hostile manner.
“I can take some of his load,” I suggested.
“No! He’ll be okay,” George said roughly, staring at me.
Fine, I thought, I don’t want to touch your fucking dope. I stood for a moment, looking down at Gord. He was panting rapidly. We were only half as high as we would eventually get, and already he was having trouble with the altitude.
“Is lunch ready?” George demanded.
I walked back to the stove.
Gord continued to sit with his eyes closed while the rest ate. He refused any food, and a couple of times he made dry retching sounds. George had a swift conversation with Yuri, and the Russian took something out of his pack and then went over to Gord with a bottle of water. I saw Gord swallow something, and within fifteen minutes he made a miraculous recovery. We set out again.
I kept the group going until sunset, to make up for our slow pace, and thus we managed to cross most of the plateau.
With help from Scarface and Thanh, I made some snow platforms for the kitchen and started melting snow to make hot tea to revive the troops. Gord was again wilting, but the others seemed in reasonable condition.
After everyone was warmed up with tea, I set up the two tents. George and Yuri hauled Gord into their tent and put him into his sleeping bag while I prepared dinner. I threw my bag into the other tent, which was occupied by Thanh, Omar, and Scarface. George insisted that all the packs be piled just outside his tent; he and Yuri made seats for themselves, with their backs resting against the pile. George was using his headlamp to read, every once in a while glancing up to observe our progress in the kitchen. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I detected hostility in his look.
Yuri had taken off his toque, and I noticed that he had brown hair that started low on his forehead. The hair had been cropped short, but it was very thick, and his hat had flattened it on his head. This, along with his pointed nose, gave him a distinct resemblance to a porcupine I had once known. Yuri had picked up a tree branch somewhere along the way. He now took out a vicious-looking knife and set to whittling a series of perfectly formed toothpicks. As the evening progressed, I noticed that when George was not looking, Yuri would furtively reach into his pack and take a large swig from a flask.
The sky was spangled with a profusion of stars, and our open-air kitchen was humming with activity. Thanh, it turned out, was quite the cook.
“I worked in a restaurant,” he said. “That’s the only job an honors degree in philosophy prepared me for.”
“I keep hearing about doctors who come to Canada and end up driving a cab.”
“I got my degree here.”
“So you were quite young when your family came to Canada?”
Thanh did not answer. I noticed that George was glowering at him.
It took George fifteen minutes to rouse Gord so that he could come out and have some dinner. Despite having his sleeping bag wrapped around him, Gord was shivering, and to me it looked like he had a serious fever. Yuri gave him several pills to swallow with the little food that he could gulp down.
I cleaned up the kitchen while everyone went to bed, except George, who continued to read, and Yuri, who continued to turn out his perfect toothpicks. I figured that by the end of the trip he would have enough for a large tray of hors d’oeuvres. As I headed for my sleeping bag, I heard Yuri say something to George. I recognized the word talk in Russian, as well as Thanh’s name. George quickly came over as I was preparing to enter the tent that held Thanh, Omar, and Scarface. He grabbed my shoulder. I’m somewhat vertically challenged, and as he brought his face close to mine, I had to look up to meet his glare. There was a crazy ferocity in his dark eyes, and something told me that it would take little to set him off.
“You can’t sleep in there,” he said, as he squeezed my left shoulder with what I thought was unnecessary force.
“You want me in your tent, George?” I smiled in what I thought was a seductive fashion. His expression indicated that the implied proposal did not appeal to him.
“We only have two tents, George,” I said as I removed his hand from my shoulder.
“That’s your problem,” he said, and he walked back to his perch next to Yuri.
It took me less than half an hour to dig a snug snow cave. I lined it with a tarp, laid my sleeping bag inside that, put my underclothes in the bottom of my bag, and crawled in. After a few minutes I was warm, and as I lay on my stomach, I stared out the small opening of my shelter. I could see a slice of the peaks that lay to the south. They were washed in diamond moonlight, with a backdrop of velvet black sky punctured by a sprinkling of stars.
I had to revise my opinion; George was definitely in charge of th
is expedition. The drug industry was taking on an international flavor. Perhaps the bags were not full of B.C. bud but a more valuable cargo from the Middle East. Maybe I should have asked for a higher fee. I wondered if Owen knew.
Yuri definitely looked like Russian mafia. Where did they figure in all this? And if indeed the drugs had originated in the Middle East, why bring them in via Canada?
It seemed that my meager knowledge of Russian could prove useful in the next few days.
I wondered what Lana was doing at that moment. I hadn’t thought about her in months.
Though she had escaped her Doukhobor community in the interior of B.C. when she was eighteen, Svetlana had not shed her love of Tolstoy. She taught me some Russian so that I could share her appreciation for the master, in his original language.
Lana was twenty-two and had almost finished her nursing degree when I met her in Nelson. She was petite, and her red hair reached to her waist. Her dress and her quiet manner still spoke of her rustic origins, but there was a willfulness, a rebellious defiance toward convention, a core of craggy determination that underlay her gentle exterior. By the time I realized the strength of her resolutions, it was too late.
She gave me six years, six years punctuated by my long absences for several first ascents in the Andes and for a couple of expeditions to the Himalayas, six years when she never really knew whether I’d come home in a body bag.
By that time she was twenty-eight and I was thirty-four. In retrospect, I could see that she was right, that it was time to make a decision. But I was looking at the peaks and did not notice that my companion was slipping from my side.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2013 Page 17