Called Again (23 page)

Before this summer, when Brew and I hiked together and he didn't have a bum knee, he would wait until we were on remote portions of trail before he serenaded me. But since our time was limited this trip, it didn't matter that there were dayhikers and
mothers with strollers coming down the boardwalk toward us. Brew sang at the top of his lungs anyway.

Brew had the ability to make his voice sound low and thunderous when the song was sad and then raise it to something more upbeat when the tone was hopeful. But my favorite part of this particular song was when my husband did his best James Brown impersonation for the chorus.

At the conclusion of his solo, Brew received an “amen” from a man walking past us. It had been a good date. It also made me a hair more optimistic as I hiked up to the base of the next mountain under a sky that was darkening with afternoon thunderclouds.

On the morning of my second day hiking through the Garden State, I passed through High Point State Park. And before I knew it, I had arrived at the parking lot near the summit of Sunrise Mountain. I saw our car there, but Brew was nowhere to be seen and neither was Melissa. I was starving. The car was locked and I needed more food and water for the next stretch. Where were they!? They were supposed to be here. I wanted to get more supplies so I could keep hiking as fast as possible over Sunrise Mountain.

I called out, but no one answered. Then I started to cry. I knew exactly where they were. They were waiting for me on top of the mountain.

When Brew and I came to this spot on our hike in 2008, we sat and prayed on the summit together. It was a therapeutic experience that helped me to recover from the suicide I'd encountered on the mountain three years before. We remembered the young man who had ended his life on the trail, and we prayed for his family. We thanked God for the healing power of the wilderness, and we voiced our hopes that the trail would continue to encourage and restore the people who spent time there. Our short service was redemptive. But it was also planned, thought-out, and discussed.

This time, my body had arrived at this location before my mind. I was not ready for Sunrise Mountain. I did not plan to have a prayer vigil on top of the mountain, and I did not want to stop inside the pavilion that crowned the summit; I just wanted to get past it.

Out of all the images that my mind had locked away from previous thru-hikes, the scene from the top of this mountain was the one that I most desperately wanted to get rid of. But I could still recall every vivid detail from that warm morning in May, and I knew there was nothing I could ever do to make the memory recede.

I started hiking up toward the pavilion, and as I walked, tears started streaming down my face. I called again for Brew.

Soon, I heard him calling back as he hiked down the trail toward me. He saw my face and he knew right away that he'd made a mistake.

“I'm so sorry,” he said.

“What are you doing up there? Why aren't you in the parking lot?!” My voice was desperate and accusatory.

“Melissa wanted to take pictures, and I thought that you would want to pray like last time.”

“I don't want to pray,” I whimpered.

“Do you want to go back to the car?”

“No! I can't go backward. Not now. I just want to get past it.”

“Okay, hold my hand. We have food and supplies up there. We will get through the pavilion and on the other side of the summit before we stop. Okay?”

I nodded my head in agreement.

Brew guided me up the remaining ascent, through the pavilion, and down the rocks on the opposite slope before we stopped. I sat down on a slab of warm white granite; took a few gasping breaths; and began to eat, drink, and pull myself together. This was one of the only times on the entire hike that I was frustrated with Brew. I was upset with my crew for not intuiting my needs. Couldn't they understand? The demands of this journey were so great that my wounds simply could not heal.

A few miles before crossing into Pennsylvania, a reporter met us at Camp Road. I had been hesitant to allow any press to visit us on our journey because I believed that an experience and a story are two different things. An experience is personal; a story is public.

To have a good story, you need a worthwhile experience. But too many times one negatively affects the other. Either the storytelling hinders the flow of the experience or the experience is
altered to create a better story (and what you wind up with is “reality” television).

I decided that I would make a concerted effort to share my story
before
the summer, and again after the hike, because it was a good story and an important one to tell. But on the trail, I knew that if we didn't focus one-hundred percent of our energy on the experience, we might not create a worthwhile ending.

Brew was able to write a basic blog about the trip and email it out every few days. But I had not held a pen, looked at a computer screen, or called anyone except my husband since we started.

I was thankful that Brew could keep some kind of journal. It was fun for him, he is a great writer, and it kept his mind occupied during those times when he would rather be hiking. It would also provide us with a way to remember the adventure once it ended. I liked to picture Brew several years down the road with a little boy or girl sitting on his lap, listening to Daddy read about Mommy's crossing the Kennebec River with Uncle Warren. The blog was more for our own PR (personal reasons), than for public relations.

I declined a dozen or so requests from reporters who wanted to visit us on the trail, and all of them had understood our desire for privacy and focus—all but one.

That writer responded by stating that it was his right to interview us and take pictures, and if he needed to hide in the woods and wait for us to pass, then he would. He made me hate the paparazzi without even being famous. I forwarded my concerns and the correspondence to his editor, and she handled the matter, saying that he would not bother us. Problem solved.

Brew and I did, however, grant two press passes based on the following criteria: first, that I knew the reporter and had worked with him or her in the past, and second, that he or she had to be a
really
good hiker.

One of the journalists who fell into this category was a photographer from the
Hendersonville Times News,
my hometown
newspaper. We would see him in North Carolina—if we made it that far. The other was Keith, a freelancer from New York. He was young and fit and he loved to hike, and I had enjoyed working with him on previous articles. Even so, I made it very clear to him that any interview would take place on the trail while I hiked at least three miles per hour.

When Keith arrived at the Mohican Outdoor Center, he had his hiking shoes on and he was ready to go. We set out from the road crossing together, and he did a great job of keeping up. I loved sharing the trail with someone new. For the past three weeks, my only substantial conversations had been with Brew, Melissa, Warren, and Steve. A new person meant new conversations, new entertainment, and new energy.

Keith brought an excitement to the trail, and he asked great questions. Thinking about my responses kept my mind occupied, and before I knew it, we had crossed the Delaware River, which meant I was in Pennsylvania!

That night, Keith camped out with us. As soon as I reached our final road crossing, I dove into my tent and fell asleep, but Keith stayed up a little longer to interview Melissa and Steve.

The next morning, I kept hiking, and I didn't see Keith again. I don't want to say we made a mistake by allowing him to visit us on the trail, because I loved hiking with him and he didn't cause the slightest hiccup in our logistics. But I soon regretted his visit, nonetheless.

Keith said the editor at
The New York Times
was interested in his story. If I had been at home to hear that news, I would have done jumping jacks and cartwheels in my living room. But as I hiked over the rocks of Pennsylvania in hundred-degree heat, I didn't want to give Keith or the article a second thought. I was too focused on mileage to care about what newspaper wanted to pick up the piece or when it would be printed.

However, it
was
a big deal to everyone else. After Keith left, all
Melissa talked about was the article. She brought it up constantly, and mentioned more times than I can count how cool it was that her photos were going to be in
The New York Times.
Steve did a good job of downplaying his excitement, but I could sense how thrilled he was to be included in the newspaper that all his New York buddies would read. Brew was also excited, but I told him that I didn't want to talk about it, so we didn't.

Still, I could tell that the attention had shifted from the experience to the story. The group had lost its focus.

I didn't blame my crew for being excited. But it did leave me feeling frustrated, stressed, and angry. I wanted everything to be business as usual. We had all worked so hard and overcome so much to be in this position. I had gained a small lead on Andrew Thompson, but I knew we had to concentrate on the details of every mile and road crossing or else the record would slip through our fingers. I needed the crew to keep
all
their attention on the task at hand.

If this hike had taught me anything, it was that I needed to live in the present. If I thought about yesterday I would feel exhausted and distracted, and if I looked toward tomorrow I would become overwhelmed and demoralized. At any given time, the only thing I could do for certain was take one more step and then another and another.

On a very hot, very muggy morning, which felt even more oppressive on the rocky terrain of Pennsylvania, Melissa joined me for a few miles of hiking.

There were days when I wanted Melissa to talk to distract me; other times I wanted her to be silent. Sometimes I needed her to be happy, and on other days if she was happy, it would make me mad. I had told her before we began that I would have good days and bad days on the trail—and this was a bad day.

That morning, as she hiked behind me, she couldn't stop talking about her pictures,
The New York Times,
and how this hike
would launch her photography business. The whole time, I was quiet, and Melissa interpreted my quiet as a sign that she should keep talking.

All the while, I was fuming on the inside. My relationship with Melissa and Steve had been hit or miss ever since they started spending the night at Steve's house in New York. And since we left New Jersey, I felt like both of them were helping us more on their terms than on our needs. Now, Melissa kept going on and on about
The New York Times
and referencing how
my
hike was going to help
her
business and . . .
I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

In the midst of my anger, I wondered what percentage of my frustration was justified and what percentage was caused by fatigue and hunger. I was aware that we were in Pennsylvania, over 1,000 miles from the start, with over 1,000 miles left to go. In both of my previous thru-hikes, this state had been marked by meltdowns. And here I was again, angry, irrational, and needing more from my crew. How was I going to communicate to a friend who had volunteered to spend three weeks of her summer with us, and who we thanked with freeze-dried dinners and Clif Bars, that I wanted her to stop talking about herself and give
me
more?

I knew that what I really wanted was something Melissa couldn't provide, and that was for my husband to be hiking with me.