I pay at the register—forty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents—pocket the change and go to find Ben. He’s picking up our tray filled with fish tacos and two cocktails in plastic cups with paper straws.
“What do I owe you?”
“Nah, it’s on me.”
I think about protesting, but paying Ben back is out of the budget, so instead I thank him, and we head out onto the back patio and sit under a heat lamp. The tacos are as good as I remember, and the sweet margarita, too. We eat in silence as the stars come out above us, filling the darkening sky with pinpoints of light. Across the road is Mono Lake, a saline soda body of water that has a high alkaline content, which used to be the water supply for Los Angeles, until a conservation group sued to stop it.
I take the last bite of my second taco as an old RV turns off the road and pulls my focus. It parks cautiously next to Ben’s truck. It’s the women from Bishop—Sandy and the younger, striking one, who looks like she could be her daughter. But when she comes around the corner of the RV, Sandy reaches out her hand. The young woman takes it, smiling in a way that’s not familial. She’s got a large daisy tattooed on the back of her hand, a trail of petals blowing off it. They stop, and Sandy pulls her in for a deep kiss.
A man behind us whoops and they break apart. Sandy’s face registers annoyance. She’s fierce, protective. It’s an expression I recognize and fear.
“People are jerks,” Ben says.
“Understatement.”
Sandy pulls the young woman toward the entrance, her defiance clear. “Come on, Petal.”
Petal follows in her wake. As they pass us, Petal’s eyes slide toward mine. Her face is kind, open, innocent, but her eyes tell a different story.
Petal is afraid.
“Ready to say your goodbyes?” Ben asks.
I tear my eyes away from Petal’s and Sandy’s retreating backs. “What?”
“To civilization.”
“Oh, ha. Yes, I guess so.”
“Don’t worry, I’m happy to bring you into ‘town’ whenever you need something.”
“That’s nice of you to offer.”
He stands and gives me a slightly devastating smile. “We’re teammates, right?”
“Right.”
We clear our places and I steal one last glance back into the Mobil. Petal and Sandy are wandering the aisles, picking items off the shelves. They catch stares from the other patrons, a guy in a trucker hat with a Confederate logo on the brim, and a young couple dressed in ski jackets that I guess are heading to Mammoth for the last skiing of the season.
I turn and follow Ben out to his truck. On the drive up to the Tioga Pass entrance, the road is dark, and empty, a dome of stars above. It’s a steady climb, gaining over another three thousand feet in elevation to what we climbed between Bishop and Lee Vining, and near the entrance my ears pop. This entrance only opens to regular visitors in four days for Memorial Day weekend, but the ranger lets us through when Ben explains who we are.
Once we’re through the barrier, we start to pass familiar landmarks. Mono Dome. Tioga Peak. Mount Dana. Eventually, we arrive at Tuolumne Meadows, where the SAR site is located in the middle of the campground. We’ll be part of the “T-SAR.” There’s another SAR site on the valley floor an hour away—the team there is called YOSAR—but this is the one I’d asked Jenny to assign me to. Tuolumne is where I’d grown up roaming, the place I was the most familiar with. It felt more manageable for my first summer back, away from the hustle and bustle of Half Dome and El Cap.
Ben checks in with the head law enforcement ranger, who I’ll meet in the morning, and points me toward a tent, one of eight set in a circle in the middle of the wooded site.
“Thank you so much for everything,” I say, feeling shy and tired as we linger near the truck. It’s past ten, but I’m still thinking in Manhattan time, automatically calculating that it’s one a.m. tomorrow.
“No trouble at all,” Ben says, his eyes soft and warm. “Get some rest. Orientation in the morning.” He pulls my bag from the truck bed and brings it to the entrance to my tent, then puts it down gently. He rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. Its warmth feels nice, like his smiles. “Goodnight.”
“ ’Night, Ben.”
I zip open the door and lug my pack inside. I take my camp lamp out and turn it on.
The tent is eight-by-eight. It’s high enough at the peak to stand in, sloping down to the sides. On one side, there’s a small platform for an air mattress, on the other, a makeshift set of shelves made of old boards and cinder blocks, and that’s it. It smells musty, and like it might be the last resting place of a mouse. I grimace, then prop the tent flap open to clear the air out.
I used to live in a two-thousand-square-foot apartment on the Upper West Side with a doorman and empty rooms that were meant for children I didn’t have. I had friends whose apartments were triple the size and the only place they worked up a sweat was in their Peloton classes. If they could see me now, they’d laugh their asses off.
If he could, it would be a different story.
I shiver and take out my new phone. It has service, though Ben warned me that it was still intermittent in the park, depending on location. I tap in one of the numbers I photographed off my old phone at the airport.
This is Cassie. Arrived safely, I type, waiting for the text to send.
The response comes quickly. Good. Everything go smoothly?
I think so.
Call if you need to. This number is secure.
I will.
I put the phone down, then turn it off. It’s been odd not having messages to check. I can’t think of the last time I spent an entire day without electronic communication. I miss my phone, that constant buzz of someone reaching out. It feels pathetic, given everything, but I can’t help it.
I reach inside my shirt and pull out the chain with the key to the post box and my medallion. It’s got a butterfly stamped on it, emerging from its chrysalis. I trace my fingers over the form, thinking about its meaning. How you can start off as one thing and become another. How that can happen through biology but also through will. That’s what I’m doing here. Changing myself.
My shoulders slump. I’m exhausted, but finally, the edge of fear I’ve been living with has loosened its grip. I could sleep standing up, but I need to unpack first.
I tuck the medallion away and empty my pack. I blow up my air mattress, then cover it with my sleeping bag. I add a travel pillow in a pillowcase, fluffing it up with some warmer clothes. I create a nightstand by hauling the bookshelf over and fill it with the clothes I’ve brought. Climbing gear and trekking pants. Long shirts and T-shirts. A warm thermal layer. I have two of everything, and seven pairs of underpants, my life edited down to the essentials.
I put a flashlight and a GPS tracker next to my toiletry bag, not quite ready to find the facilities on the other side of the campground. Instead, I change out of my travel clothes, slipping into a warm pair of sweatpants and my top thermal layer. I put my puffy back on, zipping it to the chin, and keep my beanie in place. Then I sit on the edge of my makeshift bed and reach into my pack for the last item that I picked up at the post office earlier.
It’s encased in a cloth, wrapped over and over so it’s shapeless. I unwind it carefully, feeling its weight, the metal cold in my hand once I free it from the binding.