As we walked, a pale blue light suffused the landscape, changing the fir boughs from black to a green-tinged indigo. Downward and downward we strode, through fields where snowdrifts looked like waves on the sea. Near sunrise, the ridge we followed narrowed to a slender catwalk of stone, arching out over the valleys like a buttress to Clingman's Dome. Range upon serried range of mountains, all weathered in the same pattern of sharp peaks and furrowed edges, spread out below us. Small clouds clung in the valleys, blazing white when the first rays of sun struck them, and a fine blue mist rose off the ridges.
The air grew warmer as the clay progressed; by midafternoon, patches of meltwater glistened on the trail. Around two o'clock, we came to a shelter with a Pilgrim and Gollum register. Pilgrim's graceful cursive began the book; he wrote out a traveler's blessing similar to the one Netta had given us. On the next page, Gollum waxed rhapsodic on the virtues of duct tape. Further on, we found an entry from Waterfall, who sounded cheerful in spite of the cold weather she'd encountered in the Smokies. Less than two hundred miles to Springer! Go sohos! Life is good. We unpacked some dried fruit and chocolate for our afternoon snack and sat in the sun for a full forty-five minutes, coming tip with messages worth leaving for the register's owners, as well as for our friends behind. After much deliberation, I wrote a riddle for the children.
"Way too easy," jackrabbit laughed. "The answer's all around us"
"If it stays this warm, the snow will have melted by the time they get here," I said. "Then they'll have to think a bit."
"I hope it stays warm for them" Jackrabbit squinted up the trail to the north, her lips pursed and her brows drawn together. "It's supposed to, isn't it?" Then she looked back at me, and the lines of worry vanished from her face. "Well, sister. The Trail beckons. Shall we?"
The sky clouded over briefly, around dusk, as we hiked down a ridge covered in beech trees. The sun went down between the branches in vivid hands of yellow and pink. The clouds vanished again as night fell, and familiar stars swung slowly overhead. The miles, which had seemed so short by day, uncoiled themselves slowly in the darkness, stretching across icy ridges and muddy stream valleys and countless hundreds of footsteps. My legs felt stiff and heavy as if they were made of wood. My sweaty socks chafed at niy feet; one spot, on the side of my left big toe, felt like it was beginning to blister. I tightened my grip on my hiking sticks, glanced up at Orion, and hurried on.
"Twenty-three miles, and it's only quarter of nine!" jackrabbit announced, as we dropped our packs and slumped down on the sleeping platform of Birch Spring Shelter. "If we keep this up, we'll catch Lash and Tim in a week!"
I felt as though we'd walked half the night, and I wasn't too optimistic about the prospect of "keeping it up" I didn't want to be a spoilsport, though. Jackrabbit sounded more cheerful than she'd been in months.
"Lash and Tim will be happy nien, if they stocked up on Snickers bars in Fontana. After a week at this pace, I'll be desperate for extra calories," I answered, as I peeled off my wet sock and began to doctor the blister.
jackrabbit
rom Birch Spring Shelter, it was an easy four miles downhill to Fontana Dam. The snow diminished as we descended, from ankle-deep to a tiny dusting, and then bare ground appeared. The lake, dark blue and shimmering in the thin sunlight, began to show between the trees on our left-hand side as we followed the muddy switchbacks. The water stretched off toward the horizon, following the curves of the valleys, winking in and out behind the far hills. A stripe of reddish rocks and clay outlined the lake, a hard boundary between the rippled surface and the gray-green leafless trees. On the far side of the lake, the water-contoured, irregular shapes of the Nantahala Mountains rose jagged into the hazy blue sky.
The dam itself was a monstrous wall of concrete plunging down out of sight into the gorge below us. Strange gurgles and hunts came from inside the structure as we crossed the walkway at the top. I tried to imagine the force of the water that it was holding back, hundreds of thousands of tons of pressure. The dam seemed as solid as the mountains around it, but I found I was glad when I stood on the other side.
By the empty parking lot, a vast plain of cracked gray asphalt, we found a tattered poster stuck up above the pay phone advertising cheap lodging for hikers. We called the number, and in a few minutes a blue pickup pulled into the lot.
We spent the rest of the day in our hotel room, sorting through a mail drop our mother had sent to Fontana Village. It was still warm outside, though the hazy clouds were gathering. I felt a little guilty for taking a half day off. We were both tired from our twenty-three the day before, though. And as much as I had hoped to catch up with Tim and Lash, it didn't seem likely-in the Birch Spring register, they were already three days ahead of us.
Toward evening, the phone rang and I picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Jackrabbit?" said a male voice on the other end of the line.
"The same. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"You mean you didn't recognize my voice?"
Suddenly I did: Tiny Tint! Where was he? Why was he calling us here? I decided to play it cool. "Why should I? There are so many men in my life."
"Jackrabbit, you've hurt nie. You've cut me to the quick."
"Where are you, Tim?"
"We're in a hotel down in Robbinsville."
Robbinsville-the only big town in the area, just down the road from Fontana. Which might mean ... "Who's this `we,' anyway, and where are you on the Trail?"
"Me and Lash. We're at the Dam"
"No way! Slackers."
"We missed you too much to go on," he said in a pained voice.
"Right."
"Actually, we got some serious trail magic. This friend of my sister's, who I hardly know-well, have you heard of Mayfield Dairies?" I had seen the brand often in Southern grocery stores. "This woman, the Mayfield heiress, came out to meet us in Fontana. She heard I was hiking and wanted to check it out or something. Anyway, she met us at the dam in this pimped-out car. There was, like, a full bar in the back of it. And cigars. She gave us cigars. She was like, `make yourselves at home, boys; we're going for a ride.' So she took us out on the town and-" he gave a startled exclamation. "Lash! Dude! Don't do it, man! Oh, I can't watch!"
"What's he doing?" I asked in alarm.
"Oh, it's horrible!" Tim regained some of his composure. "He shaved a stripe in his beard," he said in a voice thick with indignation.
"A stripe?"
"Right down the middle. Like an inch wide. Looks hideous."
"Why'd he do it?"
There was a muffled conversation. "He says, `chicks dig it,"' Tim relayed.
"I guess that remains to be seen. You guys hiking out tomorrow?"
"Yeah. We're going to Brown Fork Gap. Easy day; like fourteen."
"Sounds good. Maybe we'll see you there." I hung up the phone and turned to Isis. "The boys are back in town."
The air was warns the next day, probably in the fifties. We walked barefoot for the second time since fall. My feet felt wondrously alive, awake to every pebble or patch of smooth mud in the trail. The skin on my soles was still tender, but I quickly adjusted back to the rhythm of hiking barefoot, test ing each step and shifting my weight minutely to compensate for the roughness of the trail. Without the accustomed weight of boots, my legs felt stronger than ever. The fourteen miles sped past. Although we had started at almost noon, after a leisurely town breakfast, we reached Brown Fork Gap well before sunset.
The shelter there gave me a powerful feeling of nostalgia; it was built like the ones in Maine, hewn of rough logs, with a corrugated tin roof. It even had a porcupine trap. I expected to see Lash and Tin) there waiting for us, but instead we found a small group of northbounders. A gray-haired man probably in his seventies leaned against the back wall of the shelter reading the register, his face drawn and pale with exhaustion. A young couple in matching blue rain suits, looking and smelling entirely unlike long-distance hikers, were cooking d
inner on the picnic table in front of the shelter.
The woman looked up and smiled as we cane in. "We hiked eleven miles today!" she said, full of pride.
My first instinct was to laugh. We'd hiked fourteen in an easy half day. Then I remembered the northbounder we had met at Little Bigelow Lean-to in Maine, so many months ago, on the day we'd hiked our first seventeen. I had vowed that no matter how long we stayed on the Trail, I wouldn't become like him.
"That's great," I said. "The trails around here are pretty steep. Lots of little ups and downs. When you get up in the Smokies, it's smooth sailing for a couple days."
"You don't get really Hat trails until Pennsylvania, though," Isis said, laying down her hiking sticks and unbuckling her pack.
The northbound woman's expression changed to awe. "Are you guys southbounders?" she breathed.
We nodded.
"I )id you go through the whole winter? Wasn't there ice and snow? Greg, they're southbounders! Real thru-hikers!"
"You guys will be real thru-hikers, too, with a little luck and a lot of persistence," I told her.
Then she noticed our bare feet. "No way. Are you guys the Barefoot Sisters?"
"That's what they call us" It was alarming how far our notoriety had spread.
"Wow. I didn't even think you even existed. This trail gets weirder every day. It's awesome.
"It's true; the A.T. is one of the craziest places on the face of the earth. All the rumors turn out to be true. By the time you get to Maine, nothing will faze you"
I went to the shelter and dropped my pack. As I laid out my sleeping bag and foam pad, Tim and Lash marched into the clearing.
"Hey, boys," I called. Lash looked over at n)e. He had indeed shaved a stripe down the middle of his thick brown beard. It made his face appear puffy-cheeked, twice as wide as it actually was.
"Lashy-Lash!" I said. "What did you do to yourself? You look like a chipmunk!"
He gave me a wounded look. "Chicks dig it"
"Not this chick, man"
He turned to Isis, a pleading look in his eyes.
"Sorry, not this chick either."
We wished the nobos well in the morning and hiked another short day, sixteen miles, still barefoot in the warn) weather. Toward evening, the sun came out from the clouds and slanted between tall pines on the ridge, filling the hillside with orange light. The valley bottom was already in shadow, and the Nolichucky River wound through the gray bottomlands like a thread of spilled milk. As we got closer, the sound of the rapids rose above the thin whisper of wind in the leafless branches.
"There's supposed to be a good outfitter's store down there," Isis said. "It's some kind of outdoor adventure camp in the summer."
"Yeah, those nobos said they've got Ben and Jerry's. And our mom said she might send a mail drop there, if she gets time. Store probably closes at five, though."
"We can make it."
"You think?"
We raced down the path, which became slick with red mud on the lower slopes. Through the trees, we glimpsed a few squat buildings and a wide expanse of gravel. A sign proclaimed "Welcome to the Nantahala Outdoor Center" At the near edge of the parking lot, ranks of bright blue buses and vans stood ready, awaiting rafting trips in a warmer season. The sound of the river strengthened as we drew near. I glanced at my watch: a few minutes before the hour. We put on our camp shoes at the edge of the lot-our feet were not nearly tough enough, after a winter in boots, to brave that much gravel.
The white blazes led past restaurants, information kiosks, and equipment rental centers, all deserted in the chill of early spring. We crossed the river on a wide wooden footbridge. Tim and Lash were sitting on a bench by the door of the outfitter's store, halfway through their pints of ice cream.
"Hey, ladies," Lash called. "Wondering when you'd get here."
"We've been lonely," Tim said with a lascivious smile.
In the few iuinutes before the store closed, Isis and I arranged to rent a room in the bunkhouse. The off-season rates were very hiker-friendly. We bought a couple pints of Ben and Jerry's and picked up our mail drop. It was a package from our mother, containing our Zip stove and a huge amount of food-cookies, chocolate, dried fruit; boxes of pasta, polenta, beans, freezedried tofu; gourmet backpacking dinners.
"Look at all this!" Isis exclaimed as she dug into her ice cream. "We could get to Springer on all this food"
"If we could carry it," I said through a bite of Cherry Garcia.
"We just need to have a feast tonight," Isis said decisively. "Boys, can you join us?"
Tim and Lash deliberated.
"We were gonna hike out to the next shelter," Tim said.
Lash frowned and squinted at the sun. "We could still hike after dark, maybe "
"Conic on, you guys," I said. "How often do beautiful women ask you to dinner?"
That settled it. We dropped off our gear at the bunk house and headed over to the kitchen, in a building next door. Lash ducked out the door, muttering something about a proper dinner. We didn't see him for a while.
The kitchen, designed for feeding crowds of kayakers and rafters, had two gas stoves and a large empty refrigerator. A well-stocked hiker box, left over from the previous season, stood on the counter by the windows. Isis found some olive oil in the bottom of the hiker box and started preparing fried polenta with sun-dried tomatoes. Pasta boiled on a back burner. Tim and I oflcred to help, but Isis, as usual in the kitchen, had everything under control. I )arkness gathered outside; the view of the river became blue-tinted, indistinct.
Lash came back just as the meal was ready. He carried a shopping bag, from which he drew a bottle of red wine, two bags of salad greens, and some dressing.
- Lashy-Lash! I)id you go all the way into town for this?" Isis asked.
He shrugged. "Easy hitch"
She kissed him on the cheek. "You're an angel"
He blushed scarlet. Then he gave Tim a smug glance. "I didn't even need a Snickers bar for that one," he said.
"Salad greens are even more precious than Snickers, out here," Isis said. She eyed Lash reflectively. "You might have better luck if you got rid of that stripe in your beard, though"
He protested. "Dude, chicks dig it."
"Lash, you really oughta shave the rest of it off," I said. "I'm not kidding. It makes you look like some kind of rodent"
"Hmph " He tried again, flashing Isis a sultry smile. "It's a highway to heaven, baby."
"You've been spending too much time with Mr. Innuendo there," Isis said, shooting a glance at Tim.
"Ha! Me? Who started the whole Snickers bars thing?"
"Black Forest!" I retorted.
The banter was cut short when an older hiker walked in the door. He was tall and gaunt, with a grizzled beard and long thinning gray hair. He said nothing to the four of us, but instead walked over to the hiker box and began rifling through it. "Hiker boxes ain't what they used to be," he grumbled to himself, as Isis began dishing out huge plates of pasta, polenta, and salad.
"Would you like some food? We've got plenty to go around," she told him.
With almost superhuman quickness, he grabbed a plate and sat down at the table. "Oh, much obliged." Then he noticed the bottle of wine, which Lash had just uncorked. "And wine, too? Don't mind if I do" He produced an empty Gatorade bottle from somewhere and poured off a generous amount of it. "I'm Charlemagne, by the way. Pleased, very pleased, to meet all of you. Great food"
The heaps of food vanished in a short time, and we sat back, bellies swollen. I savored the last sips of wine from my camping cup. Only Charlemagne, it seemed, was not sated; he went back to rummaging the hiker box, exclaiming sadly over the contents.
Isis took pity on him. "We might have some extra food in our mail drop," she said. At once he left the hiker box and began sorting through ours, which we had just begun to unpack. He set aside a few of the boxed dinners, the Clif Bars, and the Pepperidge Farm cookies. I wanted to say something as he lifted the box of coo
kies-they were Mint Milanos, my favorites, and a rare enough commodity in Trail towns. But the unwritten code of hiker ethics stopped me. If someone needs something you have (food, water, shelter space, duct tape), you give it freely, because you never know when you'll be on the other end of the equation. I noted with some annoyance, though, that most hikers who needed food would at least ask about the items they took.
Charlemagne lifted a newspaper-wrapped bundle out of the bottom of the box. "What's this, eh',"
Isis took it from him. "It's our Zip stove" She carefully unwrapped the metal canister, set it up on the table, and flicked the switch to test the fan battery. A satisfied smile crossed her face as the fan whirred to life. She explained to Charlemagne how the stove burns twigs and pine cones, eliminating the need to carry fuel.
"Interesting gadget." He cocked his head and stared at it. "I've hiked this trail three times, and I never heard of it."
"Yeah, its great for warn)-weather hiking," Isis said. "In winter, though, we couldn't enipty the ashes fast enough to heat anything. I asked our mom to send it back when I called home from Hot Springs. I think it's finally warm enough.
"Warm enough for our tent, too," I said. "Maybe we should have asked her to send that hack. Wonder what we'll do when the nobos start filling up the shelters .. "
Charlemagne's ears perked up. "A tent, you say? I've got a tent I'm looking to sell. (got to buy my resupply, you know? Can't eat a tent." He had a fit of wheezing laughter that ended in a strained cough.
"What kind of tent?" Isis asked.
"Clip Flashlight. Two-mtan. Nice and cozy; here, I'll get it for you." He went into the next room and came back with a blue nylon stuff sack and a collection of poles, which he quickly assembled. Tim and Lash held the tent upright-without its stakes sunk into the ground, it wasn't tree-standingwhile Isis and I circled it, examining the blue fabric. The tent was almost as spacious as the one we had sent home from Atkins, with one distinct advantage; the fly covered the whole foot of the tent body, so rain would drain off it. The fly of our old tent had left a few inches exposed, getting our feet wet each time it rained. We crawled inside. The colored nylon softened the fluorescent lights, tilling the interior with a pale swimming-pool blue glow. There was just enough space for the two of us, lying side by side. I noticed only a small aniouut of mildew on the fabric, and the tent didn't smell nearly as rank as I had expected from the aroma of its owner.
Barefoot Sisters: Southbound Page 55