Chapter 12
I didn't sleep enough last night, and I know it when my alarm goes off and I have to practically peel my eyelids open. I stayed late at my parents’ house, sweeping the dust bunnies that had gathered in the living room and programming something on my grandma’s new phone so that it would be more recognizable for her to use.
And when my headlights slashed against the weeds growing in my mom’s garden when I pulled out of the driveway, I still felt like it hadn’t been enough.
I tossed and turned and fell asleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning, so now, I’m running on autopilot as I shower, dress, and pack up for my hike. I’ve done these steps so many times that I could do them in my sleep, which it kind of feels like I’m doing.
It’s still dark when I let myself out of the cabin and climb into my truck, driving the familiar route to my uncle’s backcountry tour office.
It’s on the outskirts of town in a building that used to be a train station.
The tracks still run behind it, even though a train hasn’t in years, and they’re now overgrown with tall grass, weeds, and wildflowers.
The old train station sign hangs above the door on rusted hooks, but there’s a sign next to the door that reads Fontana Ridge Backcountry Guided Tours burnt into the wood.
The forest green paint is peeling, and the windows are so old that they don’t keep out the heat or cold, meaning in the summer, Uncle Silas has to heft a window air conditioner into the frame, and in the winter, he runs space heaters that leave pockets of cold air all over the building.
My aunt always decorates the porch because my uncle can’t be bothered, and today there are large orange and red mums overflowing from pots beside the knotted wooden posts.
I park my truck in the gravel lot and shut off the engine.
It’s chilly this morning without the sun, and according to the forecast, it’s supposed to stay that way.
I’m dressed in layers, hair braided down my back, boots tied on my feet.
I feel settled in a way I haven’t in weeks as I climb out of the truck, my breath clouding in the early morning air.
Unsurprisingly, Uncle Silas is already here when I let myself in.
He’s got a single space heater running that he will no doubt shut off around noon when the sun seeps through the windows and begins to bake the small space.
He’s seated on a bench behind the old front desk, clicking on something on the vintage computer, a framed Appalachian Trail map hanging on the wall behind him.
He looks up when I enter, assessing me rather than offering a hello. I never wear makeup on hikes, but this morning I dabbed concealer under my eyes so he wouldn’t see the dark circles there. I know if he senses any lingering weakness from my injury, there’s not a chance he will let me go.
Seeming satisfied, he says, “Good morning, Stevie,” in his signature gravelly voice. He used to smoke several packs a day when I was a kid, but then he started coughing and getting winded when he was hiking, and he quit cold turkey.
“Morning, Uncle Silas.”
“How you feeling?”
“Good,” I tell him and mean it. Despite the lack of sleep, I’m finally starting to feel strong again. I’ve even managed to go for a run for the last four mornings without any headache.
“Good,” he echoes, turning back to the computer. Behind him, the printer kicks on, printing out the forms my hikers will need to sign before we head out.
I move past him, walking down the hall to the prep room.
There’s a TV mounted to the wall back here that’s always playing the weather forecast. As I pour myself a mug of my uncle’s tar-like coffee, gravel crunches outside.
I assume it’s Michael, the other tour guide that Uncle Silas hired a few years ago when the business started to get busier and the two of us could no longer manage the schedule on our own.
But it’s not his voice I hear a moment later when I’m reviewing our backcountry campsite reservation.
It’s a woman’s voice, soft, lilting, unfamiliar.
My hikers aren’t due to arrive for at least another half hour, so I follow the sound, and find a woman dressed in hiking gear talking to my uncle.
She’s short with dark blonde hair tied back in a braid.
But what sticks out most is the shirt she’s wearing, the one branded with the company logo on it.
She looks up when I walk in, boot landing on the creaky floorboard I always forget to avoid. Her smile is warm. “You must be Stevie.” She extends a small hand in my direction. “I’m Savanna.”
I take her hand in mine, shaking it. “Hi, Savanna.”
When I look at my uncle in question, he says, “She’s our new tour guide.”
Savanna chatters for the next few minutes before excusing herself to go prep for her day hike, leaving me alone with my uncle. I stare at him for a moment, unsure what to say.
“You hired someone new?”
I don’t run this place with him, but I’ve been here long enough that I almost feel like a partner.
He had another employee before I started, but when they quit and when I was looking for a job after graduating high school, he floated the idea to me.
It was just the two of us until he hired Michael three years ago, and he’s roped me in on almost all his decisions.
So the fact that he hired someone while I was gone without even telling me feels a little like whiplash.
Uncle Silas must see it on my face because he turns to me, the stool squeaking as it swivels. His hair is graying, salt and pepper, and his hands are leathery from years spent in the sun as he folds them between his spread knees.
“We needed the extra help while you were out,” he says. “And we’ve needed help since before that. You’re been taking on too many tours with the increase in business the past few seasons.”
A rod stiffens my back. “I can handle it.”
“You have circles under your eyes.”
I swipe at the concealer there. “No, I don’t.”
His blue eyes pin mine. “Yes, you do. But regardless, we needed the extra help, and with you out, I finally decided to do it.”
“I’m back now.”
I’m not sure why I’m fighting him on this.
He’s right. We have been overworked the past few seasons, Michael and I taking on more and more trips and Uncle Silas having to do more than he has in previous years, meaning the admin side of things was falling behind.
On more than one occasion, he wasn’t able to process our time sheets before the bank closed, and our checks were delayed.
Still, it feels like he replaced me while I was gone. Like he made this decision without me.
“You are,” he concedes. “And I’m happy about it, trust me. But I need you to rest some too. Michael is glad for the slower pace. I’m hoping you will be too.”
I should be. I just spent most of last night trying to figure out how I could make time in my schedule to help my parents out more, but it doesn’t soothe the sting that feels like failure.
“Speaking of,” he says, turning back to the computer, “Savanna is going to take your overnight, and you are going to just do a day hike today.”
“What?” I sputter.
His eyes flick back to mine. “I don’t feel safe sending you out on an overnight yet.”
Embarrassment sticks in my stomach, sending heat up my chest. “I’m fine.”
“Probably, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Outside, gravel crunches, and he glances out the window. “Your hikers are here. Go finish up getting ready, and I’ll get them checked in.”
I want to protest, tell him I can handle the workload, but I can tell the conversation is over. So I walk back down the hall, my boot catching on the creaky floorboard again, and head into the prep room where Savanna is looking over what was my overnight campsite reservation.
The front door opens, the small station filling with voices, and I know that regardless of how I feel about things, it’s time to get to work.