Her Beautiful Mind Read online

  We’re serenaded by red-eyed vireos, yellow-bellied sapsuckers, and black-capped chickadees, their whistled “fee-bee, fee-bee” following us down the trail. The deep thump, thump, thump of the male ruffed grouse beating its wings against its body to attract a mate causes Curly Dan to turn to me in surprise. It sounds very much like the turning blades of a helicopter. There are more wildflowers to be appreciated: tiny yellow dogtooth violets, deep purple dwarf irises, and the pink bloodroot. Rounding a bend in the trail, we’re greeted with an open meadow of my favorite wildflower.

  “Trilliums. Trillium grandiflorum.” My excited shout brings Curly Dan and No Filter to my side as I make my way off trail to enjoy their beauty. “Look,” I command, squatting down to examine the flower in front of me. “These are the most amazing plants. The stem isn’t really a stem but a peduncle because the rhizome, which is the part in the ground, is considered the stem. Then it has a set of three large leaves, which aren’t really leaves at all but green bracts. Above them,” I continue, tracing the pseudo-stem with my finger, “is a set of three sepals, which look like little green baby leaves but are actually part of the flower. Finally, you get to this beautiful white flower with three petals and six stamens divided into two whorls. Nothing is what it appears to be; it’s all chaos yet organized in patterns and sets of threes. Each one growing offset on the stem to let the sunlight hit all the parts of the plant.”

  My explanation finished, I stand, letting my eyes roam over the beauty before me. “There are other colors of trilliums, but the white ones were my granny’s favorites. I think I was probably around seven when she took me into the woods and explained to me what I’ve just shown you. I remember she also said they were spring ephemerals.” Something niggles at the back of my mind, and I turn slowly, frowning as I survey the woods and the meadow where we stand.

  “What is a spring ephemeral?” asks No Filter.

  “It’s a plant whose life-cycle is synchronized with the forest where it grows. Something—” I glance around again, still frowning, still trying to identify what is bothering me.

  “Ella?” Curly Dan interrupts my thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s six weeks too early for these flowers to bloom, just like it’s still too early for the doe to fawn. The timing is all off, and the patterns are disrupted.”

  “Maybe we’re getting an early spring this year.”

  “No,” I answer, slowly shaking my head. “Winter doesn’t give up so easily. We need to be extra careful about the weather for the next few weeks.” Turning to them both, I smile, shrugging my shoulders. “Nothing we can do now but hike.”

  So, we do.

  Three hours, six miles, and almost two thousand feet in elevation gain, we emerge from the forest onto the rocky summit of Tray Mountain. The sky is a clear, bright blue, the sun almost hot, and the view is an amazing, 360-degree panoramic display. Looking south, we can see Blood Mountain, and to the north is Standing Indian Mountain almost thirty trail miles away. Farther north, we can make out the dark blur of the Smoky Mountains on the distant horizon. We stare and stare until our growling stomachs remind us it’s lunchtime.

  Lunch is a shared affair, the contents of our almost empty food bags dumped out and sifted through to find enough food for our empty bellies. I’m in the middle of my piece of jerky when No Filter hands me a baggie full of colorful bits. “Eat your veggies,” he tells me. “They’re good for you.”

  I turn the bag over in my hand, examining it closely. “What are they?”

  “Freeze-dried veggies,” he replies. “Corn, carrots, peas, and green beans. They’re good—sweet and crunchy; just be sure to drink a lot of water.”

  He’s right, they are delicious, especially the corn. It tastes like sweet popped corn. While I munch down on them, I watch him open a vacuum-sealed pouch and crumble the contents into a plastic jar. He fills it with water, and then gives it a good shake. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to ask what he is doing. “Making dinner” is his reply.

  He laughs when I roll my eyes at his cryptic remark. “It’s meat sauce. Ground beef cooked, drained, and rinsed, then mixed with a good flavorful sauce and dehydrated on drying sheets, either in an oven or a dehydrator. It will rehydrate all afternoon as we’re hiking. Tonight, when we get to the shelter, we’ll dump it into a pan of boiling water along with some quick-cooking angel hair pasta, sprinkle it with parmesan, and have a delicious, rib-sticking, belly-busting dinner to finish our day. And,” he adds, ginning at me, “Curly Dan and I would be honored to have your company for dinner.”

  “Well, I would be honored to accept your invitation.” I grin back. “But I have to ask. How did you learn to make all this food?”

  “By necessity, mostly. When you’ve hiked as many miles as we have, the prepackaged meals, the noodle and mashed potato mixes, the jerky and chips and trail mixes get really old and boring. So, I started making our meals, drying and vacuum sealing them, and then sending them in our mail drops. Besides, I’m a pretty good cook.”

  Curly Dan’s loud guffaw and No Filter’s smirking grin are good indicators I’m missing something here. “What’s up with you two?”

  “Sorry,” Curly apologizes. “No Filter’s being a little brat. He’s more than just a ‘good cook.’ He’s actually a graduate of the Institute of Culinary Education.”

  “The one in New York?” I ask incredulously. “That’s like the number one culinary school in the US. Good cook, my ass. You’re a chef.” No Filter has the grace to look embarrassed as I yell at him, but he joins in when we all laugh at his discomfort.

  “Come on, Little Brat,” I say to the chef, “it’s time to hike.” Stuffing my food bag back in my pack, I stand, shouldering my pack and adjusting the straps.

  “Little Brat, huh.” No Filter huffs under his breath. “And to think I said you had a nice ass.”

  The climb down Tray Mountain is just as steep as the climb up. Sometimes, the trail is a series of switchbacks giving our knees some reprieve from the constant descent, and sometimes, it’s a scramble over bare rocks. We pick our way carefully over the rockfalls, balancing the need for safety and the desire to get off the mountain. Down, down, down the trail leads, passing through Sassafras Gap and then Addis Gap. Finally, after six miles and the loss of all our elevation gain, we arrive at the base of Kelly Knob.

  The climb up Kelly Knob is brutal. It’s 1,000 feet straight up in less than a mile. We’re also very tired from a long day of hiking. By the time we get to the shelter located just past the summit, we’ll have hiked almost fifteen miles today. Although I’m carrying very little food or water, my pack feels like a boulder on my back.

  Years ago, Gran taught me to rest step up steep, difficult hills. Basically, it’s a technique to give your muscles a two or three second rest in the leg you’re stepping forward on. The rear leg is locked, all your weight transferred to your leg bones as you swing the front leg forward and relax your leg, back, and hip muscles. Then, when you place your foot down, all the weight is transferred to it. The pause in between steps can last as long as needed depending on the terrain and your energy. I rest step all the way up Kelly Knob.

  When we finally arrive at Deep Gap Shelter, we’re exhausted. No Filter pulls out his cooking supplies and begins working on dinner. Curly Dan sets up their pads and sleeping bags, unpacking their backpacks, and hanging their gear from the mouse-proof chains. He makes a trip to the spring, filtering enough water for the night and the next morning. They work seamlessly together, their routine perfected by months of practice. Without even stopping to think about it, I join them in the shelter, arranging my bedding beside No Filter’s.

  Dinner is as delicious as he said it would be. After a huge helping of pasta topped with the tomato-based meat sauce and sprinkled liberally with parmesan cheese, No Filter serves us instant chocolate pudding made with his powdered cream and topped with dried cherri
es and slivered almonds. I’m in a food coma even before I crawl into my sleeping bag.

  Night comes quickly, and a cold breeze rustles the leaves and works its way into the shelter. Warm and snug in my sleeping bag, knitted hat keeping my head and ears protected, I watch the last rays of the setting sun paint a golden glow across the horizon. Last night, I was alone in my tent crying as the sun set. Tonight, I’m sleeping in a shelter with two men. Complete strangers only this morning, now dear friends with whom I feel safe and comfortable.

  There’s an old hiker saying that whatever you need, the trail will provide. Did it know I was lonely? Did it know I needed new friends—accepting, welcoming friends who liked me for who I am? Did it know I needed a day to just forget everyone and everything that happened in New York, a chance to turn off the worries and anxieties, to lose myself and my mind in the natural world around me?

  My sleepy brain wanders over all the surprises of the day. The secret hollow, the doe with her new fawn, the meadow of trilliums. The trail had gifted me with the most amazing day, one I will cherish forever.

  The shelter is quiet. A night bird calls somewhere nearby, and I hear Dan’s sleeping bag rustle as he rolls over, shifting around to find a more comfortable position. Just as I’m about to surrender to the pull of slumber, No Filter lets loose with a loud, rip-roaring fart. He must have been asleep because he sits up quickly with a “huh?” I clap my hand over my mouth, desperately trying to control my laughter, but it’s a lost cause when Curly Dan begins to howl hilariously. Soon, the two of us are rolling around on the floor, laughing so hard we have to wipe the tears from our eyes.

  “Oh, shut up.” No Filter grouses before rolling over and scrunching down into his bag, muttering about wise asses and nice asses.

  Oblivion takes me, and I sleep soundly until the next morning.

  Chapter 14

  And Find My Soul

  Date: Tuesday, March 18

  Starting Location: Deep Gap Shelter

  Destination: Plumorchard Shelter

  Total Trip Miles: 71.1

  With only three and a half miles to Dicks Creek Gap where we plan to leave the trail and hitchhike into Hiawassee, we take our time the next morning, sleeping late, recovering from yesterday’s 15 miles, and lingering over the last of No Filter’s breakfasts. I donate my two remaining packets of hot chocolate mix to our meal. It’s a leisurely start to what I hope will be another interesting day.

  The guys have a mail drop waiting for them at The Blueberry Patch, an organic farm that houses hikers during the peak hiking season. For a small, reasonable fee, you can stay in their bunkhouse or set your tent up in a nearby field. Showers, laundry service, breakfast, and shuttle rides are included. I’ve never stayed in a hostel before, but I’m surprised to find I’m not nervous about the experience. A hot shower and clean clothes sound wonderful, and I need to go into town to resupply.

  The next two hours pass in companionable conversation. No Filter shares some of his trail cooking secrets and recipes. Even though I’m pleasantly full from our breakfast, I find myself looking forward to another meal. We discuss my buying options for supplies in Hiawassee.

  Curly Dan tells me about research he’s been studying that indicates the backwoods, Appalachian dialect I grew up speaking can be traced almost directly to Elizabethan English. “Did your granny ever use the word ‘afeared’?” At my nod, he continues. “And did you grow up saying, ‘warsh rag’ for wash cloths, ‘tarred’ for tired, ‘far’ for fire?”

  He chuckles at the astonished look I give him. “How did you know?”

  “Appalachian-English is one of the oldest dialects in the US. Most experts think the ruggedness of the mountains served as an isolating factor, keeping the people who settled here cut off from most of the outside world. Not only did it preserve their customs and beliefs, but their manner of speaking, too. Sadly, it’s all but disappeared. Earlier researchers were able to document most of it, though.

  “Just think,” he continues, after stopping for a moment to catch his breath. “You and Shakespeare have something in common. A truly wonderful thing, if you ask me.”

  The idea that words, phrases, and speech patterns I’ve tried to distance myself from were those Shakespeare may have used is almost more than I can grasp. My mind instantly forms patterns, relationships, and abstractions. But for once, I turn it off, concentrating on listening to Dan, letting my emotions react to the astonishing things he’s telling me.

  When it’s my turn, I share more about the local forest and the legends of the area.

  “Have you heard the story of how Blood Mountain got its name?” I ask. When he shakes his head, I continue. “Well, about 400 years ago, there was a great battle between the Creek and Cherokee warriors. So fierce was the fighting and so brave were the warriors the hills ran red with their blood. Slaughter Mountain is nearby, and I guess adds to the legend. Of course, the elders also claim all the Cherokee gold was hidden on the mountain when we were forced from our land in the early 1800s.”

  “Has anyone tried to find the gold?” Dan asks with a knowing grin.

  “Of course.” I laugh. “More fools than you can count over the last two hundred years.”

  It’s becoming more obvious from my stories and from my conversation about the trilliums and the doe yesterday that I’m the one who’s been writing to Hud in the registers, but neither one of them says anything about the subject. I appreciate their silence and their willingness to accept me for who I am.

  ~***~

  We can hear the traffic from the highway before we reach it. Curly Dan has lengthened his lead in front of us when I see him stop and survey what must be ahead. He turns and begins to backtrack to where No Filter and I are still walking. The two of them share a silent look before he speaks. “There’s a guy sitting at one of the tables. He seems to be by himself, but I thought it might be best if we approached the crossing together.” Curly Dan smiles at me and shrugs. “Just a precaution,” he adds. No Filter agrees, so the three of us stay close as we continue along the trail, rounding a bend before entering the roadside picnic area near the parking area.

  Dicks Creek Gap is a busy place. It’s a convenient trailhead for day or section hikers who want to hike south to the top of Kelly Knob or north toward Bly Gap where an iconic, much photographed, gnarled oak marks the border between Georgia and North Carolina. Both are popular hikes, and the parking lot is already filled with cars and hikers. The fact that it’s Spring Break for many of the nearby schools and a cool, sunny day means a lot of teenagers and college students begin to pass us on their way to the knob.

  The man Curly Dan mentioned is at one of the picnic tables off to the side. He does look a little out of place, sitting there by himself, and he’s staring intently at the trail rather than watching the activity in the parking lot. There’s something vaguely familiar about him when I lean around Dan to get a better view. No Filter must think the same because I hear him say, “Is that—”

  “Liam,” I continue, interrupting him.

  “You know Liam Crow from Mountain Crossings?” he asks, glancing toward me.

  “He’s my cousin.”

  “Did you know he was going to be here?” Curly Dan asks.

  “No.” As we start walking again, I can’t help but wonder if something has happened. “I hope everything’s okay,” I murmur to myself. Both guys give me a worried glance but don’t say anything.

  As soon as Liam recognizes me, he’s standing, rounding the table, and walking toward us. I can see his worried expression relax as he realizes who I’m with. One more tiny proof I’ve not misjudged my hiking companions.

  He greets them with a handshake, calling them by their trail names before giving me a hard hug. “Been worried about you,” he whispers before letting me go. There’s an awkward pause as the four of us stand there, no one quite sure what to do or say. Finally, I blunt
ly ask him what he is doing here.

  Liam shifts nervously, his eyes darting over Curly Dan and No Filter before settling on me. “Something’s come up, and I really need to talk to you, Ari. In private,” he adds, turning to the guys standing next to me.

  “Oh, of course, sorry.” No Filter nods to Liam. “Tell you what. Dan and I are going to see if we can hitch a ride to the Blueberry Patch with someone out there in the parking lot. You’re more than welcome to join us later, if you want, Ella. Or is it Ari?” He grins at me, twitching his mustache before becoming more serious. “If we see you there, great, but if not, we’ll catch you somewhere up ahead on the trail. Okay?” When I nod, he turns back to Liam. “Nice to see you again, Crow.” Then, with a nod and a wave, they make their way to the roadside where they strike up a conversation with a van driver who is apparently giving rides into town.

  Two minutes later, they’re both gone, and I turn back to Liam. “What’s going on? Has anything happened to Uncle Billy or Emma?”

  “No, they’re fine,” he answers, shaking his head. “I just really need you to come home with me.”

  “What? You drove all the way here to tell me you really need me to come home with you? What exactly does that mean, Liam?”

  My cousin has the decency to look apologetic at my demand, but he doesn’t back down.

  “Look,” he says, starting again. “You left things in a mess in New York. You need to come back to Neels Gap with me. We’ll get on the phone, talk to Susan and Hudson, and get this all straightened out. You need to be taking care of business instead of out here hiking.”

  “I need to be taking care of business, huh? Well, let me tell you something, Liam Crow.” There’s fury in my voice as I step toward my cousin. “All I’ve done for the last nine years is take care of business. First, it was classes at MIT and research and papers and presentations and dissertations.” I continue to shout as I advance closer to him, and he slowly backs away. My voice has gotten loud enough for several people to glance our way, but I pay them no mind as I continue to unload on my startled cousin.