HOPE
“I HAVEN’T BEEN THISnaked in public in a long time,” Ash says.
“I can’t believe we’rechoosingto be in this water,” Hope says.
When they reached their first campsite, they’d dumped everything in a pile, oohing and aahing over the beauty of the place. None of the campers for the other two sites have arrived yet, and—almost without discussion—Hope, Ash, and Caro stripped down to their sports bras and underwear and headed for one of the natural pools scooped out along the creek bed. All three women are sweaty and salty and tired, and the perfect blue-green of the water is irresistible, even though it’s turned out to be very, very cold in spite of the pools being in the sun.
The red-rock canyon walls loom above them. A steep and tiny slot canyon on the west feeds down into the larger main canyon of the Underground, benches of dirt and sandstone rising up against the walls. A few trees and bushes cling to the benches and, in some places, to the canyon walls. Hope glances over at their campsite, which is one of three marked sites on a sandbar on the eastern side of the Underground, each identified by small wooden posts with metal numbers affixed to them. Hope loves the utilitarian, bare-bones feel of the way things are marked in national parks—no artifice, only utility—splintered, weathered gray posts thathave been battered through the seasons, numbers that mark the spot, nothing more or less. Their campsite number is her lucky number, six.
She hopes it means that nothing will go wrong. That everything is going to proceed according to plan.How are the others feeling?she wonders.Are they nervous?
“How long are we going to stay in here?” Caro asks, teeth chattering.
“I think they say you’re supposed to stay in eight minutes to get the full benefit,” Ash tells them. “But I’m not sure of the water temperature here. This may not count as a true cold plunge.”
“I can’t believe you haven’t ever done this before, Caro,” Hope says. “It feels like it would be right in your wheelhouse. And aren’t you a swimmer?” She’s shivering now, too, and the conversation is helping her keep her mind off the way the cold seems to be going straight to her heart.
“A runner,” Caro says.
“I mean, I knowthat.” Hope kicks her feet around in the pool to try to generate some warmth. “But I always thought you were a swimmer, too.”
“I’m decent,” Caro says. “Not amazing.”
“It’s going to feel really good in a few seconds,” Ash says encouragingly. “I swear.”
“You seriously do this year-round?” Hope asks. “Outside?I mean, everyone in Hollywood is very into contrast therapy, but it’s always indoors. You can get right into a sauna after.”
“It’s what gets me through the gray season in Portland.” Ash has slid in deeper than the rest of them, right up to her chin, her long hair topknotted like Hope’s.
“Keep talking,” Caro says through gritted teeth. Her face is so grim and she’s so uncharacteristicallynot intothis very outdoorsy thing that Hope starts laughing again. “I’m sorry, Caro,” she says. “It’s your own fault for not having any body fat.”
“You should talk,” says Ash.
“No,” Caro says. “We’re not doing that. All of our bodies are amazing, the end.”
“You’re right,” Hope says. She tries dipping herself lower into the water. As she shifts, she slips, going all the way under before she comes back up, spluttering, to a seated position. The others are giggling at her and she makes a face at them, but she’s laughing, too. For a moment, she forgets everything.
And then it all comes back.
“Dang it,” Ash says. Hope follows her gaze to where three hikers have emerged from the upper part of the Underground onto the sandbar. “I don’t want to get out in front of them.”
“Be real quiet and maybe they won’t notice us,” Hope says, but then the hikers start checking the campsite markers, and when they get to 7, they begin shrugging off their packs and looking around. “Great,” she says. “Looks like they’re camping here tonight.”
“And all our clothes are still over there,” Ash says, gazing forlornly at campsite 6.
“They see our stuff, but they don’t see us.” Caro snorts. “Look at them.” The hikers, three men, are pointing at the pile of backpacks and gear at campsite 6, looking around, then up, as if whoever has left the packs has managed to scale the walls or disappear into the sky.
“Ugh,” Hope says. “Two of those guys look like the ones we saw at the food truck last night. Remember?” She turns to Ash. “They’re probably named Brad and Chad?”
“Quiet,”Caro whispers, because Ash and Hope are getting the giggles again. “I don’t want them to see us yet.”
“Or ever,” Hope says. The sun goes behind a cloud, and the canyon darkens.It’s too cold, Hope thinks.
“Don’t worry,” Ash says. “One of us will go get the clothes eventually, and it won’t be you, Hope. We’ll bring them to you.”
Hope loves that they feel protective of her. She worries, though, that it won’t last. Inevitably it’s hard to keep female friendships in her line ofwork, and she gets it, she really does. The attention vortex that she is, that she attracts—it’s consuming. What people don’t understand is thatshefeels the double-edged-swordedness of it, too, that she’s grateful for the opportunity and the privilege and the money, and she also hates it so much, hates that she is always the center of attention, required to perform in some way, never allowed to simplybe.
Except with these women.
