“Yep, and when I got to Springer Mountain, I still didn’t want to go home, so I headed farther south and hiked the Florida Trail.”
“I didn’t even know there was a trail in Florida,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s great,” said Granola. “It’s fourteen hundred miles long and goes from the Everglades to the Panhandle. But it’s pretty flat and doesn’t have clean water. That’s one of the reasons I was so eager to get back to the AT. This year I’m just hiking my favorite sections and visiting old friends.”
Granola walked over to the pickup truck. “I have some food in here. You want something?”
“No thanks, I’m not really hungry,” I replied.
Granola looked stunned. “I never thought I would hear a thru-hiker say that.”
“I know, it’s weird.”
“Well, what about a drink? I have a cooler in the back with sodas.”
Hmm. I didn’t have to chew soda. “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”
Granola handed me a cold Pepsi. As I opened it, I asked, “How much longer are you going to be on the trail?”
She laughed. “Until my life savings are gone.”
I guess, for her, hiking was a different form of life savings.
I stayed at the road with Granola while the cold drink infused my veins like an IV drip. The sugar and caffeine rejuvenated me, and after thirty minutes I was ready to keep hiking.
After leaving Granola, I surfed the sugar wave for about an hour until I once again crashed into a state of physical exhaustion. My body was overcome with weakness, and even though my muscles cried out for energy and my stomach screamed for food, my mind said that I still wasn’t hungry. I traveled the next three miles so slowly that I barely made it to the shelter before nightfall.
The Priest Shelter was perched on top of a lonely mountain, and I was the only hiker there. When I arrived, I still didn’t want to eat, I just wanted to lie down.
I curled up in my sleeping bag, ready to fall asleep. In my famished state, I wasn’t really aware of the thoughts that were running through my head. At one point, I thought about having to quit the trail because I was too weak to finish. My eyes shot open.
Had I really just thought about quitting the trail? Up until this point there had been no correlation in my mind between not eating and not hiking. Could I really sabotage myself like that?
I sat up quickly and grabbed my food bag. I didn’t care that I wasn’t hungry, I didn’t care that I felt sick and hated chewing. I was going to make it to Maine even if it meant I had to force-feed myself to get there. I pulled out one food item after another and ate as much as possible. I gorged myself on nearly two thousand calories. But I didn’t feel sick. Instead, my body seemed to absorb every bite immediately. When I was finished, I set my watch alarm for 9:00 AM, twelve hours away and two hours past sunrise.
I was not going to quit. I was going to eat and sleep as much as I needed to remain healthy and stay on the trail.
It’s amazing what food and rest can do. It was a drizzly morning with heavy fog, but I felt much, much better, and after a big breakfast I set out to test my new strength.
I knew that my recent turn toward self-destruction was my own fault, but I also don’t think I grew up with a very good model. The majority of our culture believes that we can operate with very little sleep as long as we supplement it with enough caffeine and processed food. My college friends treated caffeine pills like candy and Red Bull like water.
None of us really thought about how what we put into our bodies would affect their outputs. But the trail was teaching me that if I wanted to make it to Maine, I was going to have to take care of myself. I was going to have to eat often and vary my diet to include more than snack cakes, candy, and energy bars. I was also going to have to rest and maybe not hike thirty-mile days back to back.
During my leisurely descent down The Priest, I saw a man in running shorts pierce the mist and sprint up the mountain toward me. He looked exceptionally healthy and strong. I stepped to the side of the trail to let him pass, but surprisingly he pushed a button on his monstrous wristwatch and stopped to talk.
“Ya’ thru-hiking?” he asked in an enthusiastic Southern accent.
“Yep, I’m going to Maine. Are you a runner?”
He laughed. “Yeah, you could say that. I like to run. And I really like to run on trails.”
“Have you done any races?”
He laughed again. “A few.”
“How far do you go?”
“Oh, thirty, fifty, or a hundred miles, usually.”
Wow! I couldn’t imagine running fifty or a hundred miles at once and was in awe of the discipline (and masochism) it must take to complete such a race.
“Well, don’t let me hold you up,” I said.
“All right.” He pushed a button on his enormous watch and started running up the trail. But before he turned at the next switchback, he looked back and yelled, “By the way, my name’s David Horton. Have a good hike!”
“I’m Odyssa,” I called back. “Good luck with your running!”
Then I turned and continued walking.
David Horton? David Horton? DAVID HORTON!
My jaw dropped. I knew I had heard that name before, and now I remembered why. Even with my limited knowledge of trail culture, I knew who David Horton was—he was one of the most famous trail runners in the world. He had won countless races and been featured in numerous running magazines. And in 1991, he had set the speed record on the Appalachian Trail by doing it in fifty-two days. Fifty-two days—that meant he averaged over forty miles a day. How was that humanly possible?
I was so excited to have had an unexpected celebrity encounter in the middle of the woods that my mood only suffered slightly when I realized that I had just met the Michael Jordan of trail running and I didn’t have a picture to prove it. I know it’s pathetic, but as a substitute, I took a picture of his truck in the gravel parking lot at the base of the mountain. At least I think it was his truck; it was the only one there, and it had several ultra-trail-marathon stickers on the back, so I figured the odds were pretty good.
I ducked out of the rain at Harpers Creek Shelter. Someone had left a Backpacker magazine near the shelter register, and unpacking my sleeping bag to cozy up and stay warm, I read through every single page. A few months before, I had read Backpacker magazine with dreams and ambitions, but now it was my reality. I read every page with authority. I disagreed with gear reviews, related to the survival stories, and read about the featured trails and hikers with great interest.
I had almost reached the end of the magazine when I saw an article that mentioned David Horton. Ha! I knew he was famous. (Or else he planted this here to make people think he was.)
The simple pleasures of a warm sleeping bag and rain on a tin roof made it hard to leave the shelter, but I wanted to hike a little farther before nightfall, so I continued up the long incline of Three Ridges.
I was busy taking baby steps up the long ascent when I heard the sound of feet quickly approaching behind me. I turned to see David Horton running up the trail once again. He had run thirty miles in the time it had taken me to walk eight!
I knew he was in a hurry, but I didn’t want to botch my second chance, so I quickly expressed my admiration and requested a photo. A willing subject, he smiled and put his arm around my shoulder. I extended my outside arm, clicked a button, and captured our encounter.
I thought he would run off again after the photo, but instead he looked at me with a funny expression and said, “You’re brave.”
“Brave? why?”
“You’re hiking the trail alone. Aren’t you scared?”
“No. Would you be scared to hike alone?”
He grinned. “I’d be scared to carry a pack, and I’d be especially scared to do it alone. Runners don’t make good hikers, but they do smell better.”
He leaned over to sniff me, then held his nose and laughed. This guy had just run thirty miles and he was m
aking jokes! He was so full of life and energy, and though we hadn’t talked for long, there was something about him I connected with. Even though he did seem a little crazy.
“I like you,” he said. “You’re special. You’re gonna make it to Katahdin.”
“I hope so.”
“NO!” he exclaimed. It was the first time I had seen him look serious. “You will make it to Katahdin.”
“Yeah, I will make it,” I said. He nodded his head with satisfaction. Then I asked, “So, are you just out here running for fun or are you training for something?”
“Both. I’m having fun, but I’m also training for the Pacific Crest Trail. I’m gonna try to set the record on it this summer.”
“How far is it?”
“Two thousand six hundred and sixty-three miles.”
“That’s four hundred miles longer than the AT!” I exclaimed.
“You’re right. And I’m gonna finish around the same time that you’ll finish. And you will finish! So you have to look me up afterward and say hi.”
“Okay, I’ll do it. I will look you up this fall.”
David laughed. “Okay, girl, I’ll talk to you soon.” Then he once again activated the machine on his wrist and continued running up the mountain and out of sight.
If I had been on the streets of Los Angeles and seen a movie star, it wouldn’t have meant as much to me as my run-in with David Horton.
Meeting David Horton was amazing, but the one thing I really wanted to see while I was on the trail was a bear. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t think it would eat me. I just wanted to see one in the wild. The three places on the trail where bear sightings are most common are in the Smokies, the Shenandoahs, and New Jersey. I hadn’t seen anything but rain or snow in the Smokies, so now that I was so close to Shenandoah National Park, I was extra vigilant.
Nearing the park, I noticed lots of little orange lizards. Maybe they were technically newts or salamanders, but whatever they were, they littered the trail. They were bright orange with dark spots on their backs. They were about the size of my pinky finger, and they were really slow. In fact, they hardly moved at all. I could stoop down within inches of them and they wouldn’t budge. Even after I named them and started petting them, they only took a step or two.
I had to walk very gingerly down the trail to make sure I didn’t step on them. Despite being almost neon orange, they blended in amazingly well with the remaining fall leaves that were decomposing on the ground.
While I was looking down at the trail for the little lizards, I heard a rustling noise ahead.
A bear? No, not a bear.
It looked like a turkey—but it wasn’t a turkey.
A peacock! It was a female peacock with funny antennae sticking up out of her head! She ran several yards down the trail and then stopped to look back. I followed, and when I was within a few feet, she once again sprinted down the trail. She probably stayed on the trail for a quarter mile, running ahead and then waiting for me to catch up before running a little farther. Finally she veered off the trail and ran through the woods until I couldn’t see her anymore.
I laughed at the absurdity of seeing a peacock in the woods. I’m sure peacock sightings on the Appalachian Trail weren’t very common— probably far less common than seeing a bear. I remembered from my classical studies that peacocks were considered the bird of Hera, queen of the gods. Maybe this bird was a good omen? Maybe good things were about to happen!
I smiled as I thought about the many pleasant surprises I’d had recently. I loved central Virginia. I loved the trail. Spring was making herself more known each day, and I felt full of love, laughter, and life. Even by myself, even in the middle of the woods.
12
GENEROSITY
ROCKFISH GAP, VA, TO US 522
(FRONT ROYAL), VA—107 MILES
Shenandoah National Park is a favorite section for many thru-hikers. There is enough wilderness in the park to satisfy the longings of any outdoor enthusiast, but there are enough amenities to keep a hiker clean, fed, and happy throughout the hundred-mile stretch. It is a place where beauty and convenience meet, and where gentle climbs and gradual descents lift your spirits. It is a place that makes you feel like maybe thru-hiking isn’t so difficult after all.
On my first day in Shenandoah National Park, I came across Nightwalker and Mooch. I had met them just outside Roanoke at apple orchard shelter. They were friends from Connecticut who had been Boy Scouts growing up, and now that they were out of college, they were on the AT together.
I had taken to them immediately because Nightwalker had shared his dried fruit with me at the shelter—and sharing food on the trail is a big deal. I also remembered them fondly because Mooch’s thick sarcasm kept me entertained and laughing well into the night, long past when I usually fall asleep.
The only strike against them came when the rain started blowing inside the shelter and onto the bottom half of our sleeping bags. Night-walker convinced us to put trash bags around the ends of our sleeping bags to keep them dry. It seemed like a great idea. But when we woke up in the morning, our sleeping bags were dry up top and soaking wet underneath the trash bags. Both boys marveled at the outcome like it was a science project that revealed something new and amazing about the laws of condensation. All I knew was that my sleeping bag was wet and heavy.
Now that we were in the Shenandoahs together, and there wasn’t any chance of rain, I was happy to see them.
“Odyssa!” they called as they hiked toward me. (Toward me? That was weird.)
Nightwalker was the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome type. By this point on the trail, he had a thick black beard that made him look like a rugged cowboy or a rider for the Pony Express. Mooch was even taller than Nightwalker, gangly and topped with a huge smile and out-of-control curly hair. He reminded me of a good-looking Gumby with a ’fro.
“I’m sorry again about your sleeping bag,” were the first words out of Nightwalker’s mouth.
“Don’t worry about it.” I laughed. “Why are you guys headed south? I am still hiking north, right?”
“Yeah, you’re good,” said Mooch. “Nightwalker’s mom is here and she’s slackpacking us through the Shennandoahs. It was easier to start near the lodge and have her pick us up at the park entrance, so we’re hiking south today.”
“We have extra snacks. You want some?” asked Nightwalker.
I nodded enthusiastically. Mooch gave me cookies and Nightwalker handed me fruit snacks. If I hadn’t already forgiven them for the wet sleeping bag, this would have done it.
“Hey, we need to keep hiking, but my mom’s doing trail magic all week, so when you come to a road crossing tomorrow, keep an eye out for a pretty, dark-haired lady with snacks and drinks.”
“I will definitely keep an eye out for your mom. But don’t let me keep you from getting to your showers and warm, soft beds. After all, I still have a few miles to the dirty, hard floorboards waiting for me at the next shelter.”
The boys laughed.
“You know, Odyssa, the thought of you out there in the cold on the uncomfortable floor of the shelter is just going to make my bed feel that much better,” replied Mooch.
I brandished my mop stick at him like a martial arts weapon.
“Okay, okay,” said Nightwalker, as the two laughed and stumbled farther away from me. “We’ll look for you tomorrow, Odyssa.”
“Yeah, and maybe I’ll bring you some of the leftovers from my delicious continental breakfast,” shouted Mooch as they disappeared around the turn.
The Appalachian Trail has more road crossings per mile within Shenandoah National Park than in any other section of trail. And the weird thing is that it’s always the same road. The Blue Ridge Parkway becomes Skyline Drive at the park’s southern boundary. Skyline Drive touches the AT forty-five times in Shenandoah National Park.
It was late afternoon, and I had already crossed the road nine times since leaving the shelter that morning. At each stretch of pavemen
t, I carefully surveyed the area, hoping to spot Nightwalker’s mom. But it wasn’t until my final road crossing of the day that I discovered her trail magic. There was a cooler filled with sodas, and beside it was a cardboard box overflowing with cookies, crackers, and fruit snacks.
I had already helped myself to a drink and was busy selecting my snacks when an attractive lady with short, black hair shut her car door and began walking toward me.
“You must be Odyssa. The boys told me about you,” she said.
“You must be Trail Magic Momma,” I replied. I didn’t know her name, or her son’s real name, and “Trail Magic Momma” just kind of came out.
“Ha! I love it,” she said. “Maybe that can be my trail name—Magic Momma. I’m glad you’re here,” she continued. “I’ve been parked here all day, and you’re the first thru-hiker I’ve seen. You haven’t seen the boys, have you?”
“Nuh-uh,” I said, with graham cracker crumbs falling out of my mouth. “Where are they?”
“They should be here soon, I hope.”
I finished my snack and grabbed a second helping from the cardboard box. I sat in the grass, laughing and talking with Magic Momma in between mouthfuls. She and I quickly discovered that we both loved books, tennis, and red wine. She told me about her work, her husband, and how much she loved being here with her only child. (Well, that is, if you don’t count the black lab that she’d left at home.)
I believe that there are only a handful of people in life that a person will meet and immediately feel deeply connected with. I had imagined this immediate bond was usually reserved for a best friend or the love of your life, but I found myself experiencing it with a fifty-year-old woman.
After a long visit that seemed to have lasted only a few minutes, Magic Momma concluded the conversation with an offer. “We’re staying at the lodge that’s just a mile up the trail. You can eat dinner with us there if you like.”
Becoming Odyssa Page 16
