shallows, blond and chasing each other, laughing, their mother scolding them in German.
We were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunk of a fat juniper pine.
Lucy turned her head. “Do you ever want to leave, Tenaya?”
“Here?” I said.
“Not just here,” she said. “Yosemite.”
“For a while or for good?”
“For good,” she said, “to live somewhere else.” She picked up a juniper berry. Put it between her teeth.
“I don’t know.”
She bit down on the berry and chewed. Made a face. Spit blue and turquoise. She said, “You don’t just want to leave? Go anywhere?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve never thought about it much. Why, do you want to leave?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
I said, “We’re in Tuolumne, far enough. Up here, in the high country, I feel like I’ve already left.”
“Here?” she said. “This is still in the park though.”
I said, “To me it feels different.” Under the high sun, I thought of the stones, the opposite, and the cool. The smell of the river. The eddy when I was six, and the granite slab there. The small body laid out in the evening. I wondered where my mother was that night.
Sunday was my birthday, September 17. Lucy sitting next to me when I woke up. She’d never gotten out of bed earlier than me, but she was sitting there with eggs waiting on a paper plate next to my sleeping bag. Eggs covered in pepper and too much salt.
I smiled. She used spices like smothering a fire.
She said, “Happy birthday.”
“What is this?”
She pointed to the eggs. “Cooked them by headlamp. I know how early you like to get up.”
I reached for her.
She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Eat your eggs.”
“Okay,” I said.
She had a plate too but didn’t eat. I pointed to them, my mouth full.
She shook her head. “Too nauseous.”
When I finished eating, she said, “Want to walk?”
Outside the tent, a Steller’s jay hopped sideways to us. Lucy said, “Here you go,” and set down her plate of eggs for the bird. The jay hopped onto the plate, his beak dropping like a hammer drill. He ate so hard that he popped a hole in the paper.
“That’s how I feel in the morning.”
Lucy said, “That’s how I used to feel.”
• • •
Greazy puffs his joint across from me, pointing with his pinkie. The year I met him in Camp 4.
He says, “Like the ’77 weed, man.”
“Like the what?” I say.
“The 1977 weed. The big score. The Lockheed Lodestar.”
I say, “That was the year I was born.”
“Fucking star-blessed.” He giggles and scratches his beard with both hands. He says, “No shit, huh? That makes you sixteen?”
“Yes.”
He says, “You know the story?” He inhales and holds it. Exhales slowly. He says, “Okay. So the story. Sixteen years ago, in the spring of ’77, early that year, we all start hearing this thing about a Fed raid on a plane up at the pass. Lower Merced Lake. Funny thing though: it was a ranger who told us that the full score wasn’t recovered. A fucking law ranger said that, said 1,500 pounds of weed remained in the plane. And it’s March, so it’s frozen as shit up there. But we cut holes in the ice and go down with scuba gear rented in Fresno. And man if those duffel bags don’t dry out in a tent right here, in this site, number 33, Camp 4.” Greazy pats the ground, then makes circles, dirt angels with the flats of his hands.
I say, “Did you get a lot?”
He giggles. “Oh, fuck yes, man…you have no idea. People set themselves up forever with one quick trip into San Francisco.” He puffs and holds his smoke. Exhales through his nose. “One quick trip to the city and people set for life. If you’re a dirtbag camping in the Valley, it doesn’t take much to be rich, you know? All sorts of people scored it too.”
“Like who?” I say.
“Like anyone who heard about it and could get the scuba gear. Climbers. Dirtbags. Hikers. Some of them just
We were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunk of a fat juniper pine.
Lucy turned her head. “Do you ever want to leave, Tenaya?”
“Here?” I said.
“Not just here,” she said. “Yosemite.”
“For a while or for good?”
“For good,” she said, “to live somewhere else.” She picked up a juniper berry. Put it between her teeth.
“I don’t know.”
She bit down on the berry and chewed. Made a face. Spit blue and turquoise. She said, “You don’t just want to leave? Go anywhere?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve never thought about it much. Why, do you want to leave?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
I said, “We’re in Tuolumne, far enough. Up here, in the high country, I feel like I’ve already left.”
“Here?” she said. “This is still in the park though.”
I said, “To me it feels different.” Under the high sun, I thought of the stones, the opposite, and the cool. The smell of the river. The eddy when I was six, and the granite slab there. The small body laid out in the evening. I wondered where my mother was that night.
Sunday was my birthday, September 17. Lucy sitting next to me when I woke up. She’d never gotten out of bed earlier than me, but she was sitting there with eggs waiting on a paper plate next to my sleeping bag. Eggs covered in pepper and too much salt.
I smiled. She used spices like smothering a fire.
She said, “Happy birthday.”
“What is this?”
She pointed to the eggs. “Cooked them by headlamp. I know how early you like to get up.”
I reached for her.
She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Eat your eggs.”
“Okay,” I said.
She had a plate too but didn’t eat. I pointed to them, my mouth full.
She shook her head. “Too nauseous.”
When I finished eating, she said, “Want to walk?”
Outside the tent, a Steller’s jay hopped sideways to us. Lucy said, “Here you go,” and set down her plate of eggs for the bird. The jay hopped onto the plate, his beak dropping like a hammer drill. He ate so hard that he popped a hole in the paper.
“That’s how I feel in the morning.”
Lucy said, “That’s how I used to feel.”
• • •
Greazy puffs his joint across from me, pointing with his pinkie. The year I met him in Camp 4.
He says, “Like the ’77 weed, man.”
“Like the what?” I say.
“The 1977 weed. The big score. The Lockheed Lodestar.”
I say, “That was the year I was born.”
“Fucking star-blessed.” He giggles and scratches his beard with both hands. He says, “No shit, huh? That makes you sixteen?”
“Yes.”
He says, “You know the story?” He inhales and holds it. Exhales slowly. He says, “Okay. So the story. Sixteen years ago, in the spring of ’77, early that year, we all start hearing this thing about a Fed raid on a plane up at the pass. Lower Merced Lake. Funny thing though: it was a ranger who told us that the full score wasn’t recovered. A fucking law ranger said that, said 1,500 pounds of weed remained in the plane. And it’s March, so it’s frozen as shit up there. But we cut holes in the ice and go down with scuba gear rented in Fresno. And man if those duffel bags don’t dry out in a tent right here, in this site, number 33, Camp 4.” Greazy pats the ground, then makes circles, dirt angels with the flats of his hands.
I say, “Did you get a lot?”
He giggles. “Oh, fuck yes, man…you have no idea. People set themselves up forever with one quick trip into San Francisco.” He puffs and holds his smoke. Exhales through his nose. “One quick trip to the city and people set for life. If you’re a dirtbag camping in the Valley, it doesn’t take much to be rich, you know? All sorts of people scored it too.”
“Like who?” I say.
“Like anyone who heard about it and could get the scuba gear. Climbers. Dirtbags. Hikers. Some of them just
Similar Books
