Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [37]
For the first time since I started the trail, I thought, “This is not fun.” Not that being struck by lightning, caught in a blizzard, or getting lost in the fog on top of Big bald had been fun, but it had all been new, and I had been filled with adrenaline. Hiking uphill in the rain was not new anymore.
I was tired, I was hungry, and the whole experience of walking day after day had started to feel, well . . . repetitive. I began to think about how far away Maine was, and about all the other cold, wet climbs that awaited me along the way. I started to doubt that I could physically make it to the end of the trail. And as my despair grew, so did the mountain.
I tried to occupy my mind with thoughts other than hiking, but the ache in my shoulders, the hunger pains in my stomach, and the burning in my calves made it impossible to think about anything else. In the midst of my struggle, I held onto the simplest, most concise piece of hope that I could think of: Every step I take is a step closer to Maine, I thought. Every step I take is a step closer to Maine.
At first I repeated it in my head, but then I began to say the words aloud, and with every new step I would utter my mantra.
“Every step I take is a step closer to Maine. Every step I take is a step closer to Maine!”
I knew that Maine was still a long way off—over eighteen hundred miles—but I needed to think about it. I needed to know that, although I was currently in a state of pain and discomfort, I was also constantly moving toward an end-goal. This sense of progress propelled me up the mountain, and when I finally reached the summit, I was depleted, but I was there—a little farther than where I had started, and a little closer to Maine.
To celebrate my summit, dark clouds gathered overhead and clapped in applause. Soon their thunderous approval was accompanied by a stunning light display and a downpour of rain. The electrical storm gave me what I had lacked all morning—adrenaline. I slalomed through the confusing pine forest on top of Unaka, desperately searching for white blazes.
The entire mountaintop was covered in pine trees, and the ground was blanketed with pine straw. I couldn’t see a definitive dirt path anywhere, and the lightning had me panicked. Everything looked the same, and I felt like I was stuck in a maze or an amusement park funhouse.
I kept having flashbacks to being struck by lightning. Every time a brilliant white flash lit up the forest, my spine stiffened and my body froze in fear. My mind now associated each bolt of lightning with the intense pain that had traveled through my body weeks before. I remembered the story about the ranger in Shenandoah National Park who had been struck by lightning seven times, and I tried even harder to find my way off of the mountain.
Once I was through the evergreens, the path again took form, and I quickly descended the backside of the ridge. Trying to rush, I stepped on a slick rock and slid several feet down a muddy slope to the switchback below. My fall served as a shortcut, but it also left me sore, scraped, and covered in mud. I continued to hobble along at a decent pace, trying to use rainwater to rinse the brown sludge off my body, but when the downpour let up and the lightning ceased, I lost all motivation.
I knew I was within a mile or two of the shelter where I planned to spend the night, but I still couldn’t do anything more than plod clumsily down the trail. I felt as if I were inebriated: there was little connection between my mind and body, and I had a hard time focusing on the forest or my feet. The only thing that kept me moving forward was three weeks of muscle memory.
After trudging along for what seemed like an eternity, I arrived at the Cherry Gap Shelter—only to look around in dismay at the many people who already occupied the small building. I didn’t have the energy to set up my wet tent tonight.
With my head down, I muttered halfheartedly, “Is there any more room in the shelter?”
I wasn’t even sure if anyone had heard me, but then a mature Southern accent quickly