How Far the Mountain. Robert K. Swisher Jr.

a little stubborn, but easy to handle, not mean,” Gary said.

      “I’ll pick them up in a few days,” Bill said.

      “That’s okay, I’ll bring them over tomorrow,” replied Gary. “I have to go into town and get some truck parts.”

      Bill opened the door to the truck, Gypsy jumped in. “Sure you don’t want to sell that dog?” Gary asked.

      Bill shook his head as he shut the door.

      “I’m glad you’re going back,” Gary said, reaching into the truck and putting his hand on Bill’s shoulder.

      “Thanks,” Bill said.

      “You take care of this worthless old cowboy,” Gary said to Gypsy.

      Gypsy laid her ears back and growled at Gary. “That’s a damn good dog,” Gary said. “A damn good dog.”

      After Bill got home, he sat out on the back porch. Gypsy chased away the robins and went to lie down by the tree. Bill glared at the distant mountains. “I hate you,” he said. “I hate you.”

      The Woman Pocahontas

      Sheila Abrams was sitting cross-legged and barefoot in the middle of her living room floor. She had on a pair of red cotton short pants and a loose fitting T-shirt that read, “I’d rather have a dog than a man.” The deep weave of the peach-colored shag carpet was like cool grass caressing her toes. The radio was turned to a classical station. Standing, she turned off the radio and examined the array of camping gear arranged neatly on the floor. Erected in the corner was a blue nylon, lightweight, two-person tent. She had taken it down and put it up over a dozen times so it was now no harder to erect than making the bed. In the tent was a roll-up sleeping mat and a goose-down sleeping bag. After sleeping on it the night before, she was mildly surprised when her back did not hurt in the morning. Next to the tent was an aluminum framed pack, also blue, with two large compartments, four smaller ones, and elastic cords with hooks on the end to attach her tent and sleeping bag. Placed around the pack, like a display in an outdoor shop, were: a folding aluminum mess kit complete with knife, spoon, and fork; a canteen; a flashlight with extra batteries; a small portable propane stove with two gas cylinders; a candle powered lamp with five spare candles for her tent; twenty packs of waterproof matches; three disposable lighters; a plastic jar of biodegradable soap which she could also use to brush her teeth; a compass; four pairs of socks; two small forest green towels; a toothbrush; a brush and comb; a bottle of bug repellent; a small medicine kit; and, three large plastic bags to haul out her garbage.

      Several yards from the pack were: two pairs of brown hiking shorts with double pleats; a long pair of pants, also brown; two loose fitting short sleeved shirts; a sweater; an orange stocking cap in case a poacher would mistake her for a deer; a light weight coat; two jogging bras; three pairs of cotton underwear; and, a yellow rain suit with a hood. Sheila ran her hands through her hair and inspected the gear one more time with a discerning eye. “I don’t know how the Indians made it without all this stuff,” she said jokingly to herself.

      Sitting on the sofa she put on two pairs of blue cotton socks, which reached to her knees before she rolled them down. She then put on a pair of tan hiking boots that she bought after being told by the clerk they did not need to be broken in. She made sure she did not lace the boots too tightly. After she bought the boots, she had listened like a young child to his first grade teacher about how she should wear two pairs of socks and to make sure she dried her socks every evening. It was also better to sleep in her sleeping bag at night with no clothes on—an idea she did not like, as she could picture herself running stark naked from a bear, only to be saved by two fishermen who would not give her any clothes and would laugh at her ‘pinch-an inch.’

      She went to the kitchen, wiggling her toes in the new hiking boots as if testing the word of the salesman. She examined the packets of dried food on the kitchen table as intensely as if she were an infantry soldier heading into battle. There were packets of noodles with garlic butter, rice and chicken, beef stew, pudding, dried apples, dried apricots, raisins, chicken bouillon cubes, and a box of assorted natural teas. Satisfied she had enough food, she went back to the living room and removed the boots and socks, checking the red nail polish on her toes. Putting on a pair of reading glasses she picked up the topography map of the mountain she had decided to hike. She had not really been the one to make the decision, once again, it had been the store clerk. “It’s not a difficult hike,” he told her. “A good one for you to do since you have never been camping before. You wouldn’t want to take on a tough mountain and destroy any chances of ever going hiking again.”

      She thought about the young face of the clerk, a face that looked as though he had hiked every inch of the Rocky Mountains, a trusting, tanned, outdoor face. For a moment she wondered if the vivid blue eyes had duped her, but she drove the momentary fear from her mind. “I can do it,” she said. “I have to do it.”

      She studied the map with its elevation lines and trail markings, at the small blue meandering lines of an unnamed stream. She could picture the tall pine trees and the stars. She could see herself sitting by the fire all alone with the world. Taking off her glasses she lay down on the sofa and a deep sadness rolled over her like a cold ocean wave. “I miss you so at times,” she said as if she was talking to a dream. “It’s like I’m alive but not alive. I’ve lived but I haven’t lived. I never wanted to prove I was strong. You were the one who was supposed to be strong.”

      Shutting her eyes she drove the thoughts from her mind, feeling empty with their going, but glad they were gone. “I wonder if I’m truly alive?” she wondered. “If I’m alive and this is the real world. Life seems so unreal most of the time.”

      The doorbell interrupted her questions. She peered out the peephole before she opened the door. Sylvia swept past her like a vivacious tornado, long red hair bouncing, bright red lipstick, and a tight dress—the odor of the latest perfume in her wake. Sheila had a momentary vision of men barking and snarling at each other as they followed Sylvia’s scent trail. Eyeing the camping gear Sylvia shook her head in bewilderment. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “You’re going to go up to the mountains. Lord, all you are going to do is break your nails and make your hair dry out. Whatever possessed you? Why don’t you take flying lessons or something sane? You’ve never been camping in your life.”

      “Why don’t you come with me?” Sheila asked.

      “The only way I’ll go camping is in a suite in Vegas,” Sylvia smiled. “I don’t want to let the hair grow on my legs and smell like a dog. All the nature I need I can watch on educational TV. Pocahontas you’re not,” Sylvia said, feigning a mocking tone.

      “Have you ever been alone?” Sheila asked. “Really alone. I don’t mean lonely. I mean alone.”

      “I don’t think about it,” Sylvia said in a not so convincing tone.

      “I’ve been alone, but it’s not like being alone,” Sheila continued. I’ve been alone in a noisy bubble. I want to go to the mountains and truly be alone for once in my life. I want to sit and look at the stars and the trees and the rocks and be alone and think—think about what my mind wants to think about and not what the world wants.”

      “You might break,” Sylvia said seriously. “You might not like what you find.”

      Sheila could not stop the tear that rolled down her left cheek as if it had its own mind and mission. “I’ve really needed you,” she said quietly. “You’ve been such help.”

      Sylvia handed a hanky to Sheila not commenting on the tear. “I don’t think I could be alone even if I wanted to,” she said. “I’ve been around people so long I really don’t know who or what I am. I think I become what people want me to be. Some men want a slut, some a mother, some a toy. I’ve acted out all of them. I’m a secretary, a waitress, a cook, a mother, but what am I? I haven’t known who I am for so long it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

      Shrugging her shoulders, Sylvia added. “Maybe you are Pocahontas,”