Her Beautiful Mind Read online

  I’m on my feet, climbing and moving upward even as her voice urges me on. The route seems to open in front of me—a toehold here, hands there, grab that tree limb and swing yourself over to the ledge. Granny’s voice is in my head, directing my movements as I scramble up the cliff face. Now go around to the other side of the boulder. Yes. See the rhododendron grove? If you can get behind it, they’ll never see you. Good, child, good. What’s that sound? Stop. Get down.

  Crouching behind a rock, I peer down at the trail below me. I knew it wouldn’t take long before the two men came looking for me. Just like Granny always said—they don’t look above them. Instead, they search the creek below and watch the road crossing and parking area. I study them while they stand there arguing about where I could have disappeared to.

  The gravel-voiced man is older, pot-bellied, with lank gray hair and short, bristled stubble on his face and neck. He’s wearing a too short, too tight T-shirt, which leaves a large swath of hairy stomach exposed. As I watch, he spits a large chaw of tobacco on the ground. My stomach turns at the sight of him. He’s like all the other old men who sat on the dead pecker bench in front of the local barbershop, chewing and spitting and ogling my 14-year-old body. The ones who sneered and whispered “squaw” as Granny and I walked by. He’s no threat to me now. I’m nearly 100 feet above him, and he couldn’t climb this mountainside if he wanted to.

  The other one—the younger man—is the dangerous one. Taller, fitter, with a full beard and long hair, he paces the ground angrily, trying to figure out how I got away. Briefly, he studies the cliff face, letting his eyes follow it upward, but he shakes his head as if to dismiss the possibility that a single woman could have climbed it. He’s the ringleader from elementary school, the one who led the chants of “half-breed” and thought the tomahawk hand chop and the Indian war whoop were sooo funny. The one who tripped me on the school bus, the one who pulled my braid so hard my eyes watered. He’s the one who could climb this rocky cliffside if he wanted to.

  They represent everything I thought I was escaping when I left Appalachia and went to MIT. The narrow-minded, self-righteous bullies who couldn’t see beyond their gender, race, or religion. Bullies aren’t confined to the backwoods small towns of my childhood, however. I found them in the educated East Coast elite, too. They may wear tailored wool slacks, cashmere sweaters, and red-soled stilettos, but for all their meticulously groomed perfection, they’re still bullies. Gia was a bully, and I let her degrade and manipulate me. I ran from everything I created and loved. And I’m sick of bullies.

  I can hear Granny’s voice as I contemplate what I’m about to do. No, child. Don’t look at them. Don’t let them know you heard them. Hold your head high and walk past them. No, Ariella, stay down; stay hidden. Her warning voice screams in my head. Stay safe.

  But I’m tired of turning away, of being safe. I’m tired of running.

  My movement causes dirt and a few pebbles to bounce down the cliff face, alerting the two men below me. When they look up, I kick a few larger rocks and laugh when they have to scurry out of the way.

  The old man stares at me, opened-mouthed in disbelief. The younger one scowls and flashes me a look of pure hatred when I stand upright and glare down at them.

  Raising both arms above my head, I extend my middle fingers in the universal salute of contempt. “Hey, assholes. You tryin’ to prove how big and strong you are by picking on someone smaller and weaker than you? Huh? Well, here I am, you inbred, limp-dicked, dumber than a sack of rocks, egg-suckin’, mealy-mouthed motherfuckers. Come and get me!”

  With one last kick, I send a large rock hurtling down the cliff face toward them. Then I turn and start climbing.

  Chapter 18

  And All the Day You’ll Have Good Luck

  Date: Tuesday, March 18

  Starting Location: Deep Gap Shelter

  Destination: Plumorchard Shelter

  Total Trip Miles: 71.1

  I climb as if my life depends on it, and I guess it actually does. My taunting has probably made the two men, particularly the younger one, very angry. I can’t risk him catching me. Another thirty feet and I’ve reached the top of the mountain where it begins to level off. Ducking behind a tree, I check the rocky cliff below.

  The older man has given up. I can see him walking along the trail toward the bridge and the truck parked there, but the younger one has decided to come after me. Thirty feet or so up the climb, he’s already chosen the wrong route. Stranded on a ledge, his only way off is to use a small sapling growing between some rocks and try to move sideways to a different group of boulders. The tree isn’t nearly big enough to support his weight, and it pulls loose when he grabs it.

  He tumbles down the mountainside, barely managing to right himself before sliding on his butt to a halt at the bottom. When he tries to stand, his leg gives way. I can hear his yelp of pain and cursing fit even from where I’m hiding. I watch a few more minutes as he tries to hobble toward the road crossing. Satisfied he’s no longer a threat, I begin making my way through the woods toward the Appalachian Trail.

  I know the trail is somewhere to my right. To keep myself from straying too far off course, I pick several points of reference in the direction I want to go. An unusually tall evergreen, a large rock formation, a glimpse of color from blooming wildflowers, anything unique I can use to orient myself. As I reach each one, I look for the next and continue.

  There’s very little undergrowth this time of year, so I’m able to hike without too much effort. I’m still very aware of where I step and continually search the area in front of me for any hidden hazards. Before long, I find a narrow animal trail heading in the direction I want to go, and I’m able to increase my pace. When I reach a large rock formation near the summit of the mountain, I scramble to the top and see the AT below me on the side of the hill. Fifteen minutes later, I’m headed north toward Plumorchard Gap Shelter.

  ~***~

  With three different levels of sleeping platforms, Plumorchard is one of the bigger, nicer shelters on the AT. The highest is tucked away under the overhang at the front of the shelter and is reached by a ladder attached to one of the side walls. The other two platforms face the open front. Concrete covers the ground at the entryway and helps prevent mud and dirt from being tracked in. A wooden picnic table offers hikers a place to cook and sit. The shelter is packed when I get there.

  A Boy Scout troop has taken over the highest platform under the overhang, and a high school hiking club with their chaperones is on the lowest level. The leaders are currently making all the boys move to one side of the platform and the girls to the other side while they lay out their sleeping bags between the two groups. I chuckle to myself, wondering how much sneaking around will go on after the adults go to sleep.

  Just when I’m about to decide to pitch my tent outside, a voice above my head invites me to join them on the middle level. When I look up, I see a woman’s face smiling down at me. “There’s still some room up here,” she says. “And you’re more than welcome to join us. You’ll have to use the ladder to get up here though.”

  The sleeping platform is deep enough to allow plenty of room to navigate around the hikers who are busy unpacking and settling in for the night. They all look like seasoned backpackers as they arrange their space and store their gear efficiently, hanging their food bags from chains attached to the ceiling. Most of them greet me with a nod or hello as I make my way across the wooden deck toward the two women smiling and waving me over.

  “There should be enough room for you here,” the first one says as she moves gear around to open a space beside her.

  “Thanks,” I reply, shrugging out of my backpack and pulling out my sleeping pad and bag.

  “Oh, no problem,” she answers with a grin. “I’m Wonderland, by the way, and this is—”

  “Yellow,” I interrupt, finishing her sentence. “Sorry, I’ve see
n your entries in the registers, and your trail names caught my attention. I’ve been trying to think of some meaning behind ‘Yellow,’ but I never thought about yellow hair.”

  Yellow grins at me, laughing as she tells me I’m not the first person who’s told her that. “I’ve had people ask me if my name meant I only wore yellow clothes, or if my favorite color is yellow. But I tell them all, ‘Sorry, hun, it’s just my yeller hair.’”

  When she speaks, it’s obvious where Yellow is from. Her Texas accent is quite pronounced.

  “Curly Dan would love you,” I can’t help saying out loud. At her questioning look, I hurry to explain. “I met Curly Dan and No Filter a couple days ago. Curly is a linguist from England, and we’ve had some interesting discussions about accents and dialects. He would love your accent.”

  “You mean my ‘Texas twang.’” She laughs again.

  “Exactly,” I agree, smiling back at her. “So, Yellow from Texas, and you’re Wonderland from … Wait, your real name wouldn’t happen to be Rose, would it?”

  My question sends both women into gales of laughter. “Oh, I like this one,” says Yellow, nudging Wonderland. “Can we keep her?” She gives me a sheepish look when they finally calm down. “Sorry, we’re bein’ a bit rude here. It’s just you’re the first person who’s asked that question. We’ve been wonderin’ when someone would. I was losin’ faith in the IQs of my fellow hikers until you came along. I guess you’re smarter than the average hiker. My name is actually Rosemary. Nice ta meet ya …”

  “Ella,” I reply to her unspoken question.

  The smile she gives me is as warm and friendly as a Texas summer day. She makes me feel welcomed, much the way I felt with No Filter and Curly Dan. I hope I’ll be able to spend more time with her.

  “Can you guess Wonderland’s real name?” Rosemary interrupts my thoughts when she turns to her friend.

  “Well, my first thought was Dorothy because we’re all walking through a nature wonderland. Like, you know, the ‘Land of Awes’ or something. But now I’m wondering if she fell down the rabbit hole to get here instead of flying in on a tornado.” Rosemary’s grin tells me I’m on the right track. “So, I’m thinking you must be Alice.”

  Wonderland’s grin tells me I’m getting close. “It’s actually Allison.” She laughs. “As in Allison Wonderland.”

  Then it’s my turn to laugh. “Clever, very clever.”

  She turns to Yellow with a grin. “Yeah, I agree; this one’s smart. We should keep her, sis.”

  I frown briefly, wondering if they could be sisters. They don’t look alike or sound alike. Before I can ask, Wonderland turns to me and asks if my trail name is for Cinderella.

  “Could be,” I admit. “Although No Filter wanted to call me Salmonella because of a hiker upset stomach.” Realizing they’ve both shared their real names with me I add, “My real name is Ariella.”

  “Oh, that’s better,” she replies. “We could call you Ari, or better yet Bella as in Beauty and the Beast.”

  “That was Belle, not Bella,” Yellow scolds her hiking partner. “Get your stories straight, Disney girl. She could be Beauty from Sleeping Beauty.”

  “I thought that was Aurora,” Wonderland argues, turning to face Yellow.

  “No, Briar Rose,” Yellow answers.

  “Maybe that’s what we should have named you.” Wonderland scowls. “You’re getting as prickly as a thorn bush. You probably need to get—”

  “Now listen here …”

  Gathering my food bag, stove, and cooking pot, I start making my way toward the ladder and the picnic table below. When I glance back, the two are still arguing about Disney princesses. Maybe they really are sisters. I smile to myself.

  It’s only later, sitting at the table waiting for my dinner to cook, when the full implications of what I did this afternoon begins to hit me. Although it felt really good to stand up to the bullies, taunting the two men wasn’t the smartest or the safest thing to do. I could have stayed hidden and they would never have known where I was, what I looked like, or what direction I was heading.

  My mind starts imagining all sorts of scenarios. Could they be at the next road crossing, waiting for me? Did I make them angry enough to hurt the next hiker who came along? I know some of the people in this shelter are probably headed south toward Dicks Creek Gap. What if one of them gets hurt because of me? My heart races and my hands shake as I frantically think about what I should do.

  I’m startled out of my panic when two warm hands reach out to hold mine.

  “Ella? What’s going on, sweetie?”

  I look up to find Yellow’s worried face across the table from me. “Oh, Rosemary, I think I’ve done something really stupid, and I don’t know what to do about it,” I manage to whisper.

  “Well, my nana always told me two heads were better’n one. So maybe you should tell me what happened, and we can figure it out together.”

  At her urging, I tell the whole story. Everything that happened, everything that was said, and my fear I may have made the situation worse; I let the words spill out, holding nothing back. Yellow listens until I’m finished before saying anything. She asks for more details about the location, what the men looked like, what they were wearing, what I heard, what I said, would I recognize them if I saw them again? Her questions are pointed, direct, and designed to help me recall every detail. Her manner changes completely as we talk. Gone is the laid-back, friendly hiker. Instead, she’s efficient, skillful, and professional. Even her accent has disappeared.

  By the time we finish talking, my dinner is ready. While I eat, Yellow sits quietly, frowning slightly as she considers everything I’ve told her. Abruptly, she gets up, walks over to the side of the shelter, and returns with the register.

  “Okay, first thing, I want you to write everything you’ve told me in the register. Sign your trail name and date it. If those two come looking for you, which I doubt, they won’t be able to learn your real name. Every southbounder who stops here will see the entry and be warned about what could be waiting for them at Dicks Creek.

  “Second, I’m going to get everyone’s attention, and I want you to tell your story again. You don’t have to give all the details this time, just enough so everyone understands what happened and how serious the situation is.

  “Then, I’m going to get the leaders, chaperones, and the hikers down here and come up with a plan for getting this reported to the proper authorities.”

  I must look slightly aghast at her suggestions because she stares at me pointedly. “This is serious shit we’re talking about here. These guys didn’t just threaten you; they’ve already hurt someone. We need to stop them before it escalates into something worse. Next time this happens, someone could die.”

  She puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles so loudly it hurts my ears. The shelter immediately goes quiet. “Hey, listen up,” she yells. “Ella here had a dangerous encounter at Dicks Creek Gap this evening. She’s going to tell y’all what happened, and you need to listen up, ’specially you southbounders. When she gets finished, I want all the leaders, chaperones, and hikers down here for a quick meeting so we can decide how to alert the police and sheriffs’ departments.”

  Everywhere I look, faces are watching me, waiting for me to speak. Fifteen teenage Boy Scouts and their three leaders stare down at me from the top sleeping deck. The high school students and their teachers are sitting on the lower level, ready for my words. Hikers gather on the edge of the middle platform. I can feel their eyes on me and their expectations. For a moment, I’m back in New York, reliving my disastrous presentation. But as I look around, I don’t see judgement or disdain or pity; instead, there is only interest and a willingness to listen to what I have to say. Swallowing my nervousness, I tell my story.

  Afterward, Yellow meets with the adults, and I start writing everything in the register. I’m not quite fini
shed writing when the meeting is over, and everyone returns to their spots and starts settling in for the night. Most of them take a moment to thank me for sharing my story and wish me a safe hike. Yellow stops and discusses what was decided.

  The Scouts are headed south. One of the leaders will get in touch with the local sheriff when they get to Dicks Creek. The high school students are from the area but are headed north. My description of the two men sounds like a few people they might know. When their hike is finished and they return home, they’ll also talk to the police. Southbound and northbound hikers will help spread the word by telling everyone they meet and by writing a warning in the shelter registers. Wishing me goodnight, she leaves me to my writing.

  By the time I finally finish, it’s dark and the shelter is quiet. A few soft snores, a cough or two, and the grunt of someone shifting around on their sleeping pad are the only sounds. It’s cooling off quickly, but I take a few moments to enjoy the stillness and reflect on this long, eventful day.

  I spent the morning with two new friends, and the afternoon with my cousin rehashing and reliving events from my past. I found a penny and picked it up, then faced down two bullies. I ended the day by speaking to a shelter full of people, and I didn’t panic. When I go to sleep tonight, it will be beside two new friends. Perhaps I really did have good luck “all the day.”

  A warm sleeping bag is waiting for me when the cold temperature finally forces me to end my musing. Wonderland opens her eyes when she hears me settling in beside her.