A Change in Altitude by Anita Shreve

that a stray lion decided to attack. The Africans didn’t carry guns, but they had very noticeable pangas at the ready. Earlier, Margaret had caught a glimpse of Willem’s handgun. None of it was reassuring.
    Margaret started out with a sense of fear mixed with exhilaration. As for the exhilaration, they were climbing Mount Kenya. This was as daring an adventure as she had ever had. She was on her way and would complete the climb, and it would be a story to tell when she came down. The fear wasn’t as clear-cut. Not entirely a physical sensation, though there was some of that, it was more a fear of the unknown. She wasn’t certain what lay ahead of them, nor did she know how much of the climb she could really endure. She’d had so little training or experience.
    She was afraid, too, of the dynamics of the six of them. No one, except Patrick, had left the dinner table in good spirits the night before, and some of the group were hungover when they’d gathered at breakfast. Neither Willem nor Arthur ate anything, even though Willem kept exhorting the others (and himself) to do so. Diana, as she often did, seemed to want to
get going
.
    They began walking up a hill through low forest. A wind came up, and Margaret’s nose ran. In front of her, she could see hoods being raised, gloves coming out of pockets. Already she was adjusting her focus to a small universe that included her feet and the ground right in front of her. She realized almost immediately that she wasn’t noticing the scenery around her, and that all her effort came down to the single task of putting one foot in front of the other. Breathing was taxed.
    The others were far ahead of her. From time to time, Patrick would drop back to see if Margaret was all right, but he couldn’t help his own pace. Margaret grew embarrassed at her lack of speed, but attempts to catch up left her winded. She thought seriously of aborting. She hadn’t gone so far as to not be able to get back on her own, but she knew that Patrick would feel that he had to go with her, despite her protests. She didn’t want him to miss out. There was nothing to do but keep going.
    Low cloud had descended. Margaret had been for walks in the snow in New England on gray days, the bare limbs of the winter trees outlined against the colorless background, and she had felt a kinship with the weather that seemed to drain the life out of her. Surrounded by the bleak landscape, she felt a similar kind of dread on the lower slopes of Mount Kenya. Even the parade of bright parkas ahead of her failed to lift what was rapidly beginning to be a mild depression. She began to yearn for the sun.
    She was staring at her feet when she noticed an absence of sound. As she glanced up, she saw that the line had stopped. Willem had put up his right hand, mimicking the guide in front of Diana. In any language, Willem’s sign meant
halt.
    A buffalo had revealed itself around a corner. Margaret could see the distinctive curving horns, the massive brown-black body, and the horizontal swagger of the head. She couldn’t make out the animal’s eyes, but its broad nose was pointed in their direction. Early in her stay, Margaret had been told that the buffalo was the most dangerous animal in Kenya, particularly if a trekker happened to bisect the distance between a female and her calf. The buffalo in front of them was enormous.
    Margaret noted that the guide had his panga out. Willem held his handgun so that it pointed straight down. Would bullets penetrate that thick hide? Margaret watched as the line in front of her took a single slow step backward. So as not to rustle any leaves or debris, their steps were shallow and cautious. The buffalo might charge at any moment. The guide evidently felt that their best chance was to back away. Even people in cars had been charged, toppled, and killed.
    It seemed that none of them was breathing. Slowly, the others made their way back to where Margaret stood, and then they all began