* * *
The monotonous fruit fields change to rugged foothills covered in lodgepole pine trees as we head west. When we turn off the highway, gray granite cliffs flank the twisting uphill road toward the national forest. Carved wooden signs with painted white lettering point the way to a variety of sights, each marked with distance and pertinent details:
CANYON WALK, 6KM. 3.5 HOUR RETURN.
SCEPTER PASS, 4KM. WEAPONS PROHIBITED.
BLACKWOOD LAKE, 10K. NO PETS. NO FIRES. OVERNIGHT STAY REQUIRES WILDERNESS PERMIT.
And then finally, our destination:
MUIR CAMPING COMPOUND: 2K. 1 HOUR RETURN. WHEELED VEHICLES PROHIBITED PAST PARKING AREA.
Wait, what?
“This is us,” Reagan reports, turning. I make a mental note of a High Sierra bus stop here and wonder if this is the route I’ll need to use to get to the star party on Condor Peak.
A small, paved parking area sits at the end of a rocky driveway. A dozen or so cars are parked here, most of them luxury vehicles. We find an open space near some wooden steps that lead into thick forest. Another sign sits near the steps, stating that the trail is private property and only for guests of the compound. People using the trail must fill out a form and deposit it inside a locked box.
There is no road past the parking lot.
“Get everything you’ll need,” Reagan reports. “Unless you want to spend all your time hiking back and forth to the car. The walk back is fine, but it’s all uphill to the compound.”
“We’re hiking to the compound?” I say, staring at the sign. “Two kilometers?”
Reagan gives me a labored look. “Don’t start, Everhart. I warned you about hiking.”
I’m not even that upset about the hike. It’s just unexpected, is all. “I didn’t—”
“How long is two kilometers?” Brett asks.
“It’s nothing,” Reagan tells him brightly.
“A little over a mile,” I elaborate.
“Oh, cool,” he answers, but he’s smiling at Reagan.
And Reagan is smiling back at him. “Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.”
Why are they smiling so big? Did I miss a joke? And now they’re high-fiving each other—hard enough to hear the smack of palm-on-palm. It’s so . . . goofy. Lennon’s head turns toward mine, and even though a fringe of black hair obscures one eye, a single dark brow rises in shared judgment of the stupid high five.
Or maybe he’s judging me.
We all fill out the trail registration cards at the information sign—in case anyone goes missing or gets murdered along the way, they’ll know your name and next of kin. And after Brett and Lennon haul down everyone’s stuff from the rooftop travel carrier, I’m soon reminded that I’m a human Weeble toy, barely able to stand under the misaligned weight of my backpack. But it’s not as if I can repack everything in the middle of the parking lot. So I do my best to strap it on and adjust my stance.
“Saddle up, team,” Reagan says loudly to the group. “Luxury awaits us at the end of the trail.”
It’s just two kilometers, I tell myself. And the woods are pretty amazing, all shady and smelling of pine needles. Birds are chirping, and it’s not too warm. I can do this. About five minutes up the first steep hill, I begin to have doubts. Ten minutes up an even steeper incline, I’m picturing Reagan with one of those prospector axes from the general store lodged in her skull. By the time we reach the final stretch toward the compound, I’m just wishing I could drop into a fetal position.
The sign for Muir Camping Compound appears, and I nearly weep when I spot a big building inside a break in the trees. My head is sweating, and I’ve been walking uphill in a hunched-up position for so long, I’m a hundred-year-old woman with osteoporosis.
But it doesn’t matter. The promised land is in front of me, and by God, it may have been worth all that misery, because the compound is gorgeous. A modern cedar lodge sits at the forefront: walls of enormous windows, fat timber beams, stacked-stone fireplaces jutting from the roof. Lush forest surrounds it. Jagged mountains in the distance. The whole scene looks like something out of a dream. We head inside.
Warm sunlight streams through double-high windows as we tread across floors of polished river rock and stop at the registration desk. It smells so nice in here, like cedar and fresh-cut flowers. And they have expensive candy sitting in a bowl for the guests. I resist the urge to fill my pockets; Brett does not. He holds a finger up to his mouth and winks at me, stealthily emptying imported chocolate into a pocket on his backpack, while Reagan informs the middle-aged woman working the desk who her mother is.
The woman’s name tag reads CANDY. For a second, my oxygen-starved brain reads this as some sort of sign that Brett’s been busted, then I realize it’s actually her name. “You’re Belinda’s daughter?” she says to Reagan. “I barely recognize you. Didn’t you stay with us last year?”
“I did,” Reagan reports cheerfully. “Mom called you about the change in guests, right?”
Candy looks us over. “I was under the impression that your group would be girls. . . .”
You and me both, Candy. I sense a kindred planner spirit in her as she’s double-checking her computer screen and an old-fashioned paper registry. Reagan assures Candy that nothing is amiss with our guest list and begins providing her with everyone’s names. I meander around the room, and Brett joins me while I examine a wall of framed scenic photos. “Lennon said you take crazy-good photos of stars. I thought you just looked at them.”
The jittery feeling I get whenever Brett is nearby returns. Why can’t I just feel normal around him? “I . . . do both. Look and take pictures. Of stars. With my camera.”
Ugh. Zorie sound like cavewoman.
Brett just laughs, easy and warmly. “Not with your mind?”
“No,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t red.
“Do you just stick a camera on a telescope and zoom in?”
“Sort of. Not exactly? It’s . . . There are a lot of fiddly, techy parts. Hard to explain.”
His smile is gentle. “Maybe you can teach me how? Because I’d love to take photos of the night sky. Especially the moon. That would be so badass.”
Is he serious? He’s interested in astrophotography? I want to scream, I WILL TEACH YOU! I WILL TEACH YOU SO HARD. But Kendrick calls his name, and Brett ducks around me to answer. Before I can open my mouth, he’s gone, laughing with Kendrick about a carved wooden statue that looks like two squirrels having sex.
Dammit.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. It’s the same prickly feeling I had in the car, and it makes me anxious. I glance around, and my eyes immediately meet Lennon’s. The intensity of his stare is startling.
For the love of Pete, what do you want? It’s as if he’s accusing me of something. I haven’t said a word to him since the Gold Rush store, so I’m not sure what his problem is. I used to be able to read his expressions, but now he’s like the mediocre mime who performs outside the Jitterbug on Mission Street, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to get out of a glass box or signal a taxi. Does Lennon expect a thank-you for the peanut butter fudge? Or is he just trying to unsettle me?
If so, it’s working.
But I’ll never let him know that. I quickly turn away and head toward Brett and Kendrick and the mating squirrels.