Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [21]
More than food, warmth, or shelter, what I longed for the most was a hot shower. When I stepped into the steaming cascade, the warm water melted my frozen skin and rinsed away the dirt that was caked on the skin of my inner ankles and lower calves. I had never appreciated a shower this much before, and I stayed under the hot spray for over half an hour.
I didn’t have a towel, so when I was finished I pulled out ten feet of brown paper towels from the dispenser and blotted my body with the harsh, nonabsorbent material. Oh, how I missed my soft plush towels, and amenities like shampoo and conditioner! The only soap I carried on the trail was all-natural liquid soap which was so oily and pungent that it could easily have been mistaken for pure peppermint extract. After using just a few drops, I smelled like a candy cane.
Showered and scented, I headed back into the woods. Entering the park, my afternoon was spent climbing a never-ending series of switchbacks, zigzagging my way higher and deeper into the park. When the sun finally descended to meet the still-ascending trail, I turned off the path and hiked to nearby Russell field Shelter.
Drawing close to the wooden structure, I was shocked by how many hikers I saw. I had heard that the Smokies were a popular spring break destination, but I hadn’t seen anyone since this morning, so it was a surprise to see nearly thirty people at the campsite. I identified families, college friends, and several high school kids with their chaperones, but I didn’t see any other thru-hikers. I was the only one at the campsite who wasn’t part of a group.
The shelter itself had a chain-link fence and small gate to enclose the open side of the building. It seems that in order to keep the bears away from the hikers, the park employed a “zoo in reverse” model, and arranged the people in caged shelters while allowing the animals to roam free and observe.
Since I couldn’t sleep inside the exhibit space due to species overpopulation, I was forced to tent on a nearby hillside. While setting up camp and retrieving my water, I struck up a conversation with members of a youth group from Michigan. They invited me to share devotionals with them that evening, and I accepted. Part of me longed for the fellowship, and another part hoped for excess dinner scraps.
I watched hungrily as they all devoured every bite of their dinners, but I appreciated the nourishing discussion that followed. The group talked about their time in the Smokies as a mountaintop experience that could only last momentarily before they returned to the valley. They frequently referred to their backpacking trip as a “getaway” or “retreat.” I thought back to all the things I wanted to get away from in high school, like tests, social pressures, and college applications. I empathized with the teenagers in the circle. I’d rather be anywhere than back in high school.
As I listened to the group, it became clear to me that, while going into the woods for a few days was socially acceptable, living on the trail for weeks at a time was viewed as controversial. And the questions I received around their campsite reinforced my perception: “How can you afford to hike the trail?” “What do your friends and family think?” “Why would you want to live in the woods for that long?”
I could afford to hike the Appalachian Trail because in college I babysat, worked in a church nursery, and held a summer job for three years in a row to save up money for the trip. In fact, my summer boss had offered me a full-time job after I graduated. When I declined, he looked at me sternly and said, “You need to think very seriously about what you are trying to run away from.”
Run away? I had just experienced the best three and a half years of my life. I wasn’t trying to escape anything, and if I had been, I’m sure there would be an easier way to do it. At the end of college I was independent for the first time in my life. I was free to live where I wanted to live and do what I wanted to do. The trail was not a retreat for