“Hey Iris, I’m gonna keep hiking. I’ll see you at the next shelter, okay?”
“Sounds good—if I make it. If I don’t, then it was nice meeting you, Odyssa.”
When I arrived at the shelter, I was hoping to see Second Gear, but he was nowhere in sight and had probably pushed on down the mountain to the nearby town of Erwin, Tennessee. Instead, the shelter was full—not with a group of weekenders, but with a couple from Washington State. They had commandeered the entire eight-person shelter by spreading out all of their wet rain gear.
“May I move a bit of your stuff to make room for my sleeping bag?” I asked.
Scowling with displeasure, the woman responded, “There are tent sites in the area if you want to tent.”
“Actually, I slept in the pouring rain last night and walked through it all day today, so all my stuff is wet. I want to sleep in the shelter.”
“Fine, do whatever makes you happy,” she snapped.
I was now on day three of a bad luck streak when it came to sharing the trail shelters: first Mr. Obscenity, then the weekenders, and now an unfriendly couple from the West Coast.
After sharing the shelter in silence for an hour, I was elated to see Iris approaching. Without asking the couple’s permission, I cleared a space for her next to my sleeping bag.
That night, as we went to bed, I was very satisfied to be dry, still, and lying on the dusty wooden floorboards next to another new friend. I had almost forgotten about the disgruntled Washingtonian couple several feet away, until I began to hear their loud rustling and heavy breathing. I had no clue what they were doing—well, okay, I did have a clue, but they couldn’t be . . . Oh, yes, they were!
I wasn’t going to pull my headlamp out and shine it on them, and I was too grossed out and mortified to say anything, but after hearing one final deep gasp followed by a heavy sigh, I was quite sure what had just happened eight feet away from where Iris and I were sleeping. No wonder they’d wanted me to tent outside! I was scared, annoyed, and ready for the sun to come up so I could leave.
The next morning, I was on the trail before daybreak. It seemed that trying to put distance between myself and undesirable company was becoming the motivating factor that would get me to Maine.
Once again, the day began with a cold, steady rainfall. It was four miles downhill into the Nolichucky River Basin and the outskirts of Erwin, Tennessee. I longed to stop. I knew that Second Gear was in Erwin and that Iris would be arriving there shortly. There were hostels and hotels in Erwin, grocery stores and restaurants, and the register at No business knob Shelter mentioned a hot tub and an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet. But I needed to continue hiking. I had arranged to meet friends in Banner Elk, North Carolina, on Sunday, and that meant I needed to cover fifty miles in forty-eight hours.
It took every ounce of willpower to overlook the wooden hostel to my left and the paved road that led into town, and instead begin the four-thousand-foot climb up Unaka Mountain. I only stopped to have a snack after I had walked far enough that I wouldn’t be tempted to turn around and go back into Erwin.
During my first few weeks on the trail, my appetite had actually seemed to diminish, but since leaving the Smokies, I began to notice an exponential rise in my hunger. This morning, as I stared into my food bag, I knew that even though I needed to stretch the contents out for another two days, I was hungry enough to eat all of my remaining food. Balancing self-restraint with desire, I ate more than I should have, but not everything.
The climb up Unaka was hard—really hard. There were no views and my disrupted sleep the night before, combined with a calorie deficit, left me utterly drained, and the entire section was uphill.
For the first time since I started the trail, I thought, “This is not fun.” Not that being struck by lightning, caught in a blizzard, or getting lost in the fog on top of Big bald had been fun, but it had all been new, and I had been filled with adrenaline. Hiking uphill in the rain was not new anymore.
I was tired, I was hungry, and the whole experience of walking day after day had started to feel, well . . . repetitive. I began to think about how far away Maine was, and about all the other cold, wet climbs that awaited me along the way. I started to doubt that I could physically make it to the end of the trail. And as my despair grew, so did the mountain.
I tried to occupy my mind with thoughts other than hiking, but the ache in my shoulders, the hunger pains in my stomach, and the burning in my calves made it impossible to think about anything else. In the midst of my struggle, I held onto the simplest, most concise piece of hope that I could think of: Every step I take is a step closer to Maine, I thought. Every step I take is a step closer to Maine.
At first I repeated it in my head, but then I began to say the words aloud, and with every new step I would utter my mantra.
“Every step I take is a step closer to Maine. Every step I take is a step closer to Maine!”
I knew that Maine was still a long way off—over eighteen hundred miles—but I needed to think about it. I needed to know that, although I was currently in a state of pain and discomfort, I was also constantly moving toward an end-goal. This sense of progress propelled me up the mountain, and when I finally reached the summit, I was depleted, but I was there—a little farther than where I had started, and a little closer to Maine.
To celebrate my summit, dark clouds gathered overhead and clapped in applause. Soon their thunderous approval was accompanied by a stunning light display and a downpour of rain. The electrical storm gave me what I had lacked all morning—adrenaline. I slalomed through the confusing pine forest on top of Unaka, desperately searching for white blazes.
The entire mountaintop was covered in pine trees, and the ground was blanketed with pine straw. I couldn’t see a definitive dirt path anywhere, and the lightning had me panicked. Everything looked the same, and I felt like I was stuck in a maze or an amusement park funhouse.
I kept having flashbacks to being struck by lightning. Every time a brilliant white flash lit up the forest, my spine stiffened and my body froze in fear. My mind now associated each bolt of lightning with the intense pain that had traveled through my body weeks before. I remembered the story about the ranger in Shenandoah National Park who had been struck by lightning seven times, and I tried even harder to find my way off of the mountain.
Once I was through the evergreens, the path again took form, and I quickly descended the backside of the ridge. Trying to rush, I stepped on a slick rock and slid several feet down a muddy slope to the switchback below. My fall served as a shortcut, but it also left me sore, scraped, and covered in mud. I continued to hobble along at a decent pace, trying to use rainwater to rinse the brown sludge off my body, but when the downpour let up and the lightning ceased, I lost all motivation.
I knew I was within a mile or two of the shelter where I planned to spend the night, but I still couldn’t do anything more than plod clumsily down the trail. I felt as if I were inebriated: there was little connection between my mind and body, and I had a hard time focusing on the forest or my feet. The only thing that kept me moving forward was three weeks of muscle memory.
After trudging along for what seemed like an eternity, I arrived at the Cherry Gap Shelter—only to look around in dismay at the many people who already occupied the small building. I didn’t have the energy to set up my wet tent tonight.
With my head down, I muttered halfheartedly, “Is there any more room in the shelter?”
I wasn’t even sure if anyone had heard me, but then a mature Southern accent quickly called back, “Of course there’s room, darlin’! I’ll move my bag over and you can sleep here.”
The voice triggered a sense of recognition. I lifted my head and peered into the corner of the shelter.
“Wesley?” Paralyzed with joy, I stood there staring at my friend, who sat grinning and waiting for me to acknowledge him. Wesley had attended the Appalachian Trail Institute with me, and aside from Sarah and Doug, he had been my closest
friend at the workshop.
He was a tall, thin man with tanned skin and deep laugh lines contouring his face. He was a retiree from Montgomery, Alabama, and he embodied a true Southerner—loud, opinionated, and kind.
With a crooked smile on his face, he rose from the floorboards and engulfed me with open arms. I held on to Wesley as if he had returned from the dead. I never thought I would see him again, and meeting him here, now—there couldn’t have been a sweeter reunion.
Wesley helped me situate all my belongings, sweetly prodded me to get my cold, damp body into a warm sleeping bag, and shared some of his dinner with me, which he unconvincingly claimed that he couldn’t finish. All I could do was lie there and smile as he tended to me with care and conversation.
When he was satisfied that I had eaten enough, Wesley began to regale me with stories from his first month on the trail. At the workshop, he had told Warren that he wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail so he could work hard and be outside, and he had gotten just what he wanted. His stories from the first few weeks on the trail were epic, but it seemed that each adventure ended with either sickness or injury. He rattled off a litany of ailments, including a broken rib, pneumonia, and a stress fracture in his foot. Then he followed that up with an even more impressive inventory of prescription drugs he was taking for his infirmities.
After Wesley was finished recounting his many mishaps, he looked to his left and introduced me to Deputy, who reminded me of Wesley, except that his accent was stronger, his beard was longer, and his skin was a deeper shade of caramel. Deputy and Wesley had been hiking together for several weeks. Eager to match his companion’s list of setbacks, Deputy immediately dove into how this was his fourth attempt to thru-hike the AT. In fact, I got the impression that Deputy enjoyed relaying the annals of hardship that had kept him from Katahdin. One year it was a broken leg, another it was family tragedy, and once it came down to budgeting and finances. Once, Deputy made it all the way up to Connecticut before having to stop. But despite his setbacks, he would start over at Springer Mountain each spring in an attempt to hike the entire trail.
I admired Deputy’s persistence, but after a day like today, I was convinced that I was only going to try this once. This was my one chance, and if I wanted to finish, then I needed to give it my all, because I wasn’t coming back.
That night I fell asleep as Wesley and Deputy tried to convince the five New Englanders in the shelter that the South had not technically lost The War—God bless those two if they ever make it past Maryland.
8
CONFIDENCE
CHERRY GAP SHELTER, TN, TO
DAMASCUS, VA—104.9 MILES
The rolling fourteen-mile descent off Roan Mountain to Highway 19E reveals some of the best scenery on the Appalachian Trail. The views from Big Hump and Little Hump stretch beyond the open fields of waving grass and provide glimpses of neighboring mountains in North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. As the trail nears the Virginia border, it transitions from high peaks into level ridges and more gradual elevation changes. And the triumphal entry into Damascus, Virginia, marks a new state and the completion of four hundred and fifty miles.
It baffles me how I could feel weak and sore beyond repair and then, after nine hours of sleep, wake up feeling healthy and strong. When I opened my eyes and saw Wesley snoring beside me, I felt refreshed. Even though I had almost sworn off hiking the day before, it was a new day, and I felt drawn to the trail and eager to hike.
For the first time in two days, it wasn’t raining. After rustling Wesley to a waking stupor and wishing him good-bye, I left the shelter and continued walking north.
The trail was peaceful, the wind was calm, and a quiet serenity pervaded the woods. The only noise came from my shoes gently snapping a twig or lightly crunching the leaves on the trail. I entertained myself with thoughts of the new friends that I had made, thoughts of an upcoming visit in Banner Elk, thoughts of my proud father at home telling every person he knew what I was doing, and my mom standing beside him and rolling her eyes.
Suddenly, a noisy footstep interrupted my thoughts. Steps in the woods make a distinct sound, and what I had heard was clearly a footstep, but it wasn’t mine, and it hadn’t come from the trail. I looked to the right of the path and there, peering out from behind a tree ten feet away, was a large man in head-to-toe camouflage holding a shotgun.
“Ya seen any turkeys?” asked the man.
“Turkeys?” I repeated, wide-eyed and still in shock.
“Yeah, tur-keys.” This time he enunciated very clearly, in an attempt to make me feel like a moron.
There was a pause. I wasn’t opposed to hunting, but I didn’t like being surprised. In particular, I didn’t like being surprised by men dressed in tan-and-green unitards holding big guns, especially if they were targeting wildlife that I hoped to see alive. But what scared me the most was that I hadn’t seen this hunter until I was within a few yards of him. He had stayed completely still and well disguised, silently watching me approach, then appeared unexpectedly and without warning. Weren’t these guys supposed to wear bright orange caps or something?
I wanted to tell him that I had been out here for several weeks and had not seen a single wild turkey, and that he should just give up and go home.
But instead I scowled and replied, “nope, no tur-keys.”
Realizing the negative impression he had made, the hunter tried halfheartedly to redeem himself. It sounded forced, but as he turned to leave, he said, “Well, have a good hike and watch out for hunters, ’cuz it’s the first day of the season.”
The season—turkey season. Great. I didn’t have to worry about thunderstorms today, but I did have to worry about men in camo running around the woods with loaded guns. For the rest of the day I was paranoid, especially when I had to pee and couldn’t be sure that men weren’t hiding behind trees and watching.
Thankfully, most hunters aren’t motivated enough to climb a six-thousand-foot mountain to look for turkeys, so I made it to the top of roan Mountain without any further encounters. roan, like Unaka, offered a beastly climb to the summit. Its rocky slope and steep grade is said to rival the peaks in new Hampshire and Maine, but unlike Unaka, I completed the long ascent with relative ease.
Roan’s summit is covered in a spruce forest and doesn’t offer any panoramic views from the top. However, after navigating a mile and a half off the peak, the trail reaches an exposed ridge, which is covered in tall golden stalks of grass that roll like waves in the breeze.
Within the swaying expanse of amber hues, there are several dark green islands of rhododendron. Up until now, I had mostly seen rhododendron bushes with their leaves tightly curled like cigars and pointing to the ground, but when the temperatures warm up, a rhododendron bush will unclench its fists and open them to the sky. That afternoon, the plants on Roan Mountain unfurled their leaves and lifted them heavenward.
Imitating the rhododendron, I lifted my hands to the clear blue sky. It felt so good that I stopped walking, looked to the sky, and began to spin in circles. I felt safe and free like an uninhibited child. Then I felt dizzy, really dizzy. I stopped twirling and took several drunken steps up the trail until I could once again walk in a straight line.
When the path reentered the forest, I was filled with awe by the surrounding vegetation. The forest had soaked up two straight days of rain and now looked greener and smelled more alive than I had ever experienced. Each step I took was filled with wonder, and the path itself seemed eager to please as it continued to slope gently downhill.
I hadn’t passed anyone that day except the hunter. When I reached Little Hump, I could once again see the trail stretch into the distance before me, and there wasn’t another person in sight. It felt as if I had the entire mountain all to myself.
Little Hump offered uninterrupted views of the blue Ridge Mountains, which, true to their name, were now transforming from a barren brown to a kaleidoscope of blues. I followed the ridgeline to the top of neighboring
Big Hump to watch the sunset. The sky was lit up with hues of orange, pink, and yellow that could never be duplicated in manufactured colors. And when the sun set, the mountains shed their shades of blue to reveal a majestic coat of purple.
I was overcome with awe. Spontaneously and without thought, I shouted, “Praise God!” into the wind.
Then I felt like a dork.
I had become comfortable singing out loud on the trail. But shouting into the wind—to a God that most folks on the trail rejected—felt weird. I mean, what if someone had heard me? What if a hunter had been hiding in the grass and now thought that I was some crazy person screaming to God on top of a mountain?
I hadn’t meant to think so much about God on the trail. I wasn’t really counting on Him to challenge me or change me. I thought that we would just maintain the status quo until I finished in Maine and started going back to church. But this evening, with the sunset, the scent of the mountains, and the noise of the crickets, I knew that God had planned it out for me. I remembered a verse in the Bible that said that even if humans failed to praise God, the rocks would sing out his glories. And that’s what they were doing—the mountains were singing the praises of God beautifully and without shame. I wished I could be more like a mountain.
The next morning I had a short jaunt to 19E where I planned to meet Heather. I woke up early, eager to reach a familiar face and a shower. I packed up my belongings and started hiking while the sky was still gray. As the sun rose over the horizon, I began to notice how faint the white blazes had become. It was almost if someone had tried to remove them from the trees and rocks that lined the path.
Eventually the trail left the woods and joined a gravel road through a rural neighborhood. The mobile homes that dotted the road were rundown: some were slanted, one had a crooked roof, and several had missing siding or broken windows. But all the modular units had at least one guard dog that came charging at me with teeth bared and slobber streaming down its jowls.
Becoming Odyssa Page 9