Finally I rose, pulled on some clothes, and found the warm wool socks that Byrd had given me two Christmases before. I tied the laces on my hiking boots for the first time in a year and reached for my knapsack, hanging on a hook near the front door. I hesitated and put the knapsack back—a moment that would haunt me—because I had no further need of the Swiss Army knife, or food rations, or water, or blankets, and didn’t want the things to go to waste.At the Desert Station, I waited to take what I believed would be my final tram trip up the mountain and, leaning against the wall, took a moment to survey the crowd. The three hikers I became lost with that autumn day were strangers to me, but I’d noticed each, for different reasons, before our fates became entangled. Nola. Vonn. Bridget.Nola, with her soulful blue eyes and neat silver hair, strode by in her oxblood poncho and I remember thinking that a person would be able to see that shiny red poncho from space. She was wearing good hiking shoes and shouldering a black knapsack, a tattered field guide in her slender hands.
