“No, farther down,” Caro says. “They jumped instead of using a rope.” She gestures to their gear. “And yours should be fine for the rest of the descents. It’s only this one where it won’t be long enough.”
“I don’t believe you,” the red-haired girl says. “About someone dying.”
“You don’t believe anything, Roz,” the brown-haired girl says. She looks at Caro. “If it’s okay, I’ll go down on your rope. Sorry. I know we’re slowing you up.”
“Not a big deal,” Caro says.
While the two guys and the redheaded girl discuss what they want to do, Caro belays the other two girls down. They’re cautious but not skittish, and she’s pleased when they reach the bottom safely and when the guys swallow their pride and let her help them, too. The red-haired girl goes last. As she clips in, she says to Caro, “You were trying to scare us, right? About the person who died?”
“No,” Caro says. “My dad’s a doctor. He was hiking the canyon that day. He tried to help her, but she was dead before he got there.”
“Oh no,” says the girl, her eyes serious now, and she goes down maddeningly slowly, inch by inch. But none of the others tease her, and Caro’s glad. After she’s finished, Caro lets herself down and pulls her rope through, securing it to her backpack. The kids thank her profusely, all pride gone now, and they settle on the rocks to eat lunch, offering Caro one of their Red Bulls, which she laughs and refuses because caffeine always makes her feel jangled up.
As she hurries to catch up with her friends, Caro is alone in the canyon,an unusual feeling.The wilderness has a million secrets, Henry used to tell her. She’s always believed him. It’s easy to feel small and lost out here because you are, because you are nothing.
“Hey!” she hears Hope calling from ahead. “Caro! We found another spot from the pictures you sent.”
As she catches up with the other two, Caro draws in her breath at the sight of a familiar, famous alcove. A log, smoothed out by water and bleached bone-white by sun, is propped up against the side of the canyon. It had fallen—or been brought by the creek—decades ago, and, despite flash floods and nature in general, it’s been here as long as people have been hiking and photographing the Underground. One end of the log is positioned against the canyon wall, the other slanted down into a pristine pool. A tumble of large stones nearby makes it a perfect stopping point.
It intrigues Caro how one added element—a log, a scraggly tree, a human body standing near something—gives a scene perspective.
Hope shrugs her pack from her back. “How about we eat lunch here?”
“Perfect,” Ash says.
Caro sits down on one of the rocks near the log. They’ve eschewed the fancy boxed meals you can buy at Sonnet. Instead, they’re eating lunches that she and Ash made for everyone this morning from groceries they’d picked up on their way to the resort. Ash had sliced their sandwiches into triangles and cut up apples and pears into skinny slices, the way her kids liked them best. Caro had brought chocolate chip cookies she’d baked the day before.
“What did you putinthis?” Hope asks, holding up her sandwich to the light. “It tastes like heaven.”
“It’s always like that with food you eat outside, isn’t it,” Ash says. She’s making her way through her second sandwich with gusto.
“Thanks a ton, you guys,” Hope says.
“No problem.” Caro takes another bite of her sandwich. The peanut butter sticks to the roof of her mouth the way it did when she was a kid. The sensation is not unpleasant.
“What kind of a tree do you think it was?” Hope asks, pointing to the log.
“I’d guess some kind of pine,” Caro says. “It’s too big to be an aspen and the wood isn’t as fibrous as a cottonwood.”
“Aspens are the skinny white ones with the leaves that turn gold, right?” Hope asks.
“Yeah,” Caro says. “Oh, that reminds me. Did you guys know that Pando’s near here?”
“Panda bear what?” Hope asks.
“The world’s largest living organism,” Caro says. “Have either of you seen it?”
Everyone shakes their heads.
“I’ve heard of it,” Ash says. “But I’ve never gone.”
“It’s pretty wonderful.” Caro leans forward, her sandwich dangling forgotten from one hand as she gestures with the other. “It’s a single aspen tree that spreads for a hundred and six acres. There are lots of stems—trees—but it’s all one root organism.”
“Wow,” Hope says. “How long has it been around?”
“They don’t know for sure,” Caro says, “but they’re estimating that it started at the end of the last ice age.”
“That’sa while.”
