The Trail

by Meika Hashimoto

  “This is our emergency shelter. It’s designed to take an overflow of hikers in bad weather. We’re full up now, but you guys can stay here for tonight,” says Nate.

  I’m glad I’m not sleeping inside the hut. Even though I thought there had been way too many people in Zealand two days ago, it’s nothing compared to the hordes of people inside Lakes. I read somewhere that the hut can hold over a hundred people. Definitely a number I am not comfortable with. I put my hand on the Dungeon door and push it open.

  Inside, half a dozen wooden bunk beds form an L-shape in the corner farthest from the door. It is a basic setup, chilly, but blocked from the rain and the wind.

  Moose sniffs around our place for the night while Sean and I lay our sleeping pads and bags on the two bottom bunks. It’s creepy down here. I begin to notice the constant low moan of the wind. The cold and the damp. The feeling of being on a mountain, far from civilization. I can see why it is called the Dungeon.

  Once we’ve set up our bunks, Sean and I return to the hut for dinner. We eat quickly, I let Moose outside for a minute, and then we return to the Dungeon for the night. We don’t get much sleep. Moose paces the cold stone floor of the Dungeon, his nails clicking restlessly.

  The next morning Abbey and the two other crew members from Mizpah head back over the ridge to their hut. Abbey gives me a hug before she leaves. “Denver told me everything. They were lucky to have you there.”

  My cheeks turn to fire.

  “Take care, Tony,” Abbey says. She heads toward the door.

  “It’s Toby,” I say.

  But she’s already gone.

  Nate takes over the rescue operation. Denver’s ankles have gotten a little better during the night, but he still can’t walk. After breakfast, Nate gathers a dozen volunteers and loads Denver back up in the litter.

  The wind is blowing steadily when we leave the hut, but the skies are clear. The morning forecast calls for sun for the next couple of hours. For the litter-carry, it is a warm, easy walk along the gentle boulder-strewn path. Moose trots next to me, even when I’m taking a turn carrying Denver.

  I see the buildings on top of Washington before the actual summit. Metal towers that resemble rocket launchers rise up in the air. The elevated trestle of the Cog Railway rises up underneath a single locomotive belching out coal-black smoke as it pulls a trainload of tourists up the mountain.

  We crest a rocky hill, and suddenly we are standing at the edge of a round stone tower. It looks like something Rapunzel would have lived in. There is a humungous parking lot filled with opening and closing car doors. Swarms of people are walking up a set of wooden stairs toward the true summit. Some are wearing packs and using trekking poles, but many of them are in thin cotton shirts, with big cameras strapped around their necks, shuffling in loafers or clutching purses. If a sudden gale struck up, they would be Popsicles.

  “Larry. Larry! Look at that, Larry!” A woman with bright pink lips and a thick Jersey accent elbows the hairy arm of a lumbering man with a waxed head that shines like a newly mopped kitchen floor.

  “Quit your poking, Janice!” says Larry.

  “There’s a body in that sled. Ooh, take a picture for the kids!” Janice hustles over to us. Larry wobbles behind.

  A dozen heads turn, and we are set upon by a mob of tourist photographers. There’s a guy with a heavy-duty Nikon, crouching down to take low-angled pictures. Two ladies in matching pink miniskirts and bejeweled sandals, each of them holding their iPhones sideways as they walk toward us. A girl with one of those old-school disposable cameras that still uses film. Larry hobbles to the front and starts taking pictures of the litter. Moose growls, and I put my hand on his head to calm him.

  “Everyone, step back,” shouts Nate. “This is a rescue operation, not a circus show.”

  “Ooh, how bad is it? Is he dead?” asks Janice. “Larry, take a picture of the dead guy!”

  “Sir!” yells Nate. His voice drops an octave. “Step away from the litter!”

  “Let me just get this shot.” Larry leans over to take a picture of Denver’s face.

  I glance at Sean. His hands are clenched. He looks about ready to punch Larry in the face.

  “Sir!” Nate barks again. “If you do not remove yourself immediately from the situation, I am going to call the Fish and Game warden and have you detained for obstructing a rescue operation.”

  “There’s no such thing as that.” Larry clicks away.

  “You are violating park service code seven-twelve-oh-one-two, whereby any citizen who deliberately ignores a search-and-rescue leader is subject to a five-thousand-dollar fine. Do you want me to call and make that official?” Nate removes his walkie-talkie from his belt and holds it up to his ear.

  “All right, all right,” Larry grumbles. He moves to the side and lets the litter pass.

  “Larry, check the pictures, make sure they’re good,” says Janice. “I want to show Mavis and Jerry that we saw a real dead guy.”

  With a few more threats, Nate clears the crowd so the litter can move up a series of wooden steps to a huge bunker-like visitor center at the top.

  I tell Moose to stay outside and take a final turn helping to carry Denver into the building. I look down and realize why Janice thought he was dead. Through the whole scene, Denver has been fast asleep.

  Once we are settled in the visitor center, Nate calls Denver’s parents, who are driving up an auto road to the summit.

  Nate hangs up the phone. “Your folks will be here in about half an hour,” he tells Denver.

  “Hey, Nate,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Could you really have gotten that guy arrested and fined?”

  Nate laughs. “Nope.”

  “But what about that code?”

  “I’m hut crew. My job is to make up official-sounding stuff.”

  Nate unzips Denver’s sleeping bag. “Time for one more ankle check before I send you on your way.”

  As Nate starts his final inspection, the smell of fried food suddenly hits me. After weeks of being on the trail, the scent is enough to lure me away from Denver and Sean and to the visitor center’s cafeteria. It is bustling with hungry tourists, some in high heels, tottering around looking for hot chocolate or bowls of clam chowder, hot dogs wrinkled with overheating, burgers flipped in lard, and big, fat, wonderful french fries.

  I buy a tray of fries and douse them in ketchup. As I munch on them, I take a better look around. Next to the cafeteria there is a souvenir shop that sells key chains, THIS CAR CLIMBED MOUNT WASHINGTON bumper stickers, chocolate-covered almonds posing as “Moose Poop,” T-shirts and sweatshirts and hats and bandannas.

  It is too much. As good as the fries taste, I’m ready to be back outside, away from civilization. I return to Denver and Sean. “Hey, guys, I think I’ll get going.”

  Denver sits up and reaches into his pocket. He takes a piece of paper and a pen. “Well?” he says. He looks at me expectantly. “Am I going to get your grandma’s number or not?”

  That’s right. I hesitate, but I know that Denver wouldn’t betray my trust. He will get Gran a message without having her try to stop what I need to do. I tell him the number.

  Denver writes down the digits and tucks the paper in his pocket.

  “Hey,” says Sean. He crosses over to me. Before I know what’s happening, I’m wrapped up in a fierce hug. I stand there, paralyzed. My mind can’t believe that gruff-and-tough Sean would actually do something like this. Then, without thinking, I hug him back.

  Sean lets go of me and uses the back of his hand to rub away something in his eye. “I know I was rotten to you when we met, but I’m really glad we found you.”

  “I’m glad we found one another.” I mean it. By some stroke of incredible luck, we helped to save one another from the past. Denver from his brother, me from Lucas. A wave of sadness hits me. I realize that I probably won’t ever see these guys again. I open my mouth. I want to tell them how awesome they are, and that I’
m going to miss them, and that now that they have Gran’s number maybe they could call sometime and we could catch up.

  But then out of the corner of my eye I see a man with Denver’s blue eyes and a woman with his dark-brown hair rushing toward us, and I know I have to get going before they start asking me questions. “I gotta go,” I mumble, and lunge for my backpack.

  “Bye, kid,” says Sean.

  “Safe travels, Toby,” says Denver.

  “Thanks. You get home safe, too.”

  I hitch up my pack and head out, just missing Denver’s parents as they barrel toward their son. I call to Moose, and within a few seconds, we are on our way. It is a relief to hurry off the top of Washington and make for Mount Jefferson, the next peak over. The crowds fade into straggles of people once I start climbing across the ridge, away from the parking lot and train stop.

  The top of Jefferson is a small outcropping of rocks. I clamber up it, and as I stare at the metal geological marker marking the top, it occurs to me that I didn’t actually touch the true summit of Washington. It would have been the highest point for me on the entire trail.

  A moment later, it also occurs to me that it doesn’t matter. I doesn’t matter that I got within a hundred feet of the summit and forgot to actually touch it. I saved a guy from jumping off a cliff. I’ve got a lucky marble in my pack. I fed a dog, who saved me from a moose. I’m doing all right.

  After a snack of tortillas and cheese for Moose and me, it is time to move on. We tackle Mount Adams next, then descend down.

  The top of Madison is less than half a mile up. When I reach it, it’s getting to be late afternoon. Three miles later, we are at Osgood tentsite—our stopping point for the night. We’ve hiked over four peaks and gone ten miles today, one of them being Denver’s three-hour carryout. Not too bad.

  I take out my stove and coax a round blue flame to life. I fill my pot halfway with water and set it on the stove. As the water forms tight bubbles around the edge of the pot, I peel the cardboard tab back on the rice-and-beans box and pull open the plastic sack inside.

  I pour the rice and beans in the boiling water and turn the flame down to low, letting it simmer while I cut pieces of sausage and drop them into the pot. Just before the soupy mixture is done, I push a slab of cheese into the center and let it melt into a core of gooey goodness.

  I twist the fuel knob until the flame dies and lift the pot off the stove. I let it sit for a few minutes with the cover on, then settle it and myself on a large flat rock to eat my dinner. I hear clicking toenails, and Moose jumps up on the rock beside me. I ruffle his head and pour some of my food out for him to lap up.

  After dinner, I pitch my tent and then sit outside to watch the sunset.

  Golden streaks lace the sky before the midnight blue of dark creeps down. The sun drops below the horizon, and already a half-moon is dimly visible. There is something calming about this sunset. It doesn’t mean a night of uncertainty and cold, or aloneness.

  Moose pads up beside me and flops down. His head rests on my knee, and together we watch the stars come out.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Moose and I set off for Carter Notch Hut eleven miles away. I don’t intend on spending the night there, but I do have to return Andy’s lucky marble to the crew. I figure that it has gotten me this far—I can do the rest of the trail alone. Plus, I can ask the crew if they know any stealth sites where I can camp. The next shelter past Carter is another seven miles, and even though I’m feeling pretty good, eighteen miles is still way too much for me to attempt to hike in a day.

  Moose and I tread carefully down a steep section of trail, but once we reach the bottom of the valley there is nothing but smooth, flat going for miles.

  My stride feels longer; my heart feels stronger. There is a toughness that is beginning to take root in my body. I can feel it in the way I move, how my steps are firmer, the swing of my trekking poles rhythmic and sure.

  We reach the Pinkham Notch visitor center in the early afternoon. Inside is a dining room and a store that sells gloves, hats, maps, water-filtration systems, hand and toe warmers. There is a topographic model of the mountains and valleys in the area, with trails marked in little dotted red lines.

  I follow signs for the bathrooms down a flight of steps and discover that there are coin-operated showers available. I go to the front desk and get a handful of quarters as well as a clean towel for two dollars. I pay with a twenty and as I’m waiting for change, I double-check my money Ziploc. I’ve got one hundred and eighty two dollars left.

  I return to the showers and go into a stall. After peeling off my clothes, I slide a quarter into the coin slot on the wall and twist a knob. As soon as the hot water hits my skin, I know I’ve made the right decision. I groan with happiness and am very glad that there is no one in the bathroom to hear me. I get to work scrubbing, getting in between each finger- and toenail, the spaces behind my ears, every corner of my armpits, every inch of my scalp. Each quarter buys me three minutes of time, and I go through three full dollars before I reluctantly let the water shut off.

  I dry myself and rub the towel hard against my wet hair until it sticks up in half-dried knots. Even though I’m getting back into dirty clothes, when I leave the bathroom I feel like a million bucks.

  After refilling my water bottles and returning the towel, I stop by the dining room for a sandwich and some lemonade. By the time I start back on the trail, I’m nearly running with new energy.

  After miles of downhill or flat, the trail turns abruptly to loose, steep rock. Moose finds his own way through the dense brush, popping out every once in a while to make sure I am still there.

  Up, up, up. Sweat rolls down my temples. My shirt is drenched and rubs against my skin where my backpack straps are pressed. My hip belt begins to feel like a sticky octopus tentacle, clinging to my waist as the weight of my pack digs into the small of my back.

  But despite all this, I’m not uncomfortable. My lungs are working hard, and my pulse is high, but steady and even. Each rock scramble is a little puzzle, solvable with a couple of pulled tree roots and well-placed boot steps.

  The small, stony Carter Notch Hut comes into view by early evening. I figure I’ll go inside when it’s darker and drop off Andy’s marble, then find a place to camp a little farther away.

  I continue down the trail. I come to a couple of small lakes and walk halfway around one before setting myself down for a little snack before dinner. I open my pack and dig out a granola bar. I break off a chunk and give it to Moose, then sit and munch as I watch ripples roll calmly over the lake. I’ve hiked eleven miles today, in some of the most rugged sections of the entire Appalachian Trail. I feel good and fine and happy.

  “Lucas, buddy, I wish you were with me.” The words appear out of nowhere.

  I wait for the guilt to come on, as it always does. But then something miraculous happens. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.

  I feel happy.

  Somehow, through the mess of it all, I feel like Lucas is here with me. Telling me that he is proud of me for standing on my own two feet. For being able to go on without him.

  Maybe I’m not a screwup after all. Maybe my bad luck is finally going away.

  There is a rustling behind me, and Moose barks a warning. I turn to see an enormous black raven jabbing its head into my pack.

  “Shoo!” I cry as I leap to my feet.

  The raven jerks back, and my heart drops. In its beak is Andy’s lucky marble.

  “No!” I shout. I lunge toward the thief. But it is too late. The raven takes off into the thick woods beyond the lake, with Moose right behind.

  I race after them—straight into a thicket of dense bramble bushes studded with thorns. By the time I pull myself free, my arms are covered in scratches and both Moose and the bird thief have disappeared.

  When Moose finally circles back to me, he looks disappointed. There is no raven in his mouth. There is no marble, either.

  I don’t know what to do. I si
nk to my knees and close my eyes. I totally jinxed myself. It was foolish for me to believe that bad luck wouldn’t follow me wherever I went.

  I stay kneeling until Moose starts nudging me with his nose. I can’t just stay here. I get up and return to the lake. It’s getting on dinnertime, but I’m not hungry. I don’t want to go inside the hut and face the crew.

  I could pretend that I was never given the marble. It’s cowardly, and wrong. But I could do it. Go on my way. Stay on the trail and keep my promise to Lucas. I never asked to be in charge of something that important, anyway.

  I take a deep breath. I accept that I’m a coward. I’d rather run away in the dark instead of face the crew at Carter and tell them that I lost Andy’s great-grandfather’s marble. The one that kept him alive during WWII.

  Moose whines uncertainly as I sling my pack on my back. “Let’s go, Moose,” I say shortly. By the time we get to the next shelter, it will be night. I will have broken my promise to not get caught in the dark. But I tell myself that I don’t care.

  All the energy from earlier in the day seems to have left my body. My boots feel leaden. It’s as if I gain a pound with every step.

  I am slowing down, and in my mind I know that I can’t do this.

  I get a mile out before my feet come to a complete stop. I think about what I told Sean when he asked me why I was on the trail.

  “So this is what it feels like to grow up,” I whisper in the thickening dark. I take out my headlamp and turn around. I head back toward the hut to accept the consequences.

  As I near Carter, something glints at the edge of the trail. I hurry closer.

  When I look down, Andy’s lucky marble is at my feet.

  IN CARTER NOTCH Hut, I give the cook Andy’s lucky marble. I feel a twinge of nervousness as the marble drops from my hand into the cook’s open palm. From now on, I’m going to have to create all my good luck myself.