Called Again (26 page)

I had seen a lot of wildlife on this trip. I'd become so in tune with most of the animals that when I heard a noise in the woods, I could usually determine whether it was a bear, deer, turkey, moose, grouse, skunk, squirrel, or snake based on the sound that it made.

There were slight distinctions in the sounds made by animals moving farther away, but the similarity was that they almost always moved away. With the exception of dogs off-leash, mother grouses, and a rogue emu in Australia, I almost never experienced animals moving toward me. Yet in that split second, all I saw was something large and dark drawing closer from the underbrush of the forest.

Suddenly I realized it was not an animal, but a large man clothed in green and khaki. And by the time I had made that connection, he was pulling something black and shiny from behind his back and pointing it at me. My mind struggled to keep up with my instinct. Everything about his deliberate and imposing movements left me feeling sick and threatened. Then there was a bright flash.

It clicked. The man had been waiting inside this grove of trees so he could step out with his camera and take several rapid-fire shots. I could feel my stomach churn, and as I picked up my pace to pass him, I sputtered.

“You're that guy!”

“That's right,” he said. “I told you I'd find you. You might not believe me, but I support what you're doing.”

I was already twenty yards ahead of him, but I yelled back, “Well, you don't respect it!”

The man laughed, then he called after me, “See you down the trail!”

Then I started to cry and run. I could hardly breathe. I heard Rambler call after me, “Just drop your poles.” He was taken aback and trying to make sense of things himself, but he knew that I needed to get away and that I could run faster without my hiking sticks.

When I came sprinting out of the forest, Brew knew what had happened without having to ask. Apparently the man had gone up to Dutch while Brew was running an errand and had asked him if he was waiting on me. Dutch said yes, and Brew didn't find out about the encounter until he'd returned.

“Was that the reporter? Is he back there?” asked Brew.

I nodded.

“What did he do?”

“He hid in the trees and then stepped out right as we passed. He pulled his camera out, but I didn't know if it was a camera or a gun or what! I have never felt so, so . . .”

I was struggling to find the words that summed up the sick feeling in my stomach. The hair on my arms was standing on end, my heart was beating out of my chest, and I had an overwhelming sense of danger.

“Violated?” Brew suggested.

“Yes, violated,” I said.

We heard a noise and turned. It was Rambler coming out of the woods with my hiking sticks. I knew I needed to get going because the photographer wouldn't be far behind.

“I need to leave. I need to go
right now”
I said.

“You need to sit down and eat something,” said Brew.

“I can't. I don't want to see him again.”

I started crying again as Brew handed me a McDonald's chicken sandwich and a drink from the car.

“Alright, go. I'll take care of this, and I'll meet you at the next road crossing.”

I sped off into the woods. It was one of the only times on the entire hike that I bypassed a rest stop, and it was also one of the only times that I ran.

When my pace and my heart rate began to slow down, I tried to rationalize what had just happened. Maybe it wasn't so bad. It was just a reporter trying to take a few pictures of me on a public hiking trail. What was so hostile about that?

But my attempts to justify what had happened did not work. Ever since my first correspondence with this particular journalist, he had acted aggressively and had ignored any requests I made or boundaries I put in place. His editor told me that she had handled the situation and asked him not to come to the trail to take any pictures. But obviously, he had disregarded her wishes as well. We had not been giving live updates on our location, so that meant this stranger had been doing some pretty heavy recon to pinpoint our whereabouts—and the fact that he had hidden in the forest and jumped out at us right when we passed made me furious.

In my backpacking clinics, I always told women that one key to staying safe on the trail is to trust your instincts. And my instincts, my intuition, every ounce of my being were screaming at me to stay as far away from this man as possible. But how could I make sure that he stayed away from me?

Two hours passed. I helped a confused backpacker with directions, and I also spotted a black bear. I felt safe deep within the forest. I knew based on this guy's oversized stomach that he would only be a threat near the road crossings. But as the sun started to hang low in the sky and every step brought me closer to PA 501, my anxiety returned. Then I heard a noise up ahead. I looked down the trail and saw a lean hiker taking long, quick strides in my direction.

“Dutch!”

I was relieved to see my new friend, and I quickly rushed to his side. I wanted to hug him and thank him for coming in to find me, but both Dutch and Rambler were shy when it came to receiving praise or affection, so I settled for hiking on his heels.

“How are you doing?” Dutch inquired.

“I am pissed—and a little scared. . . .” My first few words sounded mean, and my final word sounded shaky. I stopped to take a deep breath. “Thanks for hiking in to meet me.” My voice remained wobbly, but I continued. “Did the photographer come out of the woods when I left?”

“Yeah. He tried to hide just inside the forest for a little bit, but Brew saw him.”

“Then what happened?” I no longer stuttered. And, now, it was Dutch who paused and took a deep breath. “Dutch! What happened next?”

“Well, Brew and the reporter got into an argument. Brew asked him to leave you alone, and he said no. Then Brew threatened to call the police. At that point the photographer started screaming and cursing at Brew. He was very angry.”

“What did you and Rambler do?”

“We stood at the car and watched.”

Dutch's honest, straightforward answers helped me set the scene. I could clearly picture my two brilliant, pacifist thru-hiker friends standing awkwardly behind the protection of an open car door, glancing at each other with wide eyes. The thing was, normally Brew would have been standing there with them. For as long as I'd known him, I had never once heard him raise his voice to another person. He only yelled after the Tar Heels lost important basketball games, and even then, he directed it at the TV.

“Well, how did it end?”

“Brew wrote down the man's license-plate number and then called the police. The photographer got in his car and continued screaming at Brew as he drove away.”

Now that I felt safe with Dutch and knew that my husband had stood up for me, I immediately went from feeling scared to feeling strangely excited.

I was shocked and a little surprised at how confident and authoritative my husband had been during the incident. He had just deffended my honor. He had protected me. Once again, this was a side of him I had never seen before—and I liked it!

When we met Brew and Rambler at the road, I ran into Brew's arms. I don't know if his lean, wiry frame had ever felt so safe or comforting.

With my head tucked beneath his chin, my husband filled me in on the remaining details in his usual soft tone.

“Everything is going to be all right. I called the local police and filed a report. I gave them the photographer's name and license-plate number and they were going to try to find him and warn him that if he continued to follow us down the trail, we could file harassment charges.”

I lifted my head and looked my husband in the eyes. “So you really raised your voice at him?” I asked.

“I was stern,” Brew demurred.

“And he basically cussed you out?”

“Yeah,” Brew chuckled. “All while grandstanding about professional integrity and how I should respect his right to take pictures.”

“But you never cursed at him?”

“No,” said Brew. “If teaching five years of inner-city middle school prepared me for one moment on this hike, then that was it.”

“Do you think he'll bother us anymore?”

“He better not,” Brew responded.

I squeezed my husband's neck even tighter. I could never do this without him. Then, for only the second time since we started the hike, we got a hotel room.

When we reached the Mason-Dixon Line, my aunt and uncle greeted us at Pen-Mar State Park. As soon as my aunt spotted me, she ran down the trail with her arms wide open. My mom's older sister had always been supportive of my hiking endeavors. For the past eight years, she had encouraged me by providing food for the trail and what she called “food for thought,” which consisted of newspaper clippings and magazine articles that I could read in my tent at night.

That afternoon, after embracing me and all the sweat and stench that covered my body, she led me over to my uncle, who was stationed next to a blanket in the shade. On the blanket was a buffet of berries, tortilla chips, and guacamole. My aunt had gone out on a limb and even purchased a container of gluten-free brownies from a local health food co-op. Being able to enjoy a brief family picnic near the halfway point of this grueling journey was the best gift I could have received. I don't think anything would have lifted my spirits in quite the same way. But sitting there in the shade on that soft blanket, shoving handfuls of blueberries into my mouth, I began to miss my mom.

I used to really struggle with the fact that my mom did not support my love of backpacking. But as I grew older, I began to understand it more.

Over the years, she has become more accustomed to the trail. She no longer thinks that it is
as
dangerous or unsafe as she did when I first started backpacking. And Brew's companionship on my journeys provides her with more peace of mind. I think after eight years, she's even beginning to understand why I want, or need, to be in the woods. But she still feels helpless.

My mom knows that the trail is going to be hard on me. She knows that I am going to hurt, and, worst of all, she knows that there is nothing she can do about it. My mom does not like feeling weak. Like a mama bear, she is stubborn, territorial, and protective. And as Brew likes to remind me, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Entering the south marked the third and final phase of our journey.

Phase one focused on survival. The first twelve days, hiking from Maine to Vermont, had been about enduring the most difficult terrain and conditions on the entire trail.

During phase two, the goal was to gain a lead. Every day between Vermont and Pennsylvania, our intention was to travel a little farther than Andrew Thompson had in 2005. Some days, I would hike a few miles farther, other days I just stumbled a few steps past where he'd slept. Our strategy and our persistence had worked. Now that we were in the southeast, we had gained almost a full day on Andrew's record.

In Maryland we started our last and longest phase. For the next three weeks, our objective would be to hold steady and maintain our lead—something that would be easier said than done.

Maintaining our position from this point forward would be more difficult than it had been to gain an advantage. I was completely worn down, and I was well aware of the fact that Andrew lit through the South like Sherman's army. On a positive note, the Mason-Dixon Line marked the first time since we'd been in Maine that I was not feeling my shin splints on a daily basis. My legs had been on the mend since reaching Vermont, but it took over 1,200 miles before I could stop taping them altogether. For the past six states, I worried daily that the slightest tweak or misstep could send me back into a state of misery.

From the beginning, my strategy had been to
hike
the majority of my miles. However, I had always believed that when I reached milder terrain in the mid-Atlantic and southern section, I would need to run short sections in order to compete with the trail runners who had set records in the past.