Page 24 of The Woodcarver's Model
“I don’t know. I don’t like to stack up too many projects. I’d never finish anything if I did that. I’ve got this story to finish off—the one about this beautiful place. Then the Somalia piece. That’ll take six months to a year.”
“Why Somalia? I mean, do people really want to travel there?”
“You’d be surprised at where adrenaline junkies want to travel. I just try to keep them as safe as possible.”
“Scariest place you’ve been?”
“Sniper alley, Sarajevo. I wrote an exposé on rich tourists paying to shoot innocent people from rooftops. Sick bastards, all of them.”
“Fuck. I can see why you like our Peak.”
“Nature is never sick like a person. The exact opposite. Whenever I feel people-overload I have to get out into the wild. The tension just pours off me.”
“Then where to next…to save your soul?”
“There’s one hike I’m dying to try. The length of the Grand Canyon. Two hundred and seventy-seven miles along the river—over seven hundred and forty-five by trail, or what there is of it. If ever there was a holy place on earth, it would be there. Did you know that over four thousand people have summited Everest? Two hundred and fifty people have completed the seventy-nine-hundred-mile-long triple crown of hiking made up of the Pacific Coast, Adirondack and Continental Divide trails. And only twelve men have walked on the moon—that’s the same number as have completed the whole length of the canyon below the rim in one push. I want to be lucky thirteen.”
With that, Mitch’s phone rang. It was a turquoise phone with a bell and cord mounted on the kitchen wall. Another remnant of Aunt Sarah.
“Aren’t you going to get that?”
“What, and miss this? I’d rather sit here with you.”
“I’ll be all right. It might be important.”
“I carve bowls for a living. What kind of emergency could it be?” The phone kept ringing. “Okay, I’ll get it.”
Mitch walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, is Robert Hanson there by any chance?” asked the caller whose voice was racked with coughs.
“Just a second.”
Mitch walked into the living room. “It’s for you.”
“For me? Are you sure? Who is it?”
“They didn’t say. They were too busy coughing. I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female.”
Rob went to the kitchen and picked up the heavy receiver. “Rob Hanson speaking.”
“Robert, sweetheart, how are you?”
“Estelle?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else would track you down like this?”
“Why are you calling on this number? How did you even find me?” Rob asked, surprised.
“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Your number isn’t picking up. Do you even have service on that god-forsaken speck on the map?”
“No. The locals protested when they wanted to put up a cell tower. They held the tech crew hostage in the house I’m staying in.”
“How nice,” she said dryly. “Trust you to find trouble on a grain of sand in the ocean. Do you know how many hotels I had to phone trying to find you?”
“Estelle, there’s only one hotel on the island.”
