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 t
he 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.
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.”
Called Again Page 4