“Hey, I could probably slackpack you guys tomorrow if you want.”
Slackpacking meant carrying a light backpack or daypack with just the supplies needed for the day, and having someone drive the rest of your gear to a road crossing farther down the trail. I had never done it, but the thought was enticing.
I knew from an earlier conversation that Moot was opposed to slackpacking, as some hikers are. Those opposed believe that having someone else carry their gear for a portion of the hike will discredit their thru-hike. I respected those folks and understood where they were coming from, but after hiking five hundred miles with my sadistic pack digging into my shoulders and making my fingers go numb, I had no qualms about handing over my gear.
“I would love to slackpack!” I said.
Moot quickly agreed: “Yeah, I’d be up for it, too.”
What? Mr. High Ideals had told me just this morning that he didn’t agree with slackpacking, and now, a few hours later, he jumped at the chance? I should have called him out on it, but I was so shocked that I couldn’t say anything before Red Wolf asked us how far we wanted to go.
I took out my Data Book, looked at it for a minute, and then, staring directly at Moot, I said, “Forty miles.”
I didn’t like it when people contradicted themselves, and during our conversation about slackpacking, Moot had also said that he didn’t like the idea of doing high-mileage days. I had no problem with high miles, but until two days ago, thirty miles had seemed above my limit. I don’t know if it was my desire to test Moot that made me say forty miles, but I didn’t really mean it.
“Oh my gosh, you guys can totally do forty miles!” Red Wolf shouted.
I looked at him, and he was grinning from ear to ear. I had been so focused on Moot that I had temporarily forgotten about Red Wolf. As soon as he heard me say forty miles, he became ecstatic.
“I did this section last year,” he said. “It’s not that bad. I mean, it has a few ups and downs, but I can meet you at the roads, and without packs you can definitely make it.”
I looked back at Moot, convinced he would fold. But to my surprise and dismay, he anted up. “Yeah, I think we should do it.”
What? Moot was a hypocrite, Red Wolf was living vicariously through us, and now I was supposed to hike forty miles tomorrow!
“You better get going,” said Red Wolf. “There’s a shelter close to the next road. You can spend the night there and I’ll meet you with my car in the morning. This is gonna be awesome! You guys are awesome!”
As Moot and I hiked to the next shelter, I sure didn’t feel awesome. I felt like an idiot. An idiot hiking with a hypocrite.
I wanted to go to bed soon after reaching Old Orchard Shelter. There was still daylight, but I wanted to get as much sleep as possible if I was going to hike a marathon and a half the next day. Moot stayed up a bit longer to read the shelter register, and probably sign both of our names in it.
I had already closed my eyes when Moot said, “Hey Odyssa, did you know that, according to this register, two hikers were murdered on the trail somewhere in southwest Virginia?”
Public registers should be censored, and so should Moot. I didn’t comment, I just pretended to be asleep and then tried without success to forget what he had just told me.
The next morning I awoke at 5:30 and hiked with Moot to a dimly lit roadside where we met Red Wolf and his car.
Eager to get a start on the day, I grabbed a PowerBar and an extra layer of clothing, then dropped the rest of my belongings into Red Wolf’s car.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“I’ll just be a minute,” said Moot.
But a minute for Moot meant a half hour. First, he sifted through his food bag to find his granola. Then he poured the granola in a bowl, added a packet of powdered milk, measured some water in a cup and carefully poured it on the cereal, then stirred the concoction together for several minutes. Next, I watched him slowly spoon the dripping cereal into his mouth. He sat there for five minutes eating his breakfast with a satisfied grin on his face. Then, after he finished, he decided he needed to brush his teeth. Even if my dentist had been watching, I wouldn’t have brushed my teeth with the attention to detail that Moot did.
After he packed his toothbrush, I turned to start hiking across the road, but Moot calmly called, “One more minute.”
Then he brought a roll of toilet paper out of his pack and disappeared into the woods for ten minutes.
I would have moved on alone, but having Red Wolf slackpack us meant that Moot and I had to stay close together so we could rendezvous with our four-wheeled Sherpa. So I just stood there tapping my foot, annoyed, cold, and ready to start.
When Moot was finally ready, we started down the trail. I hiked quickly, trying to make up for lost time.
My brain was fast at work too. I spent a lot of time sorting through my frustration with Moot, and then I started to consider the enormity of a forty-mile day, and just when I had come to terms with that, I began to realize the frightening reality of a slackpack.
I had just given everything I owned and needed for the next few months to a complete stranger. I hadn’t even removed my credit card or ID from my pack. And at this point, all I could do was hope that Red Wolf was honest and would show up as promised at the next road crossing. If he didn’t, I was in trouble—big trouble. I mean, what was I going to tell the police? “Um, yeah, a guy named Red Wolf stole all my stuff. How? Oh, well, I kinda put it all in his car this morning.”
After two and a half hours of hiking, I was excited and relieved to see Red Wolf. He was at the road, just like he said he would be, and he had even brought us some bananas.
It was no longer as cold as when we had first started, so I left some clothes in the car and discreetly retrieved the wallet from my pack before we continued our hike.
This time, Red Wolf hiked a stretch with us before turning around to shuttle the car once again.
I really enjoyed the time Red Wolf spent with us on the trail. When I hiked with Moot, everything felt heavy and serious, but when Red Wolf hiked with us, we sang eighties songs at the top of our lungs.
The next road we came to was Virginia Highway 16, directly past Partnership Shelter. On any other day, I would have forgone any predetermined plans and stayed there. It was the Cadillac of shelters: spacious, clean, with cold running water and a clean privy (a.k.a. outhouse). But Red Wolf had promised to meet us just ahead at Highway 16.
When we arrived at the road, Red Wolf stood there cheering and holding a brown rectangular box. He had stopped in a town and picked up a large supreme pizza for the three of us to split. Moot and I could not have been more thankful, or more ravenous. Together we devoured the pizza and celebrated the completion of twenty-six miles before 2:00 PM.
When we left Highway 16, Moot and I both knew we would be able to finish our forty-mile day. The nervous energy that had propelled us through the morning evolved into a relaxed confidence. And, since he was no longer preoccupied with the miles, Moot once again brought up theology.
“So, I don’t really agree with you,” he said.
“Agree with what?” I asked.
“I don’t agree with your idea of God, and I think I know why you believe what you do.”
“Okay.”
This should make the next twelve miles interesting, I thought.
“You grew up going to church, so you were indoctrinated. My theory is that the church tells you about God so that you don’t have to think for yourself or question reality. You said that you’re okay with not understanding things because you trust God. I think that’s a cop-out, an excuse for not digging deeper and looking for the truth. Because you believe in God, you’re a nice person, you do nice things for people, and you help those less fortunate. I think that makes you feel loved, not God.”
I suddenly realized that it became a lot easier to talk about my faith when I felt attacked. “Well, I don’t think I’m a nice person, and God knows that I’m not a nice perso
n.”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell you to guilt you into being nice and giving more money to the Church.”
“Listen, Moot, you’re right. I decided to believe in God at a young age, but it was my choice and not the Church trying to brainwash me. Just because I was young doesn’t mean I couldn’t understand love, and I know my life has felt different since then.
“It’s kinda like . . . well, I guess it’s kinda like slackpacking. When I agreed to slackpack, I wasn’t exactly sure of everything it entailed, but it made sense, and I knew I wanted to do it. And as soon as I gave Red Wolf my pack, I knew I’d made the right decision. Right away, I felt lighter and more comfortable on the trail, and the hiking was easier.
“Being a Christian doesn’t mean that you never have doubts about God. There were times this morning when I wondered whether Red Wolf would meet us or just run off with our stuff. In the end, it’s not as much about you doing what you say you will as it is about God holding up His end of the deal. I know He will always be where He says He will be. I know that if I want Him to walk with me, He will, and I know that if I get lost, He will come looking for me.
“I don’t need to know what roads He took to find me, and when He gives me pizza, I don’t need to know where it came from. I just need to know that He will be there. And He is.”
“I think I need to know where he got the pizza,” Moot replied.
When we finished our twelve-mile stretch, we met Red Wolf at the last road of the day. He congratulated us, returned our packs, and wished us well.
Moot and I put our packs on and finished our forty-mile day by hiking two more miles to the Davis Path Shelter. I didn’t feel like sleeping inside the shelter, but I was too tired to set up my tent, so I spread out my mat and unrolled my sleeping bag under the night sky. And, looking up at the beautiful complexity of the stars, I knew that He was watching over me.
The next morning, I awoke and slipped out of the campsite without saying a word to Moot. I was ready to hike alone.
That morning I enjoyed my independence and my miles. The Virginia countryside is beautiful. Instead of meandering inside the forest, the trail passes through open pastures and beside rolling meadows. The fields are home to cattle and donkeys, and are visited by deer and coyotes that easily circumnavigate the surrounding fences. But by late morning, the only creature I saw gliding across the countryside was Moot.
I could see him behind me, a white fleck with a dark top slashing through the tall grass. I increased my speed, but still the fleck grew and Moot gained ground. If it wouldn’t have been completely obvious, I would have sprinted.
Within another twenty minutes, Moot was within talking distance. I didn’t understand how he was able to hike so fast. I was walking as quickly as I could, which so far had been fast enough to outpace everyone else on the trail. But not Moot.
“Hey, are you sore from yesterday?” he asked.
“No, not really. Are you?”
“Not too sore, but I smell really bad.” I didn’t want to get close enough to find out. “I think we’ll pass a large creek today and I might take a dip. Want to join me?”
“I don’t do cold water,” I said. It was the truth. I didn’t care how bad I smelled; if it was cold outside and the water was cold, I wouldn’t even splash it on my face.
“Well, then, you don’t mind if I bathe naked, do you?”
Naked? Noooooo! The mental image of Moot’s pasty white body and sinewy limbs frolicking in the icy current made me taste a little bit of bile in the back of my throat.
“Moot, if you decide to swim naked then I’ll just keep hiking. I really like to hike by myself anyway.” Hint, hint.
“Are you uncomfortable with nudity?” he asked.
Where was he coming up with this stuff? Just because I didn’t want to watch Moot skinny-dip, all of a sudden I’m embarrassed by the human body?
“No, I’m fine with nudity,” I said. “I think it’s very important to be comfortable with your body. In college, my girlfriends and I used to sneak out on rainy nights and streak the practice football field. It was harmless fun, and no one ever saw us.” Without thinking, I added, “In fact, I wouldn’t mind hiking naked.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it. When I said, “I wouldn’t mind hiking naked,” I meant by myself, at night, under a full moon, in the summer, and for a very short stretch of time. But I immediately knew that was not how Moot envisioned it.
“Let’s do it!” he exclaimed.
“No, no, Moot. Not in the cold and not with a guy.”
“Have you ever seen a guy naked?” he asked.
“Yes.” I couldn’t pinpoint a specific time, but it seemed probable that at some point in my life I had seen a guy naked.
“When?”
“Uh, well, you know . . . I’ve seen naked babies . . . and R-rated movies . . . and stuff.”
“Wait, does that mean that you’ve never had sex?”
“No, Moot, I’ve never had sex.”
“Do you think that you’re the only virgin on the trail?”
“I don’t know, Moot. Maybe you should take a poll.”
He was silent. I thought my sarcasm had finally deterred him from his questions. Then, after about fifteen minutes of silence . . .
“So . . . do you ever pleasure yourself?”
He was a disease, a fungus, a parasite. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get rid of him.
That night, before we went to bed, Moot asked me to call his name in the morning so that he would know I was awake, and then we could leave camp together.
But the next morning, I woke up and left without a word.
I hiked fast all morning. Still, although it had failed previously, my main tactic to escape Moot involved trying to outpace him during the day.
I had dropped hints too. Big hints. Hints like, “I’m so glad that I’m hiking this trail solo. I can’t imagine having a hiking partner.”
To which he would reply, “Yeah, me too.”
I wanted to be brutally honest with him, but I didn’t know how. My Southern upbringing had taught me to communicate through inference, not directly. The idea of telling Moot to his face that I didn’t want to hike with him seemed impossibly cruel. Plus, I was worried about how he would react if I told him bluntly how I felt.
But even without saying anything directly, I felt like I was unmistakable in communicating my desire to part company. I left camp without waking him each morning, and hiked as fast as possible until he caught up, at which point my body language expressed displeasure, and my voice dripped with disappointment.
This particular morning, around the time I expected to start hearing Moot’s rapid shuffle behind me, I came to a dirt road. At the road sat an old pickup truck. An old man stepped out of the truck in worn denim overalls and gave me a big grin with the few yellow teeth he had left.
“Hey, darlin’, I’m doin’ some trail magic with tha church. All tha ladies, they make a big breakfast for tha hikers. I’ll take ya down the road to the church if ya’s interested.”
I felt like I was in the middle of nowhere, and it was hard to believe that there was a church or any other sign of civilization down that gravel road. But I was hungry and I thought the detour might be just what I needed to throw Moot off my scent, so I climbed into the truck bed with my pack and held on tight as we traveled swiftly down the bumpy road.
Within ten minutes, we arrived at a quaint, white chapel at the edge of an open field. The building was no more than a one-room sanctuary with a steeple, but this morning the cinder-block basement had been transformed into an all-you-can-eat buffet, complete with muffins, pancakes, cookies, casseroles, biscuits, sausage, bacon, juice, and coffee—all the delicious food you could imagine, and no Moot? Double sanctuary!
The breakfast spread sat on a small round table covered with a red-and-white checked tablecloth. A handful of thru-hikers sat around the table, and around the thru-hikers hovered every loving grandmo
ther who lived within a ten-mile radius. About fifteen gray-haired women circled the table, ready to refill plates and top off glasses. In between their duties, they would engage the hikers in conversation.
“Oh, don’t you look nice and fit! Here, try my marmalade.”
“You’re doin’ so good on that trail! Have another one of my muffins.”
“You are some of the first thru-hikers that’ve come through this year. Let me get you some more casserole.”
Each woman insisted that you try her dish or have seconds on her recipe before you could consider yourself finished. Food is certainly one of the best ways to express love, especially to a thru-hiker, but I spent most of the meal feeling like an overwhelmed tasting judge at a rural county fair.
When it was time to leave, the women packed us to-go bags to take back to the trail. Then, with two other thru-hikers, I gathered my belongings and walked outside to wait for our blue jean-clad chauffeur to return from his next run.
When the truck arrived, Moot was sitting in the back. As we traded places in the truck bed, he started to object to my departure, but within seconds the swarm of grandmothers descended on him and surrounded him with an impenetrable wall of love and affection, and an artillery of baked goods. I knew that Moot would have to spend at least an hour eating before our hosts would let him return to the woods, and that gave me some breathing room.
When I arrived back at the trailhead, I followed Kid and Chilly up the next mountain. They were both thru-hikers, both tall, cute, and in their mid-twenties. However, while Chilly was easygoing and personable, Kid was one of the most cold and standoffish thru-hikers I’d met.
Kid hardly spoke, hardly smiled, and hardly did anything but look at the ground and hike. Both of them were strong hikers and I enjoyed trying to keep up with their pace. I loved it when Chilly prodded Kid into short bouts of conversation. I could tell that Chilly had spent many miles trying to befriend Kid, and that it gave him a certain satisfaction to force a smile onto the stoic face.
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