Called Again (34 page)

On a rainy evening, when we were hiking straight uphill toward Blackstaff Cliffs, Hampton and I had to focus more on our breathing than on our conversation. And after a particularly steep incline, we came to a place where the trail started to level out.

“You did it!” Hampton said. “You made it to the top. And let me just say, it was a treat watching your calf muscles on that last climb. I've never seen calf muscles like that on a girl!”

It was true. My calf muscles were scary-big. They were wider than my thigh with insane definition and a faint blue vein popping out in the middle. They could easily have given any Tour de France participant muscle envy (and that was without any EPO). However, my strong calves were also tired calves.

“Hampton, that was a false summit,” I said. “We're not even halfway there yet.”

“Oh,” said Hampton. I was pretty sure I could feel his gaze return to my freakish leg muscles as we continued to climb.

Our uphill ascent was complicated by a steady rain. The path followed an old roadbed where off-road vehicles had left huge muddy ruts in the trail. As the rain intensified, the tread got softer. Now we were sliding out of our steps, losing ground and trying not to lose our shoes in the ankle-deep sludge.

I felt very present in that moment. My skin was wet, my legs were tired and covered in mud, my breathing was labored, and a thick veil of fog made it seem like we were gaining little ground on this sloppy ascent.

Then from behind me, Hampton asked, “So you wanna hear my version of the girl who got away?”

I looked back at him, a little surprised.

“You mean, relationship stories?”

“Yeah, relationships that I royally screwed up.”

I
loved
hiking with Hampton. The next hour and a half was like listening to a sitcom. I heard about all the drama, all the mistakes, and all the awkward details that made me so glad I didn't have to date anymore.

We treaded lightly in the rain over the exposed rocks of Black-staff Cliffs but instead of thinking about how one false step could end my record attempt, I listened to Hampton comically ramble on about bad timing, poor communication, and a lack of initiative. And despite his self-deprecating anecdotes, I made a mental list of all my girlfriends I could set him up with. Surely he had gotten it all out of his system by now. Right?

When we reached Hot Springs, we said good-bye to Hampton and hello to more friends who'd made the short trip from Ashe-ville to cheer us on. I walked over the bridge that spans the French Broad River—the same river that comes within a mile
of our front door in Asheville—listening to cheers and giving folks high fives.

Everything about this quasi-homecoming felt natural and wonderful, except when my friends tried to encourage me by telling me how close I was to the finish line.

We humans seem to struggle with ways to comfort one another in the face of adversity. I remember when Maureen found out that she had cancer. I told her, “Everything will be okay. You're one of the toughest women I know, so if anyone can defeat this illness, it's you.” After my comment, I saw Maureen start to tear up and sit in silence.

I didn't realize until later how ignorant I'd been. Maureen had a progressive form of breast cancer. Things were
not
going to be okay—not for a long time. And I had just managed to make my good friend feel even worse.

Similarly, I did not want to hear from anyone else that I was “close to the finish.” The people who were saying that were well meaning, but they hadn't thru-hiked the A.T. or a single fforty-six-mile day in their entire lives. It didn't matter where I was located on the trail; every step was going to be hard until I reached Springer Mountain. It was only when I arrived at the end that things would finally be okay.

Past Hot Springs, I tried not to think about the remaining miles. Instead, I enjoyed a beautiful, quiet afternoon. I traveled through the dense hardwood forest, lost in thought and soaking in the peace and tranquillity of the woods.

The thin stretch of worn dirt that leads from downtown Hot Springs to the top of Snowbird Mountain is one of my favorite sections of the Appalachian Trail. The combination of shade and wind inside the rhododendron tunnels almost felt like an air conditioner—even on a late July afternoon. There is a hidden spring on this stretch, and I knew exactly where to find it. I dipped my bottle into the obscure pool and then brought it to my lips. The
water tasted pure and sweet—better than anything that could ever come from a faucet.

I can always tell when I am getting close to Max Patch because I pass through a thick rhododendron tunnel that makes me feel like a gladiator walking through the underground passageways before entering the open air of the Colosseum. Max Patch is nature's arena. It is a wide grassy bald that sits close to the North Carolina-Tennessee border, and it provides 360-degree views of tall, rounded mountains with ever-changing shades of green, blue, and purple.

This mountain is where Brew and I shared one of our first dates. It's where I went with Maureen for a photo shoot a few months before she found out she was sick. It's also a place where I had many treasured memories from summiting the southern bald alone.

As I walked through the tall grass toward the summit, I saw Brew sitting at the top, waiting for me. He had hiked in a half mile, which was more ground than he was supposed to cover with his recovering ACL, but I didn't blame him for disregarding the doctor's orders. The healing properties of this bald outweighed the risk of injury.

We were fortunate enough to be the only two people there. When I reached the top, I rested for a few moments in my husband's arms. When we let go, I lifted my hands to the sky and let my hiking sticks dangle from the straps around my wrists. Then I turned in a slow circle to take it all in. The sun was kissing my face. The breeze was tickling my skin and filling my nostrils with the sweet scent of mountain air. It was a moment of dichotomy. I felt weak and strong, depleted yet filled, heavy but light, all at the same time.

Brew and I held hands as we walked side by side to the next road crossing.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Brew.

“Ancient Greek,” I replied.

“Oh yeah?” asked Brew in a surprised tone.

“Mmm-hmm,” I replied. “In my Greek class in college, we learned a lot of vocabulary. I've forgotten most of it, but one word that I still remember is
arete.
I guess it's really more of an esoteric concept than a vocab word.”

“What does it mean?”

“From what I remember, it is the idea of reaching the fullest potential possible.”

“So you think you are reaching your fullest potential on the trail?”

“Well, I hope so. I think so. But actually, I was thinking about
arete
on a bigger scale. Just now being on top of Max Patch with you, and walking down hand and hand, I sort of feel like life is at its fullest potential right now.”

As I continued my walk that afternoon between Max Patch and Snowbird, it became clear to me that there was one other problem with friends telling me how close I was to the finish, another big reason why I didn't want to talk about the end of the hike; this was the only time in my entire life I could think of when I was giving all of myself to realize a dream.

Reaching for a life-long goal was rare enough, but actually being able to grab onto it seemed too good to be true. I was currently in a half-aware haze of turning my aspirations into a reality. It was a difficult and tangled but also beautiful and liberating place to be. And now I wondered, and even feared, what it would be like to wake up.

On the last mile leading to Snowbird Mountain, I hiked in the dusk longer than usual before pulling out my headlight. The sun had fallen from the sky, but my sense of the trail was so keen that I felt like I could anticipate the roots and rocks lining the path and could dance on top of them even in the dim twilight.

I was leaping from one obstacle to another when I heard a noise up ahead. Based on the volume and the type of rustling, I knew it was a bear. When I raised my chin, I saw not one but two cubs, and they were with their mother. Together, all three ran down the trail and around a turn to keep their distance. The problem was that I was headed in the same direction. As I neared the turn, I let out a loud cough. It worked. I heard the bears trample into the nearby forest.

I kept hiking without changing my pace. As soon as I rounded the bend, I looked downhill and saw one cub hugging the bark of a nearby oak tree, and the other peeking out from behind his mother. Even though she was within twenty yards, I didn't feel threatened.

I had seen lots of bears this summer—over thirty, in fact. Many of those sightings had been a mother with her cubs, and never once did a bear act aggressively. I also never felt as if the animals perceived me as a threat. I always tried to act natural, keep my distance, and maintain the same hiking pace. In doing that, it seemed that the bears viewed me and treated me like another wild animal. And that's exactly how I felt.

One aspect of the record attempt that I really loved was that I didn't have to leave the trail. The only times I did were to make a few late-night hotel runs. But even then, I always left in the dark and returned in the dark, so every waking hour for the past six weeks had been spent in the wilderness. I had never so fully immersed myself in nature. I had transitioned from a human seeking comfort to an animal migrating through the forest.

When I summited Snowbird, I could still make out the dark blue ridgeline of the Smoky Mountains as it contrasted against a deep gray sky. Brew and I shared another freeze-dried dinner and another night in our intimate two-person tent. I never reflected much before falling asleep on this trip—I was unconscious too quickly to do that. But as I settled into my sleeping
bag that night, I was struck by the fact that more than forty days after we'd started, I was still doing what I loved, on a trail that I loved, with the man that I loved. And, yes, it was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my entire life. But it also felt like the best thing.

JULY 27, 2011—JULY 31, 2011

W
hen I arrived at the northern boundary of the Smoky Mountain National Park, I found Brew waiting there for me. It was still early in the morning, and our Highlander was the only car at Davenport Gap. I was in the middle of counting granola bars and energy chews for the next thirty-mile stretch, which I was planning to hike without support, when I heard a vehicle coming down the road. I looked behind me and saw a black-and-tan dog running beside the car. And the closer it came, the more familiar the dog looked.

Suddenly, I gasped, then yelled, “Uwharrie!”

Matt and Lily Kirk were inside the car, racing their four-legged
family member up the road. I wasn't going to have to go through the Smokies alone!

I threw my arms around Brew's neck and kissed him.

“Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I can't believe you got Matt to come back!” I was like a kid who'd gotten just what she wanted from Santa. “This is
exactly
what I needed,” I said.

Brew laughed as they climbed out of the car. “Don't thank me. Thank Matt and Lily. They're here because they wanted to come. Now go have some fun in the Smokies,” Brew said, as he encouraged me toward the trail with a gentle pat on the butt. “I'll see you guys in thirty miles.”

Matt had completed the section of Appalachian Trail through the Smokies eight times. And he arrived at the trailhead ready for his ninth adventure. After he told Lily and Uwharrie good-bye, we began the demanding ascent together.

Heading south into the Smokies from Davenport Gap, the trail gains 3,000 feet in the first five miles. Matt and I didn't talk much as I struggled to climb and eat my breakfast sandwich at the same time. Even when I was not eating, we did very little talking. We had caught up on conversation in Virginia, and now that we were in the Smokies, we were content to just hike.