29 Through the Thick of It

Lily

 

“ Thank you, Arturo, ” Sara Jane said as Arturo reentered.

“ Man, is already getting hot, ” he said. “ Remind me of my place in Mexico. ”

“ You ’ ll have to tell me more about your home. ”

“¿ Habla Españ ol? ”

“ Sí , claro. ”

And then they took off in a long and animated conversation, neither of them feeling the need to stop and translate. I excused myself to brush my teeth, clearing the dishes as I left. I ’ m not sure what he said that changed her mind, and he never told me, but after their conversation Sara Jane trusted Arturo. I was glad, of course, but somewhat irritated at being left out.

Since there was no reason to linger at Sara Jane ’ s, we did what was needed—washed our clothes and restocked food—and continued our journey. Once Sara Jane had decided to trust Arturo she told us what we had come for: how to find my father.

“ The traveling won ’ t be as easy from here on out. The terrain gets rougher. But as you gain elevation at least the temperature will cool. The national forests will provide cover. I ’ ll give you coordinates because you ’ ll need them , but you will have to commit them to memory. No programming them into your ATV except for quick checks now and then to see if you are on course. And no slips of paper. There ’ s too much at stake. ”

We nodded our agreement to Sara Jan e’ s instructions . I would have sworn there were grasshoppers in my belly. This was it; I was finally about to meet my father.

Sara Jane unfolded a large map. Together we traced our desired route: northward, avoiding urban areas, crossing in and out of national forest land, using OHV (off highway vehicle) trails where possible and older, smaller highways when the mountains and rivers left no alternative , until we reached our final destination somewhere in the Smoky Mountains.

I thought about my uncluttered, sterile little apartment back home. I pictured Ma seated at the table folding her origami cranes. I tried to imagine my dad, a woolly mountain outlaw like on some old Monitor show. For one brief moment I pondered whose life I had stumbled into, because it sure didn ’ t seem like mine.

We left early the second morning. The weather forecast favored us: dry with moderate temperatures day and night. If all went well, we would reach my father before nightfall.

As we rode silently on, I was face to face with the reality of meeting my father. At Sara Jane ’ s I had taken time to dig out the minijournal I ’ d carried along. I wrote only the briefest of entries—where we ’ d been and little snatches of our adventure—leaving out the names of people and exact locations. Mostly I reflected on my feelings, as I now did internally. What would it be like meeting him? What would I say? What would he say?

Even as I pondered the inevitable and impending change in my life, the landscape changed as well. The plains morphed into rolling hills and narrow valleys while the forested land grew somehow wilder. Rushing rivers slowed our trek, forcing us to find ways around them; likewise, the large east-west interstates—sometimes more than eight lanes wide—were rivers of their own accord, proving a challenge to cross.

About an hour from Sara Jane ’s, Arturo and I reached the first national forest and found the OHV trails. Refreshed from two nights of good sleep, we felt optimistic. We stopped only to relieve ourselves. Occasionally we met other bikers and nodded our greeting, careful not to look at them directly and grateful for the goggles and helmets that helped obscure our identit ies . Aside from the GRIM agents at the one place, we had no reason to believe anyone was on to us.

After a few hours, still deep in the forest, we took a break to eat lunch and rest.

“ Is more slow now, ” Arturo said . “ T he windy trails and hills is hard to climb. ”

“ How long do you think until we find the village? ” Sara Jane had told us my father was staying in a small mountain village. When pressed for details, she said she didn ’ t know the specifics and that it didn ’ t matter; we had the necessary information to find him.

“ Maybe two hour s ,” Arturo answered. He had retrieved the map and was trying to figure out where we were.

I looked around at the trees, the flowers growing wild, planted by no one, and heard my mother ’ s voice in the constant buzzing from above: Lily Amaya, a flower nurtured by the night rain. A bird as blue as the July sky flew low in front of me.

“ It ’ s beautiful here. Do we even have places like this at home? ” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

Arturo stared at me in disbelief.

“ What? Ma never took me out of the city. I went camping with Clare once, but the campground was crowded and it didn ’ t feel all naturey like here. ”

He nodded but didn ’ t say anything, gazing instead into the woods, the map abandoned.

“ Arturo? ” I said, breaking the silence after a due amount of time.

“ Jess ? ”

“ Do you think my dad will like me? ”

I could tell by the way his expression changed that he hadn ’t expect ed anything remotely related to this question. There was surprise, then what— anger? T hen a tenderness trying to hide under some kind of macho girl-don ’ t-talk-stupid attitude.

“ You are joking with me, right? ” Arturo studied my face.

The worry I wore like a weight around my neck could not be hidden. I wasn ’ t crying or anything, but the closer we had gotten to my father, the more anxious I had become. It showed in the turned down corners of my mouth, the tightening of my grip around his waist as we rode. I had felt the changes, and so had he.

“ Of course your dad like you! You is his daughter. He love you! ” He took on the macho demeanor again, shaking his head. “ Silly Lily. ”

Something about the spontaneous rhyme made me giggle, lifting my spirits just enough to get me past the edge of despair on which I ’ d been perched. “ Yeah, ” I said. “ What ’ s not to like, after all? ”

He smiled in relief. Chick disaster averted.

“ But, you know, ” I continued. “ I get the idea he doesn ’ t know I ’ m headed his way. W hat if he and Ma never communicated. He doesn ’ t know me , Arturo. What if me showing up just adds to his problems? ”

He shrugged his shoulders. HE SHRUGGED HIS SHOULDERS! I swear, if he didn ’ t have this language issue . . . then he excused himself to “ take a walk, ” which along the way had come to mean “ sneak off and pee. ”

If you ask me, Arturo was gone entirely too long for “ a walk.” By the time he returned, I had gotten everything back together and on the bike. I had even refolded the map, which if you ’ ve ever tried, you know how difficult it is. It ’ s my theory that it ’ s one of the reasons maps fell out of favor.

Arturo mounted the bike and I hopped on behind. And sat.

“ What are we doing? ” I finally asked, feeling dumb just sitting there, not moving.

“ Programming coordinates. ”

“ But we aren ’ t supposed to do that! ”

“ Only for now. I want to see exactly where we are. Is easy— mmm —get lost with many turns in mountains. After, I will clear. ”

“ Oh, ” I said. “ Okay.”

 

The mountainous terrain was hard on the bike, but it was up to the task. As expected, it took longer to cover the same number of kilometers as when we had traversed the flatlands, my anticipation adding to what seemed by now an unending journey. Arturo committed to memory our destination coordinates and calculated how we would know when we were almost there . The long distance within the national forests on the sometimes well-kept trails had been easy. But once we were out in the wild it was trickier. In fact, we found it impossible to penetrate the mountains and forests. After starting and stopping too many times, Arturo gave up in exasperation.

“ Too hard, ” he said. “ We have to find road. ”

I couldn ’ t argue. The land had grown too powerful, dark and impassable. E ven if it hadn ’ t, I had the feeling we were lost and might never find our way back to civilization. Out in the wilderness, in these mountains and trees, there were no signs telling us how far to the next destination, no distance markers to keep track of. It ’ s just you and the trees and birds and wildflowers and it all looks the same for endless kilometers . Who knew there was this much land in America with no human inhabitants?

I didn ’t.

“ Where is map? ” Arturo asked.

I handed it to him. His finger found a red line. “ Highway, ” he said. “ Is not interstate. ” He looked up and squinted his eyes, peering into the distance. He shook his head. “ Is strange.”

“ What? What ’ s strange? ”

“ I think road should be there, ” he pointed. “ But I don ’ t seeing cars. ” He nodded. “ We go . . . okay with you? ”

“ Sure, ” I said. “ Okay by me. If GRIM has drones this far in, then more power to them. I ’ m impressed. We deserve to be caught. ” I was on a roll. I don ’ t know why. Maybe it was the stress.

He gave me a funny look, turned, and off we sped toward where he thought the highway should be.

Arturo was right. We had been close to the highway. With the mountains and valleys as they were, we had naturally gravitated to the easiest places to pass. He had also been right about the lack of traffic. We hadn ’ t known that in some places, where states and cities had gone broke, highways in rural mountainous regions had ceased to be maintained except by private individuals. T he green vine we ’ d seen earlier, further south, had crept northward, consuming everything in its path. No wonder we hadn ’ t noticed the highway, it was but a silent green lane of carpet between the edge of the forest and the river. Now w e rolled quietly over it, transfixed. In some places we could make out the forms of buildings completely eaten by the plant and the green shapes of picnic tables along the road ’ s edge. At times the vines stretched all the way across the river, which rushed on underneath not to be overtaken.

“ Ay ay ay. Ay ay ay ,” Arturo said over and over again.

After what seemed an eternity, the vines started loosening their grip and were gradually beaten back. The pavement was bare, though in disrepair, and a few clearly occupied homes began cropping up along its edge. Abandoned vehicles and houses left in the vine ’ s grip were still a part of the landscape, but there was also life. I didn ’ t know whether to scream or to rejoice when a group of barking dogs came running down a driveway, trailing after us.

Along the highway, a large handmade sign caught our attention: THIS ROAD IS MAINTAINED BY THE ABERNATHY AND STILES FAMILIES. PLEASE STOP BY AND THANK THEM.

“ Thank you, ” Arturo said.

We rolled on, passing the rare car or truck, occasionally seeing someone out in a yard.

“ Gardens,” Arturo said, nodding to the side.

Sure enough, people here appeared to be illegally growing, right out in the open. Okay, maybe not “ out in the open ” since we seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, the ends of the earth and all that.

“ Wanna stop? ” he asked.

I did. I wanted to. “ Better not, ” I answered. “ We should keep going. ”

I lost track of the time, riding through this stunning, yet somewhat frightening terrain, part reclaimed wilderness, part uninhabited. After a while the road had dead-ended into an active, alive highway. We made a decision to turn left, but I grew anxious as we passed more and more well-maintained homes, mostly built of brick. A good choice, I couldn ’ t help thinking, to withstand Nature.

“ I don ’ t like this, ” I called.

“ Si , yes, I agree. ”

Eventually we came to a dirt road jutting up the side of the mountain. We passed it at first, but Arturo turned around, went back, stopped, and took a swig of water, offering some to me.

“ Is this a road? ” I asked.

“ Yeah. ”

I looked up and down it and all around. “ Why? ”

“ Maybe a logging road. For cut trees, ” he explained, having seen my blank response. “ Or maybe some people live there. ” He shrugged. “ But is okay, I think. How about you? ”

I shrugged back, looking up toward where the road ran—nothing but trees and a mountain for all I could tell. “ Sure, ” I said. After what we had just been through, a tiny dirt road scaling a mountain wasn ’ t about to intimidate me.

The climb up the mountain was fierce, but Bronco handled it with ease . Arturo had decided to name the ATV during our last stint through the wilderness, and I didn ’ t protest. That little bike was like an ant scurrying up an anthill.

As our elevation increased , the forest thinned. Up ahead a t the summit a tall structure peaked just above the trees.

“ What ’ s that? ”

Arturo tilted his head. “ Fire tower? ” We had stopped. A narrow road ran in the direction of the tower. “ Wanna see? ” He didn ’ t wait for my reply, pointing Bronco down the road. Already the view from the summit—up above the trees and along the cre st of the mountains— was magnificent .

At the base of the tower we stopped, letting the bike drop—and h appy to be off Bronco, scrambled up the stairs. To our disappointment the door at the top was locked so we hung from the stairs, making the best of the view we had.

“‘ S cool. ”

“ Yeah. ” Sometimes words escaped me.

I could have gazed out at the mountains, the forests, the clouds and sky, for hours maybe, but Arturo noticed something I hadn ’ t given any thought to.

“ Lily, ” he nodded at the other structures sharing the summit. “ Communication towers. Maybe not safe for us here. ” Without another word we descended the steps, mounted the bike, and set off down the road. Going down was easier than the climb up, and soon we were back in the thick forest. More side roads, still dirt, began appearing. I started looking around, tilting my head up, searching the hills. There! A cabin!

“ Look! ” I hollered, “ a house. ” Arturo hit the brakes.

“ You wanna see the people? ”

I hit him playfully on the back. “ Of course not. I was just surprised to see a house out here in these mountains. ”

He smiled widely. “ Oh, Lily. I like when you express your emotions. ”

I crinkled my face in annoyance. “ Go on, ” I ordered, “ get moving. ”

As we continued, I kept watching and sure enough, more roads, trails, and homes dotted the hillside. Looming ahead were yet bigger mountains, ones I ’ d seen from the peak.

“ Are those the Smokies? ”

“ Think so. ”

“ How will we know when we find him? ” It was almost a whisper.

“ Remember what Sara Jane said? First we reach Cherokee land. They will know. They protect. ”