Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [110]
I had not been this demoralized or felt this weak since hiking up Mount Unaka in Tennessee. I thought back to how hard that day had been, how miserable I had felt, and then I remembered something I had said that helped me up that mountain.
Every step I take is a step closer to Maine.
I said it aloud: “Every step I take is a step closer to Maine.”
I smiled. “Every step I take really is a step closer to Maine.”
That’s what I had said in Tennessee. That’s what got me to the top of Mount Unaka on that dismal, wretched, rainy day. I forced myself to believe it then, but now it seemed impossible to deny. I was in New Hampshire, and every step I took, no matter how small, truly was one step closer to Maine.
When I reached the top of Mount Kinsman, the boys were waiting for me. The sun was setting, and the blue sky met the purple mountains in an interlocking puzzle piece. Mooch and Nightwalker were focused on how pretty it was, but I was focused on how the mountains ahead were increasingly taller than Mount Kinsman. I could see them lined up, one after another, taunting me with their jagged profiles.
The boys left the summit and hiked ahead to reach the next shelter before nightfall, but I stayed behind.
Nightwalker had a theory that when the trail got hard, or when there were difficult climbs, it helped to talk trash to the trail. You know, tell it who was boss.
I decided to tell the mountains how it was going to be.
“You don’t scare me,” I said. “I’ve come a long way, and you are not going to stop me from making it to Maine! You don’t even look that big. Ya ever heard of Clingmans Dome, huh? Yeah, well Clingmans Dome is the tallest mountain on this trail. That means it’s taller than you guys . . . and I’ve already climbed it. You call yourself mountains? You barely even look like hills! I’ll be through you in five days, tops. Just wait, you’ll see.”
Nightwalker was right. I felt better already.
I started to hike down the mountain, and about thirty seconds after my tirade, my mop stick broke in two, and I slid three feet down the trail on my hands and knees.
The mountains—they had done this to me!
I had been hiking with my yellow mop stick for over twelve hundred miles. It had offered me support, it had protected me from dogs and rocks, and it had set a daring new fashion trend on the trail.
I could handle the necklace, the watch, the pack, and the shoe, but the mop stick? It was my friend, my calling card, the object of my right hand, and it was gone.
I sat down and cried.
I loved my mop stick. I felt like a child who had just had her favorite toy taken away, or a teenager who had to turn in her keys after breaking curfew. I had been prideful, and now I was paying for it. I looked back over my shoulder at the towering mountains.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it.”
Then I stumbled to Kinsman Pond Campsite in the dark, with a dim headlamp and a broken plastic shaft in each hand.
At the point when I felt completely broken, things started to get better.
The next day, we hiked up and over Franconia Ridge, and although I missed my yellow pole, I realized that, more and more, hiking in New Hampshire required using both hands. And the climbing was a lot simpler now that I didn’t have to boulder uphill with my mop stick or javelin it off the side of the mountain as I scrambled down.
The climbing that afternoon was really hard, but I tried not to look up, and that kept me from becoming too discouraged. And since I no longer wore a watch, I didn’t know how long it was taking, so that helped too.
The boys were great. Now that the terrain was so difficult,