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Donna Brigley Never Underestimate the Power of Pudding October 2000 Autumn trees shed their leaves. A crisp leafy rainbow crunches underfoot on a trail that runs all the way from Georgia to Maine. I climb the last steep pitch before Zeacliff, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing the rock staircase will soon end atop a flat ledge overlooking the Zealand Valley, where I can climb no higher. My nose runs, dripping down my upper lip. I lay a finger alongside one nostril and blow out through the other, landing clear snot on the ferns at the side of the trail. As the Appalachian Mountain Club’s section leader for the area, I know every step across the Pemigewasset region of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Hikers say the Pemi encompasses the most beautiful stretch of the entire 2,160-mile-long Appalachian Trail. From the Franconia Ridge to Crawford Notch, majestic craggy peaks form a jagged horizon where they meet today’s cloudless blue sky. I breathe in deeply. The woody scent of spruce forest is as familiar as my best friend’s home. The waters of the Lincoln and Franconia Brooks, my Tigris and Euphrates, fall below me to the west of this ridge. People die here. They come to the wilderness unprepared, and freeze to death in every season of the year. Sometimes they have heart attacks, or get hit by blocks of Volkswagen-sized avalanching ice. More often, they get lost, lie down, and die of hypothermia. It is up to me, in part, to make sure these things do not happen. I patrol the trail, cutting down trees, rebuilding cairns, keeping the way clear, keeping hikers alive. Sun-warmed wind rises from the valley and blows through my hair. With mud-caked legs above my gaiters, I stop halfway up the endless stairway of rock to take a long swig from my water bottle. I pause and turn around. My companion is one white blaze away, hiking uphill toward me. As I watch him, I am taken back in time. Although he has only been my hiking companion for one year, he has always been a part of my trip along this simple footpath, long before we ever hiked a single step together. Today, as we flow with the trail across the wild Pemi, I remember when a 240 pe a k e x pe r i e n ces trail that runs all the way from Georgia to Maine was never supposed to be part of my story. August 1993 Eight miles from a road, in the Pemigewasset Wilderness, I have not seen anyone all day. I follow a faint path leading off the main trail through a grove of birches. Sticks lash out against my dungarees. Twigs snap and dead leaves crackle as my sneakers carefully choose my way through the woods. After a few dozen steps, I discover that the forest opens into a small clearing. I ease my backpack to the ground. The price tag dangles from the backpack’s webbing, daring me to return it to the store if I renege on my plans. I unfurl the $29.99 tent I bought last night at Sears. I could have spent ten times that amount for a modern backpacking tent, but I did not want to splurge for something I might only use once. The smell of new plastic spreads through the air, overpowering the scent of pine and spruce. I’m not sure why I’ve always wanted to try backpacking, to spend the night alone in the woods, but I have always been fascinated by the idea of carrying everything I need on my back. Only one year into a loveless marriage, the thought of escaping to the woods fills my daydreams, although I have never slept in a tent before. Now, with my husband away on business, I have the opportunity to escape my everyday life, to try something I have long wanted to do. The directions for the tent are easy to follow. Once it is erected, I begin to inflate the yellow rectangular pool float that I plan to use as a mattress. I blow air into the rubbery valve. Suddenly, a rustling of leaves interrupts the silent forest. A bear? I listen. A snake? Nothing. I begin to think that maybe it is not a good idea for someone who has never backpacked before to have come so far into the forest, alone...

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