Category:
Literary Fiction
Each spring thousands of outdoor-enthusiasts converge in Georgia with one common goal: to traverse the 2,170 mile Appalachian Trail all the way to Mount Katahdin in Maine. Less than 20% ever reach this destination. Told through the eyes of four unique characters, "Beyond Katahdin" offers a rare glimpse into the magic of the journey.
Minstrel came to Georgia to escape the domestic dreams of the woman he loves. As he hikes north, he realizes he is running from the nightmare of ending up like his blue-collar father. Sergeant Maine is a man on a mission to out-hike the ghost of his son, but he is haunted most by the fear that he caused Jason’s death. As they journey toward Maine, Sarge gets the opportunity to right the wrongs of his past when Jason’s demise repeats in Minstrel.
***
March 16th
Hiawassee, GA
Miles: 66.8
It was nearly five o’clock when Sergeant Maine reached US76—the road to Hiawassee. He had made a 12 mile push from the old Cheese Factory site, and without a break to speak of. He prided himself on that. Leave the Kum-Bah-Yah granola moments to the young hippie kids, who seemed to have forgotten in their effort to make friends that they were out here to hike a trail. But he was never one to pass judgment, so what did he care?
There was a fair amount of traffic on the road, which surprised him. He expected a feeling of greater isolation considering he was 11 road miles east of Hiawassee and pretty much in the middle of nowhere. At least that’s what it had felt like these last couple days. All he’d seen were trees, trees and more trees. Mountains as far as the eye could see. He thought he’d get a break from it in Neels Gap, but he was wrong. It was an outfitter set up in the middle of even more trees. He’d gotten out of there as fast as he could. He was hoping Hiawassee would be better—a bit more like being in the real world. But then, he’d seen “Deliverance”, so he doubted it.
Of course, anything was better than the alternative—The Blueberry Patch. He’d heard plenty of good things about that place, but quite frankly the very idea of it gave him the creeps. What kind of people set up a farm to grow blueberries? He didn’t get it. The whole organic craze went over his head.
Dropping his pack on the other side of the road, he retrieved a navy blue Capilene shirt and pulled it on over his sweat soaked tee-shirt. Then, finding his toiletries bag, he rubbed on some deodorant. He supposed folks would be more likely to stop for him if he looked a little cleaned up.
A mini-van flew up the road toward him. Instinctively, he stepped back away from the pavement and extended his thumb. The driver gave him the once over and kept moving, making no effort to slow down. No problem. He’d get the next one.
Close behind the mini-van came a small Ford Escort. It was a nice shade of blue and polished to shine. Behind the wheel he noticed the blonde hair of a young woman. Her eyes were shielded by sunglasses. Her manicured fingernails tapped the wheel as if to keep beat with a song on the radio. Sarge was doubtful, but he extended his thumb again. Without so much as a glance, the girl whizzed by.
Just as well. If he had a daughter her age, he wouldn’t want her picking up hitchhikers either. Besides, he was sure he’d get the next one.
He didn’t. Not the next one, or the one after that, or the one after that. He began to wonder if he was doing something wrong. He had never hitchhiked before. Perhaps he didn’t have the thumb right, or he looked too eager. He decided he would try playing it cool for the next car when his eyes detected movement across the road. When he zeroed in on the source of the movement, what he saw did not make him happy.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath when Minstrel emerged from the woods.
The young man saw him and lifted a hand to wave.
What was he doing here? Sarge had been sure this kid was a shoo-in for The Blueberry Patch. He’d even brought it up a couple times during Sarge’s longest night on the trail—the night they were stuck together at the hostel in Neels Gap. The young man had chatted away like a teenage girl on her first date. It was so annoying to Sarge that the following night when he arrived at Low Gap Shelter to find Minstrel building a fire, he changed his mind about staying there and kept hiking.
He set up his tarp a couple tenths of a mile further up the trail. It wasn’t an easy night. He slept on a dip and woke in the morning with a sore back and shoulders, but it was worth it. After all, a camp fire could only mean one thing. More talking. And Sarge wanted no part of that.
“Hey, man,” Minstrel greeted him, dropping his pack next to Sarge’s. “Heading into town?”
“Yep,” was all he said.
“Great. Maybe we can ride in together.”
“I don’t think so, kid,” Sarge began as the sound of an engine reached their ears. If this damn kid hadn’t showed up, it could have been Sarge’s ride.
“Why not?” Minstrel asked.
When a white pick-up truck rounded the corner, he stuck out his thumb and flashed a ridiculous smile. Did he think he could win a ride with charm? Sarge supposed it was possible—but you’d have to be charming first.
“I’ve been standing here almost ten minutes and nobody stopped to pick me up,” Sarge informed him gruffly. “No chance anybody will stop for the both of us. In fact, maybe we should split up. You walk down the road a ways, and I’ll stay here and—”
He fell silent as the pick-up truck put on a turn signal and pulled over. It came to an abrupt halt 30 yards up the road and remained there, the driver waiting for them.
“You were saying?” Minstrel asked, still grinning. He picked up his pack and hurried toward the truck.
“Well I’ll be damned—” was all Sarge could say. Reaching hastily for his own pack, he followed Minstrel to the truck.
“You headed to Hiawassee?” Minstrel was asking the driver.
The man nodded toward the back of the vehicle, indicating it was alright for them to climb in. Thanking him, Minstrel hoisted himself into the bed of the truck using the wheel for a foothold. Sarge followed suit, but only managed to get one leg over the tail gate before the driver accelerated. He dropped into the truck bed with a thud.
The ride to Hiawassee was long. Eleven miles, and the driver carried on as though he couldn’t remember he had two people in the back. Or perhaps he was trying to wow them. As he spun around bends in the road, the truck was hurled into the opposite lane. He made no effort to apply the brakes, even when a car coming toward him laid on the horn, letting him know they were in for a head on collision if he didn’t get into his own lane—and fast. He waited until the last minute, holding off like it was a game. Then, just as the car braked and veered off the road, the driver swerved back into his own lane.
Sarge watched with horror and a racing heart. This guy was trying to kill them!
He turned back in time to see that the driver of the other car had recovered from the scare. The vehicle pulled back onto the road, horn still blaring without forgiveness. A hand shot out the window, flipping off the driver of the pick-up. Bewildered, clutching his pack for dear life, Sarge ventured a glance at Minstrel. That younger man blinked his disbelief, equally shaken.
“Holy shit!” he shouted over the roar of the wind in their ears when he noticed Sarge was watching him.
“You got that right!” Sarge called back.
And in spite of himself, the older man began to laugh.
|
