Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [24]
Great—no food, no dry clothes, and a possible concussion . . . Hostel, here I come.
Fortunately, almost all the hiking was downhill. In parts, the decline was so steep that, by using my hiking stick as a side-to-side stabilizer, I could almost ski down the mountain.
For most of the morning, I was sheltered from the worst of the wind and snow by hiking under the cover of the forest. But every now and then, the trees would open up to an exposed ridgeline that left me completely vulnerable to the elements.
On one long stretch of exposed ridgeline I ducked my head and closed my left eye, trying to shield my face from the snow and freezing rain. The wintry mix battered my face and left my exposed skin feeling as though it had been nicked countless times with a razor blade.
When I finally reached tree cover again, I lifted my head and tried to open my eye, but it wouldn’t open. My eye was frozen shut!
A blizzard was disorienting enough; now I was going to have to navigate blustery conditions, try to stay on a snow-covered path, and locate erratic white blazes with only one eye?
Pawing at my face with my gloves, I managed to wipe the frozen crust away from my eye. Several long seconds passed before my eyelid opened and I regained my sight.
I didn’t want to stop until I was completely out of the snow, so I kept hiking as hard and as fast as I could. My body was now running completely on fumes. I hadn’t stopped to rest or eat all morning, and there was an acute pain in my left shin that felt like some sort of muscle pull or tear. But after five very trying hours, I reached a lower elevation and higher temperature, which turned the snow into rain and let me walk on a slushy but visible trail.
I had made it out of the blizzard. I was safe, but I was still cold, still weak, still hungry, and I still had nearly two thousand miles to go.
6
HOME
WATERVILLE SCHOOL ROAD, NC, TO
HOT SPRINGS, NC—33.4 MILES
The trail starts to feel a little easier after descending out of the Smokies. The climb to the top of Max Patch is gradual, and the summit offers a breathtaking panorama. From this viewpoint, in the heart of the southern Appalachians, the mountains start to appear less like the opposition and more like friends. Thick rhododendron tunnels lead hikers off of Max Patch and then triumphantly into the small town of Hot Springs, North Carolina.
After hiking down the last set of rock stairs and crossing the final river to exit the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I was desperately looking forward to the comfort of a hot shower and a night indoors. When I spotted a sign for Standing Bear Hostel, I turned off the trail and journeyed up a remote dirt road in search of food and warmth.
Throughout the frightening weather and difficult hiking that day, I had envisioned the hostel as beacon of hope and civilization. I was disappointed and a little dismayed when the road dead-ended at a collection of shoddy log cabins. The ramshackle hostel was eerily quiet. I became apprehensive about my decision to stop for the day. Under other circumstances, I probably would have hiked away from the deserted hostel, but after completing eighteen snow-covered miles in six hours, I didn’t have the energy to leave.
I walked up to the largest of the shacks and noticed a sign welcoming hikers. I pushed open the heavy door, and in the darkness I could barely make out several bunks and a small woodstove. I heard something rustle in the back corner of the room. One of the bunks moved and a man emerged whose clothing, deep-set wrinkles, and expressive eyes made me feel as if I had stepped back in time to rural nineteenth-century