“Our original trail,” he states. He follows it to its end, which comes up short of a light green patch labeled Devil’s Canyon. He moves his finger into the lower part of the shaded area, taps it. “Base camp, where we initially headed out from yesterday afternoon.”
“Wait, there’s a gap between the end of the dashed trail line and the beginning of the green canyon. What’s in there?”
“We were in there. That’s the backcountry part of our trek. Remember what Nemeth said on our first day? Not all the trails around here are marked or maintained. That’s why Martin always planned these expeditions with Nemeth. You need either an experienced guide or compass skills. See?” He backtracks a short distance on the mountain guide to a tight cluster of black gradient lines. “These elevation marks indicate the steep one-mile descent to the flat area where we spent last night. That path isn’t an officially marked byway, but one Nemeth and many of the locals know. Probably an animal trail that got co-opted by humans. So this morning we started out from here. I think we’ve been heading southwest, but I’m not sure.”
“I don’t suppose you have compass skills?” Because he’s not an experienced guide, and I possess neither of those attributes.
“Once upon a time. Boy Scout training. But I’ll be the first to admit, I haven’t been practicing all these years. Hell, I liked Nemeth doing the heavy lifting. I didn’t want to think any more than I had to about where we were going and what we were doing.” Miggy grimaces. “Okay, forget direction for a second and let’s consider elevation. Since we started, we’ve been picking the quickest, sharpest drop-offs. So, considering the gradient lines on our map . . .”
“We’re looking for the tightest grouping.” I get it now. “Shortest path that drops the most elevation at a time.”
“Exactly.”
We both study the map. A fresh rumble of thunder, much closer now, then the first fat raindrop hits the map dead center.
Miguel tucks the unfolded paper between us, where we can best shield it with our bodies.
“Not an exact science, but following the gradient lines, it looks like we’ve been coming down this section.” He fingers a new route cutting across the mountain chart. “If that’s true, then we’re dropping like mad, but drifting too far south. We need to be heading more to the west to hit Ramsey. This is actually leading us deeper into the wilderness area. Lower elevation, but still smack-dab in the middle of the Popo Agie.”
He taps the paper, where a huge sea of dark green is marked Popo Agie Wilderness. It looks like a long, crooked island, and we’re nowhere near the shores. I can’t form words as I take in the magnitude of our lostness. If I open my mouth now, I will cry.
Miguel is breathing heavily, struggling with his own emotions. As the sky once again opens up. With a crack of lightning followed shortly by a roar of thunder, the afternoon deluge finds us.
I don’t care about the wild beauty anymore. The awesome power of nature feels like nothing more than a kick in the teeth. Mother Nature is already whupping our asses. She doesn’t need to show off about it.
Miggy is still studying the map. “I can’t find the ravine. Just, the fucking lines, where are the lines? Goddammit, I know this. Why can’t I think? Come on, come on, come on. Now is not the time to be stupid.”
He’s losing it. Once more, I place my hand on his. It feels as cold and clammy as mine.
“It’s okay. We’ve made it this far. You’ve gotten us this far.”
He looks up at me. His features are beyond haggard. He is exhausted and demoralized, weighted down by the guilt of leaving his friends, haunted by the horrors we’ve witnessed. I wish I could wrap him in my arms and tell him it’ll be okay. But lying won’t help us.
The rain drips down his face. He blinks his eyes several times. “I heard Bob talking to you. He told you to tell Rob he loves him.”
“Rob is his husband.”
“I don’t have a special someone. But . . . my parents. If I don’t make it, and you do, tell my parents I love them, and it was an honor to be their son. Tell them . . . tell them I went down fighting. My dad, he’ll like that.”
“We’re going to get out—”
“You?” he interrupts me fiercely. It seems very important for him to know. But I have no one. I’m not that kind of person. I haven’t lived that kind of life.
“There’s this bar in Boston,” I say at last. “Owned by this guy Stoney who’s not much for words. But if you could let him know . . .” He’d pass it along to Viv, Angelique. Detective Dan Lotham. They will be sorry to hear the news, I’m sure. But my passing won’t leave much of a hole in their lives. How could it, when I was never really there to begin with?