13. Maria
Maria
We drive for maybe an hour. Sometimes heading downwards to traverse a short valley, occasionally on the level as we follow the line of a ridge, but always averaging upwards, into the mountains.
The roads are old, potholed in places, with drainage ditches dug either side to let the rainwater run off as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Still, I wouldn’t want to be caught up here in a flash flood.
That said, I wouldn’t want to run my vehicle off the road into any of the ditches, either.
A lot of them are pretty deep. Once in, it would take a tow truck to get you back out.
Some of the time we chat about this and that, swapping stories—life in the mountains, growing up in Brooklyn, stories of army life, my work as a waitress.
Much of the time, we’re silent. Companionable.
Drinking in the beauty of the scenery around us, inhaling the invigorating scent of the country air.
Eventually, we round a bend and up ahead we see a sign saying “White Tail Lake and Trail Head” that points left up an unmade track. Regan turns the truck onto the track, and we pick our way up it, avoiding the worst potholes and largest rocks, the dust billowing from our wheels as we go.
Maybe a quarter of a mile up the track, the way opens out, and we come to a stop at the trail head parking lot.
We get out and stretch, luxuriating in the wonderful, warm sunshine.
Looking around, seems we’re the only ones here.
No other vehicles are parked up. It’s only midday though, so maybe the place will fill up a little over the course of the afternoon.
For now, though, we’ve the whole lake to ourselves.
There’s an unmanned information kiosk over to one side of the clearing, displaying a map showing the hiking route around the lake as a dotted red line.
There are photographs of the local flora and fauna to look out for, including of course the white-tailed deer that the lake is named after.
Also elk, coyote, foxes and hares. No grizzlies, thankfully, but apparently sometimes brown bears have been known to roam the lake shore in the summer season, fishing for food.
There’s even the possibility of seeing a mountain lion, though sightings are apparently rare.
Nevertheless, I’m glad I’m with Regan. I feel confident he can look after us.
He looks down at me, smiling, offering his hand, and I take it in my own. It feels natural, like we’d been doing this our whole lives.
“This way.”
I follow him over some stepping stones that cross the gently flowing stream at the head of the lake, and then we hit the trail proper. The track is wide enough for us to walk side-by-side, and we make our way north, the sun almost exactly overhead in the cloudless, blue sky above.
Regan carries a small rucksack with some sandwiches and drinks.
It looks tiny, balanced across his broad shoulders, and I smile at the image.
He’s like an outsized figure—a piece from the wrong game that’s been stored away with this set by accident.
A lock of his blond hair catches the slight breeze, and he tucks it behind one ear, entirely unconscious of my gaze.
He’s currently telling me something about Grant.
Something about how he likes to write down to-do lists and then enjoys ticking each item off as he gets to it.
But I’m only vaguely paying attention. Part of me is focused on the trail itself.
The emerald green of the tree canopy, the grays and browns of trail, stony shoreline and tree trunks, and the sparkling blue of the lake as it reflects the sky above.
Another part of me is secretly watching Regan.
The length of his stride, the natural curve of his cheek bones, the width of his chest, the firm ripple of his biceps, the healthy glow of his skin in the warm sunshine…
“Are you listening to a word I’ve been saying?” He stops abruptly, and I bump into him, startled by the suddenness of his movement.
“Oh... err, yes of course I am.”
“What did I just say then?” he’s smiling broadly, his eyes open wide as if to say “Go on, prove me wrong.” But of course, I can’t.
“Something about Grant?” I mumble tentatively.
He laughs, a real laugh, from the belly.
“Yeah I did mention Grant. But that was about five minutes ago. I was telling you about our plans to install solar panels on the roof of the house. I guess I didn’t realize how dull I can be at times.”
“Oh, no, you’re not dull.” I squeeze his big hand with my small one. “It’s just… out here… it’s all so beautiful. So natural. I guess after twenty-seven years in Brooklyn, well, stuff like this is like, like the Garden of Eden, or something.”
“Really? Then you like it here?”
“Like it? I love it.”
“And there’s me, assuming you’ve been pining for traffic lights and sidewalks and the hustle and bustle of downtown Brooklyn.” He shakes his head, as if in wonder at his own stupidity. “Don’t you miss it at all?”
I pause to consider. Funny… I haven’t given Brooklyn a single thought since we came here.
Not even one. Not even the old apartment with the damp patch on the kitchen wall.
True, I’ve been busy here, between Mr. Horsell’s—Shane’s—bookkeeping work, and the cooking and cleaning tasks I’d been busying myself with at home…
and there I go, calling it ‘home’. Thinking of it as ‘home’ too.
As if I live there permanently, rather than it being just a stop-gap measure until Papa and I get on our feet.
So much has happened in just a week.
“You know,” I say. “Papa and I… we really can’t thank you enough. All three of you, I mean. For all your kindness. Taking us in like that, and giving us a place to stay. It’s not as if you knew us, or owed us anything.
“Nah, forget about it,” he grins back. “Best thing that happened to us. Your papa is basically restoring the cabin for us, from top to bottom, and you’re cooking us proper meals every day—why our poor microwave has barely had a look-in these past few days.
Besides, we’re enjoying your company. Two more people to talk to.
Makes a change from the same old rows about whose turn it is to do the washing up.
You stay just as long as you want to, and welcome. ”
With a little squeeze of my hand, he gently starts us off again, continuing our hike around the lake. It’s an almost sublime experience, taking in the sunshine, enjoying the natural beauty, and basking in the gentle companionship of this handsome man.
We’re back at the trailhead at about half-past-one, after our leisurely stroll around the shore.
Being a lake walk, it’s been almost entirely flat underfoot, aside from one small scramble across some larger boulders, where the stream tumbles down the mountainside in white rapids, before entering the lake.
Regan takes off his rucksack, and we sit down at a handy picnic bench to eat our lunch, the bench no doubt having been placed there for just such use by hikers and other visitors to the lake and surrounding area.
“It’s getting really hot.” I say, the sweat beading on my forehead, as our picnic bench is in the full glare of the early afternoon sun. Regan starts picking up our sandwich wrappings and miscellaneous rubbish, shoving it back into his rucksack.
“Come on,” he says, standing and shouldering the bag. “We’ve still got the waterfall to investigate, and the AC in the truck will cool us down.”
We get back into Regan’s truck—a bright red, 2006 Ford F-150 in near-mint condition. Regan had explained he likes older vehicles because he prefers a manual transmission, and they are generally easier to work on than modern vehicles that tend to have much more complicated computers and electronics.
We’re soon back on the mountain roads, this time heading west, into the sun.
We don’t have too far to go—maybe twenty minutes or so—before he’s again turning off the road and onto another unmade track.
This one is narrower, steeper, and a lot more potholed than the last. I’m glad I’m not the one driving.
I doubt we’d make it up here in the Civic, but the F-150’s huge wheels and capable suspension seems to make light work of it, and after following the track for quite some time, we again come to a clearing, but a smaller one this time, with no picnic tables, kiosks, or indeed any other signs of human visitation of any kind.
Regan pulls in under the shade of a big old chestnut tree, and we climb out.
Standing there, I feel a slight dampness in the air. Curious. I give a sniff. Yes… there’s a scent. A woody, earthy smell, like you sometimes get outside after rainfall. I look at him, my eyes saying “What is this?” though of course I can guess, and he smiles back at me.
“You’ll see. Come on…”
He takes me by the hand, leading me along a narrow path into the trees.
It’s dark, humid, and warm. We climb steadily, stepping over tree roots, avoiding the bigger boulders, scrambling over the ones we can’t get around.
It’s fun—an adventure—quite exciting, in fact.
I can’t help noticing a lot of birds, and even butterflies seem to love the place, fluttering to and fro, and occasionally coming to rest to sun themselves on a leaf or boulder.
A large, purple and blue dragonfly zings by, zigging and zagging through the air, hunting for tiny insects.
The path gets steeper, and now as we climb, I hear a noise. It’s faint at first, a soft susurration in the back of my ears that gradually swells in volume as we approach nearer and nearer to the source of the sound.
Suddenly, we round a corner, clamber over a particularly large rock, and push back a low-hanging tree branch and… we’re here!