“I’d love it!”
Magic Momma gave me the key to their rooms and told me that I could have a shower and take a nap on one of the beds until the boys arrived.
Hiking toward Big Meadows Lodge with Magic Momma’s room key, I realized that this was like a slackpack in reverse. When I slackpacked, I had to trust someone with all my gear and belongings, but now Magic Momma was handing over the key to her hotel room to someone she had just met.
When I arrived at the lodge, I entered Magic Momma’s room and the adjacent room where Nightwalker and Mooch were staying. Next to the beds there was a laptop computer and a wallet, and on the floor there was an open bag of beef jerky. I stole a piece of jerky.
Then I took a long shower and a quick catnap before the boys arrived and woke me up.
“What is this, Goldilocks and the Three Bears?” Mooch asked.
“Yeah, we said you could have some trail magic, not our beds!” Nightwalker followed.
Their sarcasm was a welcome wake-up call.
At dinner, Mooch spent most of the meal entertaining us with crude jokes. I thought it was hilarious. Not so much because of the jokes themselves, but because I don’t have any friends who would be willing to use such profanity and sexual innuendo in front of my mom, or their mom, or anyone else’s mom. But Mooch kept cracking himself up, and Magic Momma just kept shaking her head and smiling.
Magic Momma refused to let me pay for my meal, which was very generous because a hungry thru-hiker is not a cheap date. Nonetheless, she insisted on treating everyone to appetizers, entrees, desserts, and drinks.
When we were finished, I was full, I was content, and I was ready to hike back down the trail to find a camping spot. That was, until we walked outside and into snow flurries.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Nightwalker. “It’s May and it’s still snowing?”
Turning to me, Magic Momma pleaded, “You can’t go back to the trail in this.”
“Well, she can’t have my bed,” Mooch quickly interjected.
“Yeah, I’m not sharing mine, either,” agreed Nightwalker. “But you’re more than welcome to sleep on the carpet.”
Mooch relented. “I might give you a pillow . . . if you’re lucky.”
It was settled. I was clean, fed, and now I was staying in a hotel room—even if it was on the floor.
One of the best parts about spending the night with Mooch and Night-walker was that I got to slackpack with them the next day.
You’d think a slackpack would be substantially easier than hiking with a heavy pack. But for me, that day, it was hard—and it would have been miserable if I’d been carrying my pack.
Some people think it is inappropriate for me to discuss women’s issues on the trail, and I don’t think that’s really fair. I don’t think it’s fair because it’s natural, it’s unavoidable, and it’s highly disruptive to everyday activities—especially hiking. (Moot understood.)
Menstruation is a fact of life. And the only way to describe how tough the day was is to mention that my lower back hurt, my stomach was cramping, I suffered a slight headache, a wee bit of nausea, escalated hunger, and fatigue. Combine that with having to hike thirty miles (with or without a pack), and that just makes it a hard day. But the one thing that made my day better was that Mooch was in even more discomfort.
Intimacy is not just fostered on the trail, it’s required. If you’re hiking as part of a group, you have to be vulnerable. When you’re hurting, even if it’s embarrassing, you have to communicate that you’re not feeling well, that you need to slow down, or that you need help.
When Mooch needed help, he turned to Nightwalker.
“Nightwalker. Hey, Nightwalker,” he said.
“What’s up, Mooch?”
“I need a favor. I need you to slap me across the face as hard as you can.”
“What?”
“Seriously, I need to take my mind off my butt rash, and if you slap me really hard, that might do the trick.”
We erupted with laughter. Well, Nightwalker and I erupted, but Mooch still looked serious. I’d noticed that Mooch had been waddling uphill, but, not knowing him that well, I thought it might just be the way he hiked. And even though Nightwalker never slapped him, I think just confessing his symptoms made Mooch feel a little better.
We devised a system to help Mooch make it to the road where we planned to meet Magic Momma: Every thirty minutes we all took a break to let Mooch step into the woods to apply Gold Bond powder. In addition, we all agreed to walk slowly up the inclines so Mooch could waddle up with wide steps to avoid any further rubbing or irritation. And when we reached the top of the climb, Mooch would hand me his hiking sticks and run downhill. He said it hurt the worst on the downhills, so running was a way to shorten the duration of discomfort.
Mooch was pitiful. I knew he wasn’t faking it or exaggerating. But one thing that made it more tolerable for all of us was that Mooch was a master at making fun of himself. I never thought it was possible for someone to expound upon the concept of chafing with the language and detail that Mooch used. If you’re not the afflicted party, then a butt rash is pretty much always funny, but on Mooch it was hilarious.
I was so entertained by Mooch’s rants that I had almost forgotten about my own ailments when we reached our final road and met Magic Momma. Much to my delight, I was invited to spend another night at the lodge.
That night we enjoyed another delicious meal, complemented by more of Mooch’s offensive humor. Back at the room, we weren’t quite ready for bed, so we ended the evening with a few rounds of sleeping-bag wrestling.
I was new to the sport, but the rules were easy: all limbs must stay inside the sleeping bag, there is no standing allowed, and the first person to say “uncle” loses.
I may not have been the best wrestler, but I never said “uncle.” None of us did.
The next morning, the three of us set out together, this time to reach the northern park boundary. The morning hike was enjoyable and lighthearted, because that’s how it was hiking with Nightwalker and Mooch—it was fun. But as I listened to their banter, I also began to feel a little sad.
I knew that around lunchtime we would reach the road where Magic Momma would be waiting for us, and at that point, Nightwalker and Mooch would join her for two rest days off the trail, and I would continue hiking—alone. I liked hiking alone—no, I loved hiking alone— but I had also loved hiking with Nightwalker and Mooch.
They had invited me to spend their rest days with them and then continue as a group, but I didn’t want to take two rest days, and more importantly, I didn’t want to be a part of a group. My pride made me want to hike the trail alone, and my insecurities meant that I didn’t want the constant company. But at the same time, I was going to miss those two, and Magic Momma. My time in the Shenandoahs was the most fun and lighthearted I had experienced on the trail.
On the surface, I didn’t have much in common with Mooch or Nightwalker. Mooch had descended from a long line of New Yorkers, and he had the cynicism and humor to prove it. Nightwalker, on the other hand, was more of a cultural mutt, who was very interested in science and related closely with nature. I was, of course, Southern and Christian, which would count as at least two strikes against me to most New Englanders. But it seemed like it was because of our differences that our group worked so well together and the chemistry felt so strong.
While I was thinking about how much I would miss Mooch and Nightwalker, I felt something wet on my leg. I looked down and saw a bright yellow stream running from my inner thigh down my calf and into my sock.
I didn’t feel like I had to use the bathroom! I’d just stepped into the woods ten minutes ago. I was in shock, and without thinking, I blurted out, “But I just went!”
Nightwalker and Mooch, who had both been hiking behind me, overheard me and started cracking up. I was peeing on myself, and they were laughing! I was deciding whether to lash out at them or run into the woods and hide when Nigh
twalker finally said, “Odyssa, check your pack.”
My lemon-lime Gatorade, a present from Magic Momma, had leaked out of my day sack and down the middle of my legs. I was so relieved that I started laughing too. Then I stopped and looked at the boys very sternly.
Then I started to laugh again.
13
DIVERSITY
US 522 (FRONT ROYAL), VA, TO
PEN MAR PARK, MD/PA—95 MILES
The transition from rural Virginia to the mid-Atlantic is drastic. The trail continues to level out as the roads, attractions, and amenities increase. After hundreds of miles of remote farmland, this stretch feels overstimulating, but the historical landmarks that line the trail are a welcome addition. For close to one hundred miles, the trail feels more like an outdoor museum than a long-distance foot path as the land tells of the great triumphs and tragedies of American history.
I already had a bias against most weekenders, but after my night at Manassas Gap Shelter, I decided I didn’t like section-hikers much either.
A common piece of advice on the trail is “trust your instincts.” I heard people talk about instincts concerning weather, animals, and ability, but I thought the most important time to trust your instincts was with people. And although my mood was already tainted after parting ways with the boys and Magic Momma, my gut clearly said that I was not going to like the couple I met at Manassas Gap Shelter that evening.
As I approached, they were so wrapped up in themselves that they barely acknowledged my presence.
“Hey there,” I said.
The man just turned and nodded his head.
“Are you two thru-hiking?” I asked.
“No, we’re section-hiking,” he replied gruffly.
A section-hiker, by definition, is only doing a portion of the trail. They may piece together all the sections to eventually complete the entire trail, but usually they just fall into a strange purgatory of doing more than weekenders but less than thru-hikers.
It seemed to me that, as a thru-hiker, I should be able to pull rank over a weekender or section-hiker. But I was discovering that the weekenders and section-hikers thought they were just as important as me, if not more so.
For example, the couple I met tonight—on this, their second night out—decided to tell me that I was doing everything wrong. They criticized my gear, my miles, and my diet. Granted, that last one might have been deserved.
“Is that your hiking stick?” the woman asked in a condescending tone, pointing to my mop stick.
“Sure is,” I said. “It cost three dollars and it’s made it almost two hundred and fifty miles so far.”
“Well, I doubt it provides much support,” said the man.
“Actually, it’s great. You should try one sometime.”
“And you wear an external-frame pack?” asked the woman.
“Looks like I do.” I was beginning to feel less polite.
“Why are you wearing running shoes?”
“Because boots are too heavy and they hold in moisture.”
“Boots are better for ankle support.”
“Yeah, but they’re not designed for thirty-mile days.”
“You’re doing thirty-mile days?” she asked with surprise in her voice.
I knew that would impress her. “Yup,” I said proudly.
“That’s stupid! There’s no way you’ll make it to Maine doing thirty-miles days.”
“Well, I made it through Virginia doing them—and I liked it.”
“What do you eat, then?”
“Snack foods, mostly. Peanut butter and jelly, cheese, salami, Nutella, trail mix, granola—basically anything.”
“Yeah, but what do you cook for dinner?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t cook?”
“Nope. Don’t like doing dishes.” I said this as they were wiping down their dishware to prepare for supper.
I would have been less annoyed with the section-hikers if they’d been doing it right. I mean, at least I knew what I was doing wrong. I realized that my gear was old and far from top-of-the-line, and that my diet could have been healthier, but that said, I had still hiked a thousand miles. These two were on their second night, and they were carrying a bear canister. Who carries a bear canister?
It was the first one that I had ever seen, but I immediately knew what it was. Its barrel shape and high-tech, indestructible material designed to keep bears from eating the food stored inside made it unmistakable. No one on the AT carried a bear canister. Everyone hung their food from trees or from the bear cables near the shelters. If you carry a bear canister on the AT, you might as well have a big IDIOT sticker pasted across it because they weigh about ten pounds and take up half your pack. They are great for open expanses out West, but unlike the Sierras and the Rockies, the Appalachians always have trees to hang food from.
The couple, who were no longer talking to me, cooked their dinner and then took turns feeding one another with their one spoon. (They brought a ten-pound bear canister, but only one spoon?)
The woman spoon-fed her husband right in front of me. For twenty minutes, she used baby talk and choo-chooed and airplaned each bite into the fifty-year-old man’s mouth. Even if I wasn’t doing everything right on the trail, at least I could feed myself!
To make matters worse, after dinner, they didn’t even use their bear canister. They just left their food around the shelter where I was sleeping and camped twenty yards away, directly beside the water source— another hiking faux pas.
The next morning I got off to a very early start to avoid any further run-ins with the couple.
On the trail, I was soon confronted with one of Virginia’s most tumultuous thirteen miles. It was nicknamed “the roller coaster” and involved a constant pattern of inclines and descents. Although I had heard that this section was challenging, my legs and mind were now well accustomed to PUDs—pointless ups and downs—and I traveled through the undulating green tunnel with little difficulty.
When the trail is referred to as a green tunnel, it means that the only view is of tree branches beside and above you. Much of the Appalachian Trail is a green tunnel. Most of the time I enjoyed the tunnel, but today I was a little bored with the limited scenery, and I wanted some excitement.
I had just sat down for a snack when I found it.
I saw a little black bag on the side of the trail. I went over, picked it up, and opened it to see what was inside. Imagine my surprise when I found a beautiful ceramic pipe!
Then consider my astonishment when I dug a little deeper and found the contents that were supposed to go inside the pipe!
Now, my knowledge of narcotics is a little fuzzy, but I was pretty sure I had discovered what the Latins would have called cannabis. I couldn’t recall meeting anyone on the trail who had a terminal illness or who hailed from Amsterdam, but I was sure that there had to be a valid reason for my discovery.
Not wanting to leave my findings to someone who might put it to ill use, I decided to pack it out and figure out what to do with it later. Within five minutes, I regretted my decision. I mean, what was I going to do with it? I wasn’t going to smoke it. My countless Little Debbies were bad enough for my system. Combining that much refined sugar with an illegal substance certainly couldn’t be good for my health.
I didn’t want to carry it. I wasn’t even willing to carry a hairbrush because of the extra weight, and now I had a bag of non-caloric plant by-products in my pack?
Turning it in to the authorities wasn’t an option. How would they know it wasn’t mine? What if I had to do a ton of paperwork? Does this kind of thing go on my record?
No way was I sending it home. My mom would kill me.
The little black bag hung like an albatross around my neck.
At the height of my indecision, a sprightly kid just a little younger than myself bounded down the trail. Panting and out of breath, he politely asked me if I had come across “anything” on the trail.
“What
do you mean, ‘anything’?” I asked.
“I dropped a black pouch somewhere,” he said.
“A black pouch, hmmm . . . What was inside?”
I had him cornered, but the look on his face was too much to bear, and I started laughing. I was relieved to return the black bag to its rightful owner, seeing as I had no clue what to do with it.
Pluto, as he introduced himself, graciously thanked me and then bounded back up the trail. Once he disappeared, my amusement once again turned into paranoia. Did this make me a drug trafficker?
When I finally arrived at David Lesser Memorial Shelter, I was greeted by Pluto, as well as several other weekenders and section-hikers.
The short-term backpackers greeted me warmly, made room in the shelter, and offered me food. There was a ten-year-old girl out for an overnight with her mom and aunt. She was a sharp kid who asked me some great questions about thru-hiking, and even volunteered to refill my water bottle at the spring so that I wouldn’t have to walk any farther.
It had been a very redemptive evening, until I laid down for bed and started to smell something funny. I propped myself up to look around the shelter, and a few feet away, I saw Pluto lighting up. Right next to two old men, just a few feet away from a little girl, her mom, and her aunt! I couldn’t believe it.
These weekenders and section-hikers were going to hate thru-hikers. They were going to think we were all pot-smoking hippies who lit up at night in the shelters near impressionable children. Pluto caught my eye and offered me a hit. I simply shook my head and lay back down.
Thru-hikers can be so inconsiderate.
The state of Virginia encompasses almost one-fourth of the entire Appalachian Trail. After hiking over five hundred miles in the state, it felt strange but gratifying to be in West Virginia, which covers less than twenty-five miles, or about one percent of the trail.
I had been looking forward to West Virginia for two reasons: to get out of Virginia, and to see my cousin Wendy.
Becoming Odyssa Page 17
