Called Again (37 page)

I assumed that these effects were both understudied and unknown. I told myself that shin splints and stomach bugs were standard, that nausea was normal, and that exhaustion was expected.

Carl was right. After what we had all been through—indepen-dently and collectively—I don't think we could have felt any other way.

That afternoon, the humidity and heat were oppressive. The ground was parched, and chalky red dust kicked up every time I took a step. On the last full day of the women's record hike, the conditions had been identical, and I had come as close as I ever had to stepping on the head of a rattlesnake who was sunning himself on the trail. The vivid memory caused me to pay close attention to where I placed my feet. And yet, I
still
almost repeated my 2008 rattlesnake encounter when I stepped within striking distance of a snake sunning itself near the trail. In addition to my snake run-in, the crew had seen a black bear at one of the road crossings, and Brew was dive-bombed by a screech owl on a side trail as he tried to bring me a milkshake. The adventure was nearing its end, but that didn't mean an end to the adventure.

When we reached Unicoi Gap, it was already six p.m. and I still had fourteen miles to cover. Carl agreed to walk with me for the last stretch, and his company was invaluable. We made it up the steep climb to Blue Mountain Shelter and across the rock fields near Chattahoochee Gap to reach the old railroad bed before dark. I loved it when the trail followed old logging roads and railroad beds. The width of the trail increased, there were fewer roots and rocks, and the grade was far gentler than most other
stretches. Now, more than ever, I appreciated the gradual incline and lack of debris on the three-mile section into Low Gap Shelter. But soon after, the path left the worn trading route and returned to the natural contours of the forest. It was dark, I was following Carl's shoes once again, and the trail kept going uphill.

I continued to hike, but started to feel claustrophobic with the dark closing in around me. I suddenly struggled to breathe, and more than that, my heart started to hurt. I had felt slight pains in my chest during the past two weeks, but I didn't want to tell Brew about them because they were relatively minor and I didn't want him to worry. But this time, it felt like my heart was cramping instead of beating, and my chest felt like it had a cinder block on top of it. The dull pain ached in my core.

I struggled to take a few more steps, then I fell to the trail, gasping for breath. I was hyperventilating, and my eyes started to water. Carl rushed to my side and asked if I was okay. I nodded yes, but then I continued to wheeze as tears streamed down my face.

I tried to relax and control my breathing as Carl sat behind me and massaged my shoulders.

“It'll be okay,” he said. “Just focus on your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

His response was perfect. Even in the moment, I thought how nice it was to have someone as hardcore as Carl rubbing my back and soothing me with his words. His sympathy and the fact that he didn't freak out—at least visibly—helped put me at ease.

When my breathing slowed down, Carl reached into his daypack and offered me food and water. I sat there sniffling, breathing, and shoving energy chews into my mouth until I started to feel better.

Finally, I felt good enough to stand and keep hiking. Carl continued trying to take my mind and his off my sudden chest constrictions, the consuming darkness, and the steep ascent that taunted us with every step.

“Hey, isn't that Mumford and Sons song that Brew played at one of the road crossings, like, your theme song for the summer?” he asked.

I nodded my head, still a little winded.

“I have it on my iPhone if you want to hear it.”

My typical view of cell phones on the trail was that they were for emergency use only, but this still felt like an emergency to me.

“Yeah, that would be nice,” I replied.

So, hiking on a ridge in north Georgia, in a darkness so thick that it made me lose track of time and space, Carl and I listened to “The Cave.”

I had heard the song several dozen times over the past few weeks. The beat was catchy, the lyrics were poetic; it just resonated with me on multiple levels. But so far, I hadn't taken the time to figure out why.

On this dark, warm night in the heart of backcountry Georgia, the song's relevance to my situation became painfully clear. I listened to the verses as if for the first time. They called to me as if speaking in tongues only I could understand.

Immediately, I flashed back to the Long Trail, when I was hiking away from my brokenness. Everything seemed wrong. My
life seemed shattered. Yet I managed to keep moving forward, and move away from the pain, toward love.

This verse alluded to Odysseus, my trail name's namesake. He tied himself to the ship's mast and filled his crew's ears with wax to block out the Sirens' song. Likewise, we took great measures to stay on course and limit our distractions. I was out here for a reason. I believed in my heart that the trail was a
calling.
And yes, there was suffering—both on the trail and off. The pain was hard and real. But at the end of the day, I had a choice to hide from it or hike through it.

Like Plato's cave dweller, I had been exposed to a new reality on the trail. It was my job to explore it even if I didn't fully understand it. But I needed help—dependence was imperative. At no other time in my life had I felt more reliant on my faith, my husband, and the people who surrounded us, or on the living spirit of the earth, than on this journey. And only in being completely dependent did I feel strong and free.

Finally, the chorus sounded one last time:

This song, this hike, this whole experience, that started from the day I left Springer Mountain as a twenty-one-year-old was all about hope. I knew about the darkness—the hanging I'd encountered on my first hike and the abduction of Meredith three years later. I had faced deaths, doubts, and fears. But the trail had provided a way to move past those obstacles and keep hiking forward. The forest had allowed me to find my true self. I had heard my name as it was called. And I'd become Odyssa.

The song ended. Carl turned off his iPhone and put it back in his daypack.

“You know, that's not really a fun song,” he said.

“I know,” I replied. “It's better than fun.”

We kept hiking for what seemed like forever, hoping that each new turn would bring us to the next road. Finally, before we knew how close we were, we heard a cry in the darkness.

“Sixty
freak-ing
miles!”

Brew had spotted our headlamps bobbing through the forest, and his voice let us know that we were within fifty yards of the Gap. We'd made it. This was our last night on the trail.

I lay down on my foam sleeping pad at 11:30 that evening, and once again set my alarm for 2:45 a.m. Brew didn't fight me this time; we both wanted to be done.

Then, as I wrapped a sleeping-bag liner around my torso, I felt another twinge in my heart. In a strange way, I was glad that it
hurt. Well, maybe I wasn't glad. But it just felt right, like it
should
hurt. Because sometimes things have to hurt before they can grow. And because of this adventure, my heart felt larger, stronger, and more full.

When I awoke on the last morning of the hike, I felt more miserable than excited. Every part of me hurt, and every part was exhausted.

I got dressed, crawled out of the tent, and began trudging along behind Carl's feet. I purposefully tried not to engage with him. I didn't even want to fully open my eyes. The closer I could come to sleep-walking, I thought, the better.

It was still pitch-black when we made it to Neels Gap. Brew had set up two chairs by the car, and he handed us both a hard-boiled egg tortilla wrap. I had eaten many of these protein-packed wraps on the trail. Sometimes Brew added cheese, but mostly it was just two eggs and some salt in a flour tortilla. But this time, as soon as I put the wrap near my mouth, I started to gag. Then Carl saw me out of his peripheral vision and instinctively began dry heaving too.

“I can't stay here,” I said. “I'll eat something on the trail. I really don't want to throw up.”

I stood up and Carl followed. He stuffed several granola bars and two full water bottles in his waist pack and we were off.

However, before we even made it to the trailhead across the road, Carl had to stop and bend over. His whole body was convulsing in more dry heaves—and I could feel the bile building up in my throat.

“Carl, I have to keep going,” I said. “If I see
you
puke,
I'm
going to puke.”

Carl nodded his head, and I was off.

By the time I made it to the summit of Blood Mountain at the first light of day, I expected to hear Carl hiking up behind me. I called out his name, but there was no response. I kept hiking but walked slower. He had all our food and liquids and I really needed a pick-me-up. I had barely eaten at the campsite that morning because I knew I would see Brew in less than five miles. But at Neels Gap, I was too nauseous to eat. Now, I was on the southern slope of Blood Mountain, and my stomach was
screaming
for food. I'd hiked sixty miles yesterday and had come over 2,150 miles in the last month and a half. All that my body wanted to do was eat, and I didn't have any food to give it.

Being famished and light-headed would not have worried me as much except that the last two times I'd felt this way, I'd passed out.

Once after an Ironman triathlon and another time while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, I had similar feelings of dizziness and low blood sugar. In both instances, I woke up on my back without remembering how I'd gotten there.

All summer, I had been very careful to monitor my caloric intake and carry a few snacks, even if a friend was muling me. But now on the last day, my fatigue and laziness had caused me to make a poor decision, and I was afraid I would pay for it by losing consciousness.

I had come all this way, and now there was a possibility that I would have a medical emergency and ruin my chance of setting the record with less than twenty-six miles to go.