Halfway to the Sky

by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

  The next morning Mom and I climbed Sinking Creek Mountain. Mom seemed to be sinking with every step. She simply could not hike fast, and she was crabby, too.

  “Sinking Creek Mountain is part of the Eastern Continental Divide,” I told her. I'd read it in the guidebook. “Water on one side of this mountain flows to the Mississippi, and on the other, to the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Park Ranger,” Mom said. “I understand the concept of a continental divide. I'm also tired, and I have to climb another mountain before I can have dinner.”

  “No, you don't,” I said. “We can stop before then.”

  “We were going to get to Pickle Branch.”

  “We can stop right here.”

  She looked around, then said petulantly, “No, we can't. It's not a good place. And I want a pizza.”

  “Mom,” I said, “have you got a bug in your eye?”

  She looked at me in startled astonishment, and then we both burst out laughing. “Got a bug in your eye” was something from my childhood, something Mom used to say whenever Springer or I was whining, to make us laugh and get us over it.

  “Where did that come from anyway?” I asked her. “Did you make it up?”

  Mom shook her head. “You said it first. We were on a car trip—we were on vacation, this was before the MD—and you were worn out and started crying. You tried to get out of your car seat. When that didn't work, you yelled, ‘I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm bored, and I've got a bug in my eye.' Springer thought that was hilarious. He wouldn't let us forget it. The whole rest of the trip, he kept asking you—”

  “I remember,” I said. “ ‘Dani, have you got a bug in your eye?' ”

  Mom grinned. “Right.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “we can stop early for the night.”

  She made a face. “Don't you feel like we should keep going?”

  “Not if you're tired.”

  “I don't know if I'm tired. We'll have a long day tomorrow if we stop now.”

  “Let's stop,” I said.

  It turned out to be an important afternoon. The air near our campsite was just perfect, warm in the sun with a fresh piney smell. We had a clear-running stream and a view of the mountains. I filtered water and set up our tents, then pulled some of our grubbier clothing out of our packs and washed it in the stream with the Dr. Bronner's soap that doesn't hurt the fishies. I figured we had enough time so that the clothes could dry in the sun.

  Mom made tea and sat and watched me. “Feel better?” I asked.

  “I do.” She smiled. “But I miss Vivi. And I wish I had a newspaper. Or a book. Something.”

  “Too much nature?” “No. But I'm used to newspapers. We'll be home in a few days. We'll have to get you signed up for summer school.”

  “It'll work out,” I said.

  “Do you feel like you'll just fit right back into your old life?” Mom asked.

  I was wringing out a T-shirt. I spread it onto a bush before I answered. “I didn't fit into it when I left,” I said. “That was part of leaving. I think I'll fit into something now. I could call Tanner, maybe. If she wants to be friends again I guess maybe I could be, too. Or I can find some new friends, probably. I guess I haven't thought about it.”

  “What have you thought about?”

  I looked at the trees and stream. “I can't remember.” “I don't know what I'll do,” Mom said. “This whole time we've been out here I haven't been able to think of a single thing I'd like to do when I get home.”

  “I thought you wanted to get a pizza,” I said. She laughed and threw a handful of grass at me.

  “It's been a treat, getting to hike the Trail a second time, and with you.”

  I thought of the blisters and mud and bugs and days of nothing but noodles for dinner.

  “Maybe someday you'll get to do it again with your daughter,” she said.

  Oh, that hurt so much. “I'm never having children,” I said. “Don't you understand?”

  Her face closed up. “I don't think your childhood has been that horrible,” she said. “We always did our best.”

  “But I don't want to have a baby like Springer,” I said. “I don't think I could stand it. I wish I could, but I really can't.”

  Water from the wet shirt dripped onto my feet. Mom stood still, staring at me. She looked shocked. “Oh, honey,” she said. She sprang up and wrapped her arms around me, cradling me tight against her chest. “Oh, honey, I didn't know you were worried about that. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

  “The minute they said Duchenne's, I'd know what was going to happen,” I sobbed. “And even before then, I'd know what might happen. I'd be so scared. I'd know all along how much it was going to hurt.”

  Mom wiped the tears off my face with her shirttail. She rocked me back and forth. I saw that she was crying, too. “Katahdin, baby, you're fine,” she said. “Listen. You're fine. You don't carry the Duchenne gene. You're going to have healthy babies. Don't you remember?”

  I felt like someone had just poured ice-cold water down my back. Goose bumps rose up on my arms. “Remember what?”

  “We had you tested, to see if you were a carrier.”

  I understood how the genetics worked. Mom had a bad gene, so there was a fifty-fifty chance that every boy she had would have Duchenne's, and die, and a fifty-fifty chance that every girl she had, including me, would have the bad gene and pass it on to her kids. Flip a coin—tails, you lose. I didn't remember a test. I didn't know there was a test.

  “I guess you weren't old enough to understand,” Mom said. “I thought you were. We told you all about it when we had it done—we had to. And we wanted you tested early because we thought you needed to know, growing up. We thought you did know.”

  “You never said—”

  “We did say. I promise you.” She wiped my face. “Oh, honey, we did. I didn't realize you didn't understand. I guess we all put it out of our minds since we knew we didn't have to worry. I'm so sorry you were worried still.”

  Healthy babies. No more dying. A girl to hike with me someday—or even a boy. A whole future without any more Duchenne's. “Did Springer know?” I asked.

  “We told him when we told you,” she said.

  “Then he knew,” I said. Springer never forgot anything.

  “I'm sorry,” Mom said again.

  “It's okay,” I said.

  My whole future would change now: everything I thought, everything I knew. I looked up, expecting to see a hawk or an eagle or something soaring in the wind, like my hopes were soaring, like my happiness. The clear blue sky was empty. I listened to the creek splashing its way over rocks, I felt the sun hot on my cheeks. Everything seemed new, and I was filled with joy.

  May 5

  Catawba, Virginia

  Miles hiked today: 6

  Total miles hiked on the Appalachian Trail: 689

  Weather: cooler, chance of rain

  When you hike the Appalachian Trail, you get used to waking up and walking, waking up and walking, every day. You get used to feeling sore all the time in different parts of your body; you get used to being sweaty and dirty. You get wet when it rains. You sweat when it doesn't. You eat everything you can, every chance you get, and you realize that your body is a wonderful, powerful machine. If you stay on the Trail, you become amazed by what you can do.

  When I started out in Georgia, it was as if I couldn't even see—I never really paid attention to the trees or the woods, or anything except the hard-packed path in front of me. Spring came, and I barely noticed. By the time Mom and I left the Trail at Catawba, Virginia, on the fifth of May, I felt like the beauty of the mountains and the woods was soaking into my bones. I noticed everything.

  I woke up, somewhere along the Trail.

  The last day, Mom said, “Maybe I'll take a test. They must have aptitude tests, don't you think? Like in high school?”

  “I haven't been to high school yet, Mom.”

  She ignored that. “There are tests you take, th
ey tell you what you'd be good at, like a scientist or, I don't know, a plumber, or something.”

  “What did yours say in high school?”

  “I can't remember. It wasn't very interesting.”

  “Maybe the tests are better now,” I said.

  “Yeah. Well, that's what I'm hoping.” She looked pretty cheerful about it. “What do you want?”

  Suddenly I knew one thing. “I don't mind if we sell our house, but I don't want to move to a new town.”

  Mom nodded. “Because you don't want to change schools?” she asked.

  “I don't know,” I said. “I mean, I guess I don't, but that's not the reason.”

  She waited for the reason.

  “I don't want to be away from Dad,” I said. “I think he does want to be around me, but Lisa will make it harder, and if we moved that would make it a lot harder, too. And I think I'd like to get to know David Harper as he grows up, and that'll be tough if I'm not close by.”

  “Okay,” Mom said. “We'll stay in town. I'd like to sell the house, though. I'm thinking an apartment would be less work.”

  “I'll do the work,” I said. “I'll help. I won't mind.”

  “You don't want an apartment?”

  “I want trees.”

  “Okay,” she said. “As long as you promise to help.”

  Our last day was six miles, a stroll. We took it easy, stopped for lunch. “What happens now?” I asked. “Can we take a bus home from Catawba?”

  Mom shook her head. “I doubt it. They've got a restaurant and a motel. I thought we'd call Nancy and see if she'll come get us tomorrow. It wouldn't take her more than four or five hours.”

  “Okay.”

  “I'm proud of you, of the way you're handling this now. I know you'd like to keep going.”

  We'd completed one third of the Appalachian Trail. I knew so much more about hiking than when I'd started out; I knew for sure now that I could make it to Katahdin, if only I had the chance. I guessed I knew one answer to why some people quit the Trail: because they didn't have a choice.

  “I've been thinking,” Mom went on. “Whatever job I end up with, they'll have to give me some kind of vacation time. So we could take a week or two every year and come back to the Trail. We could keep heading north. It still counts as a thru-hike, you know, if you finish the whole thing in sections.”

  A hundred miles in a week, if we were fast. Maybe ten years to finish, depending on how many weeks Mom could take. “I'd like that,” I said.

  We came to the state highway and walked along it west toward Catawba. I saw the store first, and then the flag flying by the post office. I saw a familiar car parked in front of the store. Then I saw my father.

  “Dad!” I called. “Dad!”

  He walked toward us. “Need a lift home?”

  “How did you know? How did you know where we were?”

  “Lisa told me you were in Bland,” he said. “I just figured you'd be here about now.”

  Mom laughed. “How many days have you been waiting for us?”

  Dad checked his watch. “A few hours. I swear. No more.” He gave me a kiss as I got in the car. “I know a great restaurant on the way home. I'll treat you both to dinner.”

  “Where's Lisa?” I asked.

  “Home. Maybe you could stop by and say hi to her tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  September 26

  114 Clear Mountain Road, Bristol, Tennessee

  Miles hiked today: 0

  Total miles hiked on the Appalachian Trail:

  695 and holding

  Weather: sunny and warm

  I was named after Katahdin, a mountain in Maine. My brother Springer was named for a mountain in Georgia. The Appalachian Trail stretched between us, over two thousand miles long, and I think that when I set out to thru-hike it I hoped I might find Springer at the end. That's how much I missed him, how much I still miss him sometimes.

  For now, though, I am one of the nine out of ten: one of the ones that quit. When Mom and I got home after our time on the Trail, we sold our house and moved to a cabin on the ridgeline of a knob. It is not perfect. The rooms are small, the bathtub leaks, and mice are invading the kitchen. But it is perfect for us. Trees surround us and we feel close to the sky. The road is so narrow and winding that the school bus can't get up and down, so it picks me up and drops me off at an intersection near the bottom. This means I get to climb up and down a very small mountain every day.

  I spent the summer taking classes and studying; in the end I was allowed to stay with my class. On the last Saturday of July, Mom and I drove to Nantahala and went white-water rafting. I won't say it wasn't fun. Then on August first, eleven months to the day after my brother Springer died, my brother David Harper was born.

  When I got to the hospital his little bassinet had been wheeled into my stepmother's room. I hesitated just inside the door. Dad looked up, smiling. Lisa held David Harper, her arms curving around him like she meant to shield him forever from all the dangers in the world. But when I sat down on the edge of the chair by her bed, she set him in my arms.

  He was so small and beautiful. He took my breath away.

  Lisa cleared her throat. “When he's a little older,” she said, “would you consider baby-sitting once in a while?”

  “Well,” I said. “Okay.” I touched his tiny finger, soft as a kitten's paw.

  Lisa said, “I know we could depend on you.”

  I still don't like her, don't get me wrong. But I don't hate her quite so much.

  The first anniversary of Springer's death came and went. I remembered how I'd planned to spend it on the top of Mount Katahdin. I felt like I'd failed him, even though I knew I'd done the best I could.

  The letter came the fourth week of September. It was a bright, clear day, of the sort that always reminded me of our best days on the Trail. When I climbed up the road after school, I took the mail out of our mailbox and thumbed through it as I walked toward the house.

  “Susan and Katahdin,” the envelope said. No last names. It had been forwarded from our old house. I didn't recognize the handwriting, but still a thrill traveled slowly up my spine. I stopped and carefully slit the envelope open. I shook it, and a photograph fell into my hand.

  It was Vivi. She was standing next to the sign that marked the northern end of the Appalachian Trail. She looked thin, and tired, and radiantly happy.

  A wave of pride and longing swept over me. I closed my eyes, and for a moment I could feel myself standing where she stood, rocks under my feet, cold wind hard against me. Oh, Vivi, I thought. Oh, Springer.

  There was a letter in the envelope, too. I unfolded it and began to read it as I walked quickly toward the house. I couldn't wait to tell my mother. Vivi had made it to Katahdin.

  Someday I would, too.

  AFTERWORD

  A man named Benton McKaye came up with the idea for the Appalachian Trail. He later said that he first thought of creating a hiking trail along the ridgelines of the Appalachian Mountains, from Georgia to Maine, in 1905, but it was an article he wrote in 1921 describing his idea that really sparked public imagination. At the time many parts of the proposed Trail, especially in Maine and southwest Virginia, were absolute wildernesses—and yet construction of the Trail began the next year. The entire length was opened in 1936. Some sections have been changed from time to time, but the basic Trail has remained the same. It now stretches 2,167 miles from the top of Springer Mountain, in Georgia, to the top of Mount Katahdin, in Maine, all on protected land.

  Early Trail planners did not believe thru-hikes were possible or even desirable. In 1948, the first man to thru-hike, Earl Shaffer, had to show Trail officials his photographs and diary entries from all along the Trail before they believed he'd done what he said. But soon more and more people were attempting to thru-hike. The first woman to do so was Emma Gatewood (folks called her Grandma). She finished her first thru-hike in 1955, at age sixty-seven, and went on to complete a second t
hru-hike and section-hike a third.

  Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas also completed a thru-hike in sections. A six-year-old boy named Michael Cogswell, traveling with his parents, took eight months to complete a thru-hike in 1980 (the youngest female thru-hiker on record was eleven years old). In 1990, a blind man named Bill Irwin successfully thru-hiked with his guide dog, Orient. Bill's Trail name was Orient Express. Dan “Wingfoot” Bruce, now head of the Center for Appalachian Trail Studies, has thru-hiked seven times.

  The Appalachian Trail Conference, which oversees the local hiking clubs and volunteers that maintain the Appalachian Trail, has its headquarters at the midpoint of the A.T., in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. The Center for Appalachian Trail Studies is in Hot Springs, North Carolina. Both organizations offer lots of information to anyone who wants to learn more about the Trail.

  Hikers say, “Hike your own hike.” The Appalachian Trail is different for each person who comes to it. I have tried to make Dani's and her mother's hike as real and accurate as possible. Any errors are entirely my own.

  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books

  a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Copyright © 2002 by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-52971-8

  July 2003

  v3.0