preparing for this trip.
At the Bangor Post Office, I bought one sheet of stationery, one envelope, and one stamp, and then stood at the counter for a long time, trying to write a letter to Hailey.
Dear Hailey,
Wow. I don’t know what to say to you. I guess “I’m sorry” would be a good place to start. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you from day one, but I hope you understand once you hear my whole story. When I first met you, I didn’t know who I was. I mean, seriously. I had amnesia, couldn’t remember my name, or where I lived, or anything. It wasn’t until after I met Thomas (the guy I told you was my uncle) that I finally figured out who I was and why I was such a mess.
My real name is Danny, and I live near Chicago. I ran away from home and lost my memory for a bunch of reasons, but the biggest one is that I was in a car accident where my little sister got hurt really bad. I was the driver. Sure, Thomas keeps telling me it was an accident, but it was still my fault and it tears me apart every minute. Anyway, not looking for sympathy here, just trying to explain so maybe you can understand me better.
I met you and to be honest, for a while I didn’t even care who I was. I could almost stop thinking about it all. You made me feel happy, and the music we shared was amazing. Thank you so much for that.
Hailey, I still need to figure some stuff out, but once I do, I’ll contact you. I can’t stop thinking about you and I want to see you again. Maybe you’re really mad at me and don’t want to see me at all, but I hope you’ll give me a second chance.
Don’t know what to say other than I really miss you and I’m sorry.
I stopped and considered how I should close the letter. Your friend? Sincerely? Take Care? See ya? But then I decided just to write exactly what I felt:
Love,
Hank (Danny)
From Bangor, I walked or thumbed rides the rest of the way here. The deeper into Maine I traveled, the more natural everything looked. It was honest-to-God wilderness, or as Thoreau called it, “the wild.” Found my way to Baxter State Park early last night and set up camp. The only drawback is the bugs, but I bet there’s not even one black fly up at the summit of Mount Katahdin.
The moose lifts its big head and peers into the woods, weeds dripping water from his mouth. Voices approach our hiding place. The moose gives me one last glance, then sloshes out of the pond and gallops into the woods, crunching through the underbrush. He disappears within a few seconds.
“I can’t believe we’re just turning around and going home,” says a girl’s voice. “Just like that. Giving up.”
“Babe, it’s way too windy. No need to take the chance,” a guy answers. “Look, the mountain will still be there another day.”
The two of them come into view, a couple probably in their early twenties, wearing hiking boots and daypacks. They kneel down near the edge of the water. The guy dips his hands in the pond and splashes cool water on the back of his neck.
I wonder what to do. Should I clear my throat to let them know I’m here, maybe say hello? In truth, I don’t feel like talking to anybody. So I just stand here behind the tree, feeling like a creepy stalker, watching the girl scoop water onto her face and glare at her boyfriend. Just wanting them to leave.
“It wasn’t that bad,” the girl murmurs. “We could’ve made it.”
The guy pulls at his sweaty Red Sox T-shirt, takes a deep breath and starts back down the hill, with her close behind. Their voices grow fainter, then disappear into the woods.
Glancing up at the sky through the spruce branches, everything looks clear and blue to me. No doubt things are windier farther up the mountain, but it’s going to take some serious weather to discourage me. I’m not sure what I hope to achieve by reaching the top of the mountain, only that I have to get there.
Pulling my backpack up onto my shoulders, I continue hiking uphill. Destination: Baxter Peak, the summit of Mount Katahdin at 5,226 feet above sea level. I can’t take the exact route Henry traveled because he did a