On the verge of tears, I turned around and shamefully walked back in the direction I had come. My delay put me directly on top of the exposed White Cap Mountain for a late-afternoon thunderstorm. And when I arrived at Logan Brook Lean-To soaking wet to find a completely dry Nightwalker sitting there smiling, I was jealous and also hurt that he didn’t seem more concerned.
“What happened?” he asked lackadaisically.
“I went in the wrong direction.”
He started to laugh, and I shot him an irritated look, struggling to hold back tears of frustration.
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to back-peddle as quickly as possible.
“I just want to go to bed,” I said. And ten minutes later, I was asleep.
As soon as I woke up the next morning, I found myself blinking, batting at, and blowing away the bugs that hovered above my sleeping bag. I packed my belongings and started hiking very quickly, hoping to outrun them. As I jogged through the cloud of insects, I noticed a strange burning sensation in my legs. I looked down and discovered that I had a rash all over the bottom half of my body. My legs were covered with small, painful red dots. In some places, the rash was so concentrated that it looked like hives.
The burning was the worst at my hips where my pack and clothes rubbed. I tried not buckling my waist belt, but the added strain killed my shoulders. Every piece of clothing or plant that grazed my leg felt as if it were cutting through my skin. All of a sudden, I completely empathized with Nightwalker’s half-naked hiking strategy.
I tried to wipe away my welling tears, but I ended up rubbing sweat and DEET into my eyes. Now it burned to open them, and I couldn’t see the trail. I was a mess, and the only thing that kept me going was the thought of White House Landing. I knew that if I could make it through the afternoon, that evening I could take a side trail to a rural resort known as White House Landing where I would be able to shower and soothe my fiery skin.
Thinking positive thoughts of friends, food, and running water, I managed to disassociate from the excruciating pain in my lower body long enough to reach the lake and small wooden platform that served as the pickup point for the resort. At the dock, Nightwalker and I discovered posted directions that instructed us to blow on the dock’s air horn just once. (A bold warning beneath stated that blowing the horn a second time would forfeit the hiker’s right to any help from the other side.)
I covered my ears, Nightwalker blew the horn, and together we sat and waited for any sign of life from the opposite shore. We waited fifteen minutes and nothing happened. After thirty minutes, I decided that the lodge hadn’t heard the noise and begged Nightwalker to try the horn again. He reminded me that one blow too many would mean no help at all, and suggested we wait a full hour before trying again. Miserable, I spent the next five minutes bathing myself in every last ounce of a rancid bug-repellant that I had.
Finally, after forty minutes, we saw someone descend from the far landing and crank up a motorboat. Considering the quantity and tenacity of the bugs, our chauffeur was lucky to find anything left of us when he finally pulled up to the dock.
For me, the climb up Katahdin started at White House Landing. As the motorboat sped toward the distant dock, the wind blew away the bugs and cooled my rash. But, more significantly, it also blew away the hardships and challenges of the past four months. Before now, I could see the end, but this is where I started to experience it.
When I stepped out of the boat, Mooch was waiting on the dock to give me a hug. I didn’t care that he had left us, I was just glad we were back together again. He helped Nightwalker and me with our packs and walked with us to the lodge where Snowstepper and Texas Ranger were eating dinner. Nightwalker and I ordered our meals, and then the five of us, five thru-hikers who had started in Georgia and walked to Maine, sat and laughed together.
After dinner, I retreated to the shower house. After a long, hot rinse, I covered myself with a soothing balm that the owner of White House Landing had given me to treat my rash. As soon as I put on the clear, silky ointment, I could see the hives start to shrink and the red dots disappear.
As I approached the bunkhouse, I could hear the four boys laughing before I entered the wooden cabin. When I walked in the door, I saw them sitting in a circle, talking about the trail and laughing at the memories, both good and bad. Mostly, they laughed at mishaps and failures, mistakes and misconceptions; what had made them miserable and angry a few weeks ago now seemed very funny. They could look back and laugh because they had overcome the pain and the frustration. They had grown, they were stronger and wiser, and they had almost completed what they set out to accomplish.
I didn’t join in their conversation. I just lay in my bed and listened to the guys carry on late into the night. This was the first time in weeks that I didn’t fall asleep as soon as I crawled in my sleeping bag. I was still tired, but it was a peaceful exhaustion, and I wanted to keep my eyes open for as long as I could. Even the air in the room felt different. It was as if I could breathe in the joy of fellowship, the contentment of a job well done, and the strength of an intangible bond.
After White House Landing, we had one last full day on the trail before reaching the base of Katahdin. Nightwalker, Mooch, and I were on the morning’s first ferry back to the trail. We hiked separately for most of the day, which gave me plenty of time to reflect on the past four months.
Questions ran continuously through my head: Would I miss the trail? Would it be hard leaving the boys? Was Nightwalker my boyfriend? What would happen once the trail was over? Where would I go? What would I do?
When people had asked why I wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail, one of the answers I had given was that I wanted time to think about where I wanted to live and what I wanted to do for a living, and the trail would give me plenty of time to do that. But now that I was at the end, I didn’t feel any closer to knowing the answers than when I started. Hiking the trail had proved too difficult to let me look ahead and make future decisions; it had demanded my entire focus.
The only thing I felt more certain of at the end of this journey was myself. I was no longer defined by my résumé or my activities, and I didn’t give answers based on what I thought other people wanted to hear. For the first time in my life, I knew who I was—and I was okay with who I was.
I definitely believed in God—that probably stood out the most after twenty-one hundred miles. Every day on the trail I felt God’s presence, His promise never to leave me, and His power in all creation. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I needed to hide that or apologize for it. My affection for Mooch and Nightwalker, and their acceptance of me, helped me realize that regardless of faith and background, if you get to know people—not what they are, but who they are—then you will experience love and friendship you might otherwise have missed.
I also knew that something deep within me connected with nature, hard work, and simplicity. I learned that I was both stubborn and tough, a lot tougher than I thought I was, especially when I let other people help me. I knew that I was beautiful, despite what other people said, and I appreciated my body based on what it could do instead of how it looked. I also knew that I was truly blessed, blessed with a wonderful family and wonderful friends.
Another thing I knew for certain: after four months in the woods, I knew exactly what, or rather who, I was going back to. I was going back to my family.
Even on good days, my family often experienced strained relations. My mother and I in particular, despite being the same height, had rarely seen eye to eye. Yet there were some aspects of this trip that made me miss my mom, my dad, and my brothers more than ever. I had certainly gone longer periods of time without seeing them before, but there was something different about this experience. In a strange way, the challenges and miles of this trip did not distance me from my family, but made me feel closer to them.
I knew that right then, my dad and brother were driving up from North Carolina to meet me at Katahdin, and that kno
wledge, even in my tired, rugged, dirty state, left me glowing with anticipation.
Lost in thoughts of seeing my family and searching for answers, I hardly noticed the tall, dark creature grazing next to the trail. I heard a twig snap, and I looked up to spot a hairy brown moose twenty yards off the trail. I was elated—another moose! And this time he had antlers.
The animal was so preoccupied with eating the low-lying leaves that despite my proximity, he didn’t even notice me. Not wanting to approach too quickly or appear threatening, I kicked a rock to get his attention. Looking up at me, he trotted a few yards farther into the forest and stood at attention. I kept walking down the trail, but my gaze remained focused on his antlers. And as I drew nearly even with him, his antlers began to move and he began to walk—not farther into the woods, but parallel to me and the trail.
We must have traveled about a quarter of a mile together, as side-by-side as a wild moose and hiker can be, before he turned and veered away into the thick brush behind him. I was never scared or worried about having the moose walk so close. It took until the end of my journey, but I was no longer walking in nature, I was walking with it.
That night we camped at Rainbow Lake, a large translucent mountain lake bordered with white boulders. The boys and I had set up our campsite by mid-afternoon, and we spent the rest of the day playing and talking at the edge of the water.
We started by skipping flat pebbles against the lake’s still surface. Once most of the smooth rocks from the beach had sunk to the bottom of the lake, we threw handfuls of round pebbles into the air and listened to the noise they made as they broke the surface. Those notes turned into music, and we became a band. We timed our throws to control the chorus of percussion hitting the water. The surrounding pines provided an echo that allowed the sound of each individual splash to resonate long after the rocks had disappeared.
Our concert was interrupted when we found a small crawfish in the nearby sand. I don’t know if it was really a crawfish, because I thought crawfish just lived in the South, but we caught the animal and sequestered it in a small rocky entrapment. Then we added a leech to the aquarium so he would have a friend, but it turns out that leeches and crawfish don’t make great friends.
While I was watching the crawfish tug and poke at the leech, and the leech in turn balling up into an impenetrable black pearl, Mooch thought it would be funny to take my new mop stick and javelin it into the lake as far as he could. I was furious with him, until I realized what Mooch knew from the beginning—mop sticks float. The wind pushed the yellow plastic tube back to shore in a few minutes. Its journey was so peaceful and therapeutic that we ended up throwing it back in a few more times just to watch it gracefully sway up to the shoreline.
After a few hours, the boys left the shore to start cooking their dinners. Since I didn’t cook, I stayed by the water.
With Nightwalker and Mooch preoccupied and out of sight, I crept along the shoreline to a large white boulder. I climbed on top of the rock where no one could see me and took off my clothes, laying them on the warm granite beside me. Then, after taking one last minute to absorb the warmth of the rock and look into the sun’s dwindling rays, I dove into the clear cool waters below.
Totally submerged, with my hair floating toward the surface and my limbs weightless around me, I embraced the unencumbered sensation of being surrounded by water. Rising back to the surface, I looked at my half-white, half-brown body beneath the water. I was amazed at the physical transformation that had taken place since Georgia. I never knew that I could be this strong and fit.
I looked up into the blue sky toward Katahdin. It was like a dream, too far away to touch but too close to be a mirage. I dipped down below the surface and came back up, but the mountain was still there. I laughed and looked up to the sky. I had done it.
Abol Stream Campground was home to an RV park and the first public road in over a hundred miles. The campground separated the Hundred Mile Wilderness from Katahdin’s Baxter State Park, and featured simple amenities like restrooms and a small store.
The store had a pay phone, where four quarters bought me two minutes of talk time and one minute of the operator telling me that my time was almost up, first in English and then in Spanish. My first attempt to reach my dad was unsuccessful, so I left a message and went inside the store to scrounge up some lunch.
After trying to occupy myself with food and people-watching inside the RV park, I tried calling my father again. This time he picked up.
“Jen, hello?” Crackle. “Is that you?“ Snap. “We’re getting close to Kata—” Pop, pop, pop. “Where do you—” buzzz “—meet us?”
The phone line was filled with static, but I could gather that he was close and wanted to know where to meet me.
“Katahdin Stream!” I said.
“Otter Creek?” he asked.
I repeated myself slowly and clearly, “Kah-tah-din stream.”
Again: “Otter Creek?”
I was so frustrated, I yelled into the pay-phone receiver, “KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM!!”
Then I heard the operator say, “I’m sorry, your time has expired.”
I don’t know how he got Otter Creek from Katahdin Stream, but it took another eight dollars in quarters before he repeated Katahdin Stream into the phone.
Katahdin Stream Campground was still several miles from Abol Bridge. Not wanting my brother and father to arrive at an empty campground and go looking for Otter Creek (God forbid there really was an Otter Creek), I told Mooch and Nightwalker, who had just arrived at the store, that I would see them later on. Then I sped down the trail toward Katahdin Stream.
Out of all my previous sprints on the trail—in thunderstorms, through mosquitoes, and away from Moot—this was by far my fastest. With hardly anything in my pack, I raced down the path, skipping roots, hurdling fallen trees, and dancing over river crossings.
Arriving at Katahdin Stream Campground, I was heartbroken to discover that my family had yet to arrive. And I was a little worried that they were waiting for me at a place named Otter Creek.
Sitting anxiously beside the entrance road, I was overjoyed to finally see them pull up the gravel drive. I left my belongings, dashed to the car, and flung open the driver-side door just as it stopped. Instantly, I had my arms wrapped around my dad’s neck. He held me tight, except when he had to use his hand to wipe the tears away from his eyes. It felt like an eternity had passed since he dropped me off in Helen, Georgia. And there could be no greater reward than to have him here to greet me at the end.
After embracing my dad, I ran over to my brother. I was happy and somewhat surprised that he had decided to come. Before the trail, he had not been excited about the thought of his little sister thru-hiking by herself, and I don’t think he ever changed his mind. But being here at the end proved that he loved me and wanted to support me despite his objections. Or maybe he was just glad that it was over and I was safe. Either way, he was here, and that meant a lot.
My dad and brother stayed in the park long enough to meet Mooch and Nightwalker. Then, after setting a time to return in the morning, they headed off to spend the night in a hotel. Mooch, Nightwalker, and I prepared to spend our final night in the woods.
At the base of Katahdin, Baxter State Park has a shelter designated solely for thru-hikers. I guess if you walk 2,170 miles, you no longer have to share.
We were the only ones at the Birches Lean-To, and over dinner the boys began trying to recite from memory the name of every shelter they had stayed in along the trail. I struggled to remember the name of the shelter I stayed in three nights ago, let alone back in Georgia.
“Okay, let’s see,” Mooch started. “We stayed at Stover Creek, Gooch Mountain, then we took a night at Neels Gap Hostel. The next night was that one night we didn’t spend together. Remember?”
“Yeah,” said Nightwalker. “That was the night I stayed at Blue Mountain Shelter. Man, it was packed. I
just remember that it was really cold and there were four really cute girls from Georgia.”
My ears perked up. “You mean the Georgia Peaches?” I asked.
“Yeah, did you meet them?” he asked.
“Yeah, I met them along with a guy from Alaska and another hiker who was a diabetic.”
“Wait,” Nightwalker said, surprised. “All those people were in that shelter.”
“So was I.” It took me a minute to process, but I suddenly realized that I had met Nightwalker before Virginia. I had met him my very first night on the trail in Georgia, and I had slept right beside him. His name hadn’t been Nightwalker then, it was Matthew, and his face hadn’t been covered in a blanket of hair. I knew he had seemed familiar and that I felt strangely connected to him, but I just thought that was because I liked him.
It was hard to believe that we just now remembered our first meeting, but it had been a long time ago, and we had both changed a lot since then. After the shock wore off, we all started to laugh. I spent my last night on the trail the same way I spent my first: in a shelter right beside Matthew.
After fighting through rain, snow, fog, cold temperatures, high winds, oppressive humidity, and blazing heat, the weather for our climb up Katahdin was perfect. The sky was blue, the air was warm, the wind was calm, and there weren’t even any bugs. We started up the mountain at daylight with my brother. My dad remained at the campground and prepared a picnic for our return.
The trail up Katahdin is mostly, well, up. The path follows the rocky spine of the mountain for most of the way, but then, about a mile from the summit, it flattens out and follows a gradual, exposed slope toward the beckoning brown sign on top of the mountain. That sign, that rickety piece of painted wood that marked the mountain summit—that was the end of the Appalachian Trail.
Becoming Odyssa Page 29