The next day, Rachael and I arrive at Zion Lodge a few minutes before seven a.m.
“Elliott is going to take care of you today. Just keep working on clearing the area for the trail,” she tells me. “How are you doing after yesterday? Feeling sore?”
“You could say that.” I woke up with a stiffness across my shoulders and entire back. Even my hands ache a little from gripping the Pulaski so tightly. “But it’s okay. I kind of like it. Working hard clears my mind.” Right now I want it to be as empty as possible. The hashtags are still tormenting me, burning themselves into my brain like digital scarlet letters. #TerriblePerson, I add to the pile. #Criminal. Maybe falling asleep driving isn’t a crime, but staying quiet about my part in Dallas’s death surely is. Every moment I don’t tell the truth makes me more #Guilty.
“Well, according to Elliott, you excel at it, so I’m delighted to have you help out, but just don’t overdo it, okay? Take breaks and stay hydrated. Your dad would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
“I’ll be fine, I promise.” #Liar, I balance on the top. I will never be fine again.
Elliott hops out of his truck when he sees me arrive, but Halley is nowhere to be found. Rachael drives off in a cloud of red dust.
I look around. “Where’s Halley?”
“She doesn’t work on Sundays.”
“Ah,” I say. “Church thing?”
“Yep.”
“So I guess you’re not a Mormon?”
Elliott snorts. “No. Most definitely not.”
I sense there’s a story there, but I’m not one to push people, especially not today. I take the Pulaski from Elliott’s outstretched hand and get to work. The dirt is soft from last night’s rainstorm and I make quick and steady progress. There’s just something about repeatedly punching the crap out of the world with a badass tool. After about thirty strikes I almost feel like someone else—someone who is strong and capable. Someone who is not a #TerriblePerson.
Elliott’s walkie-talkie crackles with static and I pause, mid-swing, to watch him answer it.
“What are they doing up there this early?” he asks to the person on the other end. I can’t make out the response. “They must have started before sunrise. Fine, I’ll check it out.” He slips the walkie into the side pocket of his pants and turns to me. “Have you been up Angels Landing yet?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t done much hiking here,” I hedge. Or anywhere.
“It’s the best trail in the park. You want to see it?”
“Uh . . . sure, I guess.”
“Are you afraid of heights?”
“No.” I don’t think so, anyway. St. Louis is pretty flat. I haven’t exactly tested this fear.
“And you’ve got water?”
I hold up a blue water bottle that Rachael gave me.
“All right. Come on.”
I follow Elliott across the grassy area in front of Zion Lodge and over to the parking lot. I set my Pulaski in the back of his truck and hop into the passenger seat. Elliott turns out of the lodge parking lot and onto Zion Park Boulevard. Small hills of red dirt dotted with green vegetation rise up on the left side of the road. Behind them are the towering red rock cliffs that Zion is famous for. On my side, cottonwood trees provide the occasional slice of shade and the Virgin River twists and flows around pockets of high grass and sagebrush. It’s still early, and there’s no activity in sight.
“It feels like another planet to me,” I say to Elliott. “Or a prehistoric world.”
“It kind of does,” he agrees. “Sometimes I think the people who grew up here take it for granted, like maybe you can only be around something so beautiful for so long before it starts to lose its appeal.”
I don’t respond, but I mull the idea over in my head. Do the laws of supply and demand doom us to underappreciate things that are plentiful?
Something moves in the foliage along the side of the road. I lean halfway out my window to get a better look. There is a flash of gray and white and then long spindly legs disappearing into a grove of trees.
“What did you see?” Elliott asks, without looking away from the road.
“A deer, I think.”
A smile plays at his lips. “There are a lot of bighorn sheep in the park too, but mostly on the east side. Sometimes you’ll see a whole herd of them right on the road.”
“I don’t even know what a bighorn sheep looks like.”
“Kind of like a sheep with big horns.” Elliott chuckles. “Nah, I’m kidding. They’re not wooly like domestic sheep. Some people say they look more like goats.”
“What other animals are here?”
“Well, there are over two hundred species of birds, and loads of lizards and small reptiles. As far as mammals there are the sheep and deer, foxes, coyotes, bats, porcupines, the occasional bobcat or mountain lion.” He pauses. “Lots of rodents, too.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. It’s a pretty cool place.” Elliott pulls the truck into a parking lot marked as Grotto Picnic Area. There’s a set of restrooms and a shuttle stop marked Zion Canyon #6. We hop out and cross the road to a sign that reads The Grotto Trailhead.
Elliott drapes yellow caution tape across the sign and puts up a smaller sign that says: Angels Landing Trail temporarily closed. The NPS apologizes for the inconvenience. Please check with the Park Info Desk in the Zion Canyon Visitor Center or call 435-555-7275 for more information.
The two of us set off down a wide dirt trail that follows alongside the Virgin River. As we wind around several rock formations, the trail grows steeper. The canyon stretches out below us, cottonwoods, fir trees, and sagebrush painting the banks of the river in a rainbow of greens. I stop a few times to photograph the views with my phone and Elliott waits for me, but otherwise we hike in silence. I’m starting to feel the change in elevation, my calves aching, my breaths more labored.
“You really don’t talk much,” Elliott says. “I thought maybe you just couldn’t get a word in edgewise around Halley.”
I lower my gaze to the ground. Right now I’m pretty sure if I open my mouth the only thing that’s going to spill out is a horrible story about how I killed someone and am currently letting someone else take the blame. “I guess I don’t have that much to say,” I murmur.
“I doubt that,” he says. “But I like that you’re quiet.”
I shrug in response, and we continue down the trail for a few yards. Then he says, “Was that offensive? I think my dads would have yelled at me for that, as if I’m implying all women talk too much.” He pauses. “Which I’m not. I guess I’m just easily distracted and sometimes I’m having these internal conversations with myself or trying to embrace nature and—”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m not offended. So, your dads?”
“Yeah. I have two dads. Is that unheard-of or something where you came from?”
“No, I guess I just figured it might be unheard-of here.”
“Well. The LDS church is not exactly down with it, but there’s a decent gay scene in St. George where I go to school.”
I nod. Part of me wants to ask Elliott questions about his life. Does he like college? Where is he from? What was it like to grow up with two dads? But if I do that, he’ll ask me about my school and my parents and where I’m from, and I don’t want to lie to him. Plus, he just said he likes quiet. I turn my eyes away from his rugged frame and try to focus on the beauty of my surroundings.
Towers of rock rise up on either side of us, a metropolis of natural skyscrapers. Trees sprout from the tops of the cliffs, their leaves a vibrant green against a swath of white clouds. The sun is muted today, but the temperature is steadily rising and I’m grateful each time we turn a sharp corner on the trail and find ourselves in a pocket of shade.
The trail flattens out for a bit and lush foliage crowds the path. Beyond it, water seeps from the rocks in various spots, creating miniature waterfalls.
Elliott waits as I snap a picture of one. “From last night’s storm,” he explains. “The rain soaks into the tops of the cliffs, but the rock can only hold so much moisture.”
We continue onward and the path beneath our feet becomes fragmented in places, reddish sand peeking up through cracks in the concrete. The trail gets steep again. I blot the sweat from my forehead and then pause for a minute to drink from my water bottle.
“Good plan.” Elliott grabs his own water bottle from his backpack and takes a long drink. “Shit’s about to get real.”
I start to ask him what he means, but then I don’t have to. In front of us, a series of steep switchbacks looms, like we’re going to zigzag right up the side of the cliff.
“Holy crap,” I say.
“Take it slow and steady,” Elliott advises. “The change in elevation from this point forward is going to be intense. We’re in no hurry.”
“Won’t Rachael be mad that we didn’t make more progress on the touch trail?”
“She’s expecting the touch trail to take all summer. The hope is that it’ll be ready for Labor Day. This is a more pressing matter.”
“What’s so pressing?”
“The final ascent of Angels Landing is a half-mile climb over extremely rugged terrain with sheer drop-offs on both sides. Apparently a tree fell across the path last night, making part of the trail impassable.”
“Got it.”
I take another gulp of water before we start on the switchbacks, which Elliott tells me are called Walter’s Wiggles, after the first superintendent of the park, who helped engineer them.
They don’t look like they’ll be that bad. I mean, they’re steep, but they’re also wide and well paved. But after completing the first ten or twelve, I need another break. Bending over, I rest my palms on my thighs. My breath whistles in my throat.
“You okay?” Elliott stops at the next switchback to check my progress. His voice is completely level, his breathing not even slightly labored.
I’m relieved to see he’s at least broken a sweat. “I’m good,” I say.
“You can stop if you want. You’re a volunteer, remember? You don’t have to kill yourself for me.”
I reach up to wipe the sweat from my brow again. The headband I wear to cover my craniotomy scar is completely damp. “It actually feels good to be out here like this,” I say. “I used to run a lot but I haven’t exercised much in the past few weeks.” Too late, I realize my mistake.
“Why not?”
“Focusing on schoolwork, I guess.” I start walking again before he can ask me more questions.
Elliott lets me take the lead until we come upon a pair of hikers also on their way up the trail—a girl and a guy dressed in casual clothing and Birkenstock sandals.
“Excuse me,” Elliott says. “I’m with the National Park Service. I hate to do this, but the trail is closed for the morning, possibly the whole day. I’m going to have to ask you to go back down.”
“What?” the girl barks. She looks a couple of years older than me, with streaks of pink in her black hair and a sleeve full of tattoos. She adjusts the bandana she’s using to tie back her hair as she looks incredulously at Elliott. “I just went up all of that.” She points at the steep switchbacks below. “And now you’re telling me to turn around?”
I retreat a few feet and pull a granola bar out of the back pocket of my jeans. I wolf down the bar in about three bites while Elliott talks to the hikers.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You can go up to Scout Lookout if you want. There are some nice views from that area. But there’s a fallen tree blocking part of the path leading to the summit. I need to go clear it and make sure everything is safe before I can reopen the trail.” Elliott pauses. “I’m sure you’re aware people have died on this hike.”
“Yeah, but like old out-of-shape people, right?” the guy says. He hooks his thumbs through the loops on the waistband of his long shorts. “My girlfriend and I are expert hikers. We won’t fall. Right, Lola?”
Lola lifts her chin. “We sure as hell won’t. We’ve done way harder hikes than this.”
Elliott glances down at the guy’s sandals and back up at him. “I’m sorry. I’m telling you to stop, and if you continue against my order then I have to report you.”
“And then what?” Lola scoffs. “You gonna put us in Zion Jail?”
“Then I’ll call a ranger and you’ll both be fined for disobeying a direct order from a park official.”
I’m impressed by his composure. These people aren’t much older than him but they’re treating him like he’s a dumb kid and he’s not letting it get to him.
“Fine.” Lola tugs on her bandana again. “When do you think the trail will be open again?”
“Possibly this afternoon,” Elliott says. “Check with the Park Information desk in the Visitor Center or the hiking conditions link on our web page for the most up-to-date information.”
“Whatever,” the guy says. “This is totally bogus, man. If you guys get to go, we should get to go too.”
“One of the benefits of working for the NPS.” Elliott smiles tightly. “We get to risk our lives so that park visitors don’t have to.”
This seems to satisfy—or at least quiet—Lola and her boyfriend, who both utter huge shoulder-slumping sighs before turning back the way they came.
I shove the granola bar wrapper into my back pocket as Elliott gestures at me to come on.
“Nice job,” I tell him. “Are you going to be a park ranger someday?”
“Probably not,” he says. “I think I want to be a veterinarian, but one of my dads is always telling me I need to line up a fallback career, because vet school is even harder to get into than med school, especially when you’re applying as a nonresident.”
I’m planning to go to med school someday. My parents are both doctors. More words swallowed back in the name of staying anonymous, of hiding who I am and what I’ve done. “If you want it enough, you can make it happen.”
Elliott smiles. “That’s what my other dad says, that just because something is really hard doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it.”
We reach the top of the switchbacks and I gasp at the view. We’re standing atop one of the red rock peaks and are surrounded by other peaks off in the distance. The ground is level here, made of sand and flat pieces of rock, the trail dotted with sagebrush and desert shrubs.
My gasp attracts the attention of a second pair of hikers standing just off the path. They’re posing for a selfie together, the vast canyon, river, and red rock cliffs as their background. The boy abruptly puts his phone back in his pocket as Elliott approaches him.
Their faces fall as Elliott gives them the bad news, but unlike the other hikers they don’t protest.
“We’ll be back,” the girl declares.
“Enjoy the rest of the park,” Elliott tells them. He turns to me. “Now. You.”
“Hmm?” I’m watching the hikers start down the series of switchbacks.
Elliott takes me gently by the shoulders and turns my body so that I’m facing one of the many peaks. He points out in the distance, at an impossibly narrow ridge of rock that seems to connect where we’re standing to another, even taller, summit. It slopes up and then down and then back up again.
“That’s where I have to go,” he says. “A lot of people stop here, at Scout Lookout. The views are great. You could snap some pictures, hang out, and wait for me. Or you can head back down on your own if you get bored.”
“You’re going out there?” My voice is sharp. The path Elliott is pointing at looks like a steeply inclined balance beam, with deadly consequences if you stumble.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says. “But it’s not easy, so maybe it’d be better if you waited here.”
Something sparks inside me. Do I need things to be easy? I know Elliott’s words aren’t meant to be hurtful, but lately I can find a way to make everything cut. I stare out at the path. What’s the worst thing that could happen? I die? Maybe that’s what should happen. I bet Dallas would’ve told the truth if he had fallen asleep and I had died. Maybe I deserve to fall for being such a coward.
“I’m game,” I blurt out. “Let’s do this.”
“All right,” Elliott says. “But first let me see your water bottle.”
I hand him my bottle and he attaches a small metal clip to it. He turns to attach the bottle to a loop in my jeans, but I step back without even thinking.
“Sorry,” he says. “I was just, uh, you should clip this to yourself in a place where it doesn’t restrict your mobility. You’ll want to have both hands free for the rest of the trail.”
I nod, clipping the bottle to one of my side belt loops. I blush and look down for a second as I think about what would have happened if I had let Elliott clip it for me, the idea of his hand on my waist or my hip.
He clears his throat. “You ready?”
“Ready.”
The next half hour is an exhilarating—at times, excruciating—scramble up and down sandstone boulders and natural steps cut into the rock. In places the path feels reasonably safe despite the drop-offs, with several feet of clearance and sturdy footholds carved into the stones beneath my feet. In other places, I am crouched low and crawling my way up rock formations with nothing but a thick silver safety chain to keep me from falling to my death if I slip.
We reach a spot that’s flat, with a lone fir tree providing a bit of shade and I drop to a seated position. I adjust my headband and pull the ponytail holder out of my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders in sweaty clumps.
“You can keep going if you want,” I tell Elliott. “I just need a couple minutes.”
“No worries.” He sits next to me and pulls his water bottle out of the side pocket of his pants. He takes a long drink. “You’re doing great by the way.”
I twist my tangled hair up into a bun and secure my ponytail holder around it. Elliott reaches over and pours a few drops of water on the back of my neck.
“Hey,” I say in protest. But the cool water feels wonderful.
“Hey what?” He splashes his own neck with water. “I hope you remembered sunscreen there. You’re looking a little pink.”
“I did, but I probably sweated it all off,” I say.
Elliott reaches out and touches the scar on my cheekbone. I’m sure I sweated off all my makeup too. “What happened here?” he asks.
I flinch. His touch is softer than I imagine. “Mountain lion attack,” I tell him with a straight face.
“Oh yeah?” He smiles. “Good thing it didn’t get your neck.”
“Yeah. That’s what I get for not heeding your warning about jogging alone.”
He stares at me for a second. “You’re not going to tell me, huh?”
I imagine telling Elliott how I forced Dallas to leave his own party and then fell asleep driving him home. Maybe he’d be so disgusted that he’d leave me out here. Or if not, I could always give him the additional info that I’m letting someone else take the blame for the accident. Surely that would be enough to drive him away.
I bite my lip. “It’s not a very good story,” I say finally.
“Fair enough.” Elliott slides his water bottle into his backpack. Rising to his feet, he turns to offer me a hand but I’m already up and ready to go.
We continue until we reach a place where a small tree is lying across the path, covering a couple of footholds in the rocks and making the safety chain hard to manipulate. The tree is blackened at the base, like maybe it got hit by lightning.
We’re in kind of a precarious spot, so I start to back up to give Elliott room to work, but he shakes his head. “The summit is right ahead, maybe ten minutes more. Go ahead and pass me if you want. That way you can enjoy some time up there while I deal with this. I’ll join you when I’m finished.”
“Are you sure?” Passing Elliott on this narrow section of trail would be tricky, even before adding in the extra obstacle. “Aren’t you just going to toss the tree off the edge?” The trunk is only about as wide as my arm. I’m quite sure Elliott could pick it up and throw it like a javelin if he wanted.
“No, because it could end up on a ledge somewhere and fall at some later point and kill someone.” I wince, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ve got a handsaw in my backpack. I’m going to cut it down so there’s no danger of it blocking the path again.”
“Okay. So how do I get past you?”
Elliott grabs the fallen tree and pulls it to the far side of the path. He anchors one foot behind a rock poking out of the sandy soil and leans his weight against a massive boulder. “Give me your hands.”
I reach out and he wraps his fingers around mine. His hands are warm, almost hot, his grip secure without being too tight. Our eyes meet for a second and then we both look away simultaneously. I blush.
“Lean toward me.” Elliott clears his throat. “Now step forward with your right foot, then your left.”
I follow his careful instructions, my body wobbling slightly on the narrow path.
“I got you,” he murmurs. “You’re doing fine. Right foot again. One more step. Then let go of me and grab the chain.”
Slowly, I navigate my body past his. There’s a moment where my face ends up pressed against his chest and I can’t help but think about how muscular he is for someone our age. I can smell the sharp wintergreen scent of his deodorant and something softer mixed in—detergent maybe.
“Sorry if I’m all sweaty,” he says after I’m safely past him. “I know I about smashed your face in my armpit there for a second.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I mean, you actually smell kind of nice.” I blush even hotter. Good thing it’s turning into another sweltering day.
“Good to know.” Elliott laughs and some of the heaviness inside me is lifted. I cling to the sound for a second, as if it’s a magic phrase that’s unlocked a secret, happier part of me. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. I’m not sure I ever will again—I think that part of me might be broken. Still, it helps to hear someone else doing it.
He digs in his backpack and comes back with a set of safety glasses and a saw. “Enjoy the view, Jennifer. I’ll see you soon.”
The heaviness crushes down on me again as I turn away. The moment is ruined when Elliott calls me by the wrong name. Ruined because I once again remember that I’m a liar.