CHAPTER 8
We break next at a small clearing at the top of a knoll. We are encircled by woods still thick enough to block any scenic views. Sadly, that means we’re nowhere close to emerging into the so-called Devil’s Canyon. Given we haven’t passed the midday mark, we probably haven’t even started the challenging second half Nemeth warned us about. Meaning that refreshing feeling of working leg muscles, which is quickly turning into a burning fire, is a pain I’d better get used to.
Nemeth has a point: Hiking is not the same as walking. But speaking as one of those people who would let hell freeze over before admitting the other guy is right, I remain confident in my ability to carry on. If only to piss off the boss.
In contrast to their behavior at our earlier stops, which involved short pauses for warm drinking water and gummy energy bars, Nemeth and Martin head over to a downed tree, remove their packs, and take a seat. Does this mean we’re on lunch break? Do backcountry expeditions get a lunch break?
The others quickly follow suit, college buds collapsing to one side, Bob, Luciana, and Daisy decamping on the other. My first instinct is to head over to them. I like them, not to mention we’re a logical grouping of our own. The odd men out.
But it’s not my job to belong. Meaning I gird my loins and cross over to where Marty and Nemeth sit, their heads nearly touching as they regard Martin’s ubiquitous map.
Nemeth glances up first, his narrow blue gaze performing an immediate scan of my figure, then the surrounding woods. It’s possible the veteran guide is part cyborg. Wouldn’t surprise me at all, given I’m currently drenched in sweat, while his weathered features are covered in a light sheen of moisture.
His attention returns to me.
“How’s the pack?” he demands.
“Good.” Feels like a ten-ton house strapped to my shoulders, but I figure that’s as it should be. Now that it’s off, I’m acutely aware that my borrowed high-performance shirt is plastered to my back. It’s not a pleasant feeling.
“Boots?”
I glance down. “Great. My feet are very happy with the socks.”
“Knees, lower back?”
I hadn’t even thought about those body parts, but now that he’s calling attention to them I realize my entire body aches. “I feel fantastic!” I bite off and dare him to argue as I hobble closer.
He continues to study me up and down as if in search of an obvious problem. Apparently, the children are allowed to approach the adults only if they need something.
Martin hasn’t even bothered looking up from the map. In his world, I might as well not exist. Is he that obsessed? Focused? Grief-stricken?
Or is it just me?
“I was wondering how you were doing,” I say.
Nemeth blinks, clearly flummoxed by my question. Martin finally glances up, as if just now noticing my approach.
“What do you mean?” Nemeth asks warily.
“Are you pleased with our progress so far?”
“We’re on pace.”
“Trail conditions seem good,” I comment, as if I know anything about such things. “Weather pleasant, skies clear, temperature not too hot, not too cold.”
“Yes.” He remains suspicious.
“No complaints or group arguments,” I continue.
“No.”
Martin cocks his head to the side and stares at me as if I’m some alien life form. Why is this underling still talking?
I don’t actually have a point. I’m simply trying to engage the two men in conversation. I spend so much time operating outside of my comfort zone, I don’t expect to know what I’m doing. But I’ve learned to listen to my instincts. Nemeth, who holds our survival in his hands. Marty, who organized this party but won’t speak to any of us. I want to know these men. It matters, even if I don’t know why yet.
I take a seat before them, as if they’d sent me a personal invitation. Then I say nothing at all. Have you ever attended an AA meeting? We are experts at silence. So much of our drinking is about filling those gaps, smoothing over awkward moments, trying to feel like we belong when most of us have gone through our entire lives feeling alone in a crowded room. Meaning, it’s one of the first things we must overcome. It’s not enough to stop drinking. We must change who we are, because who we are, are drunks.
Now I retrieve from my pant-leg pocket some coconut almond high-energy power bar I’ve been chewing on since this morning. Being an actual human being, I don’t care for it; mostly, I crave Josh’s stash of peanut butter cups. But given I’m only four hours into a seven-day death march, I figure I should have something to look forward to.