Excerpt from
TRAIL LEGS
by Paulita Kincer:

The Appalachian Trail, Georgia

Raindrops slowly file down Jess's nose like little lemmings taking an orderly plunge off a cliff. She is walking, plodding really, each step squooshing in the mud as her sodden boots move forward.

"Why did I do this?" She throws her head back to the sky, her yellow rain poncho hood falling back. The empty forest around her offers no answer, just a steady rain. then, far above the treetops, she sees a bolt of lightning streak toward the neighboring mountain and hears a large boom of thunder answering, making her cringe and walk a little faster.

For nearly two hours, since the wind suddenly picked up, whispering its urgency through the leaves, and the raindrops began to fall, Jess has been hiking in the thunderstorm. She has no place to stop and dry off. No place to get warm. No offer of coffee or a dryer where she can heat up her clinging socks. She is alone on the Appalachian Trail.

Like being in the middle of childbirth and deciding, maybe this isn't such a great idea, Jess cannot turn back. Well, she could turn back, but she would find only more of the same -- woods and rain and a winding trail.

This had all been Andi's idea. Her best friend and hiking companion Andi, who had convinced her that this hike would be a great way to lose weight. Andi, who, with her long legs, strides ahead, maybe miles ahead by now. She had helped Jess tuck the poncho around her pack then presented her back for Jess to return the favor.

"See you at the shelter," Andi had called. "Only three miles by my estimate." Three miles, my ass, Jess thinks now.

In the city, a three-mile walk may take 45 minutes. Here, in the mountains, it could be days.

The thunder crashes louder and Jess eyes a large fir tree. She could take cover there, be a little bit sheltered. Even as she thinks it, she is past the tree, walking, walking.

Tears join the rain on her face. She feels trapped. No exit ramps in sight. The only choice is to keep going. If there's only one option, should it really be called a choice, she wonders.

The wind tears at her poncho as she pulls herself up slippery stones, strategically placed to form stairs. At the top, the wind is even stronger, trying to push her back down. She hurries on, her walking poles digging into the mud.

She is exposed on these rocks to the wind and rain and lightning.

Rhododendron bushes line the trail beneath the rocks, but no plants dare to peak through the crevices on this crag. Jess begins the descent. If she can make it down t is rocky slope, the trees ahead will provide some protection from the rain. As she steps down, her boot slides across the slippery rock and suddenly she is falling backward. She wheels her arms like a helicopter trying to right herself but cannot stop the plunge until her backpack hits the ground and she lands - thump -- on top of it.

Last straw, she thinks, lying on her back like a turtle on its shell, her arms and legs sprawled helplessly at her side. This was supposed to be a diet plan, not a death sentence.

The heavy rains pummels her face, but she cannot bring herself to sit up, to free herself from the 30-pound pack, then heft it onto her back and start again down the trail.

I may drown, she thinks, as the downpour hits her full in the face. Rousing herself, she slips one arm from her pack and turns onto her side, away from the sky. For just a moment, she allows herself to rest, curled into the fetal position beside her pack. Then she feels a tingling down her spine. Before she can turn to assess the tingling, everything goes black.