Becoming Odyssa

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  “Hungry?” she asked. And before I could respond, she handed me an empty plate and began to guide me around the buffet.

  “Take whatever you want,” she continued. “And make sure to come back for second and third helpings. We don’t want any thru-hikers leaving here hungry. My name’s north star, just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Are you a thru-hiker?” I asked.

  “No, darling, but my husband and I love the Appalachian Trail. We live near the path in Maine, and this winter we decided to sell some property so that we could escape the snow and come help thru-hikers as they started their journey north from Georgia. My husband is out getting more wood for the fire right now. We try to have hot food available to hikers around the clock. There are also sodas in the cooler and condiments inside the RV. When you have everything you want, just pull up a lawn chair by the fire and enjoy.”

  As I sat down with a plate weighted down by burritos, the two older men with moustaches who had warned me about the bear turned the corner. They seemed as startled as I had been to find such a pleasant obstruction on the path, and after meeting North Star, they followed her direction to fill their plates and sit by the fire.

  “Hey guys, thanks again for warning me about the bear yesterday. By the way, did you sleep okay last night?” I wanted to feel them out to see if maybe one of them had been responsible for the snoring.

  “Are you kidding me?” asked the man with orange-tinted facial hair. “I didn’t sleep a wink, thanks to that hiker Big foot.”

  “We’ve been hiking fast all day to make sure we don’t have to spend another night anywhere near that guy,” said his friend with the gray moustache.

  “Me too,” I replied, relieved that I wouldn’t have to drop my plate and start running.

  Together, we sat there laughing and talking between large bites of food. It was amazing how relaxed and accepted I felt sitting around the fire.

  I had heard about the concept of “trail magic” before I started hiking. As I understood it, trail magic was a term used to describe gifts, particularly food, that were given to thru-hikers simply because they were thru-hikers, without anything expected in return. North star’s RV was my first encounter with trail magic, but She had given us more than just food. she had given us community.

  I enjoyed a long visit and two full plates of food with my new friends before I felt the need to hike away from the oasis and increase my distance from big foot. I thanked north star with a big hug and then bid farewell to the moustache men.

  With a light heart and a full stomach, I climbed up and over Albert Mountain and down to Rock Gap Shelter. It was nearly dusk, but I didn’t want to take any chances setting up in the shelter, so I pitched my tent a few hundred yards down the trail. I smiled as I remembered not wanting to sleep alone my first few nights on the trail. Now, only a week later, I was seeking out solitude.

  When I awoke, it was Easter Sunday. It didn’t feel very warm outside and there was a steady rain beating against my tent. I struggled to change clothes without rubbing against the wet sagging tent walls. My awkward movements resembled some form of alternative yoga, and I received a substantial core workout from suspending my body for long periods of time without using my arms.

  I tried to take my time getting ready inside my tent, but finally, when I couldn’t procrastinate any longer, I repeated the mantra: “No rain, no Maine. No rain, no Maine.” Then I stepped out into the cold, wet forest.

  The conditions were dreary, and my mood didn’t improve when I crossed Highway 64.

  For most hikers, this road would signify a spot to hitch a ride into nearby Franklin, North Carolina. But for me, it meant one thing: home.

  I knew that if I traveled east on this road for two hours, I would end up within a stone’s throw of my childhood home. I wondered what was taking place there right now. I wondered if my parents were at home, and whether or not they were thinking of me. I wondered if my brothers were coming over for lunch and if I would be the only family member missing—and for what? To be alone, outside, cold, and wet, on Easter?

  I stood on the pavement in a daze until a car sped out of the fog and chased me to the other side of the road. And with one last glance at the hazy yellow lines, I turned and hiked away from Highway 64.

  Easter was much the same from start to finish—the cold rain and dense fog never lifted. I only encountered one hiker all day, an older man with a disgruntled expression who responded to my, “Hello there!” with a silent nod.

  My breakthrough of the day came when I discovered that I could eat and hike at the same time. Stopping to eat made me cold, so I stuck several semi-frozen energy bars in my pockets and sucked on them throughout the afternoon. This discovery would affect the way I hiked for the rest of the trip. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to stop and take breaks, it was just that sometimes the trail was more bearable if I kept moving.

  Not stopping to rest finally took a toll on me. My last mile-and-a-half climb to the evening’s shelter started very slowly. It wasn’t until the rain strengthened and the thunder and lightning rolled in that my pace quickened. The storm gave me the incentive I needed to shake off my exhaustion and run the last mile uphill and into the already crowded Cold Spring shelter.

  I was relieved that, although the place was packed past capacity, the eight male occupants in the shelter were willing to make room for a rather wet and pathetic-looking young woman. Thankful to have a space inside the lean-to, I quickly unbuckled my metal-frame pack and laid it down next to my hiking stick. It felt good to move away from the gear that I feared might electrocute me.

  Next, I located the trash bag in my pack filled with my dry sleeping clothes, and I went behind the shelter to change. By hugging up as close to the wooden beams as possible, I remained relatively dry and protected, thanks to the roof’s two feet of metal overhang.

  I began to peel the wet synthetic top off my torso and over my head . . . and then it hit me. Literally. A bolt of lightning struck the roof of the shelter and continued to the earth through my body.

  The jolt stiffened my spine and sent a sharp momentary ache through every inch of me. But the pain had vanished by the time I realized what had happened. I began to assess my physical well-being. I wiggled my toes, poked my stomach, flapped my arms, and counted my fingers. My ears felt hot and I could hear a faint buzzing, but besides that I couldn’t see or feel any ill effects.

  I was filled with relief and adrenaline; I quickly finished dressing and ran back around to the front of the shelter.

  “Hey, guys, guess what. I think some lightning just struck the roof and then went through my body!”

  A bright headlamp near the back wall of the shelter pointed my way. “I thought I felt a buzz,” said the person behind the light.

  Then another voice, in the opposite corner of the shelter, confirmed it, “Yeah, I just got shocked by touching a nail inside the shelter. Something definitely hit us.”

  “It’s called splash lightning,” said a rosy face sticking out of a red sleeping bag. “The bolt must have hit the roof and then taken several different paths to reach the ground.”

  Right in front of me, a hiker looked up from his stove and said, “You’re lucky it didn’t hit you directly.”

  “Even if it did hit you straight on, you’d probably be okay,” another man objected. “I read that only about fifteen percent of people who get struck by lightning die. There’s a ranger in the Shenandoah National Park who’s been struck by lightning seven times, and he’s just fine.”

  “Well, once was enough for me,” I said.

  After a few minutes, my heart stopped racing and I rolled out my sleeping bag to prepare for bed. As I lay down, I wondered if perhaps the electricity that shot through my veins would somehow leave me altered in the morning. I was no longer worried about any negative side effects; I figured they probably would have run their course by now. But I wouldn’t have been opposed to waking up the next morning with different-colored eyes
, a white steak in my hair, or maybe the gift of telepathy.

  5

  ADVERSITY

  NANTAHALA OUTDOOR CENTER, NC, TO WATERVILLE

  SCHOOL ROAD, NC—103.4 MILES

  On a clear day in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the nearby mountains appear navy blue and then fade into softer hues before interlocking with a cyan sky. The evergreen trees that line the side of the trail give the feeling of a green labyrinth. Snow and ice remain on the trail into May, and fog hugs so close to the ground that you will struggle to see your shoes on the trail. The Smokies offer untamed wilderness that make you feel subject to the environment, not in control of it.

  By week two, my once-burning flame of wanderlust began to die down to a flicker. And when adventure begins to lose its appeal, it starts to feel more like adversity.

  I had gained knowledge and strength on the trail. My miles were increasing and my ineptitude around the campsite was decreasing, but I still felt intimidated as I approached Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The seventy-mile section of Appalachian Trail that straddles the high ridges of the Smoky Mountains was supposed to be the most difficult terrain south of New Hampshire, and I wasn’t sure if I had the skill, ability, or provisions to traverse the looming peaks.

  I arrived at Fontana Dam, the park’s southern threshold, with low self-confidence and an empty food sack. When I reached the doors of the Fontana Dam Visitor Center, I found a sign that read CLOSED UNTIL MAY. Ignoring the sign, I tried knocking on the door. I knocked and knocked and knocked, but to no avail. I walked around to the left and right of the building searching for a sign of life, but there was no one in sight. I had planned on taking the daily shuttle from the Visitor Center into a nearby town to resupply. Feeling helpless, I plopped down against the cold stone wall that surrounded the building.

  I was exasperated at the thought of having neither food nor transportation, but worst of all, I was stuck. Before the hike, I had sworn to my mother that I would not hitchhike by myself. She accepted that hikers depended on serendipitous rides to and from town to restock their provisions, but she made me promise that I would not attempt to “thumb it” alone. So there I sat, stranded at the base of the Smokies, weighing Maslow’s hierarchy of needs against my own moral integrity.

  When a car pulled up beside the Visitor Center, I didn’t think much of it. In fact, it was almost satisfying to watch the disappointment of the two young men inside the vehicle when they discovered the sign taped to the door. When the driver noticed me, he drove over and rolled down the window.

  “Excuse me, do you know if there’s somewhere we can find hiking information?” asked the driver, who wore an Auburn baseball cap.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked.

  His buddy wiped the shaggy brown frat-boy hair out of his eyes and leaned over to respond. “We’re on spring break and wanted to go backpacking for a few days, but neither one of us has a map.”

  “Here, this might help.” I pulled out my Appalachian trail Data Book to let them look it over, and then helped them piece together a manageable route from the obscure numbers and abbreviations.

  In the midst of our conversation, it struck me: I had told my mom that I would not try to hitchhike by myself, but hitchhiking connoted standing on the side of the road and sticking out your thumb. These two guys had trusted me for trail information, and now we had formed a relationship—we were practically friends. There wasn’t a rule about riding with friends!

  I explained my circumstances to the young men and, easily persuaded, they agreed to shuttle me to the closest resupply point.

  Too bad the closest resupply point turned out to be a gas station with three shelves of hiker food that hadn’t been restocked since last year.

  I still wasn’t sure how much food I required to satisfy my no-cook diet, especially with variables such as my increasing appetite and more difficult terrain. After digging through the meager selection, I bought a small pile of crackers, Pop-Tarts, candy bars, fruit chews, and a jar of peanut butter. I was aware of the lack of nutritional value, but with few other options, I just hoped that my resupply would provide enough calories to get me through the Smokies.

  When we left the store, we drove back to Fontana Dam, where I said good-bye to the two young men from Alabama and watched as they hiked away from the parking lot in blue jeans and cotton t-shirts, with packs that were twice as big as mine.

  I was eager to set out as well, but I wasn’t willing to enter the park until I exploited an earlier discovery. Poking around the Visitor Center that morning, I had found an open restroom. In the corner, much to my delight, there was a working shower stall.

  More than food, warmth, or shelter, what I longed for the most was a hot shower. When I stepped into the steaming cascade, the warm water melted my frozen skin and rinsed away the dirt that was caked on the skin of my inner ankles and lower calves. I had never appreciated a shower this much before, and I stayed under the hot spray for over half an hour.

  I didn’t have a towel, so when I was finished I pulled out ten feet of brown paper towels from the dispenser and blotted my body with the harsh, nonabsorbent material. Oh, how I missed my soft plush towels, and amenities like shampoo and conditioner! The only soap I carried on the trail was all-natural liquid soap which was so oily and pungent that it could easily have been mistaken for pure peppermint extract. After using just a few drops, I smelled like a candy cane.

  Showered and scented, I headed back into the woods. Entering the park, my afternoon was spent climbing a never-ending series of switchbacks, zigzagging my way higher and deeper into the park. When the sun finally descended to meet the still-ascending trail, I turned off the path and hiked to nearby Russell field Shelter.

  Drawing close to the wooden structure, I was shocked by how many hikers I saw. I had heard that the Smokies were a popular spring break destination, but I hadn’t seen anyone since this morning, so it was a surprise to see nearly thirty people at the campsite. I identified families, college friends, and several high school kids with their chaperones, but I didn’t see any other thru-hikers. I was the only one at the campsite who wasn’t part of a group.

  The shelter itself had a chain-link fence and small gate to enclose the open side of the building. It seems that in order to keep the bears away from the hikers, the park employed a “zoo in reverse” model, and arranged the people in caged shelters while allowing the animals to roam free and observe.

  Since I couldn’t sleep inside the exhibit space due to species overpopulation, I was forced to tent on a nearby hillside. While setting up camp and retrieving my water, I struck up a conversation with members of a youth group from Michigan. They invited me to share devotionals with them that evening, and I accepted. Part of me longed for the fellowship, and another part hoped for excess dinner scraps.

  I watched hungrily as they all devoured every bite of their dinners, but I appreciated the nourishing discussion that followed. The group talked about their time in the Smokies as a mountaintop experience that could only last momentarily before they returned to the valley. They frequently referred to their backpacking trip as a “getaway” or “retreat.” I thought back to all the things I wanted to get away from in high school, like tests, social pressures, and college applications. I empathized with the teenagers in the circle. I’d rather be anywhere than back in high school.

  As I listened to the group, it became clear to me that, while going into the woods for a few days was socially acceptable, living on the trail for weeks at a time was viewed as controversial. And the questions I received around their campsite reinforced my perception: “How can you afford to hike the trail?” “What do your friends and family think?” “Why would you want to live in the woods for that long?”

  I could afford to hike the Appalachian Trail because in college I babysat, worked in a church nursery, and held a summer job for three years in a row to save up money for the trip. In fact, my summer boss had offered me a full-time job after I gra
duated. When I declined, he looked at me sternly and said, “You need to think very seriously about what you are trying to run away from.”

  Run away? I had just experienced the best three and a half years of my life. I wasn’t trying to escape anything, and if I had been, I’m sure there would be an easier way to do it. At the end of college I was independent for the first time in my life. I was free to live where I wanted to live and do what I wanted to do. The trail was not a retreat for me. For the next few months, it was my job and my home. It was where I wanted to be.

  Halfway through the night, I was woken by gusts of wind thrashing at my tent. I could hear the currents approaching and crashing like waves into the thin shelter walls.

  My eyes were heavy, but the violent wind kept me awake. To make matters worse, as the night progressed, I started to hear small ice pellets bounce off the sides of my tent, and even in my stupor I became concerned.

  I grew up relatively close to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and I recalled annual spring newspaper reports of hikers trapped or killed in the park due to late-season snowstorms. I worried that, instead of hiking north tomorrow, I might have to retrace my steps out of the park in a snowstorm. It was an answer to my prayer when I peered out of my tent the next morning to find that the icy weather had subsided into a cold rain.

  I knew that my second day in the Smokies would take me to the top of Clingmans Dome, the highest peak on the Appalachian Trail, but the white clouds that infiltrated the forest made it difficult to tell how far I had hiked and where the trail was leading.

  I decided I must be getting close to the summit when the hardwood forest gave way to small brushy evergreens that smelled like a fresh-cut Christmas tree. I hadn’t seen a view all day, but the mist wrapped around the saturated alpine limbs of the spruce trees formed an image more tangible and mysterious than any mountain panorama.