“You always say yes. He probably knew the odds were in his favor.” Her voice grew muffled and faded.
“Campbell? What are you doing?”
“I’m here. You woke me up. I was just getting out of bed.”
“What should I do? If everyone thinks I’m engaged, it’s going to be a legit pain in my ass to set the record straight.” I moan at the thought of having to deal with a publicist to handle this mess. Again.
“Simple. Talk to Tye.”
“Ugh. Do not want.” I groan and thump my head against the headboard.
“Or don’t. Deal with it when you come home. Are you done with your long walk yet?”
Oh, right—my big accomplishment.
“I finished the northbound section several days ago.”
“Congratulations!” Her enthusiasm was genuine. “When will you be back in the city? There’s a big house party in Montauk next weekend. You should come out. It’ll be mellow fun, but we can celebrate then.”
“I can’t make it. I’ve decided to hike the rest of the trail.”
“But you already climbed the mountain,” she says, confused.
“There are almost thirteen-hundred miles left I haven’t walked. I want to complete all of them. After I finish, I guess I’ll come home.”
“And when will that be?” She sounded confused and a little put out by my new plans.
“Thanksgiving. Probably.” I’d likely be able to finish well before then, but I wanted to give myself a cushion.
“Have you lost your mind?” she squealed. “Do I need to come get you and bring you home?”
“No and no. If anything, I’m feeling more myself. I need to finish this. For me.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment.
“You can’t run away from your life, Olive. Hiding out in the woods won’t make the Tye mess go away. I think you need to face reality by coming home. This isn’t normal behavior.”
Her judgment and dismissal only solidified my intention.
“I’ll see you in November.” My finger hovered over the screen to end the call.
“Olive?” Her voice stopped me. “We can’t hang up mad. Rule number one of this friendship. Be careful. Send me proof-of-life selfies as often as you can. If I see Tye, I’ll kick his ass for you.”
“Thanks, Campbell. Love you.”
I chickened out about calling Tye. Instead, I sent him a three-letter text with a screenshot of his feed.
*WTF*
Not waiting for a reply, I turned off my phone and buried it in the bottom of my pack.
If your life is a mess but you’re in the woods, does it matter?
Chapter Six
Olive
October
Somewhere in Virginia
Day: Thursday?
Mile one thousand and something
States walked through: 11
Hiking is putting one foot in front of the other.
One foot.
In front of the other.
Repeat forever.
One step becomes ten and then a thousand.
Eventually, these steps turn into miles.
Miles turn into days.
Days turn into states.
States turn into months.
Months become life hiking the Appalachian Trail.
I officially passed the halfway point in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia.
When I first began solo hiking, I listened to podcasts and music. Turns out, true crime and serial killer stories aren’t the best things to think about as a woman alone in the woods in the middle of nowhere. After hearing about a hiker who was almost trampled by a charging bear because he was wearing headphones, bye-bye earbuds.
In case anyone is wondering, Please Forward my Mail to the Middle of Nowhere is the working title of my imaginary biography.
Alone with myself and my imagination, I decided it would be better to be aware and focused on my surroundings, which consists mainly of trees, rocks, dirt, and plants. Throw in random reptiles, toxic looking amphibians and strange noises, and that’s pretty much my daily existence.
Other than a few lizards, the snakes I’m trying to block from memory, more salamanders than I’ve previously seen in my entire life, and the two possible bears, there hasn’t been nearly as much wildlife as I imagined there’d be. Except birds. So many birds.
Back in the city, I used to imagine the unbroken quiet of the woods.
Ha!
Most days it’s a cacophony of bird conversations over the chatter of insects and frogs.
Cicadas are the loud, drunk girls of the woods. No point in trying to shush them. They’ll only scream louder.
The constant buzzing, chirping, and squawking reminds me of women fighting over bargains at the Barney’s Warehouse sale, only with less screeching.
Back in Pennsylvania, I grabbed a dog-eared copy of Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds in one of the hiker boxes outside a shelter. It was avian information or a copy of the Bible.
I can’t believe the good stuff people leave behind on the trail. Along with the gators for my ankles and the buff I’m wearing over my head, I have two new-to-me pairs of socks and an inflatable sleeping pad. Someone left a mini, cast iron skillet. Shockingly, no one else wanted the heavy, unnecessary cooking implement.
The bird book is the thing I didn’t know I needed and can’t live without, like a magical wireless bra that lifts without creating a sausage roll boob.
Identifying birds and marking the ones I’ve spotted has become a small obsession. On a scale of not caring to the Jonas Brothers super fangirl I became when I was eight, I’m definitely closer to the latter. I’m at the point where I can recognize bird calls before I get a visual confirmation.
Heading south means following the migration of several species as well as the local varieties. Given my lack of entertainment, I’ve also memorized all fifty state birds and can name them in alphabetical order. Because I’m cool like that.
Watch out fancy dinner parties, I’m going to blow your socks off with ornithological facts.
Given my new obsession, my trail name has evolved now that I’m a southbound thru-hiker, AKA a SoBo. They call me Snowbird. Works for me.
To all the haters who think I’ll never get married and am going to die alone as a cat lady, I say ha! I’ll be the crazy bird woman with binoculars and a camouflage poncho, silently hiding out in reeds or woods. As a stealth ninja, a friend of the beaked and feathered.
After my quarter-life crisis and a weird but thankfully brief music festival phase, I swear I’m not freaking out about the big 3-0. Age is just a number, right? My inner calm partly comes from the fact that the broken timetable in my head isn’t working anymore.
For the record, my poncho is orange and also from a hiker box. It’s hunting season and I’d really like to not be mistaken for a deer. Plus, neon is on trend again this year.
Current me laughs at former fashionista me. Old me shudders at the idea of wearing the same pair of socks for days at a time. No one tell her about the current underwear situation. I’m down to three pairs: the ones I’m wearing and, if I’m lucky, two clean. Most days things are more dire.
My mother and sister would disown me if they ever found out. Or if they knew on non-raining days, I’ve been known to hang my unmentionables on my pack and let them air-dry out in the open where God, bears, and strangers can see them. Unfortunately, I lost pair number four somewhere in West Virginia.
There’s probably a hiker box with pink-and-white striped panties in it. Wouldn’t be the first time underwear ended up in one.
I should probably restock and buy some fresh socks next time I swing through a major town. My shoes are also pretty much shot at this point. Not held together-with-duct-tape ruined, but close. Five hundred miles causes a lot of wear and tear. My hiking pole has a twenty-degree bend to it.
If I can make it to Damascus, Virginia I can do some shopping and resupply.
October
&nb
sp; Somewhere in Tennessee or North Carolina
Day: 147?
Mile one thousand nine hundred something
States walked through: 13
I’ve lost track of the days. Not only what day of the week it is, but how many days I’ve been on the trail. Gotta be close to five months since Tye and I headed north from the Delaware Water Gap, which means I’ve spent four months pretty much solo hiking.
Alone but not solitary.
This is good. This is fine.
Okay, it’s a little weird.
I spend a lot of time having conversations with myself in my head.
The SoBo hikers are an interesting bunch. Some of them started at Katahdin and faced the most challenging parts of the AT first. Those people are hardcore nuts.
Then there are the flip-floppers like me. Those are more my people. For the most part, everyone is nice enough, but I’m over every, single, last dude bro who feels the need to mansplain my hike to me. Over. It.
I get it you know stuff. Is there some sort of chemical stored in testicles, that compels men to explain things to women? Obvious things like why leaves are green or the sky is blue or how to manage a period while hiking in the woods.
Dude, you don’t even have a vagina.
The worst ones are the guys who come off nice, but turn out to be stealth cuddlers. I’ve woken up one too many times on a shared sleep platform in a shelter as the little spoon with morning wood pressed against my back through two layers of sleeping bag. No, thank you.
Not today, and the rest of the week isn’t looking too good for you either, Satan.
Hooking up on the AT is a big thing, especially at the larger shelters and hiker hostels off the trail. Even if scraggly beards and general lack of personal grooming were turn-ons, I’ve officially sworn off any potential romances. Even thinking about relationships gives me the dry heaves.
Presented with the choice, I stick to hanging out with families and other women. Sisterhood of the traveling sports bras unite.
Somehow, I got off pace with the lovely family hiking with their two teenage boys and found myself in a shelter with a pair of dude bros and an older guy a few nights ago.
Actually, those bros weren’t so terrible, just young. Right out of college and still puppies who haven’t filled out yet. The man was nice enough, except he was sick, and every time he coughed, I swore I could see the germs floating through the air in my direction. I’ve managed to avoid getting sick so far and I’d like to keep it that way. Thank you and good day.
After they gave me a heads-up about some weather heading toward the Smokies, we parted ways. They took the trail toward Cades Cove while I detoured to Clingmans Dome to see the lookout tower.
Chapter Seven
Jay
October
Great Smoky Mountains National Park
Tennessee
Resigned about the mysterious hiker, I decide to return to the station. Clouds darken the sky and rain scents the wind. If I’m lucky, I’ll only have to hike a few hours in the dark and the rain tonight before sleeping in my own bed. I say a silent prayer for the safety of anyone still in the mountains during the storm. It’s all I can do at this point.
Following the white blazes, I head south along the AT for a few miles, knowing I need to take a spur trail to wind my way home.
Given the coming harsh conditions, I don’t expect to see too many birds, but I keep my ears open for their songs. As the resident ornithologist and one of the park’s wildlife ecologists, I’m tasked with tracking the ever-changing bird populations in this quadrant of the Smokies.
Southbound migratory birds have mostly left the area for their winter homes in the Caribbean. Not a bad way to spend a few months, but the flight would be exhausting and I’m not sure my arms could handle it.
The joke is lame, even in the ornithology world. I chuckle anyway.
“I’ll be here all week, folks.” I tip my hat to my imaginary audience.
“I’m peeing!” a female voice shouts from the woods to my left and up ahead a dozen yards. “Privacy please!”
My feet halt while the rest of me freezes in place. Everything stills except my eyes, which scan the trees for the source of the voice. Behind a good-sized Fraser fir, I spot a sliver of neon orange the color of a safety vest. A roll of hunter orange fabric sits atop a large blue backpack. From this angle, all I can see of her is a bit of a pink down jacket sleeve. I don’t want to see more when she asked for privacy.
Waiting for her to finish or declare the all clear, I chew my bottom lip and toy with the strap of my own pack. I think about radioing back to the station. Might be premature given I don’t know this woman’s identity. It’s unlikely she’s a day hiker.
Time stretches into silent awkwardness as I remain still, debating if I should continue loitering nearby or walk farther away to give her more privacy. Growing up sharing a bathroom with an older sister was a blessing and a curse. Some bladders are shy.
Blowing out a long exhalation, I’m about to head back up the trail when she speaks again.
“Are you still there?”
Her question is more an accusation than an inquiry. I should’ve retreated up the path. Great, now I’m a creeper, possibly a peeping Tom. At the very least, I’m a lurker. None of those are good.
Taking a few steps in reverse, I wait to answer her until I’ve put more space between us. Quietly, staying on my toes, I attempt to remain silent until I can no longer see any of her at all.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I shout an apology.
Her reply doesn’t come right away, and she doesn’t stand.
I check my watch. We’re burning daylight and precious time.
Finally, her blue pack shifts into view and rises as the hiker stands, disappearing for a moment before she steps around the tree.
“Are you Snowbird?” I ask, observing her as she picks her way over rocks and branches.
Definitely a long-distance hiker.
Two messy, brown braids curve over her shoulders from under a black beanie. She’s fit but not gaunt in her black leggings and jacket. After scanning her body, I slide my gaze up to her face.
Other than the sharp stare and frown, she’s objectively beautiful. Not like the Mona Lisa, which we’re told is beautiful. Her features are classic but slightly off balance. Her blue eyes are a little too large and her scowl exaggerates her already wide mouth. In contrast, her nose is delicate. Somehow all the elements combine into undeniable beauty.
“Why do you ask, Ranger?” Annoyed, she rubs sanitizer over her hands. “Am I in trouble?”
Her pointed chin juts up, making her neck appear long.
“We’re expecting bad weather for the next couple of days beginning tonight, and it’s my job to make sure everyone is safely off the trails.”
“Very kind of you.” She tucks the small bottle into a fanny pack at her waist. “I don’t need to be rescued. I heard we’re getting some rain, maybe a little wind, nothing I haven’t already experienced. I’ll find a shelter if it gets to be too much.”
Did she just dismiss me? I’m still out here because of her.
“You’re too far from any enclosed shelters. Better to head toward Cades Cove and wait it out in the campground, or in town. Given you’re the last unaccounted-for hiker in this area, you might be out of luck getting a spot. I’m sure someone can give you a ride to Green Valley.” I remove my water bottle from its pocket and take a long draught.
“Is that in North Carolina or Tennessee?” She pauses several yards from where I stand.
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“No, not really. At this point, it’s all the same I guess.” With a sigh, she shifts her pack and joins me on the trail. “As long as I’m not under arrest.”
“Why would you be? Have you done something illegal?” I cast her a serious look. “Poaching? Hunting out of season? Stealing plants?”
Her chin retracts. “Plant thieves?”
“You’d be sur
prised.”
“How bizarre.” She shakes her head. “People are weird.”
“Understatement.” I lift my gaze to the clouds brushing the treetops. “We should probably get going.”
“We?” She widens her stance and crosses her arms. “Are you escorting me off the trail?”
It takes a certain personality to overcome the mental challenges of long-distance hiking. Stubborn. Tenacious. Idealistic.
This woman definitely ticks the first two boxes.
“Pretty much, yes, miss.” I dip the brim of my hat. “Officially, the trail is closed. All hikers need to be off these mountains until we can safely reopen it.”
Her wide mouth curls back into a frown. “How long will it be closed? I’m almost finished with this damn walk. I can handle the weather.”
“Can’t say. Up to Mother Nature and what she wants to do.”
She grumbles something about a fickle bitch before tipping her head and shoulders back to yell at the sky. The heavy pack drags her into a backbend and she stumbles to right herself.
Instinctively, I bound forward to catch her before she falls over and gets hurt. Stubborn and reluctant is one thing. Injured would be a bigger mess than I want to deal with out here.
Steadying her with my hands wrapped around her waist, I hold on until I’m certain she has her balance again. “Whoa. Careful.” My voice low and my words slow, I sound like I’m talking to a spooked horse. “Easy.”
“Excuse me?” She jerks and wide eyes meet mine. Swirled with gray amidst the blue, they remind me of storm clouds.
She flicks her gaze down, and I do the same. My hands remain on her body.
No longer resting on her waist, my fingers grip the curves of her hips, my thumbs dangerously close to the apex of her thighs.
“I’m so sorry.” This time it’s my turn to stumble back. My body propels itself away like I’ve touched a high-voltage wire.
Only she doesn’t try to stop my fall. I land on my ass, hard.
She doesn’t even try to hide her laughter.
Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1) Page 5