GODHITS

     I did not associate humidity with Massachusetts, but the summer I backpacked the Massachusetts section of the Appalachian Trail the two went together so completely that I never sweated so much in my life–and I had grown up in Nashville which is known for its oppressive, humid summers.  Not only did I sweat from every pore all day long, I also hiked extra-long distances days in a row–a 21.1 mile day and an 18.4-mile day on the third and fourth days–with “warm up” hikes of 13.5 and 14 miles on the first and second days, all to cover the 93-mile section in a six-and-a-half-day solo trek.  On the first day, I even had to run across exposed, open rock ledges with a completely full pack to reach tree cover and the alternate bad weather trail as massive black clouds bore down and wind kicked up.  Only a couple of minutes later, that bad weather trail saw me curled into a tight ball, trembling for my life with my pack deposited 15 yards away as the sky thundered and lightening danced around the top of the mountain.  In the following days, I hiked from sunup to sundown.

     By the time I approached Dalton at mid-morning on day five, I was drained, and my left shoulder felt raw from where my dying pack strap had worn a groove in my skin.  My sports bra and shirt had provided meager protection.  Extra-large adhesive bandages helped for a while, but that day I had to replace them twice before noon because the adhesive was no match for the sweat.  I never thought I would need so many of those kinds of bandages, and by the second bandage of that day I ran out.  I decide to go into Dalton proper, find a pharmacy, and replenish my supply.  Into Dalton I trudged the additional distance–of course, uphill mostly on roads and sidewalks that radiated heat, all the while directly exposed to the sun.

     When I reached the shops, I caught the glorious sight of a trash can and realized that I could do a little load lightening by dumping my food trash.  Backpackers are always trying to find ways to lighten their packs.  It dawned on me that with only two and a half more days to go, I could lighten my pack further in a less traditional way.  I mentally inventoried my backpack.  When I imagined my the socks, the moment of illumination struck.  I had a clean pair of socks on for the rest of the trip and a pair in reserve.  The socks I had worn days one through four were fetid and quite used up from a year of use.  I no longer felt obligated to take them with me.  I took off my pack, and after dumping my food trash, I eagerly pawed through my dirty clothes.  I retrieved the dead socks, held each one with its companion polypro liner over the bin, chimed with glee as if chanting an incantation, “Lighten!”, and dropped the offending sock into the bin.  Such wasteful daring had not been my style before.  Solo backpacking and a raw shoulder had effected the transformation.

     My attitude had changed in another significant way.  After buying two boxes of bandages and ducking into a restaurant bathroom to tend my wounded shoulder, I decide I would not walk a mile back to the trail head; I would hitch.  I had ten more miles to go, and I could save myself an eleventh mile, than all the better.  Besides, the weather was hot, and the hour was nearing 11:30. But, bearing in mind horror movies and new reports of hitch hiking gone bad, I determined that I would not hitch any old ride.  I would follow the example that my friend Karen had set the summer before when we hitched a ride backpacking the AT in Maine.  She showed me how to scope out a care in a parking lot:  the driver should be female, have no more than one passenger, and have room for one or two passengers.  I could count the rides I had hitched in my life on one hand, and those were with Karen or a male friend.  I was scared, but I was determined.  

     Fortunately the public library stood across the street from the pharmacy, and cars were parked in front of the library.  I crossed the road for an easy approach to any unwitting patron.  I waited for a couple of minutes and then my first candidate appeared from the library.  But, she did not go to a car; she kept walking.  Next, a dark-haired lady dressed in stylish tennis clothes and wearing large sunglasses headed down the sidewalk from a store a few doors up.  She approached a reddish colored Saab which I quickly saw had empty front and back seats.  I walked up and asked her if she might be going down the hill because I was looking for a ride back to the trail head on such an oh so hot day.  Removing her sun glasses and placing them on her head, she smiled, and said with a thick New York accent.  Oh, I can help ya.  Get in this car, now.”  She ushered me to the passenger side, opened the door, and insisted that I put my pack on her back seat, whereas I was going to be quite happy just to have it rest on my lap.  She explained that she had just picked up an order at the famous Crane Stationery Company and had done some other errands.  She insisted that we stop at the 7-11 on the way to the trail so that she could get me some Gatorade.  “No, make that two Gatorades, because you look like you could really use two.”  On our way I asked her if she lived here.  Putting her sunglasses back on, she replied that she was staying in Dalton for a couple of weeks as a summer getaway.

     We reached the 7-11, and she insisted that I remain in the car while she went to get the drinks.  I had simply wanted a ride, never imagining such kindness.  When she returned with the lime-green bottles, she made me down the first one in her sight.  I did not hesitate.  When I finished, she said, “You look much bettuh.”  I did not realize how bad I must have looked, but if a jug of Gatorade made that much difference, I probably looked pretty rough.  I started drinking the second bottle as we pulled out of the parking lot.

     When we arrived at the trail head, I told her that she was what AT hikers call a “trail angel,” someone who helps a hiker out of the blue or leaves a little surprise along the way like a jug of water.  Her eyes grew wide and then a puzzled look came over her face as she genuinely asked, “Me?  An angel?!”  “Yes,” I replied, “You are an angel.”  I told her that I could not thank her enough for her help.  She put her sunglasses on her head, her eyes grew wide, and she asked again, “An angel?!”  I assured her that yes, she was an angel, and not just any angel, but a trail angel.  Almost jumping with glee, she exclaimed, “I can’t wait to tell my husband that I’m an angel!  He won’t believe it!  I can’t believe it!”  “Believe it,” I said.  “You are my special trail angel today.”  She beamed a huge smile of true delight like child with a surprise gift.  She said it again with a big grin almost as if in disbelief, “I’m an angel.”

     I turned and headed up the trail, pivoted and waved good-bye, and she waved at me.  As I walked up the hill, a verse from the Letter to the Hebrews kept running through my mind, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”  The passage refers to an episode in Genesis when Abraham provided a meal to three sojourners whom he did not initially recognize as divine messengers, yet who went on to deliver the happy news that he and his heretofore childless wife would have a son.  Like the Genesis story, the situation with the lady and me involved hospitality and the delivery of happy, surprising, sort of divine news but in a reversal of roles.  I was indeed a stranger:  a complete stranger, not smelling particularly good, and carrying an awkward looking, large load, my backpack.  The lady showed me hospitality, give me a ride and restorative drink.  In our instance she provided the hospitality, and in the course of doing so discovered that she was an angel, making her the “angel unawares.”  Then again, maybe that day we were both “angels unawares”:  she, because she did not know what a blessing she was until a messenger told her, and me, because I did not know what singularly meaningful message I would be delivering until that particular moment when our lives intersected.