It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I’m awed. Completely and utterly awed.

And then I glance around the cliff, and that awe shifts into wariness. The ground we’re standing on is little more than a balcony that stretches around the side of the mountain. A few trees and shrubs are growing, but nothing substantial. No creek. Certainly no easy path down into the valley below that Lennon promised. A giant bird soars above the trees, circling until it disappears into the canopy.

“How do we get down from here?” I ask.

Lennon is silent. That’s not good. He walks around the cliff, heading past a lonely pine tree, and scopes out our landscape. Maybe the path into the valley is hidden. But even so, we are really far up.

“Shit,” Lennon mumbles.

“What?” I ask.

When his eyes meet mine, I know it’s bad. “I think we went the wrong way.”

17

* * *

There are few worse words to hear right now. All I want to know is (A) How “wrong way” are we, and (B) how do we get back on track?

Lennon whips out his phone to study the book he’s saved. His eyes flick over the screen, and then he whimpers softly. “I knew it. This isn’t the right exit. We got turned around somehow. I knew it felt like we were going up. I just . . .”

“Where are we?”

“We’re at the eastern exit. We need to be south, which is lower in elevation. A lot lower.”

Do not panic.

“Is there a map of the cave?” I ask.

“If there were a map of the cave, we wouldn’t be standing here, would we?”

Jeez. No need to get snippy. I’m the one with the snake bite. And speaking of snakes, I glance back at the dark, spiderwebbed exit. “I’m not going back in there. Forget it.”

“I don’t think we have to,” he says, flipping to another screen to reread a passage. “This cliff goes all the way around to the exit we should have used. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

He takes his compass out of his pocket. “It’s roundabout. The other exit was a straight shot to the path in the valley. It’s about a mile down from here to the northern exit, as a crow flies. But that’s more like two or three miles, hiking around this cliff. Then another mile down into the valley.”

“So, we’re talking, what?”

“Two hours. A little longer. It won’t be an easy descent. It’s not an actual trail.” Lennon looks down at my bloody ankle. It’s starting to swell.

I glance around the cliff. How could a place that’s so beautiful make me miserable?

“Hey, look,” I say, spotting something dark on the mountain wall, several meters away from where we exited. Maybe Lennon’s wrong. Maybe we are in the right place. That could be the southern exit there.

But as I hobble toward it, and Lennon shines his headlamp inside, I lose hope. It’s another cave entrance, yes, but not to the network of tunnels we were just hiking. It’s just a big, wide single cave. As though nature used a melon baller and scooped out a hole in the side of the mountain.

“This isn’t an animal cave, is it?” I say, imagining us waking up some hibernating family of bears.

“It looks clear,” Lennon reports.

We have to duck to enter the mouth of the cave, but once we’re in, the ceiling is high, so we can stand and walk around. It’s maybe a dozen feet wide and twice as deep. There are no hibernating animals. No stream. Not much of anything at all, except a dip in the rocky floor near the mouth that cradles the remnants of burned firewood.

“People have camped here,” Lennon says, bending down to inspect it. “Not recently, I don’t think. But look.” He kicks a discarded, empty can of food in the corner. It’s covered in dirt and bone-dry, so it’s been here a while. “Bastards. What about ‘leave no trace’ don’t people understand?”

I’m having trouble caring about that right now. I turn toward the half-moon mouth of the tiny cave and look toward the valley of trees. It’s like gazing into a framed painting.

“Look, it’s not what I’d planned, but I think we should camp here,” Lennon says. “It’s flat and protected. Seems reasonably safe—it’s obviously been used as a site by other hikers. There’s room enough for us to erect both of our tents inside this cave and build a fire.”

“What about water?” I say.

“I’ve only taken a swig out of my bottle. How much do you have left?”

The entire bottle. I haven’t touched it since we filled up at lunch.

“It’s enough,” he assures me. “I mean, we won’t be washing our hair or anything, but if we’re careful, we can make it until we can hike down to the creek. Or, if you feel up to it, we can hike down there now.” He checks the time on one of the compass dials. “It’s almost six. It will get dark at nine. That should be enough time, but we’ll be cutting it close. And this isn’t a big trail, so it might be a little rough walking it during dusk. We also need to take care of your ankle.”

I debate this. I’d like fresh water. It worries me that all we have is the precious little in our bottles. But I look at my ankle, and suddenly the weight of my backpack seems to double.

I’m tired and hungry and injured.

I want to stop.

“Let’s just stay here,” Lennon says encouragingly.

“What about your map? This wasn’t the plan.”

“No, but it’s workable. The map was just a general guideline. Things happen out here, and you adapt.”

I’m not good at adapting.

“This little cave is pretty sweet,” he says. “And I’ll bet you can see a thousand stars from this cliff.”

He’s probably right. I look at the clear sky above the mountains.

“Come on, take off your pack,” he tells me. “Let’s get you fixed up, okay? One thing at a time.”

Maybe he’s right.

Following his suggestion, I unbuckle my backpack and plop down on a boulder near the entrance of our little clifftop cave while he digs out the first aid kit. I spy my blue Nalgene bottle, and it makes me realize that I’m dying of thirst, but I resist the urge to drink. Must save it. Now I’m wondering if we need to spare water for cleaning my wounds, but Lennon has broken out alcohol swabs, and he squats at my feet to use one.

“Cold,” I say, flinching. “Oww!”

“Hold still and let me clean it,” he says.

“It stings.”

“That’s how you know it’s working.” He cradles my heel in one hand and cleans off the bite. “I once got bitten by an emerald tree boa. Beautiful snakes, but boy, do they have a mean bite.” He holds up his hand and twists it around to show me. A U-shaped line of scars arches around his wrist and the heel of his palm.

“Holy crap. When did that happen?”

“About six months ago. She was eight feet long and this big around.” He shows me with his hands. “I had to go the emergency room and get a couple stiches. The snake was upset about being moved into a new habitat. She was old and set in her ways. I get a lot of little bites at work, but they usually don’t hurt. This one scared me. I was so shaken up by the whole thing, I was scared to pick up another snake for a couple of days.”

“I don’t ever want to see one again, much less pick one up. If I’d known to expect snakes in those caves, I wouldn’t have agreed to go inside.”