Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Harte Lake

2010; Johns Hopkins University Press; Volume: 3; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/thr.2010.0006

1939-9774

Vanessa Hua,

Race, History, and American Society

Harte Lake Vanessa Hua (bio) The last step was to unload the unnecessary weight. Anna Murata looked at the brilliant blue, not a cloud in the fall sky. She set down her backpack, removed the heavy rain pants, Gore-Tex jacket and wool socks, and tossed them into the backseat of her Volvo. She strapped herself into the lightened load and set out on the trailhead at nine o'clock in the morning. Her destination was Harte Lake, elevation 9,500, latitude 36 North, longitude 118 West. The date: October 10, the first anniversary of her husband Ken's death. A year ago, they had been poring over a map for their upcoming trip. Ken stopped talking mid-sentence and tumbled to the floor unconscious. She shook him, screamed his name, and crawled to the phone to call 911. While waiting for the paramedics, she put his head in her lap and straightened his glasses. She could not save him. She did not remember driving to the hospital, or parking their car, or filling out forms—only the moment when the petite Indian doctor told her that they were unable to revive him. An artery in his brain had burst. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived, maybe by the time he hit the floor, and she was left alone after thirty years. On this trip, Anna wanted to remember Ken as he was, on the last trek they were meant to take together. Out backpacking, they had depended on each other the most. She would spend three days on the twenty-four-mile loop, Friday through Sunday. She and Ken met at UC Berkeley in 1969. Squares among the hippies. They were both earnest and against the war, but neither of them grew their hair long, smoked marijuana, or liked folk music. Both of their families had been interned in the camps during the war—his [End Page 443] parents met at Manzanar and hers at Topaz. She and Ken had taken an Asian-American studies class, and they were married the following year. They had stayed together for decades, despite—or because of—the losses and betrayals they had inflicted upon each other. Anna was more attractive at fifty-four than when she had been in her twenties—strong and sturdy while others her age sagged. If she had once been beautiful, she might have mourned the loss of her youth, but her plainness had sustained her. She had short, graying hair and rosy cheeks. She kept a garden behind her lemon-yellow Berkeley bungalow, walked every day before work, and ate cruciferous vegetables and whole grains, redeeming herself with these small virtues. Clean living made for a long life, if not a faithful marriage. The first half-mile of the trail was flat, alternating between meadows and groves of trees before climbing steeply. When the trail petered out, Anna checked the route against the topo map, trying to make sense of the rippling lines of elevation. Navigation was new to her. Laughter and conversation came up fast behind her, and Anna stepped to the side of the trail. Two parents, a teenage girl, and a young boy passed by. They were not going far, judging by their thin sandals and fanny-packs. The sandy-haired boy, who was maybe eight, trailed behind. He halted and picked up a stick, which he banged against the trees. After a few more steps, he used it to dig into the ground, throwing up stones and clods. His parents called for him—"Wyatt! Wyyy-att!"—and he dropped the stick and ran to catch up. Anna waited until she could no longer see or hear them before she started walking. She picked up the stick and threw it back into the trees. She and Ken had no children. She had mentioned the trip to her friends but couldn't imagine them or her remaining siblings with her. She had to take this hike alone. She pushed forward with two spring-loaded walking sticks. She used to disdain extra equipment, but her knees and back had begun to ache without them. The pack bit into her shoulders and pulled at...