It was Mothers Day, and the rhododendrons had bloomed overnight. It’s just about summer, I thought. It was also the first time we saw Pink Lady Slippers, too, and the girls shrieked in excitement. I didn’t know what the big deal was, but, I learned that these wildflowers were somewhat rare. Bright pink and bulbous and veiny, they look sort of, well, sexual. I felt lucky to be hiking with a plant biologist and a horticulturist, because I was gaining a whole new set of knowledge I didn’t realize interested me at the time. The trail became my classroom.
I bounced down the trail; the day was warm and I knew it ended with real food. Food was the biggest motivator, and the one thing unanimously talked about. We didn’t take breaks that day in order to get to the restaurant before they closed, and it would then be closed for the next 4 days; there was no room for error when food was involved. We climbed up and down mountains all day, but there was nothing too significant about the climbs. Really, it was just a series of smaller elevation changes, and we were in trail shape having already hiked 700 miles.
I could smell the clean people before I saw them, so that meant one thing: we were nearing the trail head. Day hikers flooded the trail, enjoying a beautiful Mothers Day with their moms, girlfriends, sisters and daughters. All of these beautiful-smelling people noted that we should go to the Homeplace to eat; it was not to be missed. Even more motivation to hike faster. I picked my feet up higher and widened my gait; my stomach grumbled and I longed for town food. I only stopped long enough to photograph the flowering rhododendrons.
I heard cars in the distance, so I knew we were almost to the promise land of fine southern cuisine. Faster faster faster. Images of plates piled sky-high with food danced through my brain. One plate, three plates, ten plates. Plates of fried things, plates of sweet things. I needed a fix of my sugary southern crack addiction, sweet tea, and wanted to feel the euphoria of it filling my empty belly. Tea and ice and sugar and cups. Drinking out of cups became luxury.
We hit the road and had a mile of road walking. The girls started to walk along the highway, but I thought, aw hell no. I’ll try to get us a ride, I said. I crossed the double yellow, following with traffic, and stuck out my thumb. Within minutes, a red 90’s convertible Mustang pulled over, and I waved the girls over. Out stepped a slightly-disheveled Annette, buttoning her shirt and zipping her pants. That’s weird, I thought.
Thanks for pulling over!
Well, I wouldn’t have if you didn’t stick out your thumb!
Good point, I thought, and we all looked at each other.
She swung her door open into traffic, nearly having it ripped off, and pissed off other motorists. They honked and cursed; Annette revolted.
Fuck you! Let them see my tits, that’s what they want to see anyway! Motorcyclists revved their engines and motorists laid on their horns in that You Asshole kind of way, not that polite, horn-tapping, pay-attention-the-light-just-turned-green kind of way.
I knew this would be the best hitching experience we’d have on the whole trail. Annette pulled random items from her backseat and stuffed them into her trunk. A white comforter, a wall clock, picture frames, and a variety of housewares.
I ran away! she shouted. A 30 year failed marriage and a cheating boyfriend, men suck! Annette looked like she was in her 40's, so I wouldn't consider that running away; maybe just escaping.
We all looked at each other, wide-eyed, knowing what each of us were thinking. Spending that kind of time with the same people every single day, words become unnecessary; facial expression says everything.
The road curved and bent along the base of the southern Appalachian Mountains following the river below. I don’t know which river it was, maybe the James River, but for a second I believed Annette was going to take us all careening over the edge in her red 90’s Mustang, and we’d all meet our fate. I squinted as the wind walloped my eyeballs. Please, Universe, don’t let me die today, it’s Mother’s Day. I haven’t even called my mother yet, I pleaded. I tried to glance at the speedometer, but I was afraid she’d know I thought she was driving too fast. I can’t remember what the speedometer registered at, but it felt like 100 miles per second.
Annette picked up a white, two-piece bathing suit from her console, and held it up. It looked like dental floss, and she was a rotund woman. I’m going down the river to float!, she grunted. My eyes got wide. Did that mean she was going to float to her death, or do something radical? Jesus Christ, what the hell does that mean. I didn’t dare ask if it was a metaphor, but I felt like it had less of a literal meaning, even though she had the bathing suit to prove otherwise.
We told Annette about the trail and that we were hiking to Maine. Well, Mt. Katahdin, to be exact, but we always said Maine. The mountain had no significance to anyone else, just those of us on a long walk north. She thought we were crazy, said we were brave. Maybe she craved the same escape from reality.
At the Homeplace, plates and plates of food were dropped on the table until we said stop–a party of eight, the plates were endless. There were plates of fried things and plates of sweet things. Ham, green beans, mashed potatoes, fried chicken, fried okra, cinnamon apples. There were plates of pecan pie and plates of apple pie and bowls of ice cream. Heaven, I thought. The promise land. I couldn’t stuff the calories into my gullet fast enough. And, I finally fed my sweet crack addiction, falling into a blissful food-and-sugar-induced coma. I called my mom and told her about Annette, and the plates and plates of food. She laughed and I laughed. It was the best Mother’s Day I never had.
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