Free The Distance from Me to You by Marina Gessner Page B

tent.
    â€œHey,” Dan said as she stiff-leggedly exited the shelter. “Come back and have dinner with us. We’re doing beef stew and corn bread.”
    Now,
that
was the kind of help she couldn’t resent. Or refuse.
    â€œThanks,” McKenna said. “I definitely will.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    The next afternoon, her knee throbbing, McKenna decided to stop a little earlier than she’d planned, at a campsite by Chairback Pond, instead of going an extra three miles to the shelter. Thanks to the light rain—not as persistent but still makingeverything damp—she had the whole place to herself. As she pitched her tent, she reminded herself that it was early still, and other people might join her. But so far, the campsite stood empty. She managed to get her tent set up, change into warmer clothes, and get water. A couple hikers passed, waving to her as they continued on, probably looking forward to a dry night in the lean-to. By the time the sky had cleared and then darkened, McKenna sat cooking noodles on her little stove, and she was pretty sure: after nine days on the AT, this would be her first night completely alone.
    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 bottomnote. 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,