Chapter 19
Iviewed every day on the trail as a triumph when we camped each night. I figured each day Claire pushed forward was a win. Of course, I could be fooling myself. Maybe she was sinking deeper into grief.
What the fuck do I know?
There were fewer people. Rather we met fewer because we were moving fast. No leisure days. No chilling at a shelter. We passed people. A few times a younger, more in shape, hiker would go by or the occasional hiker with a small day pack. But it was quiet. And getting warmer as April rolled in.
The tattoo woman didn’t make an appearance and I didn’t turn on the Satphone, so I was beginning to believe I had lost her.
The moment I thought that, I tried to squash it.
But it was too late. It was out there, waiting to be grabbed by my Entity and used against me.
Given how remote this last stretch was, there was a chance Tattoo Woman had caught a ride and leapt ahead of me and was waiting.
We were a day out from Fontana when I had a moment of enlightenment. I think that’s what it’s called. The light bulb going on. We camped on top of one of the bald mountaintops. It had been a mild day weather wise and the sky was clear.
Day by day I’d sensed that Claire was relaxing.
But now, with the dam one walk away, she was tensing.
I’d once been given a Myers-Briggs test during one of the down time periods; seemed some geek in the covert world was trying to figure out what made us whackos tick.
One thing I remembered was that the last letter of the four indicated you were either goal oriented or process oriented.
The difference between the two was clear on the trail.
Goal oriented people were focused on getting to the end of the trail.
Standing on top of Katahdin. All else was secondary to that.
They kept track of their mileage obsessively.
Like I used to.
Process people enjoyed the walk. They reveled in each day.
They had a better time; I was beginning to realize.
Claire seemed process oriented but now that we were close to the objective, it was apparent the routine we’d settled into was dissolving.
Routine is good. Routine can be mind-numbing, especially when it’s as physical as carrying a rucksack on mountain trails.
We stopped at Brown Fork Gap Shelter but, as usual, found a spot off site for privacy. Neither of us were in the mood to talk to others. I suspect Claire didn’t want to face anyone asking where her dog was. And I was me.
“How far until the dam?” Claire asked, which was odd because I’d seen her check her phone. I knew she had the AT app on it.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Around twelve miles. We lose elevation on the way.” Which was a nice way of saying we’d have more downhill than up, which made sense since we were heading toward Fontana Lake, which had been formed by the dam.
“Lucky us,” she said. “You know, we have to split up tomorrow. It’s been nice of you to accompany me this far, but what I need to do, I need to do alone.”
“What do you need to do?” It was the first time I was tackling this head on.
“Spread my son and his dog’s ashes.”
“And then?”
There was a flash of anger. “Why do you care?”
“We’ve spent time together. I care.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what then.”
Then she turned her back to me.