Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [27]
The powerful gusts of wind nearly knocked me on my knees as I left the tree-line to pass over the bald at Max Patch. Southern balds are one of the highlights of the Appalachian Trail. They are mountaintops or tall ridges that are devoid of trees, providing 360-degree views. They’re not a natural feature in the Southeast, so the forest service has to maintain them with controlled burns and grazing livestock.
Because there are no trees on top of a bald, there’s no protection from storms or strong winds. As I stumbled my way to the summit, I was beaten down by the fierce currents. The only way I could make progress without toppling over was to struggle forward with my head down and body leaning at a sixty-degree angle into the oncoming wind.
In the rare moments when I was able to glance up and take in the view, I was captivated and left in tears. (Maybe the tears were caused by the piercing wind, but the view was truly one of the most stunning displays of natural beauty that I had even seen.) The taller mauve mountains with white peaks that encircled the bald made me feel like the centerpiece of a divine coliseum. It was as if I were a gladiator struggling against the forces of nature. The deafening wind evoked the roar of the crowd. I thought about the noisy, attentive fans at the basketball game the night before. Out here, the mountains were the spectators.
Escaping the coliseum with a rush of adrenaline, I returned to the inner chambers of the forest to face a new challenge. As the snow stopped gleaming and the sun started to hide behind the trees, I grew worried. I had not seen any other thru-hikers all day, and the miles in the Data Book no longer seemed to be corresponding to my trail miles. I was concerned that I had somehow diverted myself onto an adjoining trail and I wouldn’t be able to find my intended shelter for the evening. Suddenly I didn’t trust myself, the Data Book, or the white blazes leading me forward.
I finally arrived at a dark three-sided structure and let out a huge sigh of relief. My legs had never been off-track, just my mind.
With no one else at Walnut Mountain Shelter, I silently arranged my sleeping area and began preparing for bed. I was frightened to be the only one in the shelter. I no longer feared solo-camping in my tent, but in a shelter I never knew who might show up and join me. I wasn’t specifically worried about other hikers, but I think most women have a fear of waking up next to a strange man and not knowing how he got there.
Waking the next morning to an alarm on my wristwatch, I looked around in the dark shelter and discovered that I was still alone. I packed up my belongings and started on a very dark morning hike. I needed my headlamp for the first few miles up Bluff Mountain. The alarm on my watch hadn’t been set any differently, but daylight saving time meant that my usual start time was now an hour before sunrise. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been so keen about hiking in the dark and snow, but my promise to meet my dad in Hot Springs propelled me forward.
When the sun rose over the mountaintops, it was such a bright hue of electric orange that the snow beneath me glowed like the embers of a thriving fire. The brilliance was blinding, which made it hard to look up or down. The vividness of the color was breathtaking and left a memorable impression even as it softened to a calm yellow.
The early morning splendor rejuvenated my spirits and reinvigorated my aching body. The trail descended for the majority of the morning, and lower elevations meant less snow and better footing. It also helped that I had eaten most of my food, so my pack felt extra light.
When I arrived in Hot Springs, I was proud to have overcome thirty miles of snowy trail and excited to return home and watch the Tar Heels. Since my cell phone didn’t work, I found a pay phone and called my dad to arrange a pickup time. Once