Called Again (6 page)

I had to make a decision. I either needed to start a twenty-four-mile stretch of very difficult terrain with a single granola bar in my pack, or I would have to waste more time waiting for Brew at a forest road that I was not convinced he could find or maneuver.

I heard a noise coming from inside the forest and looked up to see a thru-hiker exiting the trees. In spite of the difficulty of my own hike, I loved seeing the northbound thru-hikers in Maine. They were dirty, smelly, and hairy, and yet, at the same time, they were positively glowing. Most of them had been hiking now for three or four months and were within two weeks of their ultimate goal—Katahdin.

I smiled at the young man who had a bandana on his head and mud smeared across the inside of his ankles.

“Hey, there,” he said. “I didn't expect to see a day hiker out here.”

“Well, I am waiting for my husband. He was supposed to meet me here, but I'm worried he might be lost or might not be able to get our car down the road.”

The thru-hiker looked around, his gaze lingering on the narrow, rocky, washed-out roadbed. He gave me a hopeless look.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Well, I would keep going and try to reach Route 4, but I don't have enough food.”

The thru-hiker grinned. He immediately took off his pack and began to dig inside, and after a few seconds, he pulled out an unopened pack of Chips Ahoy cookies. He said, “Here,” and offered them to me.

“No, no, no. There's no way I could take food from a thru-hiker,” I said.

“I can resupply in nine miles. You would be doing me a favor by lightening my load. Really, just think of it as trail magic.”

Random acts of kindness that occur on the Appalachian Trail are part of what make the journey so special. And they often do more for your soul than your stomach. Generally thru-hikers with heavy backpacks fall on the receiving end of trail magic. But there I was, a supported hiker with a car full of gear and food somewhere in the vicinity, and I was receiving much-needed food from the least likely candidate. I could not believe this hiker's generosity or my good fortune. I accepted the cookies and thanked him.

I wrote a quick note to Brew on orange surveyor's tape, telling him I was okay and that he should hike in to meet me from the next road crossing. Then I stood up to leave the patch of sweet-smelling conifer trees where I had been sitting and started pacing down the trail, shoving cookies in my mouth and thanking God for the kind young man with the extra food.

For the rest of the day, I no longer worried about my well-being or safety; I only worried about Brew. Even though I didn't have a headlight, I knew if I kept my pace up, I could make it to the next road before dark. Brew, on the other hand, was potentially lost, having car trouble, and he was worried about the person he loved most being on an unforgiving stretch of trail with one granola bar and no flashlight.

In my head, I could see Brew cursing loudly as he drove down the back roads of western Maine, mad at himself for not being able to find me and worried sick that I was in trouble. Once I made it over the top of Saddleback Mountain, I began to run down the steep, rocky backside of the slope, hoping to reach my husband as quickly as possible.

A mile and a half before coming to the road, I saw Brew walking uphill toward me with a full pack on his back and two LED headlamps hanging around his neck. I could tell he had prepared to hike all night. When he spotted me running down the trail, he ran toward me too, jostling all of his gear. As we embraced, I
could feel a warm, wet tear roll down our pressed checks, but I was uncertain whether the tear was his or mine.

We held each other for several minutes, then walked hand in hand to the road. Physically, it had been a long, hard day, but my body felt okay—aside from the fact that I could not imagine eating another chocolate chip cookie. It was my emotions that were wrecked. And Brew, who had been lost and worried for most of the day, was equally worn down.

That night we drove to a hotel in nearby Rangeley, where we got to shower, recover, and hold each other close in a clean, soft bed instead of sticking to each other inside our dirty sleeping bags.

I knew that there would be other places on the trail where we would cross wires or miss one another again, but now I also trusted that we would eventually be able to find one another, and I was confident that Brew would do whatever it took to reach me.

After overcoming the trauma of not being able to find me in the bowels of backcountry Maine, Brew joked that his error was actually a ploy that forced me to hike faster and farther. It was funny but completely untrue. Throughout the entire record attempt, Brew never pushed me. Every decision to rest, slow down, speed up, or increase my miles was my own.

Self-monitoring was tough. I had no clue what type of effort or exertion was required on a record attempt of over two thousand miles. I wanted to give my all, but I didn't know what my all was. I wanted to try and avoid overuse injuries, even though I was making the same motion and using the same muscles for ten to twelve hours a day. Like most hikers, trail conditions and the weather forecast factored into my daily mileage goals. The women's A.T. record stood at eighty-eight days. An unsupported hiker who carried all her gear set it in 1993. It was a far cry from
the men's supported mark of forty-seven days. Women had not actively pursued a supported record—until now.

I was constantly taking stock of my health and wellness. On the trail, without the assistance of medical studies, on-call physicians, or WebMD, I resorted to listening to my body. I did not know what was “normal.” I just knew that my goal was to hike over thirty-five miles every day.

When I left Maine, my body was not happy. I was covered in scrapes and bruises and my left ankle was red, swollen, and stiff. It had been irritated and in pain since the Hundred-Mile Wilderness. Over a week later, it still resembled a small ruby-red grapefruit. I didn't remember spraining it, but after turning and twisting the joint over uneven terrain for more than thirty miles every day, the cumulative effect felt worse than the sharp pain of any single misstep.

I decided that I would leave the trail and seek medical attention if the injury got worse. But because of my experience on the Long Trail and other long-distance paths, I also knew that I could hike through a lot of pain and even heal in the process. For a full week, my ankle didn't improve or become worse. Then, finally, when I made it to Pinkham Notch in New Hampshire, it started to feel better.

My body could not have picked a better point to mend itself. Pinkham Notch is a deep valley located between the high summits of Carter Dome and Mount Washington. And if there is any mountain of the Appalachian that makes you pray for good health and good weather, it is Mount Washington.

Mount Washington is a 6,288-foot peak located on top of a steep slope that resembles a rockslide. It is not the highest mountain on the trail in elevation, but for many hikers it presents the toughest climb. The path leading to the top leaves the protection of the forest—a boundary known as tree line—seven miles before the summit. From that point forward, the hike is a treacherous,
hair-raising traverse over narrow ridges and loose rocks. It can be difficult to locate the trail on Mount Washington in good weather and impossible to find your way in inclement conditions.

In 2005, my hike up and down Mount Washington had been magical. I was traveling with my hiking companions Mooch and Nightwalker. The wind was strong, but the skies were clear and blue. The technical hiking on the mountain caused us to take our time, take pictures, and take solace in the fact that we were hiking the longest stretch of exposed terrain along the Appalachian Trail with good friends and without a storm in sight.

But this time, I found myself hiking up the same mountain alone, amid strong gusts of wind and dense fog. For five solid hours, I was terrified that I would get lost in the white blanket that covered every nook and cranny of the mountain. And if I did become lost, the steep precipices and late season snowfields on the mountain would leave me feeling like I might never be found. For ten miles I fought fear and uncertainty. My steps were short, my breathing was shallow, and I prayed constantly.

I didn't stop at the observatory on top of Mount Washington, nor did I duck out of the harsh conditions at the sheltered Lake-of-the-Clouds Hut. I was too worried that if I did stop hiking —even for a moment—I would lose the desire and courage to continue down the trail. It wasn't until I made it back into the protection of the forest that I collapsed in exhaustion.

Even through three layers of clothing, my heart still seemed to be beating out of my chest. I pulled some crackers, cheese, and dried fruit out of my pack and began to shove them into my mouth. I had spent the past eleven miles trapped in a tunnel of white fog and fear, and I had forgotten to eat.

I quickly took in calories, and I thought back to my encounter with Andrew Thompson on my first thru-hike. Andrew was on the trail in 2005, attempting to set the overall Appalachian Trail record. He eventually succeeded, and when I crossed paths with
him on this rugged mountain, I knew why. Since we were above tree line between Mount Washington and Pinkham Notch, I was able to watch Andrew glide easily uphill toward me for fifteen minutes. I was struck by his presence even before I knew what he was doing. He was handsome and tall, with the strength of an ox and the grace of a ballet dancer, all while hiking over giant rocks. And as he approached, I could see his long, toned muscles glistening under a thin layer of sweat. But the physical attribute that stood out most on this Adonis was his smile.

Why in the world was he smiling? How was it possible for anyone to hike forty-six miles a day over unforgiving terrain and still smile?

Thinking about Andrew brought a small upward curl to my crumb-covered lips. I couldn't fathom the physical exertion of his record. I was hiking ten miles less per day than he had and it was still the most difficult challenge of my life. But there had been something in his smile that implied the challenge was worth it.

When I reached the road at Crawford Notch, I saw a very relieved expression on my husband's face. Before leaving the oasis of our car, Brew picked up a pack with our tent, two sleeping bags, two suppers, and lots of snacks, and together we continued hiking.

Even though the access roads in New Hampshire were paved, with far more amenities than the narrow dirt tracks in Maine, they never seem to intersect the trail at a good time. Usually by mid-afternoon, Brew would have to load an overnight pack and hike in with me so that my miles could stay consistent and so that I could maximize my hiking during daylight hours. These stretches quickly became my favorite part of the day.

The miles and the time flew by when I hiked with Brew. I recognized how special and unique this time together was, especially
as newlyweds. Even though the terrain through the White Mountains offered some of the most challenging and perilous ascents and descents on the trail, I hardly noticed the steep grade when I hiked with Brew.

I was savoring the experience and my husband's companionship as we climbed up the wooden steps and metal handrails that dotted North Kinsman. Looking back, I said, “Think about it, Brew. We are away from our family, away from our friends. We have all this time to just be together. I mean
really
be together. We are learning how to communicate better and how to trust each other more fully. We are so fortunate to have this time together.”

Brew looked up at me. Sweat was streaming off his forehead and soaking his gray t-shirt. The pack on his back, which had been built for me, looked crooked and top-heavy with our gear and food.

Half-jokingly, he asked, “Couldn't we have spent time away from our family and friends and developed our relationship more fully in Fiji?”

I was constantly reminded that while I was living out my dream, Brew was just along for the ride. And it was a long, hard, bumpy ride.