the first splashes of human feet fluttered into the skies or perched themselves high atop the trees to observe the penetration of human civilization into the thick of their forest.
Indeed, the overgrowth was dense and the column soon disintegrated into separate bands. Four trailblazers opened the path—severing vines and moving logs as fast as they could—while three other hikers lingered a short distance behind. Two additional groups of three persons each paced themselves perhaps twenty and forty yards behind the leaders and a larger group of stragglers fell behind another forty yards, increasingly out of step and behind schedule. This staggered column included one woman and one man whose packs proved difficult taskmasters, as well as two sets of parents struggling with the complaining of older children and the delays of younger ones. Ryan fell to the rear of the procession so he could help the slow of foot, collect dropped possessions, and (whenever possible) restore nature to its pristine state.
Hilary hiked behind the foremost trailblazers, keeping company with Alan and Steve Lovejoy. The young woman wore khaki shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and canvas boots fitted to muscular legs. She chewed jerky and sloshed upstream with a canteen strapped to her right hip and a binocular case secured to her side. Her ears were tanned from days on the beach and her close-cut hair already had been lightened by the sun’s bleaching. Hilary’s backpack was fuller than those of most settlers (woman and man alike), though its weight seemed to flatten her walk as she moved bow-legged uphill. Occasionally she looked at the two men following behind, but mostly kept her eyes fixed forward and moved at a steady pace, seldom lagging too long.
A few steps behind her, Steve and Alan dressed in jeans with work shirts and wore black-laced camping boots. Steve supported himself with a staff as he waded upstream while Alan carried a hoe that he frequently planted in the stream to steady his step.
Thirty minutes after setting foot in the stream, Hilary and the two men turned a bend and saw a great hill rising before them.
Hilary stopped in her tracks. “My God,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”
“A shrine,” Steve declared.
“Mount Zion,” Hilary said as she turned toward the men. “The voice of nature, the holy of holies.”
Alan cupped his hands and shouted toward the rear. “Ryan, has this hill been named?”
A distant shout came forward. “Hill 1. On the map.”
Hearing this, Alan again cupped hands to his mouth, stepped to a side of the stream, and yelled even louder than before. “Hilary,” he shouted, “called it Mount Zion. Any objections?”
“None here,” came the distant reply, “that ought to goad the religious right.”
Now Alan shouted the same message to the front, asking if there were objections to the new name. There weren’t and several voices soon agreed that Hilary’s suggestion should be adopted. A moment later, the column restarted its trek upstream, having stopped for less than two minutes to name a mountain. Soon, the water flowed faster and the channel narrowed as banks became somewhat steeper and rocks more numerous. Slips and falls became more frequent, especially for the children—with one boy managing to bruise a knee and scrape an elbow when a stone slipped from underfoot. He delayed several hikers for ten minutes while his mother bandaged the wound.
Hilary and the two men, however, continued sure-footed uphill. An hour after naming Mount Zion, water splashed their calves in pools where the cold water occasionally brought a momentary chill. As Hilary stretched her socks above her knees to stay warm, she heard the cry of young children down the stream.
“Those little boys must be walking in knee-deep water,” she said after one particularly loud yelp.
Alan shook his head. “Did you hear what Steve said a minute ago?”
“Something about Ryan?”
“He said the waters aren’t
Indeed, the overgrowth was dense and the column soon disintegrated into separate bands. Four trailblazers opened the path—severing vines and moving logs as fast as they could—while three other hikers lingered a short distance behind. Two additional groups of three persons each paced themselves perhaps twenty and forty yards behind the leaders and a larger group of stragglers fell behind another forty yards, increasingly out of step and behind schedule. This staggered column included one woman and one man whose packs proved difficult taskmasters, as well as two sets of parents struggling with the complaining of older children and the delays of younger ones. Ryan fell to the rear of the procession so he could help the slow of foot, collect dropped possessions, and (whenever possible) restore nature to its pristine state.
Hilary hiked behind the foremost trailblazers, keeping company with Alan and Steve Lovejoy. The young woman wore khaki shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and canvas boots fitted to muscular legs. She chewed jerky and sloshed upstream with a canteen strapped to her right hip and a binocular case secured to her side. Her ears were tanned from days on the beach and her close-cut hair already had been lightened by the sun’s bleaching. Hilary’s backpack was fuller than those of most settlers (woman and man alike), though its weight seemed to flatten her walk as she moved bow-legged uphill. Occasionally she looked at the two men following behind, but mostly kept her eyes fixed forward and moved at a steady pace, seldom lagging too long.
A few steps behind her, Steve and Alan dressed in jeans with work shirts and wore black-laced camping boots. Steve supported himself with a staff as he waded upstream while Alan carried a hoe that he frequently planted in the stream to steady his step.
Thirty minutes after setting foot in the stream, Hilary and the two men turned a bend and saw a great hill rising before them.
Hilary stopped in her tracks. “My God,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”
“A shrine,” Steve declared.
“Mount Zion,” Hilary said as she turned toward the men. “The voice of nature, the holy of holies.”
Alan cupped his hands and shouted toward the rear. “Ryan, has this hill been named?”
A distant shout came forward. “Hill 1. On the map.”
Hearing this, Alan again cupped hands to his mouth, stepped to a side of the stream, and yelled even louder than before. “Hilary,” he shouted, “called it Mount Zion. Any objections?”
“None here,” came the distant reply, “that ought to goad the religious right.”
Now Alan shouted the same message to the front, asking if there were objections to the new name. There weren’t and several voices soon agreed that Hilary’s suggestion should be adopted. A moment later, the column restarted its trek upstream, having stopped for less than two minutes to name a mountain. Soon, the water flowed faster and the channel narrowed as banks became somewhat steeper and rocks more numerous. Slips and falls became more frequent, especially for the children—with one boy managing to bruise a knee and scrape an elbow when a stone slipped from underfoot. He delayed several hikers for ten minutes while his mother bandaged the wound.
Hilary and the two men, however, continued sure-footed uphill. An hour after naming Mount Zion, water splashed their calves in pools where the cold water occasionally brought a momentary chill. As Hilary stretched her socks above her knees to stay warm, she heard the cry of young children down the stream.
“Those little boys must be walking in knee-deep water,” she said after one particularly loud yelp.
Alan shook his head. “Did you hear what Steve said a minute ago?”
“Something about Ryan?”
“He said the waters aren’t
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