Riding the Pause Read Free Page A

Rachel used her hiking poles to help her pick her way over the rocks and roots in the trail until she found her footing. Her well-worn hiking boots were practically the only gear she had that wasn’t new, but she knew better than to set out on a three day hike wearing new boots. She’d logged many miles in her old boots and lacing them up that morning had been like reconnecting with a part of her herself she’d lost. It made her feel like she was on the right path.
    Winding her way down the switchbacks, she dodged the trickles of water following the trail. They’d gotten more snow than usual that winter, and the water tables were high. It had been cold enough up on the ridgeline for her to see her breath, but the minor drop in elevation she’d already covered meant slightly warmer temperatures and snow melt. Planting her poles, she stepped across the tops of the rocks still ringed with ice to avoid the puddles and rivulets between. Wet boots were the last thing she needed.
    When she cleared the last section of wet trail, she looked up in time to see the white rectangular blaze on a tall straight tulip poplar that meant she’d found the Appalachian Trail. Her smile was automatic and even her pack felt lighter as she stepped onto the trail that wound from Maine to Georgia.
     
     
    By the time Rachel reached the sign for the Cornelius Creek Shelter, the light was turning golden and her legs and feet ached. Using her poles for balance, she stepped from rock to rock until she made it across the wide shallow creek. As she got closer to the three sided shelter, she smelled wood smoke and wondered who she’d be sharing the shelter with.
    It was still early in the season, but she’d passed about a dozen other hikers on the trail. Some thru-hikers with huge backpacks worn and dirty from the miles they’d already logged on their way from the bottom of the country to the top and others wearing running clothes and carrying nothing but a water bottle. Called slackpackers, they travelled in pairs, hiking hard and fast during the day and then leaving the trail for their cars at night and a good meal and clean bed in one of the local towns. They could do the whole trail leapfrogging their way from one end to the other and never spending the night outdoors. Technically they would complete the AT but it felt strange to Rachel, like they were missing an important part of the experience.
    Nothing prepared Rachel for what she saw when she hopped over the last section of creek and rounded the bushes to the shelter. The hairiest old mountain man she’d ever seen was tending a fire in the stone fire ring, heating up what looked like an old enamel coffee pot. With his long straggly gray hair and a beard that covered most of his face, he looked part yeti.
    For a moment, she thought about turning back and going on, but she hadn’t brought a tent and the next shelter was about five miles away. She’d never make it before dark and she couldn’t afford a twisted ankle. The last thing she needed was her brother Adam, the cop, showing up with the park rangers to rescue her. And just because the man looked like he stepped out of Deliverance didn’t mean he was inherently dangerous. She’d keep her mace in her pocket and sleep on the other side of the shelter. It would be okay.
    “Hey there,” said the hairy man, looking up from his fire as she approached.
    She nodded in greeting, shucking off the heavy pack and hopping up to sit on the edge of the raised floor of the three sided shelter. If the choice hadn’t been made before, it was as soon as she sat down. She wasn’t going anywhere else for the night. Crossing her aching legs, she worked at the laces on her boots, sliding off first one then the other before letting her feet swing over the edge. Without the weight of her hiking boots, her feet felt ten pounds lighter.
    Taking a moment to relax and wiggle her toes, Rachel unzipped the top of her pack and grabbed her slides. After having