Sam slid the letter into the envelope. Outside, first light was stirring, along with a cacophony of birds, their different songs battling. For the thousandth time he wished he could tell one birdsong from another. Weird that you could sit here in a house, in a kitchen with running water and a refrigerator full of food, and listen to the same noises you’d hear in the deepest thicket of forest, with nothing but a crappy canvas tent between you and the world.
Damn, Sam thought. Life was so much easier on the trail. On the trail, there were never the unhappy events of last night, knocking around in your head and gut.
He thought about leaving a note for Marianne and the girls, but that might piss Mike off. So he just grabbed his pack, now full of clean clothes, and headed out the door. He put the envelope into a neighbor’s mailbox, pulling up the little yellow flag. When a car came rumbling up the road, Sam stuck out his thumb, but wasn’t surprised when it zoomed right by. If he got a ride a little closer to the trail, great. If not, he’d just walk. He’d walk as long and as far as he needed to get back on the AT, then he’d head south, all the way to Georgia.
What he’d do when he got to Georgia he couldn’t say. Maybe he’d turn around and start walking north again, spend his whole life walking up and down the East Coast, staying out of the world’s way. He could grow his hair long, grow a tangled beard. He’d be like that crazy guy Walden, that vagrant the thru hikers were always on the lookout for.
Another car whooshed by and Sam just kept walking. The sunlight widened into morning. The birdsong died down.
One foot in front of the other. There were worse ways to spend your life.
Sixty-five miles into the 100 Mile Wilderness, McKenna stood by a logging road, seriously thinking about getting off the trail.
To say that things had gotten easier since that first day on Katahdin would be true, but also misleading. Because things had by no means gotten anywhere close to anything that could be described as easy.
For example, at the moment, afternoon storm clouds were gathering. She hadn’t been able to text her parents as promised last night, or this morning, because she couldn’t get any reception. Her legs were covered with mosquito and blackfly bites despite daily and liberal dousing of bug spray—so liberal she didn’t think her little bottle would last until the 114.5-mile mark, the paved road that would take her to the town of Monson to resupply. Back at Baxter State Park, on the morning of her second (and first successful) attempt to climb Katahdin, McKenna had snapped a picture of the sign with her phone:
IT IS 100 MILES SOUTH TO THE NEAREST TOWN AT MONSON. THERE ARE NO PLACES TO OBTAIN SUPPLIES OR HELP UNTIL MONSON. DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS SECTION UNLESS YOU HAVE A MINIMUM OF 10 DAYS SUPPLIES AND ARE FULLY EQUIPPED. THIS IS THE LONGEST WILDERNESS SECTION OF THE ENTIRE AT AND ITS DIFFICULTY SHOULD NOT BE UNDERESTIMATED.
GOOD HIKING!
ATC
Strictly speaking, it was true that Monson was her best bet. But McKenna knew that, just over fifty miles in, some of these new, unofficial logging roads led to little towns. Her guidebook cautioned against going off the trail, though. Some of the logging roads petered out in the middle of nowhere, or worse, splintered off before ending up in the middle of nowhere, so you couldn’t find your way back once you realized you’d hit a dead end.
Still, she took off her pack and dug out her phone, raincoat, and guidebook before sitting down to think. She turned on the phone, which had about half a battery bar left—she’d only been turning it on every couple days for a few minutes at a time. From the map in her guidebook it looked like this might be one of the roads that led to a town, but she couldn’t tell for sure. There was no marker, just lovely clusters of Indian pipe, their white flowers bowed as if preparing for the rain.
She clicked on the compass app to see if it was any easier to use than her actual compass, which so far had only sent her into paroxysms of confusion. With the iPhone compass, all she had to do was swirl it around to calibrate. The logging road headed east, which she believed should bring her out of the mountains and trees to something resembling civilization, maybe a little town with a country store where they made sandwiches, and possibly stocked calamine lotion. Maybe there would even be pizza?
A fat raindrop landed on her phone’s screen with a splat. McKenna held the phone to her chest protectively, wiping it off on her quick-dry T-shirt. Then she tucked it into the dry bag in her pack, put on her raincoat, covered her pack with the rain guard that was turning out to be only mildly helpful, and hoisted the weight back onto her shoulders. Tempting as the idea of a hot slice and a cold Coke might be, she couldn’t risk getting lost. She had three more days’ worth of supplies, which should be enough to deliver her safely to Monson. The only thing that could screw her up now would be going off the trail and into possible danger.
Eight days on the trail. Ten rainstorms—one that included actual hail. Blackfly season was supposed to be slowing down but nobody had bothered to tell them that. They particularly liked the spot right where her neck met her shoulders, and countless times a day McKenna found herself slapping one in mid painful bite.
Although it was chilly at night, the days were sweltering, and sweat already stained every piece of her clothing. Except for splashing her face and arms with water, she hadn’t had a shower since the Katahdin Inn and Suites. And there was a persistent soreness in literally every part of her body, especially her shoulders, where the straps of her supposedly ergonomic pack dug in all day, every day.
Am I having fun yet? McKenna asked herself.
But her answer was always, unequivocally, Yes. In spite of and sometimes even because of all the rustic, grueling discomfort. She was having the time of her life.
• • •
A couple miles after “The Logging Road Not Taken,” McKenna knelt at what she guessed was the east branch of Pleasant River. Back home, she’d read a blog by one regular thru hiker who said he never bothered purifying water from running streams in Maine. But a bacterial infection like giardia could destroy her whole trip, and that was another chance McKenna wasn’t willing to take, no matter how pristine and cool the water might seem.
She carefully used her filter to purify a fresh supply into both water bottles. Then she spent a few minutes hunting around for a good strong walking stick. She’d hoped to find one she liked well enough to keep with her, but that hadn’t happened yet—the last stick she’d been very confident with had broken mid-ford, almost sending her and her pack downstream with the current. So far, crossing rivers was the scariest part of the trip. When her stick had broken, her feet lost their grip on the rocky bottom, and something like panic had risen up in her. Knowing that panic was a hiker’s worst enemy only made her freak out more. Truthfully she wasn’t exactly sure how she had righted herself and continued to the opposite bank.
Now she found another decent stick—a gnarled birch branch that was half wet. Possibly someone coming from the opposite direction had used and discarded it earlier today. She took a mental inventory of the people she’d passed who were walking northbound. She ran into at least a few people every day, and she had yet to reach an empty campsite. Everyone was friendly and openly concerned about her being alone on the trail. But at the height of summer, there were enough people around that she didn’t feel alone, not really. Even now, in the thick of wilderness with no human in sight, she felt sure that if she were in trouble and called out, people would come running from both directions.
When she leaned on the stick to test it out, it held firm, with just enough springiness that she doubted it would snap. So she traded her hiking boots for her more water-friendly Keen sandals, loosened the shoulder straps of her pack, and pulled it back on, leaving the waist belt unbuckled. Then she placed the stick into the water and started to wade across. The water rose around her to about mid-thigh, and she planted the stick firmly, remembering that she’d made it across a much faster river than this one.
&nbs
p; One foot in front of the other, she told herself, same as on the trail. She just had to be a little more careful.
She was almost to the opposite bank when the rubber sole of her left sandal lost its grip on a flat, mossy rock, pitching her forward, landing her right knee on a rock that was so sharp, McKenna wondered if it was in fact an arrowhead.
“Ow!” she said aloud, tears of pain springing to her eyes. She was close enough to shore that she could reach out her hands and grab hold of the dry ledge, pulling her legs carefully after her. Miracles do happen, because her pack had managed to stay dry—at least from stream water. The jury was still out on whether the steady, misting rain had managed to infiltrate the interior.
Safely back on shore, McKenna threw off her pack and inspected the damage. The rock had made a triangular flap of flesh on her knee, blood bubbling beneath it. She touched it gingerly and winced. If she were home, she guessed her mother would make her go for a neat round of stitches. Now she had to settle for butterfly bandages and probably a lifelong scar.
“Ow,” she said again as she pulled out her first-aid kit. She swallowed a couple ibuprofen before getting to work patching up the damage. From where she sat she could see the East Branch shelter, but injury or not, she was determined to make it at least a couple more miles before stopping for the day.
Anytime anything interfered with the mileage McKenna planned to cover, she was overtaken by a surge of adrenaline, making her more determined than ever to keep going. Back in her old life, a cut like this might have taken her out of the game for a day or more. Here on the trail, there was no time to be lost over a flesh wound. As she got back to her feet, she assured herself that yes, she was still having fun, and a part of that fun was even this: getting hurt, taking care of herself, and continuing on in spite of everything.
• • •
It was nearly dark when she limped toward the Logan Brook lean-to. A troop of Boy Scouts were gathered in the shelter, watching the approaching weather. Just as McKenna dropped her pack onto the dusty floor, a shower of hail began pelting the rickety roof above them.
“Good timing,” said a dad-aged man, who must have been the scoutmaster.
McKenna nodded, glad that the hail wasn’t raining down directly on her head. She stood away from the group—as much as she could in the small shelter, anyway—and stared forlornly out at the weather. There were several tent sites, but there was no way to put up her tent as long as it was hailing like this. Her clothing was soaked, but she didn’t know how she was supposed to change in front of ten fourteen-year-old boys and one grown man.
“You leave someone behind in that?” the scoutmaster asked her.
By now McKenna was used to this question. In one form or another, she’d had this conversation every day for over a week. “No,” she said. “It’s just me.”
“Hiking all on your own?”
“Yup.”
This answer was usually followed by more questions, like if her parents knew, or if she needed help. How far was she going? Was she sure she could make it all that way? McKenna had always looked a little young for her age, a fact that had never bothered her as much as it did on the trail, running into concerned adults—men, mostly—who immediately labeled her as a damsel in distress.
“I’m Dan,” said the scoutmaster. He rattled off the kids’ names, which McKenna would never remember in a million years.
She waved. “McKenna,” she said.
“That’s a nasty cut.”
She looked down at her knee. Blood was trickling through the gauze square she’d taped over the butterfly bandages. The injury ached with a sharp, pulsing rhythm. Since she couldn’t change out of her wet clothes, she decided to re-dress the wound. Hopefully now that she’d stopped walking the new bandage would hold long enough for it to scab up a little.
“I fell crossing the river,” she said.
“Long way to walk with a cut knee,” Dan said.
McKenna wished his voice would sound a little less sympathetic. This distress was minor. She had it all under control.
“I’m okay,” she said, and smiled at him, not wanting to be rude, but also not inviting him to be her stand-in dad for the evening. She had left her own dad home for a reason.
She scanned the room for a bunk that didn’t already have a sleeping bag on it, and seeing none, dragged her pack to a bench and sat down sideways, with both legs in front of her. She tore off the gauze and raised the knee toward her, inspecting the damage. The hail continued to pelt the roof, making it feel like they were all inside some kind of child’s percussion instrument. It was weirdly cozy.
“Want some help with that?” Dan called. Apparently ten kids weren’t enough for him to take care of.
“No thanks,” McKenna called back, pulling off the old butterfly bandages. “I’m good.”
She swallowed a few more ibuprofens, slathered the cut with Neosporin, then plastered on a fresh butterfly and gauze bandages. The dressing looked so perfect, so professional, she almost wanted to get out her phone and take a picture. Of course if she posted it on Facebook or Instagram, everyone would have the wrong reaction—worrying about the cut instead of admiring how well she was taking care of it.
In a few minutes the hail stopped, almost as abruptly as it had begun. McKenna gathered her things to set up her tent.
“Hey,” Dan said as she stiff-leggedly exited the shelter. “Come back and have dinner with us. We’re doing beef stew and corn bread.”
Now, that was the kind of help she couldn’t resent. Or refuse.
“Thanks,” McKenna said. “I definitely will.”
• • •
The next afternoon, her knee throbbing, McKenna decided to stop a little earlier than she’d planned, at a campsite by Chairback Pond, instead of going an extra three miles to the shelter. Thanks to the light rain—not as persistent but still making everything damp—she had the whole place to herself. As she pitched her tent, she reminded herself that it was early still, and other people might join her. But so far, the campsite stood empty. She managed to get her tent set up, change into warmer clothes, and get water. A couple hikers passed, waving to her as they continued on, probably looking forward to a dry night in the lean-to. By the time the sky had cleared and then darkened, McKenna sat cooking noodles on her little stove, and she was pretty sure: after nine days on the AT, this would be her first night completely alone.
As soon as the thought formed in her head, an owl hooted from a tree barely two yards away. McKenna shivered. It was a beautiful sound, eerie and low, and of course a reminder that she was never alone out here in the woods. Layers of forest concealed all manner of creatures: deer, moose, bears, bobcats, fisher cats. Several nights she had heard coyotes howling and yipping. Among hikers and naturalists, there was a running debate about whether mountain lions had returned to these eastern mountains. McKenna hated to admit she hoped the naysayers were right in that particular argument. Much as she loved animals, she didn’t think her pepper spray would protect against a cougar.
The owl hooted again, and for a second McKenna considered gathering up her things and eating in her tent. Instead she looked up at the sky. The clouds had dispersed enough to reveal a blanket of stars sprawling overhead. The days of rain lent the forest a mulchy odor, but that was more of a bottom note. Out here, the top note, always, was pine. She breathed it in. She’d left her wool cap in her pack, which lay safe and dry in her tent. Her ears felt red with the cold. How could it be so hot during the day and so cold at night? In Maine, in the mountains, she sometimes felt like she walked through all four seasons in a single day.
She slurped down the last of her ramen, then put on her headlamp and collected her food to hang in a tree, a good several yards from her tent, the philosophy being that if a bear came looking for snacks, he’d go for the far-off supply instead of ransacking her tent. Bear attacks didn’t happen oft
en, but they did happen. As she packed up her stove, the little propane tank felt light—she’d be lucky to get one more dinner out of it before having to refill it in Monson.
In her tent, she pulled the gauze off her knee. It still hurt, but less than it had last night. The butterfly bandages were holding fast, no blood was seeping out, and the skin around it looked faintly pink, but not red. No sign of infection. She carefully stuck on a piece of fresh gauze, pulled on her fleece sweats, and crawled into her sleeping bag. She’d already filled her stuff sack with clothes, using it as a pillow. Usually at this time of night, in a campground full of people, she’d be reaching for a book, reading for a while as the camp noise died down. But tonight she was so bone tired from hiking with her hurt knee. Plus, the total lack of human sound was exotic and the slightest bit scary. More than the slightest bit, if she was honest with herself.
But never mind the fear. Never mind the pain or the exhaustion. She was proving that she could push through all of it. Tomorrow morning at first light she would pack up and walk at least ten miles, maybe more, depending on how her knee felt. By the next day, she felt sure, she would be able to take another picture—of the sign warning hikers coming from the south of the 100 Mile Wilderness. Those hikers would end their journey with the hardest stretch. McKenna had begun with it, and now it was nearly over. She had done it.
She fell asleep smiling, her headlamp still on, shining a tiny circle of light, all night long, on the side flap of her tent. Luckily she could get extra batteries in Monson.
A good ten days later, McKenna sat on the stoop of the general store in Andover, Maine, with Linda, an ex-Marine who’d started the trail in Georgia back in March. Linda was in her midthirties; she’d come home from Afghanistan four years ago and enrolled at the University of Texas. The hike was her graduation present to herself, and, as she told McKenna, she was pretty stoked to have only one more state to go before getting her certificate signed at Baxter State Park. McKenna was beyond thrilled to meet another woman going it alone. As Linda showed her the various stamps in her passport, McKenna admired her powerful biceps, covered with tattoos. Linda wore a bandanna over her cropped graying brown hair. McKenna wondered out loud if as many people asked Linda if she felt safe on her own.
The Distance from Me to You Page 6