Indian spirit. Was there really such a thing up there? He supposed there was, if Tuuli said so. And if there was, she'd probably have felt it; maybe communed with it. The old-time Lapps, it seemed to him, had missed a bet in having had only male shamans. He wondered if he could ever sense a spirit, then remembered the visitor he'd felt in front of Molly Cadigan's that day, and wondered if it qualified.
While they'd talked, they'd left the town behind, for what a sign told them was the Coconino National Forest. For some miles its pines alternately crowded the highway and stood back behind meadows of tall grass that formed vistas, provided scope. Here and there was private land, subdivided and built upon, but mostly it was forest. There was no hint of cloud, but autumn haze softened every view. Then the highway climbed a long tapering skirt of the mountain, to top out on a higher level of the plateau. Here for a few miles the land was an old lava flow, its forest thin and scrubby, its black and rugged bedrock showing often through short bunchgrass.
From this, the highway emerged into a long meadow that gave them another vista. Martti pulled off at a tiny roadside chapel, a rustic, cross-topped A-frame. Here there was soil again, and the grass stood tall, cured pale yellow by late summer's freezing nights.
Tuuli was out of the van ahead of him, beaming at what she saw. They'd driven half around the mountain, and looked southward now at its north side. A band of yellow aspen clothed its lower slopes, and nearer, bordering the meadow, tall stands of it glowed red-gold in the late sun. Above the aspen zone was a forest of dark spruce, and above timberline a thin covering of snow bequeathed by an early October storm. Tuuli's hand found Martti's, and she stood close, leaning against his arm, her head against his shoulder.
It seemed to him he should say something, then she said it for him: "It's beautiful."
"Yeah," he said, "it sure is." They stood a minute longer, then got back in the van and drove on. They'd traveled little in their year of marriage. Actually they'd been married on a trip, but it hadn't been a vacation in the usual sense. After he'd solved the case of the twice-killed astronomer, Joe had given him administrative leave and sent him out of town to avoid the cameras. The case itself hadn't drawn nearly the attention the Christman case had, but Martti had drawn a lot. In that earlier instance, the detective had become the focus of attention. In the Christman case, the case itself, with its sensational elements, had become the focus, with the media only secondarily interested in the detective.
At any rate, it was their first vacation trip since their honeymoon, with the Grand Canyon, Tahoe, and Yosemite the principal points they planned to visit.
After leaving the meadow, they passed between two cinder cones and dropped back to a lower level, perhaps 7,000 feet, driving for a time across a broad plain sparsely grown with juniper; a rather bleak plain, scarred for a short distance by some abandoned effort at development. Some miles farther, the scrub began to change. Pinyon pines became prominent, looking like some needle-bearing orchard in drastic need of tending. Then ponderosa pines again, their trunks straight, their bark rusty yellow. Soon afterward, the van entered Grand Canyon National Park, following the highway to Grand Canyon Village.
Because it was late, they went to the Visitors' Center first, before it might close, to register for their wilderness hike. While Tuuli held their place in line, Martti browsed brochures and maps, buying a plastic topographic map from a dispenser. After a few minutes, they met with the ranger on duty.
"Where do you plan on hiking?" the man asked.
It was Tuuli who answered. It had been her choice, based on discussion with the Diaconos. "The Barney Trail."
The ranger smiled slightly. "Have you ever been on the Barney Trail?"
"No, but I've hiked with people who have. I hiked with them to Sipapu and other places. They recommended it to me."
The official face turned condescending. "I'm familiar with the trail to Sipapu. It is not the Barney Trail."
Martti interrupted. "Did anyone say it was?"
The ranger's eyebrows registered surprise at the response.
"We didn't come in here to listen to sarcasm," Martti went on. Though he spoke quietly, he drew the attention of half the room. "We came in to register and get advice. If you want to advise against it, good enough, but mind your manners. And if you refuse us, you better be ready to justify it in a hearing, because I guarantee there'll be one."
Martti Seppanen had a lot of presence when he chose to. The ranger was blushing now, and Martti was starting to. This was the sort of thing that once would have made Tuuli furious with him. She hated scenes. And ironically, he rarely created one, except in reaction to what he took as a slight to her.
The ranger rallied. "No offense intended, sir. I only want to impress you both that the Barney Trail is dangerous. There are places where it may slide beneath your feet, for example. But the most serious risk is getting lost. Old Man Barney roughed out that trail a hundred and twelve years ago, carved it out just enough to lead burros over it, loaded with packs of ore. He last used it in 1907, before the canyon became a national park." The ranger's color was back to normal now. So was Martti's. "Since then it's washed out or slid out in numerous places, and it's entirely unmaintained. Today it's used about once a week. You can easily stray off of it onto some game trail. More than a few people have gotten lost hiking old prospector trails in the Park, an experience more than just frightening. Some have died. There's usually no water till you get to the bottom, to the river. And the hike back out involves climbing 5,000 feet—about a mile—in places up very steep slopes.
"Also we don't go in looking for people simply because they fail to check back in. Most people don't take the trouble to. So someone has to report them missing. Perhaps the sheriff's department, when their car is reported abandoned."
His eyebrows stood high, questioning. Tuuli smiled at him. "Thank you, Mr. Kensington." She'd read his name badge. "My husband and I both grew up in the backwoods, he in northern Michigan, I in Finnish Lapland. I've hiked a great deal this year, and he's a Choi Li Fut black belt who trains regularly, so we're reasonably fit. I believe that with a map to orient on, we'll be all right."
Martti wrote their names and address on the register. She hadn't gotten mad at him, and for the manyeth time, he reminded himself of how much she'd changed since their visit to the Merlins. And even more since her long stay with the Diaconos. He still hadn't fully adjusted.
"Will you be camping?" the ranger asked. "Or do you plan to stay in the village tonight?"
"In the village, at the Harvey House," she said.
"Well then, have a good stay and enjoy your hike. I'm sure that experienced people like yourselves won't do anything reckless."
As they walked to their car, they agreed to go find the trailhead while it was still daylight. That would allow them an early start in the morning. They drove slowly along the narrow blacktopped road, past landmarks the Diaconos had told Tuuli about, until she said, "There!" Martti slowed, his eyes following her pointing finger, then pulled off onto the shoulder. "That tree with three small blazes, one above the other," she told him. "There should be a footpath there, maybe hard to see. The trailhead should be only about a hundred yards in. It's marked by a small sign."
They found the path, and then by the canyon's rim, the sign—a printed, legal-sized sheet, laminated and framed. Martti read it aloud:
!!WARNING! USE THIS TRAIL AT YOUR OWN RISK!!
DO NOT HIKE IT WITHOUT FIRST REGISTERING AT THE NATIONAL PARK VISITORS' CENTER IN GRAND CANYON VILLAGE.
* * *
THE BARNEY TRAIL IS AN HISTORIC PROSPECTOR TRAIL. IT IS NOT MAINTAINED OR PATROLLED, AND IS DANGEROUS TO HIKE. IN PLACES IT DISAPPEARS; ONE CAN EASILY GET LOST. IN PLACES IT IS TREACHEROUS; ONE CAN EASILY HAVE A DANGEROUS OR FATAL FALL. THE TRAIL IS STEEP; ONE CAN EASILY BECOME EXHAUSTED AND COLLAPSE. THERE IS NO WATER TO BE HAD ABOVE THE RIVER; ONE CAN EASILY BECOME DEHYDRATED AND DIE, ESPECIALLY IN SUMMER, WHEN AIR TEMPERATURES IN THE CANYON COMMONLY EXCEED 100° (38° C).