The Girls of No Return Read Free Page B

foreheads. And then, in one fluid motion, I slid into the car and slammed the door shut.

 

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    HINDMAN BUTTS UP AGAINST THE SOUTHEAST END OF THE Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area, a two-million-acre maze of mountains, lakes, rivers, and impassable canyons, with the occasional forest ranger thrown in to make the place seem manageable, which of course it’s not. The Frank, as some call it, or River of No Return, as others do, is at once as mystical and unpredictable as its name implies. Winding through it all is the Salmon River, with its various forks, tributaries, Class Five rapids, and a penchant for sucking in the occasional rafter and sometimes, but only sometimes, spitting him back. You may be going to the Church, but you may never come out.
    This is what Margaret told me as we wound our way northwest into the mountains, Bee jolting mercilessly around potholes and rocks on the dirt road that seemed to get narrower the farther we drove. Her voice had lost all traces of new-age bullshit the moment we turned from Hindman’s main street onto the wilderness access road. Now, she seemed to be speaking with a tour train conductor’s excited chatter. I couldn’t tell whether I should write her off as a fraud or applaud her for being such a skilled chameleon.
    â€œOver five hundred and twenty-eight different species of wildflowers, two hundred fifty types of wildlife, and more black bears per square mile than the San Diego Zoo,” she said in her low voice, glancing over at me. “Harmless, of course,” she added, “unless you piss them off. That’s one of our rules up at Alice Marshall: Don’t Piss Off the Bears.” She laughed. “Problem is, with bears as with people, you don’t always know what’s going to get under their skin.”
    â€œI’ll keep that in mind,” I said, looking out the window.
    â€œHere’s my policy.” Margaret continued as though she hadn’t heard me. “Treat Them Like Trees. Only crazy people hug trees.”
    â€œSo you’re not just a crunchy granola,” I said without thinking. My face turned red. I wondered if it was possible to get kicked out of school before you even got there.
    Margaret glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve found,” she said slowly, “that parents need to hear one thing, and students need to hear another. Some books have many covers, Lida. But don’t get me wrong,” she added, swerving suddenly to avoid a chipmunk. “I’ve got more than enough hippy-dippy mantras and affirmations to go around. And they work.” She grinned at the windshield, as if she’d just told a private joke.
    â€œGreat,” I said.
    We drove in silence for a while, Margaret murmuring to Bee and patting the dashboard every time we lurched over a bad pothole, me staring out the window at the increasingly dense vegetation, trees so tall and rangy that they almost blocked out the sun. I was trying not to think, and was finding it a strangely easy thing to do. Maybe the trend would continue. A year of not thinking. I could handle that.
    Bee bounced past a small parking area by a trailhead with an outhouse next to it. No cars. There was a large mud-brown sign posted just past it on the road — courtesy, obviously, of the National Forest Service. D ESIGNATED W ILDERESS A REA , it read. N O M OTORIZED V EHICLES B EYOND T HIS P OINT . The road beyond the sign had devolved until it was little more than two ruts, overgrown with grass and a fine coating of pine needles. I looked at Margaret, who kept driving.
    â€œUm,” I said. It occurred to me that she might actually consider the car to be a trusty old companion, like a dog or a horse. An extension of her legs. Certainly not something as inhuman as a motorized vehicle. I cleared my throat. “Um,” I said again. “Shouldn’t we park or something?”
    â€œOh, right,”