Nature Girl

by Jane Kelley

  But there’s nothing here except different kinds of green for miles and miles. The only people I meet are walking their golden retriever. They say hello. The dogs sniff each other’s butts. Then Arp and I keep going. We’re traveling pretty fast, since it’s mainly downhill.

  “We’re in luck. Our trip will probably be downhill all the way, since Mount Greylock, Massachusetts, is south of Vermont and south is below us on the map.”

  Of course, Arp doesn’t get my joke. I don’t care. I’m feeling so much better about everything now. Don’t tell my mom, but after a whole summer of doing nothing, it actually feels good to hike along the Trail. Finally I’m getting somewhere. Each time my foot hits the dirt, I’m one step further away from Ginia and one step closer to Lucy.

  This is my plan: Arp and I will hike five miles to that shelter. We’ll spend the night there, feasting on the Double Stuf Oreos that woman left behind. Tomorrow we’ll hike the rest of the way to Mount Greylock. I’ll buy ice cream and other delicious things at the souvenir store with the ten dollars in my backpack and eat them for lunch. Then I’ll call Lucy. She’ll be so glad to see me that she won’t be mad at me for complaining about having slime in my hair. I won’t even have to ask her if she really said that all I do is lie around and mope, since I’ll have proved that’s not true. Then I’ll call my parents, who will be back from Rutland by then. They’ll make Ginia apologize. And everybody will be very impressed that I hiked the whole way and even climbed Mount Greylock.

  “How did you do it?” Lucy will say.

  And I’ll say, “Oh it was easy.”

  The only problem is, it isn’t easy anymore.

  Now Arp and I are mostly going uphill. That isn’t good because of this thing called gravity that always wants to drag you down. I consider following a littler trail that’s NOT going up against gravity. But I’m afraid to leave the blue splotches. I don’t want to be lost again.

  Pretty soon I’m panting as much as Arp. My backpack is so heavy that while I climb, it tries to tip me over backward and make me roll all the way down the hill.

  “What did Mom put in here?” Then I remember. I was so excited about not being lost and hiking to Lucy that I forgot to eat lunch. “That’s our problem, Arp. We’re hungry!”

  I sit right down on a big gray rock and open up my pack. There’s a bag of kibble and a few dog treats. At first Arp looks at me like I should hold it for him in my hand the way Mom does. But I don’t have time for that. “I’m hungry too,” I say.

  I put his food on the rock, and guess what? He gobbles it up.

  I open the paper bag with my lunch. As I suspected, it’s terrible. There’s a bag of purple grapes that’s been in the refrigerator for weeks. There are four long unpeeled carrots. There are four peanut butter sandwiches on awful whole wheat bread with that seedy raspberry jam that only Ginia likes. There are two oatmeal-raisin granola bars. There’s a package of trail mix. I immediately pick out all six M&M’S and eat them. But most of it is nuts and weird dried brown things that might be fruit. It’s a total waste of money, since the ratio of good stuff to bad is about 1 to 100. Wouldn’t it be more economical to buy a whole big bag of M&M’S? And if Mom really thinks creativity is so important, then why did she give me plain old ordinary boring water? I’m so thirsty I drink some. But even Arp prefers to lap up the water from a little puddle, because at least the dirt gives it a flavor. As bad as all that is, you won’t believe what’s at the bottom of the lunch bag. A plastic package of something so brown and slimy, I have to read the label to find out what it is. Barbecued tofu strips! Is Mom trying to kill me or what?

  The only thing that saves me is the thought of those Double Stuf Oreos waiting for me in that shelter. I eat half a sandwich and take another sip of water. Then I jump up and put on my pack. “Come on, Arp.”

  He’s having a nap. His belly is full of delicious dog food. But I’m still starving to death because Mom doesn’t care enough about me to give me something besides disgusting health food. And Dad doesn’t care enough to keep her from starving me. And Ginia, well, you know how much Ginia cares about me.

  If they don’t care about me, I sure won’t care about them. I won’t worry that they might be worried. They won’t be. Not one bit. By now Mom and Dad are probably eating popcorn in a movie theater in Rutland. And Ginia and Sam are enjoying their uninterrupted slobberfest. Who needs them anyway? Not me. I’m hiking to Mount Greylock to see my best friend, Lucy.

  “Come on, Arp.”

  I tap him with my stick when he won’t wake up.

  He growls at me. But I don’t care. I nudge him a little harder.

  “We have to get to that shelter, so come on!”

  He gets up, turns in a circle, and lies back down again.

  “Okay, fine! I’ll go without you!”

  I start hiking. I hope I’ll get back that feeling I had when I first started going to Mount Greylock. But I don’t. I’m so mad at everyone, I don’t even speak to Arp when he catches up to me. I rub my eyes to wipe away some liquid that is leaking from under my eyelids. So I guess I’m not exactly watching where I’m going. But still, that branch shouldn’t be leaning over the Trail. It almost pokes my eye out. I whack the branch with my stick to move it out of the way. Whacking feels so good, I keep on whacking, even though swinging my arms gets me out of breath. I name the trees I whack. If it has oozing sap like fake tears, it’s Mom. Dad has peeling bark like how he’s losing his hair. But the ones with gnarly parts are Ginia. I give them double whacks.

  After a million whacks, I check my watch. It’s five o’clock. Any minute now, I’m sure I’ll see that shelter. The woman said it was only five miles back. I know I hiked way more than five. My legs are so wobbly, I feel like I’ve hiked all the way to Georgia. I can’t go another step. I don’t even walk to a nice rock. I plop down on the dirt. Arp lies down next to me.

  “Are you sure you can hike all that way?” It’s the yucky you-can’t-do-it voice.

  “What if you don’t find that shelter? How do you even know there is a shelter? Are you sure the Double Stuf Oreos are still there? What if somebody else ate them?”

  I cover my ears.

  “What are you going to do when it gets DARK?”

  “SHUT UP!” I shout.

  But the voice won’t shut up, so I pick up my pack and keep going.

  Trees, trees, trees, dead tree, trees, trees, trees, bush, trees, trees, trees, rock.

  “Arp? Where is that shelter?”

  Now it’s almost seven o’clock.

  Dinner would be over. Of course, even if I were at the farmhouse, I’d still be starving. Now that we’re in Vermont, dinner is usually something like a plate of heirloom tomatoes and goat cheese salad. Only tonight, Mom and Dad are eating with their friends, who probably cook normal food like hamburgers because they aren’t trying to “embrace nature and live where they are.”

  Arp sits down again.

  “I’m tired and hungry too, but we aren’t having dinner or resting or anything until we get to that shelter.”

  I have another reason for wanting to get there in a hurry. It’s too embarrassing to say. Just remember I’m not a dog who doesn’t care where he lifts his leg to go.

  Then I hear this heavy breathing coming up behind us on the Trail.

  I freeze. I know I should hide in the bushes because you can’t be too careful when you’re a girl alone in the Woods and your Loyal Dog is only about one foot tall. But I don’t have time for that. I look over my shoulder and see a man with a glistening red face and bulging eyes running toward me. At first, I think, Oh no! But then I notice he’s wearing running shorts and a T-shirt that says TAKE A HIKE—Up a Mountain. He’s not a maniac; he’s a fitness nut. And I do mean NUT, because he runs UP the hill!

  “Hey, Mister, have you seen a shelter?”

  “No,” he says as he passes me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Can’t stop. Training to climb peaks.”

  He disapp
ears over the top of the hill.

  Arp and I just stand there with our tongues hanging out. (To be honest, Arp’s tongue is always hanging out.) But neither of us can believe he RAN up the hill when we can barely lift our feet to take one more step.

  “Come on,” I say. I have to go really badly now.

  But Arp won’t come on. So I pick him up. Somehow I stagger to the top. I put Arp down. And guess what? He immediately goes chasing off after a chipmunk. I’m so mad at him, especially after I carried him all that way. But I’m worried he’ll get lost, so I yell at him. “Get back here!”

  The strangest thing happens as I watch him run along the top of the ridge. This blaze of light makes him glow.

  “Look what the sun’s doing.” It seems kind of cool—until I realize—“Oh no. Look what the sun’s doing!”

  I haven’t been keeping careful track of the sun because I had other stuff to worry about. But now I climb up on a boulder to get a better view. The sun isn’t above me anymore. It’s way off to my right, sitting on top of the trees. And it isn’t yellow either. It’s bright orange. That’s when I discover the real reason for sunsets. It isn’t about how pretty the clouds look. Those colors aren’t trying to inspire Dad to broaden his palette. They’re warning you that DARK IS COMING! You better find whatever you need because pretty soon you won’t be able to see it.

  I jump off the boulder. DARK is already spreading out from the trees. As it spreads, it will erase the Woods and the Trail and eventually even me.

  “Come on, Arp. We’ve got to find that shelter.”

  I’m so panicky I start running along the Trail, just like the fitness nut.

  I HATE the DARK! Don’t tell anybody, but I didn’t sleep at all my first nights in Vermont because of the darkness. The night sky in New York City doesn’t get black; it turns kind of purple because of all the streetlights and lights in buildings and lights on buildings. The only DARK you can find in New York City is if you are standing on the subway platform and you look deep into the tunnel. So I didn’t even know DARK creeped me out until I got to Vermont. Of course, eleven and three-quarters is way too old to have a problem like that. I even considered putting a night-light in my room, but then Ginia would have added one more thing to her list of stuff to tease me about.

  Believe me, I’m not looking forward to spending the night in the dark Woods listening to the yucky voice say, “I told you it would get DARK and you’d never find the shelter or the Double Stuf Oreos.”

  I hurry so much that I run right past the shelter!

  I’m all the way down one hill and halfway up the next before it hits me. That pathetic pile of boards back there on the side of the hill—that’s the shelter?

  I walk back to it. I mean, what else can I do?

  The shelter has a wooden floor and a wooden roof. But it doesn’t have four walls, which I thought was standard for all buildings. It only has two.

  “What’s the problem here? Did whoever built it forget to put up the other two walls? Or did he get tired and quit with the job half finished?”

  Arp doesn’t know. He sits down and scratches his ear.

  “This shelter isn’t even as good a house as the first little pig made. The wolf wouldn’t even have to blow anything down—all he’d have to do is walk right in.”

  Obviously if you don’t have enough walls, then you don’t have a door that can be shut and locked to keep out wild animals.

  I climb up on the platform. The two walls meet in a corner. In that corner, there are two more wooden platforms for beds. That’s it. No soft chairs, no electricity, no running water, no cupboards to store packages of Double Stuf Oreos. And NO BATHROOM!

  I don’t know what to do, so I sit on a platform. I’m so tired my head droops down. But looking at the floor is a big mistake. It’s filthy. The wooden boards are covered with trash and leaves. And then I notice about a zillion of those little black dots that, after living in Vermont, I’ve learned are mouse poop.

  I get out of there fast and go sit on a nearby rock. I mean, I know the mice are in the Woods. But mice are supposed to be outside because they are ANIMALS. And I’m supposed to be inside lying on a nice soft bed watching TV because I’m a HUMAN!

  However, that’s not the situation here.

  And by the way, where are those Double Stuf Oreos anyway? From where I sit, I can see they aren’t under the platforms. And there isn’t any other place they could be.

  I just sit there, slapping the mosquitoes on my arms and legs, staring at the shelter. Now what? The more I stare at it, the worse I feel. It’s such a rip-off. In fact, this whole summer is the biggest rip-off ever. And I WANT MY MONEY BACK!

  Only I won’t get it. I won’t get anything I want. Ever. And there isn’t anything I can do about it except—you guessed it—cry.

  Arp comes over to see what I’m doing. I try to snuffle up my tears because I’m supposed to be his leader and leaders don’t cry. Only he knows. He cocks his head to one side and looks at me really sadly.

  “Oh, Arp. How are we ever going to make it to Mount Greylock?”

  He puts his paw on my foot.

  “How are we going to get through the night with only half a shelter and not one single Double Stuf Oreo?”

  Our situation is totally hopeless. But one thing can’t wait a single second longer. Even though the shelter doesn’t have a bathroom, I have to go.

  I look at Arp. He isn’t giving any advice on the subject. Besides, he’s a boy dog, so that makes everything easier for him.

  One thing I know is: don’t go too near the shelter. I hurry over to a clump of bushes. I can imagine that the leaves are very realistic wallpaper, but it’s a lot harder to imagine the toilet.

  “You know, Arp, there was a time when nobody had toilets.”

  I shouldn’t have spoken to him, because he trots over to see what I’m doing.

  “Don’t look!” I yell at him. I don’t want him to see me with my pants down. But I shouldn’t have gotten mad at him. He’s not going to laugh at my flowered underwear like certain girls do when I change into my uniform for gym class.

  It’s done. I did it. And let me tell you, I feel so much better. I practically skip back to the shelter.

  Then the most amazing thing happens.

  I see a monarch butterfly.

  Okay, I know you’re thinking, So what? Everybody sees butterflies. What’s the big deal?

  But have you ever really looked at a butterfly? They’re the most rinky-dink contraptions. Their wings are just like paper. They don’t have any solid bones or anything. They aren’t streamlined like birds. They aren’t strong. They can’t even fly in a straight line. They flutter. They flutter by. But that little thing that seems like it won’t make it from a tree to a bush, that little thing flies all the way from Mexico to Vermont. They really do. Dad told me that when I was still paying attention to his lectures. They don’t have maps or trails or food or shelters. But they do it. Every single year. Then, like that wasn’t hard enough, they fly back again! And they don’t have bathrooms either.

  So I decide I better get a grip. I mean, do I have to be such an idiot? No, I don’t. Sometimes I pretend to be dumb to make Lucy laugh. But I’m really sort of smart. At least that’s what Mom and Dad and my teachers always tell me. They say, “Come on, Megan, you’re smart enough to know better.” Well, guess what? Maybe I really can figure out what I’m doing. I solved the bathroom problem, didn’t I? So now all I have to do is clean the shelter.

  “Come on, Arp. We’ve got work to do. I’m not sleeping in mouse poop!”

  Kicking those little turds doesn’t work very well. But a pine branch makes a pretty good broom. I sweep the platforms and the floor and pick up all the trash. There sure are a lot of beer cans. I practically cry when I see the empty potato chip bags. But I don’t find any Double Stuf Oreo wrappers. There isn’t a garbage can or anything, so I dump the trash over where other people had built fires. When the shelter is as clean as I can get it,
I pile up pine needles on the platform for my bed. They smell just like Christmas. But when I sit on them, they’re really scratchy.

  “Too bad we don’t have something to put over them.”

  Then I remember the poncho Mom packed in my backpack. It’s so dorky that I wouldn’t be caught dead in it, no matter how hard it rained. For one thing, it’s the color of old-lady underwear. But it can cover the pine needles. I also find a sweatshirt and insect repellent. I put the sweatshirt right on because I’m getting cold. Then I spritz insect repellent everywhere because darkness brings out mosquito vampires who suck your blood.

  Of course, when Arp sees me go in the backpack, he runs over with his tail wagging.

  “You ate all your dog biscuits.” But I give him a carrot. After I eat the rest of the peanut butter sandwich, he’s glad to gobble up the crusts. Then I drink the rest of one water bottle. And he finds a nice muddy puddle.

  I’m still hungry, but I decide to save the other sandwiches for tomorrow. And no way will I eat anything with nuts in it. I look deeper in the backpack. Maybe there’s a candy bar or something. I would have gladly eaten old Halloween candy. But instead I find a folded-up piece of paper.