Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [106]
The problem in college, and in life, was that there were a lot of people who knew what I was, but they didn’t know who I was. No wonder there was so much pressure to look a certain way, when usually the only thing people got to know was someone’s outer image.
When I spent time with someone on the trail, it could be for a few minutes or a few days, but the time was focused. There were no distractions and fewer inhibitions. When we parted ways, they didn’t just know my profile, they knew my person. They knew what I liked and didn’t like, how I felt, what I wanted to be, and what mattered to me. And just as importantly, I knew them.
I picked up my pen and journal again.
One of my favorite things about the trail is that you don’t see your face. I mean, I guess you can see it in the reflection of the water, but there are no mirrors, no vanities, and no places to check yourself out. I used to think that people perceived me based on how I looked, but now that I don’t see my face, I feel like people perceive me by how I treat them—that is, by what I say to them and how well I listen. Now I feel beautiful when I make other people smile.
My last full day in Vermont was saturated with heavy rain, but that was okay, because rain was nature’s DEET. I walked all morning and all afternoon in a steady downpour. It was warm out, so instead of putting my raincoat on, I just let my t-shirt get wet. In the past, I usually tried to avoid rain puddles, but today I was purposely splashing in them and laughing. And instead of reaching for my water bottle when I was thirsty, I would just tilt my chin up and open my mouth toward the sky. The whole day was like combining hiking and a summer swim.
That evening, I was wrinkly from the rain, and since I wasn’t near a shelter, I stopped to set up camp at a flat spot just off the trail. As soon as I pulled out my wadded tent, the rain penetrated the fabric, and in the five minutes it took me to set it up, the tent floor became completely soaked by the saturated undergrowth. By the time I put the ground cloth underneath the tent, there were already puddles covering the tent floor. Then when I crawled inside, the day’s rain dripped off my body and made the puddles more of a pool. Finally, I unrolled my sopping wet foam sleeping pad and laughed at the idea of putting a perfectly dry sleeping bag on top of a wet sleeping pad in the the middle of a puddle. Finally, I just pulled off my wet clothes and climbed inside.
The next morning I woke up, packed up my soaking wet gear, and hiked—fast. I hiked fast because I wanted to hike fast. Back in March when I started the trail, there was no way I could have comfortably hiked eighteen miles in under six hours with a pack on my back, but now I could. That’s part of what made it fun, the fact that I could now do something that I couldn’t before, something that most people couldn’t dream of doing.
It was also fun because even though it felt like I was going fast, I really wasn’t. I was hiking barely over three miles per hour, which meant I was still well aware of my surroundings and could see and appreciate everything as I passed.
I think life would be much better if the speed limit were three miles-per-hour. Traveling by trains, planes, and cars seemed too fast. It’s difficult to notice details when you zip past things at sixty-five miles-per-hour. I appreciate mass transportation because it allows me to see friends and family who live far away, but part of me wished that everything and everyone I wanted to see was in walking distance. But then again, after the trail, there was going to be a lot more that I considered “within walking distance.”
After six hours of fast hiking, I crossed the Connecticut River and said good-bye to Vermont. I had reached Hanover, New Hampshire.
New Hampshire—my penultimate state.
18
REGROUPING
HANOVER, NH, TO
PINKHAM NOTCH, NH—123 MILES
New Hampshire is difficult, but not remote. It feels remote to the tourists who stay at the huts in the White Mountains, visit the rest areas in