Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [40]
I hadn’t passed anyone that day except the hunter. When I reached Little Hump, I could once again see the trail stretch into the distance before me, and there wasn’t another person in sight. It felt as if I had the entire mountain all to myself.
Little Hump offered uninterrupted views of the blue Ridge Mountains, which, true to their name, were now transforming from a barren brown to a kaleidoscope of blues. I followed the ridgeline to the top of neighboring Big Hump to watch the sunset. The sky was lit up with hues of orange, pink, and yellow that could never be duplicated in manufactured colors. And when the sun set, the mountains shed their shades of blue to reveal a majestic coat of purple.
I was overcome with awe. Spontaneously and without thought, I shouted, “Praise God!” into the wind.
Then I felt like a dork.
I had become comfortable singing out loud on the trail. But shouting into the wind—to a God that most folks on the trail rejected—felt weird. I mean, what if someone had heard me? What if a hunter had been hiding in the grass and now thought that I was some crazy person screaming to God on top of a mountain?
I hadn’t meant to think so much about God on the trail. I wasn’t really counting on Him to challenge me or change me. I thought that we would just maintain the status quo until I finished in Maine and started going back to church. But this evening, with the sunset, the scent of the mountains, and the noise of the crickets, I knew that God had planned it out for me. I remembered a verse in the Bible that said that even if humans failed to praise God, the rocks would sing out his glories. And that’s what they were doing—the mountains were singing the praises of God beautifully and without shame. I wished I could be more like a mountain.
The next morning I had a short jaunt to 19E where I planned to meet Heather. I woke up early, eager to reach a familiar face and a shower. I packed up my belongings and started hiking while the sky was still gray. As the sun rose over the horizon, I began to notice how faint the white blazes had become. It was almost if someone had tried to remove them from the trees and rocks that lined the path.
Eventually the trail left the woods and joined a gravel road through a rural neighborhood. The mobile homes that dotted the road were rundown: some were slanted, one had a crooked roof, and several had missing siding or broken windows. But all the modular units had at least one guard dog that came charging at me with teeth bared and slobber streaming down its jowls.
Big, small, it didn’t matter—I was terrified of every terrier, bloodhound, and indistinguishable mutt that ran in my direction. To make matters worse, I saw one woman stand at her window and smile as her two pit bulls growled, barked, and prepared to pounce.
When I arrived at the highway without being mauled, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had made it to the road, and soon Heather would be here to take me to her house. But then I remembered that Heather had said there would be a parking area here, and a sign . . . but there was nothing of the sort.
This wasn’t our meeting spot!
How could this have happened? I’d followed the white blazes here, but I must have taken the wrong trail—or the old trail.
I knew that the Appalachian Trail was slightly rerouted from year to year. Sometimes it was altered because of natural forces such as floods or rockslides, other times because of property rights and land easements, and occasionally trail maintainers decide to relocate the path for better views or easier climbs. I could see why the rerouting was necessary, but I didn’t know that the old blazes still existed and could lead hikers astray!
Without any clue where I was or which direction I should walk, I pulled out my cell phone to call Heather. It was dead.
I started to walk along the roadside, hoping she would drive by or that I would come across the official