“Not here, Tobe. It… doesn’t feel right.”
“Yeah. I can see that,” he says, his arms recrossing between me and his heart. “See you on the other side.”
Onboard the bus, I breathe its undead perfume of week-old lunch box cheese and try to prepare myself for what’s about to go down.
There are times when even the most die-hard wilderness enthusiasts lose the ability to put the word “great” in front of “outdoors.”
That time is now.
This resort must be nice in summer. An hour south of Grey Tusk, the property is nestled in a patch of coastal rainforest near sea level. Its artful, upcycled design is all about recovered planks and old doors with layers of distressed paint. I’m sure the hand-split cedar shingles cost the earth, but they boast unmatched longevity in the year-round creeping damp of the Pacific Northwest. The secondhand furniture is perfectly mismatched, as are all the dishes. I hate to think how many garage sales the designers had to go to in order to find hundreds of jokey mugs to pair with random rose-patterned saucers. Around the two-story lodge, a boardwalk connects geodesic yurts. A path of round river stones leads to the obstacle course.
Today might be my worst day ever at West by North, and that’s saying a lot. Corporate morale is at an all-time low after a rain-drenched Team West versus Team North showdown with more cheating than the Russian Olympic team.
Tempers flared after Team West got caught sneaking hard-boiled equipment into the egg-and-spoon race. This was uncovered by a Team North member who “accidentally” tripped a competitor, then “happened” to cross into their lane to finish off their egg. Neither team was penalized; both West and North are giving each other the silent treatment. And no one’s speaking to Ryan from accounts, who turned up with an ankle cast he’s not allowed to get wet. Nothing can be proven, but his girlfriend is an orthopedic surgeon and his story about a “possible sprain” is wispy enough to evaporate by Monday. Meanwhile, Ryan’s in the lodge, harvesting three uninterrupted hours with Craig while the rest of us rack up bug bites and hypothermia.
I scrape mud out of my face and reach cold-stiffened fingers toward Bethany, seven feet below. David and I are on top of The Wall, the next-to-last obstacle in the resort’s reality TV–style obstacle course. From up here, I can pick out Craig’s navy-suit/orange-tie combo through the windows of the lodge’s glassed-in patio.
The Wall is very corporate in that your ability to climb it is highly related to how tall you are, yet we’re expected to pretend getting to the top is about individual merit. Also in that it’s a random barrier you could just go around, but the powers that be have decreed that We Must Defeat Obstacles Only in the Expected Way.
Bethany grits her teeth and leaps again. Her hands touch ours long enough to give me hope, but it’s a slippery emotion that slides through my grip, like Bethany’s fingers.
The ever-expanding puddle at the base of The Wall splashes grandly as she lands. “I should’ve mentioned,” she puffs, tugging her soaked, sagging T-shirt back up over her bra. “I got cut from the basketball team in eighth grade. Can’t jump.”
From the sidelines, our Team North allies who suffered through the blindfolded maze, the ropes course, the sand pit, and the beanbag toss cheer us on weakly, shivering. At the last station—thepuzzle—our remaining teammates scream at us to hurry as Team West sinks their last beanbag and tags in Tobin’s threesome, who race toward The Wall.
Right now, Craig’s watching my team—watchingme—squander a huge lead. We have to pull out of the dive right frickin’ now.
“This isn’t working. David, you have to get back down and boost Bethany.”
David scoffs. “No way. She got The Wall all muddy; I won’t be able to get back up.”
Of all the things I hate about Dick Head, him being right is the worst. The Wall’s too slippery for that parkour thing he did before, where he ran up the side for a step or two. I bet he visited the resort in advance to practice the course. Smart.
Evil. But smart.
“Bethany and I can pull you up.”
“Then it’ll look likeIslowed us down.” Dick Head glances toward the lodge, putting his hands on his hips like he’s king of the castle.
On the West side of The Wall, Tobin uses his clasped hands as a stirrup to launch his smallest team member to the top. He’s watching Team North fall apart, a concerned V building between his eyebrows.
I look away. The last thing I need is to catch his eye and have him interpret that as a cry for help.
“Fine,” I snap to David. “Stay where Craig can see you, then.”
I’m no better at jumping than Bethany, but something has to be done. I back my butt over the edge, dangle a little, then close my eyes and let go.
The bottom of the wall is as slippery as a road paved with good intentions. I truly believe, until the second I face-plant into the puddle, that frantic flailing will save me. Spoiler: it does not.
“Oh shit,” Bethany says as I lever my face out of the water.
Wet, clean-ish fabric moves across my eyes. When it feels safe to open them, she’s staring down at me, the hem of her shirt bunched in her hand. “That had to hurt.”
Though I’d rather stay down and reconsider my life choices, I haul myself to my feet before Tobin can come charging in. The entire front of my body is slicked in icy mud. When I spit, it’s black. But I didn’t hit my head and nothing’s broken.
“I’m fine! Soft landing.” I project my voice, so everyone can hear.
Tobin’s a careful, conscientious guide, so although his body is tensed with the need to look over, he stays focused on his lift.
