When we finally reached the summit of Old Blue Mountain, Red set off in search of a cell phone signal. I found a patch of exposed bedrock surrounded by spruce trees, so decided to lay down to rest.
The sun, having spent the morning warming up the bedrock, now beamed in my eyes. I pulled my hat over my face.
On the edge of sleep, I heard a familiar thump coming up the trail.
“I could hear those heavy boots of yours from fifty yards away,” I said, readjusting my hat and sitting up.
“That’s why they call me Thumper,” she said.
“Oh, so that’s why we call you that.”
Thumper was fond of her big Gortex boots that laced above her ankles. Each boot must have weighed three pounds, but she insisted they’d shield her from snakebites.
Bambi reached the peak next, swiftly forging ahead. Her backpack, which seemed to weigh as much as her slender frame, disappeared into the towering pines. Thumper followed suit, trailed closely by Red. Although we generally managed to reach the summits ahead of Bambi, keeping her pace on steep descents could be challenging. Especially with the promise of a town up ahead.
Halfway through our descent, the dense foliage opened up to reveal a road snaking through the valley below—our first hint of civilization in miles. With our supplies dwindling, we knew we had to hitch to Andover, though the road's emptiness made us doubt we'd get a ride anytime soon.
I finally caught up to Bambi and the others at the road, where she stood by a car parked on the shoulder.
“You know those day-hikers we passed a while back? They said they’d give us a ride to Andover,” she said, barely containing her excitement.
Admittedly I was excited about a town visit as well. While I loved the peaceful nights spent in the forest, there was a certain predictability to it. The towns, on the other hand, held an air of mystery, devoid of any concrete plan or expectation.
As soon as the day-hikers arrived, we quickly stowed our gear in their hatchback and crammed into the back seat. Partially sitting on top of each other, we linked arms as a precautionary measure in case a door decided to pop open.
The moment we mentioned that we were hiking to Georgia, the driver said, "Why? Are you folks from the South?"
They weren’t the first to give us this line of questioning, as if being from the South somehow justified hiking two-thousand-miles through the Appalachian Mountains. It seemed to me like questioning a skydiver, "So, why are you leaping out of this plane? Is your house down there or something?"
They dropped us off at the Andover General Store, where we thanked them for the ride and offered the obligatory apology for the hiker smell. The small mountain town didn’t offer much, other than the general store, but that was enough. An ice cream stand stood next door and inside soda coolers hummed and the shelves were lined with snacks. In the back, a deli counter served up short-order foods.
We propped our packs against the back wall and settled around a classic diner-style table with sweeteners for coffee and stacks of assorted jellies. I mused aloud about people always asking if we were from the South and Thumper suggested we should just start saying yes in our most ridiculous Southern accents.
As we waited for our server, we implored Thumper to regale us with one of her beloved folksy tales. Being a proud Kentuckian, she expertly slipped into her best Southern Kentucky accent.
"Did I ever tell y'all about our great-grandma from far, far away, in that there, uh, Switzer Land?" she began. "Well, I only met her once, but she just up and died on us a few years back. It was a real sad like, but I reckon she had a little bit of money—"
"It's always mighty sad when they die like that," I said, attempting a Tallahassee drawl, albeit relying mostly on portrayals by slick Florida politicians in movies and Foghorn Leghorn cartoons.
"Sure is, especially when they just up and die," Red said, in what he claimed was an Alabama accent.
“Right, when they up, and die,” I said.
“Yeah she just up and died,” Thumper said. “She was the oldest woman around, so a’ course that made her the most important person in the village. So, they gave her the house on the highest hill.”
"Pardon me for interjecting, but may I ask how she managed to get up and down that hill?" Red asked with curiosity in his voice.
“Well you know, all the young’uns in the village,” she said. “They just carry her up on they backs.”
“Oh, o’course,” Red nodded. “I mean, that's how we do it down in Mobile, Alabama. I shoulda jus’ assumed that's how they do it over in that uh, Switzer Land.”
“Well Switzer Land is kinda mountainous, you know,” said Thumper. “So, I reckon it'd be a lot harder to do it over there rather’n uh… Alabama.”
“Whew, sounds like she's a talkin' trash about Mobile, Red.” I instigated.
“You're damn right,” Thumper said, then locked eyes with Red. “You're damn right.”
“Well down in Mobile,” Red said. “We have tuh carry our old folks over crocodiles, so it’s uh, quite dangerous. I had tah carry me one of them Arkansas toothpicks.”
“Now see, what's the difference between alligators and crocodiles,” Thumper asked. “I thought y’all had gators down there.”
“They're the same thang,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” she said, playing along.
“Yeah, they're exactly the same thang,”
“Good to know I can lay that question to rest. It’s just one less thing I hafta think about, you know.”
We embraced the accents for the rest of the day. In fact, it almost became a challenge to see who could go the longest without breaking character. Even days later, our accents slipped out.
“I guess we’re prolly annoying the hell outta everyone around here,” Red said.
“I reckon you're right,” Bambi said. “But who cares?”
“Oh we prolly sound like a breath’a fresh air in here,” Thumper said.
“A breath’a fresh air indeed,” Red said. “Up here in Maine, they prolly don’t get many folks like us. I mean, I’m from Mobile and we got Tallahassee over here."
“And good ol' Kentucky girls!” Bambi said.
“From good ol' Kentucky,” Thumper said and gave Bambi a high five over the table. “Woo! Home of bluegrass, bourbon, and horses!”
“That’s right, yee haw!” Bambi cheered, making us all laugh.
“How you doin'?” Red said to the waiter who suddenly appeared to set silverware wrapped in napkins in front of us.
"Good, how about you?" the waiter responded, his voice friendly and welcoming. "Where you from?"
"I'm from Mobile,” Red said.
“Alabama?”
“Alabama,” Red said proudly.
“You certainly sound like it. It's been a while since I've heard that accent,” he said. “It's quite unique.”
It must have been an incredibly long time if he actually believed Red’s accent was genuine. To me, it had more of a “mentally-challenged New Yorker pretending to be from the South” sort of quality. Whenever he spoke, people seemed to think, "I can’t quite place it, but there’s something off about this guy."
“Thank ya kindly,” Red said to the waiter.
After devouring a table full of triple cheeseburgers and deep-fried foods, we started pondering our sleeping arrangements. We asked the server bussing our table if she knew of any places near the town where we could camp that wouldn’t lead to our imminent arrest. Secretly we were attempting to get an invite to stay at her house, as it wouldn’t be the first time such a trick worked for us. However, all she suggested was a field up the road out of town, so we paid the check, bought some groceries, and left without a concrete plan.
Red decided to stop at the ice cream stand for dessert, while the rest of us waited.
"Hey, Thumpah,” Bambi said. “Tell us the story ‘bout that time the cows got loose.”
"Alright, well, I was up in my room on daddy's farm in my purdy navy blue cotton dress. And all a sudden, daddy hollers, 'Girls, git yo' shoes on!'"
Meanwhile, as Thumper recounted her tale, I overheard a girl taking Red's ice cream order.
"Would you like that in a cone or a cup?" she asked.
"Can I git that on a plate?” Red asked without cracking a smile. “I’m sorry. I'm from Mobile. That's just how we do it in Mobile."
Her glare confirmed our suspicion that we were beginning to annoy the hell out of everyone around us.
After an awkward silence, Red sheepishly said, "Cone’ll be just fine, ma'am."
"So, there I was,” Thumper continued. “In my purdy navy blue cotton dress, tryin’ to usher a two-thousand-pound heifer this-a-way into a barn—"
Just then, Red turned to us with a towering soft-serve ice cream cone covered in rainbow sprinkles. He took an enormous bite from the top.
"Boy, you'll be shittin' rainbows fo' a week!" Thumper said.
Our search for a place to sleep proved less fruitful than in previous towns. We ventured up the road but failed to secure a hitch back to the trail. Cutting through the field our server had mentioned, we aimed for a cluster of trees on the other side. However, our peaceful walk was abruptly interrupted by relentless mosquito attacks. After enduring a few minutes of incessant biting, we gave up on that area and headed back into town.
As the sun began to set, we strolled between rows of houses. I’m unsure what we thought would happen. Perhaps a chance encounter with someone taking out their trash would lead to an invitation into their home for the night. Or maybe we’d find an abandoned building to crawl into like wild raccoons.
Under the glow of a full moon sky filled with stars, we paused at a city park consisting of a baseball diamond, an antiquated metal swing set, and a wooden playset featuring a plastic yellow slide. Our gaze fixated on the vibrant rainbow-colored canvas roof above the slide. Each of us silently contemplating whether all four of us could squeeze onto the four-foot square platform.
“That can be plan B,” I said.
“How ‘bout that’s plan F,” Thumper said.
I gestured across the baseball field. “Hey look, there’s plan A,” I pointed to two dugouts. “They look like lean-tos to me.”
We walked across the baseball diamond, aiming for the least conspicuous dugout less visible from the road. We dropped our packs onto the ground, like planting flags to mark our territory.
"So if the police come, everyone just pretend to be asleep,” I said, keeping with the Tallahassee drawl. “When they wake us up just say ‘Where’d everybody go? We were just waitin' for our turn at bat, officer. We musta fallen asleep.’”
Aligning ourselves along the bench, we were happy to have discovered a temporary home. The luminous full moon bathed the baseball field as we passed around a plastic soda bottle full of whiskey.
"I believe I may hafta get off the trail for one of them root canals," I said while gingerly probing the chipped tooth I had sustained a few days before. Taking a sip of whiskey, I handed the bottle to Red. "I heard about this woman who got a botched root canal, and half her face went all droopy.”
"Well, in that case, we’ll have to change your trail name to Two-Face," Thumper said.
"People would be like, 'So why do they call you uhh...' then they’ll glance up at my half-slacked face, quickly look down at their feet, and say, 'Uh, why do they call you Two-Face?'"
“Hah, that’s a belly-rumblin' knee slapper right there,” Thumper said, taking the bottle Red handed her.
"Man, I would do anything for a joint right now," Red said.
"Oh yeah? Would ya wrestle a bear?" Thumper said.
"Would ya usher a two-thousand pound heifer into a barn?" Bambi said.
We began to unwind, but weren’t ready for sleep. In the stillness of one o'clock in the morning, I invited Thumper onto the field for a game of invisible softball.
"How do ya play invisible softball?" she asked.
"Well, it's similar to regular softball, ‘cept we don't have any a’them bats, balls, or gloves," I said.
I jogged to the pitcher's mound, with Thumper behind me heading to the batter’s box. Gripping the invisible softball just below my eyes with both hands, I glanced at Thumper as she took a few practice swings. Nodding at my imaginary catcher, I whirled the ball around and threw an underhand pitch towards home plate.
Thumper swung an invisible bat, connecting solidly with an unseen ball, which soared deep into center field, I decided. I sprinted after it while Thumper headed toward first base. As I lunged to grab the invisible ball, fumbled it a bit, and saw Thumper rounding first toward second. I bolted to tag her out. It would be close. Thumper slid boots first into the base. I looked at the invisible umpire, a portly man with chewing tobacco tucked in his lower lip, no doubt.
“How’s that safe! Oh come on, ump!” I protested.
Thumper stood up triumphant, but looked down at red lines scratched into her leg. That intensity would eventually lead her to the first invisible softball victory in history.
A car engine rumbled. Our heads snapped toward the sound and we saw headlights coming down the road.
“Get down!” I said. We dropped to the ground and laid flat on our stomachs in dewy grass mixed with baseball diamond gravel. The car parked in front of a house across the street. The driver turned off his engine then headed inside.
“Alright, now don’t move,” I whispered. “Their vision’s based on movement.”
We stood up and brushed off tiny bits of gravel that clung to our skin. After my turn at bat, Red and Bambi finally understood the glory of invisible softball and walked out onto the field. Red joined my team in the outfield, Bambi joined Thumper's and got up to bat.
Bambi hit a long drive deep into right field. Red sprinted toward the invisible ball, leaped into the air to catch it, slamming into the fence. But it was too high for him to catch it. The girls won.
Accepting our defeat, we headed back to the dugout.
I pulled out my journal to jot down all the memories for the day I didn't want to forget. When I finished I took the liberty of using my pen to write, “I heart Cam,” onto Bambi’s leg. On mine, she drew a smiling sun rising behind a fluffy cloud that read, “I heart Bambi.” Then she drew a fox in a tuxedo with a top hat and cane, and then a tree and mountains in the background. Thumper sat on my other side to watch Bambi create her masterpiece. By the time she finished I had a collage of random trail-related drawings covering my right leg.
By three in the morning, we were understandably exhausted and the dugout grew silent. The girls rested their heads on my shoulders and I put my arms around them.
“Nathaniel?” Thumper said. “Tell us about life in Tallahassee.”
“Well dah-lin’, let me tell ya. Life moves a little slower down in Tallahassee. With my granddaddy’s lemonade fortune—Wait, did you know my granddaddy was the great lemonade baron of the 1920s?”
"We surely did."
"Well, with all that lemonade money, we never had to do mucha anythang. We just sat in our rockin' chairs, on our front porches, sippin’ that ice cold Tallahassee-style lemonade."
“That sounds nice.”
“Oh it was,” I said.
We sat huddled together like that for a while. Above the baseball field, clouds drifted under the bright full moon. We stared at them hypnotically until we were almost asleep.
I can't point to a single moment when the girls became like family to me, but when I reflect back on it now, I think of this specific moment in Andover.