Called Again (17 page)

“I don't want to talk about it!” I screamed. “It is all I can do right now not to cry.”

Brew nodded his head. He knew me well enough to know I would not be rational until I had some dry clothes on my body and food in my stomach. I was already undressed, with a sleeping bag wrapped around me. We had been through weather like this enough times by now to have a routine. I would immediately change out of my wet, cold clothes; wrap up in a sleeping bag; eat; drink; and then put on dry clothes and keep going.

While I warmed up and started shoving food in my mouth, Brew turned on the car's CD player. He started blasting my favorite Mumford and Sons song since I'd been singing its chorus over and over on the trail. I was thankful to hear all the lyrics. I listened to them carefully, hoping to remember some of the additional stanzas for the next time I needed to sing out loud.

One line in particular resonated in my mind and refueled my heart.

Then I joined the band and my husband on the chorus that I knew so well:

The past twenty-six miles had been filled with fear and doubt. Hiking into Crawford Notch, I was worried that everything up to that point—all my dreams, all my planning and training, the grueling three-hundred and forty-five miles to get here—was all for naught. But I still felt like I was supposed to keep hiking. I still felt called to give this trail everything I had. My inhibitions would just have to be put on hold; right now I needed to keep going.

After thirty minutes, I was warm and dry, I was smiling, I had consumed about 1,300 calories, and I was still belting out songs with my husband. Then I heard a knock on the window. Melissa was still outside in the pouring rain, bedraggled and shivering. She was clearly ready to climb back inside the car.

I kissed Brew, grabbed my daypack, which he had refilled with snacks, and charged back into the storm.

There is a brief respite in New Hampshire to all the ups and downs and rocks and roots and scrambles, and that's when the trail follows an old railroad bed to Zealand Falls Hut. For the first time since entering the Hundred-Mile Wilderness on day one, I was able to hike more than three miles per hour. I made decent time beyond the hut as well, except for the fact that the trail was very poorly marked once again. I had better luck looking behind me for the northbound blazes than staring ahead for the southbound ones.

The rain eventually turned into a drizzle and then a light mist. Just before dusk, I saw two trail runners heading in my direction. They weren't wearing packs, and I was certain they were staying
at a nearby hut and were just out for some evening exercise. I stepped to the side to let them pass. The second one looked at me and said, “Well, you're still smiling. That's good.”

I pressed my fingers to my lips. I could hardly believe it—I really
was
smiling! I had spent the past twenty-four hours feeling scared, lost, and frustrated, not to mention cold and wet. But through it all, I was still on the trail, still moving forward, and still smiling.

I thought once again about Andrew Thompson and the grin he wore while powering up the slopes of Mount Washington. And he had been hiking in
good
weather! Despite all the hardship of the past ten days, in that moment, I felt like a contender. I felt like I belonged.

The rain returned the next morning, and as I climbed the trail toward Franconia Ridge, the temperature dropped and the wind picked up, too. I knew exactly what was coming, but the only way to get past it was to go through it.

As soon as I left tree cover, it felt like an onslaught of shotgun pellets sprayed the left side of my body. The sleet burned my cheeks. Every other inch of me was covered, but I had never fully dried out the day before so I had felt chilled and damp even before the ridge. Now, the bitter wind turned my cold, damp body to ice.

The wind was much stronger than it had been on Mount Washington, and at one point, it knocked me forward onto my knees. I was sure the fall would add another bruise to my already black-and-blue legs. But at least those battle wounds were only skin-deep. The worst pain still screamed out from the bones and muscles of my shins, and the cold weather intensified the injury.

The path on top of Franconia Ridge slaloms through rock formations, and in the rare instance when I was protected from Mother Nature's fury, I would take a brief moment to collect myself before heading back into the storm. Even though I had three long-sleeved layers on my upper body, I was still freezing. When I arrived at the next boulder outcropping, I used it as a shield against the wind and opened my daypack. I didn't have any more clothing, but I took out a plastic bag that had been keeping some of my gear dry. I ripped three holes in it: one large hole for my head and two smaller ones for my arms. It was hard to make the holes, then get the bag over my head because my hands, which were placed in a pair of extra wool socks for warmth, had gone completely numb.

I was shivering violently, and when I started hiking again, I tried to sing like the day before. I wanted to do something—any-thing—to take my mind off the weather, the cold, and my aching legs. I tried to yell out the same Mumford and Sons chorus that helped me off Mount Washington. Not only was I off-key, but all the words coming from my lips sounded mumbled.

All I wanted to do was stop behind the next large boulder and curl into a tight ball with my knees against my chest and my head between my arms. But I couldn't. Not if I wanted to survive.

Based on my Wilderness First Responder training, I knew that I had the “umbles.” My stumbling and mumbling meant that I had already passed the beginning stages of hypothermia and would now be classified as a moderate hypothermic patient. Being aware of my condition made it even worse. If my self-diagnosis was correct, I would have to do everything in my power to make sure I did not get any worse.

Once again, my thoughts were no longer about the record or completing the trail.
Just get to your husband,
I thought.
Just make it to Brew.

I repeated my mantra out loud, “Jusss-t-t hik-k-k-ke t-t-to B-B-B-Brew.”

The sound of my own voice scared me, so I went back to the self-talk in my head. But my thoughts were as rapid and misplaced as my feet had been.

Make it to Brew, get to Brew,
I thought.

Then another voice filled my head.
YOU IDIOT!
it said.
What have you done now?

I took a deep breath.
It's gonna be okay, it'll all be okay. Brew will make it better, hike to your husband, you belong. . .

But then I was interrupted by my own self-doubt.
No, no I do not belong up here. I BELONG WITH BREW

It was as if I had turned into Gollum in
The Lord of the Rings.
I was acting schizophrenic. I was fighting with my thoughts to keep them positive, and I was fighting with my body to keep it moving.

Franconia Ridge seemed much longer than it had on either of my two previous hikes. On a clear day you can easily see the point along the ridge where the trail returns to the forest, but in the midst of the storm that place did not seem to exist.

I finally made it out of the wind and sleet, but the improved conditions did not help me feel any better. I felt rigid, calcified. My joints could hardly bend, and I walked like Frankenstein down the stone steps leading to Franconia Notch.

Before reaching the road crossing, I saw our tent next to the trail. Brew knew the conditions on the ridge would be tough, so he had hiked in a quarter mile with our tent, sleeping bags, dry clothes, and food.

I forced my stiff body to crumple itself into the tent, then Brew helped me take off my trash bag and the three layers of wet clothes and wrapped me in two sleeping bags. Next he placed both his hands on top of the sleeping bags and began to massage my body. There was very little conversation. I was too cold to speak, and Brew was too worried.

It took about twenty minutes for my teeth to unclench and for my arms to unclasp from around my chest. As soon as they did, I began to eat and drink. Part of why I got cold so quickly was because I was already wet. Another reason was that I was always suffering from a calorie deficit. No matter how hard I tried, I could never take in enough food to provide adequate fuel for my starving muscles.

I drank a large coffee from McDonald's that Brew had picked up earlier in the day and then shoveled two sausage biscuits down my throat. After that, I chugged a coke and started alternating between handfuls of candy and potato chips. There were nutritious foods in the tent as well, but my body was screaming for the immediate fat, calories, sugar, and caffeine of the junk food.

After another fifteen minutes, I reluctantly began to unwrap from my sleeping bag cocoon.

“Here,” said Brew as he handed me a full plastic bag. “I brought you a dry set of clothes to change into.”

I put on a dry sports bra, shirt, socks, and shoes, but something was missing. Brew had forgotten to pack a dry pair of shorts. I looked at him across the tent and pointed at his lower half.

He knew exactly want I wanted.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he exclaimed. But even as he was protesting, he began to take off his shorts.

I pulled his wide, baggy shorts up around my waist and cinched them tight. I was now covered from head to toe. I had a beanie on my head, a long-sleeve wool shirt, and a rain jacket on my core. I wore Brew's baggy shorts past my knees, and compression socks around my calves.

“You look awesome!” said Brew.

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“No, seriously!” I looked up and realized that my husband was not just saying this to make me feel better. He was giving me an unfamiliar look, one filled with admiration. “You look like
some kind of badass basketball player-hiker—like, the definition of hardcore. I would be
so
intimidated to pass you on the trail right now.”

Whether he meant to or not, Brew had given me the pep talk that I needed. In one hour, I had gone from thinking I might need to be rescued off a ridge to feeling “hardcore.” I was excited to exit the tent and keep hiking. As I walked down the trail, I glanced back to see Brew taking down the tent in his boxers. He didn't look hardcore; but standing there folding our rain-fly in his down jacket and
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
boxers, he did look pretty sexy.

For the first time in days, my legs felt fresh and strong as I journeyed toward Lonesome Lake, then up the steep climb to North Kinsman Mountain. My shin splints still hurt, but it was a quiet ache instead of a deafening scream. I was so happy to be dry, warm, and alive that I started to hike smart and hard. I didn't try to force my way down the trail, but I did have a lot of adrenaline left over from Franconia Ridge, and I used it all to make efficient forward progress over very difficult terrain. I had survived Mount Washington, I had survived hypothermia, and now if I could just keep going, I could make it out of the Whites by nightfall.

I reached the base of Moosilauke and the next road crossing much earlier than I expected. It was late afternoon, and if I could make it over one more mountain by nightfall, I would still be on pace to complete Maine and New Hampshire in ten days, and I would still be on pace to set the record.

When Brew saw me coming toward him, his surprise gave way to a grin. Then he shouted, “C'mon!” at the top of his lungs. I responded by slapping my thigh, then clutching my fist under my chin like Serena Williams before match point. I was so motivated that I didn't even sit down at the car; I just chugged a thirty-two-ounce chocolate protein shake and grabbed a turkey wrap like it was a baton.

If the terrain had allowed it, I would have run up the mountain. I had one more calf-burning vertical climb filled with rebar and wooden steps screwed into the granite rock face, then I would never have to experience terrain this difficult again!