Range of Light (23 page)

Adele was smart. She'd be OK. She'd conserve the food and water and find shelter. She'd be safe as long as she didn't run into a cougar or trip in the mist. Or throw herself off a mountain. But, Jesus, it must be cold out there. I listened to the wind—maybe an airplane—attending closely to the howling night. All around me the sounds were wistful. Melancholy. Scary.

My tent exploded
with splinters
of yellow and orange light. Sunset. Sunrise. Flashlight. My eyes and mouth blinked open. Relieved, I saw Adele crawling through the flaps. My shoulders relaxed back into the sleeping bag, back into the pine needles, back into the mountain floor. Then I heard the noise behind her. Wet, heavy, aspirated, harsh, like a snow shovel scraping the sidewalk. A dark form followed her.

“Adele!” I warned, but she took no notice.

“Adele.” If she could only make it into the tent, she'd be safe, I thought foggily. No, that was ridiculous. The creature would simply eat both of us here. The only hope was to get outside, on our feet. Here we were trapped in the plastic ribs and nylon skin. Reaching for my pocketknife, I knew the best escape was out back. I could pull Adele through, leaving the bear dazed with poles and stakes and ribbons of tent around her head. We could run for shelter at the High Sierra Camp while the animal wrestled her way through the polyester and poles. I had it all figured out.

“Adele,” I yelled. How could she be so oblivious?

“Adele.”

“Adele,” she said strangely.

I woke at the sound of her name. Alone again.

My first groggy thought was, What if Adele is hit by a shooting star? I looked at the semi-iridescent dial on my watch—3:00 A.M.—pleased, horrified that I had fallen asleep. Two and a half more hours until dawn. Ready to take off at the first light, I would find Adele myself.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Kath

Monday / Vogelsang

I WOKE TO A
milky daylight.
Too early to call the ranger, so I forced myself to stay in the cold, clammy sleeping bag. I hadn't been able to get warm all night. 6:00
A.M
. Birds insisted the day forward. Eyes closed, I knew it was impossible to rest.

Crawling into the marbled gray morning, I guessed there was a fifty-fifty chance of rain. Damn. I forced myself to eat an orange. Sugar shot straight to my aching muscles. Was Adele waking up now? Cold and fuzzy, but I hoped fairly dry under the poncho. Behind me, one jay screeched to two others in a whitebark pine. Then together the birds bleated loudly, saxophones pulsing toward a cloudy ceiling.

God, I felt terrible: ghostly hollow, body ambulating without heart as I collected trash, extinguished the fire, unbuttoned my flannel over-shirt. Limbs and carcass moved while spirit was tethered high in one of these pines, watching for Adele's return. Better reconnect body and soul before phoning the ranger or they'd cart me off to a loony bin.

On my way to the phone, I had to pass Sandy's site. He was up, eating an apple.

“Any word?” he called out, apprehensive about Adele, yet cautious, keeping a respectful distance.

I thought of Carter telling me I had intimidated him for the first two months in the office. I still didn't get it—how could these huge men be frightened of a small, taciturn female? Well, whatever worked, I guessed, and it saved me learning karate.

“Not yet.” My voice was friendly. I needed his help. Someone had to stay in camp in case Adele wandered back. This had gone too far to rely on feeble notes. The ranger was much more likely to agree to my going off in search of her if he knew “another friend” was waiting behind.

Sandy consented to stay. He shrugged off his satisfaction at being enlisted by saying he needed to repair a couple of holes in his tent anyway. And he had a lot of reading to do.

All the way
to
Hanging
Basket Lake it drizzled. The ranger thought I was overwrought to insist on looking in the same place he had checked yesterday. But he held his peace when I promised to return by noon. I kept my eyes wide open as I walked past Upper Fletcher and Townsley Lakes, pained by the thought of our carefree swim here two days ago.

It was a fair hike to the lake, a real act of faith to scramble up these boulders, for who knew if there was anything at the top? I remembered the water: teacup-sized compared with many of the lakes up here, but worth the hike for its isolation. If I hadn't competed with Sandy for eloquence about this place, Adele and I would be in the car this very minute driving back to Palo Alto.

As I feared, Hanging Basket Lake—about half a mile in circumference—was deserted. Still, I called loudly, “Adele. Adele.” My voice echoed back, “Adele. Adele,” in desolation. How alone I was. How alone Adele was; somewhere out there, somewhere by herself. Exhausted, I rested on a rock. Bending down, I wept into the unforgiving ground.

I walked cross-country
to Vogelsang
Lake, instead of catching the easy trail back to camp. Maybe Adele decided to return this way. Damn her charming unpredictability. And her deathly fear of boredom. Is that why she “took up” (as Mom would say) with Sandy? Was I that tedious?

I recalled the slumber party at Paula's house where we listened to the score of
West Side Story.
I remembered Adele singing each part with humor, flair, trying to organize the five of us into some kind of harmony. I had sat back watching Paula and Adele and Nancy in their gigantic pink rollers and Donna wearing the headgear that held her orthodontic retainer in place. Her face smeared with skin-tone Clearasil. We were all trapped in wholesome adolescence. If there was a way out, Adele would lead us.

This walk back down to Vogelsang Lake was easy enough, although Adele hated descents. Anyone could have slipped in yesterday's muck.

Closely, I inspected each side of the trail as I walked along. “Adele. Adele,” I shouted. “Adele. Adele,” I demanded. Above, a helicopter drowned out my voice, a loud zipper frantically opening the morning sky.

Vogelsang Lake was a lusciously large body of water compared with Hanging Basket. Concentrating on the still, greeny surface, I tried to absorb some tranquillity. No use. My mind dashed back and forth: Where could Adele be, what could I do? How had I caused this catastrophe with my sullen pride? I walked the entire circumference. There was nothing to do now except head back to camp.

No news,
the ranger's office
reported. I promised to wait. And there I sat in my tent, pretending to read. I put the last piece of cheese and bread out of my mind although I was surprisingly hungry. I knew Adele would be starving by the time she arrived. Yes, of course she would arrive. Of course everything would be fine.

As if on cue, Sandy ambled by with a hard-boiled egg and an apple.

“Thought you might be running low on food,” he offered.

“No, I'm fine.” I sat straighter, appearing alert, well-fed.

“Go ahead.” He squatted beside me, a gossiper in a Nanjing marketplace. “I bought extra,” he insisted.

I smiled, accepting the food. “Have a seat.”

He sat and nervously traced a twig over the sand and pine needles.

Famished, I cracked the shell and ate as slowly as I could. I knew the egg would be more filling if I concentrated on the experience of eating it.

“No luck?” he asked cautiously, his urgency undisguisable.

I could tell what Adele saw in this guy.

“Not yet.” I shook my head.

“Ranger's still looking, though?” he asked optimistically.

“Oh, yes.”

“Mind if I look this afternoon?” he tried again.

My neck flared red. In his presence, my feeling coursed so deep, I lost all equilibrium. Of course he should go. I had promised to remain in camp. No point in us both staying here. Us both. I hated how Sandy had gotten enmeshed in our vacation. But this was no time to be jealous. The more people looking for Adele the better. I shuddered at the image of lanky Gulliver rescuing the distressed damsel. Jesus, that would be perfect. Immediately ashamed, I nodded. “Sure,” I said, “that would be great. Thanks.”

I watched him head for the trail, strong, purposeful and energetic. In comparison, I was overcome with fatigue, as if I had eaten a huge meal. Maybe the sleeplessness was catching up. Still, I tried to read. I guessed some part of me believed that my staying awake kept Del alive. A candle in the window. Picking up the Clark book, I was distressed that I had almost finished it. I set my poncho on the ground, leaned against a tree and stretched out my weary legs.

Several minutes—maybe an hour—later I was awakened by a ground squirrel rapturously inspecting my apple core.

I closed my eyes again.

From deep within my sleep,
I heard a familiar voice—Sandy?—booming above me. Summoning my newly acquired tolerance, I pried open my lids. Against the sun's glare, I made out a ranger's hat. The man's white teeth gleamed.

I sat up, clutching knees to my chest.

“Your friend was more conscious than you.”

“You found her?” I jumped to my feet.

Grabbing each of the ranger's arms, I shook him, demanding, “She's OK?”

“Yup,” the man said.

I noticed now that he was younger than I. Paternal, nonetheless. “The chopper picked her up walking. She was fine, but lost between Gallison Lake and Parsons Peak. They're keeping her under observation down at Tuolumne Meadows.”

“Observation?” I was alarmed. “Was she hurt?”

“No, standard in a case like this. They check for bruises, breaks, shock.”

I was jamming my book and poncho into the backpack. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. I better get going.” The pack fit as snugly as a pair of wings.

We both stared at Adele's pack. My face fell.

“That's all right,” he said with rangerly benevolence. “We can send it down with the mules tomorrow. You go on now.”

“Thanks.” I waved good-bye.

“My pleasure,” he declared, heading off briskly like the Lone Ranger.

I had gone 500 yards when I remembered Sandy. He said he'd be back by 4:00 P.M. It was 3:30. I knew it would be best to wait and go down together. Then again, he might be late. If I was a nice person I would wait. However, I decided I was more a smart person than a nice person. A note pinned to his backpack would do. I knelt down to write, “Adele safe. Thanks, Kath.”

I didn't have to say where she was. He could find out from the ranger. This was enough.

The sky had cleared
to
a deep blue, and there was a light breeze. My body reached the pass before my mind, and suddenly I noticed the other hikers, hot and dusty, coming in the opposite direction. It had taken four hours to climb up here, but I could make it down in three. The descent was about 1,700 feet. Unlike Adele, I was an easy downhill hiker. The sun shone amiably on the white boulders.

Adele was safe. Anxieties were dissolving. Adele was alive. Unhurt. Waiting at the end of the trail. I entered a shady area of whitebark pine. What delicious, fresh, sour scents. No longer did I feel tired from last night's vigil. Or sore from our week of climbing. Adele was alive. Adele was well. Adele was back.

Basking in this renewal of heart, I considered how much I had surrendered these last few years. The attrition of my spirit had been gradual, yet undeniable. It was crazy, absolutely nuts, to limp from one soft-money job to the next. If I was going to get anything secure before I went on Social Security, I'd have to finish school. It was either this or win the lottery, or as Dad would have said (in his alert, sardonic days), an apparition from St. Peter with a combination to the Vatican coffers. My whole life, I'd focused on trying to do the right thing, not knowing how different that was from doing the successful thing. The disjunction made no sense, but there it was. And before I died, I had to learn to compromise. In this case: a cosmetic college degree. Right now the other people in my agency—my former agency—were the
real
people. The permanent appointments got real raises, real health benefits, paid vacations. Of course they were underpaid, too, and therefore more conscious of what they didn't have than what they did have.

Martha would laugh at my returning to school. She had thought college was pretentious enough twenty-five years ago. And she had had ample time for I-told-you-sos. No, she would laugh her head off. Going to San Francisco State for a social work degree when I had all these years of experience. What could they teach me that I didn't know? But I had argued back to her now, experience without credentials was worthless. Don't be so abstract, Martha said. You need power to change things, I retorted. Power, Martha laughed, power. Who do you think you are, Jerry Brown?

On some level, I knew Martha was afraid of losing me. My family was an extension of myself. I was trapped by their expectations. If I left, it was my fault. There was no easy escape. Only a coming to terms. Only another flawed treaty.

The trail by Rafferty Creek was cooler today in the late afternoon air. Water rushed and gurgled beside the path. It was 5:30 now. Had the ranger told Adele I was coming? Mammoth Peak gleamed white in the distance and Mount Dana vibrated redness. I took a full breath of fresh High Country air.

In 1962, Adele sent me a postcard of the Space Needle from the Seattle World's Fair. In tiny, precise handwriting, she described the science center, the food circus, the international exhibits, the monorail. Seattle, Martha had sniffed, who would want to go to Seattle? It's always raining. I remembered Adele teaching me the twist when we were freshmen in high school and how, the next year, in the middle of a Chubby Checker song at Homecoming, I noticed I was stealing her boyfriend. The romance didn't last more than two weeks, but Adele refused to speak to me for a month. I expected her outrage. I enjoyed it.

Now the trail was turning steep again. I climbed down, through the forest of lodgepole pine. Finally, when I reached the footbridge over the Tuolumne River, I calculated I'd see Adele in less than half an hour. It was a mile to the ranger station from here. Would Adele be shaky, scared, angry, relieved to see me? Disappointed not to see Sandy? Ready to go back to the city? The ranger had said she was OK. He had meant physically. Just how close did Adele get to Sari's edge? Of course she was different from her mother and sister, but that was, in part, a carefully constructed difference. As if she were creating an alternative personality on the other side of the continent. Safe. Durable. Stunning how adaptable Adele was. Still, she kept Ward in her name. She would always be haunted by her mother's life and Sari's death.

I was almost there now, sensing the lower altitude. I felt more grounded. Conscious of traffic fumes and noise, I hurried toward Adele.

The woman behind the desk looked up expectantly. “Hello.”

“Hi.” My voice was shaking. “Hi. I'm here to see a friend.”

The woman frowned.

“A patient.”

“I'm sorry,” she said carefully. “We have no one here at this time, although we've had several in the last few hours. What's the name? I can probably tell you which hospital—”

“Hospital.” I gasped. “But the ranger said she was fine.” I was frantic. “No broken bones.”

The woman raised a patient, practiced eyebrow.

“Adele,” I said finally, reluctant to sacrifice her name for this dour authority. “Adele Ward. Jones.”

“Oh, yes.” Her face relaxed. “Adele, yes, lively gal. She's fine. In fact, gone now.”

“Gone?” I exclaimed.

“We tried to keep her but only managed to get her to rest a couple of hours. She insisted she had a friend coming down from Vogelsang to meet her. And we managed to find them a tent cabin—a miracle at the last minute—at Tuolumne.”