Sommer laid her itinerary in the usual spot on the kitchen table, then took a video of herself checking the locks, the stove, the thermostat, lest she second-guess herself out on the trail and spend her hike wondering if her cottage was on fire or the raccoons opened the door and let her cats out.
With their automatic food and water, and their high-tech robotic pooper-scooper, Sommer’s cats were self-sufficient, but her brother-in-law would stop by on Friday to check and make sure everyone was happy.
This was a four-day backpack, seventy-two miles in all—thirteen up to the first camp that day, thirteen to the summit the next. Then reverse on Friday, getting back to their cars by sunset Saturday and home to rest up.
It was just enough of a struggle to get the heart going.
Just enough beauty to soothe the soul.
Good friends. Good times. Peace.
Sommer tested that she’d locked the front door, then pulled out her phone to call her sister, Sloane, to let her know she was leaving.
“How are the babies?” Sommer fobbed the car unlocked and dragged the door wide.
“I’m convinced these two are both soccer players with enormous feet that kick and kick and kick and kick. My insides are sore.”
Sommer made a stink face. “That’s a horrific image, like you’ve eaten an alien.”
“Aliens. But thanks for that nightmare seed.”
“I’m reminding you that I’m not around until Saturday night. So no having babies until I’m back.”
“That’s why you’re up and out at the crack of dawn.”
“We hope to beat some of the heat,” Sommer said.
“You’re backpacking Sterling Pass?”
“On the White Tail Trail. I won’t be in cell phone reach. Any signs babies want to come early?”
“Zero. None. Zilch. I will be baking these buns for the next month. When do you go?”
“Now. I’m starting the car.” Sommer pressed the button to get her engine running. “The itinerary is on the kitchen table. You won’t need it. I’ll be with Abbie and Marna.”
“Jen and Diane?”
“Jen had to work, and Diane twisted her ankle.”
“The weather looks good,” Sloane said through a mouthful of food.
Sommer looked over her shoulder as she backed out of her drive. “Unseasonably warm during the day, nice and cool at night.”
“Which makes for a lovely campfire. I’m a little jealous.”
“No, you aren’t. The only fire you like is the one in someone’s backyard when you can go inside to pee.” Sommer looked both ways before backing into the road. “I always sleep bundled up and warm on a cold night, especially when I’m far from the hospital, and the siren sounds. I’ll hear birds and wind.”
“Have you told Graves and Goth-hound you’ll be gone?” Sloane asked just as Sommer passed the stop sign where the two usually stood and stared at the graveyard.
“I’ve never spoken to him.”
“Why not? He’s tall and broad-shouldered. You’re single.”
“And he probably has a face that only a mother could love,” Sommer deadpanned. “Look, he’s a strange man who brings his dog every day to sing with me. It’s been interruptive and, back at the beginning, felt pretty rude.”
“It’s not interruptive. He gets there at the very last seconds of your practice. He’s not doing you any harm.”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not offended at all that my singing makes a dog howl.” Sommer laughed, wanting to end the conversation about Graves and his dog—something about that whole scenario didn’t sit right with her. It never had. But since he walked up to her house, the feeling had turned heavy and sad, and Sommer couldn’t understand why.
