Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [16]
It came as a much-needed morale boost when I passed a small sign on a tree marking the North Carolina border. It gave me confidence to know that I had been able to start at a random point in Georgia and walk to a neighboring state. And not just any state—my state.
My sense of accomplishment didn’t last long. The first two mountains in North Carolina were the most challenging yet. Their extended demands left me physically exhausted and emotionally fatigued. Hiking down the second descent, I looked down to see my legs visibly quivering beneath me. I put my hands on my thighs to stop the shaking, but as soon as I let go they began twitching again. With each quaking footstep, I became persuaded to end my day earlier than I had planned. Stumbling my way downhill and into Deep Gap, I was relieved to find a flat plot of land near a stream where I could set up camp.
After pitching my tent, I pulled my food bag and stove out of my pack. Most hikers look forward to a warm meal at the end of the day, but for me, cooking had already become a chore with little reward. I hated the bland pasta and rice meals in my food bag, and I didn’t like feeling forced to devour an entire pot of food, either.
After receiving several dirty looks from other hikers, I’d learned that throwing unwanted food into the woods and cleaning out my pot in the streams were not acceptable ways to dispose of dinner scraps. If you didn’t eat your food, you were supposed to pack it out with you and throw it away at the next town. But I didn’t want to eat my food or pack it out.
With great annoyance, I gathered water and lit my camp stove in order to heat the pasta shells. When the noodles were tender, I drained the water and added the pungent, neon orange Velveeta goo to the mix. I then set aside the pot and began to disassemble the stove, but as I unscrewed the burner from the fuel canister, my numb fingers fumbled the stovetop directly into the pot of gluey pasta.
I grabbed the stovetop, but not quickly enough. The small gas holes that the flames passed through were now filled with the cheese-like substance, which had thickened and expanded into its pores. For half an hour, I tried to wash and burn the fake cheddar out of the stove, but my efforts were futile and my stove remained clogged and broken.
I was discouraged and upset with myself for being so clumsy, but as I ate my dinner, I decided that hot food was overrated. From now on, I would just skip the cooking and substitute cold food for hot meals. After all, I didn’t like cooking when I was at home, so I don’t know why I thought it would be different on the trail. If anything, cooking was worse on the trail.
I vowed to send my pot and stove home at the next post office and skip the warm meals until I could enjoy them at a restaurant in town where I wouldn’t have to cook or clean.
After dinner, I was desperately ready for sleep. I cradled my sore, tired body in the warm folds of my sleeping bag and shut my eyes. Before slipping into complete unconsciousness, I heard two sets of boots pass nearby. I was startled awake when I heard a deep male voice call out, “Hey, anyone in there?”
I looked out of my tent and squinted into the setting sun to see two older men with wide-brimmed hats and moustaches staring down at me.
“Yes?” I mumbled.
“We just wanted to make sure you saw the sign about the bear,” said the first.
“Yeah, it says he’s been aggressive in the past,” the second man added.
“Bear? Aggressive?” I replied, trying to shake myself out of a stupor.
The taller of the two sensed my confusion. “Yes, it says right here on the sign. You saw the sign, right? It says that the bear will approach hikers who camp here. Don’t you think you should hike to the next shelter?”
An hour ago, I didn’t have the energy to go another step, but fear is a powerful