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Stehekin Wilderness Ranch, 1997
The Fourth of July at the Ranch was a big deal. They celebrated this American holiday with an outdoor barbecue, serving up hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, and beans. They handed out little American flags. Desserts included red, white, and blue somewhere somehow, whether it was red raspberry filling or multicolored frosting. Fireworks were strictly forbidden since the Ranch was in the forest. Thankfully, since the combat-like sound of explosions might have been too much to take. This holiday celebrated revolution, something I’d been through so recently that rejoicing about it felt vile, like applauding a hanging or laughing when a firing squad razed a group of men into bloody heaps on the sidewalk. The truth of revolution—the violence, destruction, and deaths it takes to overturn a government—repulsed me, throbbed like a rotten tooth that needed to be extracted.
The holiday came and went, and the Ranch settled back into its normal routine, which included many guests who signed up for kayaking. On the morning of the sixth, the kayaking guests were a family of six, including two teenage brothers and two adorable and shy sisters ages eight and nine. The boys had been disciplined for sneaking in some fireworks over the fourth—Kathy had taken the contraband away and chewed out the boys and the parents.
The boys barely listened to orientation. They looked everywhere but at me, then slugged one another whenever they thought no one was watching. The parents wanted to pair a brother with a little sister, but I insisted a parent accompany one of the little girls in each kayak.
“My husband and I want to kayak together,” the wife whined.
“There must be an adult with children that young,” I explained. The wife sighed heavily, looked longingly at her husband, then gave in. “Oh, all right. But I thought that’s what we’re paying you for.”
Out on the water, it was like herding cats. The teenage boys had taken off like a shot, pointing to the painted cliffs in the distance, saying, “That’s where we’re headed, right?”
“In good time,” I called to the disappearing backs of the boys. By the time I rallied the other two boats to talk about the daisies growing out of the driftwood, or point out a prehistoric-looking heron, the teenage boys had made it halfway to the painted rock.
It was a long morning.
After the group somehow made it back to the boathouse, I stashed all their gear and hung up the kayaks, then drove them back to the Ranch.
I was ready for food.
As the family wandered away, arguing about their agenda for the rest of the day, I headed to the dining room. Tantalizing odors of lunch greeted me. Garlic mingled with something else. Maybe roast beef?
Inside the reception area, Kathy worked behind the cash register, writing in one of the ledgers where she kept track of everything.
“Hey, Luka,” she glanced up. “How was the kayaking this morning?”
“I survived,” I answered. “Barely.”
She laughed, crow’s feet crinkling next to her crystal blue eyes, gray hair pulled back, as usual, in a ponytail. “I can only imagine. That was quite the busy little family you babysat this morning. I got worn out just checking them in. By the way, I checked in a group of four guys yesterday afternoon. Hikers, they said, and they had accents that sounded a lot like yours, so I asked them if they were Croatian. They said no, they were all from Serbia.”
My appetite vanished in an instant. Kathy didn’t seem to notice as she returned to her ledger. When I trusted my voice I asked, “May I see their names? Perhaps it’s someone I know.”
“Sure,” she pulled a different ledger out from beneath the desk, flipped through the pages and placed it facing me, finger firmly on a few lines of writing. “There they are.”
I didn’t expect it would be anyone I knew, but I had to be sure. I studied the names, didn’t recognize anyone. “Where are they now?” I tried to keep my voice casual.
“McGregor Mountain. Then doing a section of the Pacific Crest Trail for their last days. I told them about you. They said they of course they knew your name. They said you’re a legend in Croatia. Really, Luka? You’re a legend?”
Kathy looked at me wide-eyed.
“That’s quite an exaggeration,” I said.
“I suggested maybe you could all get together while they’re here.”
I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather not do. “How many days will they be here?”
Kathy took the ledger back. “Looks like six nights here at the Ranch.”
I let my breath out slowly, not even aware that I’d been holding it. “Thank you, Kathy.” I turned to leave.
“Hey, aren’t you going to have lunch?” she asked.
I gave her a pinched smile. “Maybe a little later. I just remembered something I need to do.”
Heart pounding, I hurried back to my cabin and packed my travel bag, then headed to the van. Blood rushed in my ears, drowning out the sounds of children shrieking in fun as they played badminton or corn hole, extinguishing all the sounds and smells that usually gave me comfort, even a small measure of delight. I threw my bag in the passenger seat of the van, pulled out of the parking lot, and took a left toward the landing, where I was determined to stay until the Serbs were gone.
