Hating Dave (a brief piece)

(This is a piece of Hating Dave, a novel where Sophie, the narrator, and her father, Dave, hike the 46 high peaks in the Adirondacks.  This excerpt is from their first hike.)

Gothics                 4736’

Armstrong            4400’

Upper Wolfjaw     4185’

14.3 miles

Mountains to date:  3

“It’s time to go,” says Dave.

“Have fun,” I mumble and roll over to face the wall.  Dave must be hiking today.  It’s not even light out.  Too early to be awake on a Saturday.  Too early to be awake on any day.

I slip back to sweet, forgetful sleep.

“We’re going,” says Dave.  His fingertips brush my arm.

I pull the arm away.

I open my eyes but don’t turn around.  The wall is enough to see.

“You’re going,” says Dave.

I roll over to look at him.  “Are you serious?” I ask.

“Get dressed,” he says, dumping a pile of clothes on my dresser.  “Wear these and pack a bag.  Your mother put food on the counter.”

He leaves the room and struts down the stairs.  From the bottom, he shouts, “If you’re not in the car in ten minutes, I’m coming back.”

Who peed in his cornflakes?

I blink for awhile, thinking about going back to sleep, but when Dave has a plan, Dave has a plan, and only major natural disasters change his mind.  I slide out of bed and onto the floor.  Even the vertebrae in my spine yawn as I stretch and put on the polypropylene clothes that Dave dumped on my dresser.  Remember: cotton kills.  Dave’s little mantra.

In the kitchen, I fill a fanny pack with two sandwiches, a nectarine, and two water bottles.  Then, I sleep-stumble outside, where Dave sits in the driver’s seat of the brand-new Subaru.  The morning sky is rosy and the air smells like sweet summer.  I don’t talk to him or wave; I just pull on the passenger door’s handle.

The clunk of the latch makes stomach acid rise to my throat.  I taste it as I take a deep breath.

Dave says, “Get in.”

I force my left leg forward and drop into the car.

“No more moping around.” Dave shifts into reverse.  “You’re hiking the 46.”

I close my eyes.  Dave talks on, something about the trail we’ll take, but I don’t respond.  I keep my eyes closed.  Dave assumes I’m asleep, stops talking, and drives faster, faster.  He knows better, but he still speeds.  I feel each curve stretch along my side, sharp like a knife’s blade.  It takes an hour and a half of zooming around curves to drive from our house in Vermont to the trailhead in New York.

I feel the car jerk to a stop.  I open my eyes; we’re in a parking lot.  Dave says that he’s so happy, so glad, that we got a space.

There are only four other cars here.

I put on my socks, boots, and fanny pack.

Dave puts on boots, gaiters, and a special moisture-wicking hat.  He repacks his fanny pack to fit his raincoat in with the EMT-level first-aid kit, bladder of water, layer of warmth, year’s supply of food, bug-net, and ditty bag  (Which has enough emergency gear to last us a week in case we get dead).

Where in the woods are we hiking to?  Canada?

Dave adjusts his collapsible hiking poles, then retightens them and clicks them together.  “Let’s go, Sophie.  Four miles of road before the trail.”  He takes off on his gazelle-like legs that I did not inherit and doesn’t wait for me.  I try to keep up, chugging along, swinging my arms.  Dave looks stupid carrying all that gear.

Next to a golf course, Dave stops.  I bump into him like one car hitting another.  This thought gives me goose bumps.  Dave puts his hands on my shoulders and spins me around.  “Look at that.”

The goose bumps disappear as I look at that.  It’s a massive mountain shaped like a once-perfect cone with the side scooped out.  There are huge cliffs, and one of them stands out, khaki against the darker hues of the rest of the mountain.  The khaki part looks like a maple leaf.

“It’s pretty,” I say.

“Giant Mountain,” says Dave.

“It’s the biggest?” I’ve only ever seen these mountains from home, a renovated schoolhouse on top of a hill, across Lake Champlain, in Vermont.

“That’s the name: Giant Mountain.”  He whispers reverently.

I squint at the mountain.  It’s nice and all, but how does it deserve whispering?

I start to walk on, but Dave holds out his arm, beckoning me to stand still and stare.  I sigh and look again.

The way the orange-ish rocks and the blue sky meet up is pretty.  And the trees look like a fuzzy carpet.  It’s nice-looking, but, really, the mountain just stands there.

Then, wind blows past, ruffling wisps loose from my ponytail, and words like ‘nice’ and ‘pretty’ feel too dull for this view.  It feels like a fjord as I stand there, leaning into the wind, pretending that I’m in The Sound of Music.  Just that first scene, when Maria is standing on top of those hills and there’s nothing in the way of the view.  Sometimes, I mute the TV and just look at the mountains in that part.  And even though Giant looks different – way more rugged and poky – it feels the same, and all I want is to stand here all day.