Shoulder-length dreadlocks, eyes the exact green of an asparagus mousse we’d featured in our March issue. And that bursting--wide smile—as if whoever took the photo caught him laughing or in a state of joy. Rangy and loose-limbed in a mud-spattered T-shirt and shorts, he stood straddling a narrow stream banked by white birches. An ax dangled from one hand. The tagline read, “Third-year SAG undergrad Rory Ekhart on the trail maintenance crew this summer at Orient Ridge.”
In another shot he could have been anyone: a man in a cyan--blue parka, hood up and slightly cinched, face in shadow as he held a hiking pole up in victory or salute against a setting sun behind a snowy mountaintop. In the last photo he wore his biggest grin yet; he was beaming. In full camouflage he knelt on some treeless ridge, the butt of his rifle jammed into the dirt next to his kill: an enormous moose lying on its side, its expression even in death both ferocious and sad.
I finally got around to Pia’s actual message, where I found myself scrolling through a bottomless list of camping gear needed for the trip: thirty-nine must-haves, not including optional stuff such as playing cards and a sun shower, whatever that was.
I looked up to see I’d traveled two stops past my own. I jumped to my feet, my mind a whirlwind of wicking shirts, water--purifying tablets, carabiners, Dr. Bronner’s soap, and bags with hooks I imagined suspended from trees and batted about by the giant paws of nine-foot bears on their hind legs. Excusing myself through jam-packed commuters to the platform, I hoofed it hard back up toward Beacon Street and my office, regretting my choice of stacked heels and narrow skirt, which shortened my already--short stride.
I leaned into the heavy doors of our charming but drafty 1920s brick building. Yanked skirt into place, tucked wind-whipped hair behind ears, jabbed at the going-up button. Five floors later the doors sucked open on the fancy new marble-floored lobby, which had felt empty since we let our receptionist go. An antiquated concept, receptionists, we’d been advised at our last come-to-Jesus meeting. Nobody wanders in from the street, after all, and those with appointments know to expect their visitors at the agreed-upon time. With our numbers so low overall, it was time to cut the wheat from the chaff, or whatever expression was used to send this lovely and kind—if a bit scattered—single mother of twin girls packing. But in the end I didn’t have much to say, considering my position as a graphic designer at Chef’s Illustrated had been cut in half just months before, my benefits shredded, and my corner office lost to our new Web developer, a toothy, twenty-five-year-old MIT grad named Sarah.
I tossed my purse on my desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Pia Zanderlee,” she answered breathlessly.
“You okay?” I tapped my machine awake and inhaled the smell of hot German spice cookies and b?che de No?l. We’d been testing Christmas recipes from around the world the past few weeks. “You sound like you’re running.”
“I’m trying to make this eleven o’clock flight to Chicago.”
I heard muffled airport sounds in the background: kids crying, flight announcements, snippets of conversation amid the bustle of travel; sounds from lives I imagined were immeasurably more exciting than my own. “Should I call you back?”
“No, just . . . what’s up?”
“Well, I got that list and . . . what’s ‘wicking’?”
“It’s fabric that pulls sweat away from your skin, so you don’t get cold and get hypothermia.”
I googled wicking. An athletic young woman jogged across the screen. Animated steam flowed out of her shirt and shorts. “What about coming with me to REI sometime, help me pick out some of this stuff?”
“I don’t know, Win, maybe. I’ve got a pretty full schedule till we head out.”
But you live one town away, I thought. What’s the big deal? Help me navigate this terrifying list you sent. “You traveling a lot these days?”
“Just this one trip for work. I’m back Thursday.” I heard her drop the phone, then pick it up. “Everything okay, Win?”
“Yeah, great, just . . . you know, wanted to be ready for the trip.” I cleared my throat. “So . . . will there be bears, do you think?”
Pia laughed. I pictured her: tall and graceful as she stood in line for her flight, chestnut hair shining under bright airport lights. Confidence emanating from her; an utter lack of self--consciousness making heads turn. People mused, How do I know her? From television? The movies? Somewhere . . . “We’re gonna be fine, Win. Bears don’t care about us. You leave them alone, they leave you alone.”
“What are water shoes?”
“Can I call you when I land?”
“Sure,” I said, knowing she would forget. A few taps on my keyboard brought up shoes, amphibious.
“Go to REI. You’ll be cool. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” She hung up.
Loneliness occupied the air around me, even buzzing as it was with chatter, with activity, with sounds and smells. I thought it would be fun, I mentally said to the dial tone, to go to REI together. To laugh about amphibious shoes. To hang out and catch up before we go on the trip. You know, like friends do.