Abandoned Roads, Part VIII

I emerge from the woods and alight upon a highway.  Across the road there is a picnic table where a hippy-looking fella with long hair sits and eats a Boars Head sandwich and a plastic container of berries.  He calls out to me.

“Yo, man, you want some strawberries?”

I have been dreaming of berries, and the universe has provided.  I sit next to the hiker and notice the dog sitting quietly near him.  The dog looks friendly but disheveled like his owner.  The hiker’s light brown beard is a thin and patchy cloak, and he wears one of those sweaters I associate with llama herders.  His laidback tone suggests there is little in this world that makes him angry.  He slides the container of berries toward me.

 

“You can have them all,” the hiker says.

The container is nearly filled with an assortment of strawberries and blueberries.  I have trouble suppressing my urge to dig into this feast, but I am unaccustomed to such unabashed generosity from strangers, so I hesitate.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I’ve got this sandwich,” he says while munching.  “I’ve got enough.”

I thank him and devour his gift. 

“Do you know if there’s a shuttle from here to Hiawassee?” I ask.

He points to a van on the side of the road that says Top of Georgia Hostel. 

“I can give you a ride.”

For twenty-something dollars I can stay at a hostel a half mile up the road, and he will be shuttling people into town every hour from one to four o’clock.  I inspect the van, and it is clean and professional-looking.  It is not the kind of van you would use to abduct somebody in the woods.  Then I inspect the driver who is scratching his dogs’ ears.  He seems harmless, so I accept his offer.

“That was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” I say. 

I had anticipated taking a five-dollar shuttle to a hostel in the town of Hiawassee, but I had no cash on me and was wondering how that situation would play out.  But now there is nothing to worry about because I have free berries and a free ride.

 

The hiker and his dog and I walk toward the van.  He opens the trunk and I plop my pack down and go to the passenger door but it is locked.  I pull a few times and then open the backdoor instead.  When I climb inside, the driver tells me that shotgun is reserved for his dog.  He pets his dog and speaks to him the way people do when talking to infants and to those who do not understand English.  Before there is time for polite conversation, we pull into a driveway in front of the hostel.  I thank the driver and head toward the front door, where I am greeted by a Southern grandmother nicknamed Buttercup.  She is radiant with a natural warmth that comes from living in a place that you love.

“Welcome,” she says.  “Before you go inside, leave your pack and your boots outside on the porch.” 

I follow the rules and head inside to take a seat at a long table.  Buttercup briefly massages my shoulders and offers me a soda.

 

“The first one is free,” she says, and I order a Coke. 

The can is cold because faraway power plant engines combusted and produced electricity that controlled the temperature in a big metal box called a refrigerator.  I guzzle down the soda and sign a piece of paper agreeing to pay twenty-some dollars for a bed and a shower.  I feel funny to be so dirty and smelly inside a house.  

On the dining room wall there is a painting of the Appalachian Trail, a black squiggly line that meanders through fourteen states whose shapes are imperfectly illustrated.  Beside the trail are many popular features found along the way.  There are lakes, waterfalls, flowers, and the eyes of animals at night.

On the opposite wall is a list of tips to successfully thru-hike the Appalachian Trail:  Be mentally prepared.  Be physically fit.  Know your equipment. Save up enough money. Secure your relationships at home.

Years ago, I had planned this hike as a single man with no intention on forming attachments.  Things did not go according to plan because I found somebody I didn’t expect to find.  When I read that sign on the wall I knew that the timing of this journey was not right.  It was time yet again to scratch this plan and design a new future.  This trail through the wilderness will always be there if I need it.  Love cannot be a back-up plan.

Buttercup tells me there is so much to see on the trail ahead of me, and I nod my head in agreement, but we are not talking about the same trail.  She explains that laundry is five dollars extra, and the staff will wash the clothes for me and give me hospital scrubs so that I don’t have to be naked while my only two outfits are soaking in detergent.

“If you want to go into town while your clothes are in the wash, you can,” Buttercup says, “The townspeople are used to seeing hikers in scrubs.  Just don’t answer any medical questions.”

She hands me a towel and the scrubs and shows me to my bunk in a detached housing unit.  The mattress is surprisingly hard but softer than the wooden platforms I have been sleeping on.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Buttercup says and returns to the main building.

I step into the bathroom and inspect myself in the mirror.  I have lost over fifteen pounds and notice the disappearance of extra flesh that usually sits on my cheeks and the base of my neck.  My hair is wild and unkempt; my beard is patchy but thicker than I have ever worn it.  I wanted to grow my hair and my beard out for months to embrace my primitive side.  I wanted to alter my appearance so that I wouldn’t recognize myself any longer because maybe if I did this I could witness my own transformation.  I wanted to experiment with a new lifestyle to stave off boredom and have a story worth telling.  But now I want to cut my hair and shave my beard and scrub away the dirt that is caked into my skin.