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To mend fences with Luka, I asked Luka and Kathy to hike Bridge Creek with me, even though it was peak season and hot. Bridge Creek, part of the Pacific Crest Trail, made a nice all-day hike. Playing hooky on a day when we should all be hard at work, but I justified it by reminding myself that one of the reasons I left Seattle and the corporate world was to live free, to be outside, to cherish life. I checked Luka’s schedule and found that he had one morning with no kayakers. Both Kathy and Luka felt responsible for me and didn’t want me to go wandering off by myself, so I took advantage of their concern. I asked Kathy first, but she said no way could she get away, and looked at me as if I were crazy for asking. But Luka welcomed the invitation. We agreed to meet at six in the morning on his free day.
I stood by the four-wheeler at a quarter to six, stock-still, listening to the distant roar of the river. The early morning breeze whispered in the treetops, tickling the pine needles so they trembled ever so slightly. I inhaled the intoxicating air laced with a fusion of plants and trees and dirt, moist with the morning dew.
I tucked my gear in the back, and soon Luka strode through the forest—all muscle in hiking shorts and tucked-in cotton shirt, moving with the smooth and powerful grace of an athlete. His dark, rusty hair was still wet and mussed.
Something stirred inside. My heart? My libido? Good grief, what was wrong with me? As he neared, he looked serious, the expression he wore most of the time. He dropped his daypack into the back of the wheeler and stood close enough that the warmth of his skin radiated a recent shower and the faint scent of soap.
“Are you going to hurt me today?” he asked.
“What?” A million confused thoughts jumbled in my mind.
“Like the McGregor Hike. The last part. You know, the summit made of loose rock and terrifying drop-offs.”
Good God. What was going on here? Yesterday, I had been ready to fire this man for disappearing on me without a word, and today, well, today felt different. Since we met, I had been filled with doubt about his past, and consumed with fear that he was an insensitive jock, the kind of man who is only concerned with himself. Just when you need a little moral support, they disappear.
“No, it’s not like that.” I finally managed to respond. “We’ll start out at a place called High Bridge, pick up the Pacific Crest Trail north to Howard Lake and continue to the junction with the Old Wagon Trail, where we started the McGregor hike. But instead of taking the McGregor trail we’ll head to Bridge Creek Camp. There’s only one switchback, and the elevation gain is less than a thousand feet. It’s more picturesque than challenging.”
He looked relieved. “Sounds good.” He climbed into the passenger seat, and I into the driver’s seat where I fumbled the wheeler to a start, shifted into gear, and did a 180 turn.
The July afternoon would warm up, which is why I chose this hike, but the morning was still chilly, especially cruising along at twenty-five in an open vehicle. By the time we arrived at the trailhead, we were both ready to get moving, to warm up. We threw on our packs and headed through the trees, and hadn’t gone far when the landscape changed dramatically. We entered the soothing shade of an old red cedar grove.
“Amazing,” Luka whispered reverently behind me as we plunged into another world. Ferns lined the dirt trail while gigantic cedar trees with enormous trunks reached upward, their lush green canopy crowding out blue skies. The oxygen-rich air was pregnant with a heady aroma, vaguely balsamic and camphor, like an heirloom hope chest or a good aftershave. All this mixed with the earthy scent of the dirt trail. I turned to grin at Luka, and he smiled back.
Soon, the cedars thinned out as pines and firs took over and we hiked for another six miles, chatting when one of us spotted something interesting, but mostly just enjoying the quiet until we came to small grassy meadow near the water’s edge.
“Here we are,” I said.
“We’re here already?” Luka sounded pleasantly surprised. “That was easy.”
“Pleasant,” I suggested, took off my pack and dropped it to the ground to sit.
Luka did the same.
We dug into our packs and took swigs of water from our canteens. I pulled out a couple of sandwiches I’d asked Sam to make and handed one to Luka. “The trail generally follows the route of an old road that was built in the 1890s to haul out lead, silver, even gold,” I explained between bites. “The road’s a remnant of mining they used to do here in the Bridge Creek area.”
“The men who mined here must have been very tough,” Luka said.
“I can only imagine,” I agreed.
I waited a long time as we ate before asking the next question. Luka looked so peaceful, so content, I hesitated and took a deep breath. But I needed to know more about his past. “Your war must have been awful.”
He flinched. He didn’t answer right away, and I felt bad for ambushing him like that. But I needed to know more about what he’d been through, and maybe he needed to talk.
When he did, it was in a low, quiet voice. “Josip Tito was the president of Yugoslavia. He was a Croat, like me. Tito was born near Zagreb. It was tough to hold the six republics that made up Yugoslavia together. Unlike the US, we have a deep and ancient history, and with that comes serious historical grievances held over from ancient conflicts. But Tito managed to do it. He also fought off Stalin, who was very interested in making Yugoslavia his own. That’s how tough Tito was, to hold off the Russian bear.”
Luka ate for a few minutes in silence, then continued. “After Tito died, everything began to crumble. Serbia began to behave aggressively. Milosevic, the Serb president, began to spout Serbian nationalism, and he wanted more. He wanted all of Yugoslavia for himself.”
Ah, the Serbs. Already I was feeling better about bringing up the war. I waited for the next part of his story. Even the forest seemed quiet, as if the trees and squirrels and chipmunks were leaning in to hear about Luka’s past.
He continued, “In 1990, Slovenia became the first republic to vote for independence, and then in 1991 my republic, Croatia, voted for independence, and shortly after that, Bosnia-Herzegovina. I had good friends in Bihać, Bosnia. Friends I visited regularly. Nikola Petrović and I were on the Yugoslav national team together and his sister, Anya...” Luka stopped and glanced my way, then quickly looked back to the creek waters dancing over rocks in front of us. For a moment, the only sound was the creek bubbling and the drone of insects.
“Anya,” Luka began again, “and I were dating. I went to visit them quite regularly, and we hung out together at all the races. Along with Rad Simic, a Serbian kayaker, a real champion.”
Luka looked at the water, silent for a while, then took a long deep breath and spoke again, voice almost a whisper.
“One weekend, I was visiting Anya at their apartment. Nik worked in junior management at a large textile company. She and Nik rented a place together, but he was out of town. Right across the street was a large sports field where kids played soccer and families walked. We heard a loud, thumping sound and went outside on the deck just as a helicopter landed on the grass. The door opened and soldiers began jumping to the ground, each wearing a red beret. Over the next several days, the Red Beret soldiers began training local soldiers, all Serbs, who now called themselves Special Forces. The Red Berets supervised as they practiced handcuffing one another, as if they were taking prisoners, right in the open where everyone would see. It was a warning, but we didn’t realize it at the time.”
Red Berets, Special Forces. It all sounded bizarre for the early nineties. While I was working in my climate-controlled office handling HR crises in the thriving tech world, Luka had been watching soldiers practice taking prisoners near his girlfriend’s apartment. A chill crept up my spine as he continued talking in a low voice.
“I served in the army for the required year of service. I didn’t like any part of it. The Sunday after the helicopters arrived, Anya and I went to the open-air market. On any other Sunday, families would be strolling by the vendors, stopping to chat while picking out fruits and vegetables. But that day, instead of women and children, Special Forces soldiers patrolled with automatic rifles, down the same aisles as the Italian tomatoes and cucumbers. It felt as if we were watching an old black-and-white movie about the siege in Stalingrad. We hurried home and listened to the radio. The news announced that the new Serbian Yugoslav National Army was going to transport some heavy weaponry through town. They were removing all the military artillery that was kept locally, transporting it all to outlying Serb villages.”
I was still confused. “You, a Croat, were in the army. I’m assuming men from every republic in Yugoslavia, like people from all the states in the US, join the military. Would these new Red Berets turn on their own?”
“The army by then was mostly Serbs. The Serbs wanted all the power that Tito had. That’s why they moved the weapons to Serb villages.”
Ah-ha. Now I knew why Luka disappeared the week the Serb guests had been at the Ranch. I had been so mad at him. I had no idea about his history.
Luka gazed at me, his expression drawn.
“That’s how war comes. It creeps toward you, slowly but persistently. You see it on the horizon and you can’t believe what you’re seeing. Then one day you wake up, and find war, you find enemy soldiers, on your doorstep.”
“Tell me more about Anya,” I prodded softly. “Did you marry? Is she waiting for you in Croatia.”
I had a million questions, but just then a voice came from the woods.
“Hallo?”
Both Luka and I both startled at the sound. A figure emerged from the trees. A young man, painfully thin, wearing a backpack that dwarfed him, beamed at us, eyes at once hollow and eager.
“Hallo, people,” he said again and grinned. “Hallo.”
After a moment of utter confusion, it dawned on me. We were on a section of the Pacific Crest Trail—over two thousand miles of trail that begins near Mexico and ends in Canada. Through-hikers—hikers traveling the entire distance—started to arrive about this time of summer. I stood. “Hi there. Welcome to Stehekin.”
He looked spacy and lost in thought as the smile lingered on his face.
“Do you have water?” I asked gently. “You might be a little dehydrated.”
“Oh.” He wiggled out of his pack, suddenly looking as naked as a turtle who had lost his shell, wearing some very tired hiking clothes, and unclipped the carabiner to a canteen, unscrewed the cap and held it up as if in a toast, and took a deep swallow. “Ya, sometimes I forget.”
He had a pronounced accent.
“Please, join us,” I invited. I dug in my own pack and pulled out some dried fruit. “Apricots and apples?” I held out the offering.
“Ya, thank you.”
As he neared us, the ripe aroma of through-hiker filled the air. Luka stood.
He threw an apologetic smile. “Ich brauche eine Dusche.”
“Du bist nur sechs Meilen von einer heißen Dusche entfernt,” Luka replied.
I glanced at Luka in surprise. “He says he’s in need of a shower, and I told him he was only six miles away from one,” Luka explained.
“Ah, six miles,” the young man said in English. “And food. Lots of food there, too?”
“Yes, lots of very good food,” Luka said.
“I’m Otto,” he held out his hand first to Luka, then to me.
“I’m Olivia, this is Luka. You’re a through-hiker,” I said matter-of-factly. “Where are you from? And where did you start?”
“I’m from Austria. I started in California in April. I’ve been on the trail alone, for a long time. I have reservations at...” He threw a couple of chunks of dried apple in his mouth and began rummaging around in his pack, extracted a tattered paper and ran his finger down what appeared to be a long list. “Stehekin Wilderness Ranch,” he pronounced at long last.
“You’re in luck,” I said. “We both work there. You’re welcome to join us. We’re just about to head back. We’re out for a day hike. Are you ready to go? Or do you need more of a rest?”
“I’m gut,” Otto said. “Let’s go.”
We all put on our packs and started back along the trail, me in the lead, then Luka, then our new friend, Otto.
“I didn’t know you spoke German,” I said over my shoulder to Luka.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he answered.
Otto barely said a word the whole way back, as if his time on the trail had left him mute.
It was late afternoon by the time we reached the four-wheeler. Instead of the three of us jamming together in the front, I was grateful that Otto insisted on riding in the back with the packs. Through-hikers don’t get many chances to really clean up, and this one was getting pretty ripe.
It was a quick ride to the Ranch, and before I took Otto to check in, I turned to Luka. “Thank you for telling me a little bit about your life. I know it can’t be easy.”
He gave a quick nod, climbed out of the wheeler, and grabbed his pack out of the back. He shook Otto’s hand and said, “I’ll see you around.”
“Ya. See you.” Otto smiled.
Otto followed me into the reception area where Kathy hovered behind the desk.
“Kathy, this is Otto, who says he has a reservation. Otto, Kathy will get you checked in and settled.”
Kathy held out her hand, wrinkled her nose slightly. “Through-hiker?”
“Ya,” Otto replied. “I need a shower and some food please.”
“Don’t you worry,” Kathy said. “We’ll get you all taken care of.”
“I’ll go see if we can get you something to eat a little early,” I said. I headed into the dining hall and behind the counter into the kitchen. Greta was tying her apron. “Greta. You’re done with horse camp for the day.”
She grinned, a rare glowing smile. “Yes, it was so fun. Those kids are too funny, and Ingrid is so organized everything goes like clockwork. We haven’t had a single mishap. No crying, no issues at all. The kids are happy.”
“So are you, by the looks of it. We’ll have to get you outside more often. Would you mind putting together a little sandwich or something. We have a hiker who’s been on the trail by himself for a long time and he’s hungry.”
“Sure.” She set about making a sandwich.
I went back to reception to see if Otto was checked in yet. Kathy was just finishing up with him.
“Which will it be first?” I asked. “Food or shower?”
“Food first, then shower,” said Otto.
“Follow me.”
I led Otto to the dining hall. He gazed around, wide-eyed, at the spacious room filled with long tables, the burning fire, the oversized coffee pots with stacks of cups sitting on the hearth.
Greta appeared behind the counter with a plate holding a large sandwich, potato chips, and apple and an oversized cookie. “Here you go,” she said. “Oh, hello,” She added when she spotted Otto.
“I’m in heaven,” he whispered, staring at Greta as he took the plate eagerly. “Thank you.” He wandered to the end of a long table to sit by the fire. Regardless of the weather, there was always a small fire to keep the coffee pots hot. “May I have coffee?” He looked at us expectantly.
“Yes, of course. Any time. Twenty-four seven,” she said.
“Twenty-four seven,” he repeated, pouring a cup.
As he ate, Greta and I leaned on the counter side by side. “I’m glad to hear horse camp is going so well,” I said, watching Otto devour the sandwich.
“Thank you for letting me be a part of it,” Greta said.
Otto wolfed down the food with the gusto of a man who’s been eating dehydrated food for months. I glanced at Greta. “Everything going okay with Ingrid and Ryder?”
She threw me a puzzled look. “Ryder? Yeah, everything’s fine with Ryder. He’s a nice guy. Why do you ask?”
“Just wanted to make sure. There were some hard feelings, you know, about bringing in someone. Ingrid wanted to be the leader and I didn’t want her to think I didn’t trust her. I was worried that she would resent Ryder.”
“Nope, not at all. He’s hot, too, which doesn’t hurt.” She grinned at me.
Greta glanced past me to Otto, who was polishing off the last of his chips. “I think I’ll grab him some potato salad from the fridge.”
