Called Again (2 page)

My feet occasionally stumbled or stepped on Warren's toes, even though I looked down and tried to will them in the right direction. But Warren softly instructed, “Look up. Listen to the melody. If you want to dance, then you can't fight the music; you have to flow with it.”

AUGUST 2007

O
ne of the thru-hikers who finished the Appalachian Trail with me broke my heart; the other helped to mend it.

On my way to Vermont, I stopped in Connecticut to see Mooch. After my first hike on the Appalachian Trail, I hadn't expected to stay in such close contact with him (or to continue dating Nightwalker). But our experience had been so intense and our bond so unique that we couldn't figure out how to move on without one another. Like me, Mooch had sworn off thru-hiking at the top of Katahdin. And like me, he had spent every summer since on a long-distance trail. In fact, he had completed the Long Trail just a few weeks prior to my visit.

After ten hours of driving, I pulled into a driveway in Trum-bull, Connecticut. Mooch was sitting on the steps to his apartment. I was disappointed to see that he no longer had the long, curly hiker-hair or shaggy beard that he sported on the trail.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, he walked over to me and engulfed me in his long, lean arms. He whispered into my ear, “Oh, Odyssa. Sweet, sweet Odyssa. It's so good to see you.” He paused. “But you are a
mess!
You're going through heartbreak, not a thru-hike. You know you
can
still take showers, right?”

My friend laughed, grinning from ear to ear. I smiled too. I was pleased to see that Mooch still had the same kind spirit and offensive sense of humor that had made even the worst situations on the trail seem tolerable.

Next, he lowered his nose to my synthetic tank-top and inhaled near the crook of my neck. “You know, dressing—and smelling—like you do on the trail isn't going to bring Night-walker back. Come on, Odyssa. Let's get you inside and under a showerhead.”

I heard what Mooch was saying, and I appreciated the unique way that he was able to console my aching heart with criticism, but in that moment all I could think about was how nice it was to hear the name Odyssa. I missed trail names and the personas people took on when hiking. Odyssa embodied strength and adventure, the ability to overcome adversity. I felt that if Odyssa could overcome the challenges of the hike, if she could find a way to traverse the Long Trail in eight days, then Jen could somehow overcome her broken heart.

That afternoon, after a much-needed shower, I sat in Mooch's apartment going through my pack and separating my food into zipper-lock bags while Mooch sat on his couch humming and strumming his guitar.

“So you really think you can finish the trail in eight days?” he asked indignantly.

“Yeah, if things go well.”

“Odyssa, you know it took me three and a half weeks to hike the Long Trail, and I was going at a solid pace. The northern half is as difficult as the Appalachian Trail in Maine and New Hampshire.” Then, prodding me, he continued, “I don't think you can do it.”

I looked up at Mooch and saw a smile reaching almost to the bottom of his ears. He knew me well enough to know that being told I couldn't do something was the best motivation I could receive.

The next morning, after cooking me a large hiker breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and bacon, Mooch drove me to the Vermont-Massachusetts border and the southern terminus of the Long Trail. When we arrived at the trailhead, the last thing I wanted to do was get out of my friend's air-conditioned car and step into the late-summer heat wave. I should not have hesitated. It was like looking off a bridge before BASE jumping.

Suddenly, none of this made sense. How was hiking a difficult trail with an impossible goal going to solve anything? I didn't want to face my problems or the trail. All I wanted was to go back home, back to my bed, and sleep.

Mooch looked over at me, reading the doubt in my eyes, and quickly responded, “Oh no you don't.”

He got out of the car, removed my pack from the trunk, and then walked around to the passenger door. In a last-ditch effort, I tried to push the lock button, but it was too late. Mooch lifted the outside handle and the warm blanket of humidity wrapped around my body.

My friend reached in and grabbed my elbow to help me out of the car. “Remember, this is what you wanted,” he said. “Plus, I like to see you suffer. So c'mon, out we go.”

With a little more pulling and prodding, I climbed out. Mooch hoisted my green backpack—filled with gear and several days' worth of food—onto my shoulders. I tightened the straps around my chest and the buckles around my waist and gave Mooch one last long, wistful hug. Then, just like the day before, he whispered softly in my ear, “It's time. Let go.”

So I did. I let go and started slowly up the hard-packed dirt trail littered with worn gray rocks and surrounded by verdant outstretched arms of mountain laurel. Within seconds, the thick green tunnel hid Mooch, and I was on my own.

I took one step after another. My breathing fell into a rhythm, and after hiking a mile, all of the anxiety that I had experienced at the car vanished. I felt better than I had in weeks. I felt at home.

My euphoric return to the trail lasted all of seventeen hours. After leaving Mooch and camping at the border, I began my trek the next morning at six a.m. and hiked forty-six miles that day. Forty-six miles! It was the farthest that I had ever traveled by foot in a twenty-four-hour period.

During the morning, I felt light and the miles passed quickly. By the afternoon, my legs started to stiffen and my pace decreased. And as the daylight turned to dusk, my shoulders ached, my hips were sore from my pack weight, and the lower half of my body cried out with pain and fatigue. My skin was cold to the touch and my stomach was empty. Even my brain felt tired. As simple as walking was, it was hard to focus on putting one foot in front of the other for sixteen straight hours.

But I didn't feel completely horrible because my chest felt warm and full. I was proud of coming so far in such a short amount of time. I had made it to the north side of Stratton Mountain, and
now the disappearing sun and my exhausted legs told me it was time to find a camping spot.

As the forest faded into darkness, I continued to walk, searching for a flat spot to lie down. But I was not paying attention to the path in front of me, and as a result, I stepped on a large, loose rock. The stone rolled out from under me, and my left leg twisted as I fell.

My first response was to get up as quickly as possible. I never liked to assess injuries sitting down because things always seemed worse from the ground perspective. If I could self-diagnose while standing or walking, then the prognosis was never as bleak. I put most of my weight on my hands and unfolded my lower limb as if I were trying to come out of a difficult yoga pose. Then I transitioned back to a Homo erectus stance. My knee was sore but steady, and everything seemed to be okay. I took a few more steps to rebuild my confidence and loosen my knee, then I found a place where the shoulder of the trail was wide. I unrolled the light foam pad and unpacked my thin down sleeping bag.

I crawled inside my bed and took a brief moment to look up at the stars. It was a very comforting scene. The twinkling lights were far more magical and hopeful than the pale white ceiling of my bedroom.

When I awoke the next morning, I knew even before I sat up that my left knee was
not
okay. It felt hot and stiff, and I was barely able to contort it to get out of my narrow sleeping bag.

When my kneecap came into view, it was swollen and pink. I poked at the bulging flesh with my finger. It now looked and felt like a serious injury, and based on previous ailments that I had incurred on the trail, I realized that there was only one cure: I had to keep hiking.

While doctors recommend rest, ice, compression, and elevation, I knew that increased circulation, a large range of motion, and gritted teeth had fixed many of my trail injuries in the past. The pain might increase before my knee felt better, but that was part of the healing process.

I reached for my shoes and carefully placed my left foot into the sneaker, but something inside didn't feel right. I figured it must be from the altered state of my knee, and I reached for my other shoe. Then I noticed something orange underneath the tongue. I looked closer and spotted a pinky-sized slug adhered to it.

“Uck.” I picked off the slug and hurled it onto a nearby tree. Then I reached into the toe-bed and found two more slimy creatures. Chills went down my spine as I unlatched them and flung them into the woods. I was not scared of slugs, but I didn't care to handle them, especially first thing in the morning. I put my shoe on and started to stand up when an unpleasant thought crossed my mind.

“Nooo!” I took off my other shoe, and just as I had suspected, my sock was completely covered in opaque orange goo. Judging from the high concentration of gunk, there had been at least as many slugs in my left shoe as in my right—and none of them had survived.

That morning was miserable. Every other step hurt, and walking on uneven terrain intensified the pain. During a treacherous descent down a boulder field, I placed my hands on two neighboring rocks to brace my step, and as I eased my foot down into a small crevice, I felt something bite my ankle. I looked down and saw a large yellow jacket. Suddenly, I was overcome with adrenaline, and I ran the next forty yards down the trail.

I have a moderate allergy to bees, and the thought of my throat swelling shut trounced the pain of my aching knee. Once I was a
safe distance away, I looked down and saw two red bull's-eyes. I immediately took some Benadryl and put my EpiPen in my hip pocket in case I started wheezing. The ache in my knee returned, now accompanied by a sharp pain in my ankle. I kept hobbling down the trail and watched my shin change shades of red and then swell until it resembled a doughnut just above my low-cut sock.

For the rest of the day, I was not focused on a trail record. I was only focused on putting one foot in front of the other. I didn't care how slowly I hiked. I just wanted to keep moving forward. As the sky grew dark, I came to a cold creek where I submerged both of my legs. The muscle definition in my left leg was gone. It was red and swollen from my toes to my lower thigh, and it was hard to look at, let alone bend.