Called Again

CALLED AGAIN

A STORY
of
LOVE
AND
TRIUMPH

•

JENNIFER
PHARR DAVIS

Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Pharr Davis

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Davis, Jennifer Pharr.
Called again : a story of love and triumph / by Jennifer Pharr Davis.—
First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-8253-0693-8 (hardcover : alk. paper)—
ISBN 978-0-8253-0694-5 (pbk. : alk. paper)—
ISBN 978-0-8253-0653-2 (ebook)
1. Davis, Jennifer Pharr. 2. Hikers—United States—Biography. I. Title.
GV199.92.D37A3 2013
796.51092—dc23
[B]
2013002077

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Published in the United States by Beaufort Books
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Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books
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Printed in the United States of America

Interior design by Elyse Strongin, Neuwirth and Associates, Inc.
Interior illustrations by James Pharr
Cover image by code6/E+/getty images
Design by Oliver Munday
Lyrics from Mumford and Sons

First to Him,
Next to him,
And then, these four women:
Mom, Maureen, Meredith and Margot.

JULY 2007

W
hen I was twenty-four years old, I learned that heartache is consuming. There was a pain in my chest, my body felt weak, and my bottom eyelids were a tired dam trying to hold back a river of tears.

In June 2007, I was stuck in the thick, shoe-sucking mud of my own disappointment. I was ankle deep in despair, and I couldn't move forward. The only thing that came easily was sleep. I retreated to that liberating darkness as often as I could. When I was forced to leave my bed and face the world, I struggled to keep my lips from trembling. My fake grin was like a small Band-Aid placed on a wound that was much too large to conceal.

I had lost my first love.

It didn't make sense to me. We had found each other on the Appalachian Trail, and we had shared hundreds of miles that melded us together like the seam-seal glue on our backpacking gear. Over the past two years, we had hiked to the highest point in the lower forty-eight states, we had forded rivers with torrents of water that rose past our waists, we had crossed snowfields where only our ice axes prevented us from sliding to our deaths. If we could overcome all that, why couldn't we overcome ourselves?

In the midst of this pain, the only thing I wanted to do was return to the trail. The trail provided me with a purpose. It was a catharsis and it provided a way to move forward physically, even if my heart was held captive. And if miles were the best medicine, then I wanted to hike as far and as fast as possible.

I needed guidance. I emailed the legendary hiker Warren Doyle for advice.

Warren quickly replied:

Just before midnight, I started driving toward the interstate. I struggled to keep my eyes open. I knew from my previous interactions with Warren that his internal clock was different from most people's. I respected that, but I couldn't really relate to it. All my body had wanted to do for the past few weeks was sleep—especially in the middle of the night.

When I arrived at the gas station, Warren was already there waiting for me. We each bought a large coffee and then sat down at a table to talk.

“Why do you want to try a trail record?” he asked.

Ugh, Warren and his questions! They were never about gear, or logistics, or a schedule. The first thing he always wanted to know was
why.
I knew I had to make it through this test before he would talk to me about hiking specifics. But how could this sixty-year-old man understand a twenty-four-year-old woman's broken heart?

I sighed deeply, staring at the steam rising from my coffee, then I began. “Well, I love thru-hiking, and now I've hiked over 6,000 miles on my own. So I want to try something different. Plus, I'm having a tough time right now, and I think going back to the trail and trying for a record would be healing.”

“Healing?” Warren scoffed. “You think physically hurting and reaching new levels of discomfort is going to be healing?”

The inquisition had begun.

“Well, yeah,” I replied. “Emotionally, I have a lot of weight right now, and I know that the trail has a way of stripping off the excess layers of worry, fear, and even pain. I was hoping that a record attempt would help me get to a better place faster.”

I looked up at Warren, expecting to see a frustrated sage trying to deal with a young woman's melodrama. But when I caught his eye, I saw a friendly glimmer and a knowing smile on his face.

“So this is really a conversation about lightweight backpacking?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, most of my gear is lightweight,” I replied.

“No, not your gear —your heart.”

Warren spent the next hour telling me about how the trail had helped him through different joyous and painful milestones in his life. The trail helped him process his college graduation, the birth of his children, a divorce from his first wife, and a new marriage. He explained that every time he visited it, he was a new person, and even after forty years and over a dozen completions of it, he was still learning from each new day he spent out there.

After he helped me understand the healing and reflective role that the Appalachian Trail had played in his life, Warren then looked me in the eyes and told me I should consider the Long Trail.

The Long Trail is a two-hundred-seventy-two-mile footpath that runs the length of Vermont. It is the oldest long-distance trail in the country, and it contains some of the most tedious and difficult hiking terrain. I had heard enough about the Long Trail to know that it was composed more of roots and rocks than dirt. It contained numerous exposed summits that seemed to attract high winds and violent lightning storms, and some sections of forest were so dense that not even the sun could penetrate the trees. Plus, the remote northern portion of the trail was isolated to the
point that one simple mistake could have huge consequences. It sounded like it might be just what I needed.

Warren took out a twenty-year-old guidebook and helped me plan an eight-day itinerary for the trail. Finally, I had a plan and a schedule. But before I could leave, Warren had one more thing to teach me.

As we exited the gas station and headed to our cars, Warren turned to me and asked, “Do you know how to waltz?”

“Waltz?!” I repeated. “I thought you were here to help me walk, not waltz.”

“They're very similar,” he replied.

Warren put a tape in the cassette player of his rusted old car and turned up the volume. He walked over to me and bowed. Then, with the grace of an eighteenth-century English gentleman, he stretched out his hand. I put my fingers in his palm, and together, at three o'clock in the morning, we danced in the dark parking lot of a gas station off Interstate 81.