Transition

Into the Wilderness: Story 13

Chuck and I stood in the cozy reception area of the Blue Ridge Wilderness office, excitedly rocking from one foot to another. We were here to pick up Catina. As with our overnight visit, we had decided to surprise her with custom T-shirts; this time Walking the Moon, the phrase she had coined for her journey in the wilderness, was emblazoned across the front.

Five weeks had passed since we had last seen Catina. After our August visit, Hurricane Florence had rumbled across the southeast coast releasing torrents of water. Lightning had ripped through the trees and forced the teens into temporary wooden shelters. When the storms passed, they were immediately back on the trails, preferring to be outside.

For 92 days, Catina had lived outside, humping all her belongings on her back. She had constructed shelters, pumped water, built fires, cooked meals, slept beneath the stars. She had dug inside herself and begun the process of healing. Right now, she was already inside the office lodge. She had sorted her pack, taken a shower and put on the clothes we had brought- a new pair of jeans, several sizes smaller than when she arrived and the surprise T-shirt. In moments, she would walk through the door.

Earlier, her therapist had handed me Catina’s final impact letter. Catina had struggled through it and rewritten it several times. We had gotten various pieces but never the whole thing. Catina had asked us not to read it until we had dropped her off at her new Residential Treatment Center. It sat heavily in the front pocket of my over-sized purse.

We had a long trip ahead. After picking her up, we planned to take her to eat and then head back to the airport with a stop at a tourist attraction in between. We would then get on a plane to Salt Lake City, transferring in Houston. We would arrive at almost midnight. We worried many layers of worry. What would Catina be like? Had she really made progress? Would she be able to navigate a crowded plane after being in the woods? Would she have a panic attack? Would we?

We paced. We jittered. We waited. And then, just like that, she walked through the door. Her long hair was wet, and she was covered in bug bites. But she was there.

It’s hard to describe the feeling. We had been separated from our child, a constant empty space, for weeks. And now she was with us. We could touch her, smell her, see her. But soon, she would be gone again.

Our celebration was a southern style brunch in the town of Clayton, Georgia. We ate mounded plates of fried chicken and waffles. Catina finished every bite and ate our leftovers. Next, we hit Highway 23, heading south to Atlanta and the airport. We stopped at Goats on the Roof, a goofy pit stop featuring boiled peanuts, ice cream, candy, kitschy gifts and, well, goats on the roof. We bought a T-shirt, and Catina eagerly fed the hungry goats the bag of food we bought. At the airport, she marveled at how we knew our way around. We knew exactly where to return the SUV, which escalator to take, which elevator bank to use and where to go to bypass check in- we only had carry-on luggage. At the gate, we were welcomed by a United attendant. We had flown in and out of Georgia so many times, she remembered us. On previous trips, we had chatted and shared bits of our story.

Soon, we were up in the air, leaving Georgia behind. As I looked through the plane window at the forest below, I imagined a piece of us- our spirits- embedded in the soil. The Blue Ridge mountains with its splendid flora and fauna had been a place of shared healing. Its expanse had been our common ground. It had imprinted itself in our lives, so profoundly Catina would mourn it for weeks to come. But for now, as the trees widened across the mountains below us, my daughter’s hand grabbed mine. Together, we were holding the wilderness, its preciousness, its memory, its experience, in our embrace. We are holding it still.