It was starting to look like a living room again, not a staging area for a six-night, seven-day trip beyond the reaches of civilization. Imogen dragged her pack over to the couch so she could sit, without anyone seeing the trepidation on her face, and attach her new sleeping bag to the frame beneath the main compartment of her pack. Afiya made a human Roomba of herself and zipped around picking up discarded packaging and stray bits and bobs that Beck confirmed they didn’t need. While Tilda played with her phone, Beck secured a Therm-a-Rest sleeping pad to Tilda’s burgundy pack. It was all getting too real. They were almost done.
Upon hearing of Beck’s desire to go down the Hermit Trail and head out to Boucher, Imogen had balked, and suggested an easier trip out to Clear Creek instead. Her dad still loved to tell the tale of the first time he’d taken Beck, at seventeen, out to Boucher, and how he’d held his breath as she crossed the narrow passage—rock face on one side, an abyss on the other—hoping he wouldn’t have to call home to report that Beck had oops! slipped to her death.
Beck had finally convinced Imogen that the trail out to Boucher wasn’t as death-defying as their dad liked to make it sound, that the narrow passage was, in fact, a super-short stretch and totally worth it and she needed to push past her fears. Imogen had a habit of letting her sister talk her into things, even when knowing that Beck, who’d backpacked alone at least twenty times, might not have the greatest understanding of other people’s fears. She’d promised them more beauty and greater rewards by heading deep into the backcountry, where they could admire the mighty Colorado at ground level, and might—off-season in October—have the desert to themselves.
Imogen had been thinking about that precarious stretch of trail for seven months. She knew the strategy: keep your eyes on your feet. But it still worried her. What if she took one look at it and chickened out? Then she wouldn’t even be mentally capable. And she could almost hear Beck explaining it away to Tilda, “There’s just one tricky section,” as if the rest weren’t already going to be the hardest walk of her life.
It wasn’t a helpful thing to be thinking about, but their dad really had almost died on their mom’s first—and last—Grand Canyon trip.
Things had gone awry almost from the start as they’d descended the Hermit Trail. Beck, fifteen and on her third Canyon trip, and Imogen, thirteen and on her second, went at their own pace and were soon far ahead. When their dad blew his emergency whistle they’d feared their parents were in real trouble. They hurried back only to be told that their mom was wobbly on her feet and proceeding slowly; apparently stomping around the city in high heels was not effective preparation for clambering over rocks with a heavy pack on. Their dad told Beck and Imogen to hike the rest of the way on their own, and have camp ready when they got there.
By the time they reached the Hermit camping area, Imogen had felt unwell. Hot. Hungry. Tired. But Beck was more worried than exhausted. Even at barely fifteen, she was already inclined to fix everyone’s problems: she decided to head back to Cathedral Stairs—a particularly difficult section of trail—and relieve their mom of her backpack. It was getting dark. Imogen didn’t want her sister to go. It was too dangerous, and Beck was the one person she couldn’t live without. She was alarmed by her sister’s sense of duty—her reckless grit—as she set off alone with only her walking stick and a tiny flashlight.
Having backpacked in West Virginia many times, Imogen knew how to set up camp—how to hang all the food from a tree, and lay out the ground tarp and mattress pads so they could sleep when ready. But after that, she sat on her thin bed and cried, imagining her sister swallowed up by a cavernous mouth that only opened when the sun stopped looking, when the surrounding rocks loomed black in their shadows.
She found out the next day that for some number of hours the four members of the Blum family had all been on their own in the dark. Two months later their mom filed for divorce. And six months after that, the Blum sisters started at Beechwood and told their new friend how their dad had almost fallen over a cliff, and they’d laughed and said he deserved it for being so clueless. Adult Imogen knew that wasn’t true. Though he might have miscalculated his wife’s abilities, when he realized they weren’t going to make it to camp he’d hurried ahead to find a level spot where they could bivouac. But night came on too quickly and he found himself racing back so their mom wouldn’t be alone. Careless in his panic, he’d stumbled off trail, and soon heard his walking stick go clattering off rocks as it plunged into the darkened emptiness.
“You okay?” Beck asked her now, skeptical.
Imogen realized her face had crumpled and she coughed the tightness from her throat. “Just thinking.”
How had it not occurred to any of the Blums to just stick together? Though Beck had forsaken her mission to Cathedral Stairs and returned to camp safe and sound, they hadn’t been able to eat a hot breakfast the next morning—not without the fuel in their missing father’s backpack.
Imogen wanted to excuse herself to go tongue a few drops of the medical marijuana tincture she used for anxiety. (Later, she’d slip it into her pack with the last of her personal things.) But they were all watching her. Maybe they thought this was what she did at home in the months since the shooting—randomly burst into tears. But these tears were for something else.
Their dad had hoped that backpacking trip would somehow shore up the crumbling infrastructure of his marriage. It hadn’t. If anything, it accelerated its collapse. Could Beck do it better?
Imogen and Beck took turns hoisting each pack onto their backs, checking for weight and balance. It would make walking even more difficult if one side was heavier than the other, or if stuff shifted around. But of particular concern to Imogen was that her pack weigh the ten or fifteen pounds less that she’d been promised. Tilda was the most solidly built of the three of them and they were counting on her overall physical ability. Beck, the tallest, was like a slab of wood, thin and hard and strong. Imogen could still buy children’s clothes (which she did on occasion to save money).
“How’s it feel?” Beck asked as Imogen took a few steps.
“Heavy.” But she’d tried the others, and knew hers was lighter. “How’s yours?”
“Heavy.” Beck turned to Tilda. “Want to try yours?”
Tilda set down her phone and leapt across the room. “Ooh, mine looks like a big burrito.”
Hers was the only one of the three with an internal frame. Beck held it up, as if offering an overcoat. Tilda slid her arms through the straps, heaved the belt across her hips. She paced around a bit. “Not bad. Not as bad as I thought it might be.”
The Blum sisters exchanged raised eyebrows. Suppressed grins. Yup, the city girl couldn’t imagine beyond the room, the level, manufactured floor. But there was no point in telling her. If Tilda still said “not bad” after arriving at Hermit Camp, Imogen would suggest a career change to an Olympian.
“And it matches my toes.” Tilda stuck out a foot so they could admire her nail polish. Imogen rolled her eyes. Tilda ignored it, and resumed marching back and forth. “It feels good. Talk about downsizing. If I can fit all this on my back, maybe I should sell my house and live in a van.”
Afiya cackled. “Maybe taking this a bit too far.”
“Okay, Wonder Woman, don’t wear yourself out,” said Beck.
Tilda took up the superhero pose, fists at her waist, then used her invisible wrist cuffs to deflect invisible bullets. Beck shot at her with an imaginary ray gun, complete with sound effects, pkew, pkew. Imogen sank into the sofa and watched them battle it out; they used to play like that together, the three of them, silly and unselfconscious (or stoned).
“Okay children, I don’t think you should get this worked up so close to bedtime.” Afiya playacted the mom role well. Tilda and Beck groaned—disappointed, bratty imps.
Imogen joined in only when it was time to line their backpacks against the couch, ready for the morning.
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” Afiya said, walking her guests to their rooms.
“You’re good at this,” Beck whispered, and kissed her cheek.
After an exchange of good nights and sleep tights, Imogen shut the door to Beck’s office, glad to finally be alone. This was the last time and space she’d have to herself for a while. She plopped onto the edge of the foldout bed and took off her bra. Their alarms were set for four o’clock and she didn’t want to risk not being able to fall asleep; she dripped her marijuana tincture under her tongue.
There it was again, the framed article, with its muddy black-and-white photo. Imogen was in the middle with a smug smile (and a messy mohawk), flanked by openmouthed Tilda (holding a microphone) and Beck, the director, glaring with her arms crossed (the photographer had wanted her to look authoritative). Imogen silently chuckled. At the time, they’d taken themselves so, so seriously—simultaneous to being utterly ridiculous. We had range.
She laughed again at the thought. But it was true. They weren’t set in their ways then. They didn’t know where they were going or what life would throw at them. She realized, looking at her old self, confident without reason to be, that she needed some of that girl back. Was she out there somewhere? Perhaps, in the company of Beck and Tilda, she could find her again.