Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [60]
My senses started to deceive me. The wind through the leaves sounded like a rushing creek, and any time something moved or glistened in the forest I would see water before realizing that it was the sunlight reflecting off a low-lying bush or a swaying branch.
Just when I decided to no longer trust my eyes or ears, I saw a small brook lining the trail. I ran up to it and plunged my hand into the gurgling current. It was real!
I began scooping up water with my hands while filling up my water bottle. When the bottle was full, I drank the entire thirty-two ounces, refilled it, then drank another thirty-two ounces without pausing.
Within seconds, I felt like I was going to throw up. My stomach was queasy and my head started to spin, but I didn’t care because my organs were expanding.
I laid against my pack for several minutes so my stomach could settle and the water could disperse itself throughout my body. Occasionally I would dip my fingers in the clear water beside me and press my chilled wet hands against my forehead and neck. I was so thankful for this brook! It was humbling to realize how dependent I was on water sources during this journey. At home, I never appreciated water because it is always available, but lying beside the brook and listening to the water splash over the earth, I realized how precious and important clean water is. When I left the stream, I carried as much as my water bottles would hold.
Twenty minutes later, it rained.
Half an hour before, I would have done anything for a drop of water, and now the storm left water streaming down my face and cascading over the crevasses and gullies that lined the trail.
I looked up to the sky and laughed. At home, I was god. Water depended on me: I could turn it on and off with the twist of a knob. Out here, I was dependent on nature. The rain shower reminded me that I was not in control; I was part of something much bigger than myself.
The rain continued into the evening, and I was thankful to reach Sarver Hollow Shelter just before dusk. I was about forty yards away when I heard a scuffle from under the wooden roof. I looked up in time to see a big black-and-white dog leap out of the shelter in my direction. He barked ferociously as he sprinted toward me, and I instinctively held my mop stick in front of me to fend him off. He stopped a few feet away from me, dug in his paws, lowered his shoulders, and bared his teeth as he growled.
Then I heard laughter. A female hiker emerged from the shelter, yelling, “Katahdin, katahdin, you silly boy. Get back here!”
The dog immediately turned, wagged his tail, and trotted back toward the shelter.
The woman called out, “Hey there! I’m out hiking for the weekend and I always bring my dog, Katahdin. He’s just trying to protect me.”
She named her dog Katahdin? Dogs aren’t even allowed on Mount katahdin!
I took a deep breath and approached the shelter. Ten steps later, the dog charged back at me, sounding a death bark.
“Katahdin, quit that! Stop it! Don’t worry,” she called to me. “He’s friendly, he just needs to get to know you.”
When I finally made it to the shelter, the woman called her dog over to sniff me so that we could be “friends.” Katahdin’s version of making friends involved startling me with a low growl, then circling me with his teeth bared and drool strands hanging from his mouth.
“There now,” the lady said with an oblivious smile. “Now everyone knows each other!”
I love dogs. At least, I thought I did. But the trail was causing me to seriously reconsider that stance. Pets are supposed to be leashed on almost half of the Appalachian Trail, but I had yet to see a single dog owner obey the leash laws. Instead, I saw dogs barking and growling at people, chasing wildlife, mucking up water sources, and taking up room in shelters. I had met several wonderful dogs on the trail, but unfortunately the poorly behaved ones left the more lasting impression.
And I didn’t blame the dogs, I blamed the owners. I didn