Voices in the High Country
Bob steers the truck in beside a knobby-tired high-clearance Jeep and cuts the engine.
“There’s chicken wire wrapped around the bottom of that thing,” I say.
He turns and peers over me, down toward the tires of the vehicle. “Pretty sure you only need that if you leave your car overnight. That’s when the porcupines come out and chew the tires and hoses.”
Dust settles as I step down onto a stony parking area bordering the shore of a small lake shadowed by a steep forest wall. I take a deep breath in and out and let my shoulders drop. We’ve just endured forty minutes of teeth-rattling bumps on fifteen kilometres of switchbacks to reach this trailhead. The air is lighter and cooler here than down below in the valley and redolent with aromas of evergreen trees and huckleberry bushes. The spiralling trill of a thrush floats across the dark water.
Bob slams his door shut and knocks on the window of the back seat, where our granddaughter is seated, her ears plugged with those little wireless speakers. “Come on, Bailey. Time for some fresh air.”
I’d managed to talk her into coming with us, but she isn’t keen on hiking. I’m hoping that getting her out into nature will do her some good. Bob and I meet at the tailgate. He pulls a backpack from under the tonneau cover and shoulders it while I belt a smaller pack around my waist. We’re attaching cans of pepper spray when Bailey finally comes around to the back of the old Dodge.
Her face flashes with alarm. “Is that for bears?”
“Just in case,” I say. “And you’d better take the earbuds out. But we’re more likely to be attacked by mosquitoes. Here, let me spray you.” I fish the bug spray from my pack and tell her to close her eyes. I spray around her bare neck under the ponytail, then her exposed arms and legs. I sigh again at her running shoes. She wouldn’t wear her mother’s hiking boots, appearance being more important than practicality. But at least she’s safe with us, I reassure myself, as I remember the horrible experience of Lucy and her 16-year-old sister—just Bailey’s age.
After our involvement with Lucy and the disclosure of our telepathy to Constable Singh, Bob and I decided it was a good time to go camping. Maybe if we weren’t around town, the officer would forget about us, just file us under “eccentric seniors.” But I was also worried about Bailey, who was dealing with her newfound telepathic abilities. Her father said that she’d had some rough emotional times after coming home from school, and I wanted to provide some support and guidance for her. So, we cleaned the trailer, checked that the fridge, stove, and air conditioner worked, loaded it with food and clothes, hitched it to the truck, and headed to the provincial park near our son’s home. After setting up the trailer in our campsite, we drove to the house.
I found Bailey in bed at noon, heaps of clothing, towels, and bowls scattered around the bedroom floor, the blankets pulled over her head.
“Is it that bad?” I stood in the doorway, unable to find a pathway into the room.
She moaned, sat up, and stroked her long hair away from her face.
I could feel her angst. “Too much drama and anxiety in your school?”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Well, yeah, but there are also so many stupid, selfish people who never think about anything but the latest TikTok fad. They’re so…” She shook her head, looking for the right word.
“Superficial?”
She nodded and hugged her stuffed monkey.
“Kind of common with teenagers,” I said, but didn’t mention that I might have described her that way not too long ago. She had always been a sensitive child but had become more so since developing telepathy. She had wanted, innocently and optimistically, to use her mental power to help her fellow classmates better understand each other and be more compassionate. “What happened?”
“It was just too much, too many of them. I tried to get them to realize what other kids were going through instead of just dissing them, but there were so many hissy fits, and then mean, judgy, gross thoughts.” She screwed her face up in disgust. “Have you ever heard of butt chugging?”
I grimaced as I caught her thought. “God, no, but I can imagine it now.” I shook my head, trying to dislodge the image from my mind.
“And some of the teachers’ minds were weird, too. Like a bad movie. I really didn’t want to know that they had sex and dreamed about hooking up.”
Nothing new there, I thought, but said, “Okay, let’s get you up. Time to do something healthy.”
It took over an hour, but I finally convinced her that getting out of the house and into nature, away from humans, would be good therapy.
So now we are bug-sprayed and loaded with water, trail mix, bear spray, toilet paper, and a small first aid kit. Our plan is to hike for about two hours up to the next alpine lake, which is fed by the glacier above. But just as we are about to move away from the truck, the whine of an engine and crunch of gravel signal another vehicle arriving. A dusty black Toyota 4-Runner pulls in beside our truck, its doors swing open on either side, and two women get out. One is slender, with blond hair in a ponytail hanging out the back of a pink cap. The other is darker, curvier, with black wavy hair, also dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and hiking boots. Probably mid-forties, they look fit, might even be trail joggers. I send my thoughts to Bob and Bailey: Let them go first. They’ll pass us anyway.
We don’t wait long. After only a minute, the duo rushes toward us, projecting a cloud of jittery tension. Whoa, do you get that? Which one is it coming from? Bob and Bailey both raise their eyebrows and shoulders.
The dark-haired one gives us a tight smile as she passes, but the blonde waves to Bailey, who raises her hand in greeting and then relays her thought: She was my grade five teacher, Mrs. Evinoff, and the other one is Ms. Dhillon, the music teacher.
We give them a few seconds head start. As we begin walking, I find myself wondering about the smog of agitation surrounding them. But by the time we reach the trailhead, they’re already out of sight and fade out of my mind.
We enter the forest to find a steep and uneven trail, tree roots snaking around granite boulders, every footstep requiring attention. But the air I suck in with the exertion of the climb is invigorating. Bob, his white Tilley hat like a beacon, leads the way with a slow, steady pace through a grove of massive cedars. Bailey follows, and I stay in the rear. An evergreen scent accompanies us along with the rhythmic pats of our footsteps and nearby chipmunk chirps. We cross gurgling streams with rushing, crystal waterfalls and fall into a quiet, meditative state, the peace and beauty of the high country permeating us.
After forty minutes or so, we emerge from the forest into a meadow of low vegetation and tumbled boulders that look like giant building blocks. We stop for water and a handful of trail mix, and as we chew and gaze at the mountain slopes and sapphire sky, Bailey starts. Look, she transmits, and points to two fat marmots splayed out on the rocks near us, their furry coats the same colour as the granite stone. They’re sunbathing! She grins with delight.
Bob and I exchange a look. Warmth fills my heart as I watch Bailey eagerly taking photos of the placid duo with their round little ears and shiny black eyes.
Our mood is light as we navigate through the sun-warmed granite stones and then back into a thinner alpine forest. The trail winds along the mountain slope, plunging into cool crevices shadowed with alpine fir and then breaking out into stunning views as we descend toward the lake. What a relief to escape from the cloud of human chatter, all those worries and routine thoughts that take up our lives and have no significance to the trees, the stones, and the steadfast mountains.
My head jerks up to a rustle in the bushes ahead of us. Scuffling and huffing.
Bob jolts to a halt and turns wide eyes to me. Bear?!
Bailey’s mouth drops open. My body freezes.
Bob yanks the canister of pepper spray from his belt as I stand and stare. Jan! Your bear spray!
Bailey. Get behind me! I fumble with the holster on my belt. My icy hands shake. All the news stories of bear maulings flash though my mind. What do we do if the spray doesn’t work? Run? Shout? Play dead? It’s different for black or grizzly bears—more likely a grizzly up here. Oh, God, I can’t even remember how to shoot this stuff!
The rustling and scuffling are closer, louder. And the huffing is accompanied by another low sound—moaning?
Bob, in the lead, braces himself, raises his hand holding the canister and points toward the approaching noise. Why is it always me in the lead? Whose stupid idea was this, anyway? Jan’s, that’s whose.
Really? Blaming me? Then my pounding pulse drowns out my thoughts.
Bailey crouches behind me, whimpering. Why did I come with them? I could be home playing Fortnite right now, safe in my bed.
All this in the two seconds we wait to confront a five-hundred-pound bear.
A flash of black hair through the tree trunks. A low bough shakes. Bob’s finger is on the trigger.
But it isn’t a bear that rounds the corner on the trail. My jaw drops. The black-haired woman—Ms. Dhillon, the music teacher—staggers toward us, moaning and holding her arm, her forehead and knees bloody. Her eyes are wild, red-rimmed. She looks as surprised to see us as we are to see her. Or is it fright?
Bob doesn’t drop his arm. He’s thinking a bear is behind her.
But it is quiet. For a moment, the woman says nothing. Then she croaks, “Oh my God, Stacey.” Her eyes dart from Bob’s to mine and then Bailey’s while she licks her lips. “Stacey tried to kill me,” she whimpers, then collapses on the ground with a thud.
Bailey, Bob, and I stare at each other for a split second, and then Bob rushes to the woman, bends down, and places two fingers on her neck. Call 911!
Bailey whips out her phone, looks at the screen, then holds it above her head and walks a few feet backward and forward.No service.
Bob shrugs off his pack, and I rummage through it, throwing out the snacks and bug spray before digging to the bottom to find the white plastic box wrapped in a towel: the emergency first aid kit. I take the towel—a tattered old terry cloth—and fold it into a square. As Bob gingerly lifts her head, I slide it under the mane of black hair.
The woman moans. Her eyelids flutter.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I open the first aid kit and look for antiseptic wipes.
Her lips move as she whispers, “Karma.”
I rip open the foil packet, unfold the moist towelette, and dab at the blood on her forehead. She winces. The cleaning reveals a purpling bump, but the wound looks superficial. I inspect her knees, where the blood is drying, already starting to form scabs on the scrapes. Her arm, the one she had been holding, sports a blooming bruise just above the elbow. Her eyes open.
“Where’s Stacey?” Bob asks her, sending me his thought. She could be dangerous, following her.
Karma inhales and frowns. “Back that way.” She flicks her eyes to the trail she emerged from. “She fell.” Her lips tremble and she croaks, “Over the edge.”
“Fell? How?”
“We were fighting. I don’t know. It just happened.”
I probe her mind. Indeed, there is a memory of a fierce fight, Stacey wielding a bone-dry tree limb, screaming at Karma, “I’m going to kill you, you bitch!”
“What were you fighting over?”
She doesn’t answer, but I get the gist of it from her mind: a man, Stacey’s husband.
I glance at Bob. What should we do?
I don’t know. But I think we need to find Stacey. She could be injured.
Or dead.
Either way, we can’t just leave her, can we?
No, I guess not. But what about Bailey?
We look up to find Bailey staring at us, her face crinkled in disgust. She’s heard it all. Oh my god. Even my elementary school teachers! Mrs. Evinoff trying to kill Ms. Dhillon over a man!
We decide that two of us will need to go find Stacey because she could be volatile and we may need to bring her back, and one of us will stay with Karma. And the safest place for Bailey would be with Karma, who is now grimacing as she tries to sit up. She may have betrayed Stacey with her husband, but she didn’t attempt murder.
We prop Karma up against a tree trunk, show Bailey how to shoot the bear spray, and leave her with the canister of spray, trail mix, and two bottles of water. I lay two hiking poles down beside her. Just in case you need them.
Her big eyes widen and blink. What for? Then she catches my thoughts, that the poles could be useful if she and Karma need to return to the trailhead on their own or to fend off…something. I try not to think of bears, cougars, and a crazed Stacey, but I can’t help it. She swallows and nods.
I follow Bob down the trail, his hand still clutching the canister of pepper spray. Our senses are on high alert, scanning for noises, movements, or thoughts that could signal Stacey’s presence. Or a bear, cougar, even a skunk, and I shudder. I wish I hadn’t talked Bailey into coming with us. This isn’t going to help her. All we’ve done is put her in danger.
I jump at a quivering stalk of fireweed, run into Bob as he jerks to a halt. Beside us, a blue grouse, flashing a red neck ringed with white feathers, flaps and hops away. We both shake our heads and carry on.
After a few minutes, the trail comes out on a rocky promontory overlooking the glacier lake, sitting like a glistening blue mirror below us. This is where they had their fight. I saw it in Karma’s mind.
We gingerly approach the edge of the cliff and peer over it. A steep slope of scree, scattered with boulders, tufts of grass, and dotted with stunted trees, falls towards the lake. I don’t see a body. Maybe she took off.
Bob looks back over his shoulder. Maybe.
But then a flash of pink beside a shrubby spruce catches my eye. Stacey’s hat, blonde ponytail protruding from it.
Bob steps down first, leaving me one of his poles, finding a secure foothold between stones, then stepping sideways, skidding, and holding onto shrubby trees to reach her. I watch from the top—no point in both of us going down, risking an injury, if she’s already dead. As he reaches the spot and bends down, I hold my breath. Then he waves and transmits to me, She’s alive and conscious!
I creep down the hill, zigzagging, leaning heavily on the pole. By the time I get to them, Bob’s pack is beside him and he has the first aid kit out. Stacey is lying in a depression on the downhill side of the squat spruce tree. Her face is scratched and bloody, but she is conscious, her face scrunched up in pain.
Bob passes the first aid kit to me. She might have broken bones. I don’t think we can move her.
Get that fleece out of the pack. We need to keep her warm. And check for cell service.
He hands me the fleece jacket, musty from lying in the pack for months, and I lay it on Stacey’s upper body. “Stacey, can you hear me?”
She winces and nods.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere…mostly my back and chest,” she whispers, “when I breathe or move.”
“Stay still. You’re going to be okay. I’m Jan, and this is Bob. We’ll stay with you until we can get you out of here.” I glance up at Bob, who drops his hand holding the phone and shakes his head.
What else can we do?
Keep her talking…and, yes, warm. He snatches his Tilley, drops it, and pulls his shirt over his head. His white skin and hairy belly glow in the sunlight. He hands me the shirt, a navy blue, heavy cotton, extra-large size.
I gently lay it across her hips and upper legs, wondering what to say to keep her talking. “Stacey, do you remember how you got here? We saw you and Karma down at the trailhead, do you remember?
She frowns and murmurs, “I don’t know.”
I probe her mind, looking for answers. It is hazy, with a jumble of images flashing around. “Do you remember what happened on the trail?”
Her eyes widen and her jaw clenches, but she shakes her head as though trying to flick the thought away. Then, through her teeth, she hisses, “That bitch.”
She closes her eyes, trying to hide the truth, but of course, I look in her mind and see what she is remembering:
Karma turning, teary-eyed, to her friend. “Stace, I need to tell you something.” Her eyes roll up, as though searching for strength or the right words.
Stacey moves closer to her friend. “What is it? You can tell me.”
Karma’s eyes squeeze shut and she whispers, “Cam and I,” a pause while she swallows and wrings her hands, “have been… have fallen in love.”
Nothing for three seconds as Karma looks directly at Stacey, who doesn’t reply. Then she shakes her head. “You’re not serious. What is this? Some sort of joke?”
Karma continues, crying now. “I’m so sorry, but we couldn’t help it.”
“You are serious. You…and Cam?”
“Oh, come on, Stace. Your relationship was already over, and it can’t be a surprise that Cam looked elsewhere.” She swipes her hand under her nose and lifts her head. “We want to be together.”
Stacey hisses, “Over! Did he tell you that? And you believed him? Just like you believe he wants to be with you?”
Karma flicks her head, her wild black curls flipping over her shoulder. “Of course I believe him.” She glares at Stacey from under her lovely, dark eyebrows. “He loves me!”
“You fucking bitch,” Stacey screams, “how could you do that to me after all these years? How could you keep sitting beside me in staff meetings, going for coffee, talking about our kids—yes, mine and Cam’s—all while fucking their father? Love! It’s just fucking, and you know it. I always knew you were a horny cat in heat. Probably flounced into his room after school with your tits falling out of your blouse. You whore. I’m going to kill you!” She spots a dry fallen branch, swoops it up with two hands and runs at Karma, clubbing her first on the arm and then on the head. Karma staggers, falls to her knees, and then launches herself toward Stacey. She grabs the branch and they struggle over it. Stacey gets a whack on the head, and everything goes black.
Bob messages me. Seems to corroborate what Karma said.
Yes. Then I lift my head. Do you hear that? It’s Bailey. She’s asking what’s happening. I forgot how far she can transmit.
Bob and I both muster all our telepathic power to tell Bailey that Stacey is alive, but we can’t move her. Then, loud and clear, we hear her reply. We’ll come to you, then.
Is Karma able to walk?
Oh, yeah, and she’s got something she needs to say.
As we wait, Bob scans the valley and the trail heading up to the glacier. He places his hand over his brow like a visor and squints. I think I see movement! He points to a spot on the other side of the lake in the valley.
Oh my god. It’s not a grizzly, is it? I rise from my squat with a painful creak in my knees.
Not unless they wear orange shirts. And they’re coming this way. Probably the ones with the Jeep.
My chest lifts, and I turn back to Stacey. “Hang on. More hikers are on the way. We’ll get help.”
The group of hikers snakes in and out of the trees. As they come closer, Bob raises his arms and waves, then cups his mouth and shouts out to them. “Hey, over here! Emergency!”
The group—three or four hikers I see now—halts and then waves back.
Squatting again beside Stacey in the bushes, I say, “Won’t be long now.” I offer her the water bottle.
A couple of minutes later, I hear a message from Bailey. We’re up here. I look up to the top of the slope. There she is, standing slightly behind Karma, who is staring down with an ashen face.
“We have a sat phone,” a male voice calls out from the group of hikers. “Should we call Search and Rescue?”
“Yes! Injured hiker here,” Bob bellows.
From the top of the slope, I hear Bailey’s voice. “Oh, no you don’t.”
I scan the ridge but can’t see her or Karma. My heart races. What’s going on?
Bob starts clambering up the slope, but then stops when Bailey appears again, holding tightly onto Karma’s arm.
She tried to run away when she heard that Stacey was alive. And now she’s going to tell you why.
Just then, the four hikers—two men and two women—lope up the trail, stopping when they see Bailey and Karma at the top.
Karma cries out in an anguished voice, “I did it. I pushed her over the edge. I wanted her to die.” Her words echo across the valley.
It isn’t long before the helicopter comes and Stacey is lifted in a stretcher while the rest of us escort Karma down to the parking lot where the ambulance and police await. Finally, we get in the truck and bump back down to the campsite to have showers. Afterwards, we arrange our camp chairs around the firepit, and I get out the hot dogs and buns. Bob chops kindling, starts the fire, and sits down with a sigh and a beer.
As Bailey rotates her wiener on the fork, I plunk down and take a big gulp of wine. “Okay, I know how you must have discovered the truth from Karma’s mind, but how did you keep her from running away? And how did you get her to confess?”
She continues to twirl the fork and study the fire. “Remember in Kamakura, when Grandpa made the samurai guy drop his sword? I think it was like that. I just used my mind to make her stop and turn around and then tell everyone what she did.”
Even though the fire is blazing, a chill runs through me. Bob, too. What could a 16-year-old do with that kind of telepathic power? We both stare at Bailey, her profile glowing in the flickering firelight.
She doesn’t look at us but transmits, What?