SMOKED

(Peak Wilderness, Days Three to Six)

Dear Mom,

I have massacred many mosquitoes by now.

And yet the bites are so numerous, I’m not sure my skin will ever recover.

Meanwhile, I’m sure you’re concerned about what happened to my wet things—my undies and bra in particular. Like, did they dry, are they off the stick and no longer making an inappropriate spectacle of themselves, are they clean, am I wearing them now? Admit it—you are obsessed.

Before bed, Pat gave me a small piece of canvas and together we hung it over some low branches in a less windy spot, back from the beach. Under that I rigged my stick drying rack so that everything could hang overnight (not including the sleeping bag, which I obviously needed) without fear of rain or dew making them all wet again.

Last night was cold, though, and this morning everything is still damp. (Don’t even talk to me about sleeping in the wet sleeping bag.)

But let me tell you about campfires, Mom, because I don’t believe you’ve ever encountered one up close.

Yes, they are hot, with warming and drying capabilities.

You know what else campfires are?

Smoky.

And do you remember what else was happening around that campfire last night?

Smoking.

At the time I was in the midst of it, and therefore desensitized.

This morning, though, my sense of smell is working at full capacity.

So.

Consider that while I did my best washing everything, all I had to work with was a small bar of biodegradable soap. Consider the socks and underwear that I hiked in, slept in, sprayed bug spray in and around for two days.

And the other set that sat wet and moldering in my pack in the hot sun most of the day yesterday? Consider that.

And then imagine how these items smell this morning, after being fire-and-stinky-herbal-cigarette-smoked last night.

Imagine putting these items on under cold, damp clothing, and then imagine the smell of them, wafting up from your feet, chest, and nether regions. It is a unique stench, and quite inescapable, like wearing an inferno, and not the Disco kind.

Imagine how this will develop today, as, for example, my feet get sweaty.

Meanwhile, Bonnie, trying not to choke when she comes near me, has suggested that for the purposes of airing the other pair of underwear out—the ones I’m not wearing—I hang them on the outside of my backpack for the day.

So, yes, I have mounted my undies like a flag on the back of my pack.

You know, in case anyone failed to get a good look at them last night.

Smoked love,
Ingrid

I wake feeling dreadful on Day Three. I’ve barely slept. I was awake shivering and shaking, cycling from furious to scared to confused and back, and trying not to let panic overtake me. It’s been here all along, but I’ve been fighting it off. Now, however, with every muscle in my body aching, with everything stinking and wet, myself included, with my every action under scrutiny—of the emotionally intrusive kind by Bonnie and Pat, of the uncomfortable kind by people like Jin and Tavik, and of the creepy kind by Peace-Bob—I’m losing the fight. I am too tired even to fight, so I am just losing.

And there’s no out. We’re in the middle of nowhere, days of hiking from civilization, so even if I wanted to renege on my deal with Mom, it’s impossible. I’m trapped.

After having my morning pee in the woods and getting dressed, I sit down to write to Mom about the smoked undies, bra, and socks. The angry bite of these letters I’ll never send has been oddly grounding. (Maybe they’re written in my true voice, in which case my true self is a sarcastic bitch.) Today it doesn’t help much, but I do it anyway. And then, as I close the journal and tie the leather straps and look up at the sky, I feel, again, like everything is closing in on me. My heart races. I start to shake again, then tell myself I cannot do this, cannot fall apart, because if I do that out here, with a bunch of strangers who don’t give a crap about me, I’m toast.

I just have to survive another . . . eighteen freaking days. No problem. Ha-ha.

Breakfast is ready. I can’t imagine how I’ll eat, but I know I can’t hike all day with no food.

I just have to survive. I’m good at that. Right?

Bonnie comes to sit beside me as I spoon hot cereal into my mouth.

“Ingrid . . . ?” she says. “How are you today?”

“Fucking terrible,” I find myself saying. “And you?”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bonnie says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Are you upset about Peace walking in on you changing last night?” Pat says, barging clumsily into the conversation. Harvey and Henry look up, interested. In fact, everybody except Peace is here, listening.

“If I am, do you think I want to revisit the experience over breakfast, with everyone sitting here, listening?” I say, face flushed and barely managing not to throw my bowl at him.

“I’m . . . sorry,” Pat says.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Forget it.”

“So what’s wrong?” Bonnie says, a hand reaching up to rub my back.

“Nothing!” I say, trying to shift away from her. God, I hate these people poking into my business all the time. “Nothing, I’m just having a bad morning.”

“Why?” she says.

“Why do we need to talk about every little thing?” I say, getting up and moving to another log, away from her.

“We’re here together,” she says. “And each person’s mood affects the entire group.”

“Also,” Jin pipes up, “if you’re going to answer ‘how are you?’ with ‘fucking terrible,’ you have to know people are going to ask why. You’re practically begging people to ask why. So? What’s your problem?”

“Look, I just don’t want to be here, that’s all.”

“You changed your mind?” Bonnie asks.

“No, I never wanted to be here.”

“You thought you were going to a camp . . . .” Bonnie says, in a voice that sounds like her professional I’m-being-calm-because-I’m-talking-to-a-crazy-person mode.

“No, I didn’t want to do it at all. Even when I thought it was camp. I made a deal that I would do it, but I never wanted to.”

“Why did you, then?” Jin says.

“Because my mother wanted me to.”

“Seriously?” Jin sneers. “You do everything she says?”

“No,” I say, glaring at her, wishing she would stay out of it.

“Is she trying to control you?” Melissa asks quietly. “Because that’s very controlling behavior.”

“No! No one is controlling me, or trying to control me.”

“You’re obviously upset, though,” Bonnie observes again.

“Look,” I say, standing up and backing away from the fire. “I’ll hike, and cook and clean up when it’s my turn, but all the rest, all this talking, all these questions . . . I’m not up for it. I’m not doing it. So stop asking me.”

Dear Mom,

I still haven’t told them about Ayerton, or my flip-out on the night of the spring dance: the ax, the garage. It’s not why you sent me. It’s none of their business. What would be the point in telling them I’m such a loser, I accidentally chopped myself in the leg? While not-accidentally hacking at the roof of our garage? And how the hell could I explain to them that this action—the roof, not the leg—made perfect sense to me at the time, and still does?

And meanwhile, all I am trying to do is use everything you taught me. Shed the past. Move forward. Chin up, head high. And what you did earlier in your life—follow your own path and work your butt off going after what you want. But that’s practically impossible when you, via this damned trip, have stripped away everything that makes me feel comfortable or safe, every possibility of a coping mechanism. Why? Whatever the degree of trickery that was involved, you sent me here, and you knew it was going to be rough even if it had been a proper camp with cabins and some level of civilization. Is Melissa right: Is it to control me? Well, sure, but it’s more than that. Are you trying to break me? I promise you, I do not need breaking. And the gall of you thinking you know what I need at this point is . . . well, it’s extraordinary.

Love (which often sucks),
Ingrid

Once again, I hike in the middle of the group, thinking, with each step, that I just have to get through the day. Ally starts out in front of me, the gauze her feet are wrapped in sticking out the tops of her boots.

We begin in silence, and soon it’s the sound of her huffing and puffing that I’m hearing louder than anything else. I ask her if she’s okay, and she only nods and keeps going. Before long she’s limping and slowing down, and I can see her shoulders shaking.

“Ally? Do you need a break?”

Ally pauses, looks back at me, and I stop. Behind me, Jin stops.

“I n-need a break every two minutes,” Ally says, tears streaking down her face, which she has, I notice, made up again today. I have to admire the optimism.

“We can’t exactly stop every two minutes,” Jin says from over my shoulder.

“I know,” Ally says, sniffling.

I turn and glare at Jin, then say to Ally, “Why don’t you have some water?”

She nods, pulls out her water bottle, takes a drink.

“I’m never going to survive this,” she says, looking at me with wide, drippy eyes. “Everything hurts.”

Seth, who has been walking ahead of Ally, has come back to see what’s wrong, and up ahead I can see that everyone has stopped.

“Ally?” Seth says, getting an immediate sense of the situation. “What’s her name again? Angel?”

Ally nods, sniffling.

“Come on,” he says, reaching out to take her hand. “Every step, just . . . do what they suggested last night. Think about Angel. Every single step gets you closer to her.”

I nod along with Ally, and she murmurs, “Angel,” and starts walking.

“You can do it,” I say, though I’m not really sure she can. I’m not even sure I can.

“That’s right,” Seth says. “Let’s go.”

Seth keeps hold of her hand even though it’s obviously awkward to do while walking single file, and we all start moving forward again.

“About time,” Jin mutters from behind me.

“You’re just chock-full of kindness and empathy, aren’t you?” I respond, shaking my head.

“Endless supply,” she says, totally deadpan, and I almost laugh.

For the next couple of hours, I find myself thinking, “Angel,” with almost every step, too, almost like a mantra. Sometimes it even helps.

Five days in, Ally has shifted from weepy, limping, and slow to not crying at all and hiking, albeit grimly, at a steady pace. She starts doing stretching and push-ups with Seth before dinner. I’m a little worried she’s developing a crush on Seth, which can’t end well, but she’s much better, and at the end of the fifth day, even volunteers to lead the next day’s hike.

That night, I’m on firewood duty. When I arrive at the fire pit with my last armful of wood, something is off between Melissa and Peace, who are in charge of dinner.

“What is your problem?” Peace is saying. “I can’t have an opinion?”

Melissa’s face is rigid, and she doesn’t respond.

“I’m just being nice,” Peace says, as Melissa assembles ingredients on a flat rock. “I’m trying to help. Fine. Make dinner yourself. I’m out.”

He stalks off into the woods, leaving Melissa there, breathing fast and looking like she’s going to pass out from . . . I’m not sure what the emotion is.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

She doesn’t answer, just turns like some kind of automaton and continues with the dinner prep. Since Peace has left her on her own, I help, and attempt to engage her in conversation, but she seems to have shut down completely. She goes through the entire evening, including circle, without saying a word.

Ally does a decent job leading us on Day Six, but we’re still taking hours longer than the map estimates to get to camp every night.

She is having an easier time, but Melissa is not.

Harvey and Henry get into a fistfight on the trail, so they’re obviously not either.

And I am not.

I have fantasies about hot showers.

I have nightmares, waking in a cold sweat once or twice a night.

And day and night, I feel like I’m trapped in purgatory, panic rising and falling, and the fury that’s been keeping me afloat coming and going. I try to distract myself by thinking about other people’s problems—there’s certainly enough of that around me—but more and more the fury gives way to other things: blankness, bleakness, a sense of shattering betrayal.