Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [19]
Not stopping to rest finally took a toll on me. My last mile-and-a-half climb to the evening’s shelter started very slowly. It wasn’t until the rain strengthened and the thunder and lightning rolled in that my pace quickened. The storm gave me the incentive I needed to shake off my exhaustion and run the last mile uphill and into the already crowded Cold Spring shelter.
I was relieved that, although the place was packed past capacity, the eight male occupants in the shelter were willing to make room for a rather wet and pathetic-looking young woman. Thankful to have a space inside the lean-to, I quickly unbuckled my metal-frame pack and laid it down next to my hiking stick. It felt good to move away from the gear that I feared might electrocute me.
Next, I located the trash bag in my pack filled with my dry sleeping clothes, and I went behind the shelter to change. By hugging up as close to the wooden beams as possible, I remained relatively dry and protected, thanks to the roof’s two feet of metal overhang.
I began to peel the wet synthetic top off my torso and over my head . . . and then it hit me. Literally. A bolt of lightning struck the roof of the shelter and continued to the earth through my body.
The jolt stiffened my spine and sent a sharp momentary ache through every inch of me. But the pain had vanished by the time I realized what had happened. I began to assess my physical well-being. I wiggled my toes, poked my stomach, flapped my arms, and counted my fingers. My ears felt hot and I could hear a faint buzzing, but besides that I couldn’t see or feel any ill effects.
I was filled with relief and adrenaline; I quickly finished dressing and ran back around to the front of the shelter.
“Hey, guys, guess what. I think some lightning just struck the roof and then went through my body!”
A bright headlamp near the back wall of the shelter pointed my way. “I thought I felt a buzz,” said the person behind the light.
Then another voice, in the opposite corner of the shelter, confirmed it, “Yeah, I just got shocked by touching a nail inside the shelter. Something definitely hit us.”
“It’s called splash lightning,” said a rosy face sticking out of a red sleeping bag. “The bolt must have hit the roof and then taken several different paths to reach the ground.”
Right in front of me, a hiker looked up from his stove and said, “You’re lucky it didn’t hit you directly.”
“Even if it did hit you straight on, you’d probably be okay,” another man objected. “I read that only about fifteen percent of people who get struck by lightning die. There’s a ranger in the Shenandoah National Park who’s been struck by lightning seven times, and he’s just fine.”
“Well, once was enough for me,” I said.
After a few minutes, my heart stopped racing and I rolled out my sleeping bag to prepare for bed. As I lay down, I wondered if perhaps the electricity that shot through my veins would somehow leave me altered in the morning. I was no longer worried about any negative side effects; I figured they probably would have run their course by now. But I wouldn’t have been opposed to waking up the next morning with different-colored eyes, a white steak in my hair, or maybe the gift of telepathy.
5
ADVERSITY
NANTAHALA OUTDOOR CENTER, NC, TO WATERVILLE
SCHOOL ROAD, NC—103.4 MILES
On a clear day in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the nearby mountains appear navy blue and then fade into softer hues before interlocking with a cyan sky. The evergreen trees that line the side of the trail give the feeling of a green labyrinth. Snow and ice remain on the trail into May, and fog hugs so close to the ground that you will struggle to see your shoes on the trail. The Smokies offer untamed wilderness that make you feel subject to the environment, not in control of it.
By week two, my once-burning flame of wanderlust