Her Beautiful Mind Page 20

  Living in my old condo and posing as my fiancée lent legitimacy to her supposed investment company. She was smart enough not to have any clients in the Northeast. All her clientele were wealthy investors from the Midwest, close enough to recognize my family’s name but not enough to actually know me. Her greed and over-reach were her downfall. When she implicated her Uncle Vincent, her house of cards collapsed. The FBI swooped in just in time to prevent her from leaving for Italy. I hope when the dust settles, she’ll spend a very long time in prison.

  I’m so occupied with my thoughts I don’t see the snake until it’s almost too late. It’s a big rattlesnake. Stretched out across the trail enjoying the sunny spot, he barely moves at my approach. I have no idea what to do. Logs, bushes, and a narrow trail make it impossible to get around him. When I inch toward him, he moves slightly, flicking his tongue and following my movement, but he still doesn’t move. Stomping my feet only makes him coil slightly. He’s claimed the center of the trail and it’s his—rushing hikers be damned.

  Suddenly, the whole situation strikes me as funny, and I start laughing—at myself for ignoring my beautiful surroundings, at the snake for reminding me I don’t always get my way.

  I’m still chuckling when another hiker steps up beside me. When he sees the snake, he starts laughing, too, completely understanding the situation we’re in.

  “A friend told me to try this,” he explains as he reaches for his water bottle. “The trick is to squirt enough water to make the snake uncomfortable but not make it mad enough to get defensive or attack.” He pops the lid on the bottle and squeezes it gently. A steady stream of water shoots out, drenching the snake, who immediately slithers off the trail and disappears under a nearby rock. He grins at me as he puts the bottle away. “I guess it works. Enjoy your hike.” And then he’s gone, striding away along the trail and over a slight rise. He disappears before I can even say thank you.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I concentrate on the trail and the forest around me. I enjoy the flowers and inhale their scent, watch the birds and listen to their song, feel the cool breeze dry the sweat on my face—and watch out for snakes. My worries of the past and future drop away as I focus on the here and now. Being in the moment makes me feel closer to Ariella.

  It’s late afternoon when I finally stumble into Gooch Mountain Shelter. Several hikers, all guys, are taking a break there. One is resting in the shelter, another is writing in the register, and two are eating a hot meal at the table. The smell of food makes me ravenous. Although Randall warned me about the dangers of not eating or drinking enough, I haven’t stopped to do either in the last couple hours. Perhaps it’s why I’m suddenly shaky and lightheaded.

  Digging around in my pack, I finally get my food bag, pot, and stove out and set up on the table. I try to remember everything Randall told me about the stove, but when I finally get the pieces attached to each other, I can’t remember how to light it. To make things worse, my hand is shaking so hard I can barely hold the lighter.

  The hiker at the other end of the table is studying the guidebook and pays no attention to me, but his companion glances at me from time to time. Finally, he scoots down a little closer to me and, nodding at the stove I’m trying to light, asks if it’s one of those new, ultralight, backpacking stoves.

  “Sorry,” I confess. “A friend loaned it to me, and I really don’t know.”

  “Would you mind?” he asks, indicating the still unlit stove. “I’ve always wanted to play around with one of them.”

  I slide the stove across the table to him and watch him pretend to examine it. He turns a knob, then flicks the lighter, and a bright ring of flame appears at the top. “Cool,” he says. My pan of water is sitting nearby, and he places it on top of the stand. “Nice pot, too. Lightweight titanium. Your friend has great gear.

  “I’m Boyscout,” he adds, reaching to shake my hand.

  “Hud,” I reply, shaking his in return. The hiker in the shelter looks up at my name, frowning as he studies me. He’s a big guy, and his glare is intimidating. “Uh, Hudson,” I add stuttering.

  “You start at Springer?”

  “Yesterday.” I nod.

  “We were there early this morning. You sign the register?”

  “Yes …” I answer slowly, watching Boyscout, who has the strangest look on his face.

  “You going all the way to Maine?”

  His questions come quick and fast, giving me very little time to answer and no time to explain. I notice his three companions watching me closely. I’m beginning to feel very uncomfortable.

  “No, I have to be in Neels Gap tomorrow. Liam Crow, the owner of Mountain Crossings, is expecting me. I’m, uh, I’m writing a little humor article for my hometown newspaper about the AT. Novice hiker trying to survive in the woods. That type of thing, you know.” I laugh.

  Something I said must have satisfied whatever doubts or questions they had about me because Boyscout smiles at me, adding a, “Good luck with that,” and his fellow hikers return to their previous activities.

  My dinner is finished cooking, and I dig into it, enjoying the rice, chicken, and cheese sauce. It tastes wonderful, and I try not to eat too quickly. While I’m eating, Boyscout and his friends begin gathering their gear. He explains they only have four months to complete their hike, so they have a goal of a least twenty miles a day.

  He lingers behind when the others leave, purposely tinkering with his backpack. He seems undecided about something, but then sits back down across the table from me.

  “Listen,” he says. “I may have this all wrong, but if you saw the Springer register yesterday, you might have noticed a letter toward the back. It was written to someone named Hud. Apparently, this guy is a real scumbag who cheated and dumped a girl who is out hiking the trail to try to recover from everything he did to her. The AT chat groups and the Trail Journals website are full of people discussing her letter and some others she’s written.

  “Telling people your name is Hud makes them think you might be that scumbag and … well, let’s just say you might not like their reaction. Anyway,” he says, standing. “Wanted to give you a heads up. Have a good hike.” With a final nod and wave, he walks away, leaving me thinking about his warning. I guess I need a new name.

  I don’t want to leave Gooch Shelter. I’m tired and would like nothing more than to roll out my sleeping bag and turn in for the day. But if I stop now, I’ll have to hike sixteen miles tomorrow, and even I know that’s impossible for me. So, reluctantly, I pack up my gear and start hiking again.

  Two miles later, I cross a small forest service road at Gooch Gap. Randall highlighted the location of a small spring nearby and wrote a note in the guidebook to remind me to fill up my water bladder and bottle here so I would have plenty of water for the evening. He also said I would find several camping spots in the next couple miles. I top off my water containers and hike on.

  Another hour and I’m done. All the aches and pains I thought were gone have come back with a vengeance, and I don’t think I can take another step. When I spot a nice level area close by the trail, I stop and make camp. I get the tent up, maybe not as expertly as Randall, but it serves its purpose. Crackers, cheese, more trail mix, and dried fruit make my dinner. Water and ibuprofen are my dessert. I barely remember crawling into the tent before I’m asleep.

  ~***~

  Something is touching my face. It’s wet, cold, and slides across my skin with each breath. Barely aware of what I’m doing, I bat it away with one hand, only to be hit in the face with more cold water. Waking abruptly, I sit up only to find myself encased in the wet, sodden fabric of my collapsed tent. It’s dark, it’s damp, and it’s cold. I’m miserable.

  With an exasperated huff, I manage to open the zipper and crawl out. Getting upright is as hard as it was this morning. At least, there’s no one around to listen to me whimper as I slide into my unlaced hi
king shoes.

  I have a small pouch for things I might need during the night. It holds some toilet paper, pain medicine, and a headlamp. The small LED light is attached to a stretchy headband meant to be worn across the forehead. When I turn it on, I can see most of the tent stakes have pulled loose from the soaked ground or the cords connecting them to the tent body are no longer taut. The top of the tent has fallen inward, creating an area in which water can pool. Given enough time, enough rain, and enough condensation from my breath, it’s little wonder it started to leak.

  With no other choice but to try and fix it, I restake, retighten, and readjust. When it’s upright and taut again, I crawl inside, using a camp towel to mop up any standing water and thanking Liam for giving me a bag with a water-resistant cover.

  My sleeping clothes are damp, but they’re also wool and have remained warm. When I get back into my bag, I warm up quickly. Surprisingly, I find it hard to go back to sleep. I eat a trail bar, drink some water, and take a pain pill. Then, I have to get up and piss.

  Thoroughly irritated, I toss and turn, finding it impossible to get comfortable. The wind has picked up a bit. It shakes loose the moisture from the pine trees I’ve camped under, and it falls like tiny drops of rain on my tent roof. Listening to the plink-plink relaxes me.

  I’ve often heard the wind described as “lonesome,” but I never thought about it very much. It was just wind; it made noise as it blew through the trees. But I think I understand now. Lying in my little tent, I listen to the wind blowing above me. It sounds lonely. It moans, and the trees groan as it moves through them. It’s a melancholy sound—a sad sound, which only makes me more miserable and depressed. I think I may be lonesome.

  My face is wet again, but it’s not from the rain on my tent. This time, it’s tears trickling down my face. I can’t seem to stop them, and suddenly, I don’t want to. “To hell with it,” I mutter to myself, letting them flow in great, gasping sobs. I haven’t cried like this since I was a child and my dog died. Wasn’t this wrecked or emotional at my grandfather’s funeral.

  I’ve been angry, frustrated, enraged, irritated, and furious with everything that happened in New York, but this is the first time I’ve admitted to myself how sad and miserable—how lonesome—I’ve been. I miss my bella mente, and I can’t wait to see her again.

  With thoughts of her and the promise of tomorrow, I finally fall asleep.

  Chapter 29

  His Memories

  Date: Tuesday, March 18

  Starting Location: Campsite just past Gooch Gap

  Destination: Neels Gap

  Total Trip Miles: 30.7

  Last night’s rain has left the woods shrouded in fog and mist. Visibility is limited to a few hundred feet at best. Skeletal trunks of trees appear before me as I approach, then fade from view as I hike by. Unable to see very far on either side of me, I don’t know if I’m above valleys or below mountains. Nothing exists beyond the misty bubble I move through.

  Glimpses of the trail tease me as I walk. Flat and easy, it suddenly rears up in front of me, startling me with an abrupt climb. Then it descends, sometimes with a series of well-engineered switchbacks, others with a knee-torturing sharp drop.

  The woods are quiet. No breeze to rustle the leaves, no birdsong to entertain, no small animals or insects to watch. Only the occasional drip, drip of moisture from the rain-soaked branches overhead and the squelch of my footsteps in the muddy path.

  When the trail leads me through a little meadow, I find a small boulder to sit on and take a food and water break. The feeling of being all alone, of being separated from the rest of the world, intensifies as I sit and contemplate my misty bubble. It reminds me of post-apocalyptic novels I’ve read and survival movies I’ve watched. I can almost picture ragged zombies stumbling out of the dark forest around me.

  Or maybe I’m in the Twilight Zone episode about the kid with mental powers who surrounded his little town with an impenetrable mist, cutting it off from the rest of the world. Ariella and I watched the episode together one night after picking up Chinese take-out. It led to a discussion about what “reality” was. Ariella had a theory that nothing existed except what our senses allowed us to experience. She argued we created our own reality based on what our brains perceived as real. I, of course, was thoroughly confused. “Like the Matrix?” I asked.

  “Yes, but reality is no more ‘real’ than the Matrix,” she explained. “Both are constructs; they’re the same thing. Like the concept of time, the past and the future do not exist, have not existed, will not exist. There is only the here and the now.

  Of course,” she continued. “It could be just the opposite. There could be a whole other existence, which we are unable to experience because our input senses are so limited, and therefore, our brain doesn’t process all the available stimuli, leaving us with a limited version of what reality actually is.” Then she smiled at me, laughing when I shook my head.

  Later, when I considered everything she’d said in our discussion, I marveled again at the beautiful and wonderful thing that was her mind.

  My memories are interrupted when I notice a dark shape moving at the edge of the tree line. It disappears into the fog, then comes back into view as it meanders in and out of focus. Although I know it’s not the ragged zombies of my earlier thoughts, I can feel my heart rate pick up and the rush of adrenaline as I try to decide whether to run, hide, or freeze. I’ve heard of wild hogs in the area. They can be dangerous, and so can the occasional black bear that roams these hills. I realize I have no idea what to do. None of my training, experience, or education has prepared me for dealing with a wild boar or a bear.

  Frozen to the rock I’m sitting on, I watch with apprehension as the dark shape seems to move toward me. Finally, it steps out of the gloom and into sight. It’s a buck, a big one. Still wearing his crown of antlers, he ambles into the small clearing, nibbling on grass or a leaf-covered twig. He stops abruptly when he sees me, staring with his large, dark eyes. He’s a beautiful animal, majestic and graceful. Yet possessing an undercurrent of strength and power. I have no doubt his antlers and sharp hoofs could inflict some painful injuries.

  He must decide this puny human is no threat to him because he slowly makes his way back into the tree cover. One blink and he’s gone. Disappearing as if he never existed, as if he is no longer part of my reality.

  The sun finally makes its appearance mid-morning. It burns off the fog, leaving a bright, clear blue sky. With a fresh breeze cooling my face, I cover the remaining miles toward Neels Gap. The mountains come and go. There’s Big Cedar, Granny Top, and then Burnett Fields. I climb up and over each one, then drop down into another gap before ascending the next mountain. Jarrad Gap, Bird Gap, and Slaughter Gap all pass beneath my feet.

  I eat. I drink. I rest. I take time to look at the flowers, the wildlife, the reality my brain is creating for me, but mostly, I walk. I walk toward the woman I hope is waiting for me at her cousin’s home. The woman who needs to be told what is “real” and not the lies of another’s reality.

  The last obstacle of the day is Blood Mountain. As the highest point on the AT in Georgia, it tests my resolve as I slowly plod up its intimidating elevation gain. “Two more miles,” I tell myself. “Just two more miles.”

  ~***~

  Liam is standing in the middle of his store, talking to a middle-aged couple when I burst through the door. He starts backing away as soon as he sees me.

  “Rocks,” I shout. “You damned motherfucker. You put rocks in my pack.”

  “Easy, easy,” he urges, hands held out in front of him to protect himself.

  “Easy?” I scream back. “There wasn’t anything easy about it, you asshole. I thought I was going to break my back, and I’m not sure my shoulders will ever be the same again.” Although I try to keep my angry façade, Liam sees right through it, and when he grins, I can’t stop the laugh
ter erupting from me. “You son of a bitch,” I mutter, shaking my head at him.

  The couple he was talking to are still standing close by, watching and listening to our conversation, as are most of the other customers in the store. The woman is staring wide-eyed at me, and her husband is frowning. Suddenly, I feel embarrassed for my language. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I apologize. “I wasn’t raised to speak that way in front of ladies.”

  But she shakes her head, grinning when she tells me she has sons older than me, and she’s heard it all before. “Besides, Mr. Easy,” she continues. “I’d be calling him a motherfucker, too, if he put rocks in my backpack.” With a grin, she holds out her hand. “I’m Dreamer,” she says. “And this is my husband, Allday.”

  “Mr. Easy?” I ask while shaking their hands.

  “Well, it was that or Rocky, and you’re prettier than Stallone.”

  With a wink, a wave goodbye, and a “take it easy, Mr. Easy,” they’re out the door. I watch them walk down the steps, then turn north on the trail where it goes through the building. And just like that, I have a trail name.

  I turn back to Liam, intent on finding out if she’s here. One look at his face and I have my answer. This time, I’m the one throwing the right hook, and he’s the one scrambling to avoid it. I’m screaming, cussing, threatening him with bodily harm right there in the middle of his store. One of his employees grabs me, and Emma gets in between us. Once again, she pushes us toward the back patio, telling us to sit. She disappears, returning with a cold beer for each of us and a prepared sandwich from one of their vending machines for me.

  “Talk,” she commands, then returns to the store, leaving us alone.

  “You told me in your letter you would kick my ass if you found out I was lying to you, but you’re the one who lied, Liam. Did you even try to find her?”