top. Instead, there were two drawers under a keyhole. The metalwork around the keyhole was shaped like a capital T.
I pulled the bottom drawer, but it wouldn’t open. Then I pulled the top one and it slid out smoothly. Inside lay a paper envelope and a tiny key. The handle of the key was shaped like the T around the keyhole, but the key was far too small to fit in the lock.
I tried anyway. It didn’t work.
“Maybe you have to turn the key sideways,” said Aaron.
I tried that. Then I tried putting the key in backward. Nothing worked. I picked up the envelope from the drawer and read the spidery writing on it out loud:
“What’s ‘grow powder’?” asked Aaron.
As soon as Aaron said that, I understood. “It’s to make the key grow!” I said. “You put grow powder on the key and it will grow until it fits the lock.”
“How do you know?”
“Why else would the key and the envelope be together?”
“That is so cool,” said Aaron. “We could sprinkle some on a Hot Wheels car. Then we could have our own cars.” We bothstared at the envelope in silence for a moment and thought about the possibilities of the grow powder. “Why does it say it has ‘deadly consequences’?”
“Well, what if it makes the key grow to five times its normal size?” I said. “Or ten times? Or what if you accidentally spilled some on a dog and it grew to the size of a horse?”
Aaron’s face went white. He hated dogs.
“That’s why we can’t open it now,” I said, slipping the tiny envelope back into the metal drawer. “We need to wait until we ’re way out in the middle of nowhere, where nothing bad like that could happen. Someplace safe.”
W E NEEDED TO GET FAR AWAY from civilization. Far away from dogs and cats and rats and other things that could grow big and dangerous. I talked to Dad at breakfast the next day.
“Don’t you think your poor, recovering son should get out of the house?”
Dad grunted and kept eating his cereal and reading the paper.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “Think about all that time Mom spent alone with me. She probably needs a break, because I think I was driving her crazy.”
“What do you want, Josh?” Dad said, without raising his eyes from his paper.
“I was thinking it would be fun to go on a boys’ hiking trip this weekend.”
Dad looked up at me and said, “You’re right. That would be fun.”
After dinner that night, he packed our pickup with gear.
It didn’t turn out fun at all.
We were pulling the packs from our truck at the trailhead when a forest ranger walked up. His beard looked like the moss that hangs from old trees.
“How you doin’, folks?” he said cheerily.
“Fine,” muttered Dad. He hated seeing other people when we went hiking. “The whole reason you go hiking is to get away from other humans,” Dad always said. The sight of a single soda can or cigarette butt could ruin his whole weekend. If Dad spotted another hiker, he would walk straight ahead without a word, trying to pretend the person wasn’t there.
The ranger took Dad’s rudeness in stride. “Well, be sure you stay on the trail,” he said. “This is an awfully remote area. There’s no one to help if you get in trouble. Hardly ever come out here myself.”
“Good,” said Dad. He pulled the pack onto his back and walked up the trail. Aaron and I had to scramble to catch up.
It had taken us about six hours to drive to the trailhead from Tilton House in Tacoma. Now we were hiking toward a campsite in the Olympic National Forest, near the Dosewallips River and one of Grandpa’s favorite fishing spots.
One-hundred-foot-high cedar and fir trees cast the Olympic National Forest in shadow. Soggy, seaweed-colored moss hangs from the branches and droopy ferns cover the ground. At least, that’s how I remember it. I’ve never been back since that trip. I’ll never go back.
An hour later, we still hadn’t seen another sign of human life and Dad’s mood had
I pulled the bottom drawer, but it wouldn’t open. Then I pulled the top one and it slid out smoothly. Inside lay a paper envelope and a tiny key. The handle of the key was shaped like the T around the keyhole, but the key was far too small to fit in the lock.
I tried anyway. It didn’t work.
“Maybe you have to turn the key sideways,” said Aaron.
I tried that. Then I tried putting the key in backward. Nothing worked. I picked up the envelope from the drawer and read the spidery writing on it out loud:
“What’s ‘grow powder’?” asked Aaron.
As soon as Aaron said that, I understood. “It’s to make the key grow!” I said. “You put grow powder on the key and it will grow until it fits the lock.”
“How do you know?”
“Why else would the key and the envelope be together?”
“That is so cool,” said Aaron. “We could sprinkle some on a Hot Wheels car. Then we could have our own cars.” We bothstared at the envelope in silence for a moment and thought about the possibilities of the grow powder. “Why does it say it has ‘deadly consequences’?”
“Well, what if it makes the key grow to five times its normal size?” I said. “Or ten times? Or what if you accidentally spilled some on a dog and it grew to the size of a horse?”
Aaron’s face went white. He hated dogs.
“That’s why we can’t open it now,” I said, slipping the tiny envelope back into the metal drawer. “We need to wait until we ’re way out in the middle of nowhere, where nothing bad like that could happen. Someplace safe.”
W E NEEDED TO GET FAR AWAY from civilization. Far away from dogs and cats and rats and other things that could grow big and dangerous. I talked to Dad at breakfast the next day.
“Don’t you think your poor, recovering son should get out of the house?”
Dad grunted and kept eating his cereal and reading the paper.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “Think about all that time Mom spent alone with me. She probably needs a break, because I think I was driving her crazy.”
“What do you want, Josh?” Dad said, without raising his eyes from his paper.
“I was thinking it would be fun to go on a boys’ hiking trip this weekend.”
Dad looked up at me and said, “You’re right. That would be fun.”
After dinner that night, he packed our pickup with gear.
It didn’t turn out fun at all.
We were pulling the packs from our truck at the trailhead when a forest ranger walked up. His beard looked like the moss that hangs from old trees.
“How you doin’, folks?” he said cheerily.
“Fine,” muttered Dad. He hated seeing other people when we went hiking. “The whole reason you go hiking is to get away from other humans,” Dad always said. The sight of a single soda can or cigarette butt could ruin his whole weekend. If Dad spotted another hiker, he would walk straight ahead without a word, trying to pretend the person wasn’t there.
The ranger took Dad’s rudeness in stride. “Well, be sure you stay on the trail,” he said. “This is an awfully remote area. There’s no one to help if you get in trouble. Hardly ever come out here myself.”
“Good,” said Dad. He pulled the pack onto his back and walked up the trail. Aaron and I had to scramble to catch up.
It had taken us about six hours to drive to the trailhead from Tilton House in Tacoma. Now we were hiking toward a campsite in the Olympic National Forest, near the Dosewallips River and one of Grandpa’s favorite fishing spots.
One-hundred-foot-high cedar and fir trees cast the Olympic National Forest in shadow. Soggy, seaweed-colored moss hangs from the branches and droopy ferns cover the ground. At least, that’s how I remember it. I’ve never been back since that trip. I’ll never go back.
An hour later, we still hadn’t seen another sign of human life and Dad’s mood had
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