Gathering his wits about him, Mitchell herded us into the tent, hissing at me to be quiet, then scrambled in behind us. He quickly jammed the zipper up, then released a corner of the flap that covered the screen and peered out from the sliver of an opening between the fabric.
Whoever was out there was close enough that we could now understand what they were saying. Two men. Apparently they were college students because they were talking about a test they had just taken. It sounded like they were out looking for some kind of animal bones to take back to the lab. They got closer, breaking from the trees where they could see into the bowl that hid our camp. Mitchell glared at me. I sat without emotion in the corner of the tent. Mitchell threw my headdress onto my lap and I reluctantly put it on. Barzee reached over and secured the veil in front of my face. Mitchell moved to the other side of the tent so he could see them through another slit in the fabric. I crouched and tried to follow him, hoping I could steal a peek, but he pushed me back, almost throwing me to the ground. “Shut up!” he hissed.
As though I had said anything.
I crouched in the corner and listened intently.
The voices suddenly stopped. They must have seen our camp. There was silence for a moment. “Hello! Is anyone home?” one of them called out.
Mitchell glared at me. Barzee moved a little closer. Mitchell pressed his thumb and index finger together then drew them across an imaginary blade, as if he were testing that it was sharp. I lowered my eyes and listened but didn’t move.
“Hey there! Anyone home?” one of the young men called again.
Mitchell peered through the slit in the tent, tense as wire, his mind seemingly planning his attack if they were to come into the camp. The air was calm. Not a sound.
The young men started to walk toward the tent and then stopped. “Anyone home?” one of them tried a final time.
No answer. Only silence.
I could imagine what the students were thinking.
They must have felt like they were intruders, like they were trespassing on private property. The camp was well organized and well supplied. It had an air of permanence, like it was someone’s home, not just an overnight camping location. If anyone was in the camp, they were obviously hiding in the tent. Clearly they could hear them, but they were not willing to answer—not a particularly friendly thing to do. And the camp was hidden in the trees a long way off the trail. Clearly, whoever lived in the camp had come there with the intention of getting away from people. Nothing indicated that they wanted to be disturbed.
Considering all of this, they young men did the right thing. Without saying any more, they turned and walked away.
It was the smart thing to do.
We waited a long time inside the tent, listening for the sound of voices or footsteps on the dry leaves. Convinced they were gone, Mitchell carefully unzipped the door and climbed out. Barzee and I followed. Mitchell stared at where the young men had been standing. No one was in sight. He waited another minute in silence. I carefully removed my veil.
“That was our sign,” Mitchell announced. “The date that I have chosen is acceptable to the Lord. It is time for us to go.”
Two days later, Mitchell had us up before dawn. We hiked down the trail in the darkness. All of us had to help carry the green bags, for they were bursting with our supplies. In addition, Mitchell had added a small supply of crackers, a bit of cheese, some water, a couple of plates, and a few utensils.
Is this the last time I will ever walk this canyon? I wondered as we stumbled in the dark.
Exiting the trail, we caught the University of Utah shuttle down to Rice-Eccles Stadium and walked downtown to the bus depot. Halfway to the bus stop, I was already very tired. And I felt ridiculous. Not only did I have the sheet across my face, but Mitchell had ordered Barzee to sew a thin veil in front of my eyes, leaving my face completely covered. I could see through the thin material, but only barely, and I felt claustrophobic peering through the veil.
It took us until midmorning to make it to the bus stop. We entered and moved toward a small bench along the far wall. Mitchell commanded us to stay there while he went to buy our tickets. The bus terminal was crowded with all sorts of people. Young and old. All sorts of nationalities. Most of them—no, all of them—were poor. Middle-class and rich Americas don’t ride the Greyhound anymore.