Her Beautiful Mind Page 2
Camping isn’t allowed in this area. I’ll need to leave soon to find a spot to put up my tent before it gets too dark to see. There are some campsites close to the nearest shelter, and water is available there, too. It’s less than a mile or so up the trail and a fairly easy walk. I should be there in plenty of time. Taking one last look around the now deserted summit, I’m surprised to feel myself suddenly smiling. Writing my thoughts to Hudson has relieved some of the confusion and sadness I’ve been feeling for the last week. A sense of acceptance and purpose rises as I take my first steps northward on the Appalachian Trail.
Everything is going to be fine, I tell myself. I’m going to be fine. I’m going to be okay.
Chapter 3
Memories
Date: Wednesday, March 12
Starting Location: Springer Mountain Shelter
Destination: Hawk Mountain Shelter
Total Trip Miles: 7.6
After a restless night of howling winds determined to collapse my tent around me, I finally wake to a beautiful spring day. Cool, with a cloudless, clear blue sky and a gentle breeze to stir the tops of the still leafless trees, it’s as if the forest is welcoming me back home with the perfect hiking day. The trail rewards me with an easy hike, a few ups and downs, and plenty of shade in the afternoon from towering old-growth evergreens.
A side trail leads me to Long Creek Falls where I take a much-needed break. Shoes and socks off, I let my tired feet soak in the icy water while rummaging in my pack for jerky, dried fruit, and some trail mix for dessert. The sound of the rushing water is soothing, and I lean back against the warm rocks, enjoying the sunshine on my face. The quiet is broken only by the sounds of nature: splashing water, singing birds, the rustle of leaves, and the sigh of the breeze. I’ve missed these sounds. New York City was loud—traffic and horns and sirens, people arguing on the sidewalks and in apartment hallways, TVs and music blaring—but here it is calm, peaceful. I feel the tranquility of this place seep into my bones.
~***~
I wake with a start, my movement surprising the tiny junco busy pecking the crumbs from my pant leg. He hops off my thigh but stays close, cocking his head to study me with his dark eyes. I have a few tiny pieces of dried fruit left, and I slowly, carefully, slide them onto the rock between us. After a moment, he cautiously approaches, watching me warily as he resumes eating. He moves on to the next piece, trusting but attentive to any movement on my part. I have to admire his bravery.
My Granny Cora loved dark-eyed juncos. They were regular visitors to our cabin during the winter when most of our songbirds left due to the cold mountain weather. Many afternoons, I would trudge home from school to find her waiting on the front porch steps surrounded by a flock of juncos eating the birdseed she would toss to them. Sometimes, the braver birds would even eat from her hand.
“Just look at them, Ariella,” she would say. “So small, so plain, so easy to ignore beside all the fancier, more colorful birds. They aren’t the best singers or the strongest flyers, yet they survive even in the worst weather and conditions because they don’t know they are small, and plain, and vulnerable. They believe in themselves and their place in the world.”
Then she would pat the step beside her, inviting me to sit and tell her all about my day.
She was easy to talk to, my Granny Cora. She never interrupted my rambling descriptions of what I learned or did in school, always patient with my stuttering and stammering. After my second-grade teacher discovered me working through the problems in an advanced high school algebra book, and after I’d been tested and then placed in a class for gifted math students, the vocabulary of my school-day descriptions became full of esoteric mathematical terms she had no way of understanding with her limited eighth-grade education. But even then, she always listened patiently, nodding at my accounts of asymptotes, or conic sections, or Fibonacci sequences.
I don’t remember when I began living with her. She said I was a toddler when the police found me alone in an apartment after Charlotte, my mother and her daughter, was struck and killed by a car while crossing a street late one night. Gran hadn’t seen Charlotte in years and didn’t know of my existence. A search of the meager belongings in the run-down apartment turned up a birth certificate listing my biological father as Davis Johnson, but he was never found and I never had any contact with him. Granny knew nothing about him.
I was sixteen when she passed away. By then, I was already attending MIT and living with Dr. Albright, one of my professors, and his family. She had been ill for some time but managed to keep it a secret, not wanting to worry me or interrupt my education. Even now, eight years later, I still miss her.
The little junco has finished the crumbs I’ve given him, but he waits patiently beside me, as if asking for more. “Granny, is that you?” I whisper. He tilts his head again, his black eyes, so like hers, blinking at my question. Spreading his wings, he flits to the nearest tree before filling the air with his tinkling song as if to remind me the trail is waiting for me and it’s time to move on.
Standing, I stretch before shouldering my backpack and heading along the side trail to the AT.
His song keeps me company as I hike north.
Chapter 4
Pain
Date: Thursday-Friday, March 13-14
Starting Location: Campsite five miles past Woody Gap Road
Destination: Neels Gap
Total Trip Miles: 30.7
On a hot afternoon two days later, I stumble down the steep, rocky descent from Blood Mountain to US Highway 19 at Neels Gap. The AT crosses the road at the Walasi-Yi Center, a stone and timber building constructed in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps. A visitor’s center occupies one-half of the building while the other half houses an outdoor outfitter’s store called Mountain Crossings. I plan to replace most of my old equipment and buy food and supplies here. There’s also a basement hostel for hikers where I hope I can score a bunk and a much-needed hot shower.
I barely make it to the picnic table outside on the patio before I’m shrugging out of my backpack and pulling off my hiking shoes, groaning at the instant relief. I’m in pretty rough shape, a condition for which I have only myself to blame. Although I knew better, I made a common rookie hiker mistake—too many miles, too fast, too soon.
After an easy first day of approximately seven miles, I camped in the clearing surrounding Hawk Mountain Shelter. With only a handful of people staying in the shelter, there was plenty of room for me to join them, but I much preferred the privacy of my little one-person tent. Strangers, particularly men, always made me uneasy, and the thought of sleeping next to someone I barely knew was something I couldn’t even consider.
With plenty of time and fuel, I took the opportunity to heat some water for a quick wash before cooking a freeze-dried meal of beef stroganoff. Afterward, I signed the shelter register, jotting down the date and a short mention of my nap at the waterfall before ending it with my new trail name, Ella. I noticed Allday and Dreamer had spent the previous night there, as well as the two Marines, Ghost and M&M.
An entry by two hikers, Yellow and Wonderland, dated several days previously, made me laugh at their description of being attacked by the shelter mice after they forgot to attach their food bags to the mouse-proof hangers suspended at the front of the shelter overhang. A mistake I was careful not to make. By dark, I was in my tent, snuggled into my warm down sleeping bag. Moments later, I was sound asleep.
Sunshine woke me early the next morning, and once again, I was blessed with the perfect hiking day. The trail was relatively easy, some ups and downs, followed by more ups and downs, with a few flat sections thrown in for teasers. The sun was warm and the breeze cool. I was rested and well fed. I kept my mind focused on the present, refusing to even think about anything other than the woods, the wildflowers, and the birdsong celebrating my passing.
The miles and hours
sped by as I escaped into the physical demands of the hike. Cresting each hill and ridge meant a water and snack break. I munched on peanuts and sucked water, fresh and cold from a clear mountain stream, while the gentle wind dried the sweat from my body, and I marveled at the distant vistas opening before me. The rhythmic click, click, click of my hiking poles kept time with my footsteps and labored breathing as I powered along each level section.
The air was filled with the musty odor of decaying vegetation and sun-warmed earth. From time to time, the trail would cross over to a south-facing slope, and I would be greeted with a hillside covered in sweet-smelling wildflowers. Birds, and even a few butterflies, kept me company, and once, a small grass snake slithered quickly out of sight after I almost stepped on him. I wrapped myself in the peace and tranquility of the forest.
Gooch Mountain Shelter was a seven-mile hike from where I had spent the night. I ate a quick lunch there before hitting the trail again. By late afternoon, I cruised into Woody Gap, another six miles farther on the trail.
There was a roadside picnic area at the gap located just off the small parking lot where the trail crossed a two-lane country road before starting the climb up Big Cedar Mountain. An ice chest sitting on one of the tables caught my attention. I opened it to find cold sodas and a note from a previous hiker wishing us good luck on our hikes. Beside it was a sack full of small bags of chips. It was my first experience with trail magic—gifts of food or other supplies left on the trail for hikers. I crunched on salty chips and drank the caffeine and sugar-loaded cola, letting my sweat-soaked shirt dry in the afternoon breeze.
The thirty-minute break left me feeling refreshed and renewed, and I attacked the steep uphill climb after crossing the road, feeling powerful and unstoppable. Dusk came quickly, though, and I finally had to accept I needed to stop hiking and find someplace to camp.
When the AT crossed a small mountain creek, I followed it off-trail to a nice flat area where I quickly set up my camp, snacked on some trail mix, and after a speedy wash in the icy creek, changed into warm dry clothing, and slipped into my sleeping bag. I fell asleep, smug in the knowledge I managed to hike almost seventeen miles. I was genuinely proud of myself.
Two hours later, I was gasping in pain as I fought my way out of my sleeping bag and tent, lurching to my feet as I tried to stop the agonizing cramps in my calves and thighs. Everything hurt—my toes, my ankles, my hips, my shoulders, even the bottoms of my feet. I fumbled around in the dark, searching through my backpack for my first aid kit. After downing a couple ibuprofens and a long swig of water, I crawled back into my bag, tossing and turning to find a comfortable position on my sleeping pad. Exhausted, I fell asleep, only to repeat the whole thing again several hours later.
I checked my watch when the pain woke me a third time. It was four in the morning. This time, I donned shoes and a jacket and walked slowly around my campsite stretching and bending my protesting muscles, desperately trying anything to ease the pain. I laughed at myself as I hobbled around; I was only twenty-four but moved like I was ancient. This is what happens when you spend too much time sitting in a classroom, or at a computer, or in meetings all day, and then decide to go backpacking with no preparation.
Finally, I sat down on a nearby rock, closed my eyes, and listened to the night. It was quiet, almost eerily so. The silence had a weight to it. An almost intelligent presence seemed to hover just beyond my perception. I breathed in the cool night air, inviting the peace it seemed to offer into my mind and body.
Granny Dobbs believed in spirits, all kinds of spirits. Her favorites were the “Little People”—the traditional Cherokee name for spiritual beings who often lived in the woods and sometimes helped people who were lost. Not just physically lost, but those who were sad or confused and had lost their way in life. I laughed at her stories, the mathematician and scientist in me refusing to believe anything that couldn’t be explained by logic or scientific reasoning.
One night, she took me by the arm, pulling me out into the meadow in front of our cabin and—pointing at the star-filled sky overhead—asked if my logic and reasoning could explain the beauty spread out above us. I started reciting explanations of stars and planetary orbits and theories of multiple universes, only to be interrupted by a blazing streak of light across the dark sky. It was followed by two more as Granny and I stared, speechless in wonder.
When I tried to explain them away as meteors burning in the Earth’s atmosphere, she turned to me with a knowing smile. “Oh, child,” she asked, “and how do you explain we were here, together, at this very moment, to see those meteors in the sky?”
I knew there were probably all sorts of statistics that could explain the probability of the two of us being in that exact spot, at that exact time, and seeing those exact meteors, but the numbers were too staggering to compute in my head.
The randomness of the events of that night stayed with me. I thought about Gran’s question often. My need to merge the chaos of unpredictability with the ordered patterns of numbers led to the theories we used to develop our company’s security software programs. The company and programs Hudson took with him when he accepted the position of Division President with Banca Italia Internazionale.
The sharp snap of a breaking stick halted my musing and I opened my eyes, turning quickly toward the sound. It was followed by the rustle of movement in the dried leaves on the forest floor. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I told myself it was probably a small night creature checking out the large being who invaded its space.
The night chill settled into my bones, and I desperately needed more sleep before tackling the almost 4,500-foot elevation climb up Blood Mountain in the morning and the six miles it would take to reach Neels Gap later in the day. As I stood and stretched, a flash of light caught my eye and I watched in awe as a bright shooting star arced across the night sky above me. I followed its path, tracing the blazing streak as it headed north.
For a long time after it finally disappeared from view, I stood staring at the sky above me. With no moon and no city lights to dim their glory, the stars were polished diamonds glittering against thick, black velvet, a jeweled necklace looping across the ebony sky. I picked out a few of the constellations—recognizable designs interspersed among the haphazard stars surrounding them. Chaos and order, patterns and randomness, the dichotomy that rules my life and forces me to try to organize everything into neat, reasonable, logical occurrences. The quirk in my brain that strives to understand and control the events in my life.
With a tired shake of my head, I crawled into my tent. Settling into my warm sleeping bag, I sighed in relief, my tired muscles pain-free for the moment. I was almost asleep when I heard the sound of something scurrying in the underbrush close to my tent. To my exhausted brain it sounded like the pitter-patter of tiny little feet.
“Thank you,” I whispered into the now quiet night.
Chapter 5
Pain & Memories
Date: Friday, March 14
Destination: Neels Gap
Starting Location: Campsite five miles past Woody Gap Road
Total Trip Miles: 30.7
Pack off, shoes off, my head resting wearily on the picnic table, I’m startled out of my near oblivion by the thump of something hard and the crinkle of plastic hitting the table near my face. When I crack one exhausted eye open, I can see an open bottle of lemonade and a bag of chips on the table in front of me. Condensation runs down the outside of the cold bottle, soaking my hand when I reach for it. A groan of pure pleasure escapes me after I swallow my first mouthful of the refreshingly sweet, lemony concoction, and a sigh of relief soon follows when I rub the chilled bottle over my face and neck.
A chuckle reminds me I’m not alone. When I glance up to see who has gifted me this most appreciated trail magic, I’m shocked to see someone I recognize.
“Liam. What are you … How did you …” The words a
re barely out of my mouth before he’s pulling me to my feet in a crushing bear hug. For a moment, my emotions get the best of me and I lean into his welcome affection, unable to complete my question.
He draws away, laughing at my confusion. “It’s good to see you too, little gohusdi.”
His familiar use of the shortened Cherokee word for cousin instantly transports me back to long summer days and nights spent exploring the woods around Gran’s cabin. Liam taught me how to catch fish with my bare hands, how to find morels in the woods, and more importantly, how to differentiate between safe-to-eat mushrooms and poisonous ones. We harvested wild ramps in early spring, picked blackberries in summer, and gathered muscadines and hickory nuts in the fall.
He was my first true friend, a constant companion, and a big brother in all but name. When bullying and teasing made school a daily torment, Liam had been my protector and champion. Five years older and at least a foot taller than me, he was a formidable opponent for anyone who thought a shy, socially awkward, part Cherokee math nerd would make an easy target. Growing up, I idolized him, even fantasized we might marry someday until I found out we were actually cousins. His grandfather Samuel was my granny Cora’s brother.
Liam was already in college when I left to attend MIT. He combined a major in business with outdoor recreation leadership and environmental sustainability—a career path that seemed perfect for him with his interest in expanding Georgia’s growing outdoor sports and recreation industry while preserving the environment that supported it. I’d only seen him a dozen times or so since I’d left. The last time was nearly two years ago at his wedding.