Called Again (12 page)

I enjoyed the blue skies that welcomed me on the first day of the journey. I knew that they wouldn't last, but I was grateful to at least start in good weather. Based on previous experience, I was also prepared for many of the obstacles that the trail threw my way. I knew to take only one hiking stick to the top of Katahdin, because I would need my free hand to help with rock scrambles on the descent. I was covered in all-natural bug spray to keep the black flies at bay, and I carried a pair of dry socks to change into after my two early-morning river crossings.

And as familiar as it all felt, I was struck by the subtle differences that made this a completely new experience. The water in the rivers was higher than it had been in the past, the reflection of Katahdin in Rainbow Lake was more brilliant, and I saw fewer people and stepped in more mud than I did in either 2005 or 2008. It was both exciting and daunting to know that no matter how many times I covered the distance of the A.T., I would never hike the same trail twice.

I met my crew four times that afternoon, which meant my pack stayed light and so did my heart. I loved seeing Brew's smiling face and hearing Melissa clapping when I came to a road crossing. Each time I arrived, they would pull out a folding chair and ask what food and drinks I wanted from the car. They refilled my daypack, and once or twice, Brew even rubbed bug spray on my legs so that I wouldn't have to.

It was amazing how quickly I got used to this treatment.

At the final road crossing of the day, I exited the woods without fanfare or greeting to find Melissa and Brew sleeping under bug netting and Warren nowhere in sight. I was disappointed and a
little frustrated. I knew that the entire team had been up since three a.m., but if I was still going, then I expected the same from the crew. I grabbed some snacks and replenished my water bottles on my own at the car, and then I shut the trunk door loudly to wake up Melissa and Brew. They both bolted upright and looked at each other in horror. I could tell by the look in their eyes, the apologies, and the offers to help, that they felt horrible for lying down on the job, but by the time they were on their feet, I was already ten yards down the trail.

After shoving a handful of cheddar cheese and pretzels in my mouth and drinking some juice, it occurred to me that, like clockwork, I had become irrational. I had covered over forty miles, it was after five p.m., and I no longer had any perspective. As I began to digest the calories, I realized that I should be thankful that my husband and friends were out here helping me, not upset that they were exhausted and needed a quick nap. I realized once again why this was so hard on Brew. And I recognized that I would need to do a better job of controlling the hungry, tired monster that came out around six p.m.

That night when I arrived at our campsite, I walked out of the woods apologetic and appreciative. Warren and Melissa had already set up their tents and retired. Brew had our tent set up as well, and my freeze-dried dinner was cooked and waiting for me. Inside our shelter, Brew hunted the dozen or so black flies that had made their way in. This from the man who had scowled at me on our first date when I squished an ant because it was enjoying the picnic I had packed. He hated cruelty—even toward insects. But that was before 2008, when he was introduced to the black flies in Maine. Now he made it a point to kill as many of the tiny blood-sucking insects as possible.

On my side of the tent, I was using a handful of wet wipes to try to remove the grime and dirt that already covered my body. It was hard to believe that three nights ago, we had stayed in a hotel with a
hot shower, an indoor pool, and a clean king-sized bed. Now, I was scrubbing my body down with a product primarily intended for babies' bottoms, listening to my husband verbally abuse tiny biting insects while he randomly clapped his hands in the air in an effort to squash them. It was both comforting and horrifying to consider that this would be our routine for the next month and a half.

The next two days were exactly what I expected. They were hard.

I was sore and in pain, but I was still incredibly happy to be back on the trail. Because I had traveled this terrain twice before, it seemed like every new turn held an old memory. It was amazing how much of the trail I actually remembered. Sometimes I would reach out for a limb on a steep climb and remember placing my hand there before. Other times, when I stepped on a wooden bog log that protected the fragile lowlands, I would recall slipping and falling on that same damp piece of wood three years prior.

The one thing I didn't remember with such clarity was just how arduous the Appalachian Trail was. No matter how many times I told myself that hiking would be challenging and tedious, I was never fully prepared.

The A.T. is not a smooth, well-graded trail. It is rugged, steep, and filled with constant elevation change. There are fallen trees that you must climb over and crawl under, river crossings that saturate your lower half and threaten to whisk you downstream, and sections of mud that seem to take pleasure in swallowing your ankles.

It is a blessing and a curse not to fully remember the challenges. This selective memory allowed me to return to the trail, but it also caused me to second-guess my decision and my abilities once I arrived.

Although the Hundred-Mile Wilderness is less difficult than some sections of trail in western Maine and New Hampshire,
it has two very challenging mountain ranges. The north side of Whitecap leaves you feeling as if you are condemned to a never-ending staircase. And the steep grade of the Barren Chairback Mountains makes you feel as if you are scrambling up a ladder, not a mountain. I had to climb both ascents in one day, and the task left me both exhausted and elated.

When I arrived at Long Pond Stream at the west end of the Barren Chairback range, it was dusk. I quickly went down to the river to bathe, but as I approached it, I placed my foot on a slick rock and fell forward, my hands and knees landing in the water. I pulled myself back to the shore and grabbed my ankle. Something didn't feel right, so I gently tried to roll it clockwise and I knew immediately that it was sprained. I could still put pressure on it and I was thankful that it wasn't injured worse, because I knew that I could keep hiking on a sprained ankle. But I hated feeling like I had come so far that day only to sustain a setback when I had
finished
hiking.

I submerged my ankle in the cold water to reduce the swelling. Sitting there in the dark, on the banks of Long Pond Stream, with my elbows on my knees and my face buried in my hands, I knew that all summer, I would feel as if I were hiking two steps forward and one step back. And I was humbly reminded that it would only take one split second, one misstep, or one mistake to end my dream.

The next day, my ankle hurt and my energy level was depleted, but I was still happy to be on the trail. I didn't make it quite as far as I wanted to by the end of the day, but I knew I had set myself up to cross the Kennebec River the following morning.

The Kennebec is a wide, raging river that flows near the small town of Caratunk, Maine. Historically, many thru-hikers crossed it on foot. Then after someone lost their life in the ford, the
Appalachian Trail Conservancy implemented a canoe ferry for hikers. On my last two thru-hikes, I had taken the ferry across. But this time I wanted to try to ford the river.

It had nothing to do with the record. In fact, fording would exert far more energy than just riding across in a canoe. And timing-wise, there was no real advantage since I'd arrived at the water's edge just before the ferryman started to take hikers across. It was just that I had always wanted to cross the river on foot.

I loved listening to stories of thru-hikers from the sixties and seventies who said crossing the Kennebec was almost as meaningful to them as climbing Katahdin. I was out here to experience the trail in a new and different way, and because I wasn't traveling with a full pack on my shoulders, I thought this would be the perfect time to ford. Plus, I had Warren.

Warren had completed dozens of successful fords across the Kennebec. He knew that the best place to ford was a quarter mile upstream from where the canoe crossed. He knew where the sandbars were in the middle of the river. And he knew by the ripples on the water whether or not it was safe to cross. The Kennebec is a dam-controlled river, so the water level varies greatly depending on the hour and day. The morning that I came to the Kennebec, the river was raging, and Warren said we needed to wait.

So I used the next hour to consume as many calories as possible and to clean the scrapes and blisters that I had collected over the past three days. I knew that if the water levels did not decrease, I would end up taking the canoe ferry across the river for a third time. But after about ninety minutes, Warren came back from the Kennebec and said that it would be challenging, but that he felt we could make it across safely.

As I put all my belongings in a plastic bag in my daypack, Warren talked me through what to do if I lost my footing and the current pushed me downstream. We talked about my body position in the water, how to hold my legs if I was swept away,
and—worst-case scenario—how to swim like hell back to shore. It wasn't much of a pep talk.

I quickly walked down to the official canoe crossing to make sure I didn't skip even a small portion of the “official” A.T., then I backtracked to find Warren waiting and wading upstream. He was already in ankle-deep, ready to go.

I placed my shoes in the cold, rushing water beside him, and together we took one step at a time deeper into the river. I couldn't believe how fast the water was moving. I was using my hiking poles to help me, but every time I tried to place one into the water, the current swept it away before it touched the riverbed. The crossing was manageable when the water was knee-deep or lower, but as soon as I was in thigh-deep, I had trouble keeping my feet beneath my body. In a split second, the river really could wash me downstream. Warren was slightly ahead of me, and I tried to stay behind him at an angle so his round belly would act as an eddy and diffuse the current.

The entire time we were struggling across, Warren said over and over again, “Feet down.” He said it rhythmically, almost like a chant. “Feet down. Feet down. Feet down.” I appreciated the repetitive instruction and comfort of knowing that Warren was nearby.

After progressing roughly twenty yards, I found myself sports-bra deep in the current. I couldn't plant my feet, and my toes just grazed the rocks below before being forced downstream. The most important thing I could do was keep myself vertical and upright. Every muscle in my body was tense and I tried desperately to stay anchored to the river bottom. Even though I couldn't get a solid foothold on the slick rocks beneath me, I needed to keep my toes touching the earth. If I bent my knee too much or flexed my hips, I would be swept away.

When I was still sports-bra deep, I watched Warren rise out of the river before me. We weren't even a third of the way across, but suddenly the water became increasingly shallow. We had reached the first sandbar. After struggling so hard for the past few minutes, it was shocking to be knee-deep and comfortably, carefully making progress once again.