"What, we were just talking," Brian said. "She was telling me about her dad."
"She's back there crying in her tent," Russ flung a wild gesture toward the other camp, "and she won't tell me why! I knew she was down at the lake with you, but I didn't want to make an ass of myself by coming down to check on her." He stopped directly in front of Brian. "I should've done it anyway. What'd you do to her?"
Adrenaline surged through Brian's body. "I didn't do anything!"
Russ thrust out his hands and shoved Brian back a step. "Don't shit me, man, what'd happened?"
It took every ounce of control Brian had to keep from smashing his fist into Russ's face. "I'm telling you--nothing happened."
"Russ!" It was Karen's voice calling from the other camp. "Leave him alone! It's not his fault."
Russ stood with his feet spread and his fists balled at his sides, his breath whistling from his nostrils as if he were an enraged bull, as he glared at Brian. After a long moment he jabbed a finger in Brian's face. "I don't want you talking to her tomorrow," he said. "I don't want you around her. Back off!"
"Russ!" Karen cried again. Russ whirled and stalked away across the boulder field. Brian was left to stand alone in the darkness, trembling with fury. He turned and lashed out at a boulder with a boot. The thud of rubber on rock echoed softly from the rock walls above the lake. A wild urge to take all of his gear and jam it into his pack in a wad of nylon, aluminum and goose down flashed through his mind. The only thing that stopped him was his offer of assistance in getting Jeff's pack to the summit of Whitney the next day.
From the other camp Brian could hear a semi-hushed argument being carried out, he assumed, between Karen and Russ. Brian knew that sleep would be next to impossible while he was so wired with adrenaline, and the adrenaline wouldn't fade as long as he was in earshot of the other camp. He made his way back down to the dark shore of the lake. The reflection of the stars no longer held any beauty; they were cold and distant. He squatted and picked up a rock from the ground, then another, and another. Rising to his feet, he cocked his arm and hurled the first rock as hard as he could out over the lake. After a moment the sound of a splash returned across the surface of the water. He flung the next rock, then the other. Two more splashes followed. It wasn't enough--he wanted a sound that matched the emotions flooding through him. Searching the ground, Brian found a rock nearly as big as his head and reached down with both hands to wrestle it loose from its bed in the course sand. Hefting it in one palm as if it were a shot putt, he crabbed forward three quick steps and with a hard twist of his shoulder heaved the rock toward the water, almost losing his balance from the effort. The rock tumbled through the air and hit the lake with a deep, satisfying splash.
"There, it's your turn to listen for a change," Brian muttered. Breathing hard, he found another stone and sent it flying into the water. He dispatched two more heavy pieces of granite before the knife edge of his anger was dulled. Ripples from the thrown rocks ruffled the shore with a quiet, liquid voice as his breathing gradually returned to normal. He wiped his fingers on his jeans and pushed his cold hands into the pockets of his parka. How long would it be before the rocks once again lay in the sun, if ever? How long had they lain in their beds before he wrenched them loose and threw them into the water? Since the last glacier, at least. Five thousand, ten thousand years? He found he didn't really care, about glaciers, rocks--about anything. He picked up another small rock and tossed it underhand into the lake.
"I'm tired of being alone," Brian said out loud. He shook his head. He'd been trying so hard to hold on to the memory of his father that he'd been pushing everything else away. His job, school, even his own mother. He was jeopardizing his future and the few relationships he had left. What would his dad say? Brian's mind did a quick review of the last couple years, trying to see them from his father's perspective. It wasn't a picture to be proud of. After a last look at the image of the stars in the water, he headed back to his campsite.
The next morning nobody from the other camp came over to invite him to breakfast, which was fine with Brian. He still felt like punching Russ in the face. Once more, Brian regretted committing to carrying Jeff's pack.
He made some hot cereal and as he sat bundled in his parka on a small boulder, shivering and eating, he contemplated the barren, avalanche-scarred west face of Mt. Whitney. The sun wouldn't top the crest for at least two more hours; the entire west slope of the mountain was in morning shadow. From his campsite Brian couldn't pick out the trail. He knew it actually switchbacked up a tremendous talus slope and spiny ridge two miles south of the high point of the peak. From Guitar Lake the trail had to swing around the end of the basin where Hitchcock Lakes were still partially ice-bound before beginning the climb to Trail Crest. Brian decided the carbohydrates from the mush wouldn't be enough and fixed some spinach noodles also, adding a dash of garlic parmesan from a plastic film can.
Finally, after straightening his camp and loading his day pack with food, water and his poncho, he couldn't think of any more excuses to stall. He took off his parka and pushed it into a small stuff sack and squeezed it into the pack. Brian was ready to report for duty at the other camp. Swinging his day pack to his shoulder he made his way toward the two dome tents near the edge of the boulder field. Even as he drew closer, one of the tents, the girls', began to sink to the ground, slowly collapsing after having its supporting poles removed. Carla and Karen circled its perimeter, collecting tent stakes. Jeff sat off to one side, stuffing items into two backpacks--his own and Russ's. Russ was on his hands and knees dragging things out of the boys' tent and handing them to Jeff to be packed away.
"Mornin'," Jeff said as Brian entered the camp. Russ glanced back over his shoulder at Jeff's greeting and went back to rummaging through the tent.
"Mornin'," Brian replied. Karen and Carla pretended to be busy rolling their tent, although Brian thought he saw Karen throw a quick look his way. "How's your ankle today?"
"Well, it's a little stiff, but once it loosens up I think it's going to be okay. I gave it a test run already when I made my morning pit stop. Man, it's hard to find a crack or hole that isn't already full of old toilet paper and crap. The only places to dig a cathole are too close to the water."
"You could do what I did," Brian offered.
"What's that?"
"Double bag it in two Ziploc bags. Then you can empty the bags into one of the outhouses on the summit, or you can pack it out and toss it in the first dumpster you come to."
Russ withdrew his head from the tent. "You have a turd in a sandwich bag in your pack?"
Brian wouldn't look at him. "This way I don't add to the mess already here," he told Jeff.
Russ snorted. "Figures,--" he pulled a pair of dirty socks from the tent and stood up to face Brian, "--assholes and shit go together."
Brian could already feel Russ's nose crunching under his knuckles, which would no doubt be immediately followed by a humiliating beating, with Russ as the beater and Brian as the beatee. Brian didn't care.
Carla picked that moment to literally step between them, facing Brian. "Brian, if it's not too much trouble, could you just hang out with us for the first little bit and see how Jeff's ankle holds up?"
"Well . . . "
"Might be a good idea, just in case," Jeff admitted. Brian waited to gauge Russ's reaction to the request. There was no reaction; Russ merely turned away and began to dismantle the tent.
Taking it as a sign of momentary cease-fire, Brian agreed. "Okay." He sat on a rock next to the packs as Jeff stuffed in the last few items and slipped off his day pack. The dirty socks Russ had removed from the tent were jammed into a side pocket of the pack closest to Brian. The pack looked new. The colors of the heavy nylon fabric were still bright. Brian could see no frayed edges or scuff marks of use.
"Nice pack," Brian commented.
"Russ likes the finer things," Jeff said.
"It's not gonna be racking up a lot of miles," Russ muttered as he rolled the now-flattened tent. "I can't see myself getting into this outdoor life."
"You could've rented a pack." Brian couldn't resist needling Russ.
"No way. I don't want somebody else's trail grundge rubbing off on me. For all I know the last guy was into hauling crap, like you."
The chatter of a helicopter's rotor blades high overhead made the three young men tilt their heads upward. Far above, in the blue of the sky, a helicopter was approaching Whitney's rugged peak, evidently after circling the mountain to approach from the northwest. Sunlight glinted off the tiny aircraft.
"D'you suppose they're rescuing someone?" Carla called from where the two girls were finishing their packing.
"Nope," Brian replied. "They're flying up to pump out the outhouses on the summit. They have to do it a few times a week during the summer, even more around the Fourth of July and Labor Day."
"You sure know a lot about shit," said Russ.
Brian barely held his tongue. Just because Russ seemed to have given up appearances of civility didn't mean he had to.
"Hey!" Karen cried. "Aren't you guys done yet?" Each of the girls was harnessed into her pack. Karen wore her dark gray fleece pants and blue sweater. Carla had on Lycra tights and a waffle pattern, long underwear top with a red plaid wool shirt over it. Both girls had braided their hair.
"Nope." Jeff quickly lashed the tent to the bottom of his pack bag and stood up. "Now we're done." He hoisted the pack and slipped his arms through the shoulder straps. Russ followed his example. Brian shrugged into his day pack and the group was ready.
By some unspoken consensus the rest of the party fell in behind Jeff, with Brian last in line, as they started up the trail. The path wound crookedly across the sterile rockscape as it climbed out of the shallow basin that held Guitar Lake. The sunshine had breached the southern ridge of Whitney and was sliding down the rough flanks of Mt. Hitchcock toward the two lakes that lay at the foot of its eastern slope. The air was impossibly clear. Brian had no trouble imagining he could see individual grains of sand frozen to the gray surface of old snow still lining the deeper troughs and crevices scarring Hitchcock's sides. He knew the "grains" were probably pumpkin-size boulders fallen from the slopes above, but the imagery was hard to shake.
The trail began a wide swing to the south to avoid the lakes, gradually gaining elevation as it angled ever closer to the slopes of the Whitney escarpment. By the time the group reached the foot of the switchbacks Jeff was clearly favoring his injured ankle.
"I think I'm going to have to take you up on your offer," he said to Brian as he brought the group to a stop.
"No problem," Brian told him. "That's why I'm here."
Russ walked past the rest of the party until he was in the lead position before stopping. He stood and watched as Brian and Jeff switched packs. "You could save him some weight by taking that baggy full of crap and putting in your pocket or something," he said.
"You could carry it," Brian pointed out as he adjusted the straps of Jeff's pack to fit his own shoulders and waist. "You were ready to carry part of his load last night."
"No, no, you volunteered to carry all of it. Don't try to pussy out now."
"I noticed you didn't volunteer to carry the tent and save him the weight when we started out," Brian said.
"I've got the stove and cooking kit. It's even."
"In proportion to your body weight, you've got the smallest load of all of us, Russell, except for Jeff now," Karen broke in. "Can we please go?"
Jeff said, "I'm going to go at my own speed and try to take it easy on my foot, so don't worry about me. I'll get there eventually."
"I'm going to stay with him," Carla said.
"Okay," Russ said, and Brian watched him start to take the lead, then stop and look from Karen to Brian. For Brian it was almost like looking inside Russ's head. He could picture a tiny set of scales there, the pans dipping up and down as they tried to balance. In one pan was Russ's desire to be first, to lead the way. In the other was the thought of Brian being between himself and Karen, or even worse, behind Karen.
"You can go first," Russ told Brian with a jerk of his thumb.
Brian shrugged. He moved around Russ and resumed hiking, hearing the footsteps of the others fall in behind him. The south ridge towered high overhead and very soon the trail began to climb the long switchbacks that would take them over fifteen hundred vertical feet to Trail Crest, where they would intersect the trail from Whitney Portal, on the other side of the mountain. From there it was still two long miles of uphill to the summit. By the time Brian turned the dogleg of the first switchback he could look down on Jeff and Carla, who were already beginning to drop behind.
"How're you guys doing?" he called.
"Doin' okay," Jeff responded. Carla merely smiled and waved.
Brian kept a steady pace. He could hear Russ and Karen coming along at his back. The distance between switchback turns was measured in hundreds of steps along the cobbled trail. The trail was well laid out and the grade rose evenly, a desirable feature when hiking above twelve thousand feet and more than two thousand feet of vertical granite yet to be gained.
The gulf between Hitchcock and Whitney deepened. The basin that cradled Hitchcock Lakes dropped away. It was more of a gigantic box canyon really; the ridge they were climbing, an immense wall of sculptured, fractured, steel gray rock, wrapped around and connected to Hitchcock's massive shoulder.
Brian reached a turn and stopped for a moment's respite from the relentless ascent. Somewhere along the way the sun had topped Trail Crest, but the elevation kept the air from warming. Brian was glad he decided to hike in his jeans instead of shorts. Russ reached the corner and stopped, his hands on his hips, trying to look as if he wasn't breathing hard. Karen was a few yards behind him. Two switchbacks down, Brian could see Jeff and Carla's figures moving along the trail. They seemed to be doing all right.
"Wow," Karen exhaled. "We've climbed a long way already." She shed her pack and stripped off her wool sweater to reveal her blue plaid flannel shirt.
"We're almost to the halfway point on these switchbacks. We're making good time," said Brian.
Russ made a psshh noise with his lips. "This is going to take all day."
"What, you've got something really neat waiting for you at the top?" Karen asked him as she stowed the baggy sweater in her pack. "This isn't a race."
Russ snorted. "Good thing."
"I can pick it up if we're going too slow," said Brian.
Russ waved his hand, offering the lead position again. The sneer on his lips echoed his earlier words: Don't try to pussy out.
Brian smiled. He started walking.
He walked at his former pace for the first fifty steps, then he gradually began to move more quickly, to take longer strides. He found a breathing rhythm to match the new pace and settled in. Russ's boots scuffed and crunched on the trail behind him, matching his stride. Brian focused on each step, picking the spot where each boot would strike to give the best footing for the next step. The cadence of his soles struck a beat and a song from grade school popped into his head, a song he hadn't thought of in years.
Oh, the Rock Island Line, step-step-step, is a mighty good line, step-step-step, Oh, the Rock Island Line, step-step-step, is the line to ride . . .
Jeff's pack had an aluminum frame that gave off various squeaks and groans as Brian walked. He began to work them into the rhythm of the song, timing his breathing and his steps so that all flowed together in symphonic movement.
Oh, the Rock Island Line, breathe-step-squeak-step, is a mighty good line . . .
He focused on the rhythm and the trail, not noticing as Mt. Hitchcock slowly shrank, not noticing how the sky was growing wider. He walked and he breathed and in his head he sang.
When he suddenly reached the next switchback Brian was caught by surprise and he almost broke stride where the trail briefly steepened as he rounded the corner. When he made the turn he saw that Russ was still close behind him, and Karen still followed Russ.
He heard Russ's steps falter with the steeper grade. He smiled to himself and he began to walk even faster. After a few steps he couldn't hear Russ's boots on the trail. He pushed himself until he reached the limit, the point at which he could walk no faster.
Oh, the Rock Island Line, step-breathe-step-squeak, is the line to ride . . .
He settled into this new cadence and the trail melted away under his boots. Far below, the Hitchcock Lakes and Guitar Lake where they had camped looked like spot of blue and white on a map. The sun had finally reached their basins and they glowed in their granite bowls. Guitar Lake wore a thin beard of green along the northern shore; tundra grass, the only plant life that could handle the crushing snows of ten month winters.
The sound of Russ's boots reached his ears, their pace matching his own. Brian shook his head. This was not working the way he planned. Russ was supposed to be dying of exhaustion back down the trail somewhere. Brian leaned forward under the load of Jeff's pack and called on an inner reserve he didn't know he had, pushing the pace even more. "Rock Island Line" was gone now. There was only the pound of blood in his temples, the creak of the pack frame, and the sound of his boots on the rocks under his feet. His boots and Russ's boots.
Brian's focus narrowed and his only objective was to drop the sound of those boots behind him. He pushed on, barely aware of the jagged Sierra peaks becoming visible to the north and the west. Some were still streaked with fingers of snow that never melted; remnants of glaciers that once ground mountains to dust and polished walls of granite with the powder. He pushed on, staring down at his boots lifting and falling, like pistons of a machine, and still he could hear Russ's boots keeping pace with his own.
The sting of sweat in his eyes broke Brian's focus, and he rubbed the irritation away with the back of his wrist. His eyes took in the vistas before him; wave after wave of granite crests stretching unbroken as far as he could see, to the west, to the north, sharply etched against the deep azure sky. Brian wanted to turn and gaze off to the south, but he was afraid one smirk from Russ would send him pounding up the trail even harder and he just didn't have it to give anymore.
The tattoo of Russ's boots on the trail behind him kept Brian moving, until he finally reached another switchback turn--he wondered how many he had passed while in his "zone" without even noticing--where a small level spot made room enough for two people to stand off the trail. He stopped there and turned.
It wasn't Russ. Karen puffed the last few steps to halt beside him.
