Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [34]
Tonight they felt like overindulgent, inconsiderate houseguests. They came to the trail with full stomachs, and they continued to eat throughout the weekend, filling the campground with tempting aromas and stuffing their faces in front of starving thru-hikers. They hiked less than ten miles a day and usually settled into camp before 4:00 PM. And worst of all, on nights like tonight—nights when the clouds hung low and threatened rain—they filled an entire shelter with their stogies, whiskey, and laughter without leaving any room for tired thru-hikers.
As I set up my tent near Second Gear and three other unfortunate thru-hikers, my frustration festered. It just didn’t seem fair that I had to sleep outside in the rain tonight and pack up a wet tent tomorrow morning, carry it all day, and unpack a wet tent again tomorrow night, when the weekenders only had to hike two and a half miles to their cars at Sam’s Gap and drive home to their warm, soft, dry beds. There might not have been a hierarchy among thru-hikers, but I definitely felt like we should be able to pull rank over weekenders.
As I had predicted, when I awoke the next morning, I heard a heavy rain falling. After much delay, I began the Tai Chi of getting dressed inside my sagging shelter before grudgingly stepping out into the dreary downpour. I packed up my soaking tent with cold fingers and stuffed it inside my drenched pack. Then, leaving behind the giggling, dry weekenders and their breakfasts that smelled of bacon, I started hiking uphill, in a layer of rain gear, with just my nose sticking out.
The trail began that morning with an unrelenting climb up a muddy slope. My rain gear kept out most of the external moisture, but my base layer became soaked with sweat from the lack of airflow inside my “breathable” rain clothes. As the elevation gain brought me into increasingly colder air, the damp sweat chilled my core and left my teeth chattering and my body shivering.
When I reached the ridgeline, I found myself on a long stretch of exposed trail that wandered over the supposedly scenic Big Bald. The only view I had was of the faint dirt path beneath my feet. The bald was smothered with a fast-moving fog that was pushed across the grassy landscape by a strong, blustery wind. I could not lift my foot off the ground without the wind forcing it several inches off the trail. The way my legs crossed and my feet flew up in the air, I felt more like a country-western line dancer than a hiker.
I thought back to Max Patch and the challenge of crossing over its exposed summit. These balds were supposed to be the most rewarding sections of the Appalachian Trail in the Southeast, yet I found myself wanting to hike over them as quickly as possible.
I was absorbed with the task of walking forward when a strong gust of wind swept over the mountain and blew my pack lid open like a sail. The added resistance caused me to stumble off the trail and land with my hands and feet planted on the frost-covered straw that lined the path.
I quickly jumped to my feet and tried to secure my pack, but the wind made it almost impossible, and before I could fasten the buckles, my fleece mittens flew from the top of my pack into the dense white mist. I desperately tied a quick knot in my pack strap to keep the rest of my belongings contained, then threw it over my shoulder, and started into the abyss to find my mittens.
Thankfully, they were caught in a frost-covered hedge a few feet away. I immediately put them on, and then looked around to try to locate the trail. All I could see was a fast-moving sheet of white and the ground directly below my feet. I zigzagged for several minutes looking for the small strand of dirt. Then, when I found it, I guessed which direction to follow it in.
Praying that I was in fact on the Appalachian Trail and headed north, I soon caught the outline of someone hiking in front of me. As I drew near, I could make out a petite woman who was struggling even more than I was to press through