He knows I hate surprises but talks me into accepting it. I tell myself that I’m relenting because of what he revealed last night, but it’s probably the stubble. It’s really good stubble.
We are at a crossroads where two trails diverge. A signpost tells us that the larger path in front of us is Emperor Trail. And through a break in the cedar trees, we are now staring at white-capped mountains that glitter in the bright sun.
“Oh, wow,” I murmur.
“Right?” Lennon says. “The brown peak on the left is Mount Topaz and the gray jagged one on the right is Thunderbolt Mountain. So many climbers die up there.”
It doesn’t look deadly. In fact, it looks beautiful. Majestic. Yes, I definitely see why people say that about mountains. I stretch out my arms and fill my lungs with clean air. Something stings. I slap my arm.
“Oh, we’re entering mosquito territory,” Lennon says, turning around and pointing at his pack. “Dig around in the second pocket. There’s a small bottle of insect repellent.”
I unzip the pocket and slip my fingers inside, finding the bottle in question. We take turns anointing ourselves in citronella-scented oil that makes my eyes water. Once we’re slathered up and mosquito-proof, we set out on the trail that cuts through a cedar grove. It doesn’t take long for two things to happen: (1) we see other hikers ahead of us, and (2) we see them walking up a towering set of granite stairs that’s been carved into the mountain.
“What the hell is that?” I say.
“Emperor’s Staircase,” Lennon says, waggling his brows. He’s wearing a slouchy, black knit cap with a skull on it, and the spiky ends of his hair stick out from beneath it. I wish I had a hat to cover up the disaster that is my mass of frizzy curls. Nature is unforgiving.
“We’re going up those rock stairs?” I ask.
“Not just rock stairs, Zorie. It’s nature’s noble staircase,” he says in a grand voice. “More than eight hundred steps carved into the granite cliffs in the late eighteen hundreds. Three men died building them, and nearly every year since then, someone’s died on these stairs. Fifteen in the last decade. This is the currently the deadliest trail in all the US national parks.”
“What?” I say, alarmed.
He grins. “Don’t worry. The people who die are generally just idiots who fall over the side trying to do stupid things. You’ll understand why when we get farther up. If Brett were here, I’d give him a fifty–fifty chance of surviving, because he wouldn’t be able to resist the call of death. Which almost makes me wish he were still with us.”
“That’s not nice,” I complain, though I can’t help but smile a little.
“But,” he insists, “you and I will not be following in any daredevil footsteps.”
“Um, I would hope not?”
“It’s fine. Thousands of people with basic common sense hike these stairs every year and live to tell the tale. It’s one of the park’s most popular features. You are going to love it, I promise. There’s a huge treat at the top.”
“A hot tub and a pizza?”
He chuckles. “Not quite, but you’re going to like it. We’ll break for lunch halfway up. Let’s do this, Everhart!” he says enthusiastically, an infectious smile splitting his face.
And so we begin the ascent.
We have to climb a normal uphill path for about a half hour before we hit the stairs. They’re rough and wide, and pretty wildflowers and lacy grasses grow alongside them. They casually snake up the mountainside, and the top steps are hidden from view, around the back of the peak. The steps are steep in parts, and a little wonky, but apart from the strain on my calves, I can’t really understand why they’d be dangerous. I hear water that gets louder as we ascend, so I assume there’s a nearby river, just out of sight.
Climbing, I realize that I’m feeling better physically. Not exactly 100 percent, but Lennon says it takes time for the body to get used to hiking. It’s a slow and steady endurance, not a race. And the pristine scenery definitely helps to motivate me.
The problem with hiking is that it strips away everything. There’s no distraction of checking your online feeds. No TV. No schedule to keep. It’s just you and your thoughts and the steady pace of your feet moving over rocky ground. And even when I try to keep my head clear, it’s busy working in the background, quietly trying to solve things that I don’t want solved.
Like Lennon.
And me.
Us.
We haven’t talked about last night. Not about sleeping in the same tent, and definitely not about his dad dying. I have questions upon questions, but I’m waiting for him to give me some sort of indication that he’s ready to answer them.
Or maybe I’m not ready to hear those answers.
I hate quandaries.
After we’ve been hiking up the steps for twenty minutes or so, both my head and legs feel close to exploding. No amount of internal reflection or pretty scenery can distract me from the pain. “I can’t go any farther,” I tell him, breathless. “Worst StairMaster workout ever. I hate these dumb steps. I hate them, I hate them, I—”
“Take it easy. We’re almost to the halfway point. Right up there,” he tells me, and I spot a place where the steps
