Ten Mountain Men's Baby (Love by Numbers 9)

What I found most amazing were the number of similarities between his story and mine: not only the circumstances of his presence there—going on the thru-hike and stopping off in various towns to do some volunteer work—but he had also been adopted, in North Carolina, and hoped to track down his birth family somehow over the course of his trip.

I wish he’d left me his photo.

Ryker Dennison. Let’s hope you’re a slow hiker. Maybe I’ll catch up with you on the trail.That evening, as promised, I checked in with Gwen, and I checked in with my parents. I only spoke with my mom briefly. She said she wasn’t feeling too well and she needed to lie down. I was skeptical and asked my dad if she was still upset about my going on this trip.

“She’s never happy when you go away for long periods of time,” he said, “but she’ll be fine.”

“I wanted to tell her how beautiful it is here and how nice everyone’s been to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“But after a minute, she said she had to go lie down like I upset her or something.”

“No, no, no,” he said emphatically. “She’s been a bit under the weather these last few days.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“She’ll be fine,” he said. “You just take care of yourself. We’ll be following your blog.”

“I’m going to post my first entry in about an hour,” I said excitedly. “I just want to check in with Mrs. Freedman first.”

“We can’t wait to read it.”

“Thanks, Chris.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll call in about a week or so. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Mrs. Freedman was less chatty than even my terse father. “I’m sure whatever you write will be fine,” she said, interrupting me as I tried to share some of the ideas I’d come up with. “You do you, darling. Express yourself. I’m no editor.”

“Okay. Fair enough. But if you see my posts and have any suggestions, I’d be very happy to have your feedback.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’m going to let you go. I have some final edits I want to do, and I’ll be posting in an hour or so.”

“Oh, just one note,” she said.

“Yes?”

“What sells is a good love story.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I was documenting charity work in Appalachia?”

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt if you were to fall in love with a young doctor… or two.”

“Or two?”

“But I’m sure whatever you write will be fine.”

I laughed. I could never tell when she was joking or being serious. Somehow, I felt that for her, there wasn’t much of a difference. Everything was serious to her, serious enough to require a joke.

I ended the call and got ready for bed. I kept thinking of Ryker, wondering what he looked like, wondering if we would get along as well as I imagined we would. I took a hot shower and slipped under the covers. I started reading Ryker’s hand-written biography again, but I fell asleep and was swept away into dreamland somewhere in the middle of the first page.8RykerAfter three days of hiking and two nights of sleeping in a tent, I was in bad need of a shower and a fresh change of clothes. My next scheduled stop, Franklin, North Carolina, was still a two-day hike away when I paused to rest at a waypoint. It was little more than a wood shelter decorated with carvings of the initials of those who’d proudly passed through. It had been hours since I last came across another hiker. And while I enjoyed the personal space and the opportunity for reflection, I was in need of a little human contact, even a brief exchange of polite greetings or a simple “hello” and a smile to hold me over till Franklin. I had never considered myself a particularly social person, but a few days alone in nature revealed that I was more in need of interaction than I’d thought.

I sat down, my back resting against the shelter of the waypoint, and let my gaze drift along the dips and turns in the landscape before me. I listened for animals; I listened for other hikers. But what I heard instead, after much concentration, was the steady yet faint babble of water, a creek or a small river running through the vegetation below.

It was difficult to tell for certain where exactly the sound was coming from; the landscape offered a series of degrading hills, each cut with winding valleys obscured by trees. I decided that finding a creek would be worth the detour. Maybe it would be wide and deep enough for a swim; if not, at least I could wash up, even if only superficially so.

The descent wasn’t long, but it was steep. And I did most of it sliding on my butt, using my hands and the heels of my shoes as brakes digging into the loose soil. It was fun. It had been ages since I last played in the dirt, and I actually laughed as I slid down the slope. When I reached level land and looked back up to the waypoint, it seemed quite far away, like I may potentially have a problem getting back onto the trail.