Free Black Heart on the Appalachian Trail by T.J. Forrester Page B

loud.
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    Normally, when I think of a shelter, I think of a building in a city where crackheads go for free meals and cot space for the night. Springer Mountain Shelter, perched on the southern terminus ofthe Appalachian Trail, is something altogether different. On a mountain north of Atlanta, 3,780 feet above sea level, this shelter has three walls made out of logs that intersect at the corners and rise to a slanted roof. Inside, five guys and one girl mill around. Water bottles, camp stoves, headlamps, guidebooks, boots, food bags; name it and it’s scattered to hell and back. The girl wears a purple fleece and purple shorts, trail runners to match. A guy with dreadlocks lights a pipe and passes it around. An earthy smell fills the air. I stand at the edge of the shelter, under the overhang. When the pipe comes my way, I hit it and hold it out to a guy who waves it off. The guy has a bear tattoo on his neck, and he wears his hair in a black braid that falls over his shoulder and down his chest. He has flat cheekbones and wide-set black eyes. Tells me his name is Richard Nelson, and this is his first thru-hike. He opens a bottle of Crown Royal and passes it around. I sip and the liquid turns to fire in my stomach.
    The girl’s name is Stacy, and she watches me. Her eyes glaze over, and I don’t know if that’s because of the pot or if she likes what she sees. Matching silver bracelets jingle when she moves her hands. She gives me a half wave, says before I walked up they were taking turns saying why they’re hiking the trail.
    â€œI’m here to grow,” Stacy says. “I’m a plant and the trail is my nourishment.”
    An older man, white hair frizzed around the ears, says he’s getting over a divorce and he wants to live a little for the first time in his life. He says you’re never too old for adventure.
    â€œI’m a shaman,” Richard says. “My people call me Waknashatee, which means Man Who Talks to Spirits.”
    â€œThat’s very cool,” Stacy says.
    Richard whispers in my ear. He says, “White man, if you wantto get laid on the trail, you best come up with some New Age shit mixed with nature.”
    I hit the pipe its third time around the shelter, exhale, and zip up my fleece. There isn’t much of a view—too many trees in the way—but there is a vastness beyond the forest, a wildness that settles like a cold hand on my neck. Stacy smells like cinnamon and weed, and I stare at her legs, at the fine blond hairs on her thighs.
    â€œI bet you have a secret reason for coming out here,” she says. “Something you’ll never tell a soul.”
    â€œIt’s no big deal.” I glance at Richard, who looks at me slant.
    â€œI bet it’s mysterious,” she says. “I bet wild horses couldn’t drag it out of you. If anyone found out you’d dry up and blow away like a tumbleweed.”
    â€œI’m a Druid,” I say, and wave off the pipe. “I’m out here to sleep under oak trees and gain power from the forest. Thru-hiking the trail is a spiritual adventure.”
    Stacy’s hand seeks mine, and warmth seeps into my skin. She clears a space next to the wall, and I unroll my ground pad and sleeping bag, light my stove and cook a dinner of Lipton noodles. The salesman tried to sell me freeze-dried meals, and I turned him down. Lipton Dinners are super-light and less than a dollar at the Dollar Store.
    When it gets dark, Stacy props herself on an elbow and kisses me. I drag my sleeping bag over our heads, speak in a low voice. “My girlfriend is meeting me in North Carolina.”
    â€œNo strings,” she says. “Two hikers having fun.”
    â€œI’ll think about it.”
    I don’t know why I’m playing hard to get. Seriously, I’m acting like Roxie and I have a regular relationship, the kind wherepeople say “I love you” and swear