Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [94]
When I arrived at the top of Bear Mountain, I found myself completely alone. The helpful tip I had left myself in my Data Book read “Bear Mountain—Very CROWDED.” Since bear Mountain State Park was just forty miles from New York City, I figured it must be crowded most of the time—just not in a nor’easter, and not when I needed company.
The precipitation permeated my clothes and soaked my skin, and as the sun sank towards the horizon, the temperature dropped. I could see my breath in the air, my nose was cold to the touch, and my fingers looked white. I was in the midst of a twenty-six-mile stretch of trail that didn’t have a shelter, and I was inside a state park that didn’t allow tent camping. I hiked to the end of the park, where I thought I could stay in the bear Mountain Lodge, but when I arrived, I found it was closed for renovations.
I tried to get back to the trail from the lodge, but I became disoriented and wandered over to Bear Mountain Lake’s paved pedestrian trail. I felt out of place; I was no longer on the trail, but I couldn’t find civilization either. Shivering and trying to hold back tears, I stopped under a covered park information kiosk to try to regain my composure. I looked down to the lake and saw a mother goose sheltering three goslings under her wing.
I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, and I pulled out my cell phone to call my parents.
My dad, hearing the tremors in my voice as I told the story, insisted that I get to a road and find the nearest lodging, promising to pay for several nights of rest. My mom, in the meantime, had looked online and found that Bear Mountain Lodge was operating an alternate inn during the renovations.
My parents stayed on the phone with me as I wandered around the lake and up a neighboring hill to find the obscure, dimly lit inn.
The rooms were dark, the attendant was inept, and the only food available was in a fifty-year-old vending machine in the lobby, but in exchange for an outrageous 100 fee, I had a clean, dry bed, a musty room, and a warm bath with brown water.
After treating myself to a 1.50 dinner from the vending machine and a long, murky bath, I was ready for bed, so when my cell phone started ringing, it took all the emotional energy I had to pick it up and talk with Magic Momma.
I had exchanged numbers with Nightwalker’s mom in the Shenandoahs, and she was calling to check on me. She had read about the suicide in another hiker’s online trail journal. I knew that news traveled quickly down the trail by word of mouth and shelter logs, but I hadn’t thought about people finding out through blogs and internet journals.
“Oh my God, I’m so glad you picked up,” Magic Momma said. “I’ve been worried sick about you. How are you?”
“Oh, I’ve been better, but I’ll be okay,” I said.
“Well, where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”
“I’m at Bear Mountain State Park, but I’ve paid for my room already and it’s almost midnight. Don’t worry, I’ll be all right. Really.”
“Well, I’m just an hour away in Connecticut, so if you need anything tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day—if you ever need anything, call me. Okay?
“Okay.”
I had no intention of calling Magic Momma back, but I knew that she wouldn’t hang up unless I left it as a possibility. It was nice of her to call, but I was fine. Really, I was fine.
I called Magic Momma at 9:00 the next morning.
After sleeping for six hours, I dressed in wet hiking clothes, put on my pack, walked through the lobby and out the front door. That was as far as I got.
It was forty degrees, pouring down rain, and the