Called Again (35 page)

The stretch of A.T. we were on felt like a combination treadmill and stair-stepper machine. Trail maintainers had placed logs across the path every few feet to guide water run-off, and their efforts created a very rhythmic hiking experience. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, and so on. The repetitive motion ushered my mind into a meditative trance, and before I knew it, we'd arrived on the ridge.

The crest of the Smokies is lined with evergreens. When the trees part, there are spectacular mountain views with the closer peaks appearing dark green and the distant ones fading into a light blue. The trail becomes very narrow in places, and the drop-off on either
side can seem treacherous. A meticulous system of retaining walls that were built in the 1930's under FDR's New Deal keeps the trail intact and prevents washouts and rock slides. Even during the driest part of the summer, the trail here is lush. Everywhere you look, springs trickle out of the embankments and brightly colored moss borders the trail.

After hiking nearly sixteen miles, Matt and I were intercepted by a hiker from Knoxville who had walked up a side trail to replenish our food and supplies. He had emailed Brew several days before and offered to help us through the Smokies, so Brew had orchestrated a plan for him to meet Matt and me halfway through our section. It was a welcome surprise and an unexpected source of trail magic.

I was still in awe of the generosity that I received from people I knew and from people I had never met before. However, most of all, I was in awe of my husband. Brew never told me that new crew members were coming out until just before they arrived because he didn't want to get my hopes up and then have them not show. A few days earlier, I thought I would be traveling through the Smokies on my own with limited resupply. Now, thanks to my crew chief, I was able to enjoy seventy miles of companionship and an additional resupply.

Even though I was in the middle of a ten-hour stretch without seeing Brew, I was still well aware of his imprint on our trail adventure.

When I did finally get to see my husband at Newfound Gap, I noticed a positive change in his demeanor.

“You look different,” I said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I don't know. I guess you just look more relaxed than usual. What did you do today?”

“I drove down to Gatlinburg to get our car fixed. The mechanic got the window up, but the controls still don't work so I put some
duct tape over them. Next, I got some groceries, then I washed our clothes at the Laundromat. But after that, I still had some time to kill, so I played eighteen holes of mini-golf.”

My face lit up. My husband is at his absolute best when competing—even with himself. Mini-golf, bowling, batting cages, arcade games, board games, and recreational athletics all turn my husband into a kid at Disneyland. The knowledge that Brew had been able to enjoy himself, even for a few hours, made me really happy. It was the closest he had gotten to a vacation all summer.

That evening, Matt and I arrived at Clingman's Dome—the highest point on the entire trail—just after sundown.

We climbed silently to the observation tower on top of the mountain, and listened as our hiking poles clinked against the cement that led to the viewing area. When we made it to the top, we were the only people there. The sun had gone down, but we could still see the outline of the neighboring mountains. The valley floor was lighting up with street lamps and front-porch lights. It was as if the sky had inverted itself and all the stars had fallen to the ground. It was beautiful. It was worth the climb.

On day two in the park, Matt and I began hiking in the darkness and silence a little before five a.m. We traveled together on an overgrown trail through dew-soaked grass and copses of Frasier fir. Neither of us said a word for about two and a half hours, until I heard him stop behind me. “Look up,” he said.

Thirty yards ahead, there was a black bear standing in the middle of the trail. He stared at us, and we stared back at him. Then, after several seconds, he finally moved a few steps farther down the trail. Matt and I took a few steps as well. The bear looked back at us, we looked at him, and once again he sauntered slowly along before stopping to see if we were still behind him.

The scenario repeated itself two or three more times, and in each instance, when the bear turned his head to look at us, he seemed more and more annoyed that we were still following him—not angry, just annoyed. He acted as if we had seriously inconvenienced him by disrupting his morning berries-and-bathroom routine. Like Matt and me, he was not quite ready for social interaction.

When the bear finally walked off the trail and Matt and I were able to pass, it was after eight a.m. and we were awake enough for conversation.

“Man, I'm glad the sun finally came up. I was tired of drooling on myself,” said Matt.

I glanced back at him in confusion. I had no clue what he was talking about. Then I spotted the tiny LED light that was strung to a nearly invisible piece of thread around his neck. I wondered how he could use it without the elastic headband that secures it to the forehead. Then it came to me.

“You carry your headlamp in your mouth?!” I exclaimed.

Matt quickly defended himself. “Not having the elastic headband saves weight. And you don't
have
to wear your light on your head for it to be hands-free.”

I loved the fact that Matt altered most of his gear and hiked in such a simple, Spartan style. But the image of him salivating on himself for the past two hours made me laugh so hard that I started to drool too.

That day, Brew had managed to break up our thirty-mile stretch by recruiting a friend from Asheville to hike in and meet us at Spence Field Shelter. Each extra resupply that Brew coordinated saved Matt and me from having to carry extra weight, and that resulted in extra energy. Extra energy meant stronger hiking, and
stronger hiking meant a faster time. We were still just a day ahead of Andrew Thompson's record, so every minute mattered.

When Matt and I were running low on water, he was the one who hiked off-trail to locate springs and refill our bottles. I was able to stay put and eat, or keep hiking and wait for him to catch up. But even with the added help, when we reached the turn-off to Shuckstack Fire Tower and started the long, steep descent to Fontana Lake, I felt weak and dizzy.

The switchbacks near the base of the mountain seemed never ending. They reminded me of a dream I used to have about being stuck in a stairwell that I couldn't escape. There were several places where I thought I heard a road or believed I could see the blue waters of Fontana, but by the time I reached the next switchback, the noise or view had disappeared.

When Matt and I finally exited the woods at the base of the Smokies to find our respective spouses, Uwharrie, and my dad waiting for us, I almost couldn't believe they were real. But then I sat down in our blue camp chair—the one that had cost us ten dollars at a discount store—and nothing had ever felt so real, or so comfortable. In fact, it felt like a throne. Over the past ten hours, I had stopped for only a five-minute break at Spence Field Shelter. We were now just one-hundred-fifty miles from the finish, and I longed for the time when I could sit and rest for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

On the banks of Fontana Lake, Matt and Lily bid us farewell, but our number still stood at four. My dad had come to help us finish, and somewhere near the next road crossing Maureen was waiting to greet us with her tripod and camera. My father was the one person who had greeted me at the end of the Appalachian Trail in both 2005 and 2008, so now that he was here, the finish felt more real.

I spent the next sixteen miles alone. For the first time on the entire hike, I didn't just tell myself that I had what it took to set the record; I started to believe that I actually
would
set the record. I had reminded myself again and again on this journey that I belonged out here, but suddenly that statement no longer felt like self-affirmation. It felt like a fact.

When I arrived at Stecoah Gap, it was clear that while my anticipation and excitement had begun to increase, Brew was still business as usual. He did not talk about the finish or have a gleam in his eye that suggested we were close to the end. If anything, he seemed more uptight.

After a brief respite in Gatlinburg, it was now evident that Brew felt a huge amount of pressure to be perfect. We were potentially two and a half days away from Springer Mountain, and while that notion warmed my heart, it made my husband sick to his stomach.

His mind was traveling faster than I could hike. I could see the horrible hypothetical scenarios hidden in his tired eyes. If we did not succeed because of a missed road crossing or because he forgot to pack my EpiPen on a section where I got stung by bees, or if I should get sick from some piece of food that he handed me, then he would always feel as though he'd let me down. He never seemed to consider that he was the only reason I was in a position to be successful.

The next morning in the twilight, I hiked down from Cheoah Bald to the white rapids of the Nantahala River. Then I walked across the wooden bridge that carries the trail through the heart of the Nantahala Outdoor Center.

And as I began the calf-burning ascent out of the gorge—the most difficult climb that stood between me and Springer—I looked back and thanked Anne Riddle Lundblad for joining me.

Anne was voted the best female ultra-runner in North America in 2005 and 2006. She had won countless national and international
races and was the silver medalist in 2005 at the USTAF 100k Championships in Japan. Even though Anne and I both lived in Asheville, I didn't know her that well. And that was my fault.

During our past interactions, she was always very kind and would ask thoughtful questions, and I would answer her with bright red cheeks, mumbling like I had pebbles in my mouth. And when she CC'ed me on a group email inviting me to train with her on the local trails, I was always too intimidated to respond because I felt like I was too slow.

Brew, however, had no problem communicating with Anne and asking her if she could help us this summer. And she eagerly agreed to come out for one of our final days.