by Nicole Casey
The other questions, I figured, could only be answered on site. That was the typical learning experience of a resident.
“We’ll meet up tomorrow morning, and you can tell me all about it?” he asked.
“How’s eight am?”
He gave me a thumb’s up.
I saluted him, pivoted, and marched out.
The map Doctor Raskin had given me was clear and precise. However, it failed to prepare me for the stunning variety of terrains I was made to cross. I’d take a relatively wide dirt path around a bend only to be confronted by a cliff of rock ten-feet tall I’d have to climb or a sloping riverbank I’d need to get on hands and knees to navigate.
The barking of dogs announced my arrival, well before I’d gotten a glimpse of the home I was heading to. I let the sound guide me to them. I arrived at a small clearing set with a dirt path leading to three wood homes distributed in a semicircle around a well. A man, perhaps in his late twenties, greeted me at the head of the path. Two dogs paced excitedly at his heel. Farther behind him, staying close to the home on my left, was a girl, probably my age, mid-twenties, and a small child clinging to her skirt. Next to the house on the right, an elderly man rocked on the porch. Two small children stood next to him, watching me approach.
“Hello,” said the man. Despite the cool weather, he wore a brown tank-top and loose-fitting pants. They looked like he’d been in them for days. Conversely, the skin that was showing, his lanky arms and stubbled face looked freshly cleaned, as if I’d caught him just coming out of the shower.
“Hello,” I said. I raised the medical kit. “I’m from Union General.”
I was shown to the porch. I was offered a seat and something to drink. The greeting was cordial, though, as I expected, I felt they were looking at me with suspicion. It could have been my nerves confronting the new experience. While I had consulted with hundreds of patients already in my residency, the difference was that they knew they were patients; they had come to me.
He told me he and his family didn’t have any ailments to speak of. He didn’t object to me having a look at the children. They were undernourished, and their teeth would not be long for the wear. But I had no medication for that except iron supplements.
When I handed him the bottle of supplements, he took it reluctantly and with a creased brow.
We had a conversation about iron: the health benefits, where it comes from, and what it can do for the body. As we talked, I sensed his suspicions ease, and I felt relatively confident that he would be giving the vitamins to his children.
“You don’t sound like you’re from Georgia,” he said.
I chuckled. “I’m from Massachusetts.”
“Massachusetts? Why’d you come all the way down here, then?”
“I was born in North Carolina,” I said. Then I shifted in my seat to get nice and comfortable because I was about to tell him a very long story.
Doctor Raskin was happy, though not surprised, to hear about the success I had, both in reaching all fourteen spots on the map and getting to examine everyone I had set out to see.
He lifted the medical kit, most of its contents gone. “It’s good news when the kit comes back empty.”
“It means people are getting the medicine they need,” I said.
He slipped the kit back onto the shelf. “Didn’t I tell you: it gets lighter the longer you carry it?”
I chuckled. “I was a fool to ever doubt you.”
I was in a hurry to get back on the trail, so I spoke fast as I filled him in on the people I had seen. I was glad that he took the cue and spoke fast himself, keeping the questions short and simple.
“I wish I could talk to you longer,” he said as he rose from his seat, “but I’ve got patients waiting.”
“Of course,” I said. I stood as well. “I’m anxious to hit the trail, anyway.”
“Hit the trail?” He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow.
“Yeah. I’m to be at Hiawassee tomorrow night.”
“Oh.” He looked visibly upset. He snapped his fingers. “Shucks. I got my days confused.”
“Is there a problem?”
He looked at me and shook his head. “No, it’s not a problem. It’s just that you’re going to miss her.”
“Miss her?”
He chuckled. “A journalist is coming. Not really a journalist. She’s some kind of mega-wealthy socialite.”
I cocked my head to the side.
“She’s from California, married to a politician, or something. I don’t know. She does lots of charity. Now, she’s hiking the trail, visiting hospitals and clinics along the way.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah. She wants to interview the staff”—he motioned to me— “and the volunteers, so she can blog about them to her donors.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Yeah. ‘Get to know the people,’ she said. Get her donors to know the people.” He rubbed his fingers together, implying money, lots of money. “Last year, she traveled the Amazon with some famous writer. Apparently raised millions for cerebral palsy.” He raised his hands in incomprehension. “Posted videos of their trip. Apparently, people donated money to follow her adventure. I don’t know.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“I don’t understand it.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “But what can I say? We need all the help we can get.”
“Well, I’m sorry that I’m going to miss her.”
“Hey”—he flashed an index finger vertical in the air and, with his other hand, searched through the clutter on his desk— “would you mind maybe writing a little paragraph or so about yourself?”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“She told me, ‘It’s the people-stories that bring in donations.’” He found a pen and a pad of paper and handed them to me. “A young resident from Massachusetts decided to leave his cushy life and trek the mountains, bringing medical care to the disadvantaged. That sounds like the sort of thing she’d be interested in.”
I raised my eyebrows, pointed the pen at him, and smiled. “And, in addition to hiking the trail, bringing medical care to the disadvantaged, he came here also to find his birth parents.”
“Is that true?”
I nodded.
He motioned to the pad I was holding. “Definitely put that in there.”
7
Holly
I found a few articles Wendy had written online. I didn’t have to read much to realize I didn’t want to end up in any of her reports. Every person she wrote about was either desperate and depraved or hopelessly naïve and wasting good intentions on feeble efforts. I had a much different vision for the blog I was going to keep. Just like Mrs. Freedman, I was going to keep things fun, adventurous, and, by all means, with dignity for the individuals in my stories.
I had intended to visit the town of Suches before my twelve o’clock meeting with Doctor Raskin at Union General. But I woke up sore from my shoulders to my feet, so I decided, instead, to sleep in a bit then enjoy a simple, relaxing breakfast on the porch of the hotel. There, I could begin writing down my impressions.
The mountains kept me company, just beyond a small stretch of trees in front of the porch. Despite my sore muscles, I was eager to get back to them. I missed the trail already.
Harold, who ran the hotel with his wife Judy, offered to drive me to the hospital.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but the hospital’s only a mile and a half away—spitting distance. And I don’t intend to get in a car for at least six months.”
He smiled and nodded. “I understand.”
I had never done much photography unless I was counting selfies and action shots with my phone. And the digital camera Mrs. Freedman had given me was far too fancy for my limited abilities. Fortunately, one of the nurses, Greta, was a photography enthusiast. She was able to show me how to get around on the camera, and we took photos together: photos of the staff with their patients, photos o
f the staff with the equipment. Some aspects of the hospital were clearly in need of an update, but more important than the equipment, the hospital was filled with caring, competent people eager to serve their community.
“I’m only sorry you couldn’t have come sooner,” said Doctor Raskin. “You could have met one of our volunteers: a doctor from out of town. Like you, he’s doing the trail and stopping in villages along the way, visiting hospitals, volunteering.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, it’s too bad that I didn’t get a chance to meet him.”
“I figured that’s the thing you’d want to write about,” he said. “The people part of the story.”
I motioned to him with an open hand. “People like you, Doctor Raskin.”
He swatted away my comment. “Oh, me. I was born and raised here in Georgia. There’s nothing interesting about me. But this young man. He’s a colorful guy.” He reached for the shelf beside him, grabbed a pad of paper, and handed it to me. “I asked him to jot down some of his details in case you might want to include his story in your article.”
“Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”
He stood and extended his hand. “Ms. Nestor, it was lovely meeting you.”
I was surprised. We had only just sat down, and I had hoped to get an interview. I shook his hand. “It was lovely meeting you, Doctor Raskin.”
“If you need to take more photos,” he said, “the hospital is at your disposal. But, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t keep my patients waiting.”
“Of course.”
I slipped the pad of paper into my bag, said a final goodbye to the receptionist and the nurses I crossed on my way out, and headed back into town.
It was a cool and breezy afternoon, perfect weather to sit with a warm cup of coffee on the porch of a quaint restaurant in historic downtown Suches and write my first blog entry.
The pad of paper Doctor Raskin had given me contained a two-page biography of a volunteer named Ryker Dennison. And the doctor was right. He was interesting, and his story was something I wanted to include in my article.
What I found most amazing were the number of similarities between his story and mine: not only the circumstances of his presence there—going on the thru-hike and stopping off in various towns to do some volunteer work—but he had also been adopted, in North Carolina, and hoped to track down his birth family somehow over the course of his trip.
I wish he’d left me his photo.
Ryker Dennison. Let’s hope you’re a slow hiker. Maybe I’ll catch up with you on the trail.
That evening, as promised, I checked in with Gwen, and I checked in with my parents. I only spoke with my mom briefly. She said she wasn’t feeling too well and she needed to lie down. I was skeptical and asked my dad if she was still upset about my going on this trip.
“She’s never happy when you go away for long periods of time,” he said, “but she’ll be fine.”
“I wanted to tell her how beautiful it is here and how nice everyone’s been to me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“But after a minute, she said she had to go lie down like I upset her or something.”
“No, no, no,” he said emphatically. “She’s been a bit under the weather these last few days.”
“I hope she’s okay.”
“She’ll be fine,” he said. “You just take care of yourself. We’ll be following your blog.”
“I’m going to post my first entry in about an hour,” I said excitedly. “I just want to check in with Mrs. Freedman first.”
“We can’t wait to read it.”
“Thanks, Chris.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I’ll call in about a week or so. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Mrs. Freedman was less chatty than even my terse father. “I’m sure whatever you write will be fine,” she said, interrupting me as I tried to share some of the ideas I’d come up with. “You do you, darling. Express yourself. I’m no editor.”
“Okay. Fair enough. But if you see my posts and have any suggestions, I’d be very happy to have your feedback.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’m going to let you go. I have some final edits I want to do, and I’ll be posting in an hour or so.”
“Oh, just one note,” she said.
“Yes?”
“What sells is a good love story.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I was documenting charity work in Appalachia?”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt if you were to fall in love with a young doctor… or two.”
“Or two?”
“But I’m sure whatever you write will be fine.”
I laughed. I could never tell when she was joking or being serious. Somehow, I felt that for her, there wasn’t much of a difference. Everything was serious to her, serious enough to require a joke.
I ended the call and got ready for bed. I kept thinking of Ryker, wondering what he looked like, wondering if we would get along as well as I imagined we would. I took a hot shower and slipped under the covers. I started reading Ryker’s hand-written biography again, but I fell asleep and was swept away into dreamland somewhere in the middle of the first page.
8
Ryker
After three days of hiking and two nights of sleeping in a tent, I was in bad need of a shower and a fresh change of clothes. My next scheduled stop, Franklin, North Carolina, was still a two-day hike away when I paused to rest at a waypoint. It was little more than a wood shelter decorated with carvings of the initials of those who’d proudly passed through. It had been hours since I last came across another hiker. And while I enjoyed the personal space and the opportunity for reflection, I was in need of a little human contact, even a brief exchange of polite greetings or a simple “hello” and a smile to hold me over till Franklin. I had never considered myself a particularly social person, but a few days alone in nature revealed that I was more in need of interaction than I’d thought.
I sat down, my back resting against the shelter of the waypoint, and let my gaze drift along the dips and turns in the landscape before me. I listened for animals; I listened for other hikers. But what I heard instead, after much concentration, was the steady yet faint babble of water, a creek or a small river running through the vegetation below.
It was difficult to tell for certain where exactly the sound was coming from; the landscape offered a series of degrading hills, each cut with winding valleys obscured by trees. I decided that finding a creek would be worth the detour. Maybe it would be wide and deep enough for a swim; if not, at least I could wash up, even if only superficially so.
The descent wasn’t long, but it was steep. And I did most of it sliding on my butt, using my hands and the heels of my shoes as brakes digging into the loose soil. It was fun. It had been ages since I last played in the dirt, and I actually laughed as I slid down the slope. When I reached level land and looked back up to the waypoint, it seemed quite far away, like I may potentially have a problem getting back onto the trail.
Not to be discouraged, I figured I’d worry about that later, after I’d had a dip in some fresh, clean water. I set out in search of the babbling brook, skipping down slopes and following the bend of the land as the sound of rippling water grew more and more distinct.
At first, I was slightly disappointed when I reached the creek. It was little more than a narrow bed of rocks with thin streams of water navigating around them, certainly not enough to swim in and doubtfully enough for a decent bath. Nevertheless, I followed the stream down, conscious that I was drifting farther and farther away from the trail. As I walked, the stream gradually widened, offering pools of clear water. I talked myself into continuing farther still, in the hope that it would turn into a full-fledged river.
My optimism was rewarded not five minutes later. I hit a stretch of running water deep enough to submerge in. I took off my shirt, crouched by
the bank, and gave myself a quick splash bath. Though the air was cool and the water very cold—too cold for a reasonable man to bathe in—I had walked all the way down here to have a swim, and I wasn’t going to let good sense stop me.
I was alone, not another soul within miles, so, without hesitation, I stripped, grabbed a bar of soap from my backpack, and dove in. The water was so shockingly cold that I let out a howl that reverberated along the surrounding cliffs and echoed off the distant hills.
I’d been brave enough to dive in but not foolish enough to stay in the water for long. I gave myself a quick and much-needed bath, rinsed off, and hurried back to the bank to dry off.
Naked, in the wild, not a soul in sight—it was quite an exhilarating feeling, one I didn’t want to let go of so soon. By the time I had more or less dried off, I had acclimated to the cool air. The sun was still out, so I laid myself down on a slab of rock jetting off the bank. Best let the sun finish drying me off rather than get back into my dirty clothes still wet.
I had already fallen behind my target itinerary with the late start I had gotten leaving Suches, the subsequent tangents I’d gone off on the following days, and now this detour at the creek. I lay there, calculating how fast and for how long I’d need to hike to make up the difference. There was no use. I resigned to simply arriving in Franklin a day later than planned. And I was fine with that. After all, the schedule I’d set and the appointments I’d made ahead of time were all approximate anyway.
I heard rustling coming from the bank farther downstream. I sat up and peered off in that direction. Though it was a straight line of vision, the sun glistening off the water was bright and made it difficult to see. I wondered what kind of animal would be by the bank of a river, yet surprisingly I was more curious than worried.
A few moments and a bit more rustling later, my curiosity was piqued even further. From out of the brush appeared a figure. It was the figure of a hiker, of a female hiker. I was naked and lying on a rock, pretty much exposed, but she was at such a distance I doubted whether or not she could really get a good look at me.
