Yeeeee-ha!-- the echo caromed back from the steep, barren slopes above the opposite shore line. Ten yards in front of where he stood on the rock-studded bank of Chicken Spring Lake, a foot-long rainbow trout exploded from the mirror of water in a spray of sparkling diamonds. The crystalline lake lay in a glacier-carved basin just west of Cottonwood Pass, along the Pacific Crest Trail, high on the granite spine of California's Sierra Nevada.
The trout surged toward deeper water as the drag on Brian's ultralight reel screeched in protest. He laughed out of pure joy. God, how he loved this! The mountain tops around him were being turned to molten gold in the alpenglow of sunset and the touch of the air on his skin was like the smooth and light caress of cool, invisible silk.
The trout flung itself into the air in another spectacular leap, shaking its head like a giant marlin in a desperate attempt to throw the hook. "Yee-ha!" Brian cried again as he lifted the rod over his head to keep tension on the line. "'Show me the money!'" He danced on the rock, swiveling his hips to an imaginary beat.
Behind him he heard an unexpected sound, a sound that, just for an instant, eluded identification. It was music, soft melodic notes from a flute carved of red cedar; a rivulet of melted snow, dimpling over smooth stones; the call of a songbird, a low trill that sent a delicious shiver up his spine and into the hair under his ratty cap.
It was a giggle, then a girl's voice said, "Do you always quote movies and dance when you're fishing?"
He turned.
She sat on a slab of white granite, dressed in a red and blue plaid flannel shirt, denim shorts and hiking boots. Her slender arms were wrapped around tanned knees folded against her body and her hair, the color of polished walnut, was parted down the middle, tumbling over her shoulders in delightful disarray. Wisps of bangs hovered over long-lashed green eyes that twinkled above a wide and inviting smile.
A jerk of his fishing rod reminded Brian of his catch and he tore his eyes away from the girl to finish reeling the trout in to shore. Kneeling, Brian laid aside his rod and wet his left hand in the lake so he wouldn't damage the thin coating of protective slime on the fish's skin. He carefully lifted the trout out of the water. The deep olive green of its speckled back glistened above a brilliant deep pink stripe that ran the length of its twitching body.
Brian produced a pair of needle-nosed pliers and with a deft twist unhooked the lure from the trout's jaw. He dipped the gasping fish back into the water and cradled it with his hand as it regained its strength. After a moment it moved out of his fingers with a flip of its tail, then shot away into the depths of the lake.
The girl applauded. "Yay! Well done," she said. "I hate watching their colors fade when they die."
Brian rose to his feet, shaking the water from his hand. Fish-free now, he found himself tongue-tied as he faced the girl, and not a little self-conscious. His clothes, a holey yellow T-shirt and stained khaki shorts, were rimed with a crust of dried trail sweat and dust. His hair was stiff from a week in the mountains without the benefit of shampoo and he was glad it was hidden under his old cap. He was also thankful there was no breeze blowing from him to her.
Now that he had time to look at her more closely, Brian saw that her hair could use washing almost as much as his own, and her smile was a little crooked. Her clothes, while definitely cleaner than Brian's, had their own layer of trail dust. The twinkle in her green eyes was gone, if it had even been there; Brian wasn't sure. Maybe it had been something different; he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was almost as if her eyes didn't fit the rest of her, as if they belonged somewhere else. Aware that he was staring, he felt his face grow hot, and he suddenly found the need to examine his fishing reel.
She repeated her question, "So, do you always quote movies when you fish?" as she rose to brush off the seat of her denim shorts, which, Brian couldn't help noticing, fit like the proverbial glove. He tried not to look at her legs.
"Do you always spy on people?" he countered.
She thrust out her chin. "Only when they're standing on my favorite pumping rock." He noticed two wide-mouthed water bottles and a water filter at her feet. "I need to pump water for dinner," she said, "and that rock's the best spot. I would've said something when I came down, but you were having such a good time I didn't want to bother you."
Brian stepped off the rock onto a patch of sparse grass on the shore. She picked up her bottles and pump and took his place. She carried herself with an air of confidence that was almost unfeminine and he found it oddly appealing.
"So, I guess you lost the toss, huh?" he asked, pointing to the pump. She sat down cross-legged to perform her task. "We didn't toss; it's my turn, fair and square," she said. Unscrewing the top of a bottle, she dipped the inlet tube of the pump filter in the clear water of the lake and guided the outlet tube into the bottle's mouth. "I hate pumping water," she sighed. Her hair hung down, nearly obscuring her face as she braced the bottle in the circle of her legs to keep it from tipping and began to pump. "So, are you on your way out of the mountains or in?"
"In. I'm heading up to Red's Meadow, by Devil's Postpile. How 'bout you?"
"We're on our way to Mt. Whitney."
"We?"
"Hey--" A deep male voice called from the top of a small ridge over looking the lake. "--how's that water coming?" Brian and the girl looked up to see a husky figure sky-lined against the deep blue of approaching dusk. "It's coming," the girl raised her voice in reply. To Brian she said, "We. That's my fiancé. We're up here with another couple," she added.
Figures, a voice in his head told him, the interesting ones are always taken. "Well," he heard himself saying, "it's been nice talking to you. Have a good trip."
"Thanks, you too. Hey, what's your name?" she asked.
As if you care. "Buck," he said out loud.
"My name's Karen. Maybe we'll see you on up the trail." He managed a civil nod and a smile. "Maybe," he said, and he started back toward his camp. That night his sleep was haunted by dreams of green eyes that didn't belong.
