The Distance from Me to You (7 page)

As soon as the thought formed in her head, an owl hooted from a tree barely two yards away. McKenna shivered. It was a beautiful sound, eerie and low, and of course a reminder that she was never alone out here in the woods. Layers of forest concealed all manner of creatures: deer, moose, bears, bobcats, fisher cats. Several nights she had heard coyotes howling and yipping. Among hikers and naturalists, there was a running debate about whether mountain lions had returned to these eastern mountains. McKenna hated to admit she hoped the naysayers were right in that particular argument. Much as she loved animals, she didn't think her pepper spray would protect against a cougar.

The owl hooted again, and for a second McKenna considered gathering up her things and eating in her tent. Instead she looked up at the sky. The clouds had dispersed enough to reveal a blanket of stars sprawling overhead. The days of rain lent the forest a mulchy odor, but that was more of a bottom
note. Out here, the top note, always, was pine. She breathed it in. She'd left her wool cap in her pack, which lay safe and dry in her tent. Her ears felt red with the cold. How could it be so hot during the day and so cold at night? In Maine, in the mountains, she sometimes felt like she walked through all four seasons in a single day.

She slurped down the last of her ramen, then put on her headlamp and collected her food to hang in a tree, a good several yards from her tent, the philosophy being that if a bear came looking for snacks, he'd go for the far-off supply instead of ransacking her tent. Bear attacks didn't happen often, but they did happen. As she packed up her stove, the little propane tank felt light—she'd be lucky to get one more dinner out of it before having to refill it in Monson.

In her tent, she pulled the gauze off her knee. It still hurt, but less than it had last night. The butterfly bandages were holding fast, no blood was seeping out, and the skin around it looked faintly pink, but not red. No sign of infection. She carefully stuck on a piece of fresh gauze, pulled on her fleece sweats, and crawled into her sleeping bag. She'd already filled her stuff sack with clothes, using it as a pillow. Usually at this time of night, in a campground full of people, she'd be reaching for a book, reading for a while as the camp noise died down. But tonight she was so bone tired from hiking with her hurt knee. Plus, the total lack of human sound was exotic and the slightest bit scary. More than the slightest bit, if she was honest with herself.

But never mind the fear. Never mind the pain or the exhaustion. She was proving that she could push through all of it. Tomorrow morning at first light she would pack up and walk at least ten miles, maybe more, depending on how her knee felt. By the next day, she felt sure, she would be able to take another picture—of the sign warning hikers coming from the south of the 100 Mile Wilderness. Those hikers would end their journey with the hardest stretch. McKenna had begun with it, and now it was nearly over. She had done it.

She fell asleep smiling, her headlamp still on, shining a tiny circle of light, all night long, on the side flap of her tent. Luckily she could get extra batteries in Monson.

A good ten days
later, McKenna sat on the stoop of the general store in Andover, Maine, with Linda, an ex-Marine who'd started the trail in Georgia back in March. Linda was in her midthirties; she'd come home from Afghanistan four years ago and enrolled at the University of Texas. The hike was her graduation present to herself, and, as she told McKenna, she was pretty stoked to have only one more state to go before getting her certificate signed at Baxter State Park. McKenna was beyond thrilled to meet another woman going it alone. As Linda showed her the various stamps in her passport, McKenna admired her powerful biceps, covered with tattoos. Linda wore a bandanna over her cropped graying brown hair. McKenna wondered out loud if as many people asked Linda if she felt safe on her own.

“Probably not as many as ask you,” Linda said, giving McKenna a quick once-over. “But you'd be surprised. People don't like to see a woman doing something like this alone, no matter how strong she looks. People were less antsy about my going
to war than about me hiking by myself. This doesn't jibe with their vision of the world. It makes them nervous.”

Linda tried to teach McKenna how to use her compass, the Cammenga that she'd spent seventy dollars on back in Connecticut, and couldn't figure out how to use to save her life, literally.

“No matter which way I hold it, it points north. And then it just kind of quivers. Two mornings I've set off in the wrong direction. It's easier to just use the one on my phone.”

“Yeah, they should have different-colored blazes for southbound and northbound,” Linda agreed.

Every few hundred yards, trees on the AT were marked with white paint to let hikers know they were still on the trail, the same color in both directions. It seemed like it should be the simplest thing in the world—north or south. But on misty mountain mornings after a cold and lumpy sleep in your tent, it was easy to point your bleary-eyed self in the exact wrong direction.

This morning, though, McKenna was well rested. Amazingly rested. Last night, for the first time since beginning the trail, she'd slept in a bed in her own room that she'd rented at Pine Ellis Lodging. Not only had she taken a shower, shaving off an impressive amount of growth since her stop in Monson, but she'd also done laundry, eaten pizza, and guzzled down a Coke. Back at home McKenna hardly ever drank soda, but on the trail it turned out to be the thing she fantasized about when she reached the end of her stamina, those tiny little old-fashioned glass bottles of Coke.

And the most decadent thing she'd done: her southbound guidebook included the name and phone number of a massage therapist. McKenna wondered briefly what her parents would think when they saw
that
charge on their statement. She decided they'd be happy to see signs of her doing something so civilized. Thinking of her parents made her realize they were due for a text. She dug out her phone.

“Hey,” Linda objected, tapping the compass. “You're not watching.”

“I think it's probably hopeless,” McKenna said, quickly texting that she was alive and almost in New Hampshire.

Linda shrugged. “I didn't bring a phone,” she said. “Just wanted to be totally cut off. You know?”

“Yeah,” McKenna said. “I wanted that, too.”

McKenna didn't add that she'd had a harder time weaning herself off her phone than she'd thought she would. Last night in her room, she'd broken down and logged on to Facebook. Though she'd resisted posting anything, she'd creeped on a couple pages. All her friends were fixated on where they'd be going to college. Brendan's page had been full of posts about Harvard. As McKenna read through them, she felt a pang of longing that was strong enough to make her go ahead and message him. The fact that he hadn't written back yet meant that she might have to check tonight, if she got reception at her campsite.

“This is a really good compass,” Linda said. “We used the same kind in Afghanistan.”

“Do you want it?” McKenna said it automatically, feeling so relaxed and pampered. As soon as the words were out she realized how much she wanted to do this, give Linda the compass. So far on the trail she'd been given meals and gift certificates for cafés in rest towns. A man her father's age had traded his excellent rain cover for her mediocre one (he'd been a northbound thru hiker, almost done, happy to help her out on her long hike). This was her first chance to offer a little trail magic of her own.

“No way,” Linda said. “You've got thirteen more states to go.”

When she put it that way, a small bit of McKenna's well-restedness fluttered away on the morning breeze. Thirteen more states to go! That was like the whole original United States. She wondered what George Washington or Thomas Jefferson would say to a seventeen-year-old girl walking all the way from one tip of the country to the other.

“But I feel like there's a magnetic field in my body that just makes it go bonkers,” she said. “I'm never going to be able to figure it out.”

Linda laughed as she handed the compass back. “You keep it,” she said. “Your phone could get broken or the battery could die. With the compass, it's like CPR. You think you don't know how to do it, but when you have to, you'll remember this little lesson.”

McKenna had paid almost zero attention to the lesson, but she took the compass back and shoved it inside the front pocket
of her pack. The shuttle that took hikers back to the trail pulled up, and Linda and McKenna climbed on board.

“You shouldn't feel bad if you don't make it all the way to Georgia,” Linda said. “It's not exactly easy. I met this one northbounder at Harpers Ferry, he was feeling bad about giving up, but hell, he made it halfway. Over a thousand miles. That's more than almost anyone walks.”

McKenna couldn't believe it. Even Linda—her fellow warrior woman!—was doubting her. “No way,” she said. “I'm not stopping at Harpers Ferry. I'm going all the way to Georgia.”

Linda nodded, but McKenna could tell she wasn't convinced. All along the way, people kept telling McKenna not to feel bad when she failed. She'd gotten a late start, they all told her, not adding what they were obviously thinking:
She's just a girl.
But McKenna wasn't worried, and she didn't doubt herself. Since that first dreadful day, she had steadily increased her mileage. The cut on her knee had healed to a scab and didn't hurt at all anymore. While her pack still felt heavy—especially today, after her resupply in Andover—she was almost through Maine. The hardest state! She had climbed Katahdin, and Avery Peak, and Old Blue Mountain. In addition to the scab on her knee, her legs were covered in scratches but also beginning to cord with new muscle. Her sleeping bag would keep her warm through below-zero temperatures, and her boots were perfectly broken in and waterproof. Even if it snowed in the fall farther south, she was ready.

Plus, she'd had a massage yesterday, and an ice-cream cone for breakfast today. For the first time since she'd hit the trail, she was only mildly sore instead of desperately achy. Give her a mountain to climb, a river to ford, freezing temperatures to sleep through. She could take it, and take it happily.

When they got out of the shuttle, McKenna hoisted her pack onto her back. She thought of Courtney, and wondered how things were going with Jay. If she were here, they'd be helping each other in and out of their packs the same way they'd always yanked each other's riding boots off after a lesson.

On the trail, Linda and McKenna wished each other luck and hugged good-bye. The full length of their friendship had spanned just over an hour, but McKenna felt wistful as they parted ways, Linda heading north to hike one state, McKenna heading south to hike
thirteen
.

The past few weeks, it had been a pretty good balance between solitude and company—few enough people that she rarely had to walk the trail with anyone else, and enough people that she could have friendly exchanges, discussions, and even shared meals and camping for the night. The times McKenna felt most lonely were usually late at night, climbing into her sleeping bag exhausted, not yet ready to fall asleep but too tired to read. She not only missed Courtney, but Brendan, Lucy, and Buddy, too, though enough campgrounds and sections of the trail had
NO DOGS
signs that it was just as well she hadn't brought a dog along.

• • •

Yesterday's luxury combined with a good early start culminated in McKenna's best day yet, nearly twenty miles. It was almost dark when she got to the north end of the Mahoosuc Notch. Her guidebook promised the Notch would be the “most difficult or fun mile of the AT,” which seemed like something best tackled fresh, so she decided to stop and pitch her tent at the small campsite. There was already a group of people there, mostly girls, and as McKenna scouted out a place for her tent, one of them came over.

“I'm Ashley,” she said. She was probably around McKenna's age, tall, and pretty. McKenna could tell right away that she was just camping for a night or two; she looked so shiny and clean. Even though McKenna had done laundry yesterday and washed her hair, she knew her clothes had the dingy, worn-every-day look that marked all thru hikers.

“Want some chili?” Ashley invited. “We made a ridiculous amount.”

“Sure,” McKenna said. “I'd love that, thanks.” Any night she didn't have to choose between setting up her camp stove and cooking or just eating granola bars and turkey jerky was heaven.

“Come set your tent up by us,” Ashley said. “Then you won't have to stumble home when the party's over.”

McKenna set up her tent and put on her Keen sandals, much more comfortable than her heavy boots. Ashley told her she was there for the weekend from Concord, New Hampshire,
with some girlfriends. “We're not hiking much,” she said. “Just camping.” They were all students at UNH but were home for the summer.

They had built a big fire, something McKenna had been forgoing. Campfires could lead to forest fires, and also created light and smoke pollution. She felt like a better environmentalist using her little cookstove. At the same time she had to admit the fire was festive. Three other girls sat around it—two brunettes and a redhead—and one guy. The redhead stood up and ladled out a bowl of chili.

“Thanks,” McKenna said. The heat of the plastic bowl felt wonderful in her hands. She sat down and one of the brunettes handed her a spoon and a can of beer.

“Maddie is an amazing cook,” said the brunette. McKenna thought she'd said her name was Blair, but she couldn't remember.

Judging from the way the one guy sitting at the opposite end of the log from McKenna was scarfing down his bowl, Blair spoke the truth. McKenna could tell the guy was not part of the original group; like her, his clothes looked dingy, his once-white T-shirt a worn shade of gray. His blond hair hung unwashed to his shoulders. He looked up from his chili for a second and turned his head toward McKenna. In that moment, she did something totally out of character. She drew in an audible breath, and then immediately turned red, hoping the girls—or worse, the guy—hadn't heard her.

He was completely, ridiculously gorgeous. His eyes were the
crazy pale blue of a Siberian husky's. He had an angular face and sharp cheekbones. His legs, sprawled out in front of him, were impossibly long and knotted with muscle, as were his arms. No wonder the girls had invited him to join them.

McKenna pulled her eyes away and returned to the chili, remembering that they'd invited her, too. They were just a friendly group. She took a bite of chili, which had just the right amount of spicy heat, along with a faint whiff of cinnamon. It was of the meat-and-tomato variety—no beans—just the way she liked it.

“Oh wow,” McKenna said. She took a sip of the cold beer, the perfect complement. “This is amazing.”

The girls laughed. The guy barely glanced at her again.

“Told you,” Blair said, and Maddie smiled.

“So are you hiking a long way?” Maddie asked. The guy had just handed her his empty bowl, and she stood to refill it.

“To Georgia,” McKenna said.

“Wow!” Ashley said. “All by yourself?”

McKenna was used to this conversation by now: the surprise, followed by doubt, followed by questions.

“So's Sam,” Ashley told her, pointing at the guy.

The guy looked up again when he heard them talking about him. He grinned and waved his spoon. McKenna waved back, but also wondered if everyone
he
met worried about him being alone. He was probably never grilled about his plans and then reassured that it was an achievement just to make it as far as he already had.

“He's already done it once,” Ashley added. She was sitting next to him, and her voice sounded oddly proud. She lifted her hand like she was going to pat his knee, then thought better of it. McKenna guessed they'd been drinking awhile before she showed up.

“Really?” McKenna said. “You've already thru hiked?”