Mountain Woman -- Jeremiah's Journey -- Scenes 1.1 and 1.2

 

Mountain Woman

I saw her down the trail, a young woman and her dog, a Bluetick Coonhound known for its skill to tree a raccoon. It's not age that determines if you're young. Instead, youthfulness embraces a desire for adventure, fearlessly trying new excursions, and a willingness to fail to become stronger and more skilled. You're not afraid to camp alone or solo summit a mountain, and adventuring with a dog that looks like it could protect you is a good thing. Bluetick gave me a reason to say something as she neared me on the trail.

"Wow. Dig those blue eyes." I looked at the hound, a crystalline blue that gave it a human likeness. I glanced up to acknowledge her, and surprisingly, her eyes were a translucent blue that drew my gaze to peer deeper. It may have been just several seconds, but our eyes were like magnets that did not want to look away. She eventually looked down at the black-spotted, bluish-gray, well-muscled, sleek, racy hound whose tail wagged back and forth with excitement. Its owner's vibe that animals can sense indicated that I was friendly.

"Yeah, we match."

I could have commented on her eyes, but that seemed too personal, so I chose a softer route to the conversation. "You from around here?"

"Yep. Born and raised. We hike this mountain once a week."

This peak—Black Rock Mountain—was the tallest in this area of the Appalachians in northern Georgia. Living near the Mississippi coast for six weeks, I'd yet to adjust to the altitude, having arrived just the day before. I would probably need a day off to recoup, but with the vigor of her reply, I would gladly hike it once a week just to pick up on the energy she exuded.

"Ah, a Georgia girl."

"Nah. North Carolina. Just six minutes to the border. Born in Franklin, hiker's heaven and a rafter's rendezvous. Have you hiked the trail?"

I had yet to put it all together, what nature's paradise had to offer here. I had read about Nantahala Forest, but I was so consumed with finishing my first book manuscript that my brain was like quicksand, every thought drowning in thick muck.

"Which trail?"

"The AT."

It still didn't register. Possibly brain fog from the bottle of Cab I sipped into the night. Then the image of my favorite coffee cup came to mind. "Ah, the Appalachian Trail."

"Well, I can tell you're not from around here. Most aren't that I meet on the trail. Where ya from."

"Born and raised in Indiana, but my home now is the traveling type. I had slipped into that mountain drawl, not hick like Kentuck, not tight-throated like a Tennessean, but rather the mellow and chill of living in the forest of the mountains. Sold my real estate and bought a fifth-wheel and a diesel to pull' er with. A RAM towing Sanibel."

"That was a bold move. Ya don't look old enough to be retired—unless yer rich and retired early." She gave me a curly one-sided smile.

"Not hardly. Rich, that is. Don't feel old enough to be called 'retired.' I'm still very active in hiking and mountain biking. Still, I've been sittin' for over a month—working on finishing my book manuscript for too long. As if I had to title myself to make my writing sound official. I'm an author."

"What kinda books ya write?"

"Transformational. You won't be the same after reading the story."

"What? Like what sort of transformation?"

"Some of us live in the dark side or have a lot of darkness within. Most of us live in the gray, the shadows where we think our behavior can be hidden. But light penetrates the darkness, and where there is light, there is no darkness at all. Some of us shine our light, the radiance within that people are attracted to."

"Hey, I'm meeting friends at the Trailhead for lunch, so I best be heading down. You still have an hour to the top. We start early. A great coffee shop a block from the Trailhead, mostly a local hangout. We should meet next Wednesday, and I'll show you a magnificent waterfall. Midweek is the best time to hike the popular routes. Sometimes I have it all to myself. Nice talking with ya. How long did you say you're stayin'?"

It took me a bit to digest the change in the direction of our conversation. I was heading into the story to talk about Jeremy, and . . . Did she just invite me to meet her for coffee? Hike together?

"Sure."

"Sure what? That yer stayin'?"

"Sure thing, I'll meet you for coffee and then walk to the waterfall. I have no other plans beyond here, but I'm committed for a month. Staying at Cross Creek in Mountain City."

"At the bottom of the rock. I know the place, right off the highway on the way south out of town. Oh, the waterfall is a tucked-away gem. It doesn't get much traffic; rocky terrain, some scrambling, so wear your hikin' boots."

She strode off, Bluetick scampering to take the lead. She had rounded the bend before I realized I didn't ask what time to meet or the name of the coffee hangout. Guess I'll go exploring this afternoon and check out the town . . . and arrive at the coffee shop at the opening. I wasn't going to miss this opportunity. What did she say her name was? . . .

She didn't.

—

So, I'm meeting a mystery mountain woman at a no-name coffee shop at sunrise. I arrived fifteen minutes after six, the mountain rim on fire with a line of orange etching the forested ridge. I was their first customer and was greeted by a sleepy-looking college-age girl. It's July, so wherever she went to school was not around here, the nearest metro area in Atlanta, an hour southwest. I don't know why I assumed she was collegiate—She looked smart? I just figured that a twenty-something couldn't survive on a barista's wage and tips. Real estate wasn't developed in the area to provide rentals, so she must be living at home.

Here I am profiling people at sunrise before my first cup of coffee. That's what authors do; they make up characters in their minds to brew a story. Develop characters first, then the story. Yeah, there's a story thread that authors weave through their characters, creating scenes like a painter with a palette, brush stroking a background, penciling the structure, then adding the color to make it pop, the stage on which the actors perform.

The barista gave me a peculiar look. Do I have a booger dangling from my nose? I instinctively brushed the tip of my nose with the back of my hand, then realized that it must have looked gross. If I did have a booger on my nose, now it's on the back of my hand. I brushed the top of my hand alongside my hiking shorts, never taking my eyes off hers, daring her to look at my hand to see if there was one.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare. You reminded me of someone . . . Yeah, Bruce Willis."

I smiled, thinking of Die Hard, and if I looked that macho, I would have a tail of girls following me up the mountain.

"He looks sooo cute when he smiles," the collegiate girl with a dainty nose ring said.

My ego deflated—macho was far from cute.

"You're not from around here."

Was I wearing a badge that said, "Foreigner"? "Waiting For a Girl Like You" began to play, and my mind tripped back to my college days—a 1981 power ballad that described my romantic life in the now— "I've been looking too hard, I've been waiting too long."

Yes, I had waited too long; the barista girl was younger than my daughter, way younger. Okay, I sucked up my deflated ego and replied, "Hiking the AT," assuming that would suffice for why I didn't appear "local," whatever that looked like.

"Oh. Just passing through. What would you like?" She pointed to the chalkboard behind her that described coffee a dozen ways. She then motioned to the display cabinet of muffins, quiche, and cookies the size of my hand.

"Actually, I'm meeting someone here. We're going to hike to the waterfall."

"Which one?"

"She didn't say."

"What's her name?"

"I didn't ask?"

"When is she meeting you?"

"Don't know."

"Are ya dreamin' dude, or is this chick for real?"

She had a point there. 

"I know, it sounds like a fantasy like I . . . sometimes I don't know what I will find."

"It's only a matter of time."

"Until what?"

"Until she shows up."

"Who."

"The owner."

I was thoroughly confused. I needed some coffee. Maybe I was still sleeping; this conversation seemed surreal.

"Uh, double cappuccino dry."

"What size?"

The dinging of the door's bell broke my concentration, as though determining the volume of coffee I needed took serious thought. “Uh . . .” I was struggling to remember what Starbucks calls a large coffee. "Venti," I blurted out.

"This is Appalachia, not Atlanta. I think you need the largest we've got."

"Yeah. Top it off with lots of froth. I need it wet."

A lick on the back of my hand startled me, and I looked down to see blue-tick. There must have been a booger there. I noticed movement at the end of the bakery display. Looking up, mountain woman reached in to pull out a muffin. She hadn't seen me. While the espresso machine dispensed and the barista frothed, the mountain woman slid the slice into the micro. She seemed absorbed in thought. The micro dinged, and she removed the muffin and walked into a small office off to the side.

"Hey, Savannah. I'm meeting some young dude for a waterfall climb this morning. Don't know if or when he'll show. Hope he does. An Indiana boy. Eyes as blue as mine. Ha ha! And he noticed Frankie's first!"

I took this in as Savannah finished topping my espresso with creamy foam. Young. Boy. Frankie. She must be referring to Sinatra. Young and old are relative terms that compare yourself to someone else.

"Well, Melanie, I have Die Hard standing right here in front of me."

—