“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 thatkind 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 isnota 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 newgame plan: find a store,withoutBig 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 faceto 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’searthy, 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 thema’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 hisma’amsfor 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.
