WE SET UP our tents on the very edge of the Salmon River. It was decadent really, that first campsite, considering what we were in for. That night, we had wood and a fire ring and running water and toilets and pay showers—all things we’d sacrifice the minute we stepped foot on the mountain—not to mention, the campground was basically deserted, which meant we had the run of the place until morning.
Dusk approached. Tomás and the girls wandered down to the riverbank to watch Clay fish. The trout were jumping, sending ripples across the water in the reedy light, and Clay had a thing for fly-fishing; apparently he was some kind of prodigy at it, if you could be called a prodigy for being good at tying a bunch of feathers together and sticking a pole in the water. Dunc and Archie went off walking, and while everyone else was otherwise occupied, Mr. Howe and I sat together at a picnic table to go over the next day’s itinerary. I also asked him to check over my contour map and elevation profiles for what felt like the billionth time.
“You seem a little anxious,” Mr. Howe said.
I squirmed around on the wooden bench I was sitting on, hard enough to get a splinter to poke my ass through the back of my shorts. “It’s just, I’ve never actually been backpacking. Or overnight camping even.”
“You mean, at all? Ever?”
I shook my head.
“And you’re worried about what it’ll be like once we’re out there?”
“I’m worried I’ll do something wrong.”
Mr. Howe rubbed his beard before answering. “Ben, when have you ever done something wrong?”
I laughed, a strangled sound. “Oh, I can think of one or two times.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Mr. Howe picked up my notes and my maps, folding them all neatly before tucking them into my trail book. “You have nothing to worry about. Trust me, I’ve never seen anyone this prepared. You’re going to be fine. It would be hard not to.”
“But what if I’m not?”
“Then I’ll help you. We’re not climbing Everest, here, kid. Okay?”
I nodded, and we sat there in silence, with darkness coming down and the soft hush of the river echoing off the canyon walls both above and behind us. It wasn’t long before the others returned, led by a swaggering Clay who’d managed to snag a decent catch of rainbow trout. He threw his rod down and gutted the fish right there on the table. Fallen scales glimmered in the moonlight.
We ate around the campfire, sprawled on blankets in the heavy warmth and flickering glow. When I finished my food, Mr. Howe urged me to get up in front of the group and explain what we were going to be doing over the next two days. I was nervous, but it turned out when I spoke, everyone listened (for the most part). That was cool, being seen as a voice of authority. I don’t know. I felt good at that point in the trip, is what I’m trying to say.
But see, that’s the thing about feeling good. It builds you up and makes you care and then you end up feeling like crap when someone or something tears the good thing down, which they inevitably do. That’s exactly what happened later that evening; Mr. Howe begged off to bed before the dishes were done and I was supposed to be the one in charge, keeping things under control and making sure people followed the rules and didn’t do anything stupid. Instead everyone promptly abandoned me, leaving me to clean up on my own while they snuck into the woods to get piss drunk and make asses of themselves.
For her part, Rose stayed with me, watching as I dried the dishes and sulked by the fire. But she didn’t want to. I could tell.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go hang out with everyone. Let’s do something.”
I glared at her while jabbing at the flames with a crooked marshmallow stick. “Do what exactly? Are you just dying to spend the evening hanging out with Duncan Strauss?”
“No.”
“Shelby Sawyer, then?”
“You wish.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t give a damn about Shelby Sawyer.”
I jabbed at the fire some more. “You don’t?”
“No. The only thing I care about is not sitting here like an asshole.”
Well, that was good news about Shelby, I supposed, but I hated the antagonism between us. In that moment, Rose and I were flint and steel, each going for the strike meant to spark the other. But I took a deep breath, jutted my chin toward the woods. “They’re the ones who’re assholes, you know. They all heard what Mr. Howe said. We’ve got to get up early tomorrow. He’s gonna be pissed if everyone gets trashed.”
Rose dug at the ground with heel of her shoe. “I’m pretty sure Mr. H. is well aware of the things high school students are capable of doing when their chaperone goes to sleep. He’s not an idiot.”
I set my jaw. “Fine. You go, then. I’m staying.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re different, Ben.” Rose leaned back as she said this, swaying out of the fire’s light, as if trying to get a better look at me.
“Different from what?” I asked.
“Whoever you were.”
“Maybe I am.” I agreed, but I wanted to tell Rose that she was the one who was different—that she’d been different ever since she’d come back from Peru, all distant and moody in ways I couldn’t help her with because she didn’t want my help—and also, that I really hated what she’d said at the gas station earlier and maybe that was the real reason we were sniping at each other. Because nothing in my life had ever been free. Not shelter or safety. Or even self-worth. All of those things, each of them, had come with a cost. And I was the one who’d paid.
Always.
But then Rose went and changed tack. She grew soft suddenly, running her hand down my back, across my thighs, kissing my lips, and whispering in my ear to screw the rest of them, that I was right; they were assholes and she wanted to be with me, just me. She also wanted to do it beneath the trees, she said with a grin. Right then. No one would see us or hear us, and anyway, who cared if they did?
I was less than inspired. Nothing felt good or right between us. But she knew what to do: how to touch me, nuzzle me, nip me, convince me. She could make up, if not always my mind, then the rest of me—the parts that were simple and untortured and impossible to ignore. So I did it; I let Rose take me by the hand and lead me from the campground into the woods, where empty beer cans littered the forest floor.
She brought me to a place far from the others, past the run of the river and the hum of the road. It was a spot where the white pines loomed above us. Their limbs tossed and dipped with wind, and Rose was right—those trees never bothered to notice as we tumbled at their feet, twined and gasping, naked and moonstruck.