by Nicole Casey
When I looked out at the mountains in the distance, instinctively, I reached out as if to touch them. I nearly lost my balance, like I was being pulled, literally, to them. I laughed at myself, adjusted my backpack, and headed for the trail’s entrance.
A small, unimposing stone arch marked the starting point. Beside it, a wooden sign gave hikers their first indications. A middle-aged couple was standing before the sign, reading it. I glanced over their shoulders. The information was the same I had gleaned from the articles and guidebooks I’d spent the last few days perusing. I took a step back and faced the arch. Nothing was imposing about it, physically, only what it represented.
I rolled my head, rolled my shoulders, and approached the arch, feeling a strange mix of apprehension and eagerness.
The middle-aged couple turned around. “Hello, there,” said the man.
I had a lump in my throat and could only respond with a smile and a nod. I stopped, thinking to let them pass before I did.
“Oh, no,” said the man. “We’re not ready to get going just yet. Building up the courage.”
From their expressions, I could see that the strange sensation I was feeling, they were feeling it, too. I cleared my throat. “I figured I’d just build up the courage on the way.”
The man chuckled. “That’s as good a plan as any, I reckon.” He pulled on the bill of his baseball cap. “Best of luck to you.”
“Thank you.”
The couple walked away.
It was just me and the arch.
I stepped up to it. I touched it. The stones felt like stones, nothing supernatural, no mystical force inhabited me—at least none that I could detect. I took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, here goes.”
I passed through the arch and didn’t look back.
For the first few miles, I kept up a rather quick pace. I had nearly twenty miles to cover before reaching Suches, Georgia—my first stop on the trail—and I planned on making it there by evening—in time to enjoy a hearty meal at a local eatery.
I knew that the hike would give me time and space to think. What I hadn’t counted on, though, was just how many of my thoughts strayed toward Lucy. I thought I was over her: over and done with. Walking in on her and another man should have marked a clean split between us. I sincerely thought it had. But as the miles accumulated, so did my rationalizations, not only for what she did but how I’d reacted. I hadn’t made much of a fuss—it hadn’t been the first time a girlfriend had cheated on me. I hadn’t gotten particularly upset or lost my temper. If anything—and alone on the trail, I could finally admit it to myself—I had been more than slightly aroused.
That was not a realization that sat well with me. I’d had such a difficult time maintaining a relationship—mostly because the women I’d dated simply didn’t want a long-term commitment—but to think I might have some “unorthodox” kink that didn’t bode well for making future attempts at a relationship any easier.
I dealt with the physical wear on my body from hours and hours of hiking, no problem; I had expected that, trained for that, and I was prepared. The mental toll of my berating myself for the failure with Lucy and my “unusual” sexual predilection, however, was more of a challenge to deal with—that I hadn’t expected.
I arrived in Suches beat up and exhausted, not necessarily physically, but mentally and emotionally. That much alone time, for some people, might be therapeutic, but I found it to have the opposite effect on me.
A few more days of being alone with my thoughts and I’ll be ready for the nuthouse.
I went straight for the hotel I’d booked, hoping a hot shower and a hot meal would set me straight.
“Well, hello, there.” A diminutive older lady, white hair perfectly tied in a bun, wearing a faded-blue dress that might have been, many years ago, made for a ball or a fancy gala, greeted me with familiarity and enthusiasm I took as genuine.
“Hello,” I said. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“I bet you’ve come from far away and have walked many miles to get here.”
I took off my backpack and let it fall to the floor. I mustered up enough willpower not to let myself crumple to the floor along with it. “What gave it away?”
She tapped her nose with an index finger. “I’ve got a nose.”
“Yeah, I definitely need a shower.”
“Oh, no.” She chuckled and swatted my comment down with a wave. “It’s just an expression. In truth, the only thing I’m smelling is cinnamon.” She pointed to the open doorway behind her. “I’ve got some tea brewing.” She leaned over the counter and whispered, “I bet you could use a cup.”
Before I could respond, she turned from me, stuck her head around the open doorway, and called out, “Harold. We got a guest. Won’t you bring us some tea?” She turned to me. “We make the best tea in Georgia. One cup and you’ll be right as rain.” She winked and stepped up to the reception counter.
I also approached the counter. “Thank you. The name’s Dennison. Ryker Dennison. I booked online.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ryker. I’m Judy. You’ll be meeting Harold in just a minute.” She looked back over her shoulder and called out, “Harold.”
“Coming,” he called back. “Hold your horses.”
In all honesty, I didn’t want any tea. I didn’t want to sit down and have a chat with Judy and Harold. I simply wanted a hot shower and a meal. But, at the same time, I knew I had embarked on this thru-hike to learn new things, to experience new things, and to gain a deeper understanding of what I’d already experienced in my life. Tea with Judy and Harold was my first real lesson. Whatever I planned to accomplish during the hike: whether that be the volunteer work along with the many stops, finding out more about my roots, possibly the identity of my parents, or simply getting a shower and a hot meal, the people would have to come first. Nothing could be accomplished without first getting to know the people and sharing a cordial moment.
“There are two kinds of hikers,” Harold said to me, “those who come on the trail to discover themselves and those who come on the trail to get away from the selves they discovered.”
I nodded. “Well, actually, I came on the trail, in part, to discover who my family is.”
Both Harold and Judy leaned back and raised their brows.
“You see, I was adopted in North Carolina, in the mountains.” I shrugged. “I don’t know much more than that. But I was hoping that if I came here to look around, ask around… Who knows? Maybe I will find something out about my roots.”
Harold nodded. “There are three kinds of hikers: those who come on the trail to lose themselves, those who come on the trail to find themselves, and those who come on the trail to find their families.”
I pointed at him. “The third one.”
Harold raised his cup of tea. “Well, Ryker, I wish you the best of success with that.”
“Thank you.”
“And, who knows?” said Judy. “You could find your family. And you might find much more than that on the trail.”
5
Holly
I went to work on Monday morning with the anticipation of Mrs. Freedman calling me about the thru-hike. But at the same time, the idea of leaving for Appalachia, nearly at the last minute, was so extraordinary that I also expected her not to bother to call at all. If she did call, I assumed it would be to tell me that she’d only been joking, that she’d decided to go ahead with the hike herself, or that she’d found someone else better suited to take her place.
Mrs. Freedman did none of those things. I should have been expecting the unexpected. But, as always, Felicity Freedman surprised me.
She didn’t call. Instead, she showed up in person.
She didn’t ask me if I’d had time to consider her proposal or what decision I’d come to. Instead, she handed me a plane ticket.
“But I—”
“Of course, you haven’t had time to shop,” she said. “There are so many materials you need.
”
I nodded. “Yes, but—”
“All that’s been taken care of for you. I can have a driver deliver it to your home. What time shall I send him over?”
“Well, I—”
“Will you be home tonight at eight?”
“Yes, but—”
“Perfect. It’s settled then. All the material you’ll need will be delivered to your home at eight tonight.”
“Mrs. Freedman,” I finally managed to say.
“Yes?”
I looked at the plane tickets in my hand then back at her. “I can’t… I can’t just up and leave.”
She furrowed her brow. “Why on earth not?”
“Um,” I motioned to the empty waiting room and to the reception. “For one thing, I have my practice.”
She frowned and shook her head. “Your practice will be here when you get back and stronger than ever. Don’t you worry about that.”
“And also.…”
“Yes?”
I wracked my brain to think of another reason I couldn’t go: a boyfriend? No. Family ties? No. Upcoming engagements? No.
“What is it?” she asked. But before I could answer, she said, “You want to know about the charity. Of course.”
“Well—”
“You’ll be making eighteen stops along the trail. Everything’s been booked. It’s all in the itinerary that will be delivered to you tonight. You’ll be visiting some clinics. You’ll take some photos, interview some of the volunteers you’ll meet along the way.” She leaned in and whispered, “I hope you don’t have any objection to meeting young, adventurous, and eligible doctors.”
I said nothing, only looked at her wide-eyed.
“Good,” she said, “because you’ll post a little article and some photos of them and about the clinics. It’s the personal stories that bring in the donations.”
“Sure, but—”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I didn’t get you hiking boots because I didn’t know your size.” She looked at me, expectantly. I merely looked back at her, speechless. “What’s your shoe size, dear?”
I cleared my throat. “Um. Seven and a half, generally.”
She rubbed her chin then waved a hand dismissively in the air. “Never mind. I’ll have a few options delivered to you. Keep the ones you want, and we’ll return the others.” She turned to walk out the door.
“Mrs. Freedman,” I called after her.
She stopped at the doorway and turned to me.
I paused a long moment, tapping the plane tickets against my open hand. Finally, I touched the right side of my face and said, “How are you feeling? How’s the jaw?”
“I’m feeling much better, thanks to you. A little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.” She smiled, turned, and walked out, leaving me standing by the reception desk, my mouth half-open but no words coming out.
Tuesday evening, I was on the beach in San Diego, looking out at the flat ocean rippling with waves. Thursday morning, I was hiking up a mountain in Georgia. And there was nothing at all flat about the view. I spent the first few miles wondering how I had gotten here. Is this real? Did I really pack up and fly off to Georgia on four-days’ notice?
I passed a few other hikers in the first few hours. Everyone was going at a much slower pace than I was. And though I’d consider myself an experienced hiker, this did have me wondering if they knew something I didn’t. Am I taking too fast of a pace?
Regardless, I had a target destination: Suches, nineteen miles. And a target hour: six pm. I made it there by five. As I left the trail and headed into town, I found myself walking behind a woman, seemingly headed in the same direction I was. She seemed to be struggling a bit from the hike. I caught up to her, partly out of concern, but also because I hadn’t spoken to a soul in over ten hours.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
Her pained expression immediately lightened. “Oh, hi there. I’m holding up just fine though I don’t know for how much longer.”
“Town’s only a mile ahead,” I said.
“Yeah,” she laughed. “What’s another mile, right?”
“I take it you don’t usually do much hiking?”
“What gave it away?” she said as she leaned on her walking stick like it was the only thing keeping her from keeling over.
“Just a hunch,” I said.
“Do I detect an East Coast accent?” she asked.
I laughed. “You shouldn’t. I’m from California.”
“So much for my detective skills.”
“Are you a detective?”
She bobbed her head from side to side, teetering between a yes and a no. “In a way, I consider myself a detective. Actually, I’m an investigative reporter.” She stopped and offered me her hand. “Wendy Spencer.”
I shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Holly Nestor.”
We walked into town together. While I did appreciate the company, I was not too thrilled by the slow pace she was keeping. I was anxious to check in to the hotel and maybe head over to the clinic to say hello. For an investigative reporter, Wendy didn’t ask many questions. Instead, she told me about the work she’d been doing, visiting the pockets of extreme poverty in the US. She said her liberal readers needed their social and economic injustice fix, and she was their dealer.
I was about to tell her about “Medicine on the Trail” and the charity work I was there to publicize. I figured that might interest her, and the more publicity, the better. But the more she talked, the more I doubted whether I wanted to reveal too much to her. She spoke quite disparagingly about her readers, and even more so about the poor communities she wrote about. I figured it would be best to read up on her and do my own investigative reporting before telling her why I was doing the thru-hike.
We reached my hotel. Wendy was staying in a B&B a bit outside the town, “to get my hands dirty,” as she put it. So, we said goodbye. I wished her luck with her story. She wished me luck with the hike.
The hotel was a charming two-story wood structure with the forest trees on either side and the rolling mountains in the distance behind it. I was greeted at reception by a lovely older lady ripped straight out of a tourist guidebook, fit with a slow Southern drawl, who offered me a warm greeting and warm cinnamon tea.
6
Ryker
In Suches, my first stop was at Union General Hospital. I expected to find a run-down, fly-infested operation—like the older residents in Massachusetts had warned me about. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised. I even wondered how spending a few days here could be considered charity work. It seemed more like a hospital I would be very lucky to get hired by.
I shared my impressions with Doctor Raskin. He laughed. “Yes, Union General is a fine hospital, but your colleagues back home weren’t exaggerating. The conditions can get pretty dire the farther you go into the mountains. There are communities there, some twenty to thirty miles away, with next to no access to care.” He winked and pointed at me. “That is until you show up.”
I had hiked all day to reach Suches only to be told that I would spend the next three days hiking around it, reaching into isolated communities too dispersed, too distrusting, too poor, or too proud, though mostly all of the above, to come into town for check-ups or for basic medicines they needed.
“They only come to us when it’s too late,” said Doctor Rankin. “And sometimes, they aren’t able to do even that. Imagine a simple cut gets infected, and the nearest doctor is twenty-some miles away. Plus, you don’t have money to pay a doctor, even if you did trust doctors. Which you don’t.”
“I see.”
“Most of what ails them gets treated with distilled liquor,” he said.
I followed him through the hospital as he passed from room to room, saying hello to the nurses, checking in on the patients, and resuming our conversation each time we stepped back into the corridor.
“Diabetes, malnutrition, alcoholism, infected sores, and abrasions—that’s what you’ll be dealing wi
th mostly.”
I nodded though he wasn’t looking at me but peeking into the rooms along the corridor.
He stopped and looked at me. “They’ll look at you sideways, at first. Don’t be thrown by their suspicions. They’re good people. They’re just guarded, you know?”
“But they’re expecting me, aren’t they?”
“Sort of,” he said, then we entered what I presumed was his office, though it could have been a somewhat organized storage room. In Georgia, like in Massachusetts, it was often difficult to tell the difference between a doctor’s office or a make-shift storage room.
“Do you know how to read a map?” he asked me.
I nodded.
“Good.” He picked up a map from the clutter on a nearby shelf, flashed it at me, then folded it and put it into the front pocket of a camouflage backpack that had been lying against the foot of a chair. “That’s your itinerary. There are fourteen stops.”
He handed me the backpack. It was lighter than my hiking backpack, and I was thankful for that.
“Plus, you’ll need medicine, of course.” He reached to another shelf, pulled from it a tin medical kit, and handed it to me.
It was significantly heavier than it looked. I took it and let out an “ouf.”
“She gets lighter the longer you carry her,” he said.
I eyed him with a raised brow. “Is that the truth?”
He smiled, clapped his hands together, and pursed his lips into a tight smile.
“Is that it?” I asked.
He extended his hands, open with the palms up. “Unless you have any questions.”
I had a thousand. I didn’t know where to begin. “They’re expecting me, right?”
“We like to make visits once every two months. But”—he shrugged— “we’re short-staffed as it is, and volunteers are hard to come by.”
I nodded.
“It’s been a while,” he continued defeatedly. “Some may be surprised to see you.”