The Trail

by Meika Hashimoto

  “Sure!” I liked how the list was starting out already. Fishing was easy. And safe.

  By the end of the breakfast we had written the following:

  #1: Go fishing

  #2: Eat a worm

  #3: Spend a whole day at the movie theater

  #4: Build a tree house

  #5: Go blueberry picking

  #6: Make a raft and float it

  #7: Explore the abandoned house on Chimney Hill

  #8: Learn how to pop wheelies on our bikes

  I mopped my last bite of pancake over my syrup-sticky plate and got up to clear the table. I was nearly at the sink when Lucas asked the question.

  “Why don’t we put ‘Jump off the rope swing at the quarry’ on the list?”

  The plate slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor.

  I hated that note of excitement in Lucas’s voice. It always came out when he wanted to do something risky. He was the brave one, chasing adventure wherever it went. I would follow him, but half the time I would mess up somehow. Forget to bring something or do something. Then depend on Lucas to figure out how to save us from my dumb mistakes. Ever since the car accident, I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that bad luck followed me wherever I went. I was the cursed kid whose own parents didn’t even want him.

  “I don’t know.” I pictured the rope swing, dangling at least twenty feet above the water. Every summer we watched the older kids doing it, shrieking as they leaped. I’d never thought about doing it myself.

  “We’re starting middle school this fall. Don’t be so chicken. It’ll be fun.”

  Suddenly the desire to be as brave as Lucas surged past my fear. “All right,” I said.

  Lucas wrote it down as I swept the pieces of my broken plate into a dustpan and into the trash.

  #9: Jump off the rope swing at the quarry

  “We need one more thing to make it an even ten. Let’s make it something big, Toe.”

  Toe was the nickname Lucas had given me last summer when a Godzilla of a bee had buried its stinger into my big toe. It’s one syllable short of my real name, Toby. Lucas only used Toe when he was talking about something really important.

  I put the dustpan away and crossed the kitchen to Lucas, leaning over his shoulder to look at the list. An idea popped into my head. “You know how we like to hike?”

  Lucas nodded, the pen still poised above the paper. “Mm-hmm.”

  “How about we hike the tallest mountain we can get to?”

  A slow grin filled Lucas’s face. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we hike the whole Appalachian Trail?”

  My hands fell onto the back of Lucas’s chair. I was glad I wasn’t holding anything that could break. “The entire thing? Isn’t it two thousand miles long or something?”

  “Let me look it up.” Lucas took out his phone and began tapping away. “Two thousand one hundred ninety miles, to be exact,” he announced, his face falling. “That’s at least a thousand miles too much for me.” He bent over the phone, his thumbs swirling rapidly. “Hang on, I’ve got another idea.” He held up his phone and waved it around. “Look at this.”

  I looked at the phone. There were names of places, with little mile indicators next to them.

  “I found a website that shows the distances between shelters on the trail. You know that one that’s just a mile from your backyard?”

  I nodded. Velvet Rocks Shelter was an easy walk from my yard. Gran and I sometimes had picnics there.

  “Well, it’s four-hundred forty miles from Velvet Rocks Shelter to Mount Katahdin at the end of the trail in Maine. If we hike ten miles a day, we could finish the whole trail in a month and a half, easy. We could do it before school starts!” Lucas was nodding to himself, excited. “I’ll ask my dad if he can come with us. He’s been talking about doing a long hiking trip for a while.” He picked up the pen and added:

  #10: Hike the Appalachian Trail from Velvet Rocks to Katahdin

  And that was the List.

  I TUCK MY memories into the back of my mind and unzip the tent flap to face the day.

  “Aaaaahhh,” I sigh. Taking a whiz in the morning is one of the chiefest pleasures of being out on the trail. You tend to hold it during the night—you don’t want to leave the huddled warmth of your sleeping bag, you don’t want to let in bugs, or zombies, and so usually by daybreak the urge to go is overwhelming.

  When I first started camping with Lucas and his dad, one of the first things I discovered was that relieving myself against a tree in the early dawn light is just about the best feeling in the world.

  I finish my business and check the sky. The rain clouds are quickly turning leaden gray. I have to get packed and moving—and eat—if I am going to stay warm during the heavier rain.

  I make my way to a tall maple tree to get my food. A lumpy sack dangles from a branch fifteen feet up. Hanging your food keeps it out of reach of all general wildlife, but the sack you use is generally called a bear bag. I guess “squirrel bag” or “mouse bag” doesn’t sound all that protective.

  The bear bag is attached to a line of rope that I’ve coiled around the trunk of the maple. I undo the rope, and the bag falls to the ground with a light thump. I loosen the nylon cord around the bag’s mouth and pull out the contents. I knew there wasn’t much food left, but it still makes me nervous to see it: three Snickers bars, a bagel, a quarter block of cheddar cheese, and a small Ziploc full of M&M’S.

  I pick out my third-to-last Snickers bar and peel back the wrapper. Gran wouldn’t approve, and I’m sure there will be some unhappy dentist visits later, but for now, chocolate and peanuts and caramel are the perfect breakfast.

  After wolfing down the Snickers, I jam my belongings into my pack and begin breaking down the tent, shaking drops of water off the rain fly before folding it in half and placing the aluminum tent poles at one end. I roll the tent up to the other end, then stuff it all into the tent bag. I clip the tent to my pack using the two thin outer straps at the pack bottom, then heft everything onto my shoulders.

  The last thing I have to do is orient myself in the right direction. I unzip my hip pocket and pull out a Ziploc stuffed with maps. I open the one that shows where I am and where I have to go today. The next shelter is eight miles away.

  I shake off the urge to look at the part of the map that shows Velvet Rocks Shelter. Or the unmarked spot a mile west, where Gran lives.

  Gran and Velvet Rocks are behind me. I have to focus on what’s ahead.

  I fold the map back up and shove it into the Ziploc, then cram everything back into my hip pocket. As I pull at the zipper, it gets caught on the Ziploc. I tug harder, sealing the plastic into the teeth. I’ll worry about it later. Right now I want to get going.

  I hop on the trail and start walking. I’m only a few steps in when my pack straps begin to chafe. It feels like two lines of fire are raging down my chest. The pack had seemed so comfortable when I tried it on at home. But that was before I had filled it with thirty pounds of equipment and supplies. Now, even though calluses have started to form, every time my pack shifts, it still hurts.

  I bite my lip and try to take my mind off the pain. I concentrate on the two-by-six-inch white blazes that mark the path. They are like tiny North Stars, leading me up to Maine. As I get into the rhythm of hiking, I start to forget the little pains and lose myself in the woods. Plus, it’s comforting to know that with every white splash of paint I spot in the woods, I’m getting closer to fulfilling my promise to Lucas.

  I’m feeling pretty good until I come to a river crossing that looks way too familiar. The trail is a lot of trees and more trees, but rivers are more memorable. I frown. I could swear that I’ve been here before.

  I stand at the river’s edge and yank at the hip pocket zipper. Oh yeah, still stuck. Frustrated, I yank harder and slowly force the pocket open. As I take out the Ziploc, I groan. The zipper has chewed a gaping hole on the corner. So much for my waterproof map bag.

  I dig up the
map that I need. It confirms my fears. I wasn’t supposed to come to a river crossing for miles. I’ve been following the trail, but in the completely wrong direction. Like a total moron, I literally exited my campsite and started walking back in the direction I’d come from.

  Of course I messed up. I always do. I shove the map back into the ruined bag and try to zip the pocket shut. But no matter how hard I pull, it’s stuck for real this time. Great.

  I snatch the Ziploc out of the broken hip pocket and shrug off my pack. I kneel down and open the hood, but it’s too full to fit the maps. I take out my water filter and set it down so I can push the maps inside. As I put the maps into the hood pocket, the filter rolls into the water.

  “No!” I drop everything and grab at the filter. I miss. I chase it down the river and nearly swipe it half a dozen times, but then a burst of wind pushes the filter into fast, deep water, and it is lost.

  I grit my teeth and return to my pack just in time to see another gust of wind pick up my map bag and toss it into the current. Before I can blink, the ragged Ziploc sails into the water and tumbles away.

  Typical. It’s just my rotten luck. My stupid, rotten luck. Now I’m going to have to really make sure that I’m going in the right direction.

  It takes me a long time to get back to where I had camped the night before. I trudge past it, kicking a clod of dirt and rock toward my old tentsite. I hate making mistakes. But they seem to find me wherever I go.

  I continue on, plodding up to a flat, bald peak as fat drops of rain begin to fall. My backpack slumps against my shoulders. I can feel my bruise throbbing under the shoulder strap. It hurts. When I reach the top of the mountain, there is no view. Just cold mist and clouds and a trail sign in all caps: “THIS TRAIL IS EXTREMELY TOUGH. IF YOU LACK EXPERIENCE PLEASE USE ANOTHER TRAIL. TAKE SPECIAL CARE AT THE CASCADES TO AVOID TRAGIC RESULTS.”

  “That’s me,” I mutter. “Just a tragic result waiting to happen.”

  But I keep going anyway.

  The trail descends for a long stretch, and as the rain starts to fall harder I realize that I’m starting to get chilly. The first keep on my list needs attention.

  I stop for a round of jumping jacks. Hands up, hands down. Legs out, legs in. Repeat. After a minute I feel it—the bumping of my heart against my rib cage. When I shove my hands back into my raincoat, they are warmer.

  I continue down from the peak into a forest of thick, gnarled trees. Moss hangs like beards off their branches. Roots twist up, octopus-like, catching my feet as I go by.

  It is quiet here. No birds are chirping, and despite the lush growth of ferns and lichens and the steady dripping of rainwater on the green summer leaves, it’s too still. It feels like an abandoned jungle, as if all the animals have fled from some awful presence.

  A gust of wind blasts through the trees, and the rain changes its tune. Before, it was a drumbeat. Now it is a hammer, beating down with relentless fury.

  This is no longer a morning drizzle—this is a storm. I pick up the pace. There are lean-tos, sturdy three-sided log shelters, every couple of miles along the trail. I need to get to the next one to wait out the rain.

  The wind begins to howl. Branches crack, and frantic leaves spin through the air. The clouds are black with rain. Thunder growls over my head, and even though I don’t see it, I hear the explosion of lightning hitting somewhere above the tree line.

  Up until now, I’ve been so focused on taking care of my keeps list that I haven’t paused to think about the bigger picture. But suddenly I’m aware of how alone I am. With the rough terrain and nasty weather, every stumble on a slick rock could turn into a fall. Every step could be a sprained ankle or a broken leg.

  And I’ve violated the number one rule of hiking. I have told no one where I am. Not even Gran. If I get hurt or lost, no one will come looking for me.

  I could die out here in these woods.

  Cold creeps through my veins. And it’s not just the weather seeping into my bones. I am scared. What am I doing out here, without Lucas? It was stupid of me to think that I could survive the trail without him.

  Lucas was the leader of our two-kid pack, the one who always knew what to do. I was the happy-to-follow sheep. Now I’m alone, in the middle of a violent storm, rain pelting down, shivering and almost out of food.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  My heart is racing with fear, and without thinking, I begin to run. My boots splash through puddles, soaking my calves with muddy water. I clench and unclench the straps of my backpack, trying to keep my numb hands from freezing. Chunks of wet hair glue themselves to my forehead.

  The trail stretches on, seemingly endless as I stumble forward, pausing just once to put on all my clothes and gulp down the bagel and the rest of my M&M’S. Despite these precautions, I am cold and growing colder. Shivers spasm through my body, becoming more and more uncontrollable.

  My keeps list has gone out the window—I can’t keep warm; I can’t keep fed; I can’t keep an eye on the nonexistent sun. And in the cold, damp wetness, I realize I have forgotten to keep hydrated.

  I lose track of time. My teeth are knocking together so hard I can feel my brain bouncing around in my head. The rain is still coming down and now the wind has picked up, blowing deep, numbing cold through my jacket. Everything is wet. I have given up on trying to feel my fingers or my toes.

  A twisted oak root rises up across the trail, and before I can react, I have caught my foot on it and gone sprawling. I hit the ground hard, breaking the fall with my arms, but my face is inches from a rock.

  My backpack presses down on me, and my cheek falls onto the cold stone.

  I am tired. I’ve barely begun, and I already want to give up. I let myself sink into the wet ground. “I’m sorry, Lucas,” I whisper. I close my eyes, trying to block out my grief. I’ve failed my best friend.

  And then there is a hand on my shoulder. I turn my head and, in the drizzling rain, a face comes into focus.

  “Hey. Hey, kid! You okay?”

  I’m too tired to shake my head. The next thing I know, I’m being picked up, backpack and all, and carried. Right before I pass out I see it. Ahead, on the trail. A stack of logs covered by an old tin roof.

  Shelter.

  IT HAS STOPPED raining by the time I wake. Late-afternoon light shuffles through the patchy clouds and into the shelter where I am lying. I hear the sound of murmuring voices. Two teenage guys are sitting in the shelter, huddled around the flickering blue flames of their stove. A pot sits on top, simmering with water.

  One guy has a mess of curly black hair poking out from underneath a dark-blue bandanna. A two-inch scar cuts across his cheek, stopping just shy of his left nostril. His mouth tightens into a thin line as he lifts the pot to pour hot water into a tall metal thermos.

  The other wears a bright-blue ball cap that matches his eyes. The cap has a stick figure paddling a canoe and “Life is Good” embroidered across the front in script. He turns off the stove and reaches into his jacket, pulling out several packets of Swiss Miss.

  Both of them are decked out in high-tech gear—Arc’teryx hardshells, Patagonia pants, Outdoor Research gloves and gaiters. Gleaming Black Diamond trekking poles rest against brand-new Osprey packs bulging with supplies. The only difference is, Bandanna Dude wears nothing but black, while Ball Cap Guy is dressed in blue.

  These guys are not much older than me, but their confidence and expensive-looking gear make them seem way more experienced. They look like the kind of kids Lucas and I would watch jumping into the quarry.

  I am still wet but, miraculously, not frozen. My soaked rain jacket lies next to my head. I look down and see a flash of silver. I have been wrapped like a burrito in an emergency blanket. It’s made of thin, foil-like Mylar that’s supposed to reflect 90 percent of the heat you generate back onto you. On top of that, an unfamiliar sleeping bag is piled over my body. The blanket crinkles like Christmas wrapping paper as I sit up.

  “He’s awake.” The g
uy with the ball cap picks up a cup and pours hot water into it. He comes over to me and kneels down. He tears open a packet of Swiss Miss. I get dizzy from the smell of powdered chocolate.

  Ball Cap pours the Swiss Miss into the cup and stirs it with a blue plastic spork. “Here you go,” he says.

  I cradle the cup and let the hot steam warm my face. I’m afraid my first sip will scorch my tongue, but the boiling pot water has been mixed with some cold water, and the temperature is just right. Tiny marshmallows float on top like heavenly little clouds. It is the best hot chocolate I have ever had.

  I try to make it last, but it takes only thirty seconds before I drain everything. “Thanks,” I say to Ball Cap. His blue eyes twinkle as I lick the ring of melted white fluff below the cup’s edge. “The marshmallows made that just right.”

  “No problem.” The guy takes back the cup. “I’ll get you a refill. By the way, the name is Denver.” He nods over to Bandanna Dude, who has not budged an inch from the stove. “And that’s Sean.”

  “I’m To—Tony.”

  Sean snorts. “Totony?”

  “I mean, Tony.” If these two boys recognize my name, it might be the end of the trail for me. I told Gran not to worry, but I wouldn’t put it past her to have plastered all of New Hampshire with missing posters of me by now.

  Denver gives me a second cup of chocolate. This time, I’m able to stretch it out to a full minute.

  “Do you want any food? We’ve got plenty.” Denver unzips the top pocket of his backpack and digs out a ham-and-cheese sandwich. I accept it gratefully.

  Sean stares at me from across the shelter. “You were a mess out there. And why are you hiking alone? You clearly can’t take care of yourself.”

  I can feel him sizing me up. A dripping-wet kid in the rain who barely made it to shelter before collapsing of hypothermia. Alone and unprepared, probably needing help with each step until he finally gets off the trail. Sean’s eyes flicker. I can feel his annoyance. Already I have become a burden to him.