On the other hand, I had already hiked twenty miles, and it was ten more to Damascus. My farthest day of hiking so far had been twenty-seven miles, and that had been a struggle. Usually I was happy to hike twenty to twenty-five miles, but today the trail had been surprisingly flat, I still had energy left, and all of a sudden I was craving pizza. But thirty miles? That seemed too far.
As I tried to decide what to do, two thru-hikers in their twenties walked up behind me. They were brothers. I hadn’t met them at the shelter the night before because they had decided to tent a little farther down the trail.
“We didn’t want to stay where someone had been killed,” the older brother explained.
Without a history of homicide at the current shelter, they both started to unload their packs.
“Are you going to stop?” asked the younger brother.
“I don’t know. I usually don’t stop this early, but I’ve never hiked thirty miles in one day, and I don’t know if I can make it to Damascus before dark.”
He replied, “Yeah, we’re too tired to make it there today, but we can’t wait until tomorrow. Damascus is awesome. There’s a pizza joint, a burrito shop, and a Subway in town. Plus, it will be our first shower in two weeks.”
Two weeks? I thought I smelled something. The longest I had gone without a shower on the trail was four days.
In the end the decision was simple: pizza, shower, and a hostel trumped PowerBars, floor planks, and putrescence. I was on my way to Damascus.
Damascus is the preeminent trail town. All the businesses are hiker-friendly, meaning they don’t mind dirty, stinky vagabonds with packs on their backs hanging around. And each May the town hosts a thru-hiker festival called Trail Days, which serves as a celebration for current hikers who have made it to Virginia, and a reunion for thru-hikers from years past. The main event at Trail Days is a hiker parade, where current thru-hikers parade down Main Street carrying water balloons to combat the hoses and water guns that the crowd points at them.
The sun was setting when I arrived in Damascus, and although there weren’t water balloons or a crowd, I paraded down the center of Main Street filled with happiness and pride. The quaint town was beautiful and, like Hot Springs, it was next to a river and bordered by mountains.
The fading sun lit up the Main Street windows in pink, and everywhere I looked there were signs greeting hikers or providing information about specific services, such as trail shuttles, hostels, or resupply options. In other towns along the trail, thru-hikers were a spectacle, but in Damascus I felt like the guest of honor.
I celebrated my arrival with an immediate trip to Sicily’s Italian Restaurant. At first, I was solely focused on food, but after a few slices of tomato, feta, and banana pepper pizza, it struck me—I had hiked almost five hundred miles. I had completed one of the toughest sections of trail along the North Carolina–Tennessee border, and I had made it to Virginia.
I sat there with a sense of accomplishment and enjoyed rewarding myself with pizza. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever eaten at a restaurant by myself. I thought back to how nervous it used to make me to go to my college cafeteria alone, not knowing whether I would find a friend to sit next to. I was self-conscious that sitting alone would make people think I didn’t have any friends. But tonight sitting alone didn’t bother me. I was more comfortable with myself and with silence than I had ever been, and I was filled with confidence—the confidence of five hundred miles.
The Place is a simple two-story building that a local church transformed into lodging for hikers and bikers. For a suggested donation of three dollars, I was treated to four walls, a wooden bunk bed, and indoor plumbing.
After arriving at The Place and taking a long, hot shower, I walked to the back rooms in search of a quiet bunk. I found a room without any people or packs, shut the door, and rolled out my sleeping bag on a nearby wooden frame. Mileage-wise, it had been my longest day, and I hadn’t slept well the night before, so I was much more interested in sleep than socializing.
Just as I closed my eyes, I heard someone slam the front door of the building. My body grew tense as the heavy footsteps grew louder.
There was a momentary pause before the door to my room swung open and an extremely large, rugged middle-aged man entered. His clothes were dirty and damp, and he had a nappy beard that reached down to his protruding belly. He glanced over at me and said, “Arrr . . . greetings, me lady. Is there room in here for a pirate?”
A pirate?
Although taken aback, I did my best to engage in conversation. “Well, there are lots of bunks open . . . except this one. I guess you can have whichever one you want.”
“Ahh, thanks, lassie. It feels good to rest me weary bones.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“My name’s Captain Jack Daniels, but you can call me Captain.”
I asked Captain where he had hiked from that morning. He responded that he had just come from the Smokies.
“But Captain, aren’t they two hundred miles away?”
“Arrr, you’re right, me lassie, but it was too cold there, so I hitched up to Virginia.”
I asked him if he was a thru-hiker, and he informed me that he had been a thru-hiker for the past fifteen years.
“The past fifteen years?”
Captain went on to explain that he owned several small businesses along the trail, and he spent his time hiking or hitching from one town to another to check on them.
He began to list all of his entrepreneurial ventures: one which involved GPS, one that sold hot dogs, and another that rented bicycles. I couldn’t fully understand any of them, but I was very tired. Captain even offered me a job at one of his establishments. I declined, but told him that I might find him after I finished the trail.
Captain’s lifestyle of continual hiking even had a formal club. He and two of his friends were part of a “long-term, short-distance” hiking organization known as Hiker Trash. To my surprise, the club had its own marketing materials, such as embroidered hats and business cards.
Captain gave me his business card. Looking it over, I was surprised to find a Bible verse on one side, an open slot in the middle, and bold print on the back that read, “PEEING—DON’T TOUCH!” He told me the slot in the middle was so he could slip the card over his beer bottle and protect his beverage while he went to the restroom. Captain concluded his show-and-tell by turning his pack around and pointing to his hiking mascot: a stuffed pirate doll that looked exactly like him.
Finally, suggesting that I looked tired and should get some sleep, Captain placed his possessions on the bunk beside me, grabbed his Nalgene bottle—which curiously smelled of something other than water—and took off to see if he could find any of his friends in town.
9
OPPRESSION
DAMASCUS, VA, TO A LITTLE PAST
PEARISBURG, VA—165 MILES
The pastoral setting of southwest Virginia is breathtaking. It is one of the most remote sections of the trail and begins with the open expanses of Grayson Highlands State Park, which is often compared to the rugged hills of Montana. While the scenery is stunning, for many, the highlight is the wild ponies that roam free inside the park’s fence. Past Grayson Highlands, the trail travels through rolling farmland and beside grazing livestock. The scenic vistas of North Carolina and Tennessee make you feel like you’re looking at a work of art, but crossing through the rural countryside of southwest Virginia and caressing the tall grass with your fingertips, you feel like you’re part of the painting.
The next day, I awoke to the sound of Captain’s rattling, rhythmic breathing. Unable to sleep through the vibrations, I gathered my belongings and headed to the laundromat.
I enjoyed my time in the fluff ’n’ fold, especially after a local programmed the jukebox to play every Hank Williams song. But when my “quick-dry” hiking clothes were still wet after two cycles in the dryer, I gave up, threw them in my backpack, and headed back to the trai
l.
On my way out of town, I decided to make one last stop: Subway. I think it was the only chain restaurant in Damascus, and while I believe in supporting local businesses, I really like Subway. I like the fresh ingredients, I like the efficiency, but most of all, I love the fact that Subway offers me complete control. I love being able to dictate exactly what goes on my sandwich and watching it immediately take form. That morning, my six-inch sub on Italian parmesan bread was piled high with turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, green peppers, banana peppers, jalapenos, oregano, a touch of mayonnaise, a lot of mustard, and a sprinkle of parmesan cheese. And as I selected chips and a drink to complete my meal, I noticed another hiker sitting toward the back of the store.
Hikers are fairly easy to pick out. They’re typically male, typically hairy, usually smelly, and they often have a huge backpack and two hiking poles somewhere nearby. This hiker was a young man, medium height, extremely thin, with skin so pale I could see the blue veins at his temples. His white complexion contrasted sharply with his dark brown eyes and wiry black hair. When I first spotted him, he looked so deep in thought that I could almost see his brain working behind his translucent forehead.
When I introduced myself, his demeanor and even his coloring quickly changed. Shades of pink flooded his cheeks, and he seemed both pleased and surprised by my greeting. I asked if I could sit with him and he immediately made room for me.
I learned a lot about Moot during our lunch together. I learned that he had finished college last spring and had spent the past few months working at a boatyard on the Cape.
“What Cape?” I asked.
“The Cape,” he said. “You know, Cape Cod, in Massachusetts.”
I felt stupid for not knowing that, because the way he responded, it seemed like I should have known. There was a lot Moot knew that I didn’t. I was amazed at how eager he was to bypass idle chatter and dive into thought-provoking topics like philosophy and obscure political issues. When he brought up theology, Moot described himself as an “existential atheistic Quaker.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I was pretty sure I had never met one of those before.
Well aware that this conversation was going to take more time than a six-inch sub allowed, I finished my sandwich and suggested that we start back to the trail together. Moot eagerly agreed, and he continued his personal discourse as we rejoined the trail. It was clear that he had spent a lot of time formulating his beliefs, and he explained himself well, but there were still key concepts that I couldn’t grasp.
One point of confusion was that Moot didn’t believe in good or evil. He did, however, believe that humanity could be bettered through politics.
“Okay, so I definitely agree that politics are powerful and can positively or negatively affect people, but how can it better humanity without good or evil? What is it better than if there’s no evil? And what is it striving toward if there’s no good?”
“You don’t understand,” he said. He sounded annoyed and changed the subject.
Despite the many times we agreed to disagree, I appreciated Moot’s honesty and enjoyed listening to his reasoning. It was refreshing to meet someone my age who was so contemplative and passionate, and Moot certainly didn’t mind sharing his ideas or talking for long stretches without taking a break.
When he did finally stop to ask me a question, I knew what he was going to say, but that didn’t mean I was ready for it.
“What about you, do you believe in a God?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m a Christian.”
He turned and looked at me for a moment, then asked, “Why?”
It was times like these that I grew frustrated with God. I knew He had the power to create us with the capability to understand the divine, but He chose not to. So I was left trying to explain my relationship with an all-powerful, highly controversial Creator of the universe using the intangible evidence of miracles, the mystery of faith, and the concept of grace.
I loved these ethereal building blocks of faith, but they didn’t make explaining it any easier, especially to someone like Moot. Moot was one of the most pragmatic people I had ever met, so he wanted a rational reason why I would base my life on faith in a man who came to earth two thousand years ago and upset people to the point of being executed.
Taking a deep breath, I began:
“I’m a Christian because if you know Jesus, then you have to decide whether He is God or whether He is a maniac. And I think He’s God. I have thought that from a young age, and since then it feels like God has been revealing Himself to me in ways that make me know He is real.
“Christianity helps me to understand things both good and bad, and when I can’t understand, I can rely on trust and faith, which is often better than an answer.
“And, well, most importantly, I have always felt loved—not loved like I feel around family or friends, but loved with a deep, strong, constant, overwhelming embrace that I know comes from God.
“I know I can’t explain it very well, but if you could feel what I feel on the inside, you’d understand.”
There was a pause when I finished. When Moot spoke, he changed the subject.
Thank God.
I had enjoyed hiking with Moot, but after spending the night with several other hikers at a shelter that evening, I was excited to wake up the next morning and continue hiking alone.
I enjoyed a pleasant morning on the trail. I climbed up the slopes of Mount Rogers, the highest mountain in Virginia, but it seemed like a hill compared to some of the climbs in North Carolina and Tennessee. The sun lavishly blanketed the ground and encouraged shoots of green to rise out of the earth.
After crossing a small stream, I decided to stop for lunch. Midway through my meal, I looked up to see Moot walking down the trail. I was glad to see him again, and the feeling seemed mutual, as he quickly threw down his pack to have lunch beside me.
“You didn’t say good-bye this morning,” he said.
“I didn’t think you were awake,” I responded
“Well, it took me a long time to catch you.”
Catch me? The way Moot said that made me feel a little uneasy. It sounded like he had made it his objective for the day to find me.
When lunch was over, we hiked together toward Grayson Highlands State Park. At the park boundary there was a trail register, and I was slightly annoyed when Moot took the pen and wrote MOOT AND ODYSSA into the guest log. I hadn’t signed a register since Springer Mountain in Georgia, and I didn’t like that he’d signed it for me. But I was sure he was trying to be helpful, so I decided not to say anything.
Grayson Highlands State Park has two of my favorite things: beautiful views and wild ponies. The rolling hills inside the park feature undulating fields of grass and dramatic rock outcroppings. The exposed terrain makes it easier to spot the wild ponies that find sanctuary within the park’s border. Even though the ponies were advertised as “wild,” that didn’t stop me from attempting a close encounter.
At first, my off-key neighs and whinnies weren’t enough to convince them that I was a friend, but after I pulled some Twizzlers out of my food bag, they quickly warmed up to me. I grew excited as the ponies drew near and began to eat directly from my hand. And as their comfort level increased, one little guy even tried to steal a Twizzler from my mouth.
I freely admit that candy probably wasn’t the best dietary choice for the small horses—or for myself, for that matter—but in the absence of apples or carrots, the red straws were the best I had to offer. I am glad that I hadn’t come across the signs on the opposite end of the park that warned against feeding any of the animals, because then I would have felt a lot more guilty as I distributed the licorice.
When I had a good-sized herd around me, I heard someone behind me. Knowing that Moot was nearby, I assumed it was his shadow cast beside me, and I was surprised to look up and see a non-thru-hiker.
Or, at least, he looked like a non-hiker, but when he introduced himself as Red Wolf, I began to wo
nder.
“I was a thru-hiker last year,” he quickly explained.
“Really? You did the whole trail?” I asked in awe.
His voice lowered and he sheepishly replied, “No, I should have. But I reached Virginia and missed my girlfriend so much that I got off the trail, went home, and proposed. We were engaged for a month before I found out that she had been cheating on me with my best friend while I was on the trail.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.
He waved away my concern and continued, “I have two more semesters at Appalachian State University, and after that I’m going to start hiking the trail again—and next time, I’m not getting off.”
Red Wolf then explained that he was at Grayson Highlands today for two reasons. One was to record the sound of the ponies for a school project. That was why he was drawn to my drove. Apparently, he had been trying all morning to lure them with carrots to no avail. I gave him some Twizzlers, and he had better luck.
The second purpose of his outing was to provide trail magic to thruhikers. As Moot approached to see who I was talking to, Red Wolf told us he had stashed some food farther down the trail, and that he would be happy to hike with us and show us where he’d hidden the goodies.
When we arrived at Red Wolf’s hidden cooler, I was impressed with the wide range of treats that he had dragged out to the trail. From the blue Coleman, he began to pull canned vegetables, fresh fruit, and donuts. We dug in, stuffing our faces with the treats until he interrupted us.
“I almost forgot,” he said, extracting a half gallon of chocolate ice cream from the cooler. “I had it hidden at the bottom to keep it cold.”
It took me less than five minutes to polish off half of the container, and I would have kept going if Red Wolf hadn’t interjected.
Becoming Odyssa Page 11
