“It might well be. Ten minutes ago I saw somebody coming up the trail behind us. He should have passed us by now.”
“You’re seeing things,” said Kershaw. “Those loose shoes drain the blood from your head.”
“Except that I saw him, too,” said Bob Vega. “Coming up the slope. A single man.”
Genneman studied their back-trail. “Just one man?”
“That’s all I saw,” said Buck James.
“Damn unusual for a man to go camping by himself.”
“I’ve done it,” said Myron Retwig. “And enjoyed it very much. It’s a completely different experience from going in a group.”
“I can imagine,” said Kershaw. “There’s less bitching. More of nature’s music.” Wearily he rose. “I’ve been in some fantastic scrapes, but never did I expect to be performing like this. Who brought the whisky?”
“Along about our fifth day we’ll pass Whisky Lake,” said Genneman with a grin. “Can you hold out till then?”
“I might just camp there a while,” said Red Kershaw reverently.
The group continued up the trail. It kept zigzagging in long curves up the mountain, tending always to the northeast and Dutchman’s Pass. The mountainside was barren, its underlying rock close to the surface; and now that the sun was westering, its light glanced off the slope instead of burning directly down. Back, forth, back, forth swung the trail, sometimes hacked into mountainside, sometimes built out on a rampart of stacked rocks.
Resting in one of the infrequent patches of shade, Genneman turned to look down the slope. Almost a quartermile of trail lay in full range of vision. “You fellows were having hallucinations. There’s nobody behind us on the trail. Not unless he’s moving a lot slower than we are, which is hard to believe.”
Buck shrugged; Bob Vega looked dubiously down toward the valley. “Where are we?” asked Vega.
Retwig studied his topographic map. “As I see it, we’re here.” He indicated a spot with a pine needle.
“In about half a mile we cross this stream. Suggs Meadow is another two miles.”
They presently found themselves in a densely wooded canyon through which a small stream flowed. They drank and hurried on, now anxious to reach Suggs Meadow. The trail rose in a long slant, without switchbacks, finally breaking over a rocky ridge into a green meadow ringed by tall firs. The surrounding mountains were dark on the lower slopes; only the westward-looking peaks caught sunlight.
“We’re the only ones here,” said Genneman. “It’s still pretty early in the season.”
“Even in the middle of July you won’t find many backpackers on this trail,” said Retwig. “It’s too hard and too long.”
“My aching back,” was Kershaw’s comment.
They came down into the meadow, dropped their packs with relief, rubbed their shoulders where the straps had chafed. Half an hour later the plastic tube-tents had been set up, sleeping bags unrolled, air-mattresses inflated. Retwig appointed himself cook, to no one’s objection. He built a fire, arranged stones to support pots, set water to boiling, and presently from packets of unpromising appearance and insubstantial weight produced mushroom soup, stew, and coffee.
Twilight darkened the meadow; the five men sat around the fire. Retwig smoked a pipe, Vega a pencil-thin cigar, Kershaw a cigarette. Neither James nor Genneman smoked. After a while the talk petered out, and Vega limped off to bed, followed by Kershaw and James. Genneman and Retwig sat by the fire half an hour longer. Finally Genneman rose, stretched. He went to the stream, brushed his teeth, washed his face. Returning to the fire, he stood looking around the meadow for a moment, then he went to bed, too, leaving Retwig by the fire. A half hour later Retwig followed suit.
The fire became coals. It went dim.
Time passed. The clearing was dark and quiet except for the sounds of sleep. The summer constellation passed overhead and dipped into the west. The crickets became still; there was complete silence.
The eastern sky grew gray, the meadow light. Almost as the first red ray struck the mountaintops Myron Retwig emerged from his tent. He swung his arms briefly, dressed, and started a fire. Then he visited the stream, where he made his ablutions, and hauled water back to the fire. By the time he had deflated his air-mattress and rolled his sleeping bag, the water was boiling. He made himself a cup of coffee.
Young James arose, then Genneman, then Bob Vega, and finally Red Kershaw, who complained of the temperature extremes of the mountains. “Either you roast or you freeze stiff. I don’t know which is worse.”
“It averages out to absolute comfort,” Buck James told him.
“That may be so,” Kershaw retorted, “but my skin can’t figure like that. And while I don’t consider myself a drinking man, a shot or two of good whisky does wonders toward improving the climate.” He rubbed the stubble of his chin. “Somebody was going to produce whisky, I forget just who. It’s like a dream...”
“Here,” said Retwig, “have a cup of coffee. It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”
They stood gratefully around the fire for a moment or two, then went down to the stream. When they returned Retwig had breakfast ready: chunks of compressed bacon, scrambled eggs, and applesauce. As they ate, Retwig pointed toward the south.
“Somebody is camping just over the ridge. See the smoke?”
Buck said, “You have good eyes. I can’t see it.”
“It’s there. Just a wisp.”
Genneman tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “Let’s get moving. We want to make Persimmon Lake by evening.”
“If it means walking, I’m against it,” said Kershaw. But he put on his pack good-naturedly enough, and presently the five men left Suggs Meadow.
The trail once again rose, though in a somewhat gentler slope.
At noon they reached a ridge which afforded a spectacular view over a great valley to the north. For a brief period after that the trail descended, then it cut back on itself and rose sharply toward Dutchman’s Pass. Lungs ached and hearts pounded in the thin cold air. Banks of snow lay on the granite slopes; immense peaks and harsh spires thrust into dark blue sky; it was impossible not to feel awe at the sheer elemental clarity of their surroundings.
At two o’clock the trail slanted through Dutchman’s Pass across fields of snow blazing in the sunlight. At three it passed between a pair of astonishing needles of granite; from there it descended to Persimmon Flat, in the center of which lay Persimmon Lake, an irregular oval perhaps five hundred yards across. While camp was being set up Retwig tried the lake for trout; and in an hour he caught fourteen, which he fried for dinner. Afterward, as the group sat around the fire watching dusk reflected in the lake, even Red Kershaw acknowledged beneficial aspects to the situation. “I don’t say all this is making me a nobler man, but there sure aren’t many temptations to succumb to.”
Bob Vega agreed wistfully. “I wonder what Lila is up to.”
“You should have brought her along, if you can’t trust her out of your sight.”
Vega smiled sadly. Earl Genneman said, “My daughter wanted to come. She’s a good hiker, too; she’d keep up with any of us.” He looked sidewise at Buck James. “What’s the trouble between you two? Don’t you want to marry the boss’s daughter?”
Buck for once looked uncomfortable. “Oh — things will probably work themselves out. We’ve got a few differences of opinion.” He sat up, tossed a rock toward the lake. “Who’s for a swim?”
Genneman refused to be sidetracked. “Such as what?”
“One thing and another. She won’t live in Wisconsin.”
“Nonsense,” declared Genneman. “She’s never mentioned that to me.”