The Trail

by Meika Hashimoto

  I make up an answer fast. “I’m getting my advanced Wilderness Survival badge for Boy Scouts. I have to spend a week in the woods on my own.” I pray that Sean and Denver have never done Boy Scouts. A week in the woods was definitely not a requirement for the badge.

  “Well, you’re doing a lousy job at earning that badge.” Sean shrugs and sips from his thermos.

  I reluctantly push the sleeping bag and emergency blanket off me. Curls of body steam escape from my damp clothes. I shiver. “Thanks for the chocolate and the sandwich,” I tell Denver.

  “You heading out now?” Denver takes the sleeping bag and begins stuffing it in his compression sack.

  “Yeah. I think I’ll try to get to the next shelter.” My voice sticks a little, rusty. “It’ll be good to have a roof over my head for the night.”

  Denver nods. “Kinsman Pond? We’re going there, too. According to the map, it’s four miles away.”

  “We were aiming for Lonesome Lake Hut, which is only two miles farther on,” says Sean. “But you slowed us down.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Denver says, glancing at Sean. “We’re in no rush.”

  “Well, I won’t hold you guys up any longer.” I reach for my rain jacket and gingerly slide into it. Even soaked, it will protect me from the wind.

  “If you want to wait, Sean and I will be packing up soon. You could hike with us.” Denver ignores the scowl that Sean gives him.

  I want to follow with these guys. I want to feel safe behind their conversation and their well-stocked backpacks. But from the way Sean is glaring at me, I know he doesn’t want to be bothered.

  I decide to compromise. “You guys are probably a lot faster than I am. How about I start off now, and I’ll see you on the trail whenever you catch up.”

  Denver nods. “Sounds good.”

  “Whatever,” says Sean.

  I put on my backpack and head out, making sure to go the right way this time. The trail turns into a gentle logging trail, then hitches left past tumbling cascades swollen with new rain and inky-black pools. Moss and roots drape themselves over hip-high boulders, forming little dark caverns. It is lush and spooky. A haunting place for angry ghosts.

  I’m glad that Denver and Sean are behind me.

  As I follow the trail beside the brook, I see a brief rush of dirty matted fur. A fox, I think. And then I see a familiar rib cage. It is the dinner-stealer from last night.

  The dog lopes through the brush at least ten yards from the trail. He is keeping his distance. There is no hot pot of spaghetti for him to kick right now. But he knows that I have been generous in the past.

  I think about the food I have left. Two Snickers. A quarter block of cheese.

  I have to be careful with this decision. If I feed the dog now, he’s only going to expect more. He might get aggressive. Plus, I was running low on food when I met him, but now I’m really almost out.

  And then I remember Sean saying that Lonesome Lake Hut was two miles from Kinsman Pond Shelter. Doing the math, that’s a little over five miles from where I am.

  A hut is different from a shelter. They are luxuries in the woods, with bunks and blankets and food during the summer. Eight of them are spaced out across the toughest sections of the White Mountains, with college-age kids running the show. Lucas and I often talked about working in them when we were old enough.

  At Lonesome Lake Hut, I would be able to buy food. I have two hundred and forty-three dollars rolled up in a Ziploc and tucked in a hidden pocket on the inside of my hood. It’s all the money I’ve earned from years of mowing lawns and raking yards and odd jobs around town. I’m hoping it’s enough to last me to Mount Katahdin.

  The Snickers can keep me going for five more miles, I decide. I break out my block of cheese. The dog trots forward. He is hesitant, unsure of what I will do. But this time, he is not going to rush me.

  I toss the cheese, and the dog catches and swallows it in one fast gulp. “Sorry, dog, but that’s all I’ve got,” I tell him. He seems to understand. As I continue down the trail, he follows me, but he doesn’t beg.

  “Tony!” I turn back and see Sean and Denver coming up the trail. Sean is in the lead. He spots the bag of bones following me. “Is that your dog?”

  “No, but I’ve been feeding him a little.”

  “Why?”

  I bite back the urge to tell Sean off. “He’s pretty hungry.”

  “But so are you. Back at the shelter, you ate Denver’s sandwich in three bites. You can’t afford to feed something else if you don’t have enough food for yourself.”

  Sean is right. I don’t like it, but he is right. I’m doing what I’ve always done. Messing up. Making the wrong decision. Giving a dog food when I needed it more. And now he’s looking to me for more food and I can’t give him anything. He was wrong to trust me.

  “C’mon, Sean. Give the kid a break.” Denver unzips the hip pocket of his pack and pulls out a granola bar. He unwraps it and tosses it. A snap and a bite, and the granola bar is gone.

  The dog scuttles back off the trail. His eyes are on us, wary but hopeful. I can’t spare him any more food, but I have a feeling that we’re going to have some company over the next few miles.

  Sean hitches up his backpack. It is clear that he is impatient. “C’mon, we need to get going.”

  I fall in line between Sean and Denver, and breathe a sigh of relief. I’m back at my old place—following. Having people take care of me. I know I need to be able to make it on my own, but for now the company feels great.

  SEAN FORGES ALONG with a smooth, practiced gait. I fall into the rhythm of his pace, trying to hide my wheezy breathing so he doesn’t realize how much effort it’s taking me to keep up.

  The trail brings us to the edge of a small muddy pond with long grassy weeds growing up from the bottom. “How are you doing on water?” asks Denver.

  I pull out my two water bottles and shake them. They rattle with a few stray drops. “I’m nearly empty.”

  “You need to fill up here—we won’t be hitting another water source until the shelter,” says Sean.

  I kneel down by the pond and open my bottles. I’m about to dip them into the pond when Sean asks, “Hey, how are you going to purify your water? Don’t you have a filter or iodine?”

  I shake my head. “I lost my filter at a river crossing this morning. I’ll just drink straight from the rivers and streams until I can find another one.”

  “Purifying your water is no joke.” Sean folds his arms disapprovingly. “Haven’t you heard of giardia?”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. “It’s like this: You come to a little pond. You drink a tiny mouthful of unpurified water. You don’t think it can hurt you. But in that water there could be some animal crap. Moose crap. Deer crap. Beaver crap and squirrel crap and owl crap. And in that crap there could be these little balled-up giardia cysts just waiting to hatch.”

  Sean’s voice pitches up a little higher. “And you drink those cysts because you think, ‘Just this one time, I’ll be okay.’ But then the acid in your stomach gets them to hatch into wriggling parasites that attach to the walls of your intestine.

  “Then the parasites feed off you, growing and multiplying until there are billions of them, eating you from the inside out. Then they roll up into cysts again and you crap them out in the weeks of diarrhea that you get, along with being so tired you can’t get out of bed for weeks and cramps so bad it makes the worst stomachache you’ve had feel like a fairy tale.”

  “Sean, we don’t have to know every detail.” Denver’s voice has a note of warning in it.

  “No, it’s okay. I know giardia’s serious.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it still comes out shaky. I’m not used to being yelled at, and it makes me a little scared of Sean.

  Sean thumps his pack on the ground and pulls out a three-liter CamelBak water bladder.

  Bladders sound gross, but they’re actually a lot better than bottles, as long as they don’t leak. Eve
ry time I want to take a drink I have to stop and unload my bottles from my pack. Meanwhile, a bladder has a water hose that snakes up through a hiker’s pack and attaches to the front of a shoulder strap. Any time a hiker gets thirsty, all he has to do is chomp on the hose’s bite valve without breaking stride.

  Sean removes a small black bag with a nylon drawstring from a side pocket on his pack. Opening the bag, he empties out what looks like a tiny fire extinguisher with a pumping handle at the top and two tubes emerging out of one side. He lowers one of the tubes into the pond and places the second tube into the water bladder. “D, keep the tubes steady while I pump.”

  Denver comes over and holds the tubes in place as Sean suctions dirty pond water into the filter. Clear, clean water flows through the second tube and into the bladder. When it is full, Denver moves the tube over to his own water bladder. Then he fills my water bottles as well.

  After filling up, Sean packs away the filter. “Let’s get going,” he says shortly.

  Before we leave, Denver digs into his pack and hold up a bottle of iodine pills. “You know how to use these?”

  I shake my head. When I went camping with Lucas, we always used a water filter.

  Denver hands me the pills. “Put two in each bottle. Screw the bottle caps back on, but don’t close them all the way. In five minutes, wispy brown threads will form under the caps. Shake them loose, then tighten your bottles.”

  “I don’t need all of these.” I’m about to open the bottle and take just a few pills, but Denver shakes his head. “Keep it all, Tony. It’s our backup. You need it more than us.”

  “And find a way to get another filter.” Sean has already started walking down the trail. “You’ll end up in the hospital if you don’t.”

  We leave the pond and wind our way along the green, wet, muddy trail. We’ve crossed a small real road, beginning a steep climb, when Denver asks, “So, Tony, how long are you out here for?”

  I try to sound casual. “Oh, just a couple of days.”

  “Do you have enough to eat now?” Denver sounds worried.

  “I’ve got two Snickers bars. And some cheese. Wait, no, no cheese. Just the Snickers.”

  Sean snorts. “What? I knew you were low, but that is borderline stupid. And you fed that dog? Such a newb.”

  I decide at that moment that I don’t like Sean.

  Denver pulls up beside me. “Tony, that’s not enough. You’re going to need more food than that.”

  “I know. But it’s all I’ve got.” I want to let Denver know that I’m not completely dumb, that I do have plans to keep myself from starving. “And once I get to Lonesome Lake, I’ll be able to stock up.”

  Denver opens a hip pocket strap and pulls out a Ziploc bag full of homemade gorp. That stands for “good old raisins and peanuts.” Denver’s mix has colorful flashes of M&M’S added as well.

  Denver seems to be a decent guy, and I feel a momentary pang of unease. I made a decision to hike this trail alone, and I don’t want to feel like I owe anyone anything. I don’t want to get too involved with these guys.

  But he stuffs it into my hand, like it isn’t even a question.

  I open the Ziploc and pop a handful of peanuts, raisins, and M&M’S in my mouth. I can feel fat and sugar breaking down as I chew. My stomach howls with happy anticipation.

  “Hungry, huh?” Denver has a smile on his face. I’m almost angry at him, for thinking friendship could be so easy, for acting like I’m some little kid—but I know he means well.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, trying not to demolish the entire bag.

  “Eat it all—we’ve got plenty of food for our trip.”

  I swallow another handful of sweet, free food and gulp down my anger. “How far are you guys going?”

  “After Kinsman Pond we’re heading up to Franconia Ridge—Liberty, Lafayette, Little Haystack—then over the Presidential Range to Mount Washington. We go down to Pinkham Notch from there. We’ve got Sean’s car parked at the visitor center. We’re planning for it to take four days, but we’ve got enough supplies for five or six.”

  The names ring bells in my head. Mount Washington for sure. It’s the tallest peak in the Northeast, and is said to have some of the worst weather on earth. The Appalachian Trail runs right over it.

  “And what about you—how far are you planning to go for your week in the woods?” Denver asks.

  I am confused until I remember the lie I’ve told them. About earning my Boy Scouts merit badge. “I don’t know yet,” I say cautiously. I don’t want to let on that I’m planning to hike all the way to Katahdin. “Probably past Washington a little ways—I’ll have to see.”

  Denver doesn’t press, and we go along in a comfortable silence. I’ve just begun to notice the soft rustle of wind through the maples when Denver asks, “So, Tony. How did you get into hiking?”

  I don’t respond right away. I keep in step with these two guys who clearly are far more prepared than I am, and try not to think about the answer to that question.

  It comes to me anyway.

  WE HAD DONE almost all the things on the List. Almost every single one. While we were checking things off our list, we were also planning for our big hike. We read up on hiking in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and through the 100 Mile Wilderness in Maine. We made a list of things we would need: sleeping bags, sleeping pads, tent, boots, socks … all the way down to cups and first aid kits and maps.

  We found water bottles and the MSR cooking stove at one garage sale, Swiss Army knives and a water filter and headlamps from another. There were well-used backpacks in the gear room where Lucas’s dad kept all his camping supplies. Lucas had our shelter—an army-green Stansport tent he had gotten from his dad when he was eight.

  We planned simple meals. Pasta and sauce, rice and beans, peanut butter and tortillas, ramen noodles. We got maps of the trail and studied them by flashlight in our creaky tree house as lightning bugs darted by, their golden pulses as brief and bright as hope.

  The time when I knew that we were going to actually go, though, was when Lucas knocked on my door one Friday night in early July and told me to be ready for a surprise the next morning. “We’re going to Boston and we’ve got to get there early,” he announced.

  “Is this for the trail?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.” Lucas smiled mysteriously. “Set your alarm for three a.m. and bring as much cash as you can. I promise you, it’ll be worth it.”

  I set my alarm, but it didn’t matter. I was up all night, fidgety and excited. By 2:00 a.m. I was out of bed, and by 2:47 a.m. I was tapping at the front door of Lucas’s house with three twenties shoved into the back pocket of my jeans.

  We got into Lucas’s mom’s Subaru Legacy and she drove us through town, with its nickel-and-dime storefronts, past Dan & Whit’s general store, which advertises in plain-printed type in their front window, “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it!” We passed by the redbrick town hall and by the tiny post office where Mr. Dinkins had worked for thirty-six years.

  We stayed on Route 5 for a mile before taking the sharp-curved ramp to I-91 south. On the highway, I finally fell asleep to the quiet hum of the car and the lull of the road. I was still dreaming when the digital clock on the Legacy’s dash turned to 5:27 a.m. and we pulled into the Landmark Center parking lot.

  Lucas nudged me and hopped out of the car. He pointed at a big box store with a line of sleepy customers waiting next to the glass double doors. “Today’s the REI’s scratch-and-dent sale.”

  I was suddenly very awake. REI scratch-and-dent sales are like Christmas for anyone who loves the outdoors. They are exactly as advertised—any slightly damaged returned items go on sale a couple of times a year at huge discounts. Sometimes a customer returns something because it’s the wrong size, or the wrong color, and that’s when you can get a perfect piece of gear at half off or more.

  Lucas and I dashed to the end of the line. His mom came more slowly, bringing muffins and a thermos of hot c
hocolate for us to drink as we waited. When the doors opened at eight, we scampered like rabbits to the camping section. I found a moisture-wicking base layer and some lightweight Darn Tough hiking socks and was looking at a basic first aid kit when Lucas tapped my arm. “Toe, check these out!”

  And there they were. Asolo hiking boots, chestnut brown, coated with waterproof Gore-Tex. Two-inch rubber soles. High-quality leather and precise stitching all crafted into one perfect set of boots dangling by their laces from Lucas’s hands.

  I sat down in the middle of the store and pulled them on. They were stiff, but when I stood up and walked around the store to test them out, I could feel them molding to my feet, as though they were mine already.

  Then I looked down at the price tag, and my heart crumbled. Even at the steep discount, there was no way I could shell out that amount of money.

  I took them off and handed them back to Lucas. “Man, these are great, but I don’t think I can afford them. Thanks for spotting them, though.” I picked up the items I had tossed in a heap in my eagerness to try on the boots. “I’ll get these. Meet you in the car.”

  A day later I returned home from a walk with Gran to find a lumpy brown paper package scotched-taped together sitting on the front porch. I ripped open the paper, and the Asolo boots fell out. A note had been stuffed inside one of them. When I unfolded it, there was only one line, written in Lucas’s scrawl.

  Shut up and don’t thank me.

  I never did.

  LUCAS. I GOT into hiking and I’m on the trail in my muddy Asolo boots because of Lucas and the List.

  “Tony? Earth to Tony … ”

  I shake myself out of my memories. It has been a few minutes since Denver asked me why I was on the trail. The silence must have felt strange. It was a straightforward question, after all.

  “I got into hiking because I’m trying to grow up.” It’s the best half truth I can give.

  “ ‘Grow up’?” Ahead of me, Sean shakes his head. “What does that even mean?”