Becoming Odyssa

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  Sarah and Doug hiked away, and I began to pack up my things. I was happy with how well my tent had held up under the precipitation the night before. There was some condensation on the inside walls, but by contorting my body and changing clothes at a 150-degree angle without touching the tent fabric, I managed to stay relatively dry. But taking down the wet tent with numb hands and trying to shove the saturated fabric into a small dry sack proved impossible, so I finally decided to just shove the soaking tent inside my pack and let everything dry out at home. Hiking away from my campsite, my pack weighed down with water, I began to rethink the practicality of trail shelters.

  Initially I thought that the morning’s heavy mist was temporary or isolated to a certain valley, but it never lifted. The trail remained shrouded in white and I struggled to define objects ten feet in front of me. The white blazes blended in with the atmosphere, and it became difficult to follow the trail amid the haze. After two hours of hiking, I was relieved and excited when I walked out of the woods and into the Springer Mountain parking lot where Sarah and Doug were waiting beside my car. The fog could not hide their smiles, and I responded with a proud grin of my own.

  From the parking area, we still had one mile to travel to reach the summit. Hiking to the crest, we rose above the fog cover and could see distant sapphire peaks jutting up through a white blanket of clouds. I stumbled along the trail and stubbed my toes on large rocks that littered the path, unable to take my eyes off the breathtaking vista.

  We were so focused on the scenery that it was almost a surprise when we reached the plaque at the mountain summit. Looking at the rock monument that marked the southern end of the Appalachian Trail, I was hesitant to approach it. I didn’t think that arriving at Springer Mountain would feel so overwhelming, but being at the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail—the spot where thousands of dreams are launched every year—I felt so many different emotions. I was proud to have finished our first fifty miles and excited about the journey ahead, but also anxious about what the trail had in store for me, and scared that I wouldn’t be able to make it all the way to Maine.

  “Hey Jen, can you take our picture?” Sarah called.

  I dropped my pack and turned to photograph my friends on top of the mountain, then I had them snap a few pictures of me. We were proud to document our arrival at Springer Mountain, and after finishing our photo shoot we searched for the Springer register so that we could sign our names in it.

  Trail registers are a tradition along the path and are located in almost every shelter from Georgia to Maine. Some hikers sign almost every booklet, while others sign very few. I had not signed one yet but was looking forward to leaving my signature in the trail’s southernmost journal. We found it in a metal box carved into the side of a rock. As I sat down and prepared to sign the journal, I realized there was a small problem: I didn’t have a trail name.

  Trail names, an Appalachian Trail tradition, are titles or nicknames hikers use in lieu of their normal identities. Some people come to Springer with trail names already in mind, while others travel hundreds of miles before they settle on one. I hadn’t come to the trail with a trail name, but over the past four days I had been bombarded with suggestions. Other hikers recommended Stretch, amazon, and Sasquatch, which all alluded to my six-foot frame and long gait. For me, these physical descriptions had worn out their welcome in middle school.

  So when Sarah handed me the journal, I paused. There was so much I wanted to say. I was uncertain about how to express my expectations for this adventure and, more significantly, I was unsure who I would become over the course of this journey.

  Finally, I pressed the pen to the paper and wrote:

  I’ve always heard New England is nice; look forward to being there this summer.

  —Odyssa

  I was a Classics major in college, and over the past four days, I had compared the Appalachian Trail to Homer’s Odyssey several times. One hiker suggested that my trail name should be Odysseus. But I didn’t want to be a guy; there were too many guys out on the trail already. So I decided to re-gender the name and call myself Odyssa.

  I thought about what the name meant. Maybe I was a wanderer on a long journey back to my home. But then what was I walking away from? And did I really even have a home? After all, I no longer lived with my parents, and I was out of school but without a job. I didn’t even know what the word “home” meant anymore. Maybe that was why I was out here. Maybe I was searching for a home.

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts. I wasn’t a three-thousand-year-old Homeric character, I was just a girl who wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail. I closed the book, looked at my friends, and together we walked back down the trail to the parking lot.

  4

  ADVENTURE

  UNICOI GAP, GA, TO THE NANTAHALA

  OUTDOOR CENTER, NC—84 MILES

  Just when you start to gain confidence on the moderate hills of northeast Georgia, you enter North Carolina and find your first real mountains. Several of the summits are home to fire towers, which, on clear days, provide stunning views of the dark blue peaks reaching out to the north. Much of the trail is lined with rhododendron thickets, and clear creeks cross the path every few miles. A long descent to the winding waters of the Nantahala River and the welcome amenities at the Nantahala Outdoor Center mark the end of the section.

  The lessons of the first fifty miles were abundant. After reaching Springer Mountain, I decided to spend a week at home to regroup and repack, and then return to Unicoi Gap to start hiking north toward Katahdin.

  I made a lot of changes after spending several days on the trail: I replaced my heavy Nalgene water bottle with an empty Gatorade bottle to save weight, I left a wool sweater at home but added a lightweight fleece jacket and an extra pair of socks, and I put more food in all of my mail drops. But more than anything, I repacked my thoughts. After the first fifty miles, I’d realized that hiking the trail wasn’t going to be recreation; it was going to be hard work.

  By hiking the section from Unicoi Gap to Springer Mountain, I had completed just two percent of the entire trail, and it had been substantially more difficult than I had expected. In spite of that, I was surprised how much I missed the trail when I got home. I was only at my parents’ house for six days, but they seemed to drag on endlessly. When I wasn’t repacking, I was sharing stories from my first fifty miles with my friends and family. And at night I would lie in bed trying to imagine the adventures that awaited me.

  The night before I returned to the trail, I struggled to sleep, and when the morning came I got up eagerly and gathered my belongings. I went upstairs to find my father sitting on the edge of a chair with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. Together we loaded up his white pickup and started our three-hour drive to Unicoi Gap.

  Most parents would not be thrilled if their twenty-one-year-old daughter decided to hike the Appalachian Trail alone—and my mother was one of them. But my father was different.

  “I know that you’re gonna make it all the way to Maine,” he told me. “If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you. And when you get up there, I’ll come pick you up.”

  “Mom doesn’t think that I’ll make it,” I said.

  “You know your mother, she’s just worried. But the main thing you have to worry about on the Appalachian Trail is people, and people are a threat everywhere. So if this is what you want to do, then you should do it. Just trust your instincts and you’ll be fine.”

  Even though my dad was supportive, that didn’t make leaving his youngest child and only daughter on the side of the road any easier. When we arrived at the trail, he gave me a big hug and tears welled up in his eyes as he helped me hoist my pack out of his truck bed and onto my back. As I turned to start my northbound journey, my dad held his camera to his eye and captured every step as I disappeared into the forest.

  The excitement of being back on the trail helped me climb out of Unicoi Gap quickly, but when I looked behind me and no longer saw th
e road or my dad, my stomach began to twist into knots. As I continued hiking, I began to panic. Part of me wanted to sprint back down the trail and jump into my father’s arms. But I slowly kept placing one foot in front of the other, distancing myself from my dad and hiking farther away from where I started. I told myself that this is what my dad would want me to do. And this is what I wanted to do.

  After several miles, the path leveled out on a ridge, and because the trees were barren, I could see the neighboring mountains in every direction. I finally stopped thinking about the life I had left behind and began to focus on the adventure ahead. My body was energized, and my optimism quickly carried me down the trail. I longed for the challenges that awaited me, and I raced down the path to find them.

  The following afternoon, all that racing left me sidelined on a fallen tree. I had spent the last few hours trying to hike through the discomfort inside my sneakers. At first my feet just felt hot, and then increasingly sore, but now with each step the roots on the trail felt like daggers and the rocks like broken glass.

  I sat down on a rotting log and buried my face in my hands. If I was going to continue hiking, I had to do something. I carefully unlaced my shoes and gently removed my socks to examine the soles of my feet. I had been blister-free for the first fifty miles and had acted rather self-righteous about not wearing boots, so looking down upon the dime-sized, pus-filled sacs that dotted my feet, I wondered what had happened.

  I started sifting through my pack, looking for something sharp to pierce the tough outer layer of skin. At the very bottom of the bag, beneath my sleeping bag, I found my pocket-knife. It wasn’t a sterile needle, but it was the only sharp item I had so it would have to do. I carefully unfolded the blade, then I pressed the sharp tip to a swollen white sac near the ball of my foot and slowly began to skewer the thick skin. Once I penetrated the outer layer, I gently squeezed out the clear liquid as if deflating a balloon. I repeated this procedure again and again, and after half an hour, my feet no longer resembled a relief map.

  I covered the smooth but tender skin with antibiotic ointment and then, knowing that a Band-Aid wouldn’t stick, I wrapped the soles of my feet with duct tape. Every trail book, blog, and briefing I’d read suggested bringing duct tape, and already I was discovering one of its many practical uses. I put my socks and shoes back on and packed up my gear to test my new feet on the trail.

  I knew that my makeshift surgery wasn’t the most hygienic operation, but as I pushed myself off the log and slowly transferred my weight to my feet, I was pleased to discover that much of the pressure and some of the pain had disappeared.

  Hiking nimbly through the bright afternoon sun, my feet continued to feel better, but my legs started to burn and a dull ache filled my head. For the next three miles, the trail never really seemed to gain or lose substantial elevation, but it constantly went up and down. With each short, steep incline on the trail, I became increasingly drained of energy and motivation.

  It came as a much-needed morale boost when I passed a small sign on a tree marking the North Carolina border. It gave me confidence to know that I had been able to start at a random point in Georgia and walk to a neighboring state. And not just any state—my state.

  My sense of accomplishment didn’t last long. The first two mountains in North Carolina were the most challenging yet. Their extended demands left me physically exhausted and emotionally fatigued. Hiking down the second descent, I looked down to see my legs visibly quivering beneath me. I put my hands on my thighs to stop the shaking, but as soon as I let go they began twitching again. With each quaking footstep, I became persuaded to end my day earlier than I had planned. Stumbling my way downhill and into Deep Gap, I was relieved to find a flat plot of land near a stream where I could set up camp.

  After pitching my tent, I pulled my food bag and stove out of my pack. Most hikers look forward to a warm meal at the end of the day, but for me, cooking had already become a chore with little reward. I hated the bland pasta and rice meals in my food bag, and I didn’t like feeling forced to devour an entire pot of food, either.

  After receiving several dirty looks from other hikers, I’d learned that throwing unwanted food into the woods and cleaning out my pot in the streams were not acceptable ways to dispose of dinner scraps. If you didn’t eat your food, you were supposed to pack it out with you and throw it away at the next town. But I didn’t want to eat my food or pack it out.

  With great annoyance, I gathered water and lit my camp stove in order to heat the pasta shells. When the noodles were tender, I drained the water and added the pungent, neon orange Velveeta goo to the mix. I then set aside the pot and began to disassemble the stove, but as I unscrewed the burner from the fuel canister, my numb fingers fumbled the stovetop directly into the pot of gluey pasta.

  I grabbed the stovetop, but not quickly enough. The small gas holes that the flames passed through were now filled with the cheese-like substance, which had thickened and expanded into its pores. For half an hour, I tried to wash and burn the fake cheddar out of the stove, but my efforts were futile and my stove remained clogged and broken.

  I was discouraged and upset with myself for being so clumsy, but as I ate my dinner, I decided that hot food was overrated. From now on, I would just skip the cooking and substitute cold food for hot meals. After all, I didn’t like cooking when I was at home, so I don’t know why I thought it would be different on the trail. If anything, cooking was worse on the trail.

  I vowed to send my pot and stove home at the next post office and skip the warm meals until I could enjoy them at a restaurant in town where I wouldn’t have to cook or clean.

  After dinner, I was desperately ready for sleep. I cradled my sore, tired body in the warm folds of my sleeping bag and shut my eyes. Before slipping into complete unconsciousness, I heard two sets of boots pass nearby. I was startled awake when I heard a deep male voice call out, “Hey, anyone in there?”

  I looked out of my tent and squinted into the setting sun to see two older men with wide-brimmed hats and moustaches staring down at me.

  “Yes?” I mumbled.

  “We just wanted to make sure you saw the sign about the bear,” said the first.

  “Yeah, it says he’s been aggressive in the past,” the second man added.

  “Bear? Aggressive?” I replied, trying to shake myself out of a stupor.

  The taller of the two sensed my confusion. “Yes, it says right here on the sign. You saw the sign, right? It says that the bear will approach hikers who camp here. Don’t you think you should hike to the next shelter?”

  An hour ago, I didn’t have the energy to go another step, but fear is a powerful motivator. I thanked the two men and assured them that I would not be far behind them.

  When they left, I crawled out of my tent and hiked a few yards down the trail to look for the sign about the bear. I must have been blind with fatigue a few hours beforehand, because it was almost impossible to miss the bold warning nailed to a tree. This new information gave me a second wind and, without a thought of sore feet or aching muscles, I quickly packed my gear and raced up the hill to make it to the next shelter before nightfall.

  I arrived at Standing Indian Shelter at dusk and was disheartened to discover that it was already packed past capacity with hikers. I walked behind the building and was forced to set up my tent again, on uneven ground. The chore would not have been as difficult if it had still been light outside, but the encroaching darkness meant I had to use my headlamp to see what I was doing. I was not yet comfortable setting up my tent in full daylight, let alone at night.

  Ten minutes passed and the tent was leaning heavily to one side, but after such a strenuous day, I decided that the caving side walls would have to do.

  Tonight, of all nights, I expected to sleep soundly. But within a few minutes, the chainsaw snoring of a hiker in the shelter thirty yards away filled the night air. Strangely, it was the only noise that filled the air—as if even the birds and insects had
been scared away by the sound.

  The snorted breathing was so loud that it kept me awake and made me reconsider my odds with the bear. I can’t imagine how dreadful it would have been trying to sleep inside the wooden lean-to.

  I spent the majority of the night longing for the morning, when I could hike away from the deafening sound. And even before the sun had crested the horizon, I was on the trail and hiking away from the shelter and the unpleasant memories of the night.

  I hiked with motivation and without distraction for most of the day. My limbs were still sore and my left knee felt tender, but I was determined to out-hike whoever had made the unbearable noise at the previous shelter. I hiked purposefully until late afternoon, when I encountered an unexpected blockade on the trail.

  Actually, I smelled it before I saw it.

  With my nose pointed toward the sky, I became convinced that the ever-stronger aroma of a fire-cooked dinner was either the work of a gourmet Scout troop or a cruel conspiracy between my mind and my stomach.

  The smell continued to grow, and when I finally felt as if I were swimming in the scent, I rounded a corner to find a dirt road with a small RV parked beside the trail. Near the RV was a fire with several pots suspended above the flames. A circle of empty lawn chairs stood beside the fire, with a cooler in the middle.

  I approached the fire and discovered black pots filled with beans, rice, and corn cooking above the flames. My attention was drawn to the nearby table boasting cheese, lettuce, salsa, sour cream, and flour tortilla shells. This couldn’t be real. What if it was a ploy? This full-on fajita buffet could be a Hansel-and-Gretel–like trick designed to trap thru-hikers.

  My mind said go, but my stomach said stay.

  Crrreeeaaaaaak! The door to the RV opened and I jumped back in surprise. A middle-aged woman stepped out with a smile on her face and an apron around her waist.