Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [20]
I had gained knowledge and strength on the trail. My miles were increasing and my ineptitude around the campsite was decreasing, but I still felt intimidated as I approached Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The seventy-mile section of Appalachian Trail that straddles the high ridges of the Smoky Mountains was supposed to be the most difficult terrain south of New Hampshire, and I wasn’t sure if I had the skill, ability, or provisions to traverse the looming peaks.
I arrived at Fontana Dam, the park’s southern threshold, with low self-confidence and an empty food sack. When I reached the doors of the Fontana Dam Visitor Center, I found a sign that read CLOSED UNTIL MAY. Ignoring the sign, I tried knocking on the door. I knocked and knocked and knocked, but to no avail. I walked around to the left and right of the building searching for a sign of life, but there was no one in sight. I had planned on taking the daily shuttle from the Visitor Center into a nearby town to resupply. Feeling helpless, I plopped down against the cold stone wall that surrounded the building.
I was exasperated at the thought of having neither food nor transportation, but worst of all, I was stuck. Before the hike, I had sworn to my mother that I would not hitchhike by myself. She accepted that hikers depended on serendipitous rides to and from town to restock their provisions, but she made me promise that I would not attempt to “thumb it” alone. So there I sat, stranded at the base of the Smokies, weighing Maslow’s hierarchy of needs against my own moral integrity.
When a car pulled up beside the Visitor Center, I didn’t think much of it. In fact, it was almost satisfying to watch the disappointment of the two young men inside the vehicle when they discovered the sign taped to the door. When the driver noticed me, he drove over and rolled down the window.
“Excuse me, do you know if there’s somewhere we can find hiking information?” asked the driver, who wore an Auburn baseball cap.
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
His buddy wiped the shaggy brown frat-boy hair out of his eyes and leaned over to respond. “We’re on spring break and wanted to go backpacking for a few days, but neither one of us has a map.”
“Here, this might help.” I pulled out my Appalachian trail Data Book to let them look it over, and then helped them piece together a manageable route from the obscure numbers and abbreviations.
In the midst of our conversation, it struck me: I had told my mom that I would not try to hitchhike by myself, but hitchhiking connoted standing on the side of the road and sticking out your thumb. These two guys had trusted me for trail information, and now we had formed a relationship—we were practically friends. There wasn’t a rule about riding with friends!
I explained my circumstances to the young men and, easily persuaded, they agreed to shuttle me to the closest resupply point.
Too bad the closest resupply point turned out to be a gas station with three shelves of hiker food that hadn’t been restocked since last year.
I still wasn’t sure how much food I required to satisfy my no-cook diet, especially with variables such as my increasing appetite and more difficult terrain. After digging through the meager selection, I bought a small pile of crackers, Pop-Tarts, candy bars, fruit chews, and a jar of peanut butter. I was aware of the lack of nutritional value, but with few other options, I just hoped that my resupply would provide enough calories to get me through the Smokies.
When we left the store, we drove back to Fontana Dam, where I said good-bye to the two young men from Alabama and watched as they hiked away from the parking lot in blue jeans and cotton t-shirts, with packs that were twice as big as mine.
I was eager to set out as well, but I wasn’t willing to enter the park until I exploited an earlier discovery. Poking around the Visitor Center that morning, I had found an open restroom. In the corner, much