“I am.”
“You sure you wanna go through with this?”
“What? Why?” I frown, feeling like his grumpy juju is rubbing off on me.
“This just doesn’t look like your…thing,” he enunciates as his eyes track me from head to toe.
“It’s anybody’sthing.” I fire back when he hits a nerve. A flicker of confusion sweeps across his face, and he looks like he wants to say something, but I don’t give him the chance.
“Thank you for indulging me, Jackson.”
“Jack,” he corrects.
“Maybe I’ll see you along the trail,Jaclyn.” I salute, turning to resume the coral colored trail that nobody thinks I can survive.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My butt is damp, and it’s not my doing.
And I think Marigold is trying to kill me. First with the back breaking, now this.
Not only is she a hefty girl, but it’s possible she peed herself. Either that or one of my water bottles has leaked, and I now have what Paul Hollywood calls a “soggy bottom.”
One backpack accident could be a coincidence. But two? This feels personal.
Or maybe Marigold’s like me, more comfortable in a boutique than roughing it in the wild.
The crowds have thinned, finally allowing me some of the solo time I’ve been looking forward to having on this trip. My head is on a swivel now, taking in the scenery as it morphs from a confining rock wall to wide open terrain, the trail leading out to the first butte with another plateau.
Who do I talk to about the spelling and pronunciation ofbutte?
I find a secluded spot off the path and groan like an eighty-year-old man after I pull out a small tarp from a side pocket and lay it flat. The shop attendant who sold this to me deservesan apology, because I seriously doubted I’d need it and may have thanked him with a smug, bless-your-heart kind of smile. But the tarp is already coming in handy. Marigold should be grateful, too, because it’s saving her pretty, wet, butter-yellow tush from developing rusty red dirt stains.
I kneel, unpacking my bag until everything is laid out and I’m forced to assess a flatlay of the choices that got me here. I lift the cracked water bottle that’s soaked through about half my clothes and my headlamp. At least my sleeping bag managed to come out unscathed, but the same can’t be said for my underwear.
I reinspect Marigold with a frown and find that the dampness has spread across the back of my bag, but not underneath.
A handful of hikers pass, a few of them glaring at me with equal parts curiosity and fear, like I’m Mary Poppins about to disappear inside her carpet bag. Then again, I probably look like a homeless lady each time I come up with another piece of wet laundry and set it out to dry in the sun.
Peering inside, I continue running my hand along the inside seam, feeling the bottom of the bag until my finger catches on a thread.
I gasp. There’s a false bottom?
“Marigold, you sneaky little smuggler,” I say as I grip the loosened fabric of what I’m assuming is a hidden compartment and tug lightly.
It takes a few minutes of clawing at the thread to pull the sewn flap away. I move the thick fabric to the side to reveal something solid, and I immediately lift the mystery object. It’s a thin metal case, similar to what someone might use to gift a ridiculously fancy pen.
“The heck have you been hiding in here, Marigold?”
A cursory glance ensures nobody is watching me, although I’m certain I’m doing a terrible job of not looking suspicious,especially when I’ve just perked up like I’ve discovered a small treasure chest. Marigold forms a barricade as I gently unclasp the lid and hear small folds of tissue paper crinkling when I crack the box open.
“Well, that’s not very exciting.” I glare at Marigold, my shoulders deflating. I’d hoped to find something more enthralling than a primitive spearhead. Black, jagged, and shiny, it’s about as long as my hand, weighing the same as a butter knife and seemingly about as useful as a stormtrooper’s armor.
My mouth forms a flat line, and I replace the box with an eye roll, disappointed in the results of my almost thrilling side quest. I continue waiting for my things to dry with my arms resting on my knees and my chin propped in the palm of my hand. My butt begins to ache from sitting on the hard ground, but at least this is a temporary relief from the weight on my back. The colors of the rocks shift, tones warming as the sun rises, blues and purples melting away.
Not even the peaches and reds of the rocks against the crystal blue sky can help the muddy aesthetic of every hiker who passes me, though. There’s the occasional outlier with some green, but my giddiness at the sight of a teal shirt is unmatched. I barely hold back from applauding the middle-aged man with the bravest of hearts with a wolf whistle.
I feel like I’ve been excluded from a secret club as I watch every variation of earth tone walk by. With so many possible color palettes, there’s no way a fraction of these people are wearing their best colors. Why does enjoying nature have to require dressing like you’re auditioning for a role as a mound of sand? We don’t all have to blend into our rocky surroundings, do we? Not when nature itself speaks in color.
