Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [76]
The short-term backpackers greeted me warmly, made room in the shelter, and offered me food. There was a ten-year-old girl out for an overnight with her mom and aunt. She was a sharp kid who asked me some great questions about thru-hiking, and even volunteered to refill my water bottle at the spring so that I wouldn’t have to walk any farther.
It had been a very redemptive evening, until I laid down for bed and started to smell something funny. I propped myself up to look around the shelter, and a few feet away, I saw Pluto lighting up. Right next to two old men, just a few feet away from a little girl, her mom, and her aunt! I couldn’t believe it.
These weekenders and section-hikers were going to hate thru-hikers. They were going to think we were all pot-smoking hippies who lit up at night in the shelters near impressionable children. Pluto caught my eye and offered me a hit. I simply shook my head and lay back down.
Thru-hikers can be so inconsiderate.
The state of Virginia encompasses almost one-fourth of the entire Appalachian Trail. After hiking over five hundred miles in the state, it felt strange but gratifying to be in West Virginia, which covers less than twenty-five miles, or about one percent of the trail.
I had been looking forward to West Virginia for two reasons: to get out of Virginia, and to see my cousin Wendy.
Wendy was a great friend, a respected nutritionist, and a phenomenal mother. Her daughter Lila was my favorite two-year-old on the planet. But above all, Wendy was family. And after a thousand miles of hiking, I was ready to see some family.
It’s funny how being isolated on the trail had made me feel more connected to friends and family. My off-trail visits felt like aid stations along a race course. They provided the help, encouragement, and rest I needed to make it to Maine.
Wendy was fifteen years older than me, so along with being my cousin, she was also a little like a mom or a cool older sister. And like any good older relative, she wanted to make sure that I was taking care of myself on the trail.
“So what have you been eating?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t approve,” I replied, trying to avoid the lecture that I knew was coming.
“What do you mean I wouldn’t approve? You’re eating fruits and vegetables, right?”
“Honestly, Wendy, I can’t remember the last time I ate something I didn’t have to unwrap.”
Wendy looked at me with wide eyes and an open mouth.
“Let me see your eyes,” she said.
“What?”
“Let me see your eyes.”
Wendy held my chin and stared into my eyes.
“Well, your pupils don’t look cloudy, so that’s good. You’re probably burning off most of the toxins before they can settle into your system.”
Even though my eyes passed her test, Wendy refused to drive home until we had stopped at a grocery store to load up on fresh produce for the weekend, and hiking foods that were healthy, high-energy, and all natural.
For me, the over-stimulation started in the parking lot, where cars beeped and honked and positioned themselves for prime parking spots. I had hiked one thousand miles to this grocery store, and these people got upset if they had to walk one hundred yards to the front door?
I had never been to a Wegmans before, and judging from the outside of the building, it was going to be a memorable trip. Wegmans was the size of Wal-Mart, but it didn’t have a home goods section or clothing, it was just a grocery store—the biggest grocery store that I had ever seen.
I was completely disoriented when I walked inside. It wouldn’t have been so overwhelming if I hadn’t just come from the woods. However, after a month and a half on the trail, it was hard to process the tsunami of scents, sounds, and colors that crashed down on me beyond the automatic doors.
To my left there was a large bakery, a floral department, a hot food buffet, an international food buffet, a salad bar, and a sushi station; to my right was a line of cashiers that extended into the horizon; and in front of me was an olive bar the size of a trail shelter.
I watched men with shopping carts experience road rage