Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [10]
I stopped on a fallen tree to eat dinner. I didn’t want to cook, so I substituted an energy bar and trail mix for a hot meal. It was better than a half-cooked pot of food, but the cold temperatures left me licking my frozen energy bar like a popsicle.
I finished my rock-hard dinner and there was still no sign of Doug and Sarah. I wasn’t near a shelter and, with or without my friends, I would soon need to find a place to pitch my tent. As I began to look for a flat spot, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Sarah and Doug making their way up the trail, and a wave of relief crashed over me as I realized that I wouldn’t have to tent alone.
Together we hiked a hundred yards farther and came upon a makeshift campsite. There was one navy blue tent in the back corner of the flat clearing, but no sign of life. The three of us, tired and ready to stop, found two flat spots near the trail and began to set up our tents. I was more than happy to sleep on the ground after tossing tirelessly on the floorboards of the shelter the night before.
It was demoralizing how long it took me to pitch my tent. I had practiced putting up my one-man shelter several times before I left home, but tonight the frigid temperature made it impossible to push my tent stakes into the frozen earth. My fingers were so numb I could barely pull the zippers and tie the necessary knots. Finally, after thirty minutes, the structure was crooked and the wall fabric was sagging, but I had finished erecting my tent.
I walked over to wish Sarah and Doug a good night’s rest. As we talked about the day and discussed our plan for the following morning, we heard a rustling noise from the one-person tent in the corner of our campsite. We watched as the blue rain flap slowly opened, and a red woolen cap emerged. A young woman with dark hair and a pale complexion looked up at us with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “I just wanted to see who was here,” she said. And then, as quickly as she had appeared, the red hat disappeared and the rain flap was zipped shut.
It wasn’t until I slipped into my own sleeping bag and the night’s darkness overtook the dusk that I heard her muffled whimpers and tearful breathing carried by the wind.
Why was she crying? Was she scared or lonely? Maybe she was cold? (I wanted to cry because of the bitter temperatures, but I was convinced that my tear ducts were frozen solid.) I wondered if she would be one of ten who would quit within the first week. Then I realized that based on the statistics, only one of the four of us at the campsite would finish the trail. The odds were daunting.
I lay awake wishing there was something I could do for my unknown neighbor. I wanted to say something to her or do something for her, but I didn’t know what. Didn’t Sarah and Doug hear her muffled whimpers? Why weren’t they doing anything?
In society, we tend to let people grieve on their own, especially people we don’t know. But on this barren mountainside, it seemed cruel to allow someone to cry alone when I was so physically close to her. But I could not overcome my inhibition, and as her sniffles grew quieter, I said a soft, silent prayer for her inside the seclusion of my tent. I decided that as I continued down the trail I would try to help people who were struggling, regardless of whether or not I knew them.
Mountain Crossings Outfitter and Hostel at Neels Gap was the first sign of civilization I encountered on the Appalachian Trail. Located twenty miles into my hike and thirty miles north of the trail’s southern origin, the outfitter capitalized on hikers with heavy packs and sore feet. Meanwhile, the hostel catered to hikers who were eager for a bed and a shower after several days on the trail. Surprisingly, at this point, neither the store