Called Again (3 page)

After completing two and a half days and over a hundred miles on the Long Trail, my leg was still inflamed, I was still in pain, and I was coming to a road. Few long-distance hikers would quit their treks if it were not for the constant presence of roads. Roads are a reminder of creature comforts, food, and social support. Physically and emotionally, roads are the most dangerous place on the trail.

As I approached U.S. 4, every part of my body was yelling at me to abandon the hike. I was willing my feet down the north slope of Killington, listening for the roar of the highway and contemplating what to do, when I heard an adult voice singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.” It was an appropriate serenade considering how many spiderwebs I had hiked through that morning, but where was it coming from? I turned down a switchback and saw a grown man jogging up the trail with a toddler on his shoulders. Both the man and the little boy smiled and said hello as they passed me, and they continued to sing as they turned up the next switchback.

At first, I was frustrated by the encounter. I was having trouble walking downhill, and this man was happily pacing uphill with a sixteen-month-old on his shoulders—while singing! But despite my bitterness, there was something too innocent and joyful about the encounter for me to stay sour. In fact, in a strange way, I felt attracted to the man—or at least to what he represented.

I thought about my ex-boyfriend and my broken heart. As miserable as the pain in my left leg had been, it was all consuming. And that had been a blessing. But now, after passing the father and son on the trail, something inside me felt hopeful. I had been part of a great relationship with a great guy who loved life, loved me, and loved the trail. But there were other great guys out there. Guys who would run up a trail with their child on their shoulders, singing corny kid songs. That was my type of guy.

As I spotted my first car through the trees, I no longer wanted to quit. And just as I exited the woods, I heard a voice calling from behind me.

“Hey! Hey, wait up. Are you a thru-hiker?” It was the father and son bounding back down the mountain. And I could tell just by the way the man said “thru-hiker” that he either was one or wanted to be one.

“I'm thru-hiking the Long Trail,” I replied. The first hundred miles follow the same path as the Appalachian Trail, so I wanted to differentiate my 272-mile journey from the 2,180-mile one.

“That's awesome,” he said, smiling. “My wife and I thru-hiked the A.T. for our honeymoon several years ago.”
I knew it.
“We're up here vacationing with our kids. Do you need any trail magic?”

I thought about that question. The first time someone offered me trail magic, I had been hesitant to accept because as a society we are taught not to accept gifts from strangers. But now I loved getting help from people I didn't know. It was one of my favorite parts of the trail.

At this point, however, I didn't need any food or a ride into town. I looked down at my red, irritated leg. It was covered in lacerations from a thorny section of overgrown trail, and they were starting to ooze puss. If I didn't clean them out soon, there was a good chance they would get infected.

Finally, I responded. “Well, I could really use a shower.”

“Great! We're staying just a few miles down the road. You can shower at our place.”

Within the span of an hour, I went to their rental cabin, met the man's equally gracious thru-hiker wife and their three-year-old daughter, showered, cleaned my leg, iced my knee and ankle, and administered anti-inflammatory pills and salve. I also ate a large portion of homemade vegetable lasagna and then returned to the trail.

Back at the trailhead, the mom and dad stood at their car, attaching babycarriers for a second afternoon hike. The kids were yelling and looking for the orange slugs I had told them about. As I continued hiking into the woods and away from Vermont Route 4, my body didn't hurt as much, and neither did my heart.

Putting my life back together started at the base of Pico Peak that day. I no longer thought about quitting the hike. Instead, I pushed onward each day with the goal of reaching Canada as quickly as the trail would permit. Unfortunately, the path was not overly permissive.

Once the Long Trail split from the A.T., I traveled through several patches of overgrown stinging nettles. The invisible hairs that hung from the leaves of the plant quickly attached to my legs and caused a burning sensation that lasted anywhere from
five to fifteen minutes. At times, the pain was so intense that I could only manage by screaming at the top of my lungs until it subsided.

The trail was all but deserted in central Vermont, and I doubt anyone ever heard me yell, but if they did, they probably dialed 911 out of concern.

The weather on the second half of the hike was as bad as it could be in the summertime. In every twenty-four-hour period, it rained for at least eighteen hours. More often than not, the downpour was accompanied by lightning and thunder.

The water turned the mountain slopes into a treacherous minefield of slick stones and boulders. During the lightning storms, I felt less threatened in the dense hardwood forest, but I was often delayed near the summits where there was no protection. Sometimes I hid underneath rock outcroppings and inside trail shelters, waiting for the storms to pass. Over and over again I would count the seconds between the lightning and thunder, hoping that the storm would weaken, but it seemed locked in place.

The heavy rain reminded me of the countless tears I had shed over the summer. So in the midst of hiking through the storm, I talked to God. It was not a prayer of reverence or thanksgiving. Instead, I complained and literally cried out to God, blaming him for my broken heart. I asked over and over why my last relationship didn't work out and what I was supposed to do now. I wanted an immediate answer, but all I got was more thunder and lightning.

The trail threw one punch after another: bad weather, slick rocks, poorly marked junctions, and just when I thought I had covered the most difficult stretch, I came to Doll Peak. The elevation of the mountain did not compare to the unending slope of Mount Mansfield, the highest summit on the Long Trail. And the
climb was not as technical as the boulder scramble near Camel's Hump in central Vermont. But for my tired, sore, soaking-wet body, this felt like the toughest ascent of the trail.

When the trail becomes technical, you are frequently forced to place your hands on boulders or trees to gain balance. Sometimes you have to attach your hiking poles to your pack and use arm strength to pull yourself up a steep pitch. Technical trail can also demand sitting and sliding or crab walking down a mountain. If nothing else, the degree of difficulty increases since every step could result in a sprained ankle or twisted knee.

As I hiked up Doll Peak in the pouring rain, I used both hands to scramble and maintain my balance. I spent enormous energy willing my thighs in front of my body, then hoping my calves and feet would follow. With every step I tried to put my shoes on large, stable-looking rocks to prevent a fall. But it didn't work.

I fell five times in five minutes. My legs weren't going where my mind told them to, and on top of that, I couldn't see the next few yards through the clouds and fog, let alone the summit. I wanted to sit down and give up. But that wasn't an option, not in this weather and not on this terrain.

Just then, I remembered something Warren had said when we were waltzing at the gas station near I-81 in the early morning hours. “You can't fight the music, you have to flow with it.”

There I was in the middle of a nor'easter, my knee was swollen, and scrapes and bruises covered my body, but I was still out there in the terrible, awesome onslaught of the wilderness. And I knew that I had to keep pressing forward. I realized that all summer I had been hiding from my own soundtrack. I hadn't wanted to hear the music; I'd just wanted to sleep and cry, to reject the truth that was blaring all around me.

Warren was right. I needed to embrace the rhythm, not worry so much about falling. And right now, the storm was my music
and the rocks were my dance floor. So as I continued up the trail, my chin lifted and my footsteps grew stronger and more certain.

When I made it to the top of Doll Peak, I let out a victory cry. I wanted it to sound tough, but instead it sounded like a squeaky cheer at a pep rally. For me, those cries never seemed to reflect the guttural emotion that had formed them. Nevertheless, I was deeply proud to be on the top of that barren mountain in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, that physical and emotional barrier that I had overcome—and I only fell twice on my way back down.

After seven days, fifteen hours, and forty minutes, I reached the Canadian border. I had danced the dance, I had felt the pain, and now I could hear the music changing. The rain had stopped and so had my tears.

I felt lighter than I had in months. The Long Trail had allowed me to express my sadness and my frustration. It had allowed me to scream and cry; it had given me an arena to hurt. And I learned that sometimes the hurt has to get worse before it can get better.

By the end of the trail, I also felt that God had given me an answer through all my yelling and pleading. The first time I thru-hiked, it was to figure out who I was and what I was going to do with my life. But it wasn't until this trip that I finally realized the trail was more than a solitary adventure or something to check off my bucket list. The trail was my passion, and now I wanted it to be my profession.

I had big plans. I couldn't wait to call Warren and tell him about my hiking adventure and my new resolution. The next day, as soon as I had cell service, I dialed his number.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Warren, it's Jen.”

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing's wrong. I'm done with the trail.”

“You're already finished?” Warren asked in disbelief.

“Yep. I finished in less than eight days. That's good enough for the record, isn't it?”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

“Well, it was awesome,” I said excitedly. “I can't wait to tell you all about it. And I think I figured a lot out while I was hiking. I will be driving home in a few days, so maybe I can stop by and fill you in on everything.”

“I would love that,” Warren replied. “What you accomplished is just incredible.”

“Thanks, Warren. Oh, hey, I was wondering . . . who had the unsupported record on the Long Trail before me?”

Warren chuckled. “Well, until this morning, I did.”

After our phone call I felt shocked and a little embarrassed. I should have been able to figure out on my own that Warren held the previous record. After all, he could never have given me such good advice if he hadn't been there before.