Granny Goes Wild Read online

  Nature didn’t leave it at that. As we all knew, girls matured faster than boys, and while Martin was still a bit gangly and childlike, Melanie had bloomed into young womanhood and stood a good inch taller than Martin.

  That didn’t stop Martin from trying to impress her.

  “Oh, this trail is going to be easy,” he said, trying to make his voice go low like a man’s. “I run five miles a day. This year, I’m on the track and field team.”

  His voice cracked right at the end, ruining the effect. He ended up saying “track and fIIEEeeeld.”

  Did I detect the faint trace of a mocking smile on Melanie’s lips? Watch it, you little hussy—only Martin’s parents and I are allowed to make fun of his voice cracking!

  The valley narrowed until it ended in a steep ridge. The creek we’d been following was actually a spring that shot out of a spot in the ridge about ten feet above our heads, a truly stunning sight. Everyone stopped to take pictures, or at least tried to. That was a sight to behold too. Twelve kids all reached into their pockets in unison to retrieve phones that were no longer there. Twelve faces fell. Twelve young throats let out grumbles. At least three voices cracked.

  “Pity we can’t take a photo,” one of the parents said. He was Quinten Long, a bespectacled little man with a bad case of allergies whom I recognized as one of the librarians at the Cheerville Municipal Library.

  “It was your idea to go on this dumb trip, Dad,” said one of the boys. He was a big brute of a kid, taller and heavier than his father, who wore a jersey for the Cheerville High football team.

  Quinten cringed.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take some shots,” said the photography teacher, pulling out an expensive 35mm camera and snapping a few shots. Some of the students gathered around, attracted to the only electronic device within ten miles like cats to an open tin of tuna.

  “Barbara, would you like to pose in front of the waterfall?” the teacher asked. His name was Thomas Cardiff. I’d met him before.

  Thomas knew me from a story he’d done for the Cheerville Herald, where he worked part time as a photographer. The Herald was a thin little sheet that only came out weekly. Nobody worked full time at the Herald. I had acted in a small role in a movie filmed in town, and he had done an article on me.

  That hadn’t sat well with me. I liked to keep a low profile, but there had been no way out of it. I had insisted that I be photographed in costume to make myself less recognizable and that the article did not appear on the paper’s website.

  Thomas motioned his camera toward the waterfall and gave me an encouraging look.

  “Oh, all right.” I grabbed Martin and made him pose with me. I smiled. Martin put on one of those “I’d rather be anywhere else” smiles. Thomas snapped away. Then he asked several others to pose.

  I sat on a log and took off my pack, enjoying the scene. While it would have been more tranquil if the kids hadn’t been there, running around and splashing each other, I felt glad they were. Too many young people (and old people, for that matter) spent all their time in cities or suburbs and never got out to see the beauty this world had to offer. It was a pity. I promised myself to come out to the country more often. I wondered if Octavian would like to come along.

  “Are you all right, Grandma?”

  Martin and Melanie stood beside me. I hadn’t even noticed them.

  “Oh, yes, just enjoying myself.”

  “You’re not tired or anything?” he asked.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  At first, I thought he was looking for an excuse to return to the parking lot, but then I saw actual concern on his face. I resisted the temptation to kiss him on the forehead. Melanie might give him another of those condescending smiles.

  “I’m as fit as a fiddle,” I assured him.

  Ms. Chipper’s voice rang out over the sound of splashing water. “Okay, everybody, time to climb Miner’s Ridge. Packs on, chins up, and pucker those lips for some good, old-fashioned whistling!”

  True to her word, she set off along the trail, whistling a merry tune.

  “Is she going to be like this the whole way?” Melanie grumbled.

  “I hope not,” I said.

  The girl gave me a smile. Martin cut in and started chattering with her again, and I guessed my interaction with her was over.

  The trail grew steep, with many switchbacks. I kept up, though, thanks partially to the school photography teacher, who was huffing and puffing and had turned as red as a tomato. The poor fellow slowed everyone down. He didn’t look all that out of shape, perhaps in his early forties and not overweight, but if one lives a sedentary life, any sort of physical exertion can be tough.

  About a third of the way up, we came to our first abandoned mine.

  It stood just a little off the trail, a roughly square hole in the side of the hill, about five feet to a side. Rotten boards crisscrossed the entrance, and a faded state government sign warned of dangers and a big fine for going inside.

  “Coool,” one of the boys said. Everyone nodded. We all went over to look except for Thomas, who plunked down on the trail and pulled out his canteen.

  “I don’t think we should go close to it,” said one of the parents, a woman named Angie, who was the mother of one of the girls. “It doesn’t look safe.”

  “It’s safe as long as we’re careful,” Ms. Chipper said, getting between the kids and the entrance. “This is one of the many disused mines in the area. From the middle of the nineteenth century to just a few short decades ago, hardy prospectors came here to mine the lead that can be found in the Muggy Mountains. Our state was the fifth-biggest producer of lead in the country.”

  Someone made a snoring noise. I had to admit that I wasn’t particularly impressed by this fascinating historic fact either.

  “Can we go in?” Martin asked.

  “Nope, nope, and three times nope. It’s against the law for a reason—actually, several reasons. The main one is that these mines are dangerous. The miners were prospectors, regular folk who wanted to strike it rich in the lead rush. Most didn’t know how to construct a mine properly, and many died in cave-ins. Now some of these mines are more than a hundred years old, and they’re very unstable. But we can take a peek.”

  “Don’t get too close,” Angie said, standing well back. She tried to stop her daughter, but the girl slipped away to join the crowd.

  Ms. Chipper pulled out a flashlight and shined it through the boards. Everyone took turns peering inside. The flashlight illuminated about thirty feet of a shaft gently sloping downward. Timber frames haphazardly held up the walls and ceiling, although in a few spots, they had fallen out of place. Heaps of rocks were testimony to minor cave-ins. Near the end of the lit area, I saw an old rusted pickaxe and what looked like a bucket, now turned into a tangle of rotted wood and a couple of rusted hoops.

  “Why, it’s just like the old miner left it,” I said, leaning forward to try and get a better look.

  A board splintered under my hand, and I staggered back. A good quarter of the barrier crumbled into a pile of rotten wood at my feet.

  “Grandma!” Martin said, embarrassed.

  The kids laughed.

  “Hey, Martin, your grandma is going to get arrested for breaking and entering,” one of the boys joked.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, I thought as I brushed my hands clean.

  “If they want us to stay out of these mines, they should board them up better,” Martin said.

  “I agree,” I replied, checking for splinters.

  “Budget cuts,” Ms. Chipper said. “And that means we have to be extra-super careful. Okay, folks, let’s hump this ridge!”

  That got a bunch of snickers from the teens. Ms. Chipper, oblivious, strode on up the trail. The teens and parents fell in behind her, Angie warning everyone to be careful of mineshafts and pythons (pythons?), the huffing and puffing photographer taking up the rear.

  We made our camp on the other side of the ridge in a lovely g
lade that was one of the only level spots in the narrow canyon we found ourselves in. We could see several boarded-up mineshafts on the slopes nearby.

  I set up my tent, purchased from Megaton Army Surplus, in less time than anyone else, much to everyone’s amazement. Then I helped several people sort out poles, pegs, and tarps, and soon, we got everything in order. Quinten’s son set up their tent while his father tried to help and only succeeded in getting in the way. Ms. Chipper helped out the rest of the kids. It seemed we were the only two adults who had ever slept outdoors. Once we got everyone squared away, I set up the rest of my little camp, including a sleeping bag and an inflatable mattress to put under it. I was taking no chances with my tricky back.

  The mattress gave me some trouble. It took a lot of breaths to get it inflated. I should have affixed it to the photographer’s mouth while he was hiking. Although on second thought, that might not have been a good idea. He might have blown it up so much that both mattress and photographer would have drifted away on a strong breeze.

  In the end, Martin took time away from his friends to help me. I resisted the urge to tousle his hair and kiss him. That would have earned me the silent treatment for the rest of the trip.

  Ms. Chipper turned out to be a good hike leader. Once everyone had settled down, she broke out some hot dogs to roast over a blazing campfire. Of course, the boys all made jokes about “hot wieners” and left them over the fire too long so flames shot up from them. Then they dueled with the torches. The girls found a squirrel’s cache of acorns and started pelting the boys, which made them chase the girls with flaming wieners. Angie cried out that they were all going to get burned, and Quinten complained that all the running around was blowing smoke in his face. Ms. Chipper mildly chided them but mostly let them do what they wanted.

  My estimation of her went up. The kids really seemed to be enjoying themselves now, and she didn’t want to spoil their fun. While this trip probably wouldn’t make avid outdoor adventurers out of any of them, it would at least give them some fond childhood memories and show them there was a world beyond their school and phones.

  The only person who didn’t seem to be enjoying himself was Thomas Cardiff, the photographer. He huddled close to the fire, peering out into the darkness.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked after a couple of hours of this.

  “I hear movement out there.”

  “I’m surprised you can hear anything over this racket.”

  “It’s hardly a peaceful sojourn in the wilderness,” Quinten grumbled, cleaning his glasses.

  Just then, his son came whooping past, swinging a blazing marshmallow. Quinten flinched. “Watch it, Butch!”

  Butch ended up on top of a rock, pounding his chest and doing a good imitation of a gorilla. I had heard he was the team’s star linebacker, even though he was their youngest member. Puberty came quicker in some than others. The kid even looked as if he shaved regularly.

  The excitement and the sugar high could only last so long. Gradually, the teens began to settle down, pleasantly worn out by a day of fresh air, exercise, and the lack of artificial light and technological distractions. One by one, they yawned, stretched, cracked a few final jokes, and slumped off to their tents. Martin went to his own tent, and I decided it was time I got some sleep. I checked my watch. It was only nine thirty.

  The other adults decided to turn in too. Ms. Chipper threw dirt over the fire, and the campground grew dark.

  With my inflated mattress and sleeping bag, I felt quite cozy and comfortable, and I soon drifted off to sleep.

  That sleep did not last long.

  “AAAAGH!”

  A scream tore me to wakefulness. I reached for my 9mm to find that it wasn’t there. A moment later, I woke up enough to know why—I was on a school hike and hadn’t brought it along, since it was a felony to bring a firearm into a state park. I hadn’t thought it necessary anyway. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  Because that scream hadn’t come from one of the kids fooling around but from an adult.

  A man, to be precise.

  FOUR

  I stumbled out of my tent. The first thing I saw was a flashlight bobbing nearby.

  “Look!” Thomas’s voice shouted.

  I saw it just as he was saying it. On a nearby hill, a fire blazed. It looked like the letter H.

  “What in the world is that?” I asked. It certainly didn’t look like a natural forest fire.

  Thomas stumbled over to me, trying to buckle his jeans while holding his flashlight at the same time.

  “I came out here to, um, see the stars when I noticed that.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to scream,” Quinten said, crawling out of his own tent with a flashlight in hand. “You woke me up.”

  Thomas had woken all of us up. Everyone stood and stared at the blazing letter, illuminating a hill about two or three miles away.

  “I told you I heard someone moving around the woods,” Thomas said, his voice trembling.

  “Well, that’s just terrible,” Ms. Chipper said, sounding negative for the first time on the trip. “It’s irresponsible and dangerous to let a campfire go out of control like that. This is a state park.”

  I wondered what sort of camper would build a fire in the shape of an H.

  “It’s going to start a forest fire!” Angie wailed. “We’ll all be burned alive.”

  “I doubt it,” Ms. Chipper said. “The forest is pretty damp, what with the rains we’ve been having.”

  Sure enough, the fire soon died down. Actually, it died down remarkably quickly, as if someone had set it with gasoline or some other agent instead of firewood, which would have lasted longer. Within a couple of minutes, all we could see was a faint trace of the letter as the twigs and leaves on the forest floor smoldered for a time. Soon, that, too, faded away.

  “We need to leave,” Angie said.

  “Why?” one of the kids asked.

  “Because the fire is going to scare the pythons off the hill and right over our camp.”

  “What’s with the pythons?” I asked.

  “This whole forest is crawling with pythons,” Angie declared.

  “I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” I said.

  “Pythons only live in the Arctic,” one of the kids said.

  “Did you fail biology?” Martin asked.

  “Okay, folks, let’s all get back to bed,” Ms. Chipper said. “Hopefully the park rangers spotted that and will track down the culprits. They deserve a big ol’ fine and a zillion hours of community service.”

  She got back into her tent. One by one, everyone else followed suit. I lingered. So did Thomas.

  I turned to him. “Why was it in the shape of an H, I wonder?”

  I couldn’t see his face behind the glow of his flashlight.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” he replied curtly and went off to bed.

  The next morning, we headed out early after a pancake breakfast over an open fire. Everyone was in high spirits except for Quinten, who complained he had a sore back from a rock beneath his tent, and Thomas, who didn’t look like he had slept a wink. As we left the campsite, the photographer glanced several times at the H-shaped burn mark on the hillside.

  Ms. Chipper reminded us that the plan for the day was to follow Coal Valley for seven miles before going up the side of Widow’s Peak and pitching our tents at a campsite on its slopes.

  “It will be a super-duper view,” she said. “I just hope the weather holds out. If it doesn’t, we’ll just have to hunker in the tents and tell ghost stories.”

  To the south, the blue sky was lined with gray. The local TV station had predicted fine weather for the entire long weekend, but this wouldn’t be the first time the forecasters had been wrong. Or the millionth.

  So far, my body was holding up. The air mattress had been a good investment, and except for the previous night’s brief interruption, I had slept like a baby. Fresh air and exercise will do that for you. My back felt fine, and nothing else hurt, althou
gh I did feel a bit fatigued. I figured once I was on the trail, I’d loosen up and get into the rhythm of the day.

  I took it easy, staying near the back of our little group. Ms. Chipper led the way, and Thomas Cardiff, being the only other teacher, took up the rear, which was his natural place what with all his huffing and puffing. He kept looking over his shoulder.

  “Everything all right?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m just making sure we don’t have any stragglers.”

  “Like M&M?” one of the girls in front of us asked. The girl walking next to her giggled. They gave me a sly look then giggled again. It took me a minute to figure out.

  M&M. Martin and Melanie. They’d been all but inseparable since the beginning.

  Half a mile later, the trail straightened enough that I could see them, right at the front behind Ms. Chipper, holding hands.

  Well, not exactly holding hands. They had hooked their pinky fingers together, which was even more adorable.

  “Do you have a zoom lens?” I asked Thomas.

  “Huh?” He had been looking over his shoulder again.

  “No stragglers. See? You can count them. Do you have a zoom lens?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could you get a photo of those two?” I pointed.

  Thomas smiled. He didn’t need to be told who I meant. They were just cresting a little hill. Thomas stopped and took a few snaps. He showed me the result on the screen at the back of the camera.

  “Nice,” I said. “Just don’t put those in the yearbook. They’ll kill you.”

  Thomas muttered something and looked at the ground as he walked.

  We continued up the trail as the sky turned leaden. I wasn’t overly concerned about any rain, because Martin and I both had raincoats. Presumably everyone else had brought them, too, since they were on the list the school had sent out.