I’ve always thought Nantucket was rather flat — elevation-wise, that is. Our highest point is the Madaket Landfill, and after that is Altar Rock in the moors. You are lucky if you find yourself at 60 or 70 feet above sea level on the ’Sconset Bluff, but the eroding bank is desperately trying to get itself back down to the ocean.
A few Saturdays ago, I joined up with 165 other Nantucketers for the famed Cross-Island Hike, a 20-mile-hike through the island’s conversation land and open spaces from Hoicks Hollow Road in ’Sconset to Settler’s Landing in Madaket on the western shore. I walk a lot, and 20 miles didn’t seem like it would be all that difficult.
But, I forgot about the hills. Nantucket may not have all that many hills, but we managed to hike up — and down — all of them.
The first five miles of hiking felt like it was all uphill through the moors. Trudging on sandy Jeep roads and narrow deer runs, I started out at a good pace, near the beginning of the pack. By mile five, a teacup chihuahua about the size of a feral cat was hot on my heels. (The chihuahua ultimately passed me, and, amazingly, completed the 20-mile-hike.)
Seven hours of hiking gives you a lot of time to think. I am not one who always enjoys being alone with my thoughts; books on tape usually fill the silence. But I was hiking with a friend, and thought it would be too rude to completely tune out.
I tried to keep my mind from wandering. Instead, I focused on the changing foliage, focused on the distant glimpses of the sea from the swell of the moorlands, focused on the loose rocks in the sandy soil. My inner monologue took over: Remember that time you broke your ankle and you were unable to move for days? Remember how it felt to think you would nerver walk properly again. Here you are, walking. Hiking, even! Now five miles have passed, now seven. Now thirteen. How does that chihuahua keep going? I thought of Diana Nyad, swimming from Cuba, her face swollen from jellyfish stings. Still, she swam. Still, the little chihuahua kept going.
I looked up from all this thinking to realize I didn’t know where it was. It’s rare to feel so disoriented on the same small island I have lived for ten years. Where the heck was I? The sharp scent of scraggily bayberry bushes was the only familiar indicator.
You are here, the little blue dot on my phone blinked back. The map would not load. But, apparently I was there, all the same. I followed the yellow and pink flags, tied like ribbons in tangled hair. The trail narrowed, the canopy of trees felt oppressive. I have never felt comfortable around tall trees, arms so bare in winter, skeletal shadows. Sometimes I worry I would not last long living in any other place. We made it to the end, Nantucket Sound stretched out before us. The end of the trail, the end of land. You are here.
