Her Beautiful Mind Page 22

  My clothes are kept to a minimum: convertible pants, a short-sleeved shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, woolen sleeping top and bottoms, rain pants and jacket, two pairs of socks, a knit cap, and a change of underwear. Everything can be layered if the weather turns colder.

  “Water weighs over eight pounds per gallon, so only carry what you need to get you to the next source. This time of year means plenty of water everywhere. Which reminds me,” he continues. “Wash when you can. It helps with the chafing and the odor. You’re going to be pretty ripe by the time you get to Nantahala.”

  He laughs when I roll my eyes.

  Then we start on my food. The bag gets heavier and heavier as we add each day’s allotted rations.

  “I don’t like this,” Liam mutters, frowning. “There has to be a better way.” He picks up the guidebook, looking at the notes he’s written for me in the margins. “Here.” He points to the fifth day. “You’ll be coming into Winding Stair Gap early that morning. I’ll get Tator to meet you there with food for the next three days.”

  “You don’t have to. I can carry it.”

  “You say that now but wait until you put all this on your back. He won’t mind; we help each other out all the time. Anyway, I kind of owe you,” Liam admits with an embarrassed grin.

  Chuckling, I agree with him and accept his help.

  An early lunch, another shower, some clean clothes, and I’m ready to go. Liam’s right—the pack is heavy but nothing like the old one with rocks in it. Although I wanted to continue carrying what I assumed, and then was told, was Granny Dobbs and Ariella’s old backpack, Liam persuaded me to use a newer, much lighter, internal-frame pack. It rests securely on my hips, fits closer to my back, and gives me a more stable center of gravity. “You’ll be less likely to fall,” he assures me when he follows me outside.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I tell him, pointing to the large tree that grows near the parking lot. Hundreds of pairs of boots and hiking shoes dangle from its branches. “What is that?”

  Liam chuckles when he sees what I’m looking at, then sobers quickly. “It’s a lot of broken dreams,” he says. “Every year people quit their jobs, put their lives on hold, and spend a lot of money to follow the dream of hiking the Appalachian Trail. They start at Springer, then get here three days later, only to realize being in the woods is not what they expected. So, they ‘go off trail.’ They don’t quit. Most of them tell themselves they’ll come back, but they rarely do. Hiking boots are heavy and smelly. They get rid of them by throwing them up into the tree.”

  For a moment, we both stare at the tree, watching the broken dreams sway in the breeze. With a clap to my shoulder, Liam ends our moment. “Go get your dream, Hudson,” he tells me. “And be careful.”

  The AT passes through an open breezeway in the middle of the old stone building, then continues on past the back patio of Liam’s home. There it starts a long, slow pull up the mountain. It seems to go on forever. I walk, and walk, and walk. Sometimes, my mind distracts me with runaway thoughts—regrets from the past, hopes for the future, goals for the present. At the center of them all is Ariella. Always Ariella. Other times, I concentrate on the trail, being careful where I place my feet and hiking poles.

  If the trail is difficult and my pack heavy, at least the weather is wonderful. It stays warm and sunny with a gentle breeze and low humidity. I wonder how miserable it would be in bad weather. At least I haven’t hiked in the pouring rain yet.

  I reach the side trail to Whitley Gap Shelter late in the afternoon. Liam suggested I spend the night there rather than push on another five miles to the next shelter. It makes for a shorter day, but the difficult trail has left me exhausted. With a relieved sigh, I drop my pack on the shelter floor.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m set up, pad and sleeping bag rolled out, gear stored neatly nearby. I take Liam’s advice and do a quick wash before pulling on my sleeping clothes. My hiking pants and shirt are hung from nails on the shelter wall for a good airing out. Picking up the shelter register, I take it with me to the table while I rummage in my food bag for something to eat.

  I find her entry quickly. She’s written a short note about hiking in the rain and falling on the slippery trail. It’s signed “Ella” and dated the 15th. “You were here just four days ago. You were here,” I whisper into the silence around me. I think about her sitting on the wooden platform, eating at this table, and writing in this notebook.

  “Did you write anything else?” I wonder as I flip through the back pages. And then I find it, a whole page filled with her neat handwriting. She’s addressed it to Hud, and as I start to read it, I’m very glad there’s no one else with me in the shelter because this one breaks my heart.

  I knew her childhood was difficult. She told me Granny Dobbs raised her after her mother’s death. I knew there were bullies, and I knew she always felt different. But I had no idea the terrible scars those tormentors left. Here was a lovely young woman who thought of herself as weird, bizarre, and strange. She’d never been told she was beautiful or even pretty.

  I called her beautiful, but even I failed her, too. It was her mind I was referring to. Had I never told her how beautiful she was, both inside and out? She was radiant the year I took her to my parents’ charity ball. Did I tell her how lovely she was that night? As hard as I try, I can’t remember.

  Thinking about our time together makes me realize how ridiculous it was to try to keep our relationship on a friendly, strictly business level. Although we saw each other almost daily, I was careful to make sure none of our activities would seem like a date. There were no romantic dinners, no holding hands, and no long walks along the river. Had she even been to a nightclub, I wondered? Had she ever done anything a normal twenty-something-year-old woman would do?

  Then, after keeping my distance for years, I spent the night with her. I’d been so intent on my plans, on my wants, on my needs, on what I saw as our future that I’d forgotten the present. No wonder she’d believed the lies Gia spewed at her. I’d done nothing to make her believe otherwise.

  Blinking my eyes to clear them of tears, I read the rest of her entry. It’s a terrible description of a unique child left alone in a horrible situation. It’s also a testament to the indomitable will she possesses. She speaks of the patterns and shapes in the lonely room and the safety she found in them. Then describes the changes she made in her behavior to satisfy the people who were neglecting her.

  I realize she’d still been changing herself to please others while she lived in New York. The knowledge she’d done all of it to fit into my world, to become something she wasn’t just for me, feels like a punch to the gut. I left her alone much too often. This time, I was the one neglecting her.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur to the empty space around me. “I’m so sorry, love.” Turning back to her previous entry, I write my own beside it.

  March 19, 2003

  Please stay safe. No more falls.

  You told LC I wouldn’t follow you, but I am.

  I’m following because you’re the most important thing in my life.

  I’m coming, my love. I’m coming.

  I sign it with my new trail name, Easy.

  The sun set while I was writing. As the temperature dropped, a foggy mist formed. I watch it creep its way into the meadow, and then slowly engulf the shelter behind me. Shrouded in its sound-muffling blanket, the woods around me are quiet, desolate, forsaken. There are no shapes or patterns to distract or entertain, only numbing whiteness.

  “Goodnight, my bella mente,” I whisper as I crawl into my sleeping bag, but the loneliness around me doesn’t answer.

  Chapter 31

  A Really Angry Woman

  Date: Thursday, March 20

  Starting Location: Whitley Gap Shelter

  Destination: Tray Mountain Shelter

  Total Trip Mil
es: 56.2

  I’ve always heard that roosters crow the sun up each morning. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never lived anywhere near a rooster. Apparently, though, songbirds also like to welcome the sun. They wake me this morning, long before the sky is barely light enough to be called dawn. My first reaction is irritation. A couple more hours of sleep would be wonderful. Rolling over, I will myself to relax, but every time I close my eyes, they pop open again. Finally, I lie on my pad, letting my eyes wander over the graffiti-covered walls of the shelter.

  Someone has carved “Daniel Boone slept here” on one of the logs. I smile when I read it. Although the shelter has definitely seen better days, it’s not quite that old.

  A sense of peace creeps over me. Perhaps this is the way we were always meant to start the day—sung into wakefulness by beautiful birdsong. No blaring alarm clocks, no ringing telephones, no traffic noises, just the sounds of nature and a glorious sunrise.

  I have a very long day ahead of me. It’s over nineteen miles to Tray Mountain shelter where I plan to spend the night. I rise, pack, and hike out.

  Although I spent the night alone, I don’t spend the day alone. This is prime hiking season, and according to Randall, as many as a hundred hikers a day can start at Springer during the six-week span from March 15 to May 1. As soon as I reach the main trail, I join an almost constant stream of hikers heading north. Some I pass as they sit taking a break. But most seem to be hiking faster than I am. I soon learn to quickly step aside as they approach me from the rear. After a Boy Scout troop and then a high school hiking club pass me, I realize this is also spring break and one of the reasons the trail is so crowded.

  I’m a little embarrassed to be so slow. Although never a big fitness buff, I’ve always been active. My family loved skiing and sailing. I swam, played tennis, and lifted weights from time to time. I always considered myself healthy and in shape. Nothing seems to have prepared me for hiking with a backpack though. “It’s just walking,” I tell myself. Yet it’s not.

  Midway up one particularly difficult, rocky climb, I stop for a break, taking the opportunity to catch my breath and drink some water. Hikers pass me. Most are friendly, wishing me a good hike or nodding and saying hello. It’s so unlike the city where no one catches your eye or speaks. I find myself smiling at each person.

  A group of two women and two men approach me. I must look a little worse for wear because the man bringing up the rear stops and asks if I’m okay.

  “Yes, just taking a breather. The hill and the rocks are kicking my ass.”

  He laughs along with me, nodding as he quickly glances over my new clothes and gear. “You new to the trail?” he finally asks.

  “Never backpacked before starting at Springer four days ago.” I nod.

  “Thought so.” He chuckles. Shifting both hiking poles to his left hand, he thrusts out his right. “I’m Stronghold,” he says.

  “Easy,” I reply, standing and shaking his proffered hand. He has a firm handshake, a short military buzz cut, and an engaging, friendly smile. Glancing uphill at his trailmates, who have continued hiking, he shifts from side to side, clearly debating something in his head.

  “You know,” he begins hesitantly. “There’s a real art to hiking up a rocky trail.” Nodding toward the last woman, he continues. “Just Jen has short legs. If she tried to move from rock to rock, she would soon be exhausted. She’s learned to take shorter steps. This way, she’s only moving part of her body weight with each step. If you move from rock to rock with longer strides, you end up lifting your entire weight each time. Pretty soon, you’re exhausted, and your legs are killing you.”

  I watch the woman he indicated, and as he described, she takes much smaller steps, moving in an almost zigzag direction as she ascends the hill. It looks easier, smoother, and almost effortless.

  “Thank you,” I say, turning back to Stronghold. “You’ve been a great help. I’ll take your advice.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies. “Good luck, Easy. See you up the trail.” Then with a last grin, he follows his trailmates. I watch him leave, weaving his way over, around, and in between the rocks, and then I follow.

  Thirteen miles and several hours later, I arrive at Blue Mountain Shelter. Shrugging out of my pack, I flop in a tired heap on the sleeping platform and groan when I realize I still have at least six more miles to go. The trail has been a roller coaster all day—up hills, down hills, dropping into gaps, climbing out of gaps. Even though I’ve made sure to snack and drink regularly, I’m starving and craving something hot to eat.

  Liam has included a couple dinners in my rations. I decide to take the time to build a small fire and boil the water needed to rehydrate one of them. I’m hoping the hot meal will help me get through the rest of the miles waiting for me. His small fire kit works quickly, and soon, I have a full pot of water boiling. After I dump the noodles and sauce mixture into the pan, I set it aside to finish. With fifteen minutes to wait, I pick up the shelter register and thumb through it.

  I notice an entry by Yellow and Wonderland. Two names I’ve seen in other registers. Boyscout’s name is there, too, along with his three companions. They appear to be keeping to their twenty-miles-a-day schedule. Of the entries dated yesterday, I laugh when I see a cartoon of two huge backpacks with tiny, stick-thin legs hiking along the trail. Underneath are the names Ghost and M&M and a note about being back on the trail.

  Dreamer and Allday were here, too. They signed the register with a short limerick. It reminds me of the one I read at Springer.

  I don’t see anything signed by Ella, though. Perhaps she didn’t stop at this shelter. With a few more minutes to wait, I idly flip through the rest of the notebook. Her unmistakable handwriting covers more than three pages at the very back of the register. Surprised, I begin to read her words.

  If last night’s entry broke my heart, this one flays the very skin from my body. Her words are fierce, furious, ferocious. A complete thesaurus couldn’t contain enough synonyms to describe the feelings of rage and despair that are poured onto the pages she’s written. They lash out at me, cutting through my bravado attempts to prove myself worthy of her. Accusations, insults, and blame all wrapped in words of hopelessness and wretchedness. All this—because of me.

  She mentions the scarf I bought her. Describes the wonderful day we spent together at the street fair in New York, and then my asking her to wear it on the last day. How devastated she was to find the real reason behind my request. Apparently, she brought it with her on the hike to remind herself how something so beautiful can hide so much ugliness.

  She writes of confronting “that” woman, of the photos of the two of us displayed on my old piano, and the large diamond ring thrust so proudly into her face. There is a brief comment about watching me arrive at the condo while she hid in the shadows across the street. Calvin told me she’d just left, and I looked for her but never saw her standing there. What a shock it must have been to see me enter the elevator and go to the condo she thought I was sharing with Gia.

  The last page is a condemnation of me and my efforts to steal the business. The papers I neglected to have her sign, the remarks by Vincent about my “staff,” diminishing the important roles Oliver, David, and Susan played in the formation of our business and product.

  Everything is written in the vaguest of terms. There’s no way anyone else would know who she’s referring to, and her words are wrapped in enough profanity to make a sailor blush. I’ve heard her curse a few times but never anything like this. I can’t help the slight chuckle when I read them.

  As terrible as her entry is, as horrible as I feel when I read it, still there is a bit of hope in the last paragraph. It’s a warning to me, and perhaps to anyone else who thinks they can deceive a naïve woman. It’s also a promise. She will not go down without a struggle; she will not give up the business or her intellectual property rights. My efforts to cheat her will
cost me dearly, not only monetarily but my reputation and my social standing. This woman scorned is not giving up without a fight.

  I recall Liam’s words about her changing, becoming more assertive, more aggressive. This is what he was talking about; these are the changes he noticed. I’m suddenly thankful he didn’t make her return but recognized her right to choose her own path. I’m glad she’s angry and ready to fight for herself, even if I’m the cause of the anger. When I find her, I’ll explain everything, beg for her forgiveness and try to show her I’ve changed. All I want is for her to be happy—with or without me, or with someone else—I only want her to be happy.

  My determination to catch her renewed, I finish my dinner, pack up my gear, and start hiking again. I still have six miles to go before I sleep.

  ~***~

  “Hey, Ghost, I found their entry. Looks like she was here a couple days ago.”

  There’s a guy sitting in front of the shelter when I finally reach Tray Mountain. His size matches his voice—big. He has the register open in front of him and is reading the writing there. “Looks like she’s hiking with someone named Yellow. Hope for your sake it’s another woman and not a man.” His booming laugh stops abruptly when he glances up to see me standing in front of him. “Sorry, man,” he continues, “Thought you were my buddy. He must still be in the shitter.”

  Nodding, I sit on the bench across the table from him, fumbling to retrieve my food bag from my pack. “There still room in the shelter for me?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he answers. “Ghost and I can scrunch over a bit. I’m M&M, by the way,” he continues.

  “Easy,” I answer. “Saw your drawing in the register at Blue Mountain. You the artist?”

  “No, that would be Ghost.” Frowning, he studies my face. “Don’t remember seeing you there yesterday. You camp out somewhere?”