Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [26]
“Just take your daughter home and take good care of her,” he said. “That’ll be payment enough.”
Curtis picked up my pack and helped me carry it to my dad’s truck, then he stood in the driveway and waved good-bye as we disappeared down the dirt road.
As we drove home, I gushed to my dad about my first few weeks on the trail. The only break in our conversation came when he stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru to order a Big Mac value meal. I typically didn’t eat much fast food, but the past few weeks made two beef patties smothered in sauce on a sesame-seed bun rank high on my list of delicacies.
My dad and I didn’t go straight to our house, but rather to the home of some friends of the family, where I ate my second dinner, took my second shower, and soaked my feet as we watched the first half of the basketball game.
As a six-foot-tall North Carolina native, basketball had been an intrinsic part of my life growing up. I don’t remember consciously choosing to play basketball, but due to my height, I’d been recruited by every YMCA and AAU coach in the area. Eventually my ball-handling skills and shooting improved, and I learned to love the sport. But despite years of playing the game, my fondest basketball memories are of gathering in the living room with my family and friends to cheer on the Tar Heels.
My dad and I drove home for the second half, and although it was a close game, I found myself strangely distracted. I laid on the floor with our golden retriever and began flipping through my Appalachian Trail Data Book, calculating mileages and planning my next few days on the trail. When I did glance up at the TV screen, I was more interested in the spectators than in the basketball players. It was odd how much energy was expended by the stadium full of screaming, yelling, cheering fans, urging both teams to victory. It was strange to think how much vocal support and enthusiasm surrounded these athletes when, back on the trail, I knew that I would have to push my physical limits and athletic aptitude in solitude and silence.
That night, after the Tar Heels won, I went to bed at 1:00 AM. On the trail I had been falling asleep around 8:30 every night, but at home the electricity, cable, and running water kept me awake much later than I had planned. The late night, combined with daylight saving time and a 6:00 AM wake-up call, translated to just under four hours of sleep.
One might imagine that after spending so many nights on the cold hard ground, I would have been inclined to spend a little more time in my own bed. However, my dad promised that if I could hike the thirty-three miles from the hostel at the base of the Smokies to nearby Hot Springs in a day and a half, then he would bring me home to watch Carolina play in the National Championship.
After an hour-long car ride back to the Smokies’ eastern boundary, I hugged my dad, said good-bye, and started to hike uphill away from the road. I had a little over thirty miles to cover in just over thirty hours. And as I hiked up and out of the gap, I discovered the trail was still covered in snow.
At first, just a few inches covered the ground, and I had fun shuffling my feet through the undisturbed white blanket. It felt special being the first one to pass through the winter landscape. As the trail continued to climb, however, the snow on the ground grew deeper, and by the end of the morning, I found myself trudging through three-foot snowdrifts. At that point, I didn’t feel as special, and the snow didn’t seem as fun.
I had to stop often and take off my shoes to dump out the excess snowmelt and wring the cold water out of my socks. I was