The trail, p.4
The Trail, page 4
‘I was just about to,’ she replies, wrapping a skinny arm around his middle in a friendly embrace, before turning back to face Nora. ‘You’ll come across all kinds of hikers on the AT. Some are day hikers who will want to hurry past, and you’ll probably only see once. Others are thru-hikers, the pros. They’re the ones who are doing this from end to end and tend to treat the whole experience as some professional accomplishment, which I suppose in a way it is. And then there are section hikers like us, and they generally seem to be quite an amiable bunch. Anyway, Snake and Weasel are section hikers. We managed to ditch them a couple of days ago, but they did say they were heading to the summit of Katahdin, so they might catch up to you guys.’
‘And that’s a bad thing because…?’
Andy and Joanna exchange glances, before Joanna replies. ‘We came across them in one of the hostels, and… I don’t know… you know when you just get a bad vibe about people? They kept pestering those of us in the hostel for any food or clothing we could spare, even though they seemed to have packs full of gear themselves.’
‘Stank of weed too,’ Andy chimes in.
‘We’re all for helping out a fellow hiker,’ Joanna concludes, ‘as are so many of the awesome people we’ve come across, but this was just something else. Someone I spoke to reckoned they scrounge stuff that they then sell to pay for their drugs.’
Nora makes a mental note to share the observation with the others.
Max is next over, bringing with him Charlie, Bruce and Ken. ‘We heard snow is expected north of here over the next week, so you guys should tread carefully and wrap up warm. You need to be averaging eight to ten miles a day to stay on course for reaching the summit by the end of the month, but some days of that will be easier than others. When the ground is even and fairly flat, make the most of it and clock up the extra miles, because when you hit some of the ascents, you’ll never maintain that pace.’
Nora’s bones freeze at the mention of the snow and colder temperatures to come, and in that moment, she wants to suggest that they all take a few days in Hanover until the weather improves, but the rest of her group aren’t on the same wavelength. Even less so when Max pulls the stuffed lion from his pack and hands it to Bruce.
‘Lest we forget why we agreed to this madness,’ he says sombrely. ‘This is Rex – Ashley’s favourite toy. You need to take a picture of you and him each day so that a scrap book can be put together when we’re all back in England.’
Nora stares at the lion’s ungroomed mane and knows she can’t possibly bail out.
Bruce stuffs the toy into his pack, and then proceeds to follow Ken and Charlie further into the forest, leaving Nora staring after the four who look so relieved that their adventure is over. She’s never felt more envious in her entire life.
6
JESS
April 2023, Hove, East Sussex
The walk back to Hove has done little to temper my certainty. I am confident that the remains alluded to in the news article belong to my missing mother. Thirty years of waiting for news, not knowing whether she’d ever be found, or whether she would one day show up with some crazy story about where she’s been and why she couldn’t let me know she was safe.
There’s also a part of me that thinks Bruce hasn’t been totally open about what happened in those days before her disappearance. My dad would tell me how level-headed and careful Mum was about everything she did. In the weeks leading up to the trip, she read every book she could find about surviving in the wilderness, and specifically about the hike they were about to attempt. She became obsessed with being fully prepared for any kind of hindrance. She knew how to survive wild animal attacks, how to treat blisters and callouses to avoid infection, and what kind of plants and berries were edible. Even if she’d become temporarily waylaid, or stumbled off the trail, she’d have found a way to get back.
For me, there’s only one reason my mum never returned from that adventure: someone or something stopped her.
The case remains open in the US, and there is a police team in the UK who contact me once every couple of years to advise there have been no updates from their US counterparts. Because she fled the camp, there was no physical evidence that she was attacked. No blood or sign of disturbance. Apparently, some tracking expert managed to follow her for up to half a mile, but then it was as if she vanished into thin air.
I don’t yet know exactly where these remains have been discovered, but I’ll be interested to see if they’re in the same sort of vicinity as where the trace was lost.
I can do nothing from here.
After my father passed, Bruce was kind enough to introduce me to Charlie and Ken who were the other members of her troop, but neither provided anything more than Bruce did. Their stories all had the same ring, which means either they’re all telling the truth, or they’ve all agreed on a version of the truth. The issue is I have no way to disprove what they’ve said.
As far as the world is concerned, my mum went crazy and wandered off the trail, never to be heard from again. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first – and may not be the last – time it has happened. It’s a plausible story, and that appears to have been enough for the Maine sheriff department who was investigating.
I have researched every reported disappearance from the Appalachian Trail – or ‘AT’ as it’s known by those who’ve hiked it – and there have been a dozen murders committed. The majority have been solved and the perpetrators locked up, but one or two remain unsolved. I’ve looked for patterns, locations, and anything that might help shed light on what really happened three decades ago, but there’s no commonality between any of the killings. I don’t want to think that Mum suffered in her final hours on this earth, but it would make it easier if I had someone else to blame.
If it is her they’ve found, then I hope swift justice will follow.
I’m assuming Ashley has now heard about my fleeing the interview as she’s already sent messages via text, Facebook, and WhatsApp, demanding answers. I know it’s not easy to read someone’s tone in a written message but based on the increasing number of exclamation marks, I’m sensing she’s growing angrier by the second. Probably best if I don’t head back to hers tonight. The last thing I need is for her to throw me out.
I love Ashley to bits, and I know I’m culpable for her current state of frustration, but I also know that giving her space to vent will make my eventual apology more palatable.
That leaves me with little choice but to head back to my flat and hope I can sneak in without Mr Popovich spotting me. I empty my bank account at an ATM, ready to hand it over to him as a down payment towards what I owe. If I’m lucky, I might be able to get a couple more shifts at the bar, and if that fails, I’ll have to tout my extensive waitressing experience at other pubs and restaurants in the county. I know Bruce would be more than happy to offer me help, but he’s already done too much for me, and I can’t take advantage of his generosity.
I reach the end of the street, but don’t head straight up it. Popovich owns three of the blocks of flats, which he rents out, but lives in one of the few detached houses on the hill. If I head up the road and he happens to be looking out of his front window, he’ll see me, or his barking Alsatian will. That dog goes ballistic whenever anyone walks past the front window if she happens to be inside. She’s actually very friendly once Popovich has invited you into his house, but until that point, his dog’s temperament is set to vicious.
Rather than risk such an encounter, I continue on to the next road which runs parallel to ours, and head to the top, before circling back. It would be sod’s law that he happens to be at the block, but as I head up the garden path and in through the old oak door, I’m relieved when he doesn’t spring out.
I’m exhausted when I make it to the fourth floor and freeze when I see the sheet of A4 paper crudely taped to my front door. The words EVICTION NOTICE loom large in bold font. I pull it down, and screw it up, slotting my key into the door, but it doesn’t turn. I pull it out, blow on the metal ridges as if this might somehow fix the issue that is starting to become more apparent. I slide the key in again, but it jars rather than twists.
‘Son of a…’ I mutter under my breath.
I can’t believe he’s changed the locks. I’ve been a loyal tenant for two years, and it’s only the last three months that have seen me late paying the rent. I told him I would get the money to him. Can he even do this? He’s not warned that he plans to evict me, nor that he’d access my home and change the locks.
My phone vibrates with a voicemail as I miss another call from Ashley. I brace myself and listen, but delete the message when she gets to her second expletive.
I flatten out the eviction notice and study the content. It says I am evicted on account of not paying rent arrears, that he is keeping my initial deposit to cover the cost of replacing the locks and cleaning the property in order to let it again. Apparently, he has gathered up my possessions, and is storing them at his home address.
I’m no expert, but I’m sure he’s not legally allowed to remove my possessions or change the locks, especially without notice, and given I’m working my socks off to get him the money I owe.
My instinct is to phone Ashley and ask her opinion but given the stream of messages, I don’t think I should push my luck. I stuff the piece of paper into the pocket of my still-damp suit jacket and make my way back down the stairs. Stomping from the building, I am ready to give him both barrels and to demand he provide new keys to the property, but as soon as I reach his house, I can see the driveway is empty.
I jab at the doorbell, and thump my fist against the wooden door.
When Popovich doesn’t come to the door, I drop to my knees, and lift the flap of the letterbox.
‘Mr Popovich? It’s Jess Grogan. I’ve come about your eviction notice. Can you let me in?’
I listen for the sound of movement, but there isn’t a peep. Certainly no sound of barking, which must mean wherever he’s gone, he’s taken the angry dog with him.
The cloud overhead is darkening, and I have no doubt that it won’t be long before rain arrives. I shout through the letterbox again, but Popovich isn’t home. I do, however, spot several large black sacks just inside the door. It has to be my stuff: clothes and the few keepsakes I felt compelled to hang on to. It seems so little for a life already half-lived. By this age, I’d always assumed I’d be settled in a relationship, maybe married, with a home to truly call my own. That’s how grown-ups are supposed to conform, but I just haven’t yet.
I stand and straighten, considering my options. I don’t have any friends in a legal capacity to check my rights with, but even if I did, I won’t gain access to my flat until Popovich returns, whenever that might be. He shouldn’t have taken my things, though, and it’s galling that they’re so close, but there’s no way my hand will fit through the letter box.
Stepping back, I almost trip over the large plant pot that separates the overgrown lawn from the paved driveway. It looks so odd, with no sign of plant life, and essentially just a ceramic pot of earth.
I wonder…
Despite myself, I attempt to lift and move the pot, half-expecting to find a key beneath it, but no matter how much I strain and gurn, it doesn’t budge. It seems unlikely in this day and age that Popovich would keep a spare key beneath something as obvious as a flowerpot.
But that doesn’t mean he might not absent-mindedly leave a back door or window unlocked.
I move further down the drive until I reach the garage. There are more ceramic pots here, and a gate into the garden, but when I try the handle, it doesn’t budge. Frustrated, but not perturbed, I wheel over the recycle bin and position it against the gate, jiggling it to check it won’t topple under my weight, before hoisting myself up onto it. I look back to the main road, but my position is partially obscured by the property’s chimney breast.
I’ve done nothing wrong yet, I remind myself, but the truth is I’ve done far worse in search of a good story, including rooting through people’s discarded rubbish. If I suspected Popovich of wrongdoing, I wouldn’t think twice about trespassing on his property, so why am I fearing the worst about what I’m about to do?
I lift myself up onto the upper rim of the wooden gate, swinging one leg over, and wincing when an errant splinter breaks the skin of my right calf. If Popovich returned right now, I don’t imagine he’d think twice before phoning the police.
But then isn’t what he’s done far worse? He entered my flat without permission or notice, stole my property, and changed the locks.
Screw it! If the police turn up, I’ll just tell them I’m running a story on landlords illegally evicting tenants.
I swing my other leg over the gate, and drop, relieved when the heels of my ankle boots don’t crumble. Flattening my skirt, I take several breaths, before trying the handle of the patio door immediately to my right. It doesn’t budge. Staring through the glass, I can see that this door leads to Popovich’s kitchen. It’s the only access point as the double-glazed windows further along the wall don’t appear capable of opening.
I’m about to accept that fate doesn’t want me to take any further risks, when I eye the dog flap cut into the wall beside the door. I instantly dismiss the idea as ridiculous, but then I think about Ashley’s voicemail, and the truth is I have no choice but to get what I need.
I push the flap with my foot and it goes in, and I quickly drop to my knees, kicking off my boots. I manage to squeeze myself through the thick piece of rubber. It’s a tighter squash than I’m anticipating, but suddenly I’m flat out on Popovich’s linoleum floor.
I scrabble to my knees, then race through to the black sacks, lifting them up, before reconsidering. If I take all the bags, he’ll know I’ve been in here, and then he might report me to the police. The truth is: my curiosity won’t be sated if I hang around and wait for the truth. I need to know how and why my mum died, and if I can find the answers to both questions, then maybe I can write and sell the story and make enough money to clear my debts once and for all. Opening each bag, I rummage through until I locate my all-weather jacket, walking boots, jeans, a couple of sweaters, and all my underwear. I throw the items into a holdall that also topples out of one of the bags, along with my passport. Unlocking my phone, I pull up a flight schedule.
7
NORA
September 1993, Appalachian Trail, New Hampshire, USA
They’ve been walking for hours, like a herd of elephants, one following another, with Ken the Scout leader at the front, map and compass held out in front of him. Nora thinks about the white blazes painted on the trees. She’d started to count them originally, almost as a measure to validate that Ken hadn’t taken them off course, but as boredom took hold, she’d stopped at 184.
Research into the AT promised spectacular views, encounters with wild animals, and vistas incomparable with the rest of the world. What she probably hadn’t appreciated then was just how many trees they would walk past, and just how tough the terrain would be. There’s no let up to the rises and dips with each footstep.
Impossible to find a steady rhythm, and despite the never-ending incline they seem to have been on, Ken has already repeatedly pointed out that steeper climbs lie further ahead.
She can’t yet comprehend how tough repeating this level of travel over consecutive days and weeks is going to be, but she’s already certain that she never could have completed a full thru-hike from Springer Mountain down in Georgia. Credit to those who’ve managed it, but five to six months of endless walking – feeling as though no progress has been made – would be just too much for her psyche to handle.
Joanna warned her that there would come a time when she’ll have had enough and would want to pack it all in, but she suggested that that would be after three or four days, rather than three or four hours.
For the first hour, Charlie had appointed himself as narrator to their journey, sharing his experiences of hikes along the Pacific Crest Trail, and through Yosemite, both on the west coast. Listening to him talk had certainly helped pass the time, even if she sensed he had embellished on more than one occasion. But the words dried up as the strain of walking and talking had taken a toll, and now they’re moving in virtual silence, interspersed with grunts as each of them take a turn to stumble along the route, littered with unwieldly rocks and thickets.
Nora can feel blisters forming where the hard soles of her walking boots rub against her heels. She tried breaking them in before they left England, wearing them on the school run, on trips to Safeway, and while running the vacuum around their two-bed mid-terrace, but clearly her efforts were in vain. She’d give anything right now to remove them and soak her feet in the foot spa Frank gave her last Christmas. She’d only had it out of the box once since she’d been given it, and now realises what a mistake that was.
As she continues to follow the back of Bruce’s bright orange pack, she pictures life at home. She tries to imagine what Jess would be up to at this moment. It’s just after 2 p.m. locally, which means it will be just after 7 p.m. in the UK, so Frank has probably already put her to bed. Hopefully he’s keeping his promise to read to her every night. Jess has such a vivid imagination that Nora wouldn’t be surprised if she one day became a writer herself. She loves hearing Jess’ stories, how she takes well-known fairy tales and adds her own twists. Like when Goldilocks is fleeing the three bears’ house and stumbles upon the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood, and stops him from eating the grandma.
Nora smiles now at the memory, the first inkling of joy in several hours, if not days. She can’t wait for them to next get to a town where she can phone home and just hear her daughter’s angelic voice. It’s all the motivation she needs to continue putting one foot in front of the other.
