Abandoned Roads, Part V

The coyotes howl throughout the night.  Before exhaustion forces me to sleep, I hear animals scurrying through high grasses, and I tell myself they are rabbits.  I wake before dawn as the blackness recedes and an unseen sun illuminates my surroundings.

I unspool the rope that suspends my food from a high tree branch.  I gorge on a breakfast of honey buns and cherry Poptarts.  I would never eat this at home because processed food is revolting, but I need heaping doses of sugar and fat.  The sweetness burns my teeth, so I brush them.  Then I find a dense copse of trees to use the bathroom, and I smother the evidence with a flat rock so that I don’t feel like a dog who has squatted in the yard.

 

I change out of my dry nighttime outfit and into my polyester hoody, running shorts, and compression shorts that serve as my underwear.  A morning breeze chills me, but my body will warm itself when I start walking.  I rub balm on the soles of my feet and stick bunion cushions on my scabbing heels and a blister on the side of my right foot.  I squeeze into my toesocks and step into my hiking shoes.  My calves are stiff because they are accustomed to constant motion.  I break down camp and stuff every piece of equipment into its compression bag.  I stuff the bags into my pack and carry my wardrobe, my bedroom, and my kitchen down the mountain and into a gulch near a deserted highway.

  

A narrow stream tunnels through a concrete pipe and falls into a muddy ravine by the trail.  I take out my filtration kit and fill my pouch and screw on the filter and squeeze potable water into my three liter reservoir.  The squeeze system is painstakingly slow, but it is lightweight and reliable.  As I bend down to fill my pouch for the fourth time, I hear a Southern voice say, “Is there water down there?”

Two older ladies with lean packs hike toward me.  I tell them there is a small creek, and we take turns filling our water pouches.  Their short hair and tranquil composure leads me to believe they are comfortably approaching their sixties.

The tall lady with brown hair uses the same filtration system as me, and I ask her what she thinks of it.  Talking about equipment is boring, but there is more knowledge to be gained by conversations with seasoned hikers rather than salesmen.  When the lady speaks her accent is strong.  She must be from the South, but her friend does not sound the same.  Although we are in the middle of the woods, there exists a gossip network.  Hikers spread word about other hikers in front of and behind them.  Through this grapevine, I overheard there is a French teacher on the trail, and I have a feeling I am meeting her now.

“I don’t even use a filter on most of these water sources,” the French teacher says.  “If the water is coming out of a rock on the mountain, that’s clean.”

Even if there was a dead animal upstream, the water would filter naturally through the earth.  She does not seem to worry about giardia or cryptosporidium, parasites that will give you diarrhea and leave you bedridden for a week.

Two younger ladies emerge from the woods opposite the highway and soon there is a congregation.  They are from southern Florida near Miami, so they are unaccustomed to the cool mountain air.  Both ladies have blonde hair and tattoos and backpacks that are way too heavy.  They seem to bond instantly with the older women.  I wonder if I should move forward or stick around for the company.  I have miles to make, but it has been a day since I’ve heard another human voice so I stay.

The women chat for a while about trail names, destinations, and a shirt they saw at Neel Gap that says What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger, Except Bears, Because Bears Will Kill You. The French teacher says she is not afraid of bears, and her friend says she is terrified of grizzlies and is weary to hike west of the Mississippi.  When you see a bear in the woods, the French teacher explains, usually you see their tail as they run away from you because they are afraid of you.

I am listening to the conversation until thoughts of the Snickers bar in my pocket dominate my focus.  The women start talking about the unexpected beauty of Georgia when someone asks for my opinion, and I say, “Oh, yeah, I’m all about the flora and fauna,” which produces a big laugh and now the attention is on me.  The French teacher asks me where I’m coming from and where I’m going.  By my answers she deduces that I’m racking up big miles.  I tell her I’m discovering the benefits of stretching out the daily hike rather than racing to the next shelter. 

“You want to shorten your stride,” the French teacher tells me.  “Hike up hills so that you don’t overexert yourself.  You won’t sweat as much.  You won’t stop as often, and you can keep going and going.  That’s how we hike,” she points to her friend with the brown hair and Southern accent.  “We’re slow, but we don’t stop.”

We start hiking up the mountain, and I pay attention to my pace.  I take my normal step forward and then shorten my stride.  Even as I slow down, I am hiking faster than the other women, so I wish them a good afternoon and plow ahead with my new mantra:  hike longer, not faster.  Be patient.  Take baby steps.