Becoming Odyssa

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  “Are you kidding? Odyssa, you saved us! Nightwalker and I were about to kill each other before we started hiking with you. Seriously. We were so sick of each other that we probably would have split up if we hadn’t met you in Hanover. We need you. I need you. I need someone to talk to besides Nightwalker. I want you to hike with us, and if kissing Nightwalker is part of the deal, then so be it.”

  It was a relief to know that Mooch wasn’t hurt or upset. Because the truth was, I liked Mooch just as much as I liked Nightwalker. I liked them in different ways, but my attraction toward Nightwalker didn’t outweigh my appreciation of Mooch. Nightwalker was turning into a trail romance, but Mooch was becoming a real-life friend.

  That night, Nightwalker and I went on our second date. We sat by a pond with clear water. On the sandy bottom, there were little black worms swimming amid the debris of fallen twigs and leaves. Night-walker picked up one of the black, eel-like creatures.

  “You know what this is?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “A leech!” he answered, throwing it on me.

  “Ahhhhh, sick! Don’t ever do that again!”

  “Aw, c’mon, they’re not that bad.” Then he picked another one up and started playing with it in the palm of his hand. It was about three inches long, and it could knot itself up into a perfectly round ball that looked like a black pearl. It was weird, not to mention slimy, but at the same time it was mesmerizing.

  I was poking at the leech, making it contract into a perfect sphere, when Nightwalker started talking again.

  “So . . .” he said. “The kiss. Are you okay with it?”

  “Um, I think so. I mean, I like you. But I just don’t know. What does it mean? We’re almost done with the trail. What’s going to happen after that?”

  Nightwalker paused for a minute. “I don’t know what’s going to happen after the trail. I don’t know where either one of us will be or what we’ll be doing. But I do know that I like you, and I know that we’re together now.”

  “But we’re so different. Our stories are completely different, what we believe is so different . . . And what I believe is really important to me.”

  “I know it is. And that’s why I want to know about it, because if it’s important to you, then it’s important to me. I may not agree with everything, but I respect what you believe.”

  “Well, I do like you—Ahhhhh, ouch! Get it off, get it off, get it off!”

  The leech had attached itself to my thumb.

  The Presidential Range presented an entire day of vertical gain toward Mount Washington, the highest peak in New England. Our plan for the day wasn’t to summit Mount Washington, but to climb all the “step mountains” leading up to the peak. I called them “step mountains” because there were never any downhills; instead, hikers would climb up a mountain and then walk straight to the base of another mountain, up a mountain and straight, up and straight—just like stairs, but on a much grander scale.

  With the elevation increase came spotty weather. The passing rain showers and thick fog made it a cold day to hike, especially for June. We were excited to reconvene midday at a hut for several rounds of soup.

  Huts were a trademark of the White Mountains. They were wooden cabins with running water, electricity, and showers—and they were expensive. Spending the night in a hut usually costs about eighty dollars per person. That was for a wooden bunk in a communal room. Essentially, it was a glamorous shelter for eighty dollars a night. Sometimes hikers were allowed to spend the night in return for manual labor, but the only manual labor I wanted to do was walk to Katahdin. For a hiker, the most appealing part of the hut system is that they offered an unlimited soup bowl at lunch for three dollars. Sure, it was just reconstituted broth, but it was unlimited reconstituted broth.

  While the three of us sat in silence slurping our lunches, a young male hiker walked into the building. We didn’t recognize him. It was now June twenty-second, and the hiker informed us that he had started from Mount katahdin at the very end of May. He was a southbounder! Our first southbounder.

  I immediately thought of Dude, the southbound hiker I had met in the Smokies. Back then, I had envied him for being near the end of his journey while I was just beginning mine. Now the tables—and the miles—had turned, and I was the one who was a few weeks from finishing.

  For the first time since leaving Springer Mountain, I felt like the end was within reach, and that left me feeling eager and unsettled at the same time. It was as if the morning’s first light was disturbing me from a dream not yet finished: part of me wanted to wake up, eat breakfast, and take a shower, but another part wanted to stay in bed and keep dreaming.

  After sharing some of our stories with the southbounder and wishing him well on his journey, the boys and I filtered out of the hut and back to the trail. The rain had stopped for the afternoon, but the wind had picked up significantly; the remaining miles to the base of Mount Washington’s cone were entirely above the tree line. When I was able to look up, the panorama of distant mountains was awe-inspiring, but for the most part the wind was so cold and strong that I had to keep looking down or it would bring tears to my eyes.

  Hiking alone, I had plenty of time to consider my evening plans. There was no camping allowed on Mount Washington, so we would be forced to stay at Lake of the Clouds Hut, a mile and a half below the summit. I had to decide whether to work for my board and spend the majority of my time scrubbing dishes and washing floors, or whether to pay an eighty dollars guest fee for Spartan amenities.

  Nightwalker had already decided to pay the fee and not work. It was his twenty-third birthday, so he could justify the eighty dollars. But I had already had my birthday.

  After scaling four mountains all named after dead presidents, I arrived at Lake of the Clouds Hut. I didn’t see any sign of Nightwalker or Mooch, so I proceeded to the front desk. Still undecided whether to work or pay, I asked if the attendant had seen any tall, dark, scruffy hikers walking around.

  He replied, “Oh, are you with Nightwalker? You must be Odyssa. Nightwalker’s mom radioed in and paid for the three of you to spend the night as guests.”

  My mouth fell open and my eyes began to gleam. They didn’t even have telephones at this hut, and how Nightwalker’s mom knew we would stop here on his birthday and figured out a way to pay for our rooms was, well, magic. Drifting off to my prepaid room, I felt the warm generosity of Magic Momma as if it were a friend walking beside me.

  As I settled into the hut, I put on my extra clothes to combat the cold summer afternoon. Even inside, it was still cold, since the huts lacked heat. In a few minutes, I was joined by Mooch and Nightwalker, who had been delayed when they chose to take a short side trail to the top of Mount Monroe.

  They were as excited as I was that we didn’t have to pay or work for our lodging, and together we spent the remainder of the afternoon relaxing, reading, and being still. It was the perfect afternoon, and the perfect birthday for Nightwalker—until dinner.

  When it was time to eat, we sat at long rectangular tables with the other hut inhabitants and passed food around family style. Usually I like family style because it reminds me of camp, and I love camp. But I didn’t like the family-style format that evening because the other guests at our table took more than their fair portion of food. By the time the serving platters reached our end of the table, the portions were fit for a five-year-old, and the kitchen didn’t provide any second helpings.

  I was livid. These hikers, as they liked to call themselves, were out here for a night or a weekend and had plenty of food in their rooms, their backpacks, and in the cars waiting for them at the bottom of the mountain. And from the looks of them, they really didn’t need the extra calories!

  My stomach was screaming with hunger pains, which I unsuccessfully tried to quiet with the three bites of pasta that had been left on the platter by the time it reached me. But when dessert came, I felt vindicated. It was a homemade birthday cake that the kitchen staff had mad
e for Nightwalker, and they let him serve it. Since I had some influence over Nightwalker, let’s just say that everyone there got his or her just desserts.

  The next morning we summited Mount Washington. It was cold and windy, and I was wearing every article of clothing that I carried.

  At the top of the mountain, there is a large cement building. I wish they had not put the building there. Sure, the inside of the structure with its weather station, museum, and snack bar was pretty cool, but aside from the weather station everything would have been just as effective at the base of the mountain. I guess they needed the building, though, because otherwise tourists wouldn’t pay twenty dollars to drive up to the top of the mountain or sixty dollars to ride up on the Cog Train.

  I didn’t know what a Cog Train was until we left the top of the mountain and started down the backside. I just thought it was a normal train that took people from the bottom of the mountain to the top. What I learned on the descent was that a Cog Train runs on coal and is twice as loud, stinky, and dirty as a regular train. But I’m sure that the tourists who travel the Cog to the top of Mount Washington must like it. Why else would they subject themselves to breathing in black air, listening to a loud whistle, and traveling up a mountain that is usually cloudy to reach an expensive snack bar on the summit?

  The train route parallels the AT before crossing the path near the summit. Although we were still several hundred yards away from the tracks, we could see the train slowly lurching up the mountain, and we could hear it too. The noise was piercing even from a quarter mile away, and the smoke was disgusting. I have never seen so much pollution coming from one machine in my life. As we hiked closer, we started to smell the coal that powered the machine, and it burned my nostrils.

  The whistling, smoking, smelly monster contrasted with everything that was lovely about this place. Before hiking the trail, I’m sure that a ride to the top of the mountain on the Cog Train wouldn’t have fazed me. But several months of living in the woods made loud noise and pollution on top of a remote mountain seem even more abnormal.

  The boys insisted that it is a thru-hiker tradition to moon the Cog. I’m not generally a proponent of mooning or public nudity, but when Nightwalker and Mooch decided to turn around and show their cheeks to the locomotive, I couldn’t blame them and I didn’t try to stop them.

  Nearly an hour later, when the smell and haze from the train had lifted, I saw two young men hiking quickly up the mountain. They didn’t have packs or hiking poles like thru-hikers, but they also didn’t look like tourists headed to the top of Mount Washington. I watched them hike past Mooch and Nightwalker without stopping.

  When they drew close to me, I called out ahead so they wouldn’t have to slow down.

  “How far are you guys hiking?” I asked.

  The man in front replied, “This guy behind me is going all the way to Georgia.”

  “So you guys are slackpacking?” I asked.

  The tall blond hiker in the back laughed and said, “I guess you could say that. My name is Trail Dog. I’m trying to set the record for the fastest hike on the AT. This is my friend JB, and he’s helping me. He slackpacks me with a support vehicle and hikes with me some to pace me.”

  “what’s the record?” I asked.

  “Right now it’s forty-eight days, so I have to do about forty-five miles a day to beat it.”

  JB added, “We left katahdin eight days ago and we’re on schedule, but we have a long hard day, so we’d better keep going.”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course. Good luck to you guys.”

  “You too!” they both yelled back as they continued their charge up the mountain.

  I thought trail records were impossible. I just didn’t understand how someone could hike the trail in less than two months, even without a full pack. But meeting David Horton, who had set the record in the 1990s, and talking to Trail Dog this morning had struck a chord in me.

  There was something about these two, about what they were doing, that captivated me. I knew that some people didn’t agree with people trying to set trail records, believing that would-be record setters moved too fast and didn’t appreciate their surroundings. But both times I met a trail record holder, they had been smiling and enjoying themselves. They hadn’t been too busy to say hello, and they seemed to love the trail. I guess you would have to.

  After a full day’s descent down the slopes of a few additional Founding Fathers, the boys and I arrived at Pinkham Notch and were met by Mooch’s parents.

  The boys had been invited to a wedding on Cape Cod months ago, and had planned to take a few days off the trail to attend the event. We had decided several days ago, with permission from the bride, that I would go as their date.

  When we arrived at “the Cape,” I had only a few hours to get ready—a task that should have taken me way more than a day. Thankfully, I did have Magic Momma, my fairy godmother. She drove me to the nearest mall, where I had to find something to wear. Being six feet tall with no bust, it had been hard enough to shop before the trail, but now that my thighs were huge, my waist was emaciated, and my chest was practically concave, finding an outfit was nearly impossible. I must have tried on twenty dresses in eight different stores before I found one that sort of fit. But that only solved part of the problem. Next, I had to find a regular bra (with lots of extra padding), dress shoes, hair clips, a razor, deodorant, shampoo, conditioner, and earrings. The sensory overload at the mall almost sent me into a state of shock. I was still in a daze when I arrived back at my room with only thirty minutes to shower, dress, and primp for the wedding.

  Against the odds, I was ready in just under twenty-eight minutes, and I looked pretty nice—which was fortunate, because Nightwalker and Mooch had both evolved from legitimate trail trash into handsome dates. Granted, they still had their long scraggly beards, but they had groomed them to appear rustic rather than raunchy.

  The wedding and reception were at a beachfront house with the atlantic Ocean in the background. The weather and setting were perfect, and the entire event was one I wouldn’t soon forget. But I did wonder if the bride noticed that the boys and I received almost as much attention as she and her groom, especially when Mooch stuck five wooden shish kebab spears through his beard.

  It was fun to dress up and look pretty, eat nice food, and listen to good music. The process was trying, but the end result was enjoyable. By the end of the night, however, sitting on the beach between Nightwalker and Mooch, listening to the sound of the waves rolling in, I couldn’t stop thinking about the trail. I remembered meeting our first southbounder and feeling conflicted about the trail’s impending conclusion. My time on Cape Cod heightened that feeling. There was so much I was looking forward to off the trail; my mind said my life was going to be so much better, so much easier once I reached katahdin. But my heart said that I would miss the trail. As I looked at the tiki torches ablaze on the shoreline, I felt like Mowgli in The Jungle Book. I was no longer sure which world I belonged to.

  On the long drive back to Pinkham Notch the next morning, we only made one stop: to buy a new mop stick.

  19

  TRIBULATION

  PINKHAM NOTCH, NH, TO MONSON, ME—199 MILES

  Pinkham Notch, New Hampshire to Monson, Maine is the most difficult section of the Appalachian Trail. The rugged terrain and harsh climbs will leave southbounders feeling disheartened and northbounders feeling deflated. It is notorious for its bug-infested summers, river fords, slick bridges, and marshy terrain. The weather is erratic and threatening above the tree line, and there are fewer trail towns and resources than in the neighboring White Mountains. More than any other part of the trail, this section feels like untouched wilderness.

  I don’t know where New Hampshire came up with the term “notch.” I had never heard it used geographically until I came to the White Mountains. In fact, I’m still not entirely sure what a notch really is. To me they seem like gaps or valleys: they’re found between mountains and they are very tough t
o hike out of. Maybe that’s the difference. Climbing out of a gap is tough, but climbing out of a notch is excruciating.

  The next morning we set out on the trail to try and rise above Pinkham Notch and tame the rugged slopes of Wildcat Mountain. After a few minutes of climbing, we realized that our weekend festivities had left us soft and unprepared for the climb. Unsurprisingly, my body had liked the food and rest it received, and it was not happy about me strapping a heavy, cumbersome pack on my back and climbing up a huge mountain.

  My digestive system rebelled against the strain, forcing me to run into the woods every half hour. But the strange thing was, it only felt like I had to use the bathroom, and nothing ever happened. Each time, I was convinced that if I didn’t make it into the woods within a matter of seconds, something really embarrassing would happen, but after spending several minutes behind leaf cover, I would once again emerge without any results.

  I told myself it was probably nothing, but after being on the trail so long and having my body systematically break down, I was starting to become a hypochondriac. I wondered if maybe I had a parasite. Giardia is a common condition on the trail, caused by drinking unfiltered water. Diarrhea is the telltale sign of giardia, and everyone says that if you have it, you’ll know. And I wasn’t convinced, so I guess that meant I didn’t have it.

  I put myself in the back of the line as we ascended Wildcat. Mooch was directly in front of me, bear-crawling up the mountain.

  “Mooch, do you think I have a parasite?”

  “Do you have diarrhea?”

  “No.”

  “Have you shart yourself?”

  “Shart?”

  “You know, where you think you fart, but more than air comes out?”

  “That happens?”