I don’t really know where the idea came from. There are a lot of sources I can point to. My family has a house in Salisbury, Conn. I often see thru-hikers stomping toward ice cream at LaBonne’s market.
Mostly, the lack of profound reasoning behind my decision to spend two nights on the Appalachian Trail (AT) with my sister, Petra, rests in the real, boring explanation. When I came home from college, there was this awkward space. I had three weeks before I drove to Boston, Mass., to settle in a house for the summer.
I’d done enough of sitting in parking lots with high school friends. When I suggested hiking to Petra, she agreed and, to my absolute advantage, she planned most of it.
Our mom dropped us off at some point along Route 4. We got our picture taken and started walking.
The AT is a trail stretching almost 2,200 miles between Georgia and Maine, passing through 14 states. The brave, sturdy individuals who hike the whole path are called thru-hikers. They’re either “nobos” (north-bound from Georgia to Maine) or “sobos” for the opposite.
Thru-hikers will hike 12 to 20 miles a day. Usually, it’s more like 20. Petra and I planned 6 for day one.
Petra is a lot of things. She’s a rising sophomore who is pre-med and a math major. She’s the other sibling in my family with red hair— though it’s lighter and straighter than mine. I’m not sure how people mistake us for twins, but I understand when they think she’s older. Petra is an EMT. She’s decisive, a little taller than me, and when we hiked, she always led.
We sat in the dirt, dodging caterpillars that fell from the sky. Creepy crawly things in places you can’t see is worse than wood chips stuck in socks. Petra took out a Sloppy Joe mix.
We were so excited for our first trail-cooked meal. However, it was inedible. It may have been our fault for forgetting the ketchup needed as an add-in.
Over the next 3 miles, we crossed brooks, passed a thru-hiker who lost his self-awareness for stench long-ago, and side-stepped boulders.
Pine Swamp Brook Shelter was quiet. We were tired, so we read some messages in the notebook left in the lean-to to keep us from passing out before 6 p.m.
A lean-to is a structure built at most campsites to sleep in, and they often have notebooks for hikers to write in.
“I’ve had two moths enter my mouth without permission! I hate Connecticut the same I always have,” Cinderella wrote.
Certainly, Cinderella could be a respectable name, but I’d bargain it’s a trail name — names gifted to thru-hikers for a personality trait or a funny story. Booty-shorts, Oomo and MadDog also wrote in the book.
Petra and I don’t have enough experience to have had someone title us, so we used a childhood memory for our signature. Once we dressed as Salt and Pepper for Halloween.
The next day, we had 11 miles ahead of us. It started off OK, until I learned walking uphill is as painful as walking down.
As we shuffled down the last stretch to our campsite, I thought my feet wouldn’t carry me. Crawling was a suggestion.
I made it because you always do. Until you don’t. Then you don’t make it.
My feet were puffy, purple, blistered. I laughed at myself. Petra approached, confused. Then I cried, she hugged me, and I stopped.
In the tent later we watched a television show before a sleepless night. We never learned about the dampness or how hard the forest floor really is. Petra’s head was closer to the flashing lights, and she turned back, notably, and stared at me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just checking on you,” she said.
Though I’m not going to detail it, we did get out. Our mom picked us up on the side of a different road.
I’m fully sure I decided on this adventure because I wanted something to do, but there’s the question of why I needed to fill an awkward space I could’ve just slept through. I could’ve enjoyed a summer break before returning to Boston, where I’ll work three jobs.
Though turning 20 in March seems widely unrelated, it really isn’t. Most of my life right now feels like an awkward three-week break at home in Connecticut between two things happening.
Hiking the AT was beautiful, painful and buggy. I came away with something I’ve known: My sister is the best. That’s what’s important now, and maybe I’ll continue with unjustified ideas just to learn I already knew their simple whys.
Cella’s paintings are tucked in almost every available space thoughout Little Store Antiques. L. Tomaino
