The Point of Vanishing, Maryka Biaggio [top inspirational books TXT] 📗

On Sunday, everyone rose early and breakfasted. Barbara and Nick gathered all their supplies so they could take stock. Helen hiked off to check with the neighbors who’d offered to drive them to the bus station. The plan was for Barbara and Nick to see Helen off, provision themselves, and then travel north to Millinocket.

Nick spread his knapsack contents on the floor beside Barbara’s supplies. They had the basic requirements: two lightweight sleeping bags; a six-pound tent; two tin plates and cups; a pot and skillet; and utensils for two. But now it was time to get serious.

Nick leaned over and gathered up the food bags. “We’ve got to cram as much nutrition as we can in the least space. Do you think we’ve enough staples?”

“Plenty of flour and sugar and cornmeal, but let’s get some dried eggs before we hit the trail. And some lard, too.”

Nick cocked his head toward the window. “Tent’ll be dry enough to fold up soon. I’d like to get a mosquito screen for it. It’d be more comfortable for you that way.”

“That’s fine, but mosquitoes have to eat, too.”

Nick poked through his stack of clothes—one extra shirt, a pair of shorts, one scarf, and a dungaree jacket. “Not much by way of clothes. Do you think it’s enough?”

“Mother wouldn’t approve. You should have two scarves—one to wear while you launder the other.”

“One will do,” he said, frowning. “I can wash it out easily enough.” Then he must have spied the smirk she sported, for he let loose a chuckle.

“And what about a pair of slippers?” Barbara asked. “So you don’t have to wear those old hobnails in the evening.”

Nick kicked his legs out from under the chair and regarded his feet. “I’ll just go barefoot.”

“You heathen. I suppose you think you needn’t shave while you’re in the woods.”

“You won’t report me, will you?”

“Not if you protect me from the wild beasts.”

Nick widened his eyes. “Like hungry bears?”

Out they came with a string of dangerous things—great thundering boulders, a charging bull moose, forty days of flooding rain, an old woman in a gingerbread house, a huge pit for trapping hikers, and a big bad wolf—until they convulsed with falling-down, limb-jerking laughter.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN

The Appalachian Trail, July-August 1932

Giddy with glee, Barbara and Nick traveled by bus to Millinocket and hiked to Chimney Pond in Baxter Park, the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. Campers they met there warned them: The Maine section of the trail is rough, hardly marked, and they’d better plan on plenty of bushwhacking.

With a good seventy pounds between them, two topographic maps, one compass, and abundant resolve, they pushed their way south through thick woods of spruce, pine, and hemlock. Fortified by pancakes and mush, they skirted rocky ledges and sloshed through swampy stretches. They scrounged blackberries, sought out streams for watering and washing, and stretched their legs in front of campfires.

On their third night out, after managing some thirty miles, they set up camp by a crystal-clear pond. They pulled out their fishing string, dug some worms, and caught five sunfish. Tiny they were, but delectable fried with cornmeal coating.

As they relaxed at shore’s edge, Barbara massaged her calves. “We should’ve brought a donkey.”

“Too late now. And we’re already toughening up. Look at those muscles of yours.”

“Aching muscles is what they are. But I’m alive again, and I don’t mind doing it the hard way one bit.”

“Me neither. I like this, relying on our own devices in the wild.”

“Like wood gypsies.” Barbara held out her arms. “The burn from the sun, scratches from brush, even mosquito bites—it all feels splendid.”

“And no need to be anywhere.”

“Yes, it warrants a story,” she said. “I’ll call it ‘Travels Without a Donkey.’”

“And what’ll you do with a story like that?”

Early on, Barbara had mentioned her writing successes to Nick, Denise, and John, but she hadn’t touted her aspirations to continue writing. She required nothing now but freedom—and the means to secure it. “Why, try to sell it, to build up my traveling fund.”

“Who’ll be the hero?”

“That remains to be seen.” She angled her head and squinted at him. “I have a philosophy about this trip.”

He leaned back against the log they’d built their campfire by and raised his eyebrows, inviting her to go on.

“Heading for Georgia is fine, but I want to live here in the wilds, away from the city, as long as I like. That’s what this expedition ought to be about.”

Nick bounced his head. “Sure, but I wouldn’t mind bragging about hiking the whole trail.”

The next day the going was rough, the trail unmarked, the rises steep. They battled through thick brush, stooped under drooping hemlock and spruce boughs, and scrambled over big boulders and through crevices. Three times they had to remove their packs and shove, lift, or pull them through narrow rock crannies. Spent from hours of strenuous hiking, they rested atop a rocky ridge, amongst thorny briers and sharp-edged rock. Barbara looked down on the velvety hills before them, as smooth and inviting as beds of moss, and smiled. Yes, she thought, this is heaven.

That evening they arrived at Moosehead Lake, a sprawling basin with jagged peninsulas and wooded islands.

“We ought to get a canoe,” Barbara said, scanning the lake’s expanse. “We could camp on some of those islands out there.”

Nick nodded. “Then take it down the Kennebec.”

“Do you think we can manage it by canoe?”

“We can find out.”

In the morning, they hiked into Greenville, a sparsely populated lakeside village, refreshed themselves on ice cream cones, and inquired if they might find a canoe for sale anywhere.

The shop owner directed them up the road to “old man Webber’s dilapidated two-story.” It was easy enough to identify. The porch slumped over a bowed lattice skirt, and only remnants of blue paint covered its sides. They knocked, and the door groaned open. Mr. Webber stood there with a pipe dangling from his mouth, dressed in a flannel shirt too heavy for the August day.

Nick