When Robert Martin's wife, Angie, dies of breast cancer after thirty-four years of marriage, he attempts his lifelong dream-that of hiking the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. His constant companions are grief and memories. On the trail, with a nickname of Dances with Snakes-Snaky for short-he meets a variety of other hikers. Socrates is a Duke graduate and know-it-all scientist; Preacher is a fervid Christian fundamentalist and proselytizer; Southern Bell is an Alabama veterinarian accompanied by her Labrador retriever, War Eagle; and Mother Superior and Czechmate are nurses and lesbian companions. Snaky's two thousand-mile trek becomes much more than a physical trial as his faith is tested by his personal loss. He engages the skeptic Socrates about theology, science, and nature. He spars with Preacher about how to read the Bible and what it says about homosexuality. His own perception of same-sex relationships is complicated by a physical attraction to Czechmate. This volatile mixture of personalities produces adventure, friendship, conflict, and ultimately violence. As the walkers finally reach their goal, Maine's Mount Katahdin, Snaky and his friends step from behind their individual curtains to reach a new level of human understanding and tolerance

Stained-Glass Curtain

By Frank Wardlaw Wright

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Frank Wardlaw Wright
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4439-6

Chapter One

A ... An-gie, A ... An ... gie The Rolling Stones

"You lied to me!"

"I didn't say it would be easy. I said I was sure you could do it."

"Why do I let you talk me into these things?"

"You're doin' great!"

Splicing epithets into heavy breathing, Angie struggled with her maiden voyage to Blood Mountain. She bitched in equal measure about the steep climb and his treachery.

Her complaints ceased when they reached the top. A huge granite boulder dwarfed the adjacent hiker shelter, and they climbed up to the top for the view. She connected to the magic he always felt on a summit. He knew where the treasures were, but he let her discover them for herself.

"Look at the trees!"

A palette of yellow, orange, rust, and crimson vaulted from the ridges far below. The crisp October sky magnified the colors, reducing miles to yards. Angie reached out to touch the chromatic branches. She drew back her hand, laughing. "My eyes are playing tricks on me."

She fixed her gaze on the southern horizon. The long-range view, free of haze and smog, extended seventy-five miles. Glass and concrete towers, lit by the sun, shimmered against the immense blue curtain.

"Bobby, that's Atlanta!" She was the only one who ever called him Bobby. His parents had insisted from birth that he be Robert.

"Babe, you can almost count the cars on Peachtree."

"And Stone Mountain!" The granite hulk, silhouetted against the azure expanse, rose to the east of the skyline. "Funny. It's not so big from here."

Robert pointed to an isolated, double-humped peak to the west of the city. "Know what that is?"

"Kennesaw!"

"With binoculars, you could spot the Confederate cannon on the ridge. Now, turn around and look to the north."

She pirouetted on the rock. "What's the high one over there? With the tower."

"Brasstown Bald. Highest point in Georgia at 4,784 feet."

"Looks 4,783 to me." She poked him in the stomach, further mocking his penchant for precision.

He reached over her shoulder and pulled a small microfiber towel out of her day pack. "You'll see better if you wipe the sarcasm off your glasses."

They sat on the rock and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He put his arm around her and squeezed her tightly. They kissed like teenagers on a first date.

Angie smiled. "I'm glad I came. But I won't make a habit of this."

* * *

A thick shroud leaked cold drizzle and completely obliterated the panorama. The fog rendered the shelter an occasional apparition. The wind whipped over the exposed rocks and peppered Robert's face with stinging droplets. The small thermometer attached to a zipper on his pack read thirty-seven degrees. He moved on to avoid hypothermia— and any more memories.

The wet, rocky trail descended steeply toward Neel Gap. Sodden laurel branches hung low into the trail, ready to douse any unwary hiker. Robert proceeded gingerly, poling his way with Old Hickory.

Ahead, two men negotiated the slippery slope with trekking poles. Their features were concealed under hooded rain jackets. However, a shock of carrot hair protruded under each bill, and a bushy red beard squirted from the cavern of the taller hiker.

"It's only a matter of time until you do a butt plant in a mud puddle."

"You'd love that," the shorter hiker responded. "You'd blab it to everyone around the campfire tonight."

Robert interrupted their conversation. "You guys enjoying this slop?"

The shorter redhead wheeled to look at him. "I've never had so much fun!" He skipped a few steps to prove his point and almost lost his balance. "Damn rocks are slick." He resumed a cautious gait. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Dances with Snakes."

"Ooh! Sounds interesting. Was it a slow dance?"

"More like a jitterbug."

At the risk of falling, he began to dance again. "I bet you were high- stepping."

"Only briefly. She didn't connect, and left me for another partner." Robert continued. "I see red. Double red. Clues to your trail names?"

"Very perceptive, Dances with Snakes. I'm Raggedy Anton."

Robert moaned.

"Don't insult my mother. She chose a perfectly good Austrian name.

And he's Andy."

"That figures. Hello, Andy."

The beard nodded inside the nylon.

"We're getting wet here. Not good for old men and rag dolls. What say I lead down the hill? I'll knock the water off the branches with my stick."

"You're on!" Andy exclaimed with gratitude.

The three splashed down the steep northern slope of Blood Mountain. Robert thrust Old Hickory into the approaching laurel and dislodged beads of water.

"Shit, it's cold on this mountain." Anton shivered under his rainsuit.

"Even in the shelter."

"Not surprising at this elevation."

"How high is it?"

"It's 4,470 on the top. Highest point on the AT in Georgia. The winter can resemble New England's."

"We're from Buffalo. It gets cold as hell there. But this Georgia wet and cold cuts right through me."

"The sunny South. Say, you ever been to Walasi-Yi?"

"What's that?"

"The store. Down in Neel Gap."

Andy responded. "We're headed there. First time. We hear they give good advice to northbounders about equipment and stuff."

Robert noticed their large, bulky packs. Years in the backcountry had taught him to keep pack weight down. "Yeah, they'll show you how to ditch the things you don't need."

"We want to be lighter, but we hate to give up creature comforts." Anton looked enviously at Robert's pack. "How much are you carrying?"

"Thirty pounds, with a full load of food. Less when it gets warm."

Andy sighed. "We aren't that streamlined. Hope they can help us."

The sound of a "semi" groaning up Highway 19 rose to meet them. Robert halted their choreography of dodging trees and mud puddles. "Hear that? We're getting close."

Anton perked up. "How far have we hiked from the start, at Springer?"

"About thirty miles."

"Jeez, we've only crossed one paved road. No other sign of humanity."

They hiked around an arm of the main ridge and spotted the highway and the store. They crossed the asphalt in a trot and clamored up the stone steps to the entrance.

Raggedy Anton shouted, "I'm so ready for some civilization!"

Andy reached for the knob. "I'm ready for a warm, dry place."

Robert completed the chorus. "I'm ready for a conversation with a clean person dressed in cotton."

They were greeted by racks of T-shirts, vests, and jackets. To the right were shelves of books, maps, and videos. A back room to the left housed an impressive selection of packs, boots, tents, and sleeping bags. A very clean lady, wearing a gray AT sweatshirt and jeans, sat behind the counter. "Good morning. I'm Lauren. How can I help you?"

Anton spoke in a rush. "We're too heavy! Please give our packs the once-over."

Robert watched patiently as Lauren inventoried the contents of their packs.

"Too many pots. The AT's not the place for gourmet cooking."

"But I'm a great cook!"

"Trust me. All you need to do out here is boil water. You can replace all this aluminum with one small titanium pot, and save at least a pound."

"Okay." Raggedy Anton nodded reluctantly.

She held up a large red fuel bottle. "You're carrying too much fuel.

You can get by with one half this size."

"I guess so, if all I'll do is boil water."

Raggedy Anton shared another problem. "Last night, at the shelter up on Blood, we hung our food from the rafters."

"With a steel can baffle?" Lauren asked.

"Just like we were supposed to. Critter proof, we thought. We slept like babies. But I left a Snickers wrapper in the pocket of my pack, down on the floor." He held up his expensive Dana Designs pack and wiggled a finger through a hole gnawed in the pocket. "I'm guessing the mouse was freaked to find foil instead of candy. But not as pissed as I was when I found this damn hole."

"Hiking 101. Don't leave food or trash in your pack. You learned the hard way. But I think I can help." Lauren walked into the alcove where the new packs were on display. She returned with a ripstop nylon patch in cobalt blue. "Try this."

Raggedy Anton was effusive. "Cool! Same color as my pack. I'll sew it on from the inside. It won't even show."

They completed the inventory. The two paid for their purchases and arranged with Lauren to ship home their superfluous items.

She turned to Robert. "What about you?"

"Robert Martin. I have a mail drop."

"I'll check in the back." She left and returned with the box he had mailed before starting out. It contained enough food to get him to Hiawassee. "Here you go."

"And I'll take these." He placed a bottle of orange juice, two bananas, and a candy bar on the counter.

She rang up his purchases and made conversation. "You don't have a hole that needs patching, do you?"

The words caught him off guard. For months he had built labyrinths of distractions. Read a book. Watch a movie. Volunteer at the homeless shelter. Planning for the hike was the ultimate diversion. Just when he thought these dodges were succeeding, a simple little thing, like Lauren's harmless question, pierced his defenses. He heard his own voice answer, "Can you patch a hole in the heart?"

Lauren laughed nervously. She looked into his eyes and became serious. "No, you'll have to fix that hole yourself."

* * *

March 14. Bad news. The blister on my left heel popped yesterday. Oozed all over my sock. Turned fifteen bucks of merino into toxic medical waste. Good news. I bathed it in polysporin and zapped the infection. Wrapped it in duct tape this morning. Good as new. The ordeal has made me stronger. I can kick ass all the way to Maine.

The Pilgrim.

Robert closed the spiral notebook. The smudged lettering on the frayed label read, "Official register of Blue Mountain shelter." He laid the chronicle respectfully on the floor.

He took a swig from his Nalgene and set the bottle beside the book. From the edge of the shelter platform, he swung his right foot to and fro, ruffling leaves on the ground below. He dug into the blue foil pouch with his Lexan spork and spread bits of tuna on a piece of Melba toast.

Chit. Chit. Chit.

A red oak towered in front of the shelter. At its base, a junco foraged for morsels dropped by careless hikers. Four more juncos materialized in the dead leaves under the tree. The quintet began to stalk him like a pack of wolves. The arc of tiny predators closed around him as he ate the last of his tuna.

He dipped into the bag of gorp and extracted a fistful of peanuts, almonds, raisins, M&M's, and sunflower seeds. A stray peanut slipped through his fingers and bounced off the shelter floor onto the ground. Emboldened, an opportunistic squirrel scampered toward him along a rotting log.

Robert stood up and walked to the blackened fire ring near the shelter. He inverted the Ziploc that had encased the Melba and sprinkled the crumbs on the ground. The chitting grew urgent. He stuffed the empty bag into the pocket of his nylon shorts and moved away with his gorp to take in the view.

Twisted branches from skeletal oaks and poplars reached for the noonday sun. Below them, the ground fell away steeply. Legions of trunks marched down the mountain to the Hiwassee River, crossed the valley, and climbed to the distant ridge beyond. Their gray bark darkened into the trademark smoky blue of the southern Appalachians.

Hello, Blue Ridge.

The initial view of pinnacles to come was the icebreaker, and the thousands of steps to their summits were the discourse that cemented a lasting friendship. The more challenging their slopes, the stronger the bond he forged with them.

Two days of peaks beckoned. Blue Mountain loomed immediately in front. Over its shoulder, the more distant crag of Tray Mountain punctured the blue-and-white mottle.

I'll sleep well when I get to you tonight.

A gentle ridge extended from Tray several miles to the north.

Blue Ridge swag. You'll be easy on my tender knees tomorrow.

Abruptly, the mellow contours of the swag yielded to a heart-pounding ascent.

Kelly Knob. I'm ready for your punishment.

Beyond the Kelly massif, the ridge that cradled the trail was hidden from sight. He visualized its many undulations, and then its sudden plunge of fourteen hundred feet to Dicks Creek Gap, where it crossed the highway to Hiawassee. He retrieved another mouthful of gorp. The delectables conjured pleasurable thoughts of tomorrow night in town.

Real food. A real bed. Clean clothes. First shower in six days.

Chit. Chit.

Robert glanced over his shoulder. The juncos had made quick work of the crumbs. He walked back toward the shelter. The outline of a different mountain range stretched behind a phalanx of gray trunks to the right. He gestured with a thumbs-up.

Brasstown Bald.

He shivered with exhilaration.

I'm on the Appalachian Trail. I've waited twenty years for this.

A sunbeam sneaked through the tree limbs and sparkled on the ring on his outstretched hand. His arm froze in midair. He stared at the band for several seconds. The sunlight branded the inscription inside the ring onto the skin underneath.

Angie. 5-5-67.

The heat shot through his hand and arm to his shoulder. It seared his neck and face. The numbers reached his frontal lobe and transposed in an incandescent burst.

Angie. 10-10-01.

The nascent excitement of his grand adventure exploded like a pricked balloon. His arm dropped limply to his side. His sadness changed quickly to frustration.

Damn you!

He turned again and faced Tray Mountain. He looked at his watch. Twelve thirty. Seven miles to go.

As a parting tribute to the juncos and the squirrel, he scattered several sunflower seeds on the ground. He tucked the bag of gorp into the top pocket of his Newstar. He hoisted the pack onto his back, picked up Old Hickory, and turned toward the path leading from the shelter back to the AT. From the corner of his eye he spied the register, on the wooden floor where he had left it. He sat down and rested the bottom of his pack on the platform. He opened the book to the blank lines under The Pilgrim's entry, and scribbled a terse message.

3/14/02. What makes you stronger is to keep going north. Dances with Snakes.

* * *

The ochre road slashed through the carpet of brown leaves. Murky water puddled in the potholes. Even though the sun peeked from behind the high cumuli, Indian Grave Gap was bleak. Robert inhaled a handful of gorp and chased it with two gulps of water. He chose not to remain in an ancient cemetery.

He stowed the bottle and the gorp in their respective pack pockets. A creature of habit, he had trained himself to assign each piece of equipment to a designated place in the pack while hiking, or in the tent while camping, and to return it to that place religiously after use. Rummaging for an item in the rain or the dark was not only inconvenient, but unsettling.

He was not mechanically inclined. Pitching a tent illustrated his limitations. It was not intuitive, but rather a job learned and relearned by constant repetition. He practiced until he was comfortable that in any adverse condition he could erect it quickly and unconsciously. Soldiers in his army unit had been able to disassemble and reassemble their rifles while blindfolded. He craved that same reflexive precision. His brother Tom teased him about being so anal, but to Robert it was better to be the butt of jokes than to be caught unprepared in the woods.

He rested the pack on his right knee and slid his right arm under the shoulder strap. In a continuous pivot, he lifted the pack onto his right shoulder and slipped the left arm under the other strap. He buckled the hip and sternum clasps and cinched them to the desired tension. He double-checked the four load-leveling straps for optimum shoulder support and comfort. Satisfied with the rigging, he grasped Old Hickory and searched for a white blaze on the trees across the road. He found the "Star in the East" and zigzagged through the ruts in the muddy roadway.

A few yards into the forest, he encountered a rhododendron slick. It differed from the laurel thickets he and the Raggedies had penetrated on Blood Mountain. The ground beneath was covered with a dense growth of galax. The heart-shaped leaves carpeted both sides of the trail for over a hundred feet. No more than six inches tall, they stayed green in water for months after being picked. While hiking in North Carolina as a youth, he had met whole families camped on the ridges, picking bushels of leaves to sell to florists and decorators in the towns below. His mother often adorned their dining room table with a few leaves in a small crystal vase.

In the summer, the plant sent up a cone-shaped stalk with tiny white blooms. The flowers shed onto the dark green leaves, giving the plant a frightful case of dandruff. It had an unmistakable pungent, earthy smell. Like mountain laurel and rhododendron, galax proved the superiority of natural scenery. Its irregular profusion easily shamed any manicured suburban landscape.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Stained-Glass Curtainby Frank Wardlaw Wright Copyright © 2012 by Frank Wardlaw Wright. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.