Called Again (8 page)

When I came out to Waterville School Road, our last road crossing together, I discovered that he had lost the keys to the
car, and I couldn't get any provisions. Instead of being upset with Brew for being chronically disorganized—or for the fact that I would not be able to eat or drink—I simply leaned on my husband as he peered inside the windows to see if he could spot the keys. I didn't need food or water nearly as much as I needed my husband.

Brew convinced me to keep hiking another two and a half miles to Davenport Gap. He promised to find the keys and meet me there to say a final good-bye. When I arrived at the northern entrance to Smoky Mountain National Park, he was sitting in the car with the doors open, giving final instructions to his replacements.

Although Brew was leaving, I was not going to load up my backpack and complete the remainder of the trail on my own. My husband was sitting near the trail, instructing three sixty-year-old men on how best to provide support while he was away.

The fourth-quarter subs were a motley crew. Two of them were short and round, one with a permanent tan and silver hair, the other with a sideways ball cap and a white Santa Claus beard. The third member was tall, fit, and clean shaven and had a buzz cut. When they saw me coming down the trail, they all started to cheer.

I grinned. I don't think that we could have put together a more diverse team of men; I know for certain that we could not have found another trio of sixty-year-olds who I loved more.

The tall, svelte man who looked like a military officer was our friend David Horton. I had met him when he was sprinting up the muddy tread of a Virginia mountain named “The Priest” during a rainy morning on my initial A.T. hike in 2005.

Horton had set the overall Appalachian Trail record in 1991 by hiking the trail in fifty-two days. The summer after we met, he also set the record on the Pacific Crest Trail. Horton had also introduced me to ultra—trail running by inviting me to several of his races in Virginia. That's where I discovered that trail runners
were a lot like thru-hikers. They loved the trail and a good challenge; they just usually had less time to be outdoors.

The man standing next to Horton with the light beard and crooked hat was none other than Warren Doyle. He had helped me prepare for my first A.T. hike, and we had crossed paths on the Pacific Crest Trail. He had also mentored me before my Long Trail record, and now he was here to assist me once again. He didn't wear Horton's smile of excitement, but instead looked thoughtful, almost stoic. Knowing him, I could just see the numbers floating around in his head. He was always calculating miles. It was one of the things he did best.

Warren had set the first endurance record on the trail in the 1970s by hiking the full distance in sixty-six days with limited support. Since then, he had hiked the entire A.T. more than fourteen times. For the next five days, he would be our logistics captain and back-roads navigator.

The final addition was my father. He didn't have the trail knowledge or experience that Horton and Warren had, but he would provide the intangibles and the emotional support that I needed. My dad was my first and biggest fan. He had encouraged me on my initial thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail and had driven up to Maine to meet me when I finished. And when I hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, he had flown out to Oregon to visit and feed me for three days. That time with him—along with the extra calories—provided the strength that I needed to reach Canada.

No matter what I did, and no matter where I traveled, I knew that my father was always in my corner.

The next four days, my mileages were higher than they had been the entire summer. I was invigorated by the new crew members.
Their constant encouragement and enthusiasm left me feeling far more energetic than I should have after hiking 2,000 miles. Plus, I knew that the sooner I finished the trail, the sooner I could reconnect with Brew.

Horton spent a lot of time on the path with me. Horton loves to run. Unfortunately for him, though, I spent most of my time hiking. For the most part, he tolerated it and stayed with me, but he also encouraged me to run—or at least jog—the downhill and flat sections.

“Let's run here. . . . This is a good place to run. . . . Don't you want to run?” He reminded me of a caged greyhound.

“Horton, I'm a hiker, not a runner.”

“You are
too
a runner. You come to my races and you run and you finish with the top ten or fifteen women.”

“Yeah, but I
think
like a hiker. Even at your races, I treat aid stations like trail magic, and I pass people who are running uphill just by hiking hard. I don't dream about running trail races; I dream about hiking long-distance trails.”

“I still don't think you are a hiker. Hikers are lazy. Hikers always lose a lot of weight on the trail, but then after their thru-hikes, they stop exercising and they get fat. Look at Warren.”

Horton was never one to watch his tongue or worry about what he said. This quality made him both offensive and endearing.

“Well, I like to move through the woods. I don't care how I do it. Maybe just think of me as a mover.”

We kept moving until I arrived at the next road crossing. Warren was already waiting for me with a guidebook, atlas, and legal notepad. The Trail Yoda, as Brew liked to call him, encouraged me to sit down to eat and drink. And as I refueled, he described the next section of trail.

The visual aids spread before us were for me, not him. Warren never looked at his maps or notes when talking about the trail. He
didn't have to. He had a photographic memory of the Appalachian Trail. He knew every climb, every switchback, and every spring. I trusted Warren more than I trusted a guidebook, and I usually based my water, food, and gear choices solely on his descriptions.

He stressed that the decision of how far to hike each day was my own, and that he was there only to provide me with options. Toward the end of each day, he would give me three or four choices for when to stop and where to camp. However, unlike Brew, I knew that Warren, Horton, and even my dad shared specific hopes and expectations for where I would stop. In other words, they pushed me. And I liked it.

The excitement of my three helpers never permitted me to stop early. My dad was especially proud of my success and eager to help me reach my final goal. And the constant stream of compliments and praise from Warren and Horton increased my father's nervous energy. Often he would turn on the car and start driving off to find the next road, sometimes before I even had a chance to restock my provisions.

I relished the brief interactions at the road crossings, not between the crew and me, but between the three men. They were so dissimilar. Their antics conjured up old black-and-white images of the Three Stooges, except my lovable modern-day men were running around and bumping into one another because they were trying to locate a lost map, find snack food, or decide which water bottle smelled less like fermented Gatorade. They communicated with each other incessantly and without awaiting a reply.

Although it wasn't always graceful, the interactions between them were surprisingly harmonious. And their antics got the job done.

Over the last four full days of my hike, I completed three forty-seven-mile stretches and capped them off with a sixty-five mile stretch into Neels Gap. I never thought I could complete sixty-five miles in one day when I started this endeavor. But somewhere along the journey I learned that much of what I thought was impossible was simply very, very difficult.

There is a historic and well-known outfitter at Neels Gap known as Mountain Crossings, and when I reached the store just after dark on my last full day of hiking, the three men were beside themselves. Horton, despite having hiked over twenty-five miles with me that day, continued to pace around the parking lot.

“Thirty more miles, thirty more miles and you'll be on Springer Mountain. You're doing it, girl! You don't realize how special this is. You're doing it!”

Warren had his head bowed and was swaying gently back and forth almost as if he were in a trail-induced trance.

“Sixty-five miles.
A sixty-five-mile day. Unbelievable.”

My dad's beaming white smile was illuminated every five seconds by the flash of his camera.

Despite their theatrics, I barely noticed them. The only person I was focused on was Brew. He was back.

It was Friday night and Brew had driven from school to Georgia that afternoon to meet us. His presence made me feel complete. It wouldn't have been right to finish this hike without him.

The first and last day of a trail record are the easiest. My body ached and I was exhausted, but with less than thirty miles left to hike, I traveled the path effortlessly. In the miles leading up to Springer Mountain, I envisioned my friends and family waiting there in the parking lot.

In addition to my dad, Horton, and Warren, I knew that Brew's parents would be there as well. I tried not to think about the fact that my own mother would not be at Springer Mountain. Still,
after almost five years, she still refused to come out to the trail because she was worried about my safety. I was hoping that she would get over her anxiety and support me this time, but I had gotten my stubbornness from my mother, so I knew not to expect her.

However, Maureen, my mom's closest friend, did make the trip to Springer Mountain. She often translated my mother's words and actions to me in a way that I could understand. That afternoon, Maureen did not try to explain my mother's absence; she simply offered her presence as a substitute.

From the parking area, it is only a one-mile hike to reach the top of Springer Mountain and the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. I wanted to share that journey with the people who had come to support me, but because of that, my last mile was one of my slowest all summer. It took us over forty minutes. At first, it was endearing how my father-in-law wanted to stop every twenty steps to look into the forest and examine a leaf, but halfway to the top, I decided I should have scheduled the group hike for our
return
to the parking area. I had been on the trail for fifty-seven days, hiking and running thirty-eight miles each day, and in that moment, all I wanted to do was reach the summit and finish the journey.