Chapter 7
Hitching Back to Damascus, Virginia from Daleville, Virginia
704 miles down and 1464 miles to go

     They hadn't seen Fly and Aces since catching up to them in Damascus, Virginia. The Vikings had taken a day off and fallen behind them just as in Hot Springs. Now, with 700 miles behind them and two months on the trail, the Vikings caught Fly and Aces one last time in Daleville, Virginia. Their mission to convince the couple to take a few days off to go to Trail Days with them was a failure though, which meant that Fly and Aces would get far enough ahead of the Vikings that they could never catch up again. Fly and Aces had to finish in August to make it back to school in the fall. While Wayah and Squirrelfight had originally had such plans, they had since tossed them in favor of taking extra time to savor the trail. A few days earlier, Wayah had called his school to officially withdraw from the coming fall semester. The Viking expedition to the Trail Days festival in Damascus would take at least three days. Hikers who stayed on the trail would get so far ahead that they would exist only in the registers from then on. That day in Daleville with Fly, Aces, and the others who were hiking on was as much a going away party as anything else.

     Trail Days was an annual festival in celebration of the Appalachian Trail, the people who had hiked it, and those who were hiking it that year. It was held in Damascus, though, and the Vikings had left that town three weeks earlier. Now, 250 miles away, they would have to hitchhike back. They had, however, planned for this, and leaving the trail from Daleville was no coincidence. Daleville was a rest stop on I-81, a vein running down the crooked edge of Virginia that would take them straight back to Damascus if they could get an interstate hitch. There were four of them, since one other hiker, Fur Trapper, had decided to hitch back to Trail Days with the Vikings, and it was going to be tough for four grubby men with large bags to get a ride. They made signs out of the cardboard boxes from their last mail drops, stood in the sun next to the on ramp, and waited. They had heard that hikers from past years drove down to the festival each year giving rides to hikers, so it wouldn't be hard to get a hitch if they could find such a car. Trying to look Friendly they each held a sign "Damascus," "Trail Days," the Appalachian Trail symbol, and the hiker symbol. Their new companion, Fur Trapper, was young and seemed even younger. He had enough thick black facial hair to rival Squirrelfight, but he had an unmistakable youthful arrogance that peeked out from his testing grin. They did in fact manage to get rides all the way back that day, though they could never fit in one car and arrived at different times.

     Damascus is nestled comfortably in the Appalachian mountains just north of the Virginia-Tennessee border. When they arrived, trickling down the main street in the cars of strangers and new friends, the Vikings were confronted by a different kind of hoard. In the field next to the small town, hundreds of tents crowded the grassy expanse. The hostel was full and its lawn covered with tents. The Vikings had been in the woods a long time, and such a crowd was unheard of, but this army had a familiar, comfortable flavor. Circles of people kicked hacky sacs and played instruments in the pockets of grass between the tents. Everyone wore heavy boots with gaiters crawling up their calves or sandals with pale, wrinkly feet and tan lines around the tops of their ankles. Fleece abounded, scruffy beards and dirty legs were everywhere, and everyone walked the bowlegged, deliberate walk of the worn, chafed hiker, out-of-pack and happy. Walking near the tented field there lingered the familiar smell of sun-bleached nylon and stale socks. There were more hikers in Damascus than the Vikings had imagined being on the entire trail, and there was a sudden realization as to the size of the community to which they belonged.

     The Vikings had started in mid March, while the bulk of the people who attempt the entire trail begin in early April. They had never been in a large crowd, but here, 250 miles behind them, the masses were laying siege to Damascus. As happy a gathering as it was, the Vikings planned to stay ahead of this mob as long as possible. Most of the hikers had just reached Damascus in the last few days or even hitched ahead to make it for the festival. By the time they started to catch up, their numbers would be fewer. Only about ten percent of the people who start the trail actually finish. The vast majority of those drop out by the halfway point, and a startling percentage dropped out in the first three days. They predicted that they wouldn't get caught in the main stream until around they time they reached New England. Now and then, hikers would catch up to the Vikings, already knowing them all by name and mind from having read their register entries for months. New hikers may have been only a day or so behind for months, always seeing the Vikings just ahead, and imagining their adventures, but to the Vikings, those hikers didn't exist until they caught up. The gallery of personalities here was the only preview they'd get of the hikers coming up behind.

      Looking for a camp away from the circus by the river known among the hikers as "Tent City," the Vikings found an island up river. It was hidden in the trees and connected to the land by a small bridge. The spot made an excellent Viking camp. They set up their tents in a circle with a space in the middle where they could all sit and cook together. Nearby was a large fire pit and scattered around the island were several more tents. The ground was loose, sandy dirt, and the tent stakes didn't hold very well, so Wayah's tent, which relied on tension from the stakes to stand, was sagging a bit. The others had free standing tents that were supported by a third pole and only had stakes to keep from blowing away in the wind. All of them enjoyed the soft, cool ground, though. The island was surrounded by the rush of the frigid river, nestled in the shade and sunk down just above the water line. It cannot be said enough how soothing the sound of running water is. Sleeping comes naturally and restlessness is banished by the rush of the river.

     The Vikings met and talked with the other inhabitants of the island, and it was wholly decided that they should all become Vikings rather than keeping apart, and that the island would be a Viking Camp, and any on it a Viking. The Viking destroyer constructed a great fire in the pit and newcomers to the island gathered firewood pledging that for the three days of the festival the fire would never go out. A sign was placed over the bridge to the camp marking it a Viking Camp, and torches made with beer cans and lamp oil were set to flaming on the sides of the sign to light the way through the night.  Also staying on the island was the famous Beorn.  Beorn was known up and down the trail for many reasons.  First of all, he was an enormous man.   He stood well over six feet and weighed over three hundred pounds.  Second, aside from looking like a giant, he sounded, acted, and drank like a giant.  He was known for his high spirits and very loud voice with which he quoted passages from Romeo and Juliet whenever there was a woman present.  Beorn snored with a volume and consistency far greater than any other hiker on the trail to such a degree that some hikers would offer him money to move on when they saw him pulling in to a shelter.   Beorn was also known for his claims that he was not only hiking the trail, but hiking it from south to north and back to the south again (a feat called yo-yoing).   Being retired military, he was able to stay on the trail without worrying about his finances as the checks kept coming in each month, and he could take as much time as he wanted.  More recently he was gaining a reputation for excessive yellowblazing.   Hard core purists on the trail, who claimed that taking even one step off the trail disqualified a hiker from thru-hiker status, were up in arms over Beorn's habits and claims, which admittedly, could be grating at times.  The Viking's official position was "hike your own hike." Luckily the sound of the river nearby them managed to drown out his snoring across the island for the duration of the festival.

     That night they met Kaptain Krummholz again, whom they had not seen since Hot Springs, and who had also caught a ride back, but from even further ahead. With him was Buzzsaw, a hiker who had always been ahead, but whose register entries were famous as they were sure to give a laugh. He stepped out of the myth of the trail ahead and over the bridge onto the island. The night soon wrapped them all around the great fire, and they talked and laughed, sharing their stories and adventures, and hearing the manifold legends of the trail unfold over them. The trail came before them and passed through them, and anyone and anything on it was their reality. The stories of those ahead illustrated their future and the places and people they would find there, while the stories of those behind lay over the vivid mountains of their past. Some had no knowledge of Vikings, while other hikers knew them well, recalling their register entries, and the accounts of people who had met the hoard. The Vikings even learned that the Pizza Hut near the National Rangers Association now delivered pizza there every night. It was as if they were stepping outside and looking at the world from afar. They stayed up late into the night with their laughter and stories, far past their normal hours knowing that many days would pass before they would get up with the dawn and hike.

     Though the trail's population included many health-nuts and everyone was an athlete, most thru hikers were very fond of their vices, perhaps because their access was so limited.  Almost all of the hikers enjoyed alcohol when it was available, and with their heightened metabolisms the soothing of their muscles and the buzz in their heads was double what it normally was.  Surprisingly, more than half the hikers Wayah met smoked cigarettes.   Many were trying to quit and most only had a couple a day, but a few actually smoked while they were hiking.  Even more hikers than smoked cigarettes smoked the green leaf from time to time.  Few hikers carried any and even fewer smoked to excess, but partaking was more common than not.  Wayah wondered how the little town store in Damascus kept beer in stock through the weekend when they had run out of Ben & Jerry's the first day.

     The morning was a lazy one. Quiet and rested, they stirred from their tents to the cool rush of the morning river and the wet, blue light of the sunless sky in the steep valley. Some who were awake went to the crusty diner on the edge of town to wait and talk for hours while the lone waitress scrambled around the tables, fighting off the hundreds of hikers drooling for a greasy diner breakfast. By noon they were all awake and their friends from other camps joined them to walk the fair and see what there was to be plundered. They climbed up out of the shade of the island into the town where the sun beat hard on the concrete and asphalt. Cars wove around them like ghosts, and all over town, especially where there was food or gear to be had, hikers could be found, moving slowly and blissfully as busy townsfolk swarmed past them. Through Damascus and past its streets and shops they walked until the town narrowed to one bridge. On the other side was a long, thin field, lined with stands and carts with food, arts, crafts and other festive wares. They walked by the crafts, laughing at the thought of buying and carrying one of the baskets or statues which, however flammable, had no place in their lives.

     Buying a couple of large plates of onion rings and massive cups of real lemonade, Squirrelfight, Wayah, Buzzsaw, and Fur Trapper looked for a place to sit and eat. Jones had gone to see about getting his pack fixed and the Kaptain was nowhere to be found.
     "Oh God," Squirrel said in his sarcastic tone, his attention suddenly fixed far off. Wayah followed the intensity of Squirrel's gaze past the onion rings, through the people walking by to where his eyes played over a truly wondrous sight. She stood by a table some thirty feet away showing a hiker how to juggle, and once he had seen her, Wayah realized that the sun shone more brightly on the grass where her bare feet rested. She stood in a long black skirt and short burgundy top, and when she moved he could see a sliver of her belly, pale and soft and shapely. She had no hiking scars on her hips or feet, and a grace and cleanliness that is lost quickly on the trail, but it was her eyes that reminded him of his people in the woods. They sat above her light, easy smile like strips of calm sea as she squinted in the sun.

     Women were somewhat rare on the trail.  The ratio seemed to be about one woman to every ten men, but most were part of a couple that had started together or met on the trail.  There were hundreds of young, single men and a handful of single women, and after two months of hiking, tension was mounting.  After a few more months the tension would take the shape of a pathetic joke, but in the beginning, women came up in discussion constantly.  Being ahead of the crowd, the Vikings had met only eight women out of almost ninety hikers, and all of those were unavailable.   Staring at locals was a common pastime in towns, but no one in these tiny, woodland towns had stood out so sharply before.
     "Right," Wayah said finally, "let's sit here." They looked around at the people walking by them and sat down in the middle of the thoroughfare to watch the juggling girl and eat their piles of onion rings. Squirrel had piled catsup on one plate, and was smearing it thickly on the rings.
     "Have you got enough catsup there, Squirrel?" said Fur Trapper with a chortle, waiting for a response that was slow in coming.
     "You can never have too much catsup. This girl is killing me!" Squirrel growled, throwing a packet of catsup on the grass in mock anger. Wayah looked up again and saw her laughing sweetly.
     "Why don't you go talk to her?" Wayah said, grinning at Squirrel.
     "Yeah, whatever. I'm not that guy," Squirrel said, looking at Wayah.  "What would I say?"
     "Ask her to show you how to juggle." Wayah nudged his friend, "If you don't, I will."
     "I know you will." Squirrel looked back at the juggling girl longingly. The thought amused Wayah. In his life before the trail, he had always been very shy, certainly more shy than Squirrel, but as the Viking Lord he was far from shy, and had gained a reputation for being bold. What was this identity game in his head? Was he the Wolf, the Viking Lord, or were they both just masks? It had become a game to him to push his boundaries farther and farther beyond that which he might have dared before the trail. Now he was trying to get Squirrel to take the same plunge.  Squirrelfight was, after all, the Viking Hero. If she had been a long drop to a freezing lake, he would have jumped without hesitation. It took several minutes, but Squirrel finally agreed to approach her as soon as the hiker that was talking to her left. The Viking Hero then proceeded to whittle at a small piece of light wood that he had been carrying.  Before they knew it, Squirrel was on his feet holding the little wooden ring he had made.
     "Well there's my Viking Hero!" Wayah leaned back on his hands, genuinely impressed by the gift Squirrel had made and a little jealous of the experience he was about to have. Squirrel approached her with valor and presented his gift as sweetly as she took it. They talked for a little while and then another woman behind the table with the juggling balls got up and butted into the conversation. She appeared to be juggling girl's mother and she was eclipsing the entire meeting. Soon after, Squirrel pointed to the others who were watching intently, and the juggling girl turned her enveloping eyes on them. The three Vikings got up and approached with their sore hiker limps.

     "Wayah, Fur Trapper, Buzzsaw, this is Brooke and her mother," Squirrel said, almost relieved. It was always fun to watch locals' reactions to their trail names. There were scattered introductions and Wayah found himself trapped in Brooke's serene but heavy gaze.
     "So are you Vikings also?" she said, almost taunting. Fur Trapper and Buzzsaw began shaking their heads and explaining their loose affiliation and Wayah shot them a confused glance before looking back at Brooke.
     "Am I a Viking? I'm the Lord of the Vikings!"
     And so it began. Squirrelfight and Wayah were equally taken with this girl who fell like a thunderbolt into existence like no one off the trail had before. They invited her to share their fire that night and she brought her younger sister with her. Brooke was young, just in college, and Kelly was in the midst of high school, but they came fearlessly onto the flame lined isle, and brought a drum. That night they stayed only a short while, playing and singing, but they all met again the next day when the rain dampened the festival and later that night they played and sang long into the night, since the next day the festival would end and the Vikings would be back on the trail. They parted with embraces and Brooke gave them her phone number, asking that they call before leaving. When the two girls had gone, Wayah and Squirrel looked at each other and breathed deeply, painfully, relieved. Such madness must be unhealthy. Wayah went to his tent soon after to find some long neglected sleep, and Squirrel and Jones stayed up until the night threatened to become morning, carousing with the others on the island, many of whom they would not meet again.

     When Wayah awoke it was certainly morning, but the fabric of his tent was not the bright, patchy spray of light that came with dawn. It was a cool, unlit gray that seemed to grow darker and lighter, churning. He unzipped the fly of his tent and crawled out, slipping on his boots without lacing them. Stretching in the breeze he saw a sky of the blackest clouds that stewed and rolled and made ready to rain. There were times when such weather would cool things off and blow right over without raining, but there was no reason to risk it and chance having to pack up wet gear. The rest of the island was silent and still, but he warned them of the coming rain in a voice that would wake his comrades enough that they could decide their fate, but not enough to keep them from going back to sleep if they so chose.
     The wind pushed around Wayah like a heavy river while he packed up his gear. High in the treetops he could hear violently thrashing branches, lashed by rain and unhindered wind. After rolling and packing his sleeping bag and pad, he pulled up his tent, which had stood loosely on the soft sand for the last three days. He secured all his belongings tightly to the pack, took down his food from where it hung with the other food bags over a branch, and stuffed his food in the top pouch. He pulled his rain gear from where it was conveniently stowed for hasty retrieval, and fitted the waterproof pack cover tightly over his pack just as the first drops began to fall. The others still had not stirred, preferring to take their chances with the rain, but at the sound of the drops hitting his tent, Fur Trapper leaped out, hoping to pack up before anything got too wet. Wayah was waterproof, his gear and his person covered and dry, and he sat back to watch the rain he loved so much, and breathe the wet, cool air. Offering one more chance to escape being drenched, he gave a last call.
     "Guys. It's officially raining, and it looks to be picking up," he said in a slightly raised voice to the blank walls of Jones' and Squirrel's tents. A low growl issued from Jones' tent, but Squirrel was all weary defiance through the tent.
     "I don't care. Let it rain. I'll dry off, but I need to sleep! We just turned in a few hours ago." Wayah took down the other Viking's food bags and put them in the vestibules of their respective tents. The rain came down harder with each passing minute. He could hear Jones inside his tent preparing his gear to be packed, and he could see the sides of the tent shaking with Jones' quick, annoyed movements. It was too late to keep the tent from being thoroughly soaked, and Jones cursing could be heard above the sound of the driving rain. Wayah didn't like packing up wet gear since it was heavy and got all the other gear in the pack wet, but Jones took it very hard.

     Several other campers on the island were up and about, scurrying to get their gear out of the downpour. Several of them were gathering under a small tarp they set up the day before and talking about setting up a grill for hot dogs when they saw an older local woman scurrying over the bridge, wrapped tight in a gaudy yellow raincoat. She was upset and calling out, but Wayah had to approach her to hear her message over the rain and the rushing water.
     "There's a flash flood warning in effect! You all need to get off the island 'cause it goes under water when there's flooding! Everybody needs to get off quick!" Wayah listened to her in disbelief and looked around at the edges of the island, only slightly slanting out of the river. The rain poured down harder still. Jones was just coming out of his tent, dismantling it in furious bursts and cursing the soaked nylon, but there was no movement from Squirrel's tent.
     "Squirrel! You have to get up!" Wayah shouted through the rain.
     "Hell no! Go away and let me sleep! I don't care about the rain!"
     "Squirrel! Listen to me! One of the locals just came down and said there's a flood coming and this island is going to be under water! You have to get up now, brother!"
     "A flood? Gimme a break!" Almost immediately there was an enormous crash of thunder and the rain doubled its intensity. "Aw, you've got to be kidding me," the sound of Squirrel packing up his gear inside the tent dodged through the rain to Wayah's satisfied ear.
     "Just get your bag packed and I'll carry your tent up to shelter off the island where you can break it down!" Wayah yelled into the tent amidst Squirrel's muttering. He could tell Squirrel was laughing at himself in exasperated weariness.
     "God's playing some sick joke on me! Flood my ass! You've got to be kidding!"

     Soon they were scurrying off the island. Wayah carried the unwieldy tent over the bridge and up the stairs to the public pool area where there was an overhang out of the rain. A dozen wet hikers were huddled there with their gear. Squirrel and Jones' eyes were red with sleep deprivation, and they sank into corners to attempt sleep. It seemed there wouldn't be much of a fair that day. They had already arranged a ride back to the trail later that afternoon. Fur Trapper had an uncle in the area who was going that way anyhow and offered to give them a ride all 250 miles back to where they had gotten off. It was a great relief faced with the prospect of trying to hitchhike all day, wet and smelly. There was still a long day to be spent in the rain, though, waiting for the ride. Since Brooke had left them her number, Wayah and Squirrel decided to call her to see if she could get them out of the rain until the afternoon. The thought of seeing her again was a beam of light through the gray clouds.

     Tent City was in ruins. They made their way to the pay phone next to the diner through the finally waning rain past tents filled with several inches of water, their owners laughing or crying. Wayah and Squirrel fumbled in their pockets for a coin and with wet fingers, Squirrel dropped it into the slot. The canned, musical tones of the keys bounced through the spattering of the rain. Ringing, and then her soft voice. Wayah watched as Squirrel's face reflected their short conversation and then saying good-bye.
     "She'd love to see us again, but she doesn't have a car until later today. If we can get a ride to her house, she'll take us to meet Fur Trapper's uncle. She sounded psyched."

     They went to the hostel near the middle of town to find a ride and found another man who was willing to take them all the way back to Daleville where they left the trail, but not 15 miles the other direction to where Brooke lived. Jones, still weary from the lack of sleep, had been in a foul mood all morning and wasn't interested in Wayah and Squirrel's fascination with Brooke. He decided to take the early ride back to the trail and was gone. The rest of them kept asking drivers around the hostel for a ride and eventually found one. Following the directions she had given them, they wound out of Damascus and soon found themselves rolling up the drive of a large white house on the top of a hill. The paint was flaking and there was yard sale debris strewn about the porch, but it was a comfortable, welcoming house, and the rain had stopped. Brooke was soon at the door giving hugs and grinning broadly. They met her father in the kitchen, and then she led them down the stairs in the middle of the house into the basement, which apparently was the domain of her and her sister only. It was a haven for Wayah. Several guitars leaned next to drums, and around the floor and leaning on walls were large pads of paper and charcoal for drawing. Falling into one of the deep couches with a guitar, he felt entirely at peace. He had missed drawing and playing the guitar so much in the past two months, and here were invitations to both in the world of this wonderful, beautiful girl. If only the clock would stop ticking for a while they would have more than a couple of hours, but the time sped by, and Brooke was soon driving them to the truck stop where they were to meet Fur Trapper's uncle.

     The sun was shining, and the asphalt expanse seemed very dry and empty. Wayah wished for their ride not to come, but as soon as it was wished, Fur Trapper's uncle arrived. They packed their gear into the already full van and said good-bye to Brooke again.
     "You guys could stay with me for a while if you want. I have a friend coming in a week with a bus who could take you back to the trail when he comes through." She asked Wayah and Squirrel with a hopeful look in her eyes. Wayah turned to Squirrel, echoing the look.
     "What do you say, Squirrel? Are you up for a little more time off?" Squirrel was climbing into the cluttered back of the van.
     "The trail's callin' bro. We've been off too long already," Squirrel said, looking at Wayah from inside the bus.
     "Right." Wayah turned to Brooke and hugged her once, then climbed into the front seat and closed the door. Driving away he caught her eye and saw that a pallor of discontent had washed over her face, and he felt an emptiness inside.

     The miles rolled away, and Wayah sat pensively entranced. He truly felt he was lost. For the first time he could see another trail that was not along the white blazes. What were those marks of paint to his adventure anyway? The rolling miles tore him slowly in two. He looked back at Squirrel in indecision and restlessness. Squirrel was cramped in the back and looked up out of his discomfort.
     "Don't look at me! You've got the front seat." He said jokingly.
     "You'll have the front here in a minute," Wayah said. The words just slipped out, and he realized that he had crossed the line. His stomach quivered a little.
     "You're getting out? Are you sure?" Squirrel asked him quietly, realizing too where their lines lay, and knowing his friend's thoughts like his own.
     "You're getting off?" Fur Trapper said in his unencumbered voice that would never whisper.  He had just overheard them.
     "Who's getting off the trail?" Fur Trapper's uncle fired off, looking over the seat.
     "I'm not getting off the trail. I'm getting off the bus." It was suddenly done and decided. There was a stillness and quiet, and Wayah sat with a grin, knowing his feet were on the trail again. The van pulled off at the next exit, and they pulled his gear out of the back of the van. Wayah and Squirrelfight grinned at each other, and each knew that they were both following their trails as purely as could be done.
     "I'll see you next week," said Wayah, the van door slamming shut with everything certain inside it.
     "Good luck," said Squirrelfight, grinning.
     "You're out of your mind," said Fur Trapper climbing back in the bus. His uncle's look echoed his disbelief. Fur Trapper's uncle didn't understand why they were on the trail to begin with, and each new detail of their lives simply added to his confusion.

     The bus pulled away with the swoosh of popping gravel, and Wayah stood next to the on ramp entirely alone. Everything he knew rolled away in the bus. His companions, his society, the Appalachian Trail, everything that was sure was far away now, and all that he had was his own adventure, as unsure as anything. Without the Vikings, there was no Viking Lord. Without the woods, there was no wolf. He stood stripped in the quiet evening, and the earth seemed very large, and every speck of it invaded his senses. He was off the bus, and the world was new. It had seemed so impossible from the other side, but once there was no turning back, he felt utterly calm, and the colors and tastes of that moment were clearer than anything in his life had ever been. Each second on the razor's edge dripped with the purest essence of experience.

     It occurred to him that Brooke's invitation may have been simply polite, or may have been intended only for him and Squirrel together, or even just for Squirrel. He felt doubt in his freedom, but also power. No matter what happened, it was a part of his adventure, and if he had to leave Brooke's porch, embarrassed and awakened from his trance, he would be able to hitch back to the trail again, no matter how long it took, and find his friends. It felt like there was nothing he couldn't do. He began the long hitch back down the highway, and decided that when he got to her town he would call the house first, and decide then if he was a fool or not. The idea soothed some of his restlessness.

     They had come a long way from Damascus, and it took many hitches to get all the way back. He got his last hitch just before dark. He told his story to each of his rides, and some had a hard time believing him about the trail. Some thought him a fool, others a hero, and the last, a chubby boy scout leader from Massachusetts, thought Wayah was the only true romantic he had ever met. The thought rang true for Wayah, for what was a romantic but someone who did what he felt over what was sensible. It described most everything about his adventure on the trail. The scout leader was enjoying Wayah's story so much that he decided to go out of his way and take him straight to her town, and then asked how to get to the house. It occurred to Wayah as he pulled up to the white house for the second time that he would not get to make his phone call, and his reckoning would indeed come right there on that cluttered, comfortable porch that suddenly didn't seem so safe. The scout leader wished him luck, and pulled his tan truck out of the drive, turning on his lights as he faced into the dusk.

     Wayah slung his pack over his shoulder and looked down the hill, wondering if he was going to have to hike down that road tonight. He pocketed his doubts and turned on the house. He heard the voice of the Wolf, the voice of the Viking Lord. If this was his trail what place on it was not the woods, and who along the way was not a Viking? He felt strong and sure, and approached the door as if the next blaze were brushed on its side. It was open, and through it he saw into the kitchen where she stood, talking to her father. She seemed so light, so unencumbered, and he knocked on the old wooden frame of the door. She looked up from her conversation and stood for a moment, frozen, then came smiling toward the door, pushing off every few steps to glide along a little faster. As she opened the door, he could see her eyes, and they shone in perfect joy, and reflected his happiness. He was no fool after all, and he felt invincible. He had shed all his support and everything that was sure and known for this moment, and past it all he found warm affirmation. He held her and she melted softly into him.

     The next three days were half a dream and a rest, and half an uncomfortable pull away from the trail. Wayah pleaded with her to join him on the trail, but she didn't have any ambition for such a journey and after carrying around the full pack for a bit, thought she would just slow Wayah down anyway. He tried to think of ways that they could join in an adventure together, but she couldn't imagine shedding her surroundings the way he had done. Having just made that jump, he knew how frightening it was, but had expected her to be able. As the days went by he realized that his reward was not a life with Brooke, but discovering that he was more than his surroundings. He had gotten off the bus and found his own strength and power in the void. When it was over, Brooke and her father drove him over the long miles back to the trail, and they parted with another brief embrace. Wayah turned back to the woods, smelling oddly of soap and shampoo, his clothes cleaner than any day since he started, and leaned back into the forest, gathering his strength to begin the long task of catching up to his friends. His pack felt heavier, and there was a sadness on him, but he carried a new strength in him, and a set of handmade juggling balls.