Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [18]
As I sat down with a plate weighted down by burritos, the two older men with moustaches who had warned me about the bear turned the corner. They seemed as startled as I had been to find such a pleasant obstruction on the path, and after meeting North Star, they followed her direction to fill their plates and sit by the fire.
“Hey guys, thanks again for warning me about the bear yesterday. By the way, did you sleep okay last night?” I wanted to feel them out to see if maybe one of them had been responsible for the snoring.
“Are you kidding me?” asked the man with orange-tinted facial hair. “I didn’t sleep a wink, thanks to that hiker Big foot.”
“We’ve been hiking fast all day to make sure we don’t have to spend another night anywhere near that guy,” said his friend with the gray moustache.
“Me too,” I replied, relieved that I wouldn’t have to drop my plate and start running.
Together, we sat there laughing and talking between large bites of food. It was amazing how relaxed and accepted I felt sitting around the fire.
I had heard about the concept of “trail magic” before I started hiking. As I understood it, trail magic was a term used to describe gifts, particularly food, that were given to thru-hikers simply because they were thru-hikers, without anything expected in return. North star’s RV was my first encounter with trail magic, but She had given us more than just food. she had given us community.
I enjoyed a long visit and two full plates of food with my new friends before I felt the need to hike away from the oasis and increase my distance from big foot. I thanked north star with a big hug and then bid farewell to the moustache men.
With a light heart and a full stomach, I climbed up and over Albert Mountain and down to Rock Gap Shelter. It was nearly dusk, but I didn’t want to take any chances setting up in the shelter, so I pitched my tent a few hundred yards down the trail. I smiled as I remembered not wanting to sleep alone my first few nights on the trail. Now, only a week later, I was seeking out solitude.
When I awoke, it was Easter Sunday. It didn’t feel very warm outside and there was a steady rain beating against my tent. I struggled to change clothes without rubbing against the wet sagging tent walls. My awkward movements resembled some form of alternative yoga, and I received a substantial core workout from suspending my body for long periods of time without using my arms.
I tried to take my time getting ready inside my tent, but finally, when I couldn’t procrastinate any longer, I repeated the mantra: “No rain, no Maine. No rain, no Maine.” Then I stepped out into the cold, wet forest.
The conditions were dreary, and my mood didn’t improve when I crossed Highway 64.
For most hikers, this road would signify a spot to hitch a ride into nearby Franklin, North Carolina. But for me, it meant one thing: home.
I knew that if I traveled east on this road for two hours, I would end up within a stone’s throw of my childhood home. I wondered what was taking place there right now. I wondered if my parents were at home, and whether or not they were thinking of me. I wondered if my brothers were coming over for lunch and if I would be the only family member missing—and for what? To be alone, outside, cold, and wet, on Easter?
I stood on the pavement in a daze until a car sped out of the fog and chased me to the other side of the road. And with one last glance at the hazy yellow lines, I turned and hiked away from Highway 64.
Easter was much the same from start to finish—the cold rain and dense fog never lifted. I only encountered one hiker all day, an older man with a disgruntled expression who responded to my, “Hello there!” with a silent nod.
My breakthrough of the day came when I discovered that I could eat and hike at the same time. Stopping to eat made me cold, so I stuck several semi-frozen energy bars in my pockets and sucked on them throughout