Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Should I consider it a bad sign that only ten minutes of walking with this backpack has left me panting like I just wrestled an alligator?
Probably. But what’s done is done.
It’ll be fine.
Sweat gathers at my hairline as I stop outside a row of stone and wood lodges and restaurants, the sticky heat pressing forbodingly on my shoulders. The sun is at its highest, inflicting its harshest torture on my already burning neck.
I let go of the shiny lilac rolling suitcase that looks out of place in the rustic setting. High wooden beams and canopied porches frame the buildings, each of them showing some wear. It’s as if Mother Nature fought back after being intruded upon.
Geckos and spiders have made every available crevice a home amongst the stones tinted with dust and weathered by the wind.
It takes an embarrassing amount of effort to heave myself onto a rock ledge outside my hotel, especially with the weight of Big Bertha on my back.
Fatigue stops me from wrestling my hiking backpack off and back on again, so we wait, strapped together, until it’s time to check into the lodge.
The wispy clouds stretch across the sky overhead, providing no relief from the sun’s harsh rays.
They look too tired to lend any significant form of shade.
I avoid glancing over at the actual canyon, the romantic in me wanting the first time to be magical.
Sunrise feels like a good meet-cute for the ol’ canyon and me, before it possibly kills me.
This heat is too much. I’ll take my chances and see if my room is available.
“Let’s get your heavy ass to the room, Bertha.”
I push off my knees to hoist myself up, and a ripping sound hisses from behind. Not that kind of ripping—the fabric kind.
Things roll to the ground when I twist to survey the damage, the same things that were supposed to be neatly stacked at the very bottom of my backpack.
“Bertha!” I gasp, my hands covering my mouth.
No, no, no, no, no!
Getting my arms out of the straps is like escaping a straitjacket, then I roll the whole bag over awkwardly so it’s bottom side up.
“You broke girl code, Bertha,” I say aloud when I find a huge rip in the bag’s fabric staring back at me.
I sigh and lift Bertha again before trudging toward my accommodations, my muscles burning as I grip the heavy bag.
The struggle to carry her while dragging my suitcase along cannot be exaggerated.
I’m Kevin Malone carrying a bowl of chili. Things won’t stay in the bag.
The sound of another item falling to the ground punctuates every few steps I take.
I’m practically squatting while hugging Bertha like a barrel, spreading my things like a trail of breadcrumbs.
Abandoning that strategy, I end up scooting my fallen belongings with my foot and hoping my underwear isn’t among the trail of carnage.
THAT’S IT. I’m revoking Bertha’s name.
Not one darn person walks by, which is both a blessing and a curse, since I’m pretty sure one of my bras is tangled around my ankle.
I’m not above asking for help, but my only witness in my hour of need is the slightly mocking whisper of the wind.
Then again, I should probably count myself lucky no one is out here to watch me kick my belongings up the steps of the Lodge entrance like some weird version of personal item hacky sack.
It feels like a tiny panic monster is squeezing my lungs. Is this whole trip already doomed? Juliet would probably know not to do something stupid like sit on a craggly rock wall. I haven’t even begun the hard part yet, and everything seems to be falling apart.
I push the door of The Thunderbird Lodge open with my shoulder, and a cool blast of air sends a shiver down my spine as it meets my sweaty skin.
The thud of my backpack hitting the floor startles the man at the front desk, making him jump in his seat before smoothing a finger over his mustache.
I gather my fallen things, shoving them under my shirt and making that mustache twitch.
I give him my check-in details, then follow his directions to my room while juggling more of Big Bertha’s mutineers. Bursting into my room, I drop the ruined backpack and flop backwards onto the purple-and-green-checkered quilt of my double bed. Dots on the popcorn ceiling swirl as I stare up.
This is not a sign of what’s to come. You’ve got this, Willow.
After five minutes of panting, a splash of water on my face, and a pep talk in the mirror, I’m feeling slightly less winded and more refreshed, though no more prepared for tomorrow.
It’s just one little hiccup. Nothing to freak out over.
I form a new game plan: find a store, without Big Bertha the betrayer, and buy her replacement.
Grabbing my room key, I head out toward the strip of stores, probably looking a little unhinged with one hand beside my face to block the view. I don’t want to ruin my blind date with the canyon later.
I still managed to get catfished, though. After walking into three stores, it becomes very obvious that my only backpack options are ugly.
Browns. Grays. Khakis.
Would it kill someone to stock something with a hint of life?
The final shop is old and smells like its windows haven’t been opened in years. Weathered wooden floorboards creak with each step as I fake interest in the bland clothing options.
Brown walls. Beige shelves. Glass cabinets filled with jewelry that’s also…brown.
Okay, there’s earthy, and there’s taking the whole theme a bit far. Would a colorful stone have been too much to ask for?
Even the frazzled young shop attendant is dressed in sand tones. It’s like everyone is preparing to camouflage among the mountains at the sound of a siren.
“Find what you’re looking for, ma’am?”
Again with the ma’am? Is this how it starts? Next comes a walker and a Life Alert bracelet?
A slow blink follows my fakest smile, although I’d like to tell him that unless he’s got a twang and wears a cowboy hat, he can keep his ma’ams for the generation that uses mothballs.
“Do you have any backpacks that are less…sepia?” I grimace at my surroundings.
He looks around, frowning like he’s only just become aware of the lack of color.
“Oh…uh…there may be one or two in the second-hand section.” He leads me out a side door and gestures toward a large crate that’s struggling to contain the hiking junk spilling out of it.
But a bell sounds from the front door before he can help me.
“I’ll be with you in a second,” he calls out with a sigh, rushing to follow a family with young kids who just entered the store.
I turn back to the crate resembling a large planter box, filled with musty clothes and other people’s memories. A pale purple bag at the very bottom is the only option, but it looks like it belongs to Dora the Explorer and wouldn’t hold more than my snacks and bug repellent for the first day.
I lean over, spotting another butter-yellow backpack sitting behind the crate, this one much more fitting. “Hello there, pretty girl.” I smile, dusting off my find.
“Oh, you’ll do.” I nod, holding it up and loving the sunny color.
Chaos has erupted by the time I reenter the store, as the kids smush their faces to every surface of glass, one of them wearing a huge men’s hoodie with the hanger still inside.
The store attendant raises a frantic hand my way.
“Don’t worry about paying. You can have it.
” He flutters his hands, trying to herd the kids back to their unfazed parents.
“Thank you!” My voice barely reaches him over the sound of squealing, although I’m tempted to make a similar sound at my turn of good fortune. I do love a good thrift.
I’m caressing my new-to-me bag on my way back to my room when the shuffle of footsteps follows behind me, a tingle running up my spine when I recognize the feeling of being followed.
But when I spin around, I find myself virtually alone, the nearest person on the opposite side of the road, heading in a different direction.
Is my dad here? Has he sent one of my cousins to shadow me?
I turn, laughing at the ridiculous thought of him trailing me. My dad doesn’t know I’m here, and none of my cousins would believe I’d do this anyway. I’m obviously not being followed.
Still, I walk a little faster on the way back to my lodge.
As soon as I get to the relative safety of my room, I sink onto the mattress, running my fingers over the soft fabric of the feather-light backpack. She’s definitely been broken in, but not so overused that the sun has gotten its bleachy claws into her yet.
And this sublime shade of gold—she’s absolute perfection.
It might seem trivial, but when you’ve seen the power of color to awaken someone’s face more than a cup of coffee or Botox ever will, the right hues become vital.
Yes, I probably should’ve spent more time researching the best supplies rather than looking for a hat in the right shade of yellow. It probably wasn’t wise of me to neglect the practicality of the reviews I read, focusing instead on picking out colors that harmonize with my Spring palette.
Losing Bertha isn’t just about losing a bag. It feels like I’ve lost a bit of what I’m out here fighting for.
The color of that bag was a tether to my dreams.
Aesthetically, my shoes are also a disappointment, so I couldn’t continue this endeavor with a sepia monstrosity on my back.
Even though sand or camel is technically in my palette, it’s become the symbol of everything I’ve failed to measure up to in my family.
So I avoid it, even if it looks good on me.
I prefer bright colors. I need to feel like a spring garden has erupted, wrapping me in its vibrant magic and making my skin glow and my soul dance.
That’s the power of the right color.
What could possibly go wrong with a sunny backpack like this?