KC glanced at the billowy mass of orange sleeping bag across the room. From its warm confines escaped a flash of purple hair and a soft buzzing snore, confirming the sleeping presence of her sibling. KC erupted into a hearty yawn and methodically stretched each limb one by one. It felt refreshing to shake the cobwebs from her aching body after sleeping on the flimsy mat. She crossed the room and stepped into the door frame of the lookout. She ran her fingers through her long chestnut hair, drawing it into a haphazard braid and securing with the elastic band she’d left on her wrist the night before.
In quiet meditation KC took in the vastness of endless surrounding peaks piercing the cloud layer. Cocking her head and squinting, she imagined them as a giant egg carton, the pockets of clouds gently nestled into each space like giant fragile eggs. She pondered her given namesake—Kerouac—and smiled to herself wondering whether he, too, might have seen her beloved Cascade Mountains the same way. After all, Jack Kerouac had spent the summer of 1956 working as the fire lookout at Desolation Peak. As much as she hated the embarrassing name chosen by her decidedly hippie parents, as an artist herself she revered the iconic writer. At one point, she’d devoted a full year to retracing his On The Road travels, seeking to visually capture Kerouac’s unique way of seeing the world. That photo series was what launched her from hobbyist to career photographer.
The photo series opened with Jazz Club at Night, a smoky, shadowed scene capturing a saxophone player suspended mid-note. It culminated in End of the Road: a solitary silhouette perched on a cracked stone bench on the New Jersey Palisades, gazing across the river at a city of ghosts. KC had stumbled on the spot by chance, and the melancholy she felt there—Sal mourning his lost twin, Dean Moriarty—struck a deep chord. It was a bond she knew all too well.
KC sighed. She felt hollow and insignificant surveying the vast legion of mountaintops, just as Kerouac had written in Desolation Angels of staring into “the void”, the twin peaks of Hozomeen Mountain. Kerouac would look out over Hozomeen upside-down in a yoga headstand, regarding the peaks as stalactites hanging from the heavens. Though she had abbreviated it to a more common sounding name before starting high school, KC did feel a deep kinship with Kerouac.
Suddenly torn from her reverie, KC gasped audibly with the realization that coffee existed. Not just any coffee. It was nearly the whole reason she had made the challenging trek back to what she considered the most beautiful place on the planet. Evergreen Lookout, perched upon Glacier Peak, had been KC’s destination every fall for the past seven years. And the best part of the experience was always sipping that fresh cup of hot coffee at sunrise on the summit, high above the treeline with a 360-degree view of the majestic Cascades. KC drew back inside, fired up the water already set on the stove, and dove into her flaming crimson pack for the precious grounds and trusty ultralight pour-over dripper.
While she waited for the water to boil, KC sat at the table and sorted the two decks of cards she and her non-binary twin Kesey had played the night before. Her eyes darted between the scarlet-backed cards and the rich shining cobalt, reuniting the two sets. They had laughed hysterically to the point of tears, manically throwing down cards and screaming at each other. The competitive gene they shared was always at a fever pitch whenever they played Nertz.
The rumbling boil beckoned KC’s attention back to the pot of water, and with an air of solemn reverence she gingerly poured the hot water through the precariously placed flimsy dripper. Kesey stirred.
“How did you sleep?”
“Like a rock, thank you. Wow, am I sore. I feel like I sat in a car going over washouts for 4 hours and then climbed 1400 feet carrying 40 pounds on my back or something.”
“Something like that huh? Well, if you had conditioned with me this summer you would feel like a million bucks right about now. It’s okay. This right here is worth it all.” A slow grin spread across KC’s face as she announced with a squeak of excitement, “Coffee’s just about ready.”
Kesey worked one leg clumsily out of the sleeping bag. “I will most definitely get up for that. Maybe only that.” They swung one leg off the platform bed and leaned forward. Kesey’s wool-socked foot thudded firm onto the wooden floor. They awkwardly lumbered forward to kick the sleeping bag off the other foot but stumbled, leg caught up in the bungee of the draft collar. Kesey sailed forward, arms flailing.
KC screamed, “Nooo!” and lunged – too late, as her clumsy twin collided with the table and sent the coffee dripper flying. The world plunged into a surreal, Technicolor slow motion and KC stood stunned and powerless, as the tsunami of coffee flooded the rough-hewn wooden table.