Becoming Odyssa

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  “Night, Jen,” said Sarah.

  “Good night,” I answered. Then, looking at the empty sleeping bag beside her, I asked, “Where’s Doug?”

  “He’s putting our food bag up on the bear cables. He should be back any minute.”

  “Oh, all right. See you two in the morning.”

  I had seen the metal bear cables hanging from a tree near the shelter, but I had no clue that I was supposed to use them to suspend my food.

  I thought about my pack full of food and dirty dishes leaning up against the side of the shelter. It was completely accessible to shelter mice, or, even worse, bears. I really wanted to see a bear on the trail, but not my first night, and not because I had done something wrong!

  I was frustrated with myself for not knowing how to cook, how to clean my pots, or where to hang my food. The simplest everyday tasks were complicated on the trail. Even drinking water, finding a place to change clothes, and spitting out my toothpaste had become obstacles. I felt unprepared for my first night and overwhelmed by the thought of spending months on the trail.

  I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn’t stop shivering, and the wooden floorboards beneath me were too hard for me to find a comfortable position. I laid on my left side until my hip hurt, then on my back until it ached, then on my right side until my arm went numb, then on my stomach until the pain from the stiff wooden boards made me roll back onto my side. I felt like a rotisserie chicken stuck in a freezer.

  The warmth and soft glow that greeted me the next day was a welcome relief. I had spent the majority of the night staring into the darkness and waiting for the sun to rise. And when the morning’s first rays peeked into our lean-to, everyone in the shelter began to stir. Some fired up their stoves for a warm breakfast, and others fetched their food from the nearby storage cables and crawled back into their sleeping bags to enjoy Pop-Tarts in bed.

  I didn’t want to cook, I didn’t want to reveal that my food bag was in my pack beside the shelter, and, unlike the four Georgia Peaches, I didn’t know how to change clothes inside my sleeping bag. The last one didn’t matter so much since I was already wearing all my clothes.

  I decided that my best option was to roll up my sleeping bag, shove it in my pack, and start hiking.

  I turned to Sarah, who now had Pop-Tart crumbs on her top lip.

  “Hey, I think I’m going to get started.”

  “Okay, we won’t be too far behind you. But if we don’t catch up, remember, you can’t leave Springer without us.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure I’ll see you before then.”

  Then I hopped out of the shelter, collected my pack, and headed into the woods.

  My second day on the trail featured a challenging ascent, scattered snow flurries, and excruciating pain. Although it was still early in the trek, I was already developing a routine. I would hike for thirty or forty-five minutes until my shoulders screamed and my hands went numb. At that point I would take a short break, remove my pack, and rest my arms and shoulders until I regained blood flow to my fingers. Then I would continue on my way.

  My pack wasn’t abnormally heavy; I estimated that with my gear, food, and water it probably weighed thirty pounds, but unlike most hikers, I never weighed it. Pack weight was a controversial topic among thru-hikers. Those with really heavy packs, over fifty pounds, will carry them with pride. They have increased joint pain and hike slower, but they feel tough and prepared for anything. On the other hand, lightweight backpackers struggle daily to reduce their fifteen-pound loads by a fraction of an ounce. They hike faster and get fewer injuries, but they sacrifice comfort at their campsites.

  I was somewhere in the middle, and my head told me that my pack was manageable, but my shoulders gave me a different message. The pain throbbing in my narrow, boney shoulders was somewhat my fault: I was never fitted for a pack before I left to hike. Instead, I had gone to a downstairs closet in my parents’ house and rummaged through thirty-year-old sleeping bags and campfire cookware to find an old external-frame backpack that my brother had once used at summer camp. Its faded gray color and worn hip belt weren’t glamorous, but it was free.

  My first full day on the trail, I passed twenty-five or thirty hikers headed north. I greeted all of them, and while some stopped to talk, others simply nodded their heads and kept going. It was strange to think that ten percent of the people I passed would quit before reaching the North Carolina border, and another sixty percent would quit before the halfway point. It was hard to believe that only one in four of the wide-eyed hikers I encountered would complete the trail.

  I think most people would assess potential thru-hikers based on their physique, experience, and pack weight, but I predicted their odds of success based on facial expressions. If a person could smile in the blustery snow flurries and bare forests of North Georgia while carrying a cumbersome pack on his back, I decided he would make it to Katahdin. On the other hand, if a person offered a gruff greeting, didn’t look up, or simply grunted as I passed by, I figured the odds were stacked against him.

  As the sun reached the horizon, I encountered fewer and fewer people. The darkening sky meant that most hikers would be looking for refuge at a shelter or in their tents, but I was still alone. I reasoned that Sarah and Doug were not far behind me, so I decided to take a break and wait for them. We agreed that we might not spend every night together on our journey to Springer, but I didn’t quite feel ready to spend the night on my own yet.

  I stopped on a fallen tree to eat dinner. I didn’t want to cook, so I substituted an energy bar and trail mix for a hot meal. It was better than a half-cooked pot of food, but the cold temperatures left me licking my frozen energy bar like a popsicle.

  I finished my rock-hard dinner and there was still no sign of Doug and Sarah. I wasn’t near a shelter and, with or without my friends, I would soon need to find a place to pitch my tent. As I began to look for a flat spot, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Sarah and Doug making their way up the trail, and a wave of relief crashed over me as I realized that I wouldn’t have to tent alone.

  Together we hiked a hundred yards farther and came upon a makeshift campsite. There was one navy blue tent in the back corner of the flat clearing, but no sign of life. The three of us, tired and ready to stop, found two flat spots near the trail and began to set up our tents. I was more than happy to sleep on the ground after tossing tirelessly on the floorboards of the shelter the night before.

  It was demoralizing how long it took me to pitch my tent. I had practiced putting up my one-man shelter several times before I left home, but tonight the frigid temperature made it impossible to push my tent stakes into the frozen earth. My fingers were so numb I could barely pull the zippers and tie the necessary knots. Finally, after thirty minutes, the structure was crooked and the wall fabric was sagging, but I had finished erecting my tent.

  I walked over to wish Sarah and Doug a good night’s rest. As we talked about the day and discussed our plan for the following morning, we heard a rustling noise from the one-person tent in the corner of our campsite. We watched as the blue rain flap slowly opened, and a red woolen cap emerged. A young woman with dark hair and a pale complexion looked up at us with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “I just wanted to see who was here,” she said. And then, as quickly as she had appeared, the red hat disappeared and the rain flap was zipped shut.

  It wasn’t until I slipped into my own sleeping bag and the night’s darkness overtook the dusk that I heard her muffled whimpers and tearful breathing carried by the wind.

  Why was she crying? Was she scared or lonely? Maybe she was cold? (I wanted to cry because of the bitter temperatures, but I was convinced that my tear ducts were frozen solid.) I wondered if she would be one of ten who would quit within the first week. Then I realized that based on the statistics, only one of the four of us at the campsite would finish the trail. The odds were daunting.

  I lay awake wishing there was something I could do for my unknown neighbor. I
wanted to say something to her or do something for her, but I didn’t know what. Didn’t Sarah and Doug hear her muffled whimpers? Why weren’t they doing anything?

  In society, we tend to let people grieve on their own, especially people we don’t know. But on this barren mountainside, it seemed cruel to allow someone to cry alone when I was so physically close to her. But I could not overcome my inhibition, and as her sniffles grew quieter, I said a soft, silent prayer for her inside the seclusion of my tent. I decided that as I continued down the trail I would try to help people who were struggling, regardless of whether or not I knew them.

  Mountain Crossings Outfitter and Hostel at Neels Gap was the first sign of civilization I encountered on the Appalachian Trail. Located twenty miles into my hike and thirty miles north of the trail’s southern origin, the outfitter capitalized on hikers with heavy packs and sore feet. Meanwhile, the hostel catered to hikers who were eager for a bed and a shower after several days on the trail. Surprisingly, at this point, neither the store nor the hostel appealed to me. But I decided to make the most of the public picnic tables and running water.

  I was now on day three of cooking, and I hated it. I was appalled at the thought of having to deal with cooking, cleaning, and forcing down lukewarm mush all the way to Maine.

  Nonetheless, I once again placed some pasta in water and waited for it to expand. Within minutes, Sarah and Doug arrived and began cooking as well. Talking about our first night in tents, we all agreed that they were more comfortable than shelters, as they offered added warmth, less snoring, and protection from mice.

  When I was sure that my shells were tender, I added the cheese, and for the first time in over forty-eight hours I enjoyed a warm, fully cooked meal. I ravenously consumed the entire pot of food and then immediately felt full and bloated. As I stood up to leave, I struggled to connect the ends of my hip belt around my waist.

  Since Sarah and Doug were not yet finished with lunch, I decided to continue on without them. I loved the confidence of knowing that friends were nearby, but after we reached Springer Mountain, I planned to restart the trail on my own. The thought of being part of the same group day after day felt restrictive.

  The trail was becoming the adventure I had envisioned. I loved meeting new people, I loved learning new skills—despite my mistakes—and I loved the feeling of being self-sufficient. After three days on the trail, I felt more independent than at any other time in my life. I was completely responsible for my decisions and my own well-being. I felt scared and empowered at the same time.

  Leaving Neels Gap, the path veered straight up Blood Mountain. It was the longest and hardest climb of the first fifty miles, and the heightened stimulation combined with a full pot of Velveeta in my stomach proved to be a terrible combination. My ascent was interrupted when I urgently raced into the woods and out of sight from the trail.

  I squatted in pain and discomfort for several minutes, holding a fresh wad of toilet paper in my hand. Frozen in that primitive stance, I realized that this would be my reality for the next several months—a far cry from my padded seat cushion at home. But despite the unfamiliar routine, I emerged from the woods feeling lighter and more confident. I had overcome another reality of the trail.

  Unfortunately, Mother Nature decided to reinforce my new skills half a mile later, then again a few hundred yards from the summit of Blood Mountain. My frequent side trips into the woods left me feeling weak and uncomfortable, but I did get a great photo at my final rest stop. I laughed thinking about how I was probably the only thru-hiker who would ever take a picture from this spot on the trail. Then, as I thought more about it, I decided that I liked using the restroom in a place that no one else would ever visit. It definitely cut down on the germs.

  Our last full day of hiking before reaching Springer Mountain was the longest. By mid-afternoon I had covered fifteen miles, and I hadn’t seen Sarah and Doug since I left the campsite early that morning.

  Most of the thru-hikers who walked less than ten miles a day wore very heavy packs and hiking boots. Warren Doyle had recommended wearing a light pack and hiking in running shoes, and I’m glad I took his advice. Blisters were common for everyone on the trail, but those wearing boots seemed to have worse ones than the hikers who wore sneakers. Even the people who had taken great care to break in their boots before they started were still suffering from sore Achilles tendons and hot spots.

  Doug and Sarah hiked in boots. I knew their feet had been hurting and I hoped that they were okay—and that I wouldn’t have to spend the night without them. I wasn’t scared of the dark or being alone at night, but the combination of the two was intimidating. I’d never even slept alone in a house before, let alone in the woods.

  One of the spookiest attributes of the forest was that it felt timeless. I surveyed my surroundings and envisioned someone standing here two thousand years ago and enjoying an almost identical view. The only indications that I hadn’t experienced a time warp were the dirt path and white blazes cutting a thin line through the woods.

  As the shadows of the hardwood trees lengthened on the trail, my heart began to race. I decided to stop well before nightfall so my friends could catch up.

  I arrived at a trail intersection and looked for a place to set up my tent. Searching for a flat spot off the trail, I heard something behind me and turned, hoping to see Sarah and Doug. Instead, an elderly couple wearing day-packs came walking down the trail holding hands.

  “Hello there!” said the man. “I’m Daddy Lee and this is my wife Big Mo. Are you a thru-hiker?”

  “I’m trying to be,” I replied.

  “Are you hiking by yourself?” Big Mo asked with a hint of concern.

  I remembered Warren saying at the workshop that even if we were hiking alone we shouldn’t share that fact with complete strangers.

  “Nah, I have some friends right behind me. I’m waiting for them to catch up.”

  “Well, then you should come with us,” said Big Mo. “We’re hiking down this side trail to Long Creek Falls. It’ll only take a few minutes and you’ll get to see a waterfall and some Native American carvings. You can leave your pack here so your friends will be sure not to pass you.”

  I hesitated. I typically didn’t accept invitations from strangers, especially if it meant following them deeper into the woods, but this couple was in their late sixties and they were holding hands, and I was desperate for company, so I accepted their offer.

  My trust was rewarded when, after a quarter of a mile, we reached a cascading waterfall bordered on either side by large rhododendrons. Beside the falls, Big Mo led me to a large granite rock with faint figures carved into the side.

  “Legend has it,” she said, “that over three hundred years ago at this very spot the Native Americans sacrificed six European explorers who were part of one of De Soto’s expeditions.”

  I traced the thin carvings with my fingers. Discovering this piece of history so close to the trail made me feel insignificant. I realized I was a small traveling vessel in the depths of an ancient mountain chain that was rich in stories.

  Daddy Lee was well versed in Appalachian Trail news and culture, and on our hike back to the trail junction he warned me about hikers who were known for stalking and stealing from people along the trail.

  “Watch out for a hiker named Tarzan; he’ll steal your pack and gear. And look out for Fire starter, he likes to hike with women and always ends up making them feel uncomfortable.”

  When we arrived back at the trail junction, I was relieved to discover that my pack hadn’t been stolen, but disheartened that Sarah and Doug still hadn’t arrived.

  “Well, we’d better get going so we can make it to our car before sunset,” said Big Mo.

  “Have a great hike,” said Daddy Lee. “Just stay with your friends and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Despite the couple’s kindness, Daddy Lee’s parting words proved unnerving, especially since I found myself alone once again.

 
I pitched my tent and waited to hear the sound of Sarah’s and Doug’s heavy boots approaching. I ate a cold dinner of trail mix and peanut butter, then I brought out my headlamp and read an evening devotion outside my tent. Still my friends did not appear.

  My hope faded with the daylight, and after searching in the darkness with my headlamp one final time, I entered my tent to prepare for bed.

  I would have been less intimidated about my first solo campout if I hadn’t just heard a harrowing story of Indian sacrifice and been warned against criminals who lived along the trail. My mind was racing and my body was too tense for rest. I was tossing and turning when a soft rain started to drum a gentle rhythm on my tent. The steady shower turned into a harder rain, followed by thunder and lightning, followed by sleet. I decided that this would be a very unpopular night for looting and marauding along the trail. Eventually, feeling warm, dry, and relatively safe inside my tent, I fell asleep.

  “Jen, are you in there?”

  “Wake up, sleepyhead!”

  The rain had lulled me into a deep sleep, and it took me several seconds to realize that it was morning and Sarah and Doug were calling to me from outside my tent. I slowly unzipped my rain fly and squinted into the fresh morning air. Looking up, I saw my friends standing a few feet away, dressed in colorful rain gear and obscured by a heavy white mist.

  “I’m glad you slept right by the trail,” Sarah said. “I was worried we wouldn’t be able to see your tent through all this fog.”

  “Yeah, we had to stop yesterday afternoon because of our blisters, but we woke up early to catch up so we could all climb up Springer together.”

  Springer Mountain was just four miles away, and the thought of climbing the legendary summit and seeing my car, which would take us down the mountain to showers and food, gave me a sudden burst of energy.

  “You guys go ahead, I’ll be right behind you,” I promised.