Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [11]
I was now on day three of cooking, and I hated it. I was appalled at the thought of having to deal with cooking, cleaning, and forcing down lukewarm mush all the way to Maine.
Nonetheless, I once again placed some pasta in water and waited for it to expand. Within minutes, Sarah and Doug arrived and began cooking as well. Talking about our first night in tents, we all agreed that they were more comfortable than shelters, as they offered added warmth, less snoring, and protection from mice.
When I was sure that my shells were tender, I added the cheese, and for the first time in over forty-eight hours I enjoyed a warm, fully cooked meal. I ravenously consumed the entire pot of food and then immediately felt full and bloated. As I stood up to leave, I struggled to connect the ends of my hip belt around my waist.
Since Sarah and Doug were not yet finished with lunch, I decided to continue on without them. I loved the confidence of knowing that friends were nearby, but after we reached Springer Mountain, I planned to restart the trail on my own. The thought of being part of the same group day after day felt restrictive.
The trail was becoming the adventure I had envisioned. I loved meeting new people, I loved learning new skills—despite my mistakes—and I loved the feeling of being self-sufficient. After three days on the trail, I felt more independent than at any other time in my life. I was completely responsible for my decisions and my own well-being. I felt scared and empowered at the same time.
Leaving Neels Gap, the path veered straight up Blood Mountain. It was the longest and hardest climb of the first fifty miles, and the heightened stimulation combined with a full pot of Velveeta in my stomach proved to be a terrible combination. My ascent was interrupted when I urgently raced into the woods and out of sight from the trail.
I squatted in pain and discomfort for several minutes, holding a fresh wad of toilet paper in my hand. Frozen in that primitive stance, I realized that this would be my reality for the next several months—a far cry from my padded seat cushion at home. But despite the unfamiliar routine, I emerged from the woods feeling lighter and more confident. I had overcome another reality of the trail.
Unfortunately, Mother Nature decided to reinforce my new skills half a mile later, then again a few hundred yards from the summit of Blood Mountain. My frequent side trips into the woods left me feeling weak and uncomfortable, but I did get a great photo at my final rest stop. I laughed thinking about how I was probably the only thru-hiker who would ever take a picture from this spot on the trail. Then, as I thought more about it, I decided that I liked using the restroom in a place that no one else would ever visit. It definitely cut down on the germs.
Our last full day of hiking before reaching Springer Mountain was the longest. By mid-afternoon I had covered fifteen miles, and I hadn’t seen Sarah and Doug since I left the campsite early that morning.
Most of the thru-hikers who walked less than ten miles a day wore very heavy packs and hiking boots. Warren Doyle had recommended wearing a light pack and hiking in running shoes, and I’m glad I took his advice. Blisters were common for everyone on the trail, but those wearing boots seemed to have worse ones than the hikers who wore sneakers. Even the people who had taken great care to break in their boots before they started were still suffering from sore Achilles tendons and hot spots.
Doug and Sarah hiked in boots. I knew their feet had been hurting and I hoped that they were okay—and that I wouldn’t have to spend the night without them. I wasn’t scared of the dark or being alone at night, but the combination of the two was intimidating. I’d never even slept alone in a house before, let alone in the woods.
One of the spookiest attributes of the forest was that it felt timeless. I surveyed my surroundings and envisioned someone standing here