Smokey Joe is a charming man, mature, tall and slender, with a soothing Southern accent. I asked what, if anything, had surprised him about the hike. He said it was the enthusiastic reaction of people back home. He comes from a small town in Georgia. Folks back there want to have a parade for him! I asked if he felt the time he'd spent on the trail had changed him in any significant way. He had hoped things wouldn't bother him as quickly as they used to, but he hasn't found that to be the case. I noticed that he laughed when he said it. Maybe the change is in process.

Second Wind is a handsome man in his late-thirties. Thirteen years ago he decided to take a six-month sabbatical from life. But he didn't know when-or what, or how. Friends knew of his nebulous plan and often asked when he was going to take action. When he announced he would hike the AT, many expressed the desire to do the same thing. But as he quickly discovered, they didn't want to spend the time and energy necessary to plan the trip, to research equipment, compare prices, read warranties, schedule food drops. They wanted a turn-key experience. In the end, with both the solitude of the trail and the camaraderie of the other thruhikers, hiking the AT has proven to be the ideal experience for him.

That evening, Dick and I met RickRock and Sandy for dinner. The men commented on how easy it was to tell the difference between weekend hikers and thrukikers, especially those who had come this far. Thruhikers walk with purpose in their steps and focus in their eyes. Their arms swing with or without hiking poles. Their feet measure steps in rhythmic time. Their backs lean forward, even without the weight of the pack. Their bodies move like well-oiled machines. They also share a certainÖodor.

I asked them what they missed most while on the trail. For Dick it was tap water and chairs with backs. RickRock said, "My life."

The next morning, we met RickRock and Sandy at the Appalachian Trail CafÈ. Second Wind was there too, as was The Lovely Overpacked. A change in schedules meant that Dick and RickRock would not be able to hike the remaining 11.2 miles in Kent, Connecticut, together. I was surprised at how calmly they shook hands and said good-bye.

Dick and I went back to the hotel and checked out. I couldn't shake the feeling of loss. Dick had often joked about how RickRock was his back-up, whether for maps or iodine tablets. But the young man was much more than that. Dick told me of the countless times Rick had shown compassion and generosity to others on the trail-never seeking payment or recognition. Dick also told me how he and RickRock learned to adjust to the other's ingrained habits. The morning routine showcased their differences. Dick is one to wake up and get going. He'd pull up his stakes while climbing out of the tent. Rick, on the other hand, would savor the newness of each day and spend time in quiet reflection. I can't say my husband has learned to be patient, but at least now he knows what it looks like. I can say, without reservation, that RickRock was Dick's trail angel. I'm grateful that they chose to be a team. Few people who start out hiking the AT together stay together for the whole trail. The fact that these two men did means that RickRock also got something positive out of the relationship. All good things, however, must come to an end.

The ending of one thing is always the beginning of something else. I showed Dick my new hiking boots and told him I had no intention of coming this far into Maine and not hiking at least a portion of the AT. He grinned.

Months earlier, he had mailed his glasses home and I hadn't thought to bring them with me. So I drove. He navigated. Next thing I knew, I had parked the car on a dirt road and was walking under an endless canopy of trees, along a narrowing footpath. Dick had given me a quick course in reading the white blazes. One means the course keeps going in the same direction; two means the direction is about to change. He stayed far enough behind me so that I could neither see nor hear him, so I could feel what it was like to be alone on the trail. I was so focused on white blazes, I missed the moose.

I heard Dick's voice, louder than a whisper, as cautious as a warning, as insistent as a command. "Zita!" I thought of the old comedy routine: Slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch. But when I saw Dick, he wasn't laughing.

Lifting his arm slowly, he pointed and mouthed the words: "Moose. In the marsh. Go look."

I tiptoed through the trees. The moose in the marsh was a cow. Her calf stood behind her. Dick pulled out his camera and said, "Get closer. I want a good shot of you and the moose." I took a few cautious steps toward the water. That's when I spotted the third moose-the big bull, no more than fifty feet to my right. It had a rack the size of Texas. Just the night before, Dick had told me about the bull moose that charged him. The animal stared at me. I froze.

"Move more to the right," Dick whispered. "I want to get a shot of you and all three moose."

"This is as close as I'm getting! Snap the picture and let's get out of here!"

We left in a hurry.

Back at the car, Dick said I sure was lucky. He had to walk 2,160 miles to see 12 moose. I walked only 1 mile and saw 3. I thought for a moment. At that rate, I would have spotted over 6,000!

In astrology, there's something known as "the Jupiter cycle." The planet takes 12 years to complete its orbit around the sun and return to its position at the time of birth. In her book, Making the Gods Work For You, author and astrologer Caroline Casey uses the old folk tale of Fatima the Spinner to show the implications of this 12-year cycle. Young Fatima had 12 years of trials and tribulations. Finally, as a woman, she realized that in dealing with each catastrophe she had claimed the tools that enabled her to create her ultimate happiness. In Fatima's case, the task that led to that happiness was her ability to build a tent.

In the summer of 1988, Dick and I spent several weeks in Alaska and the Klondike. I had been working on an idea for a contemporary suspense novel. The literary agent I wanted said he liked my writing but not that story. For several days, Dick and I joined a group on a bus trip into the Klondike. After a whole day of siting nothing but a few small birds, the passengers clamored for wildlife. We wanted eagles! We wanted bears! We wanted moose!

Before starting out the next day, the bus driver announced a wildlife contest. He gave each of us a sheet of paper with the instructions that we were to write a poem about a moose. He would judge the entries; the winner would receive a prize. Like kindergarten children, momentarily placated, we turned our attention to poetry-and to visualizing what we wanted. I'd never written a poem. Dick, on the other hand, had written numerous jingles for contests. He felt confident.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. As we got off the bus, the driver collected our poems. An hour later, we climbed aboard. Our poems hung like flags on the overhead handrails. We walked down the aisle, looking left and right, reading each other's work. Dick found his poem. Everyone else found his or her creation. But mine wasn't there.

Thinking my entry had somehow gotten lost, I took my seat. That's when I saw my poem. The driver had hung it from the rearview mirror. I had won the contest! My prize? A little wooden pin in the shape of a moose, a bull with a rack the size of Texas.

I came home from that trip and wrote Band of Gold, my first novel. The story takes place during the Klondike Gold Rush of 1898. The book was published by the paperback division of HarperCollins in 1993. It's out of print now.

I wore the moose pin for years, until the clasp on the back broke. The moose is now on my desk, next to my monitor, under the words "Gateway 2000."

Next year, 2000, will mark 12 years from the summer when the moose came into my life.

The Epilogue