I had to stop often and take off my shoes to dump out the excess snowmelt and wring the cold water out of my socks. I was thankful that the sky was clear and not threatening further precipitation, but the morning breeze had developed into a strong headwind that chilled my body and sapped my strength.
The powerful gusts of wind nearly knocked me on my knees as I left the tree-line to pass over the bald at Max Patch. Southern balds are one of the highlights of the Appalachian Trail. They are mountaintops or tall ridges that are devoid of trees, providing 360-degree views. They’re not a natural feature in the Southeast, so the forest service has to maintain them with controlled burns and grazing livestock.
Because there are no trees on top of a bald, there’s no protection from storms or strong winds. As I stumbled my way to the summit, I was beaten down by the fierce currents. The only way I could make progress without toppling over was to struggle forward with my head down and body leaning at a sixty-degree angle into the oncoming wind.
In the rare moments when I was able to glance up and take in the view, I was captivated and left in tears. (Maybe the tears were caused by the piercing wind, but the view was truly one of the most stunning displays of natural beauty that I had even seen.) The taller mauve mountains with white peaks that encircled the bald made me feel like the centerpiece of a divine coliseum. It was as if I were a gladiator struggling against the forces of nature. The deafening wind evoked the roar of the crowd. I thought about the noisy, attentive fans at the basketball game the night before. Out here, the mountains were the spectators.
Escaping the coliseum with a rush of adrenaline, I returned to the inner chambers of the forest to face a new challenge. As the snow stopped gleaming and the sun started to hide behind the trees, I grew worried. I had not seen any other thru-hikers all day, and the miles in the Data Book no longer seemed to be corresponding to my trail miles. I was concerned that I had somehow diverted myself onto an adjoining trail and I wouldn’t be able to find my intended shelter for the evening. Suddenly I didn’t trust myself, the Data Book, or the white blazes leading me forward.
I finally arrived at a dark three-sided structure and let out a huge sigh of relief. My legs had never been off-track, just my mind.
With no one else at Walnut Mountain Shelter, I silently arranged my sleeping area and began preparing for bed. I was frightened to be the only one in the shelter. I no longer feared solo-camping in my tent, but in a shelter I never knew who might show up and join me. I wasn’t specifically worried about other hikers, but I think most women have a fear of waking up next to a strange man and not knowing how he got there.
Waking the next morning to an alarm on my wristwatch, I looked around in the dark shelter and discovered that I was still alone. I packed up my belongings and started on a very dark morning hike. I needed my headlamp for the first few miles up Bluff Mountain. The alarm on my watch hadn’t been set any differently, but daylight saving time meant that my usual start time was now an hour before sunrise. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been so keen about hiking in the dark and snow, but my promise to meet my dad in Hot Springs propelled me forward.
When the sun rose over the mountaintops, it was such a bright hue of electric orange that the snow beneath me glowed like the embers of a thriving fire. The brilliance was blinding, which made it hard to look up or down. The vividness of the color was breathtaking and left a memorable impression even as it softened to a calm yellow.
The early morning splendor rejuvenated my spirits and reinvigorated my aching body. The trail descended for the majority of the morning, and lower elevations meant less snow and better footing. It also helped that I had eaten most of my food, so my pack felt extra light.
When I arrived in Hot Springs, I was proud to have overcome thirty miles of snowy trail and excited to return home and watch the Tar Heels. Since my cell phone didn’t work, I found a pay phone and called my dad to arrange a pickup time. Once our rendezvous was established, I began to explore.
Hot Springs was the first town that the trail traveled directly through. It was a scenic town surrounded by mountains and nestled in a narrow valley beside the French Broad River, but I was shocked at how small it was. There was a half-mile-long Main Street with a few small businesses that backed up against the river and a few dozen houses that led up the hillside away from the water, but that was all—that was Hot Springs.
As a thru-hiker, I appreciated the manageable size because that meant I could find everything I needed without having to do too much extra walking.
Waiting for my dad to arrive, I went to the post office, where I picked up a mail drop filled with food, fresh socks, a razor, and a bar of soap. It was strange to be receiving a package that I had assembled, addressed, and mailed to myself just a few weeks earlier.
After I left the post office, I crossed the street to visit Bluff Mountain Outfitters. I was amazed that a town of this size could support an outdoor store, but I suppose it benefited from the ill-equipped hikers on the Appalachian Trail; the cold, wet rafters who paddled the French Broad River; and the tourists who came to the town’s hot springs and then wandered down Main Street in search of a souvenir.
I didn’t need anything from the outdoor store, but that didn’t stop me from perusing the aisles and examining the brightly colored camping gear, which seemed much better than the archaic and monochromatic gear on my back. As I made my way to the back of the store, I noticed a map on the wall. It showed the entire Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine, and there, near the very bottom, was a small sticker marking Hot Springs.
I thought back on how hard the first section of the trail had been for me and how much I had overcome; it seemed unfathomable that I could still be so close to the beginning. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude and distance of the trail. When I saw how little I had covered, making it to Maine seemed impossible. Momentarily frozen, I had to literally give my body a quick shake to free it from self-doubt.
I left the outfitter and went in search of the most important component of a trail town—food. I found a quaint convenience store and sandwich shop near the edge of town, where I ordered a large sub and waited for my dad to arrive. When he pulled up in his white truck, I eagerly jumped inside and was once again whisked away to the world of hot showers and basketball.
My second trip home wasn’t as enjoyable as my first. Entering my room, I found a “to do” list that needed to be accomplished before that evening’s game. I started to check off each chore one by one. Several of them included packing up the personal items in my room and separating out old clothes and books to be given away. I was struck by the fact that this room, and this building, was no longer my home but my parents’ house. I would never again stay here for an extended period of time, and the fact that my mother was trying to convert my childhood memories into a guest bedroom only intensified that notion.
At first I was angry. I felt abandoned and forgotten. But soon the self-pity melted away, and I began to understand that it wasn’t my parents who were changing, it was me. I was the one leaving. I was the one who had outgrown childish things, school projects, and collages on my walls. I had to keep reminding myself that for the next five months my home was on the trail. And it made it a lot easier to stay out there, knowing that I didn’t have a room full of pictures or a closet full of clothes waiting for me.
That night we sat around the TV as a family and watched the Tar Heels win the National Basketball Championship. Some families look forward to Christmas so they can spend quality time together; I look forward to basketball season for the same reason, and this had been a particularly good season. I no longer had a bedroom to come back to after the trail, but sitting and yelling at the TV in the living room, I knew I would always have my family.
7
FRIENDS
HOT SPRINGS, NC, TO
CHERRY GAP SHELTER, TN—84.5 MILES
After climbing out of Hot Springs, the trail travels along the mountain ridges and crosses int
o Tennessee. Near Erwin, Tennessee, the trail descends to cross the Nolichucky River. It briefly contours the serpintine Nolichucky before beginning a steady climb up Unaka Mountain. On a clear day, the strenuous ascent is rewarded with scenic views at Beauty Spot, but on a cloudy day, you will not be able to recognize Beauty Spot and might become lost in the pine tree maze that covers the mountain summit.
The first several hundred miles of the Appalachian Trail are awkward for a solo hiker. Since leaving Sarah and Doug, I had wanted to hike by myself, but many hikers use the Southern states to search out compatible partners and form hiking groups that will last until Katahdin. I worried that when I talked to other hikers for an extended period of time, they would think I was putting out signals that I was looking for something more long-term.
It was like going stag to a dance. You want to dance, that’s why you’re there, so you eagerly accept any offer to get up and get moving. But then when you start dancing you become paranoid and try not to send the wrong signals to your partner, for fear he’ll think it’s more than just a dance. The plan is to boogey all night with as many partners as possible. But if a song ends and someone asks you to join him for a second dance or a breath of fresh air—that’s when you know you’re in trouble.
That’s why I appreciated trail encounters that felt friendly without feeling permanent. And when I returned to the trail in Hot Springs, I was fortunate enough to dance down the trail with one partner after another.
The first on my dance card was Steam. I didn’t have to introduce myself to Steam because we already knew one another. That is, my mother reported that we had once played together as three-year-olds. I hadn’t seen him for eighteen years, but when our parents discovered that we both planned to hike the Appalachian Trail this spring, we had a dinner reunion to discuss it. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since then, but returning to the trail, I found Steam packing up his tent a mile outside of Hot Springs. I waited briefly for him to finish breaking down his camp, then we hiked together for the rest of the morning.
Steam bounced down the trail ahead of me carrying a lightweight pack with a trimmed-down foam sleeping pad strapped to the side. Instead of watching the trail, I stared at his defined calf muscles and the black elastic bands circling just below his knees.
“What are those black bands on your legs?” I asked.
“They’re braces that help hold my kneecaps in place. I had a lot of trouble with my knees playing soccer as a kid, and I wanted to take some preventative measures to make sure they last two thousand miles on the trail.”
“Like what?”
“Well, besides wearing the braces, the biggest help is using my two Leki hiking sticks to alleviate some of the stress of hiking downhill. Plus I’m trying really hard to keep my pack under twenty pounds, even with food and water. I did a lot of research on lightweight gear before getting on the trail. I have some great homemade gear, and the rest I bought at a discount through the outdoor store where I worked this winter.”
We stopped on the side of the trail so that Steam could collect some water from a nearby spring. After he filled up his water bottle, he took out a clear two-ounce plastic bottle with an eyedropper.
“What’s that?” I asked, as I watch him release two drops of the liquid into his bottle.
“It’s bleach.”
“You mean, like Clorox bleach?” I was both shocked and a little concerned.
“Yeah, it’s just household bleach—granted, I try to steer clear of the lemon-scented kind—but two drops per liter, when dissolved, will kill bacteria without harming humans. The military uses this method, and I’ve also seen it presented as an option at some state parks, plus most U.S. cities add chlorine to the water supply at their treatment facilities. On the trail it’s the lightest, least expensive, and most readily available option.”
It had never even crossed my mind that bleach could be used to purify water, partly because there was a poison control warning on the bottle. I still wasn’t treating my water, and I knew that maybe that meant I was taking in some things that weren’t too good for me, but bleach or iodine or other chemical treatments didn’t seem healthy either.
Steam then told me how challenging it was for him to be a vegetarian on the trail. He said he was struggling to take in enough calories and protein in his diet.
“I’ve heard of a few vegetarians on the trail who drink bottles of olive oil or eat sticks of butter to maintain their body weight,” he said.
“Are you going to do that?”
“I think if I’m tempted to drink olive oil then I’ll just go ahead and add some meat to my diet.”
Above his gear and water purification, the aspect that interested me most about Steam was that he was hiking the trail as a Christian missionary. He had partnered with a group called Appalachian Trail Servants and he raised support to hike the trail and share his faith. I knew that I would share my beliefs if the subject came up in conversation on the trail, but purposely trying to start that conversation terrified me.
It’s not that there weren’t Christians on the trail—there were. But Christians on the Appalachian Trail are like bears: you might run across a handful on your way to Maine. On the other hand, left-wing antifundamentalists are the squirrels of the trail, and you’re guaranteed to encounter several every day. As a bear, I was scared of squirrels because they were scared of me. They kept their distance and feared I would eat them, when really I just wanted to dine on berries and live peaceably in the woods. I admired Steam because he was proud to be a bear, whereas I was a bear trying to look like a groundhog. Groundhogs are a lot less threatening than bears. Plus, they’re cute. You’d be crazy not to like a groundhog.
“How is it sharing your faith on the trail?” I asked.
“It’s been great so far,” he said.
There was a long pause, and I could tell he was reflecting.
“I never bring it up right away, and just try to look for ways to help people. You know, give them water, or a little extra food, or just listen to what they have to say—things that I would want people to do for me. In conversation there are a lot of natural ways for me to bring up my faith, so I can do it organically and without judgment.”
As we started a long, gradual uphill section, Steam continued to tell me how blessed and comfortable he felt as a Christian on the trail, and how meaningful interactions and moments of peace constantly reassured him. I was happy to listen to Steam and his stories because they seemed to strike a chord of truth. They also meant that I didn’t have to talk while hiking uphill, which always made me grateful. By the time we reached the top of the mountain, I started thinking that maybe I should just be happy to be a bear and not worry about what the other woodland creatures thought.
Steam and I continued to hike and talk until the early afternoon when we arrived at Spring Mountain Shelter. There was a young male thru-hiker in the lean-to named Second Gear, who briefly introduced himself and then continued hiking. I also had the urge to continue hiking, but Steam decided that he was done for the day and would spend the rest of the afternoon at the shelter.
I said good-bye, wished him well, and continued down the trail. It struck me that Steam was out here to love and encourage me as much as anyone else. He was out here for the bears as much as he was for the squirrels.
For much of the afternoon, I walked within view of Second Gear. We didn’t hike together and we didn’t talk to one another. That didn’t bother me. What did bother me was that he was listening to his iPod.
IPods didn’t bother me because they were antisocial or because they were a way to disassociate from the trail; they bothered me because when you listen to an iPod, you can’t hear external noises, and that seemed dangerous. Bopping down the trail to his music, Second Gear couldn’t hear me behind him, he couldn’t hear animals in the woods, and if he needed water, he wouldn’t be able to hear a stream and locate water if it was out of sight. I had seen numerous hikers wearing earphones on the trail, and if I had
to guess I would say more than half of thru-hikers used them on their journeys, but they didn’t seem safe to me. The more I thought about it, the more validated I felt in singing out loud when I needed music.
Late that afternoon, I noticed Second Gear stop walking and remove his earphones. He stood frozen at a road crossing, and I soon saw the cause for hesitation. He was staring at a handmade sign that read TRAIL MAGIC above a large red arrow pointing to the right.
Hearing my footsteps behind him, Second Gear turned.
“The sign says trail magic,” he said.
“Let’s do it,” I replied.
There had been lots of trail magic in the Southeast. About every other day there would be a box of snacks or a stash of drinks left by the roadside for hikers. I now almost expected trail magic, which made me very disappointed when it more or less disappeared as I hiked farther north.
Second Gear and I walked down a road looking for a car or cooler or another sign of trail magic, but it took us by surprise when the next red arrow pointed up a gravel driveway to an attractive log cabin. Except for the Burrito RV, trail magic had always come in the form of provisions left beside the trail, but this sign was pointing toward someone’s home. We approached the steps cautiously, uncertain whether we were in the right place. When we were a few feet from the porch, the front door flung open and a kind-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair invited us inside the house. I had never been invited into a stranger’s home before.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “My name is Zeus and that’s my wife, Spring, in the kitchen.”
Becoming Odyssa Page 7
