Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (11 page)

Good. The painkiller had kicked in. I studied the horse while I shivered in the night air. My bare legs were covered in goose bumps.

Should I turn him loose? The type of colic he had was probably due a great deal to stress and tension. Plumber was unaccustomed to being tied up all night, and this confinement could be contributing to his discomfort. If I turned him loose he could relax. Lie down, crop a little grass, move around when it suited him.

On the other hand, he could also run off. Or eat too much and make his digestive problems worse. Or, worst-case scenario, the pain could return and he might lie down and thrash. In which case it was possible his intestines would twist, like a hose with a kink, and he would die. I would never be able to get him to a surgery center in time to save him.

I stared at him and he tugged impatiently on his tether. He wanted to be turned loose. I made a decision and slipped his halter off. Without hesitation, he walked over to a nearby patch of grass and started eating. He felt fine, for the moment, anyway. Thank God for drugs.

Running the flashlight over Gunner, I ascertained that he looked okay. I gave him a pat on the neck and marched my by now thoroughly chilled body back to camp. I pulled off my boots, soaking wet from the dew-covered grass, and crawled back in the sleeping bag.

Roey grunted. She'd never even moved. I doubted that she'd even woken.

I, however, was now wide awake. I listened to the sound of Plumber munching grass and worried. Given that his colic was as mild as I supposed, the banamine should relieve his pain for at least six or eight hours. And, if I was right, when the drug wore off, the horse would be perfectly fine.

But if I was wrong and he was, or became, worse, the pain would come back and I would be forced to decide what to do. I would go out, I decided, lying in my sleeping bag and shivering. I would go right back out and try and save my horse.

I watched the dog snoring gently next to me and made another choice. I had planned to ride to Dorothy Lake, a mere five miles away, the next morning, but I would not. My dog was sore and tired, my horse was sick. I was pretty worn out myself. I would give us all a rest day. Make sure Plumber was completely okay before we moved on.

Choices made, I rolled over, hoping to doze before I got up to check the horse. It looked like I would be spending a little more time at Snow Lake.

TEN

Everything seemed better in the morning. I'd checked Plumber twice during the night and he appeared to be fine. The second time I'd tied him back up and turned Gunner loose. I woke several hours later to the soft gray light of dawn and a feeling of calm.

Little white mists rose off the silvery surface of the lake. The sky over Bonn Pass was a paler gray, announcing the approach of the sun. I could see Gunner, out in the meadow eating. Plumber stood quietly on the picket line. All was well.

I snuggled back down in my bag and waited for warmth. I am not one of those people who springs up early on camping trips, building a fire while fingers and toes grow numb. I like to luxuriate in the sleeping bag until the sun gets me up.

The lagoon camp was ideal for this, which was one of the reasons I liked it. When the sun rose over the ridge, rays streamed across the lake and hit my tent-pale yellow light as cheering as a fire at night.

Light and heat, how wonderful. I watched with satisfaction as the sun rose, stronger and more golden every moment. And warmer. The lake gleamed; the sky went from gray to blue. Not a cloud in sight. A perfect Sierra morning.

I lay quietly and peacefully in the sleeping bag while the sunlight dappled the tent, content. When it grew warm enough to be encouraging, I got up and slipped my wet boots on, caught Gunner and tied him up, and turned Plumber loose.

The little brown horse looked absolutely normal; nickering at me as I walked toward him, eager to eat. This was good, but I wouldn't be sure he was all right until noon or so, when the last effects of the banamine would be out of his system.

Building a fire, I heated a pot of water and made cowboy coffee. Strong and rough, the coffee suited the place and my mood. I sat in my chair in the morning sunshine, wearing my tank top and underwear, and took hot, harsh sips from the insulated cup I'd brought.

Motion in the woods. Turning my head, I saw a buck step from the trees into the meadow. I froze. Moving only my eyes, I checked the dog. Still asleep in the tent. Oblivious.

I watched as the buck, a four-pointer, began to crop grass. Another stepped out of the trees. Six points. And another. Seven bucks in all emerged from the pines-one with an enormous twisted rack, like nothing I'd ever seen. I wondered how he managed to walk through the trees.

They grazed in the sunshine, apparently unworried by the horses or the fire. Park bucks, no doubt. The boundary of Yosemite National Park was right on top of the closest ridge, and hunting was not allowed in the park at any time. These bucks probably spent hunting season safely holed up-thus their indifference to my camp.

Seven big sandy-colored bucks, grazing by the shore of a bright lake in the early-morning light. I smiled and took a carefully unobtrusive sip of my coffee. Now this was living.

Ten minutes or so later, when they'd drifted off toward the forest, I relaxed my muscles and stood up. I was hungry.

Putting a cast iron skillet on the fire, I got out a package of bacon and some scones. I laid the strips of bacon on the skillet one by one; they sputtered and hissed and steamed. The sweet, salty smell rose into the air, and the dog woke up.

She blinked at me from her position on the sleeping bag, ascertained that I really was frying bacon, and got to her feet. A long, stiff stretch, a big yawn, and a shake-then she walked toward me a little gingerly, wagging her tail.

I patted her wide, wedge-shaped head. "Yes, you can have some."

Taking the cooked strips out, I let the grease cool a minute, then poured it on the dry dog food Roey had ignored last night. She wagged her tail enthusiastically when I set the bowl in front of her. Now this, she seemed to say, is more like it.

The dog dug in; I munched strips of bacon and bites of cinnamon raisin scones, washing them down with hot coffee. There was some real strength in the sun now.

When I was done eating, I stripped off my clothes and boots, pulled on a bathing suit and some rubber and nylon water sandals, and prepared for a morning bath. Had the lake been a little more isolated, I wouldn't have bothered with the bathing suit, but just my luck, a whole party of good old boys would probably ride up as I dove in.

Not that I dove in immediately. First I walked down to a small pebbly beach and tried the water. Cool, not cold, as this lagoon had been the last time I camped here. So far, so good.

Spotting a good diving rock that I remembered, I walked over and stretched myself out on top of it, waiting for the sun to warm my skin. It took half an hour of concentrated sun bathing; I let my mind wander.

This was the thing about life in camp; this was the reason I'd come to these mountains alone. This sense of timelessness, this freedom from schedules and pressure, from other people's expectations. If I wanted, I could spend my whole two weeks at Snow Lake, dozing in the sun and swimming. No reason not to. No reason to do anything, except by my own inclination.

In the mornings I was always happy to be alone. The fear that came with darkness seemed inexplicable and slightly ridiculous in the morning light.

I rolled over, sunning my front side. The sky above me was a deep, pure cobalt blue. Turning my head, I could see the lake coming at me in gentle green swells rimmed with gold; the breeze had come up. I snuggled into my rock.

Being here, just being here, was what I wanted. Aware of myself as a still, solitary speck on the great rolling sweep of the globe. All my thoughts, all my worries reduced to insignificance.

The sun grew hotter on my skin. I turned over again, propped my chin on my hands, let my eyes drift over the granite slopes on the far side of the lake. Sometimes I felt like a small vulnerable animal up here, a house cat mistakenly lost in the wilderness.

When I was younger, I had come to these mountains with expectations, seeking a comfort that they would not give. In love with their beauty, I returned again and again, to see if in some way they would condescend to seem familiar.

I put my cheek against the rock. This is the intimacy you can find, I told myself. Just this. Alone with yourself in the present moment. Quiet in this austerely lovely place.

Now I was hot. I stood up, stretched, walked to the edge of the rock. The lake was blue-green, clear, deep. I could see the stones on the bottom. I put my hands over my head, chose my spot, and forced myself to spring off the bottoms of my feet and part the water with my hands.

My God, it was cold. Cold, green, silky, wet. I came up, gasped, and swam. Water clear and soft around me, clean as air. In a moment, it was cool, not cold.

I swam under the surface, stroking quietly through the underwater world. Green and shadowy, mysterious and dim, so different from the bright, sharp-edged land up above.

A few strokes later, I turned back. Never swim alone, they say. And particularly not miles away from any help, they would probably add. Whoever they were.

I swam back to shore, washed my face, armpits, crotch, and hair with the biodegradable soap I'd brought, dumped a pot of water over myself to rinse off, and swam again. Then I lay back down on my rock.

So, what about Lonny? Could I find some clarity in my aloneness here that would help me in my relationship? I loved Lonny in much the same way I loved Plumber and Gunner and Roey. He was part of my life. But were we really well suited as a couple?

Just what was it I wanted that he didn't give, I asked myself, staring at the big gray boulder in front of me.

Someone who was sensitive to who I was, who could make room for my way of being-that was the answer. I wanted a man for whom I would be more than a pleasant addition to a satisfactory life.

My skin and hair were drying rapidly. I sat up. Maybe there was no right man for me. I certainly didn't have another one in mind. I also doubted that Lonny would ever change much. He liked himself; he liked his life. He could, as he was proving, get along without me.

And me, I was lonely. In some ways, I was lonelier at home than I was here. I missed having a partner. I was thirty-five; there were lines around my eyes, some gray strands in my dark hair. I was past the point of being a cute young thing, if I'd ever been one. I had zero interest in checking out the dating game.

Maybe I needed to reacquaint myself with solitude. Maybe that was why I was here.

I was dry now. Getting up, I walked back to camp. Roey was asleep in the sunshine, full and content. I hoped she would rest all day and be able to travel tomorrow.

Plumber grazed in the meadow, looking fine. I caught him and tied him on the picket line and turned Gunner loose. Then I pulled off my wet swimsuit, hung it on a bush to dry, and put on some clean, dry underwear, shorts, and a tank top. Grabbing some dried fruit and nuts to nibble on, I sat down in the shade of a pine tree with a book.

Not just a book. With Walden. Henry David Thoreau's masterpiece was a tradition for me. When I'd first gone backpacking in the Sierras I'd brought Walden to read; in fact, it was Walden that inspired me to attempt some solitary camping in the woods. And on every trip thereafter, I brought it as some might bring the Bible. Brought it and read it.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

I put the book down. Here I was, alone in the woods, following in Henry David's footsteps. Looking up, I watched the white streak of a jet trail progress across the sky. Some things had changed, others were the same. People were crowded into the cabin of that jet, reading, writing, thinking, twenty thousand feet up in a little metal box. On their way to Chicago, maybe, or New York. And all the while I sat here by the side of my lake and built a fire to cook my breakfast.

I read some more. Ate a chunk of dried pineapple. Swatted at the pesky and persistent flies. A hummingbird zoomed into camp and swooped up to each red object she saw, exploring them for signs of nectar. Disappointed, she whirled away, in search of better feeding ground.

Thoreau was beginning to pall. I looked up, saw that Gunner had quit eating and was resting in the shade, idly swishing flies with his tail. He could just as well do that on the picket line.

I caught him and turned Plumber loose. By now all effects of the banamine would be gone-and Plumber looked fine. His flanks were no longer ganted up, his eye was bright, and his attitude seemed good. As soon as I unclipped his lead rope, he put his head down and started eating.

Sitting back down in my chair, I watched him meander around the meadow. He wasn't really hungry; he ate a bite, walked a few steps, took another bite. Then he walked down to the shore and had a long, leisurely drink.

Done with that, he looked around, took a step forward into the lake, splashed the water once with his foot, and lay down. I leaned forward in amazement as he rolled in two feet of lake water, putting his whole head and most of his body underwater and getting himself thoroughly wet. I laughed out loud.