Lost Canyon. Nina Revoyr
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on the other hand, had an edge—as if he suspected Todd of something just because he was white. He’d been so cagey at that wonderful store in Franklin, slinking around the aisles like he was getting ready to steal something. With his slicked-back hair and big tattoos, he would have caught Todd’s attention too. And that ridiculousness about the men in Franklin, and come to think of it, even Gwen’s remarks in the car. The Ku Klux Klan? Really? In 2012? He had a hard time understanding this kind of oversensitivity, but it wasn’t worth getting into it. So he’d kept his mouth shut—well, mostly.
As they took the winding road up the gradual slope of the Western Sierra, he’d finally begun to relax. Then they drove down into a canyon, as if through a gateway into an entirely different world. Near the bottom, he’d spotted a great blue heron flying over the river, neck extending and retracting, chest jutting out as far as its head. Its long graceful legs were trailing behind, tapered and liquid dark, like the ink-dipped tip of a fountain pen. His heart had swelled as he watched it swoop down toward the water.
And now, here he was with these magnificent trees. Several dozen giant sequoias with beautiful red-brown bark, each as big around as a building, as a whale. Their skin looked soft and contoured and he wanted to touch them, but to do so would have felt like sacrilege. They gave off a deep silence, as if they absorbed all sound, and their very presence made the noise and clutter of Todd’s life—of all human dealings—seem trivial, superficial, and temporary. Walking among them, Todd felt like he had entered a cathedral—the grandiose beauty, the quiet, the suggestion of time beyond knowing. He loved the Sierra in all of its seasons—the snow in winter that made the trees seem even redder in contrast; the dogwood blossoms in spring, their broad white petals suggestive of movement, like his daughter’s pinwheel toy. The stillness of the forest made something still in him too. He remembered his first trip to the Sierras when he was twelve, with his mother and stepfather. It was seeing the sequoias for the first time—more even than seeing the ocean—that made him feel he’d arrived in California.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket—no reception. What a joy it was to be beyond the reach of that tyrannical thing, of incessant e-mails, of connectivity. He understood that his recent thoughts about changing careers were part of some midlife crisis, and he felt like a bit of a cliché. But at least he’d avoided making a fool of himself by buying a fast car or messing with younger women. He knew that women still noticed him—like Rachel, his junior associate, who often stayed late, and whom he’d turned down when she suggested a drink after work because he didn’t quite trust himself. He’d burned off his restlessness and frustration by throwing himself into exercise. And by dreaming of coming up to the mountains.
In most ways Todd still felt the same as he had in his twenties, but he realized that wasn’t how others saw him. At the firm’s picnic last summer, he’d played in the interoffice softball game, Downtown versus Century City. He’d been an All-Pac Ten second baseman in college, and he made sure that everyone knew it. But when he dove for a sharp grounder and landed on his belly, the third baseman and pitcher came running over to make sure he was all right. And when, in the final inning, he ran full tilt from second base, rounded third, and barreled into the catcher at home, players from both teams sprinted over and lay him down on his back to make sure that he was still in one piece.
“I’m fine,” he’d insisted. “Just bruised up a little.”
Then Todd looked up at the circle of faces hovering over him and realized that all of the other players were under thirty. They did not consider him to be one of them. They thought of him as old. It was a moment, all right, and it didn’t help that he’d reinjured his shoulder in the collision at the plate, which is what started him on physical therapy. After that, he worked to get himself back in shape.
He walked halfway through the grove and then looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed since they parked. Reluctantly, he returned to the car, but the others weren’t there. Glancing toward the ranger station, he saw Oscar and Gwen reading the bear and food storage regulations—and then Tracy, who was now second in line.
There were two rangers working—a blond woman with the air of an old-school basketball coach, and a tall, rangy man in his sixties, mustached and sun-weathered, who was exactly what Todd envisioned when he thought of a forest ranger. Todd joined Tracy in line just as the male ranger yelled, “Next!” And the two of them approached the counter together.
“Hello there,” the ranger said, in a deep, mellow voice. His name tag read, Greg Baxter. “How can I help you today?”
“We have a reservation for the Cloud Lakes trail,” Tracy said. She placed her confirmation letter on the counter. “We’d like to rent some bear canisters.”
“Cloud Lakes,” the ranger repeated. “I’m sorry, but a forest fire was spotted up at Merritt Dome this morning, and they’ve had to close the trail.”
Tracy stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were,” Ranger Baxter said. “We saw smoke up there last night, and then our helicopter did a flyover early this morning. The fire’s right in the area where you’re supposed to hike. See, they’re talking about it now.”
An urgent voice crackled over the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt: “. . . the fire has crossed the Cloud Lakes trail. Repeat, the fire has crossed the trail. It is approximately 300 acres now and growing. Do you copy?”
The woman ranger, whose name tag said, Laurie McKay, detached her walkie-talkie from her belt and spoke into it. “This is Redwood Station. Yes, we copy.”
“The fire is currently being held by the Ainley River, but it’ll probably jump the river in these winds.”
“We’re holding all backpackers here,” said Ranger McKay.
“All hikers in the backcountry will have to evacuate,” came the voice over the radio. “Melissa Lakes Station and Dylan Station, do you copy?”
A few seconds, and then a different voice: “This is Dylan Station. We copy.”
Then: “Melissa Lakes. We copy. We’ll evacuate out of the Merritt Dome area and send hikers back toward the trailhead.”
“This is Redwood Station. We copy,” said the ranger. She and Baxter looked at each other. “Bummer,” he remarked.
By now, the other people in line had all crowded around the counter. There was a family—a father and mother with their tall, fresh-faced teenage son. There were two rugged-looking guys in their twenties and a single man in his thirties. The family seemed especially upset—they’d flown out from Massachusetts for the hike—and now Ranger McKay turned her full attention to them, trying to calm them down.
Todd couldn’t believe it. A fire, on the very trail they were supposed to hike? What rotten luck. “Well, what are we supposed to do?”
“We’ve been planning this trip for months,” Tracy added.
Ranger Baxter shrugged, and sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. The Cloud Lakes are spectacular. But there are some other great trips you could take—a couple of other loops and a few in-and-outs.”
Neither Todd nor Tracy answered for a minute. Todd was still envisioning the pictures he’d seen, the beautiful valley, the flower-filled meadow, the photo of the Cloud Lakes at dawn. It was hard to believe he wouldn’t be going there. Behind him, the two young guys turned and left; the family was still talking heatedly with Ranger McKay.
“Well, what would you suggest?” Tracy asked. “We’ve come all the way out here, you know? It would be a shame to just turn around and go home.”
Baxter spread a topographical map out on the counter and pointed to an area that was colored with green and wavy brown lines. “Well, there’s the Boulder Creek route.Most people can do it in six days and five nights.”
“Too long.”
“Then there’s the Brenda Lakes trail.” He pointed to an area where the lines were