Page 61 of Wild About You

We walk back to the group side by side, and I’m all too aware it might be the last time.

* * *

I am thisclose to eating dry vegetable soup powder for dinner, and evencloser to a complete mental breakdown.

It’s unclear if this experience is making me appreciate Finn any more; I appreciated him plenty already. But it is giving me more empathy for the protagonists of that whole subgenre of psychological thrillers I call Morally Gray Woman Lives Alone, Watches Neighbors, Thinks Too Much.

Everything in these woods seems suspicious right now. Like the bird that’s been sitting in a sugar maple at the edge of the clearing, staring at me for ten minutes straight—definitely a government spy robot. And how my camp stove won’t light, even though I’m following all of the instructions that are written in French (a language I can’t technically understand). Someone’s obviously tampered with it to sabotage me. They knew there’d be no firepit at this campsite, so I’d have to use it.

When they fictionalize my story, it’ll be called The Girl in the Tent.

At least I still think I’m funny, kind of, and can distract myself with humor. One of the very few things I have going for me today. Another is that I can walk in a straight line, as I found my way to my solo campsite, a backcountry spot a short walk off the AT, with no issues. I talked to the GoPro a little, assuring viewers that I was totally calm about this challenge and eager to see what was in store.

But the wins have been scarce ever since. I decided to set up the tent first, so I’d have a place to sit other than on the ground or a bear canister. There aren’t any good logs in this particular clearing. I was dismayed to find that somehow, between sleeping in it last night and getting it out here, one of the clips that holds the top of the tent to the poles was broken. The thick, ostensibly sturdy plastic had snapped right in two. So one corner of the ceiling drooped in a rather sad fashion, but I decided it would be fine as long as it didn’t rain.

Then the rain started. A light drizzle at first that still had me throwing myself and all my stuff I could fit under shelter. And good thing I did, as the drizzle quickly turned to a downpour. Thus, I whiled away the afternoon hours watching the rain in the glimpses I could catch through the mesh at the front of the tent, and every so often lifting the fallen section at the back to dump out the rain puddled on top of it. Trying to push away thoughts of Finn and how he’s faring in this storm, alone and tentless.

Logically, I can see how none of this is my fault. But my emotions are not having it. The rain has let up this evening, leaving behind air so humid, I’m swimming through it. But the storm inside me, built up from all that’s happened the past couple weeks, the past year, even longer, rages on. Sitting and thinking is never great for me.

I’m not even hungry for this soup I’m failing to make, my stomach is so unsettled. The buzzing under my skin, coursing through my whole body since this morning, has only gotten worse with each new screwup or inconvenience. My pulse seems to think I’m in the middle of a neck-and-neck footrace.

If I’m trying to outrun anything, it’s my own mind. Fears. Worries. Unacknowledged grief and pain. Why is this—Wild Adventures, the Appalachian Trail, of all settings I’ve found myself in over the years—where it’s all caught up with me? Not just caught up, but tackled me to the ground. I’ve put on a good act for so long, but reality can’t wait anymore. The lights are up, the audience has left, and it’s just me. Alone, on my outdoor stage.

I give up on the stove and begin packing it away. I click off the camera for the night, ending what is probably the most depressing footage captured all season, and I can only hope it ends up on the cutting room floor. I repack the pouch of soup too, even though I know I should eat something if I’m going to have the energy to make it to the checkpoint—and my partner—tomorrow.

My partner, who made me feel anything but lonely in the tiny camping nest I’m now crawling back into. I had the dream—a good, genuine guy who’s seen me at my worst and still wanted me. Hell, he was the worst when I first met him, and I still fell for him. Despite Harper’s hope for us, I can’t help thinking that I ruined our chances of a romance novel–type love. We’d be the book that dedicated romance readers would throw at the wall upon finishing, yelling, “Where’s my HEA? This is bullshit!” A brief, depressing novella that tricked people with a cutesy cartoon cover.

Of course my eyes are leaking again. It’s a daily routine now, I guess. Put on my makeup in the morning, cry it off in the evening. I feel like a broken TV, frantically flipping between channels that are all playing something miserable. I’m sad about Finn. Then I’m panicking at an especially unsettling noise outside. Then I’m upset with myself for being so afraid of everything all the time, for being so tangled up in my own mind that I destroy anything good in my life. Then I’m despairing because even when I don’t mess things up myself, everything can still go terribly wrong. Like Granny Star dying, which I then think about and get deeply sad all over. Repeat.

I don’t know how to break myself out of this, when I’m alone and can’t quiet the mess inside my mind long enough to take a full breath. I wish Finn were here, that I could look to my right and see his little smirk illuminated by his tablet’s light as he reads something he finds funny.

As he reads.

This morning, before we parted, Finn told me I should try reading if I can’t sleep. I haven’t even really tried sleeping yet, but maybe a book is just what I need. Not the AT guides, a romance novel that can sweep me in and pull my attention from everything else. Things can’t really get any worse while I’m reading, can they?

After a few more minutes of shallow attempts at calming breaths while lying flat on my sleeping bag, I work up to sitting. Then I go for the pocket in my pack where I keep my e-reader. I pull out the familiar black shape, but when it’s in my hands, I quickly realize there’s something off about it. For one, it doesn’t have my purple letter N sticker on the front of the case. And it does have something bulky stuffed under the cover.

I flip it open and a stack of orange paper goes sliding into my lap. Confusion wrinkles my forehead. These aren’t just sheets of paper; they look like our challenge envelopes, but there are words scrawled all over them in black ink. I look back up to the device in my hands and realize it’s not my e-reader at all. It’s Finn’s. Eyes flicking to the envelopes again, I see the words Dear Natalie.

A soft gasp escapes my lips.

With trembling hands, I pick up the orange stack and start to read.

Dear Natalie,

First of all, sorry for my shitty handwriting and stationery. It’s worse than normal because I’m writing this with my headlamp on in my hammock at night and the pen I borrowed from Zeke bleeds a lot (apparently he collects fountain pens—I think this one’s broken). This is also the only paper I could find. I have felt especially bad at articulating my thoughts and feelings around you, probably because what I feel for you is different than anything I’ve felt before and I am completely out of my element. But also just because I’m me, and use words sparingly, and they’re often not the right ones. So I thought I would try writing some down. I hope this isn’t a completely ridiculous idea.

As you know, I’ve been reading a book about Grandma Gatewood, a 67-year-old from Ohio who was the first woman to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. I compared the two of you early on, and I think you thought it was an insult. Probably because of the “grandma” part. But I meant it as a compliment because, like you, she was a complete badass.

Emma Gatewood was not some hard-core outdoorswoman. She started on the trail without telling her family she was doing it. She wore canvas tennis shoes and carried a small sack of stuff, didn’t even bring a tent. She told anyone who asked why she did it that she thought hiking the AT would be “a lark.” Everyone doubted her, told her she should quit, should turn back, that she’d never make it.

But she wasn’t a delicate little old lady either. She had 11 (!!!) kids. Lived on a farm and never had much money. Got herself out of her marriage to an abusive husband. She had a lot working against her, but she was strong and persistent, determined and creative, outgoing and friendly to strangers, and all of that helped her get through the whole AT three times.

Any of this sound familiar? You might not think so, but I really do. You’ve had to deal with a lot of shit. Different shit than hers, but you’ve still taken on so much by yourself. People have doubted you and told you that you can’t achieve your goals. I (a dumbass) doubted you, to start with. But you keep proving everyone wrong and showing that you, too, are strong, persistent, determined, creative, outgoing, friendly, and one hell of a good partner to an aforementioned dumbass. Grandma Gatewood would be proud of you, Granny Star would be proud of you, and you should be very proud of yourself.

We both have things to work on, of course, but I want to work on them with you. I’m sorry for making you feel like your baggage was somehow heavier than mine. It’s not. Let’s help each other carry it all. I’ll fix your hip belt so your shoulders don’t bruise. I’m sorry for letting you think you’ve held me back. You’ve pushed me forward, into real life again, through more fun and adventure than I ever expected to have.

I chose to stay with you as my partner and I want to stay with you as more. I want us to get to the end of this thing and win it all. Then I want to keep getting to know you and building on what we have because I think it could go far past this trail, our tent, and a double sleeping bag. I know I want it to.