Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [129]
“Katahdin Stream!” I said.
“Otter Creek?” he asked.
I repeated myself slowly and clearly, “Kah-tah-din stream.”
Again: “Otter Creek?”
I was so frustrated, I yelled into the pay-phone receiver, “KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM, KATAHDIN STREAM!!”
Then I heard the operator say, “I’m sorry, your time has expired.”
I don’t know how he got Otter Creek from Katahdin Stream, but it took another eight dollars in quarters before he repeated Katahdin Stream into the phone.
Katahdin Stream Campground was still several miles from Abol Bridge. Not wanting my brother and father to arrive at an empty campground and go looking for Otter Creek (God forbid there really was an Otter Creek), I told Mooch and Nightwalker, who had just arrived at the store, that I would see them later on. Then I sped down the trail toward Katahdin Stream.
Out of all my previous sprints on the trail—in thunderstorms, through mosquitoes, and away from Moot—this was by far my fastest. With hardly anything in my pack, I raced down the path, skipping roots, hurdling fallen trees, and dancing over river crossings.
Arriving at Katahdin Stream Campground, I was heartbroken to discover that my family had yet to arrive. And I was a little worried that they were waiting for me at a place named Otter Creek.
Sitting anxiously beside the entrance road, I was overjoyed to finally see them pull up the gravel drive. I left my belongings, dashed to the car, and flung open the driver-side door just as it stopped. Instantly, I had my arms wrapped around my dad’s neck. He held me tight, except when he had to use his hand to wipe the tears away from his eyes. It felt like an eternity had passed since he dropped me off in Helen, Georgia. And there could be no greater reward than to have him here to greet me at the end.
After embracing my dad, I ran over to my brother. I was happy and somewhat surprised that he had decided to come. Before the trail, he had not been excited about the thought of his little sister thru-hiking by herself, and I don’t think he ever changed his mind. But being here at the end proved that he loved me and wanted to support me despite his objections. Or maybe he was just glad that it was over and I was safe. Either way, he was here, and that meant a lot.
My dad and brother stayed in the park long enough to meet Mooch and Nightwalker. Then, after setting a time to return in the morning, they headed off to spend the night in a hotel. Mooch, Nightwalker, and I prepared to spend our final night in the woods.
At the base of Katahdin, Baxter State Park has a shelter designated solely for thru-hikers. I guess if you walk 2,170 miles, you no longer have to share.
We were the only ones at the Birches Lean-To, and over dinner the boys began trying to recite from memory the name of every shelter they had stayed in along the trail. I struggled to remember the name of the shelter I stayed in three nights ago, let alone back in Georgia.
“Okay, let’s see,” Mooch started. “We stayed at Stover Creek, Gooch Mountain, then we took a night at Neels Gap Hostel. The next night was that one night we didn’t spend together. Remember?”
“Yeah,” said Nightwalker. “That was the night I stayed at Blue Mountain Shelter. Man, it was packed. I just remember that it was really cold and there were four really cute girls from Georgia.”
My ears perked up. “You mean the Georgia Peaches?” I asked.
“Yeah, did you meet them?” he asked.
“Yeah, I met them along with a guy from Alaska and another hiker who was a diabetic.”
“Wait,” Nightwalker said, surprised. “All those people were in that shelter.”
“So was I.” It took me a minute to process, but I suddenly realized that I had met Nightwalker before Virginia. I had met him my very first night on the trail in Georgia, and I had slept right beside him. His name hadn’t been Nightwalker then, it was Matthew, and his face hadn’t been covered in a blanket of hair. I knew he had seemed familiar and that I felt strangely connected to him, but I just thought that was because I liked him.
It was