Called Again (15 page)

The hardest stretch of the entire trail is Mahoosuc Notch. It is not a place where you hike with your feet; it is a boulder field stuck in a narrow canyon, and it requires climbing, crawling, and scrambling. I had to get through the hardest stretch of trail when I was in the worst pain. However, because I was forced to use my hands, core, and butt to pull my body weight over the boulders, I didn't have to put quite as much stress on my legs. And I didn't have to hike as many miles, either. Even before contracting shin splints,
I knew that the thirty-mile stretch through the Mahoosuc Range would be my lowest mileage day of the entire trip.

Warren hiked in twice that day to meet me and bring supplies. At the second stop, I was worried that I was doing irreparable damage to my body, and I was still uncertain about whether the pain in my legs was caused by shin splints or stress fractures. Based on calls that Brew made to my two college roommates, a nurse practitioner and a physical therapist, I knew that shin splints were caused by muscle tearing away from the bone, whereas a stress fracture would mean there was a literal crack in my tibia or fibula. I was convinced that I was suffering from whichever one hurt the most.

“Warren, how do you know when to stop?” I asked.

I wanted a straightforward answer, but he responded in his typical cryptic manner. “There is a difference between stopping and quitting,” he said.

I felt like I was close to both. Mentally and physically, I was worn down.

A few miles past my second meeting with Warren, I heard a distressed squeaking noise near my feet. I quickly located the source. It was a frog caught in the jaws of a garter snake. I watched the snake unhinge his jaw to devour his meal, while the frog struggled to get free.

I was mesmerized by the spectacle. I had never seen a snake eating its prey in the wild. The fact that this omen would appear on the trail during my darkest hour was not lost on me.
I'd told Brew that Maine was trying to eat me!

However, even with my fate forecasted there in front of me, I resolved to be like the frog. My journey might end, but it would not be a decision I made—it would only be because I literally could not go any farther. I would not quit. I would fight until I was fully devoured.

That night, at 8:30, I arrived in New Hampshire. Maine had finally unclenched its jaws.

JUNE 21, 2011—JUNE 24, 2011

M
aking it into New Hampshire gave me hope that I could survive my shin splints and continue my pursuit of the record. I had made it out of the remote forests and unforgiving terrain in Maine, and the following state, Vermont, would be much kinder—the path much softer—than anything I had experienced so far on this hike.

I was convinced that my shin splints were caused by repeated high mileage days on rocky terrain. I had trained by stringing together thirty-, forty-, and fifty-mile days this spring, but my practice hikes had all taken place in the southeast, where the trail is composed mostly of dirt. And in Maine and New Hampshire, the trail comprises granite slabs and rock steps where the tread
doesn't offer any cushion or comfort. So far, each foot strike was like being hit in the legs with a wrecking ball. But if I could just make it through New Hampshire, I knew the trail would be more forgiving.

I had to make it to Vermont. If I could do that, then my legs would begin to heal and I would feel better.

The key to getting to Vermont was good weather. I needed three days without lightning and thunderstorms to make it over these mountains. The exposed ridgelines in New Hampshire were deadly in an electrical storm, so if a front settled in, then I would not be able to continue until it lifted. The memorial crosses in the exposed alpine tundra were constant reminders that no matter how badly I wanted the record, it was not worth risking my life.

I tried to make it as far as I could on my first day in New Hampshire. The fronts of my shins were on fire during the descent into Pinkham Notch, and I traveled with my hands on the rocks, bear-crawling backward down the steep slope to ease the pain.

When I got to the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, I knew that I needed to keep going, but the question was how far.

“You need to make it to the top of Mount Washington,” said Warren.

But it was another fourteen very difficult miles to the top of Mount Washington.

“Should I take my pack with a tent and sleeping bag in case the weather turns and I can't make it?”

“It's not worth the weight,” Warren said. “If the weather turns, you can stop at the Madison Springs Hut after eight miles. Otherwise, you need to make it to the top of the mountain, and you won't be able to do that with a full pack.”

My stomach churned, partly due to the 1,000-calorie McDonald's Value Meal I had just ingested in ten minutes' time, but mainly because I did
not
have a good feeling about this. Mount Washington was notorious for bad weather. At one time, it had the fastest recorded wind speed in the world. There was the potential for a snow or ice storm during any month of the year, and there was no protection leading to the summit.

“I'm nervous about night hiking alone on Mount Washington,” I protested. “And even if I do make it to the top, there is no place to camp up there!”

I was running into logistical problems because I had fallen off Warren's schedule. Not only could I not make it to a road, but there was no camping allowed around the buildings on Mount Washington, and there wasn't any camping allowed alongside the trail, either. Even if camping had been allowed, the only place to set up a tent would have been on sharp, jagged rocks. Still, an uncomfortable, illegal, half-pitched shelter still seemed better than risking my life in a storm.

“I will hike out to you,” said Warren. “Brew can drive me to the summit, but he will have to leave when the building at the top closes. They don't let any cars stay in the parking lot. I will pack your food and sleeping bag and come and find you. Then after you reach the summit, we can hike down to Lake of the Clouds Hut together and sleep indoors.”

Planning to stay at Lake of the Clouds was a gamble. Not only was it farther down the trail than the Mt. Washington Observatory, but there was also the chance that there might not be room for us there.

The huts in the White Mountains are very different from the wooden shelters that are located every seven or eight miles along most the Appalachian Trail. In the Whites, the accommodations are designated for paying customers, and reservations for Lake of the Clouds Hut were made months in advance. I knew there
wouldn't be any spots for the two of us in a bunkroom. But hopefully we could stay in the basement that is sometimes available to thru-hikers. Usually thru-hikers will “pay” for their lodging in the aptly named “Dungeon” by providing manual labor in return for their stay. Obviously, I didn't have four hours to spare washing dishes, but I knew Warren would do my chores if he needed to.

I silently nodded at Warren. We had a plan. I still didn't feel good about it, but I couldn't spend any more time thinking it through. I had to keep hiking.

Three hours later, after eight miles of climbing, I hiked past Madison Hut. I walked quickly and quietly, hoping not to draw any attention to myself. I was afraid that some of the staff members would come out and stop me if they saw what looked like a “day hiker” heading toward the summit so late in the day. Thankfully, no adults left the building, but two young children ran around the dirt courtyard, playing games outside before the sun went down.

One of the children stopped when she saw me walking nearby and looked at me curiously. She knew that all the other grownups were sitting inside the hut, enjoying their evening coffee and tea. The sun was going down and I was going away from the safe haven. I hiked higher and farther away from the hut, and every time I looked back, I could still see the young girl watching me.

When I could no longer see the girl or the hut, the wind on top of the mountain began to grow stronger. I continued hiking, tilting my head to shield my face from the strong, cold currents that ripped over the mountain.

Every few seconds, I would have to look up to make sure I was still walking toward the next cairn. There was no defined path on top of Mount Washington. The trail was one long scree field, and the only markers were the large piles of rocks stationed every thirty yards.

The sun soon dropped below the horizon and I pulled my headlamp out of my daypack and turned it on. The trail made
a ninety-degree turn and the grade increased. I was now on the spine of the northeast ridge, a ridge that seemed as old and worn as the skeleton of a brontosaurus in a natural history museum. I began to feel the clouds move past me at an increasing speed. The air felt thicker, and my headlamp highlighted the small particles of moisture in the air. It became increasingly difficult to spot the next cairn through the mist. Every time I reached a rock pile that marked the trail, I would stop and scan the horizon. I examined the landscape to try and decipher which direction the path veered. However, at each subsequent cairn, it was harder and harder to make out the route.

My headlamp was insufficient for piercing through the clouds, so I dug into my pack and pulled out my spare flashlight. I always carried a spare light in case my headlamp broke or ran out of batteries. After losing our first flashlight in our messy car, Brew had picked up an extra one at the local hardware store. It weighed nearly half a pound and seemed misplaced amid the rest of my lightweight hiking gear, but it had a light like a tractor beam. I turned it on and could immediately make out the next trail marker.

Because of the fog and the mist, I had entirely lost my perspective on how much farther I had to hike to reach the summit. I was moving very slowly over the slick, wet rocks when the flashlight in my hand began to flicker.

I remembered Brew saying that this light should last for five hours before we needed to replace the batteries, and I immediately began to calculate all the times I had used it in the past week. It suddenly occurred to me that this flashlight might be on its last hour of life, and I was still several miles from the summit.

I picked up my phone to call Warren. It went directly to his voicemail.

“Warren, where are you? Are you hiking out to meet me? It's getting really hard to make out the trail and I am worried that my flashlight might be dying. Please call me back if you get this.”

Then I tried to call Brew. I wanted to know if he had any idea when Warren left the summit to walk out and meet me. My phone went straight to Brew's voicemail, as well. I knew that he would worry, so I phrased my message carefully.

“Hey, honey, it's close to 9:30 p.m. and I am about an hour past Madison Hut. It's dark and misty up here, but I'm doing okay. I should be meeting up with Warren pretty soon. Call me back and let me know if you have any idea when he started hiking. Okay, well . . . I love you.”

I put the phone back in my pack. Then I stood up and resumed my slow, steady march up the mountain.

When the sun disappeared completely, so did any of my remaining confidence. Having to walk after the sun went down in Maine and New Hampshire was grueling physically and emotionally because the trail in those two states threatens hard falls and scraped knees during the day. But at night, the dangers are even more severe. I was reduced to a crawl. But at least it was a figurative crawl—for now.

My body was exhausted. Then, on the slopes of Mount Washington, one of the most perilous places on the entire trail, the wind began to gain even more strength and the mist turned into rain.

The rain masked the tears that fell from my chin to the rocks below. I was shocked and embarrassed at how much I had wept since the start of the journey. I would certainly set the record for being the biggest crybaby on an endurance hike. But for the first time in the past few days, I wasn't crying because of sheer pain. My legs still hurt, but the weight of my fear was worse.

This is why my mother hates the idea of thru-hiking. This is not safe—it's idiotic! Why? Why did I feel the need to try this record?