Water cascaded down smooth sheets of mountain rock. Knobby walls of green sheltered lush, river-carved valleys. Over the mountains stretched a cornflower canvass of sky, tinged with brushstrokes of white wispy cloud.

But I didn’t see any of it. I was busy looking at maps and calculating mileage, while Emily bandaged her blisters. We were attempting to hike the entire North Carolina portion of the Appalachian Trail, and I had it all planned out: mileage per day, meals, camping sites, even the number and location of rest breaks.

“We need to get to Cold Spring Shelter before sundown,” I explained, helping Emily to her feet. Grimacing, she shouldered her pack and began hobbling up the trail.

I had been with Emily for almost a year, but I was still afraid of the whole commitment thing. And sometimes I wondered if she was too soft for a hard-core hiker like myself. To find out, I asked her to hike the AT with me for a few weeks. I figured it would be a good test.

“Let’s step it up a bit,” I suggested as we climbed Wayah Bald. We were already behind schedule, thanks to Emily’s blisters. With quarter-sized sores on the backs of heels, she had slowed considerably. Yesterday, we had logged only 12 miles, and today, we’d be lucky to get in 10.

Heavy packs also slowed us down. I lugged the tent and two bear-proof canisters crammed with two weeks of food, while Emily carried the sleeping bags and cookstove. Together, our packs weighed more than 100 pounds.

As Emily dragged herself up the mountain, I could see the straps of her backpack digging into her shoulders. So I offered to carry more gear. By the time we reached the stone observation tower atop Wayah, I had everything but the stove stuffed into my pack.

Breathless and bone-tired, we descended into a rhododendron-filled valley at sunset, where we were instantly swallowed up in swarms of mosquitoes. They bit through our clothes and bloodied our arms and legs. Emily wanted to rest, but the insects would have eaten us alive if we stopped, and besides, we were still 4 miles from the shelter.

That night, Emily bathed her bites and blisters in a nearby stream while I cooked dinner. We warmed our faces over a pot of steaming Ramen noodles and discussed the next day’s hike.

“It’s a bit ambitious, but I think we can make it to Cheoah Bald tomorrow,” I said, showing her my itinerary.

“That’s 25 miles.”

“You can do it,” I assured her.

Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as she forced her feet into her boots the next morning. I was carrying everything now —even the stove. We dropped down into Tellico Gap, splashed across a few streams, then began a long, wet-footed ascent up to Wesser Bald.

“How are you doing?” I asked after the quad-cramping climb.

“Good,” she whimpered.

I checked my watch. We were right on schedule, and I was feeling good about our chances of reaching the Great Smokies by tomorrow. For the next 6 miles, we zig-zagged down into the Nantahala Gorge.
The rocky trail tore up our feet, and Emily was popping Tylenol every hour. Running low on water, we stopped to refill our bottles in a deep, clear mountain stream spanned by a wooden footbridge.

That’s when Emily lost it. Out of nowhere, she crumpled to the bridge and began bawling.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, unlacing her boots. Her feet were swollen, bloody, and blistered to the bone. She couldn’t go any further. She had failed the test. Just like that, it was over.

I kicked at a loose board and hid my frustration behind a callous, tight-lipped frown. Weeks of planning and hundreds of dollars in dried food were wasted. I wanted to cry with her.

Instead, I kneeled down on the bridge and helped her peel gauze away from her blisters. She lowered her face just as I lifted mine, and for a moment, we accidentally looked right at each other. I saw her face — her forehead, her eyelashes, her tear-stained cheeks. I saw Emily for the first time.

She was perfect. After five days of body odor and unbrushed teeth, she was never more beautiful.
Then it all hit me pretty hard: I had been treating my girl friend like a guinea pig. She had hiked the last 60 miles in absolute agony, enduring my arrogance and abuse, while I prodded her to go faster. Where was I in such a hurry to get to? And what had I missed along the way?

For the rest of the afternoon, we hung our legs off the bridge and counted each other’s mosquito bites. We listened to the water. Then I committed my first crime in a national park: littering. I shredded my itinerary into little pieces and sprinkled it into the creek. One by one, flakes of paper twirled in the water and disappeared downstream.

It was Emily’s turn to call the shots now, and she settled on skinny-dipping. She stripped off her clothes and splashed out into the cold current, while I tip-toed cautiously away from shore. I shivered violently, ankle-deep, knee-deep, now waist deep in the water.

“Come on — let’s pick up the pace!” she shouted.

I closed my eyes and dove all the way in.

(Will Harlan writes about the outdoors. He can be reached at wharlan@hotmail.com)

 

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