I loved being near livestock. Without people around, I tried to talk to the animals with moos, neighs, and brays, but when they didn’t respond I reverted to speaking in English.
I was caught off guard, however, when I came to a pasture full of steers. So far, I hadn’t encountered any animals with a reputation for goring people, but now I found myself locked in a staring contest with a mammoth black steer with sharp white horns. Now my words were rooted in fear instead of a need for socialization.
“Nice steer, good steer. You just stay right where you are. No need to get up for me.”
I kept telling myself he was a steer. I grew up close enough to the country to know that steers had been castrated and were less aggressive than bulls.
The enormous creature sat exactly in the middle of the trail. So much for land easements. There was no way I was staying on the path if a horned animal that weighed seven times as much as I did was sitting in the way. I made a wide semicircle off the trail and around his flared nostrils. He turned his head to follow me with his eyes, then when his neck could go no further, he stood up . . . and he was definitely not a steer!
For the next four hundred yards, the bull followed close behind me. I walked, looked back, then sped up, again and again. I was trying not to make any sudden moves, but I didn’t want the bull getting any closer either. I felt like an unwilling rodeo clown or an innocent bystander on the streets of Pamplona. I rationalized that if I kept my back to him and he did charge me, at least he would gore my pack, which might keep me alive.
When I finally reached the fence, I quickly climbed over the stile to safety. Once I was out of range, I turned to the bull and stuck out my tongue. He responded by pawing at the ground with his right front hoof. All of a sudden the fence didn’t look quite so sturdy, so I turned and kept hiking.
I really liked hiking in Virginia, but besides the bulls, there were three other drawbacks to the rolling farmland of the southern Appalachians.
The first was cow patties. Lots of big farm animals meant lots of big cow patties. I knew I had too much time on my hands when I started trying to accurately date them. I decided that the harder, drier, and lighter the cow patty, the older it was. Some of the really old ones—I’m guessing three to five years—looked less like manure and more like flat white rocks. On the other hand, dung that was distributed within the past three years had more of a yellow color, it could be easily be broken apart with a hiking stick (or mop handle), and it distinctly showed undigested blades of grass and hay. The stinky, mushy brown piles that were covered in flies and sucked my shoe off when I accidentally stepped in them—well, those were the recent additions.
As if dodging aggressive animals and feces weren’t difficult enough, the hardest trial was getting in and out of the pastures. Most fields were surrounded by barbed wire or an electric fence. In order to climb over the fencing, hikers had to walk over an A-frame-shaped set of steps, known as a stile. The stiles were old and wooden, several had missing boards, and most of them shook and swayed when I passed over them. The biggest problem was that when I turned around at the top of the stile to climb down the opposite side, my pack would become wedged in the space where the two ladders connected. When I tried to use my momentum to free my pack, I would lose my balance and tumble down the descending ladder, often landing on my knees.
The third downside to the gentle terrain of Virginia was the water quality. So far the water on the trail had been great: copious, clear, and coming up from natural springs or running off the sides of undeveloped mountains. But after Pearisburg, the water wasn’t quite so appealing. The water sources for this part of the trail were creeks and rivers that bordered rural farmland. I worried about pesticide runoff from the crops, but the bigger deterrent was the animals grazing on the banks of the rivers or drinking from the creeks. Unlike hikers, animals did not follow the rule of relieving themselves a hundred yards away from a water source, which might have been why, after heavy rains, the rivers looked like chocolate milk.
I hadn’t anticipated the decrease in water quality, and since I didn’t have a filter, I went thirsty for most of the morning. In the early afternoon, the trail left the rolling countryside and began to climb up the ridge of a nearby mountain. As soon as I had hiked above all visible livestock, I stopped at the first stream I came to and immersed my water bottle in the cool, clear current. I filled it to the brim and was about to bring it to my lips when something in the creek bed caught my eye.
A bone.
A large white bone the size of my forearm was nestled among the rocks a few inches from where I had filled my bottle. As I looked closer, I began to notice several other bone fragments scattered throughout the stream. It looked like some animal had died right in this spot. I gagged and quickly dumped out my water bottle. I decided to continue hiking up the mountain, hoping there would be more water closer to the top.
A few miles later, I still hadn’t passed any water sources when I reached the narrow mountain ridge where the trail transitioned from a dirt path into a sloping rock face. The slant of the trail was relentless, and soon my ankles began to ache from climbing the severe incline.
As I hobbled across the slick granite, time moved more slowly than it had in my high school pre-calculus class. Since this morning, I had traveled sixteen miles, and only consumed one liter of water. My mouth and throat were so uncomfortably dry that I started coughing involuntarily. I kept praying that the trail would descend the slope into a watershed.
After several more miles, I was still on the ridge and still had no water. My thirst grew with every step. I began to feel dizzy and lightheaded from dehydration, and my body’s core was filled with a dull ache. I imagined my lungs, heart, liver, and intestines all withering to the size of a softball within my body.
My senses started to deceive me. The wind through the leaves sounded like a rushing creek, and any time something moved or glistened in the forest I would see water before realizing that it was the sunlight reflecting off a low-lying bush or a swaying branch.
Just when I decided to no longer trust my eyes or ears, I saw a small brook lining the trail. I ran up to it and plunged my hand into the gurgling current. It was real!
I began scooping up water with my hands while filling up my water bottle. When the bottle was full, I drank the entire thirty-two ounces, refilled it, then drank another thirty-two ounces without pausing.
Within seconds, I felt like I was going to throw up. My stomach was queasy and my head started to spin, but I didn’t care because my organs were expanding.
I laid against my pack for several minutes so my stomach could settle and the water could disperse itself throughout my body. Occasionally I would dip my fingers in the clear water beside me and press my chilled wet hands against my forehead and neck. I was so thankful for this brook! It was humbling to realize how dependent I was on water sources during this journey. At home, I never appreciated water because it is always available, but lying beside the brook and listening to the water splash over the earth, I realized how precious and important clean water is. When I left the stream, I carried as much as my water bottles would hold.
Twenty minutes later, it rained.
Half an hour before, I would have done anything for a drop of water, and now the storm left water streaming down my face and cascading over the crevasses and gullies that lined the trail.
I looked up to the sky and laughed. At home, I was god. Water depended on me: I could turn it on and off with the twist of a knob. Out here, I was dependent on nature. The rain shower reminded me that I was not in control; I was part of something much bigger than myself.
The rain continued into the evening, and I was thankful to reach Sarver Hollow Shelter just before dusk. I was about forty yards away when I heard a scuffle from under the wooden roof. I looked up in time to see a big black-and-white dog leap out of the shelter in my direction. He barked ferociously as he sprinted toward me, and I instinctively held my mop stick in front of me to fend h
im off. He stopped a few feet away from me, dug in his paws, lowered his shoulders, and bared his teeth as he growled.
Then I heard laughter. A female hiker emerged from the shelter, yelling, “Katahdin, katahdin, you silly boy. Get back here!”
The dog immediately turned, wagged his tail, and trotted back toward the shelter.
The woman called out, “Hey there! I’m out hiking for the weekend and I always bring my dog, Katahdin. He’s just trying to protect me.”
She named her dog Katahdin? Dogs aren’t even allowed on Mount katahdin!
I took a deep breath and approached the shelter. Ten steps later, the dog charged back at me, sounding a death bark.
“Katahdin, quit that! Stop it! Don’t worry,” she called to me. “He’s friendly, he just needs to get to know you.”
When I finally made it to the shelter, the woman called her dog over to sniff me so that we could be “friends.” Katahdin’s version of making friends involved startling me with a low growl, then circling me with his teeth bared and drool strands hanging from his mouth.
“There now,” the lady said with an oblivious smile. “Now everyone knows each other!”
I love dogs. At least, I thought I did. But the trail was causing me to seriously reconsider that stance. Pets are supposed to be leashed on almost half of the Appalachian Trail, but I had yet to see a single dog owner obey the leash laws. Instead, I saw dogs barking and growling at people, chasing wildlife, mucking up water sources, and taking up room in shelters. I had met several wonderful dogs on the trail, but unfortunately the poorly behaved ones left the more lasting impression.
And I didn’t blame the dogs, I blamed the owners. I didn’t feel safe around Katahdin, and by bringing him on the trail and into the shelter without a leash, this woman prioritized her own comfort and safety over my well-being. Despite my lack of human contact the past few days, I was too put off by the shrill tone that the woman used when she addressed her slobbering beast to join in their discussion. Instead, I rolled out my sleeping bag and said good night.
“Oh, have a good night,” she said cheerfully. “And don’t worry about bears. Katahdin won’t let any animals near the shelter.”
Worry about bears? I was hiking the Appalachian Trail to see the bears!
I fell asleep quickly, but then woke up again, and again, and again, as Katahdin spent all night pacing the shelter and barking at noises coming from the dark woods.
I was not sad to say good-bye to Katahdin the next morning, or to see the woman hike south when she left the shelter.
It had rained all night, and it was still drizzling when I started hiking. After four miles, the trail reached yet another rock obstacle: the Dragon’s Tooth.
I didn’t know what the Dragon’s Tooth was, but it sounded mean. And when I arrived at the jagged rock outcropping, my fears were validated. The Dragon’s Tooth was a rock field on a granite slope. It required some novice-level bouldering skills to traverse which, in my opinion, jumped to intermediate in the rain, and advanced-intermediate with the addition of a pack and mop stick.
I wish I had been hiking in the opposite direction, because climbing up through the Dragon’s Tooth would not have been nearly as difficult. As I hiked down the Tooth and off the ridge, I struggled to lower my fully extended six-foot body to each descending precipice.
At one point, I was wiggling my lower body backward off a rock ledge to the path four feet below, and I felt a rock underneath my left foot. I thought I had made it to solid ground, so I pushed off the ledge to transfer my weight to my feet. But with my full weight on the rock, it came loose, and I tumbled off the ledge to the path below, landing hard on my back.
The fall knocked the wind out of me and I panicked for a moment. I quickly propped myself up on my elbows, and after a few seconds, my lungs once again filled with air. I wiped the raindrops off my face and examined my stinging left elbow. It was dirty and scraped. Next I felt for my hip, which was sore to the touch, and although my hip belt had protected it, I was sure it was bruised.
I wanted to cry. If there had been anyone else around, I probably would have cried, but without an audience, without sympathy, I just whimpered and took a few deep breaths. Then I stood up and kept hiking.
On the backside of the Dragon’s Tooth, the trail started a long, steady ascent up to the neighboring ridge. The climb itself wasn’t too difficult, and my elbow and hip began to feel better, but my feet started to feel tender, and soon the tenderness grew into raging discomfort.
I could have endured the pain in another part of my body, but hiking on hurting feet was awful. The pain was so overwhelming that I couldn’t feel my toes. I also couldn’t tell when my weight was on the ball of my foot and when it had shifted to my heel. I was miserable.
At one point, the ridge took a short dip to cross a highway. There was an empty parking lot next to the road, so I stopped to rest my feet. The morning’s drizzle had begun to clear, and I took my socks off to air out my feet.
I had the same symptoms that I’d suffered two days before on the rock field outside of Pearisburg. I had no clue what could cause my feet to hurt this much and smell so bad.
Maybe it was just a process that they had to go through in order to toughen up for the trail. But I had hiked nearly seven hundred miles—my feet should be tough by now!
I had switched socks in Damascus and wondered if that could be part of my problem, but socks were socks, right? Surely a slight change in the padding and material wouldn’t cause polka-dotted holes to appear on the soles of my feet.
Perhaps it was the rain? At the ATI, Warren Doyle had told us to expect rain every fourth day on the trail, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had hiked three days without rain. And I had definitely hiked with wet feet more than dry feet.
“Hey, pretty girl.”
I stopped diagnosing my feet and looked up. I didn’t know where the voice had come from, but it sounded much more deliberate than a drive-by catcall.
Then I noticed the blue SUV slowing to a stop at the edge of the parking lot. When the door opened, Chilly stepped out. I hardly recognized him, since he was clean-shaven and wearing khaki pants, but his smile and warm eyes were the same on and off the trail.
I loved Chilly. Honestly, I had a crush on him. Not the type of crush that I actually wanted to act on, because that would have ruined it. I just thought Chilly was perfect. He was kind, handsome, funny, a good listener, and definitely not overbearing—basically the opposite of Moot. Whenever I saw Chilly, he made me laugh, he made me feel special, and he gave me butterflies in my stomach. He probably had that effect on most girls, but that just made him all the more crushable.
“How are you?” he asked as he approached.
“Hurting.” I showed him my feet and he grimaced.
“I’m taking a break from the trail to visit family. We’re headed into Roanoke right now. Why don’t you come with us and we can take you to a doctor.”
I took a moment to think about his offer. Common sense said that I should go with him and seek help.
“No thanks. I just have to make it until tomorrow morning, and then I’m staying with a family friend who can help me.” The pain must have been clouding my judgment.
“Are you sure? That looks pretty bad.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get help first thing tomorrow.”
Chilly shook his head in disapproval, then consented. “Okay, but take these with you.” He reached into his pockets and brought out a piece of fresh fruit and a bag of homemade cookies. His hand brushed mine as he handed them over, and a shock of excitement raced through my core. Then he turned to walk back to his car, and with one last glance over his shoulder, he called, “See you down the trail, Odyssa.”
I could only hope.
Chilly had not just given me food, he had given me the morale boost I needed to continue hiking.
I put my wretched socks and wet shoes back on and walked across the highway.
The trail contin
ued to climb, my feet still hurt, and the butterflies in my stomach eventually turned to nausea. After several miles, the trail leveled out but my stomach didn’t. I felt like I was going to vomit.
I hadn’t thrown up since third grade. I had a thirteen-year retention streak going, and I didn’t want to blow it now. Even the day before, after drinking sixty-four ounces of water at once, I had felt queasy but I knew that I could keep it down. Today I wasn’t so sure.
I came across Campbell Shelter and stopped to rest. I took out my sleeping bag, curled inside, and then brought out my cell phone to call my mom. No matter how old I was, if I was sick or hurt, I wanted my mother. The irony was, she wasn’t very good at sympathy. I knew that if I called her I would hear something along the lines of, “Well it’s your own fault for wanting to hike the trail, and now you’re stuck out there all alone with hurt feet because you don’t know how to take care of yourself.” But in my heart I knew that it was just her way of saying she loved me.
When I picked up the phone to call, I braced myself for her response. I didn’t have the opportunity to tell her about my ailment before she anxiously inquired about the weather.
“Are you stuck in a thunderstorm somewhere? Do you need to be rescued off the trail?”
“Rescued off the trail? No, Mom, I’m fine. I’m in a shelter and I had cell phone reception. So I just wanted to call and tell you that I—”
“Oh, you’re in a shelter. With a roof, right? Well, stay there and don’t go anywhere. The Weather Channel is showing a huge green blob with a red and yellow core pounding Roanoke right now.”
“Mom, it rained this morning, but it’s totally stopped now.”
“It’s not safe. Just stay put and I’ll call you when the storms have passed.”
Mom was anxious enough about the weather; I didn’t want to add illness to her hysterics. And even though she had completely overreacted about the rainstorm, the call had served its purpose. At least I knew that she was thinking about me.
Becoming Odyssa Page 14