Nature Girl (19 page)

Yes, very soon, right after I eat the bucket of macaroni and drink the gallon of orange juice, I’ll finally be able to call Lucy. I start practicing what I will say to her.

Hello, Lucy? This is Megan. I’m here at Mount Greylock
.

Then I stop, because that’s where SHE will say something. I try to imagine what that will be. Only I’m having trouble thinking of what she really WOULD say. All I can think of is what I want her to say.

Oh, Megan, I can’t believe you made it. I’m so glad you’re here!

Would she really say that? Or is she still mad at me
for not being a very good friend? But even if she is, she won’t stay mad at me after I tell her how sorry I am.

Arp sits down to scratch his ear and lick his paw. Then he curls up in a ball to take a nap. Obviously he has no idea what’s waiting for us on top of this mountain. So I have to carry him. But I’m not even mad about doing this extra work, since we’re so close to the end of our long journey.

The sky turns pink as the sun rises. Now it doesn’t matter if anyone finds us. No one can send us home after we make it! We’re climbing higher and higher. The thick green roof of leaves that has been over our heads gets thinner and thinner. Any minute now, we’ll be at the top of Mount Greylock. My heart is pounding—well, I am climbing pretty fast. But mostly I’m so excited that I practically run the last few yards.

And there I am. Standing at the top. I’m the tallest thing for miles and miles. I’m surrounded by rose-colored sky in all directions. Slowly I turn in a complete circle to admire the view.

Where’s the tall gray stone monument? Where’s the store? Where’s the food? More importantly, where’s the drinking fountain?

Nowhere. That’s where.

I walk over and look behind a big pile of rocks. Like everything might be hiding there. But it isn’t.

I sit down.
Plop
. Right where I am. I don’t take one more step. I feel so totally defeated, I don’t know what to do.

What happened?

Did I get on the wrong trail after we ate the fish? Did I go in the wrong direction? Did someone put blue splotches on the wrong trees just to trick me? Maybe that kid lied and I’m not even in Massachusetts. Maybe those horrible hikers lied and Mount Greylock isn’t even on the Appalachian Trail. I can’t believe it! All that work and all that suffering are wasted. I put my head down on my arms. But I can’t even cry. I’m too exhausted.

On the day before the day before we were leaving for Vermont, I called Lucy to tell her a long list of things to bring. Her turquoise hoodie, because it gets cold up
there at night. The
Calvin and Hobbes
collection of cartoons she promised to let me borrow. And thirty-six other things that I won’t even bother to mention, because before I even got to the THIRD thing on the list, she said, “I can’t come.”

At first I thought she meant something else. “You mean not until the second week?”

But Lucy said, “No, I can’t come.”

So I said, “What? Are you grounded or something?” Which was a JOKE, because Lucy would never do anything bad to get grounded even before her mom got sick.

“Mom’s sick again.”

“But she had all the treatments. She’s got to be better.”

“The chemo didn’t work.”

“It made her hair fall out.”

“It didn’t get rid of all the cancer. They have to try something else. They’re giving her a different kind of treatment.”

But I didn’t even ask what kind it was. I only cared about one thing. So I said, “When she’s had the treatment, then can you come?”

“I don’t know. I JUST CAN’T COME. Okay?” She sounded mad.

I didn’t know why she should be mad at ME. I thought she should be mad at the doctors who didn’t do a good enough job curing her mom. Since I couldn’t say that, I said something really whiny. “But you promised.”

“I never promised you, Megan.”

“Yes you did.”

For a moment it seemed like we were going to have one of those totally stupid arguments. You know the kind, where kids say “Yes you did” and “No I didn’t” over and over until the world comes to an end. But we stopped.

We didn’t say anything for a while. I would have thought she had hung up except that I heard her breathing. I heard me breathing too. I know I was waiting for her to say SOMETHING. Like maybe she was sorry? But she didn’t. She was probably waiting for me to say that I was sorry. But I didn’t. I said, “Fine then.” I hung up really fast, because I could feel the crying creeping up the back of my throat and around the edges of my eyes.

The crying is creeping up around my eyes again. I thought I was done with crying and hearing that yucky voice in my head. But maybe I’m not—I mean, I also thought I was hiking to Mount Greylock.

I hear some people come huffing and puffing up the Trail. I don’t bother to go to a better hiding place. What’s the point? My trip is over anyway.

“What a view,” a man says.

“Gorgeous,” a woman says. “Look at those colors. I could try for a hundred years and never get them on paper.”

“I just love it up here at this time of day,” the man says.

“Me too,” the woman says. “Shall we have our breakfast? I’m starving after that climb. Oh, hello. Who are you?”

Arp barks.

“What a cute little dog,” the woman says.

“Where’s your owner?” the man says. “Are you hungry? We don’t have any dog food.”

Arp barks again to beg for food. He’s totally shameless. But I’m not going to stop him. I’m not going to do anything anymore ever again.

“Hey!” the man says.

Arp trots over behind the rocks with half a bagel in his mouth. He lies down right next to me to eat it. I would scold him, but what’s the point? I mean, it’s not like the people would want it back.

The man and woman come over and look at me. They stare for such a long time that I finally mumble, “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” the woman says. “I need to go on a diet anyway.”

It’s true; she is a little round. I consider offering to help her with her diet by eating the half she’s holding in her hand. But I’m too upset to eat.

They’re still staring at me. I look down at myself. My shoes are dirty and worn, like they walked thirty thousand miles. My legs are scratched, like they battled with a billion bushes. My calves have huge bulging muscles, like they hauled me up and down a thousand hills. My
fingernails are black from building fires. My arms are brown from being outdoors for five days.

They look at each other. They look at Arp. Then they look at me again.

“Are you Megan?” the man says.

I shrug.

“How did you get here?” the woman says.

“We walked,” I say.

“All the way from Vermont?” he says.

“It’s all I can do to make it up this mountain,” she says.

I shrug again.

“You must be starving.” She goes over to their backpack and takes out a bag of food. “Oh, isn’t that cute?”

I turn around. Arp is sitting up and waving his paws. I didn’t know he could do tricks like that.

“You little beggar,” she says. “Did you really walk all that way too?”

She smiles as she gives Arp another bagel. Then she holds one out for me.

“Please take it. You need to eat something.”

I eat it. But even if it were a New York bagel, it would still taste like sawdust.

“Can I have some water?” I say.

“Of course.” The man gives me the bottle. I drink and drink until I can’t drink anymore. Luckily it’s a very big bottle. Then I put the cap back on and give it back to him.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” she says.

“Now we better get you home to your parents,” he says.

“They must be frantic,” she says.

“Please, not yet.” Even though my journey is over, I still don’t want it to end. I get up and walk toward the edge of the mountain. I look south. Toward Lucy? Who knows? Who cares? I messed up again.

The man comes over and stands next to me. “You see it?”

I shake my head. All I see is failure.

He points. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. It could be anything—a bird, a plane, a UFO. But in the distance, I see another mountain. And on top of it, a skinny stick glows in the early-morning light.

“What’s that?” I say.

“Mount Greylock,” he says.

THAT’S Mount Greylock? I stagger backward. I almost fall off the top of whatever the heck I’m standing on. “So what’s this?”

“Mount Fitch,” she says.

Mount Fitch? Can you believe I climbed the wrong mountain? And, besides that, it has such a dumb name. I mean, give me a break. Who would call a mountain Fitch?

It’s so horrible that I have to laugh. I’m so many miles from that bucket of macaroni and cheese and that gallon
of orange juice—and Lucy. I fall over laughing, in fact. I laugh until I’m crying again and Arp comes to see what’s going on.

“What’s so funny?” the woman says.

“Mount Fitch!” I say.

Then they laugh too. And Arp barks.

“Actually we like Mount Fitch better than Mount Greylock,” she says.

“Mount Greylock is so crowded,” he says.

“So many tourists just drive up there,” she says.

“They aren’t real hikers,” he says.

“Like you,” she says.

From the way she smiles, I know I have a chance. And then, when I notice a sketch pad in her backpack, I think I know how to persuade them to let me keep going.

“Are you an artist?” I ask her.

“Well, not much of one,” she says.

“Sure you are. All you need is confidence,” he says.

“Can I see?” I say.

The woman shows me her drawings. She has a hundred sketches of the same old tree. I guess all artists keep doing the same thing over and over, like my dad and his stone wall, and my mom and her barn.

Only as I study the woman’s drawings, I see that it isn’t just the same tree over and over. There are small changes. Things you might not think matter, but actually do. Like should the tree be from this angle or that,
should it be in shadow or bright blazing sun, should the branch be a little bit longer or shorter?

“I like that drawing best,” I say.

“You do? Why?” she says.

“Because in that one, the tree doesn’t push you away; it brings you into the picture,” I say.

“Look, Adam. She’s right,” she says.

“My parents are artists too,” I say.

“Really?” she says.

“Just like you. Day after day, they work really hard to capture a heroic essence. Day after day, just like me going step after step on this long Trail,” I say.

“Why are you?” he says.

“I have to get to Mount Greylock,” I say.

“But why?” she says.

“It’s something I have to do. It’s my Hodgkin’s Hike,” I say.

“What kind of hike?” he says.

“The kind where you keep going no matter what,” I say.

“People are very worried about you,” she says.

“I know. I didn’t plan that part. And I’m sorry. But it’s just like how you have to keep drawing that same tree. I always used to quit. My parents always tried to teach me not to be like that. Only they couldn’t. I had to do this hike to learn that the only way to fail is to quit.”

“That’s what you always tell me,” she says to the man.

“I know,” he says.

I stare at them. I’m not going to be a beggar like Arp. I’m just going to stand there calmly and confidently until they let me climb Mount Greylock.

“She’s so close,” she says.

“But her parents,” he says.

“I think they’ll understand,” she says.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I hate to be responsible.”

“And I hate to keep her from finishing her trip. She’s come so far. I mean, look at her,” she says.

He looks toward Mount Greylock. Then he looks at me.

“We’ll be watching the news. If you haven’t made it by tonight, we’ll come looking for you,” he says.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it,” I say.

They give me all their food and their water. The woman hugs me, and then she shakes my hand like I’m an important person.

Arp and I walk toward a blue splotch on the far side of Mount Fitch. As we start going down, I turn back to wave. “I really like that drawing,” I call to her.

She smiles so happily that I don’t tell her the real reason I like it. Her tree looks like the Hundred-Year-Old Maple.

The Trail is a huge long thing. It stretches all the way from Maine to Georgia. That’s practically all of America, if you’re going from top to bottom. (Well, duh, I guess that’s why they made it like that.) Anyway, that huge long thing is so much bigger than you are, and bigger than anything you can imagine, that at first hiking it seems impossible. But when you’re actually walking on it, you realize that this whole huge thing is just step after step after step, oops don’t trip on that root, hmm wonder what that ugly plant is called, ouch that bug bit me. Step after step, some up, some down, some easy, some hard. And that’s how you get it done. One little bit at a time.

The end is in sight.

Well, actually the end WAS in sight when I was standing on top of Mount Fitch and feeling powerful and wise. But as soon as I go back on the Trail and climb down Mount Fitch, Mount Greylock gets hidden by the
leaves. Going down seems like such a total waste of energy because obviously we’re only going to have to climb BACK UP again. And while I’m on the subject of climbing up and down a million hills, the next time somebody makes a long trail that stretches all across the United States, maybe they could put it in a FLAT place!

And oh, by the way, it starts to rain.

At first it’s just a few drops. Just a few wet splotches landing
plop
on my hat.

“Maybe whoever is in charge of the weather will take pity on us since we’re so close,” I say to Arp.

But obviously nobody is in charge of the weather, because then it really starts pouring. Oh great. Now what are we going to do?

I start to run. But then I stop. Where do I think I’m running to? I mean, it’s not like I can go inside. I have a choice of trees to stand under. That’s all.

I’m desperate enough to get out the rain poncho. By that point, I don’t care if I look like a nerd. But even after I put it over Arp and me, the rain leaks through. I’m getting more and more miserable. And don’t you dare say, Well, at least the rain chased away the mosquitoes. Or, You shouldn’t complain; you’ve been really lucky with the weather so far. Or, What do you expect? Do you think you’re hiking through a desert? And please do NOT be like my dad and give me a whole long lecture that ends with the saying “Into each life some rain must fall.”