The Secrets We Bury

by Stacie Ramey

He laughed. “I know what I said. If you do swim team for a season, I will take you to Comic-Con.”

  I crossed my arms. “Mom won’t like it.”

  “It’s not up to her. It’s a deal between two guys.”

  It’s been a long time since that talk after swim practice. Almost eight years to be exact. Two since I competed on the team. But I know my body will remember how to do impossibly hard things. I still have my swimmer’s V, broad shoulders, and strong legs, and muscle memory will kick in for sure. I tell myself what I used to tell myself at swim practice: Just take the next lap.

  Just take the next hill. The next mile. The next hour. The next two hours. Let myself get good and lost in the woods. Each step takes me away from the coffee shop where I almost got nabbed. From Mom’s detectives. From everything bad I’ve ever done.

  Chapter 5

  At first, all I notice is how heavy my pack feels as it presses down on my shoulders. Then how my foot slides a little in my boots, because the guy told me to buy them half a size too big “at least.” The rugged terrain is difficult to maneuver, and I’ve got to look down all the time to make sure I don’t trip or step on a snake. I’m not exactly sure what I pictured this to be like, but I didn’t expect this. At times I walk along a forested trail, mostly flat with tree roots and downed limbs littering the ground. At other times, the trail leads uphill over rocks. I’m always looking for the white blazes, marks put along the trail that tell you where to go. Every time I pass one, a tiny bit of anxiety melts away. People have done this before me. Others will do it after me. Plus, it feels good to mark my progress by the white rectangles painted on the trees. These little details are the ones Dad would have pointed out for me if he was here. That makes me feel good.

  I stop by a creek for a lunch of a PowerBar, one of the chocolate-covered peanut butter ones, and drink some water. It feels good to stop walking, and I listen to the sounds of nature, not through my headphones, but in real life. The sounds are calming—they remind me that there are aspects about this whole hiking-the-trail life that I already like. Sitting still makes my legs stiffen up, so I push myself to standing, put the pack back on, and walk some more.

  I’m sweating, but it’s cold and the wind blows and I shiver. It’s not the actual hiking I mind. Hiking is like swimming. What I do mind is that my pants get caught on rocks and branches, disrupting my rhythm. I hate how my neck is damp and that it makes me feel like I’m sick.

  I worry about bugs. A lot. So, my ears are listening in hard to make sure no insects are around me, ready to strike, that it is exhausting. The trail guides all said there are no bugs in Georgia at this time of year, especially when the wind blows, but I’m still on constant alert. Just in case.

  I distract myself by putting in my headphones and playing the drums, the fast ones, on my phone. I match my walking to the rhythm of the sticks pounding and pounding. I make up this mantra in my mind. Fourteen hours of battery. Fourteen hours of battery. It’s a stupid thing to chant, but I’ve got to remind myself that I can listen to music for part of the trail and for some of the nights, as long as I’m careful. It’s seventy-eight miles to the first resupply town where I can recharge my phone.

  I’m walking at a brisk-ish pace, and after a while, without my neurotic need to make sure no insects are threatening, it feels like being in the zone while swimming. Constant repetitive, unthinking movements. I picture Dad. How proud he would be of me. His eyes would almost close in approval with that pleased-with-me face.

  Hard work and exercise make my body hum. A peaceful feeling fills me, and I don’t ever want to stop. Only that’s not normal or good. Or doable. My feet are really starting to hurt. I hear someone coming up behind me. So, I go off trail a few feet. Then a few more. I drop my pack, sit on a large rock, drink some water. Unzip my pack and get out my cell. It’s 2:08. I’ve been hiking for so many hours already. Wow. My cell has two bars, remarkably. I want to tell Em. So I try to text her.

  youll never believe how easy this has been!

  But when I go to send it, I get a delivery failure message, which makes sense since I’m in the middle of fricking nowhere.

  Now that I’m sitting, my legs feel a little shaky. I haven’t eaten except the one PowerBar and that awesome send-off breakfast, so I open the top part of my pack and grab some dried apples. I drink more water. I’m almost out, so I’ll have to find a water source and use my filtration system and tablets, which I’m pretty nervous about. Most people use one system or the other, but I’m a better-safe-than-sorry kind of person, especially when it comes to clean drinking water and gross stomach viruses. Blowout diarrhea in the deep woods? Not my dream.

  Below me, I watch two hikers pass. An old Dad-aged guy and a kid who’s probably his son. Glad I pulled off the trail. I check my mileage on my phone. 11.9 miles. I check my map. I’m almost at Cooper Gap.

  I look around and wonder about setting up camp. I check my guide and my map; there’s a flat camping area and one of those shelters about a half a mile from here.

  I hike to where I want to set up camp and drop my pack. I take a drink of water and look out over the hillside. There’s a brook nearby, and I think about refilling my water bottle. The sound of the rushing water is such a relief. If Emily was here, she’d understand that. The sound lifts the tension from my generally over-torqued body. I wish I’d gone camping with Dad, Christian (Emily’s brother), and Uncle Steve, or even my brother, Brad, when I had the chance.

  I don’t want to think about that, so instead I get to work using my water filter. It slips at first and takes a few tries before I get the rhythm down, but then I pump the water and it actually goes in the bottle. It’s strange to get excited about water, but I do. Then I drop in the tablets that are also supposed to make it safe to drink. I sit on a rock and wait for the water that looks so effing perfect, clean, and wonderful, but that is probably full of crap that’ll kill me, to purify.

  I take off my boots and my socks. My feet are definitely a little swollen with areas that are super red on the sides of my big toes. Great. I plunge my feet in the water and let that relief flood me. I think about washing my socks. And my body because I’m disgustingly dirty, definitely more dirty than I’ve ever been in my life.

  Then I see her, the girl from earlier. She’s about two hundred yards downstream from me, picking her way off trail. I wonder if this is a bathroom stop for her. It would make sense. You’re supposed to leave at least that distance between water and catholes. She opens her backpack and takes an orange-handled trowel. I should look away, but I don’t. Instead I crouch behind a rock like a total lurker.

  I’m not well versed on trail etiquette, but I do know a few things. Watching someone take a poo or pee is definitely not cool. No need for social skills class to dissect that. So, I know that what I’m doing is wrong and I still do it. I keep watching her. Part of me wishes I could grab my binoculars to get a better look. Damn, I’m a sicko.

  When she’s done digging, I feel my heartbeat pick up a little. Is she going to get undressed right here? She doesn’t. Instead, she reaches into the front pocket of her pack and takes out that little notebook that she wrote in earlier. Her face gets that same grim look I saw at the trail angel breakfast. She rips out a sheet from the notebook, then stares at it for ten seconds. Ten seconds is a long time to stare at anything, let alone a piece of paper with your writing. It’s not like she has to figure out what the note says, I mean, she wrote it and all.

  She rips the paper in half. And in half again. She puts the pieces into the ground and covers it with dirt. She stomps on it, packing the dirt tight. When she’s done, she looks up at the sky, back to the creek, then—hands on her hips—she speaks, nodding as she does, like she’s using self-talk or something. Some of the kids in my unit at my last school used to do that. It drove me crazy. But watching her do it now, I wish I could read her lips.

  When she’s done, she looks around
, and I crouch lower. She goes to the stream and unpacks her water filtration system. Should I approach her? Would she be angry that I was invading her space? She struggles a little with the pump. It slips and the water spills, then she kneels by the creek, crying. Except I know that she’s not crying about the water, and that’s a really weird thing to know about someone. Especially for me.

  The right thing to do would be to leave her alone, but all I can do is stare. I understand the pain she’s feeling. I feel it. And that means she and I have something pretty deep in common, aside from us hiking the trail. And maybe she’s got similar reasons to be here. Not the not-wanting-to-go-to-school reason. The other, deeper one.

  I watch as she eventually gets the water flowing. The wind gusts again and I shiver. I decide not to tempt fate any longer, backing myself away from the creek and toward a camping area, though the image of her burying that piece of paper and crying by the creek stays with me long after I’ve set up my tent and my stove. I’m still thinking about it when I take out my can of OFF! Deep Woods (evergreen scent), the only kind of bug spray I believe works, and I spray a huge area where I lay out my sleeping bag. I choke a little on the fog of the insect repellent, but I don’t care. There is no way I’m sleeping in the woods without a little protection.

  Housekeeping complete, my stomach growls—a long, deep rumble. It’s definitely time for dinner. I light my stove, the one thing that isn’t remotely difficult for me, having worked with Bunsen burners in chemistry class, and cook myself two delicious bags of mac and cheese. I’m not usually a huge mac and cheese fan, but man am I hungry. And mac and cheese is easy to carry and easy to make.

  Mom used to always get so annoyed with me when I forgot to eat. Sometimes it would be all day. Sometimes longer. She’d complain to Dad, who would eventually just drop off a plate with food on my desk. Dad knew when I was working on something, anything, I did not want to be disturbed. I could be playing the computer in chess, reading Harry Potter, any of them, for the sixth or seventh time, playing sudoku. It didn’t matter. When I was in my world, there was no way to enter it, unless maybe by dropping off a piece of Joey’s Pizza, extra sauce, extra cheese. Sometimes I’d even look up and say, “Thanks, Dad.” Other times, like when I was studying the astronomical charts of recent star deaths or weather charts, I’d just shovel the food in and not even acknowledge the receipt. But Dad was cool with that. Sometimes he’d mutter, “That’s my little scientist.” And I would feel understood on a profound level.

  When I’m done eating, I wash out my bowl with my newly filled water bag and then dry the inside. I “pack out my trash,” like the books say to, and put everything away, rewarding myself in my head for following the trail rules.

  Once I pack everything up, I prepare to do the one thing I’ve been dreading since deciding to live this thru-hiking life; I head into the woods with a shovel. The trail books are really clear about this next part. There are rules you have to follow. Rules usually help me. But in this case, I’m worried they won’t be enough.

  I tell myself this isn’t hard. It’s just like going in a toilet. It’s no big deal. Don’t focus on the potential bugs. Don’t worry about anything but this. First, I have to pick an ideal spot. Not too close to trees or leaves. Those have bugs, for sure. Crawling bugs. That’s a deal breaker. I have to not think about bugs. But once you tell yourself not to think about something, it’s all you can think about.

  Once I find a decent spot, I dig the hole. It needs to be six to eight inches deep. I picture a medium Coke ICEE from Burger King and dig down far enough for one of those. That done, I take a deep breath. I dug a cathole. Check.

  I look around to make sure there is no noticeable insect life. I listen carefully. No bug sounds. I drop my pants. But the very thing I’ve come here to do is now the last thing I can accomplish with tense muscles. I stand here, listening for invaders. Telling myself to stop being an idiot. Reminding myself it’ll be less weight to carry if I do this. Ha!

  Eventually, I give up. I fill in the hole so no unsuspecting animal or hiker falls in, and I tramp back to my tent where I wipe my sleeping bag with an insecticide wipe that Emily said I should be careful about using or some hiker will find me in my tent, legs in the air like a dead bedbug. I said, better a dead bedbug than a live one.

  I crawl inside the soft sleeping bag. The guy at the store said I should have bought the down one, but the thought of all of those feathers sort of freaked me out. I felt I could live with the few extra ounces this bag cost me in pack weight.

  Sleeping bags in general freak me out. It’s a weird phobia to have, but there’s no convincing me to give it up. They seem so confined. Exactly the kind of place where animals or rodents or other vermin would lie in wait for the unsuspecting hiker. I’m going to have to give myself a word-of-the-day point for vermin. I’ll tell Emily when I’m able to text her.

  I zip the bag open, check for bugs, zip it back up, and climb in. My toes stretch out, feeling for marauding mice or rogue spiders that my inspection may have missed. Finding none, I decide to lie on top of the sleeping bag. Seems safer somehow. Triple points! Booyah! But then I start to worry that by laying on top of the sleeping bag, it makes me even more vulnerable to the nasty bugs that have waited for this moment to attack. So I force myself under the covers. Even with the cushion-y sleeping bag, rocks poke my back through the layers of nylon and flannel. I remember when I was little, Mom used to smooth out my bedsheets so there were no wrinkles…and definitely no crumb attacks (what I called dirt or sand that scraped my knees). She’d wash my bedding regularly, and she’d even go over it with one of those lint rollers.

  I try not to think about how much Mom must be worried. My biggest impairment is the one no one wanted to talk about. There are times that I know that I’m hurting someone I love, and I still do whatever it is that is hurting them, because I believe what I want or need at that moment outweighs everything else. I know that really sucks for other people. I wish I could change it, but I feel like it’s written in my DNA somehow. Some people are just born assholes.

  I put on my headphones and listen to the chill-out playlist, same as always: Chants, sounds of nature (double points for being ironic), and finally, drumming. I guess I’m more tired than I realize, because by the time the second track kicks in, my muscles loosen and I feel them melt into the sleeping bag. My eyes close, and I fall away from the music around me.

  Chapter 6

  I wake up to the sound of rain drizzling on my tent. It’s peaceful, like the rushing creek yesterday, but this time instead of making me feel good, I feel incredibly sad. The weird thing is, feeling sad is also a relief, because, according to the counselor Mom made me see, it shows my conscience is working. I am sad. And I feel sad. These are good things, I guess. Although, normal people don’t need to celebrate feeling this way. They just do it, at the right time, not a year later. But what can I say? My processing is slow. And better late than never, right? I lie in my sleeping bag—wishing I’d gotten that down sleeping bag. Freezing temperatures are more compelling than the fear of feathers. I kick myself for being so painfully me, and I try to ignore the urgent need to take a mighty piss.

  The one time I let Dad talk me into camping with him, we went to one of those parks that actually have bathrooms and cabins and was far enough from civilization that nobody cared if you peed in the woods, but close enough that you could get a good piece of pizza if you were desperate. We camped in the tent in the woods to make it feel more real. It was like training wheels for camping, and I knew at thirteen, I was way too old to have to take baby steps. Bathrooms were one of my stipulations for camping of any kind. Having Emily camp with us was another condition for my agreement. Dad was always finding ways to help me say yes to activities I wanted to say no to.

  “It’s not so bad going in the woods,” he said. “Not for guys anyway.”

  That made Emily giggle.

  But I flat re
fused to find out if it was bad or not. Dad went into the woods while Em and I took turns using the bathroom.

  The sounds at night were horrible. Bugs droning. Frogs croaking. I remember thinking how wild it sounded. How could anyone sleep outside like this? Why would anyone choose to? I slept that night in fits and starts, convinced as soon as I closed my eyes some horrid army of insects would walk all over me, my skin crawling with the thought. But Dad put his hand on my back while I tried to fall asleep, and I loved the way that felt. Strong and protective. Like he was holding me in place.

  When I can’t make myself lie here anymore, I unzip my tent and step out into the drizzle. It’s colder than I thought it would be, but I make myself move. Pee. Then coffee. Coffee after pee. My new mantra. I grab my trowel, the one I took from the garage before I left home, dig a hole six inches down, and pee. Dad’s right—peeing in the woods isn’t terrible. But no other inspiration hits, so I cover the hole and pack the dirt. I remember the blond hiker girl burying that note. My gaze shoots in the direction of where she was when she buried it.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my knees examining the ground for evidence of the burial site. I’m pretty sure my position is right, but I don’t see any fresh patches of disrupted ground. So I go back to where I was spying on her, because I’ve got to be honest with myself, I was spying. And now I’m spying even more, because I’m going to dig up whatever note it was she buried. That should stop me. It would stop a normal person. But. Yeah. I’m too focused to completely walk away.

  From my new position, I can tell that I need to move about forty-five degrees to the left. I can almost hear Mrs. Horner, one of the therapists from over the years who took the time to explain socially expected behaviors to me. She also told me she believed I knew when I was going to do something inappropriate. If she were here with me now, she’d tell me there’s still time to stop myself. There’s still time to not give into the obsession. But, sorry, Mrs. Horner, restraint is not the order of the day, because within seconds of finding the burial ground, I’m pawing through the dirt, which is super weird, because I could use the trowel, but I’m worried about ripping the note. So, I go bare-handed into the dirt. Getting dirt under my nails and on my hands usually freaks me out, especially after that entire horse burial ground incident. But this time, all I can think about is finding that note. Once I get a few inches down, I slow my digging and carefully brush the dirt back like I’m an archaeologist or something. Finally, my fingers close around the thin pieces of paper, and I almost let out a shriek of excitement. Eureka, baby!