“I do,” Todd said.

“Me too,” Tracy added.

“Great! Then let’s get you set up with your permit and bear canisters.” Baxter smiled. “I’m happy for you guys. There’s so much out here that most people never get to see. But you seem up for doing something different.”

“We are,” Tracy said.

“Honestly, as unofficial as this map looks, it’s probably pretty accurate. Some of those old-timers knew every inch of these mountains. Who knows?” The ranger laughed. “A few of them may even still be out there.”

“I’ve heard about some of them, actually,” Tracy said. “Guys my grandfather knew, who came in from the eastern side.”

“Well, be careful out there,” the ranger said. “These mountains are tougher than people think. We have to send out rescue teams every year. So watch yourselves, all right?”

They promised to watch themselves, and the ranger handed over their pass. Then he gave them four bear canisters—cylindrical, drum-shaped containers of black plastic that would hold all their food and toiletries. They returned to the car, and Tracy swung out onto the road, back in the direction they’d come from. They were all quiet for a few moments, watching the same landscape they’d just passed through nearly an hour before.

Oscar broke the silence. “Did you say your grandfather knew people who lived in the mountains?”

“Yeah, he did,” Tracy answered. “People who snuck out of Manzanar.”

“The internment camp? Really?”

“Yeah. Mostly they just left for a day or two to go fishing. They’d crawl out under the barbed-wire fence at night and hike up to the rivers at the foot of the mountains, then sneak back in the next night. My grandfather went with them a couple of times. The more adventurous ones would travel farther up, to the lakes, and stay out for three or four nights. Finally the guards wised up, though, and people would get beaten if they were caught. So a bunch of my grandfather’s friends just up and left one night and never came back. Mostly men but a couple of women too. For all I know, they’re still out there.”

“That kind of sounds like the Maroons, the escaped slaves in Jamaica,” said Gwen. “They built their own new society in the mountains.”

“Exactly. People fleeing bad situations, and starting over, fending for themselves in the wild.” Tracy paused for a moment. “My grandfather was always jealous that they didn’t take him with them. But he had a family—my mom was five years old and my uncle was just a baby—so maybe that’s why they left him behind. After the war, though, he’d go hiking up here; I think he always hoped he would find them.”

“Did they ever come down?” Oscar asked.

Tracy shook her head. “I don’t know. Not that my grandfather heard . . . I like to think they’re still up here, you know? I’d love to do what they did. Chuck everything and live in the mountains.”

There Tracy went again, off on a tangent. But it was okay, Todd thought—they were back on course. They continued on the road that ran beside the river, winding back up out of the canyon. The sky was noticeably hazy now to the east from the smoke of the fire, and Todd was glad they were driving away from it.

After half an hour they turned right on the small spur road the ranger had pointed out. They passed a sign that informed them that they were leaving the park. Twenty miles farther on they found a jeep road. It wasn’t marked, but there was a big rock formation directly across from it, with a half-circle of big Jeffrey Pines framing the entrance. The turnoff itself was barely visible, overgrown with weeds between the faint tire grooves, and they drove past it and looked at it three or four times before deciding it was in fact the right place. Once they turned, there was a quick, steep climb, and then a bend behind some trees, and just like that they were out of sight from the road. They were truly in the backcountry now, apart from civilization. The road bumped left, right, winding through trees and then reaching a clearing that yielded a glimpse of the peaks to the east. It was the single worst road Todd had ever been on. The potholes seemed to have potholes, and big rocks jutted out, like living creatures poised to rise up and tear through the bottom of the car. Tracy drove a bit too fast for his comfort, negotiating the truck around the rocks and in and out of the potholes, jostling and jolting her passengers.

“No wonder no one comes back here,” Gwen said.

They’d all rolled up their windows to block out the dust, and held on to parts of the interior—dashboard, headrest, handle—to keep from bouncing all over the car.

“Yeah, wow,” Tracy said. “This isn’t fun.” And yet everything about her relaxed posture, the ease of her hands on the wheel, suggested that it was fun, that she was enjoying this bad road, this test of her nerve and skill. You better know what you’re doing, Todd thought. You better not be getting us into something we can’t handle.

After twenty minutes they reached a turnoff to the left.

“That must be the road the ranger mentioned,” Todd remarked.

“Right,” Tracy said. “It looks even worse than this one.”

Just past the junction a small log had fallen over the road, and the two men got out to move it aside.

“I hope we make it,” said Oscar when they were back in their seats. “And I hope the car’s okay. It would suck to be stuck out here, especially if other people don’t come back here much.”

“We’ll make it,” Tracy assured him, and then they were quiet, feeling every bump and jolt as they headed steeply downhill again, trying not to get carsick, maybe hoping their collective fears would keep the car safe until they made it to the end of the road.

Which they did, finally—one last dip and bend and they were there. A break in the trees, a small flat area between the walls of a narrow canyon. There was a clearing and, to their delight, an obvious fire pit. When Tracy cut the ignition, they all just sat for a moment.

“That was something,” Todd said.

“How long did it take us?” Gwen asked, sounding queasy. Todd was on the verge of getting sick himself.

Oscar looked at his watch. “About thirty-five minutes from the turnoff.”

“And how far did we actually go?”

Tracy looked at the odometer. “A little over eight miles, just like the ranger said.”

“Well, at least we know we’re in the right place.”

Then Todd became conscious of another sound, running water—steady and continual, alive. “Do you guys hear that?”

“A river,” Gwen said.

“Sounds like a small one, more like a creek,” he said. “But still. What a perfect spot to camp.”

Todd jumped out of the car and walked through the trees, and after forty feet or so, there it was—a creek running gently through the floor of the canyon, flowing around rocks and under fallen logs. It caught little bits of sun and reflected it back, sharp and bright like shiny jewels. The water was a beautiful blue-green color; it appeared as pure as if it flowed from the center of the earth. He looked up and saw a row of pine trees, their branches all on one side, extending toward him as if holding out their arms in welcome. He felt joy rising in his chest, and his heart and breathing slowed, as if his body was matching the rhythm of the creek. Now he missed his kids terribly and wished they were here—scrambling down to the water’s edge to pick up a shiny rock, or standing on the bank with fishing poles. They needed to do this, he thought, instead of play dates and video games. He’d bring them back up later on this summer.

He returned to find the others unloading the car—they’d taken out the cooler, the firewood, a couple bags of food, the camp chairs that Tracy had brought. Tracy suggested that they pitch their tents upwind from the campfire, and so she drove with their gear over the rough rocky ground and the others followed on foot. About thirty feet beyond the fire pit they came upon the bottom of a huge fallen tree, its root system unearthed and perpendicular to the ground, its intertwined roots flat but intricate, like a Jackson Pollack painting. Behind the tree, sheltered from wind, was the perfect spot. Todd unloaded his pack and set it on the ground. Then, the happy business of making camp—pitching their two tents about ten feet apart, blowing up their sleeping pads and placing them and their sleeping bags inside, leaving their packs in the tent vestibules.