I should leave it. It is unnecessary weight. Dangerous weight, even. I could collapse from lack of food if I’m not careful. A day of carrying an extra six pounds of nylon and broken poles is like losing at least two Snickers bars’ worth of calories.
I place the broken poles in the middle of the tent and roll it up. As I put the tent in my pack, I feel like my promise to Lucas, to finish the trail, is wrapped up with it. The tent is heavy.
But so are some promises.
A mile and a half past the shelter, Moose and I come to our first river crossing. I can see the trail on the far side of the riverbank. There are a few stones braced against the current, but it will be impossible to cross without getting wet.
It’s not a problem for Moose, though. He plunges into the river and is on the other side within a minute, shaking himself dry.
I kneel down and unlace my boots. I pull them off and peel my socks free from my feet. I stuff the socks deep into the boots, then tie the laces together and sling them around my neck. I roll up my pants as high as they will go, past my knobby knees and halfway up my thighs.
The stepping-stones are freezing cold. I curl my toes instinctively and brace myself against my trekking poles. Icy river water runs across my feet, then up my calves. I pick my way across the slippery crossing, wobbling a few times but never falling.
When I reach the other side of the river, I sit down and use my T-shirt to dry off my feet. My right hand shakes as it lifts a sock out of my boot, and I realize that I am trembling.
I finish putting on my boots and stand back up. I take slow, careful steps. From time to time, I lean on my trekking poles to take a break. When I feel like sitting down, Moose is always there to give me a nudge with his wet nose.
Even without thinking about my hunger, it is slow going. The trail is muddy and swollen with rain. I pick my way alongside giant boot-wrecker puddles. My feet squish into the muck and slurp from the suction as I pull them out.
My stomach had been growling, but now it is silent. It actually worries me. There’s nothing left for it to grumble over. For the first time, I realize that even if I plan carefully, I could actually starve to death. I wonder if, after a while, the hunger pangs go away. If I’ll ever stop being able to think about food. Because all I can think about now is that half a Snickers bar waiting in my side pocket. It taunts me, those beautiful peanut pieces embedded in delicious chocolate and sugary caramel. My mouth waters and every ten minutes, my fingers lurch toward it.
Wait, my mind tells me. Wait until you really need it.
The trail climbs up a gentle slope, then descends into a forest of weathered spruce and pine. I come to another river crossing. This one is a little deeper and a little colder, but I navigate it with less fear than my first.
When the trail begins a steep climb back up, I suppress a small groan and keep going. My pack straps begin to pull down on my shoulders.
Up, up, up. A brief view at the top of a small, rugged peak, then down again.
When the trail goes up again, I take a tiny nibble of Snickers bar. I am down to a third.
At the top of the next mountain, there is a small outcrop of rocks and a view of the valley below. I settle myself into sitting and take a look. What I see nearly makes me cry. At the bottom of the next valley is a real road. It glides west to east, like a smooth silvery lifeline.
WHEN I TRY to stand up, my knees buckle underneath me. I lie there panting for a moment, my elbows bent as I prop myself up against the rocks.
It is time. I break out the last of my Snickers and let the chocolate and caramel and nougat dissolve slowly in my mouth. Only when the nubbins of the peanuts are bare do I chew. I give Moose two peanut pieces. He swallows them whole.
About two miles later, we come across a lean-to with shiny metal roofing and old weathered logs. I pause for a nap. Route 17 is less than five miles away.
We can make it.
We get four miles before coming upon the third river crossing. It’s a turbulent one, with foaming white water churning above a swift current. There are no stepping-stones—it is all one high wall of angry water, high and fast, seething with mud and tree branches from two days’ worth of storm.
Boots off. Socks off. Laces around my neck. Pants above my knees. I know the drill by now. By the time I am standing at the river’s edge, Moose is waiting for me on the other side.
The water nearly takes out my leg when I step into it. It is much, much stronger than the past two crossings. I grit my teeth and brace myself, moving in a long shuffle. The water rises to my shins, then my knees.
A sudden dip, and I am waist-high in water. The bottom of my pack is soaked.
There is a loud crack.
I look upstream and see a huge downed oak tree thrashing in the water. It is heading straight toward me, its branches dragging trails of grass and muck behind it.
I can’t move fast enough. I see the thick, dark roots of the tree spread out like a net. It is going to nail me no matter what. You’re going to die, I think.
Then I see Moose on the river’s edge, barking his head off. “No, you’re not,” I tell myself.
It takes a lightning second to unloop my trekking poles from around my wrists and toss them. I unclip my pack and shrug it off into the river. It has kept me alive, but if I get caught with it under a tree in floodwaters, there is a very good chance that I will drown. Freed of my poles and my pack, I gulp a mouthful of air and plunge under the river just as the tree sweeps down upon me.
Churning water floods up my nostrils. My waterlogged boots hang at my neck like a noose. I half swim, half tumble as I feel the tree roots rake across my side. I twist by them and feel the trunk slide by, missing my head by inches.
Branches catch me on the arms and legs and scrape my ribs. They hit me in the stomach, nearly knocking out my mouthful of air. I kick hard against the bottom of the river, my bare feet scrabbling against the slime-covered stones.
I claw my way to the surface and take one big, sweet gulp of air. The bulk of the tree has passed me. I’ve made it.
I’m too shaken to swim properly, but I flounder my way to shallower water. I plant my feet on the ground. Here, toward the edge, the current is less brutal.
Then a stray branch at the top of the tree hooks itself around my laces and lifts my boots off my shoulders.
I grab the leather below the eyelets. “No!” I scream. I lean back and brace myself.
I am in a tug-of-war against an oak tree. I will not lose.
The laces tighten and it feels like my arms are being pulled from their sockets. There is a snap as the branch breaks. Drops of water fly free as I pull my boots to my chest, and the tree continues its journey downriver.
Clutching my boots, I wade to the far shore. Moose licks my face joyfully, and I shake off the river—the mud, the water, the rotting leaves and soaked moss. I remove my shirt and wring it out, then do the same for my pants. My socks are swollen and wet, but still lodged inside my boots. I take them out and squeeze out the water, then lay everything on a sloped boulder warmed by the early July heat.
As I wait for my clothes to dry, I walk down the river to look for my trekking poles and pack. I don’t have much hope, but as I scan the water, I see a flash of blue nylon on the near bank.
By some miracle, my pack has floated into an eddy. I climb down the riverbank and pull it out. It is heavy and slumps wetly against the ground.
I drag it to the boulder where my clothes are and unclip the hood. Everything is completely waterlogged but still there.
I’m not going to make it to the road in this state. I am too weakened by hunger and the river to carry soaked gear another mile.
But I realize that somewhere outside my fog of hunger, it is a nice day. Lots of sun. Wearily, I lay all my gear out to dry. My sleeping bag, Lucas’s tent, my extra clothes. My headlamp doesn’t work, so I pry open the battery door and take out the batteries, hoping that some time in the sun will get the electrical bits working agai
n.
The afternoon sun hits me hard. I curl up on the rock next to my stuff and drape a bit of tent flap over my face. I let the warmth of the July sun soak into my bones. I am tired. I am hungry. But I am not afraid.
The next thing I know, it is late evening. My boots are still a little damp, but the rest of my belongings are so sun-dried they crinkle like potato chips. I gather everything and put it all back in my pack, except for my sleeping pad and my bag, which I lay out on a soft piece of grass by the river. I’ve survived one night without shelter. I can survive another.
As I get into my sleeping bag, Moose walks over. He lays his head next to mine, and together we fall asleep under the stars.
The next morning, I wake to find my skin burning. My entire body has turned a deep sunburned pink. I press a spot on my arm. It fades white, but goes right on back to being lobster colored.
It hurts to put my backpack on. It feels like red-hot pokers are digging into my skin as the straps dig into my chest.
I will get to the road; I will get to a town, I chant over and over in my head as I walk. I will get to the road; I will get to a town.
Now it is less than a mile to the road. I am in pain, and my stomach is hurting so badly it feels like it is devouring itself.
I try to quiet my mind, to accept the pain of the trail, but not to despair or to give in to it. I will get to the road; I will get to a town.
I descend a final hill and break out of the trees, and there it is: Route 17.
My brain explodes in the victory dance that my body can’t manage, but my celebration is brief.
I know it’s only a few more miles into town, but I’m not sure I have the energy to take another step. As I am standing, unsteady on my feet and uncertain of what to do, a small red Toyota pickup truck comes rumbling down the road. It slows and pulls off a few yards in front of us. The passenger-side window rolls down, and a teenage girl with freckles across her tanned face leans out. “Hey there. You need a ride to town?”
I’m wary after my last hitchhiking attempt, but there’s something about the girl’s face that is kind. Trustworthy. I nod. “Can you take my dog, too?” My voice is scratchy and strange-sounding.
“Sure.” The girl looks down at Moose. “Huh. That’s funny.”
“What is?” I am immediately on guard.
“I swear I’ve seen that dog before.”
“Oh, I’ve had Moose since he was a puppy.” The lie slips easily out of my mouth. When it comes to protecting Moose, I will do anything.
The girl shrugs. She thumbs over to the driver’s seat, where an older man with a gray beard that travels all the way down to his belly button holds on to the steering wheel. “I’m Sadie and this here’s my dad, Jim. We’re going to the grocery store in Rangeley. We can take you as far as there.”
“Are you heading back this way once you’re done shopping?”
“Sure are. We can take you back here if you want.” The girl’s thumb travels to the open cab. “Hop on back.”
I bring down the tailgate, and Moose jumps up into the cab. I sling up my pack and follow with my body a moment later. As I collapse against my bag, the truck rumbles to life, and we set off in the morning heat toward town.
AS WE PULL up to the parking lot of the grocery store, Moose whines uneasily. “Shh,” I tell him. “I know you’re hungry. Just wait. I’ll have food for you soon enough.”
After weeks on the trail, the glaring fluorescent lights and bright bleached floors of the grocery store catches me off guard, and I wince under the artificial lights and smells. But they don’t stop me from rushing into the checkout lane and grabbing two Snickers bars from the candy display. I’m already tearing off the wrapper to one of them as the ponytailed teenage cashier rings me up. I ignore her raised eyebrows as I simultaneously gobble down the bar and root in my pack for my money.
The first Snickers is gone before I’ve been handed my change. The second one disappears before my shopping cart has left the produce aisle. As I wander past shelves chock-full of food, I try not to let all the Little Debbies, the Ho Hos and Twinkies, the Nutty Bars and dozen packs of powdered doughnuts distract me. I’ve fed myself. Now it’s time to think about feeding Moose.
I find the pet aisle and get yet another ten-pound bag of Purina for Moose. Then I turn around and begin to shop for my next couple of days on the trail. In addition to stocking up on dinner food, I pick up a three-pound bag of M&M’S, a family-sized pack of Nutty Bars, and a thirty-two-ounce tub of peanut butter. By the time I’m done, my shopping cart looks almost exactly like the basket I had at the Cumberland Farms gas station. I feel a sting of irritation at having to pay for groceries twice.
I eat the Nutty Bars as I unroll two twenties and pay at the checkout lane, muttering a small curse on the man in the sunglasses. Once again I ignore the ponytailed cashier, who by now is openly glaring at me, as though she’s caught me picking my nose instead of eating food in a grocery store.
I tuck everything into the empty spaces of my pack and cinch the hood closed. As I put my remaining dollar bills back into the Ziploc, I pause for a second to count it. I have eighty-two bucks left. I gulp. That’s only enough for two more resupplies, three if I really scrimp. I’m going to have to be careful about spending money from now on. Maybe I should have kept that sixty-seven cents at the last grocery store. It could have bought me most of a Snickers bar.
As I’m looking down at the last of my money, wild barking erupts from the parking lot. I know that sound. I drop everything and rush through the sliding glass doors into the hot summer air.
Someone is climbing into the cab of the red truck. He is tall and stocky, with a pockmarked face and a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth. A wide, saggy beer gut hangs over his thick silver belt buckle. “Buster!” he shouts. “Shut up, Buster!”
Moose is backed up and crouching behind the wheel well. His claws scrabble against the plastic of the truck bed as he tries to mash himself into a tiny ball as far away from the man as he can get.
“Stop scaring him!” I have reached the truck. I put my hands on one side and a foot on a wheel to hoist myself up. I get halfway up when my arms give out on me. I tumble backward onto the parking lot. My hands hit the asphalt and I cry out as twin jolts of pain run up my wrists.
From the top of the truck bed the man looms up, at least a foot taller than me. He looks big. And mean. His sausage-sized fingers clench into a massive, hairy fist.
“Look here, boy,” he says. His voice is ugly. “Buster here is mine. I don’t know what you’re doing with him, but you have no right to tell me how to talk to my own dog.”
“He’s not your dog!” The words escape my mouth before I can stop them. “I found him in the woods miles from here. I fed him and bathed him and took care of him. He’s with me.”
“Listen, you little toad. I’ve owned Buster for two years. Just because he decides he’s going to run off don’t make him yours.”
“What’s going on here, Lewis?” Jim has returned with a shopping cart full of groceries.
“Boy’s trying to steal my dog, that’s what!” shouts Lewis. “And what’s he doing in the back of your truck?”
“Dad, what’s going on?” Sadie has come out. She is holding a gallon of milk in one hand and a bag of potatoes in the other.
“Sadie, get back in the store,” Jim says. “Lewis, what are you doing in my truck?”
Lewis draws himself up to his full height. “I am getting my dog back!” He reaches down and grabs Moose. Moose howls miserably.
“Lewis, calm yourself.” Jim has let go of the shopping cart and has both of his hands up.
“Don’t tell me to calm down, Jim. I’m taking Buster back to the farm. And you and this little hippie runt had better not try to stop me.” Lewis jumps down from the cab, his arm crushing Moose’s bruised side.
“Let him go!” I scream. Lewis is twice as big as me, but I don’t care. I rush him. With a short, ugly laugh, he shoves me, and I h
it the tar parking lot hard.
By the time I’m back on my feet Lewis is striding over to a rusting Ford pickup and tosses Moose inside. He climbs into the driver’s seat and guns the engine. Tires squeal as he peels out of the parking lot and down the road.
“Hey. I’m sorry.” Sadie has ignored her father and is right behind me. She puts her groceries down and pats my shoulder uncertainly.
My pack suddenly becomes a million pounds. I stagger against the tailgate and rest it against the bumper. I close my eyes and let fury and hatred mix all up in the pit of my stomach.
When I open them, I know what to do.
“I’ve got to get him back,” I say.
Jim begins piling the groceries into the back of the truck. “That’s not a good idea. Lewis has a bad streak. He won’t take lightly to having Buster stolen.”
“He ran away for a reason.” I’m already trying to figure out a game plan. “When I found him, he was in horrible shape. He was starving. His hair was tangled and dirty. Part of it might have come from being on the trail, but he did not have a good owner to begin with.”
“He’s right, Dad.” Sadie lifts the potatoes and the milk into the cab. “Everyone in town knows that Lewis treats Buster like dirt.”
Jim shakes his head. “Still. It’s not right to come between a man and his dog.”
“I’m not asking for your help.” And for once, I mean it. Moose is my responsibility. I brought him straight to the owner he’d tried to escape. And it’s up to me to get him back. “All I need to know is where he lives. Just drop me off close to his home. That’s all I want.”
Jim folds his arms. “And what do you think you’re going to be able to do once you get there?”
“I’ll think of something.”
Jim hesitates for a minute, then gives a long sigh. “Hop in.”
I climb into the truck bed once more and rest my head against the back window as we pull out of the parking lot. My brain is buzzing with a bazillion ways to rescue Moose. I have visions of scoping out Lewis’s home and returning in the middle of the night to free Moose from being chained to a doghouse or tree in the backyard. Calling to him through the window and having him break free of Lewis to be with me.
The Trail Page 14
