by Nick Engelfried.
The university van plunged into a pothole in the bumpy dirt road, jolting Ken and his passengers against their seats.
“Sorry,” Ken said to Carol, who was acting as navigator. Ken turned to look in the van’s backseats. “You all okay back there?”
A dark-haired boy, eighteen at most, flashed a peace sign. The others passengers smiled. They were cramped, a bit rattled, but intact. Eager to start hiking. Ken guided the van out of the hole.
Ten of the van’s eleven seats were full. At the steering wheel: Ken. Riding shotgun: Carol, Ken’s co-worker and fellow senior in Environmental Studies. Behind them, nearly filling the seats, were eight incoming college freshmen.
“Trailhead should be around this bend,” Carol said.
She was right. Ken pulled to a stop, let the dust settle around them. Opened his door. “We’re here.”
The freshmen piled out, stretched and yawned. A few of the teenagers stood out to Ken: the boy who’d flashed the peace sign, tall and lanky, stretching his arms with a self-assured air; another boy, stocky and serious, with a pair of binoculars around his neck; an athletic-looking girl with a confident smile.
A pale girl with sandy hair approached Ken, smiled as she would at a figure of authority. This sort of thing always unnerved Ken. Imagine him being in charge. The freshman tilted her head toward the trailhead marker a worn wooden post, made from Ponderosa pine, the only marker in sight. “Is that the trail?”
Ken nodded.
The girl’s eyes shone. They’d gone over names that morning, but Ken couldn’t remember hers. “This is so exciting,” she said. “I’ve never even been camping before.”
Ken made a mental note to keep an eye on this one.
Carol gathered the freshmen together for instructions. Each person had his or her own pack with sleeping bag, water-repellent clothes, other essentials. Food and cooking supplies they divided among them. Did everyone know what tent they were sleeping in?
The freshmen nodded. They had all paired with at least one tent mate. Even Carol was sharing with one of the girls. No one else, apparently, felt Ken’s need for a tent of their own.
They set off, Carol leading the way. Ken brought up the rear. Around them pressed the cinnamon-colored trunks of Ponderosa pines, orange-red clumps of paintbrush flowers, pungent smell of sap. Above: brilliant sky with just a few cumulus clouds.
Ken breathed deep. Trip guide for his university’s outdoor program was the best job he’d ever landed. He especially liked these week-before school trips, when the new freshmen were eager and wide-eyed. He enjoyed showing them the Montana mountains.
The freshmen, not yet too tired to talk, chattered among themselves. The sandy-haired girl and the athletic-looking one were so close in front of Ken, he couldn’t help hearing their conversation. The pair seemed to have struck up a friendship.
“I can’t wait to start my environmental studies class,” said the athletic one. Sophie, that was her name. “I hear we get to take lots of field trips.”
“I wish I’d thought to take a class like that,” said the sandy-haired girl. What was her name? Merrill, that was it. “I’m just signed up for boring stuff. History, English. And calculus.” She grimaced. “I never knew classes like environmental studies”—she pronounced the term like a foreign word—“even existed.”
“Where are you from?” Sophie said.
“Billings. I don’t think we have environmental studies there.”
Though Ken couldn’t help hearing, his mind was elsewhere. Ken felt no great need to talk in the mountains. Often, he felt no great need to think. He noticed a pattern his mind followed when hiking. First came a period of floating, disconnected thoughts. Slowly, his being became more wholly absorbed in the climb, the exertion of each step and exhilaration of each breath.
How far could this process go, Ken wondered? If he hiked far enough, trained himself to be with each breath and pull of muscle, would he come to a point where thought ceased utterly, and all was absorbed into a single, encompassing Whole? Ken didn’t know, but he liked the idea.
Now he was in the stage of disconnected thoughts. He wished he could spend his whole existence in the mountains. Had he been born in another time and place he might have been a monk, wandering the Himalayas all his days. Maybe in a past life Ken had done that. Perhaps in a future life he would.
His thoughts shifted. Since Carol had taken the initiative at the trailhead, it would be Ken’s job to give the talk on making camp. He rehearsed the speech again in his head. He would be fine—he’d given this talk many times before.
He wasn’t worried. Not about that.
* * *
“Do you really think I can still switch classes?” Merrill asked as she and Sophie trudged up the trail, which was growing rapidly steeper.
“Sure. I know because at first I registered for all the wrong things. Somehow the web site sent me to the page for the Honors School, which I’m not even qualified for. It was a nightmare but at least I learned how to change classes.”
Sophie laughed at memory of the mishap. Merrill, who actually was in the Honors School, made no comment.
“I bet you can still get in Enviro Studies 101,” Sophie said. “It’s going to be fun. Me and Danny and Gavin are all in it already.”
A rumble from the sky made Merrill stop. Sophie nearly crashed into her. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like thunderstorms.” Merrill tried to smile. “I’m scared of lightning.”
Merrill felt a familiar, sick fear in her stomach. But there was nothing to be done. “Keep talking to me,” she said. “It’ll help me keep from thinking about it.”
They began walking again, packs digging into their shoulders. Neither noticed how Ken stopped behind them, at the same time Merrill stopped, to make mental note of their conversation.
The trail opened into a meadow where a stream flowed through a field of flowers. Distracted by beauty, Merrill nearly bumped into someone again—this time Gavin, who stood peering through his binoculars.
“A mountain chickadee,” Gavin said. “Do you want to look?”
Merrill took the binoculars, tried to find the tiny bird. She couldn’t see it, but that didn’t matter. It was nice Gavin had asked. School hasn’t even started, Merrill thought, and I already have friends.
A flash of light. Then, fifteen seconds later, the thunder. Merrill handed Gavin’s binoculars back, her insides contorting. Can’t panic. Have to keep from panicking.
She hurried after Sophie, up the trail and back into the shelter of trees. Too bad the trail kept leading up.
“You think there’s much metal in my pack?” Merrill asked. She tried to remember which cooking gear she had taken.
“Wouldn’t think so,” Sophie said cheerfully. “I’ve got the stove, so I’ll probably get electrocuted and you’ll be fine.”
Sophie bounded up the trail, leaving Merrill alone with her fears. Fortunately there was someone else to distract her.
“Wouldn’t it be great,” Gavin said from a few steps behind Merrill, “to see a golden eagle? They live around here.”
“Yeah.” Merrill had never thought much about eagles, golden or otherwise. But she seized on the subject. She had just heard another rumble. “Tell me about golden eagles, Gavin.”
* * *
They camped in a mountain meadow sprinkled with flowers. A stream below provided water. Ken gave the talk on keeping camp clean, how to make a bear hang, where to wash dishes. Eight young heads nodded seriously. As anticipated, giving this talk gave Ken no great problem.
The freshmen, Ken noticed, had already formed cliques. Take the three he’d been observing earlier: tall, lanky Danny; Gavin, with his binoculars; and athletic Sophie. Merrill had attached herself to them also, a slightly out-of-place fourth addition to the group.
It always amazed Ken, how quickly other people made friends.
“Looks like it’ll rain tonight.” Ken said to Carol at their leader conference that evening. He eyed the clouds, which had grown heavy. All late afternoon they’d heard thunder, but not yet felt rain.
“Mountain storm,” Carol said. “It’ll blow over by morning.”
“Merrill’s afraid of lightning. And we’re going up on the ridge tomorrow.”
“She’ll survive.” Carol seemed determined to worry about nothing.
Maybe she was right. Ken felt an urge to stop worrying himself, give into the peaceful evening. Behind the trees the sun was setting.
“Doesn’t this make you think?” Ken waved a hand at pines, meadow, sky.
“About what?”
“Life, I guess.” Ken noticed his hands moving the way they sometimes did when he spoke, without his meaning them to. He hated when that happened. “Western civilization, maybe. The futility of consumption. Why we trash the planet, tear up the ground and pollute the atmosphere when we could just be enjoying it.”
“I suppose.” Carol never understood Ken’s philosophical moods. Most likely it was his own fault. Ken never knew how to say what he meant.
He tried again. His hands kept waving and he forgot to stop them. “Tomorrow from the ridge we’ll see the fruits of the fossil economy right here in the mountains. It makes me want to do something. It makes me want to—”
Ken stopped. Carol wasn’t really listening. Why could he never find the right words?
“I’m going to bed,” Carol said. “I want a good night’s sleep before tomorrow.”
* * *
They started early the next day, hiking deeper into the Gallatin Range, emerging into Hyalite Canyon by noon. The sky was clear and Merrill felt relieved. She hadn’t learned how quickly mountain storms blow in.
Ken, leading the way, looked up at the ridge ahead of them. Clumps of ice and snow clung to shadowed crevices, even at the end of summer.
Merrill saw him looking. “Are we going up there?”
Ken nodded. “Straight up, and we’ll follow the ridge to Hyalite Peak.” He noticed Merrill’s worried expression. “It looks steep but it’ll be fine.”
A shout from Gavin. “Mountain goats!” His binoculars were trained on the side of the ridge. Even without binoculars the others saw a row of white creatures picking their way up the near-vertical incline. A patch of snow that had decided to move.
“They’re more closely related to Old World antelope than domestic goats,” Gavin said to Merrill. He handed her the binoculars. After yesterday’s golden eagle conversation, he seemed to think Merrill had a deep-rooted interest in zoology.
Onward. Through meadows, back into pines, over a mountain stream. A puffy cloud blew over the ridge. Ken searched for the trail, which seemed to have disappeared. No matter. Once on the ridge they’d intercept it again.
They reached a place where the ground rose steeply, then steeper still, forest giving way to isolated clumps of pine. Sophie and Danny scampered up like monkeys, grabbing handfuls of grass to hoist themselves. Some of the other freshmen, including Gavin, followed almost as fast.
“Wait for us on the ridge,” Ken called. “We’ll eat lunch up there.”
Ken and Carol, letting the better climbers get ahead, focused their attention on the slow ones. While Carol helped a panting freshman boy, Ken went over to Merrill.
“Use the grass to pull yourself up,” he said. “It’ll hold if you grab a big fistful. It’s more reliable than rocks, anyway. See, I’m heavier than you and it holds me.”
Slowly, face set with determination, Merrill made it to the top of the ridge. When she did, and looked down the way they’d come, she gasped in delight.
The valley lay below, an emerald panorama. Dark green conifers against lighter green meadows. To each side rose the mountain range, fierce and jagged.
Imagine, she had climbed this far with this giant pack on her back. Merrill rummaged in her pack for food, as the others were doing. Then she sat on a boulder, took off her shoes and sweaty socks, and wriggled her sore, disgusting toes.
She had forgotten to pack deodorant. A mistake. I’m exhausted, thought Merrill. I’m tired and sore and I feel gross and I smell bad, and I’m very, very happy.
The others seemed to feel the same. The climb up the ridge was their first big accomplishment of the trip. They chattered excitedly as they opened granola bars, stuffed carrots and apples in their mouths. Only Ken appeared morose, gazing at something over the ridge.
* * *
Ken saw them as he’d known he would. Blankets of pine cloaking the mountain on the other side of the ridge. Beautiful. Except something was wrong. On the higher slopes every other tree, more in some places, appeared dead.
Ken saw Merrill follow his gaze. “What’s wrong with all those trees?” she asked.
“Most of them are whitebark pine. They’ve been killed by pine beetles or maybe blister rust fungus.”
Ken considered leaving it at that. But what the hell. She had asked. “Until a few years ago pine beetles hardly made it this high in the mountains. It gets too cold up here, or used to. Now winters are warmer and the beetles are moving up. Whitebarks aren’t adapted to defend themselves from beetles. They get massacred.”
In the canyon below them, a hawk circled. Gavin had his binoculars out.
“Then there’s the fungus,” Ken said. “It’s an alien species, not native to North America. It would cause trouble anyway but the pines are more susceptible when they’re weakened by beetles. Maybe they’ll adapt fast enough, and evolve a resistant strain. But likely not in time.”
Now the others were listening. Ken, becoming aware of so many eyes on him, began to stumble. It wasn’t like the speech on a clean camp, which he’d given countless times before. Here he was searching for words as he went along.
“It’s because of climate change, global warming, alright? Whitebarks are dying because we put so much carbon in the atmosphere. And not just whitebarks. The nuts from those trees provide food for Clark’s nutcrackers and grizzly bears, and no one knows how they’ll adapt. The bears are losing a food source and have to find a new one. It might make grizzlies around more aggressive toward people.”
He was losing them, he could tell. Alarmed by the sight of their guide cracking up on a ridgetop, the freshmen wanted to know where this was going.
“Look.” Ken tried to finish with dignity. “It’s probably too late for whitebark pines. If we’re lucky a few pockets will survive in these mountains. But it might not be too late for other things. We might save the limber pines, the Ponderosas, the Doug-firs. We might stop the grizzlies losing another food source. There’s time for that.”
“So recycle more,” Carol said. She cut Ken’s rambling short. “Bike more, drive less. Cut back on those carbon emissions.”
The freshmen looked relieved. Carol had turned the whitebark pine tragedy into a nice, safe lesson about recycling. It was better than Ken had been able to do, he had to admit. But he had wanted to say something else.
Lunch was over. Packs on backs again, the group struck out along the ridge toward the highest peak visible on this side of the canyon. Hyalite Peak. The freshmen climbed with confidence now. Having made it up the ridge, they were ready for anything.
Ken let himself sink into silence. But he couldn’t reach the thoughtless state he strove for. In his mind he saw eight young pairs of eyes glued on him, confused. Heard his own voice, harsh and scratchy, like something quite separate from his person.
He hadn’t meant to deliver a hopeless speech on the ridge top. It’s probably too late for the whitebarks, he had said. But it might not be too late for other things. Of course the freshmen hadn’t understood. He hadn’t succeeded in making them understand.
What to call Ken’s condition? Autism spectrum, social anxiety, these words might describe some but not all his symptoms. Perhaps the name wasn’t important. This was just how Ken was. He never could say what he meant.
Stop thinking about it, he told himself. Stop thinking and breathe in the mountain air. The smell of pine trees, the sound of a Clark’s nutcracker calling. Golden light on outlines of growing cumulus clouds.
* * *
Merrill also noticed the clouds. The once benign, puffy cumuli were becoming tall and dark. And here we are, Merrill thought, the highest thing, almost, for miles around. She suddenly felt dizzy.
“Do you think those are turning into thunderheads?” she asked Ken.
“It’s possible.” He seemed startled by her question, as if awakened from an internal reverie.
“Aren’t we kind of high up, here?” It cost her to say this, Ken could see. She didn’t want to hold the others back. “And aren’t we going even higher? Is that safe?”
Ken tried a reassuring smile. “We’ll keep an eye on the clouds. I’d say we have time to get up Hyalite Peak and down again before there’s lightning. But I’ll be watching out, okay?”
She nodded. A tight, nervous motion.
Ken was right, although barely. The sky directly above was still blue, the clouds threatening but not yet dangerous, when they stood on the mountain peak. No trees grew this high. A large patch of snow, icy slush really, sheltered in the shade of the peak’s slope.
They sat and rested on the mountaintop. Ken, sitting next to Carol, made a last feeble attempt at articulating his thoughts.
“What are we going to do?” He addressed only Carol, the others being too far to hear. “You and me are both environmental studies seniors. What have we learned in our classes that prepares us to deal with this?” He waved toward another swath of dead pines.
Carol, to her credit, took the question seriously. “I don’t know,” she said. “Spread awareness, I guess.”
“But is that enough?” Ken frowned. “Did you hear about those people blocking the pipeline, even despite what the police did? Or that group in Colorado who stopped a coal plant? How do you do that sort of thing? Why don’t we learn that in our classes?”
Carol shrugged. “Too political, I guess. Too polarizing.”
Ken had no good response to this. Yet surely, he thought, there were worse things in the world than polarization. When life and death were the two extremes, the idea of choosing sides seemed to him appropriate.
The freshmen were done eating. Their group started back down the mountain. They’d camp that night below the ridge, then tomorrow loop back to the trailhead.
As they left Hyalite Peak and started along the ridge, Ken heard the first thunder.
* * *
Stay calm, Merrill told herself. It doesn’t do any good to panic. But her stomach churned worse than yesterday. How she wished now that they were back in those foothills, a haven of safety from lightning compared to this exposed ridge.
Still, the storm was a ways off. Don’t think about how fast those clouds are moving.
Another rumble, closer. The first spatter of raindrops on the path. Fear made Merrill’s feet fly. She stayed near the front of the group, immediately behind Ken. The others were far back enough to be out of sight. She heard shouting and Sophie’s laughter.
A flash of light to the northeast. Then, less than ten seconds later, the boom. Merrill felt her legs give way. Ken turned around, concerned.
She sank to her knees in the dirt. “I have to get off the ridge top,” Merrill said. “I’m sorry. I’m going to climb down a ways and wait for the storm to pass.”
Ken glanced down at Merrill’s pale, frightened face and felt a new respect for the eighteen-year-old. Here was someone who knew her limits, and wasn’t going to let others push her past them. He wouldn’t try to change her mind.
“I’ll go with you,” he said. “It won’t take long. These storms usually pass quickly.”
They scrambled down gravel and scree to the relative shelter of the trees. There Merrill stopped. A person who knew her limits and had reached a place she could manage.
Rain pattered on pine needles. Merrill pulled goosebumped knees to her chest. “I’m sorry I’m so scared,” she said. “I can’t seem to help it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Don’t worry,” Ken said. His sunburned face looked surprisingly kind. “I guess everyone’s afraid of something.”
“You really think so?” Merrill thought of Sophie and Danny sprinting up the cliff face, laughing at lightning.
“Sure. Some people just show it differently than others.” Ken thought of things he was afraid of. That swath of dead and dying trees.
“I didn’t know about those trees.” Merrill was just trying to fill the silence but it was as if she had read Ken’s mind. “I mean, I knew about polar bears. But I never thought of pine trees being hurt by the stuff we put in the air.”
Ken nodded, not trusting himself to speak. No need to look like an idiot again.
“I guess I don’t know much about climate change,” Merrill said. “I’m going to learn, though. I’m taking an environmental studies class this semester if I can get in. Sophie thinks I can. Sophie knows more about it than I do.” She looked at Ken, eyes scared. Whether afraid of lighting or of something else, Ken couldn’t tell. “Will all those trees really die?”
Ken thought of denying it. But it was no good. “Yes,” he said. “Probably.” He could have said more. Images of pipelines and police attack dogs flashed across his mind.
Another flash, and a lightning bolt a mile long stood out for a second to the east. Seconds later a rumble shook the ground they clung to. Just possibly, came Ken’s sudden thought, Merrill’s worry was not so misplaced after all.
Merrill gasped with fear, one white fist clutching a tree root. With her other hand she grabbed the first comforting object she could find. It happened to be Ken’s hand. Ken flinched at the unexpected physical contact.
Thunder. Mile-long bolts of lethal force. Slowly dying pine trees. Merrill’s young, brave face looking up at him. They probably couldn’t do anything about the whitebarks. But the Ponderosas, the Douglas-firs? It might not be too late to do something for them.
Ken’s sigh broke the silence. Gently, he loosened Merrill’s fingers and pulled his hand away from hers. “Listen,” he said. “There’re things I’d like to say.”