Excerpt from

TRAIL MIX

by Paulita Kincer:

The Appalachian Trail, Georgia

Raindrops trickle down Jess’s nose. Her sodden boots plod along, squooshing the mud with each step.

“Why did I do this?” She throws her head back, her face raised in lament to the sky. The hood of her rain poncho slips off. The empty forest around her offers no answer, just a steady rain. Then, far above the treetops, she glimpses a bolt of lightning streaking toward a nearby mountain and hears a boom of thunder answering. She cringes and scuttles faster down the trail.

For nearly two hours, since the wind first whispered 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 clingy socks. She is alone on the Appalachian Trail.

Like being in the middle of childbirth and deciding 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 an endless trail.

This was all Andi’s idea. Jess blames her best friend and hiking companion Andi, who pushed the hike as a great way to lose weight. And, when Jess’ teenagers took off for the summer leaving a big gap where the role of mother used to be, she thought a hike with Andi might fill that space. Andi, who, with her long legs, strides ahead, maybe miles away by now, claiming she had to hurry to the nearest shelter to keep the tent dry. Andi had tucked Jess’ poncho around her pack before presenting her back for Jess to return the favor.

“See you at the shelter,” Andi had called. “Only about three miles farther.”

In the city, a three-mile walk may take 45 minutes, an hour if she stops to window shop. Here, in the mountains, it could last days as she climbed up mountains and into valleys. Oh, who is she kidding? She would never walk three miles in the city.

The thunder crashes louder and Jess eyes a large fir tree. She could take cover under the spiky greenery, be a little bit sheltered. Even as she considers, she stumbles past the tree, walking, walking.

Tears join the rain on her face. She feels trapped. No exit ramps in sight. She can only continue to walk.

The wind rips at her poncho as she climbs slippery stones, placed to form stairs. At the top, the wind gusts stronger, trying to push her back down. She hurries on. Her walking poles dig into the mud that edges the rocks of the path.

On this peak, she stands exposed to the wind and rain and lightning. Rhododendron bushes line the trail below, but the only plant that dares to peek through the crevices on this crag is a lone sycamore tree. If Jess can escape this bare slope, the trees ahead will provide an arching umbrella across the trail. As she steps down, her boot slides across the slick stone and she topples backward in slow motion. She wheels her arms, trying to right herself, but cannot stop the plunge until her backpack hits the ground and she lands – thump – on top of it.

This was supposed to be a diet plan, not a death sentence, she thinks, lying on her back like a turtle on its shell, her arms and legs sprawled helplessly at her side. I may drown. The downpour pummels her full in the face, but she lacks the energy to sit up, free herself from the 30-pound pack, heft it onto her back, and start the hike again.

As the rain douses her face, 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. A tingle begins in her spine, and, in the moment she ponders why, everything goes black.