The Distance from Me to You (19 page)

“I wouldn't head out there,” Walden said. “You know how many people try and don't come back? It's a maze with no trail to speak of. Walk a hundred feet and everything will look the same. Dozens of steep drop-offs. Bear dens. Plus there's a cold snap coming.”

McKenna agreed with everything he said. They could hear Sam's footsteps, the snapping twigs, as he muscled through overgrown forest not fit for traveling.

Walden spoke again. “That waterfall is a myth, you know.”

McKenna tilted her head. She wanted to call out to Sam, bring him back to the trail, and show him this amazing sight: Walden and his bird.

“I heard you were a myth, too,” she said.

Walden's frown held for the barest second and then his face softened. A crusty kind of bark emerged, and McKenna realized it was a laugh. An unaccustomed laugh.

“Fair enough,” he said when the noise passed.

McKenna smiled and waved, the way Sam had waved at her. Then she ducked between the trees, walking briskly to catch up with him. There was no question of waiting a few days to see Sam, or even a few hours. She had to tell him, as soon as possible, that she'd spoken to Walden! He was real.

Sam didn't know
whether to be relieved, surprised, or disappointed when he heard McKenna crashing onto the path behind him. If you could even call it a path—the overgrown spit of dirt where someone had once traveled, where maybe people had traveled recently, was nothing like the AT. The wildness of it exhilarated him, opened up possibility. He wanted McKenna with him, sure. But he also wanted her to be able to walk away. He had been such a jerk.

He wanted to know she'd walk away if she ever needed to.

“Sam!” came the voice behind him. It was purely excited, no trace of the argument they'd been having for the past few miles. “Sam, wait up.”

He stopped and waited. Just behind the next stand of trees he could see an opening. There would be a view. He wasn't sure it could match the view of McKenna, blue eyes bright, coming toward him excitedly. Something more expansive than any view opened up inside him and he set his face into the easiest expression in his artillery, the nonchalant grin.

“Sam!” she said, panting and tugging at the straps of her
pack. It was a good thing she hadn't tripped in her effort to catch up, Sam thought.

“You won't believe it,” she went on. He could tell she wanted to lean forward, touch her knees, and catch her breath, but the heavy pack stopped her short. “Walden,” she said. “On the trail. With the beard and parrot and everything. I talked to him.”

“Walden?” Sam narrowed his eyes. One thing that had never occurred to him was to question McKenna's honesty. But
Walden
? In the flesh?

“Yes,” McKenna said. “He had a pack kind of like yours. And this amazing walking stick. And the parrot, he really has a little parrot. His voice is gravelly. Stern. But he didn't kill me.”

Sam laughed and McKenna tried to, but the laugh caught in her still-heavy breath.

“What did he say?” Sam asked.

He took a couple steps toward her, wanting to close the gap between them. It was so weird, he knew, the way it came and went, the need to put a wall up, and then the need to tear it down. The second always felt most imperative, because that was the one he couldn't control.

“He told me not to go off the trail,” McKenna said. “He told me the waterfall's a myth.”

“He's supposed to be a myth, too.”

“That's what I said! And you know what he did? He laughed.”

Sam closed his hands around the straps of her pack, pulling her closer to him. She tripped a little, and he caught her,
holding her firm and steady. Before he kissed her he said, “Hey. I'm sorry.”

He was close enough that he couldn't see her face clearly, close enough that he could feel her lips start to move against his. She was going to say
I'm sorry, too,
he could tell, but she stopped herself. Good girl. She had nothing to be sorry for.

He said, “I'm glad you're here.”

“Me, too,” she said. He stopped the second word short by closing the fraction of an inch that separated them and kissing her.

• • •

McKenna
was
glad. She couldn't explain why, but it didn't feel like defeat, or caving in. More like she'd traded one sensation for another. As she and Sam broke through the trees up onto a ridge—the sky opening up in front of them, clear day giving way to strangely clear gloaming—the need to cover miles, to accomplish her goal, was transcended by a fantastic sense of lawlessness. It was like with Sam's help, she'd grabbed hold of something the whole world (and her own brain) had kept from her.

“Look,” he said.

He stopped at the crest of the ridge and dropped his pack. An unexpected flat spot, clear of rocks, even a perfect patch of sand for their tent. Someone had camped there before, which McKenna refused to admit made her feel better. There was a little circle of rocks, scarred ground, the charred remains of a campfire.

“Maybe we should use your stove,” he suggested. She could
tell from his voice that he was trying to compromise. “It's kind of dry out here, and the smoke might draw rangers.”

“No way,” McKenna said. “After this day, this ridge, this view . . . we need a fire. I've gotten kind of addicted to them, if you want to know.”

Sam smiled. A real smile, not the distant, infuriating smile from before. Still, she didn't quite trust it, not entirely. If there was a pattern to Sam's comings and goings, she had yet to decipher it.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Mack.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. Just, even though I'm sorry, and even though I was a jerk, I'm glad we're here. You and me.”

McKenna nodded. She pulled on her fleece jacket. The cool breeze of the afternoon was starting to morph into the cold breeze of evening. They'd already filled their water bottles at a creek a mile or so back. The water had looked so clear it was almost tempting not to filter it, though of course they had. Or rather, of course McKenna had.

“Me, too.” She windmilled her shoulders backward, working out the kinks from that power walk to catch up with Sam. He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders, digging his fingers in, massaging.

“You know what would be cool? To stay here a couple days. Do some day hikes, explore a little.”

“You can't think we're really going to find that waterfall,” McKenna said. It annoyed her to the extent that she could be annoyed with him when he was being so sweet, his hands feeling so good. Hadn't she already caved to one huge thing, going off the trail? How long did he expect her to stay out here?

Sam shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “I never thought we'd run into Walden. I never thought I'd meet someone like you.”

All annoyance evaporated, which would have been annoying in itself. But the endorphins from the hike were fully operational. The breeze felt so good. And being with Sam felt so good. Without further conversation, they collected wood and built a small fire, eating ramen noodles and the last of the dried cranberries. When night fell in earnest, it was the best view of the stars they'd seen on the trail. Though they'd set up the tent, there was no question, tonight they'd be sleeping outside.

McKenna went through her dry bag. There wasn't a ton of food, but she had a handful of PowerBars and some jerky. Enough to last a few days, sparsely. It would make whatever they had when they got to a town that much more fulfilling.

“As soon as we get back on the trail we'll have to make a stop to resupply and do laundry,” McKenna said. “But I think you're right. It would be nice to hang out a few days. Before the last stretch to Georgia.”

She watched his face carefully to see if he'd react to that, the thought of the end of the trail, and what it might mean. McKenna didn't want the end of the trail to be the end of them.
But she also didn't want to be the one who came up with a plan for them to stay together.

Still. Once they'd eaten and put away their food, once they'd zipped their sleeping bags together into a wide double bed on top of the sand, they lay side by side, holding hands, staring up at the stars. McKenna couldn't help saying, “Hey, Sam. I love you. You love me, too. Remember?”

“Not something I'd ever forget, Mack.”

He turned away from the view, toward her. His hand on her face should have felt calloused, but mostly it just felt strong. And something in his face, a softening, and at the same time an urgency, like he couldn't handle everything he felt. McKenna believed him absolutely, more than if he'd spoken it.

• • •

When McKenna woke the next morning, it was gorgeous and bright. They didn't bother with breakfast; neither of them felt hungry, and supplies were dwindling. If they were going to stay camped in this spot for another night or two, they'd have to ration and forage.

“I guess it's moving past the time of year when we can find food growing,” McKenna said as she wrestled with getting her sleeping bag into its stuff sack. Of all the maintenance jobs on the trail, this might have been her least favorite—getting a large stretch of cloth into a smaller one required more muscle and patience than you would think.

“Just throw it in the tent,” Sam said. “Or leave it there. There's not a cloud in the sky.”

McKenna looked up, though of course she had already noted the clearness of the sky, the glare from the early-morning sun. If she still had her iPhone she might have checked the weather report—if she even had service out here. But without her phone, she had learned to read the weather by being outside, and also that the weather was not always easy to read. Some clear mornings gave way to afternoon showers. She picked up her half-stuffed sleeping bag and threw it into the tent, then did the same with Sam's and zipped the flap. Then she consulted the map in her guidebook. The AT was clearly marked, as were roads that crossed it. But the expanse of land surrounding it was just that—an expanse, with green-gray squiggles to indicate rocks and trees. The map wouldn't do her any good out here. She closed the book and slid it into her pack.

“Ready to do some exploring?” he asked.

Sam's pack was smaller, so they stored its meager contents in the tent, then filled it with what they'd need for a day hike—some dry food, a couple bottles of water, the water filter, the tarp. McKenna threw in a couple of light extras, too, like the bottle of iodine tablets, just in case, plus a few outer garments in case it got cold, and then she fastened the Timex she hadn't yet glanced at to the outside of Sam's pack, which felt gloriously, beautifully light as she swung it onto her back.

“Hey,” Sam said. “Let me carry that.”

She couldn't resist handing it over. Her pack had become like an extension of herself; now without all those extra pounds, it
felt like she'd cut her weight in half. Following Sam into the woods, walking with no heavy straps digging into her shoulders or hips, was like flying. She bounced off the balls of her feet as Sam chose a narrow, dry rivulet to follow downhill.

“How do you know the way?” McKenna asked him.

“When you search for the mythical waterfall of a race of spirit people, you do it on instinct.”

Obvious translation:
I have no idea where I'm going or what I'm doing.
Sam ventured away from the dry streambed which seemed like a bad idea to McKenna, but she didn't say so, still feeling giddy with this new lawlessness. Out of habit, her eyes went to the trees, looking for white blazes, and every time she realized she wouldn't see one out here, a little spike of emotion rose inside her—a combination of panic and joy. They walked in their usual companionable and comfortable silence, the busy silence of accomplishment, she always thought of it as, except now they weren't taking down miles.

For the first time in her life, she wasn't trying to accomplish anything. She was just being. Under a clear sky, surrounded by trees, accompanied by a person she'd found in the wilderness, a person she really and truly loved.

“Holy crap,” Sam said.

McKenna stopped short behind him as they walked out of the tree line to the most spectacular view she'd ever seen. It hardly seemed real. The trees had opened up to a wide stretch of dust bordering a steep outcropping of rocks—a wall of sharp
shale that dropped down to a gleaming lake, so clear and pure that it offered the sky right back to itself, mirror images facing each other.

“It's like a gift,” McKenna breathed. “A reward for going off the trail.”

Sam put his arm around her and gave her a little squeeze. “You hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.”

He took off his pack, but instead of unzipping it he walked toward a stand of blooming trees with red flowers and started picking the small red berries that covered the branches.

“You're sure those are edible?”

“Positive. Ash berries. My mother used to make ash berry jam. It's a weird flavor, but I'm craving some variety, aren't you?”

While Sam collected the berries, McKenna got the tarp out of his pack and spread it on the ground, pulling out select items to go with them. She pushed aside any dubiousness about those red berries—they looked like something your mother would warn you not to eat at the park. Hadn't Sam steered them toward this amazing spot, this beautiful moment?

He joined her on the tarp, his shirt folded and filled with berries, which he spilled out in front of her to join the granola bar and purified water and salmon jerky. McKenna had bought salmon jerky for a change of pace and
hated
it—she thought it tasted like dried cat food—but they were toward the end of their provisions, so it would have to do. Sam picked up a berry
and put it in her mouth. Her face immediately went into an involuntary squint; it was unbelievably tart and made her shoulders shudder. But after half the granola bar and a nibble of the fishy jerky, she found herself craving the taste. Just introducing that small bit of something new, instead of the same tastes she'd had day in and day out, made the picnic seem special. She wrapped up the rest of the bag of jerky and put it and the PowerBars away for later.