The surface of the lake turned dull. Liz wished him a safe hike and, strapping on her pack, resumed her descent toward whatever patch of ground sheâd call home tonight.
Liz had hiked and backpacked in the southern Sierraânear Mineral King and all around Kings Canyon National Parkâbut never here in the north. She had been avoiding Yosemite and the area she was now traversing because of crowds, and because, when sheâd lived in Santa Fe and Los Angeles, the southern hikes were closer. As she skirted the shore of Thousand Island Lake, ever more scenic with clouds casting dramatic shadows, she realized that places this gorgeous were crowded for a reason.
She had first planned to hike the JMT seven years ago, when she was married to Gabriel. They had done a few short backpacking trips together while they were dating, but nothing approaching this marathon. Gabriel postponed the trip several times for one reason or another. Two seasons went by before she realized it would never happen, and it had nothing to do with hiking. By then their marriage was unraveling, without discussion or argument. To this day, she didnât know whether Gabriel had seen the end for them coming. But this was clear: the day he knew for certain was also, and not by coincidence, the day he died.
Until late June, when she and Dante attended Gabrielâs sisterâs wedding, Liz thought what had happened with Gabriel was behind her, like Tuolumne Meadows and Donahue Pass. She had believed, or at least hoped, that if she kept walking, the past would disappear beyond the horizon, and she could carve a new path, with Dante. She had been wrong. Sheâd lost her bearings, and twisted in on herself, entangled and bound tight, unable to gauge the direction of the wind or the magnitude of the coming storm.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he first raindrops fell as she arrived at Garnet Lake. A group of young Japanese girls huddled around their GPS unit, which was powered by a solar panel the size of a magazine attached to the top of a pack. Liz almost asked if they needed help, but decided against it. The trails were well marked. The only reason she consulted her map was to assess her progress and learn the names of peaks, rivers and passes.
The wind had picked up and, with the sun mostly occluded by the clouds, the temperature plummeted. She rounded the corner. The lake was streaked with whitecaps, and she ditched the vague idea she had to camp on the shore. Instead, she continued south, crossing the wooden bridge at the outlet and heading toward the next rise. Halfway up, rain began to fall steadily. She put on her waterproofs and drew the rain cover over her backpack.
It was a long three-mile slog to the nearest water source, Shadow Creek. She didnât mind the rain per se. She hadnât expected to spend eighteen days outside without some discomfort and inconvenience. Rain was only water. She could deal with rain.
What she couldnât deal with so casually was a thunderstorm. Sheâd been terrified of thunder and lightning since her father took her camping when she was nine. He came to Santa Fe, where she lived with her mother, two or three times a year. Her mother called it visitation, although Liz found out later they had no legal agreement. To Liz, her fatherâs visits felt like kidnapping. He was a virtual stranger and took her away against her unvoiced will. They never went to his house in Virginia, where she knew he had a familyâa complete one. He claimed he enjoyed camping with her so they could be alone. But even as a child, she knew better. Camping was what he could afford, at least for her. She imagined his other family never had to sleep in a tent. She imagined he took his real kids to Disney World, and stayed in a hotel with a pool.
But Liz had no choice in the matterânot at that ageâso camping it was. The spring she was nine they went to Bandelier National Monument, a short drive from Santa Fe. As soon
Liz had hiked and backpacked in the southern Sierraânear Mineral King and all around Kings Canyon National Parkâbut never here in the north. She had been avoiding Yosemite and the area she was now traversing because of crowds, and because, when sheâd lived in Santa Fe and Los Angeles, the southern hikes were closer. As she skirted the shore of Thousand Island Lake, ever more scenic with clouds casting dramatic shadows, she realized that places this gorgeous were crowded for a reason.
She had first planned to hike the JMT seven years ago, when she was married to Gabriel. They had done a few short backpacking trips together while they were dating, but nothing approaching this marathon. Gabriel postponed the trip several times for one reason or another. Two seasons went by before she realized it would never happen, and it had nothing to do with hiking. By then their marriage was unraveling, without discussion or argument. To this day, she didnât know whether Gabriel had seen the end for them coming. But this was clear: the day he knew for certain was also, and not by coincidence, the day he died.
Until late June, when she and Dante attended Gabrielâs sisterâs wedding, Liz thought what had happened with Gabriel was behind her, like Tuolumne Meadows and Donahue Pass. She had believed, or at least hoped, that if she kept walking, the past would disappear beyond the horizon, and she could carve a new path, with Dante. She had been wrong. Sheâd lost her bearings, and twisted in on herself, entangled and bound tight, unable to gauge the direction of the wind or the magnitude of the coming storm.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he first raindrops fell as she arrived at Garnet Lake. A group of young Japanese girls huddled around their GPS unit, which was powered by a solar panel the size of a magazine attached to the top of a pack. Liz almost asked if they needed help, but decided against it. The trails were well marked. The only reason she consulted her map was to assess her progress and learn the names of peaks, rivers and passes.
The wind had picked up and, with the sun mostly occluded by the clouds, the temperature plummeted. She rounded the corner. The lake was streaked with whitecaps, and she ditched the vague idea she had to camp on the shore. Instead, she continued south, crossing the wooden bridge at the outlet and heading toward the next rise. Halfway up, rain began to fall steadily. She put on her waterproofs and drew the rain cover over her backpack.
It was a long three-mile slog to the nearest water source, Shadow Creek. She didnât mind the rain per se. She hadnât expected to spend eighteen days outside without some discomfort and inconvenience. Rain was only water. She could deal with rain.
What she couldnât deal with so casually was a thunderstorm. Sheâd been terrified of thunder and lightning since her father took her camping when she was nine. He came to Santa Fe, where she lived with her mother, two or three times a year. Her mother called it visitation, although Liz found out later they had no legal agreement. To Liz, her fatherâs visits felt like kidnapping. He was a virtual stranger and took her away against her unvoiced will. They never went to his house in Virginia, where she knew he had a familyâa complete one. He claimed he enjoyed camping with her so they could be alone. But even as a child, she knew better. Camping was what he could afford, at least for her. She imagined his other family never had to sleep in a tent. She imagined he took his real kids to Disney World, and stayed in a hotel with a pool.
But Liz had no choice in the matterânot at that ageâso camping it was. The spring she was nine they went to Bandelier National Monument, a short drive from Santa Fe. As soon
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