Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1)

by Smartypants Romance

  She’s good at her job, her professional demeanor never faltering when I hoist my pack onto my shoulder. “Yep, this is everything.”

  I thank Kade and the driver again before saying goodbye.

  I always knew I’d return to my real life when I completed the AT. Just figured it would be on my own terms.

  We pause for the automatic doors to open. The whoosh of stale airport air slams into my face. I haven’t been inside a building like this in months. Feels like a lifetime.

  One foot in front of the other, I remind myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jay

  November

  Five days after I watched Olive climb into the back of an SUV and disappear out of the park, Theodore Perry died. The flags in the park have been lowered to half-staff.

  I have no way to contact her to send my condolences.

  A week later, the funeral is being televised on every network and news station. I don’t have a TV but there’s one in the staff lounge. Normally, I wouldn’t watch a state funeral. These are not normal times.

  If someone, specifically Guy, asked, I’d deny that I’m sitting on the couch waiting for the camera to pan to the Perry family so I might get a glimpse of Olive.

  It finally shows them sitting in the front pews of the National Cathedral in Washington. There she is.

  I’m not sure I would’ve recognized her if we passed each other on the street. Dressed in an elegant, tailored black dress and heels, she’s the epitome of a city girl. The mess of hair has been tamed into shiny waves. Her natural beauty is hidden behind makeup. Restrained. Tempered. As if someone turned down the volume and desaturated the color of the woman I fell in love with.

  Hold on—love? Where did love come from? I shake my head at the randomness of my thoughts. I’m not in love with Olive. The woman on screen is a stranger to me.

  “Olive Perry, seated next to her sister, Grace, recently called off her engagement to Sutton Wallingford the third. This will make the sixth time she’s failed to walk down the aisle,” a male commentator states like it’s anyone’s business.

  “The Runaway Fiancée strikes again.” His female colleague giggles. “Maybe the seventh time will be the charm.”

  “Can you imagine being number seven? You’d have to be crazy or stupid,” he responds, chuckling at the idea.

  “Or living under a rock,” she sneers. “She’s no Elizabeth Taylor.”

  Finding his co-anchor hysterical, he laughs heartily. “No, definitely not. Plus, she’d have to actually get married.”

  Is this her reality? Strangers picking apart her life for their own amusement? I’ve never had much empathy for celebrities complaining about details of their lives being splashed across tabloids. They knew what they were getting into. Olive, however, didn’t make the same decision. All she did was be born. We don’t choose our parents.

  I clench the remote so tightly I swear it’s going to be pulverized into dust. Flipping the channels, I switch to another broadcast.

  The camera scans the crowd and the female host rattles off several names I don’t recognize. “I see the Wallingford family is also in attendance. This could make for an awkward moment in the receiving line.”

  A well-preserved older couple sits next to a human Ken doll with artfully messy hair. His suit probably costs more than my monthly pay. I don’t have to guess who he is. Or why Olive would date him.

  He fits perfectly in her world. He also looks exactly like the giant tool I imagined. A self-satisfied smirk lingers on his face and I get the impression he knows exactly where all the cameras are in the vast space.

  My mood soured, I change the channel once again. Thankfully the hearse arrives outside the cathedral, indicating the beginning of the service and the media vultures finally quiet their commentary.

  “My father is probably there.” Drew Runous sits down on the couch next to me.

  Dr. Runous and I aren’t exactly friends, but we enjoy each other’s company. I’ve always had the feeling he’s a kindred spirit, someone who prefers his own company, maybe a bit of a misfit in the world he came from.

  We sit in silence while the choir sings.

  “I didn’t know your father was in politics.” In fact, I don’t know much about most of my colleagues’ families. Except the Winstons, and that’s only because they’re local.

  He frowns at the television. “Money and connections don’t make you a better person.”

  “Society says they do,” I mumble.

  He turns his attention to me and I feel the weight of his scrutiny. “The measure of a person’s worth is synchronicity between their words and actions.No one should be judged on the color of their skin, or the money they do or don’t have, nor should we bear the weight of our family’s deeds and words.

  “Most people, with the exception of his political opponents, agree Theodore Perry was a good man. I’m sure his children and grandchildren love him. What you probably don’t know is his father was a state representative in California in the early forties who supported the internment camps. Do his children bear the guilt? For how many generations? Who shall be responsible for the sins of the father?”

  In typical Dr. Runous fashion, a simple conversation doesn’t skim the surface of small talk. He’s dropped a bomb of information and doesn’t realize it.

  I sit in silence, processing his words. Not only is Olive the granddaughter of a president, her family supported racist policies and incarceration of innocent Japanese Americans. My people.

  I feel sick, bile rising in the back of my throat at the idea of concentration camps on American soil.

  “You might not remember because you’re young, but it was Theodore Perry who opened up the investigation into the camps during his presidency. He’s responsible for the reparations act and issued a national apology to the detainees and their heirs.”

  “I vaguely remember studying that in school. I think it took up about five lines in our history book.” At the time I didn’t relate because my mother came from Japan in the nineties. We didn’t know anyone directly impacted. It all felt like a long time ago and far away. “I do remember after the chapter on Pearl Harbor a group of kids pulled on their eyelids, stretching them sideways while they spoke gibberish to imitate Japanese, and the awful Asian jokes that followed. I wanted to disappear. My mother is Japanese.”

  “I didn’t know,” he says, his voice kind.

  “I’ve always struggled with how to bring it up in conversation.” I chuckle, but it’s a brittle sound.

  He studies me. “It can be difficult to be authentic when you feel like an outsider among the people who are supposed to be your community.”

  “Any advice?”

  “Be true to yourself.”

  “Easier said than done.” I give him a weak smile.

  “Better than the alternative of leading a false life to appease people whose opinions shouldn’t matter.”

  I’m still mulling over his words well after the funeral ends.

  The next day, I find a postcard from Washington, D.C. in my mailbox.

  No signature, but I know it’s from Olive.

  Washington, D.C.

  Day 13

  Miles walked: Less than one

  What do you call a sad bird?

  A bluebird.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jay

  April

  Kyoto, Japan

  The cherry blossoms are blooming in Kyoto.

  Pink petals transform the trees into cotton candy.

  My grandmother wraps her hand around my elbow as I escort her down the path in the park. With her gray hair, she might look frail, but she’s not using me as a support. She’s tiny, but she’s strong and healthy as a hummingbird. I think she could outlive us all.

  Ahead of me, Jenni and my mom have their heads together, giggling about something.

  We’ve been in Japan a week, and despite all my protests and reluctance about coming, it’s been a nice visit.
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  Even my aunties have been warm to me. No one has called me hāfu.

  There was one unfortunate incident with mayonnaise on pizza. I’m trying to block it from my mind.

  Obaasan’s English is not very good, but it’s better than my Japanese. Yet, we’ve communicated with each other well enough through our limited vocabulary and charades..

  She squeezes my arm and points to the koi pond. I lead her closer to it. We stare into the dark water, watching bright orange and white koi swim close to the surface.

  Speaking in rapid Japanese, she gestures to the park around us. She then points directly to me and repeats a sweeping pattern on the ground.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I tell her. “Mom? Can you translate?”

  My mother listens and begins to laugh.

  “What is she saying?” I peer at my grandmother’s smiling face.

  “She’s asking if this is like the park where you work. She wants to know if you are in charge of the fish or keeping the pathways clear.”

  Shaking my head, I laugh.

  Pantomiming tall mountains, birds flying, and a growling bear complete with sharp claws, I try to explain how wild the Smokies are.

  By the time I finish, all three of them are laughing. At me.

  “She was teasing.” Mom has to wipe tears from her cheeks.

  Obaasan says something in Japanese and makes a typing action with her fingers before stretching up to pat my cheek.

  “Now what?” I grin at her.

  Jenni stops giggling long enough to explain, “She says she knows how to use the internet, sweet boy.”

  Obaasan covers her mouth as she laughs, her wrinkled eyes pinching together with amusement.

  “How did you know what she said?” I ask Jenni.

  “Because my Japanese is much better than yours. You should practice more,” my sister chastises me, but I agree with her.

  “Mom, can you give me lessons?”

  “No,” she says with a smile. “But I will help you practice. I should’ve spoken more Japanese with you when you were growing up. It’s my fault you aren’t bilingual.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I reassure her. “I take responsibility for not being more curious.”

  Obaasan tucks her hand around my elbow again, indicating she’s ready to continue our walk. Speaking so softly I can barely hear her, she wiggles her finger for me to dip my head closer to hear her. I comply and listen intently.

  “To be better, you must do better,” she says in her choppy English.

  Her words could apply to learning Japanese or to living life.

  Choosing to believe it’s the latter, I think about the changes I’ve made in my life over the last six months. I’m trying to be less of a cantankerous hermit hiding under my bridge. Socializing more. Visiting Knoxville and Nashville to hang out with Jenni and Mom.

  Ed retired, and Guy has taken over as our temporary chief ranger until the national search is complete. I think she’ll get the permanent job. She knows the park inside and out. There’s no way there’s anyone more qualified than her.

  We hired a new seasonal ranger to take over for her. Daphne fits in well with the rest of our motley crew.

  I received my grant to continue my research on the Black-throated Blue Warbler. When I spotted the return of the first flock in the park this spring, I thought of Olive.

  I think of her often.

  She still sends postcards. The second arrived for Thanksgiving. An illustration of a bald turkey with “I’m so plucked” above it. The other side simply said she was grateful for me. Another showed up in December: “I hope your Christmas is pheasant.”

  January’s card: “Ibis you so much.”

  February’s read: “I have no egrets.”

  March featured a woodpecker. She wrote, “I think you’re im-peck-able.”

  The problem with postcards is they don’t have return addresses on them.

  Pointlessly, I tried to find Olive’s contact information online. No phone number. No mailing address. After wading through the swamp of articles speculating about her life, I gave up.

  She’s not on social media, or at least in a way that would allow a stranger to find her.

  If not for the postcards, I couldn’t be sure if we’d actually met or if I imagined it.

  I have to trust our paths will cross again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Olive

  April

  Springer Mountain, Georgia

  Mile 1

  I don’t send a postcard letting Jay know about my return.

  I want to surprise him.

  There’s a small part of me that worries he’ll disappear if he knows I’m coming back. The rational part of me knows he has a job to do and taking off work to avoid me would be out of character for him.

  Still. Doubt and her evil stepsisters, Fear and Insecurity, have taken up residence in my head. I’m hoping it’s more of a short-term rental than a lease-to-buy option.

  Sending postcards instead of calling the ranger station meant I could reach out without risking rejection. A coward’s way of reminding him I still exist out here in the world.

  Back in February, I began checking long-term weather forecasts for Springer Mountain, Georgia. A March start would have put me back in the Green Valley area a little earlier in April, but it also would have risked more snow and delays due to bad weather.

  Mother Nature and I are barely back on speaking terms after her stunt last October. Yes, I’m happy her surprise storm led me to Jay. No, I’m still not over getting kicked off the trail with less than a hundred miles to go.

  A year ago, walking a hundred miles wasn’t in the realm of possibility. Now I’m eagerly looking forward to getting back on the trail.

  When I was in California with my family last fall, waiting for my grandfather to pass, I started researching the Pacific Crest Trail. A little over 2,600 miles, it’s longer than the AT but allegedly easier. Someday I’d like to find out for myself.

  Like most things in my life, the sweet moments are tucked between bitter. Meeting Jay, losing my grandfather, finding myself … the events will forever be entwined.

  Unlike the start of my original NoBo hike last June, when I arrive at the trailhead to Springer Mountain I’m prepared. My pack is unburdened of extra weight from stuff I don’t need. I have a new pair of trail-runners on my feet and a spiffy new pole. With under a hundred miles until I officially complete the AT, I’m eager to get started and have to resist overdoing it on the first day.

  While my mind is ready, my body definitely needs time to remember how to do this hiking business. The distance to my destination is much shorter than before and I’m grateful.

  At the official start of the AT, I sign my name in the register. Because Tye and I began our hike at a random point, I never got to do this. A few hikers are celebrating by passing around a bottle of cheap champagne and I join them in a toast.

  These are my people, the crazy dreamers who decide they want to live their life off the beaten path. At least for a little while.

  A few smartphones are used to take group selfies, capturing the last moments of before.

  I’m dragged into the frame by two women who yell “Girl power!” as the photo is taken.

  “Do you mind if we tag you on social?” the shorter blonde asks me, thumbs hovering over the screen. “What’s your Instagram handle?”

  “I don’t have one,” I tell her.

  They both gasp like I’ve announced I don’t believe in electricity or deodorant. The second one is pointless on the trail, as they’ll find out soon enough.

  “But why?” they ask at the same time. “Are you banned?”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Long story. I decided life is more interesting when I’m not on my phone. Isn’t that the whole point of hiking the AT? Living is what happens when we put down the screens.”

  I sound like I should end my statement with a bow and a softly whispered, “Namaste.”
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  I stand by my words.

  The women contemplate me with new awareness. The blonde powers down her phone and slides it into the side pocket of her enormous pack. I want to tell her to ditch half of what she has packed, but I don’t. It isn’t my place.

  Everyone does their own hike.

  There’s trail magic everywhere on the first stretch of the AT, giving the days a festive vibe. So far, we’ve had free pancakes in the morning, hot dogs and cold sodas for lunch, and cake one afternoon. Everyone is in a good mood, not yet worn down by the miles and challenges.

  When the subject of trail names comes up, I tell the story of how I earned mine and the irony of being blocked from finishing by the freak snow last October. I explain I’m only hiking as far as Tennessee this trip.

  At the fork in the trail splitting the AT from the shorter spur leading to Cades Cove, I’m greeted with an impromptu party. A bottle of champagne is popped to celebrate me officially completing the trail. There’s no sign for me to climb for my picture like there was at Katahdin, so I opt for hugging the nearest tree with a white blaze.

  I did it.

  2,190 miles by foot.

  Five months on the trail.

  Five months off.

  Five months of not hiking and my body has forgotten how to cope with the challenges of life on the AT. I’m grateful my journey is over. A few more miles and a half-day of hiking then I’ll truly be finished.

  With a promise to keep in touch and a hug for each of them, I wish my new family good luck. They’re off on a great adventure, one they’ll never forget and that will change them forever.

  My solo hike takes me past the unmarked trail leading to the moonshiner’s cabin. I can’t resist a visit for the nostalgia and to confirm I didn’t dream the place into existence.