Called Again (7 page)

The trail remained constant in the sense that it was ever changing. Each day presented new obstacles, new logistics, and new miles to overcome.

Brew was experiencing the trail for the first time, but for me there was a part of the journey that felt familiar—even nostalgic and redemptive.

The first time I completed the Appalachian Trail, it had been a life-changing experience. Positive life-changing experiences are
great in retrospect. But it hurts to be molded and made new, especially when you are as stubborn as I am.

In 2005, I was an inexperienced backpacker and I made every mistake possible on my journey from Georgia to Maine. Beyond having to overcome my own ineptitude, the trail conditions proved especially challenging for me.

The most horrific day of my 2005 thru-hike came at Sunrise Mountain, New Jersey, where I discovered the body of a young man who had committed suicide. In fact, there was a 0.2-mile piece of the Appalachian Trail that I still hadn't seen because after I called 911 and the authorities arrived, they rerouted me off the trail to provide a wide berth around a scene that had already imprinted itself in my mind in perfect detail.

Going back to the place where it happened was one of reasons I wanted to hike the trail again. I wanted to hike the entire trail, every last 0.2-mile section of it. But more than that, I wanted peace and I needed closure.

This time, when I reached New Jersey, Brew and I walked to the top of Sunrise Mountain together and sat down on a bench inside the pavilion where I had found the body. We held hands and looked out over the green plains that stretched toward the horizon. Brew and I both thanked God for the beauty of the surrounding area, then we remembered the young man who I had discovered three years earlier and we prayed for his family and friends.

After praying, Brew wrapped his arm around my shoulder. I nuzzled my head into the crook of his arm. We were silent for a minute as we listened to the soft breeze blowing across the ridge. I felt courageous coming back to that mountain, and surprisingly, I also felt peaceful and safe.

“Are you okay?” asked Brew.

I nodded slowly.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Well, I am thinking about the suicide and Gary Michael Hilton—and about Meredith. I am reminded that things can end, and that life can end, very quickly. It makes me want to keep going.”

“Well then you better go,” whispered Brew.

I stood up and took several confident steps away from the pavilion before looking back over my shoulder to see Brew still sitting there, watching me walk away. His eyes were filled with love.

I paused to take in all the details of the scene: the light-blue sky, the purple flowers peeking through the rocky terrain, my husband's green shirt and scruffy beard. Making a new memory on top of that mountain eased the fear and pain that the summit once represented. When I turned to continue hiking, my breaths felt full and deep, and my footsteps felt light. I was reminded that my ability to succeed on the trail wasn't just about reducing the physical weight that I carried; it was about reducing the emotional weight as well.

In the mid-Atlantic states, Brew combined his support role with a historic driving tour of Appalachia. He visited West Point near Bear Mountain, New York, and he saw Gettysburg when I hiked through the Cumberland Valley in Southern Pennsylvania. Often, I would string together a slew of short sections without support so that Brew could go exploring. Most of the time, he returned from his excursions and waited for me at the designated trailhead for thirty minutes to an hour. But there were a few times when
I
had to wait for
him.

At one road crossing in Pennsylvania, I had to wait twenty minutes. And I was famished. I had just hiked an eighteen-mile stretch that easily could have been split into three different sections. But Brew had wanted to travel to Pottsville to tour the famous Yuengling Brewery, which, as Brew pointed out, was still
a historical site since it is the oldest brewery in America. And that was all well and good, but now he was late.

Not only was I hungry, but I was also parched. The “seasonal springs” located on the previous eight-mile stretch were all out of season. Usually, when I was dehydrated, I refused to cry because I knew it would result in losing more water. But my overwhelming need to eat and drink combined with the knowledge that Brew was delayed because he was at a tasting room caused my tears to pour like a barroom tap.

When Brew finally arrived, my face was beet red. Paths of salt traced their way down my dusty cheeks like dried riverbeds. Receiving food, water, and an apology made me feel better momentarily, but overall—regardless of Brew's words or actions—I was struggling.

Pennsylvania is a hard state to hike through. You feel like you should be elated because you have finished half the trail, over 1,000 miles. But in the back of your mind, you know that the last 1,000 miles was the hardest challenge you have ever had to overcome, and now you are tired, and even more homesick and you still have another 1,000 miles to go. The glass feels half-empty in Pennsylvania.

Beyond the emotional and mental difficulty of Pennsylvania, the Appalachian Trail in this mid-Atlantic state comprises mostly of rocks. It is as if all the other states took all their rocks and dumped them here. Every step in Pennsylvania is a transfer of weight from one sharp, jagged rock to another. Since leaving New York, the pain in my feet and the large callus on my left big toe increased every day. Even my neck started to ache from always looking down at the virtual quarry beneath my feet.

After traversing nearly two hundred miles of the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania, I felt depleted. The rocks on the trail in the one-hundred-degree heat felt like charcoal on a grill, and I was the slow-cooking main course.

Brew had been late to a road crossing earlier in the day because he had been sipping beer at Yuengling. This time it was due to the tangled, unmarked roads, but it didn't matter. The fact that he missed me twice in one day accelerated my meltdown.

When he did finally show up, I was crying (again) and tossing small rocks into the woods. Rather than acknowledging him, I threw the small stone in my right hand toward a large rock that sat on the trail. Instead of hitting the intended target, the rock ricocheted off a nearby tree and hit me in the shin. I HATED rocks!

Then I turned toward my husband and, without giving Brew a chance to explain, I immediately expressed my displeasure— which sounded especially irrational since I hadn't had any food or water yet.

“Where were you?” I squawked. “I haven't had a snack in over six miles and my throat is so dry it hurts to breathe. Why weren't you here when I got here?!”

Brew stared at me for an eternity before opening his mouth. He's not one to raise his voice, and sometimes that makes his responses even louder. “Ever since the last road crossing, I have been driving down piss-poor, unmarked dirt roads trying to find you. And in case you were wondering, it wasn't much fun.
This
isn't much fun.”

Then, after making sure I had gotten what I needed out of the car, Brew drove off without saying another word.

Things weren't much better between the two of us in Dun-cannon. We walked without speaking down the asphalt road that guides the Appalachian Trail through the small town. When we reached the car at the end of town where the path returns to the confines of the forest, I silently began to refill my water bottle and select my snacks for the next section. The stubbornness that allows me to hike all day every day without stopping is the exact same quality that forces my husband to initiate all of our reconciliations.

“I don't think you know how hard this is on me,” he said.

Without looking up, I immediately replied, “I don't think you realize how hard this is on
me!”

I could tell I had hurt Brew again, but that didn't stop me. He expected disagreements to be a discussion; I preferred a monologue.

“I just need more. I need to know you are giving this one hundred percent. This is the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life, and when you are late to the road crossing or can't find my gear because the car is a mess—it makes a difference. It costs me time, and it stresses me out.”

“I'm giving you everything I have.”

I looked up at Brew. He had tears lining his eyelids. The sincerity and pain on his face transformed my anger into guilt.

Suddenly, I felt horrible.

“I'm, um, I am . . . I'm sorry,” I sputtered. I took a minute to regroup my emotions and then I reached for his hand. “I know this is hard for you. I know you are doing your best.”

Brew gave me a familiar look. He didn't like my apologies. He never thought that I said “I'm sorry” with the right tone. Coming from a background where you were lucky to get any sort of apology, I didn't understand what he was talking about.

“You better keep hiking,” he said, his voice sounding wounded but stern. “You still have eight more miles, and if you don't leave now, the sun will go down while you are on the rocks.”

I turned and started hiking uphill, out of Duncannon. And as I did, I realized that I didn't want the sun to set while I was on the rocks in Pennsylvania
or
on the rocks with my husband. I hiked as quickly as I could to the next road crossing, where I could give Brew a better apology.

While my feet sped down the trail, I thought back to some of the worst arguments we'd had before we got married. I was starting to notice a theme. There had been only a few of them, and all but one had happened on training runs of over thirteen
miles. Most of our arguments weren't even real disagreements, they were outbursts caused by fatigue, low blood sugar, and a lack of fluids. But at this moment, the cause wasn't nearly as important as the resolution.

Four miles into an eight-mile stretch, I saw Brew hiking toward me. He had found a closer road and then hiked north. I started running over the scattered rocks.

“Don't run!” he called. He didn't want me to fall and get hurt, but he couldn't stop me from sprinting toward him. Within twenty seconds, I was in his arms, apologizing over and over again. I hoped that one of them would sound right. I would have done anything to show Brew that I was sorry. I would have quit right there if he had asked.

Brew tightened his grip on me. “I'm sorry too,” he said. “I feel like I'm giving you everything out here. But if you need more, I will find a way to give you more.”

From that point on, I never again questioned Brew's level of commitment.

Up until the Smokies, the few occasions when we had received additional help had been a luxury. But at Davenport Gap, it became a necessity. It was mid-August and I still had two-hundred forty-miles left to hike, but Brew had to go home and go back to work as a teacher.

He had been my physical and emotional support the entire trip, and I was heartbroken that he had to leave. We had been on the trail together for over fifty days, and now, with less than a week left, I couldn't imagine finishing the trail without him. We were both a wreck.