In a worst-case scenario, I was going to spend some quality time on a trail that I love, with the man I love, doing what I love. I didn’t see what was so scary about that.
I was scared about how difficult it would be, and how much I would hurt, but I wasn’t afraid of letting other people down. I loved hiking. I loved the trails. But at the end of the day, my self-worth wasn’t tied to the trail. I believed that God loved me unconditionally, and I knew that my relationships with my husband, family, and friends were not performance based.
As the time drew near, instead of being filled with anxiety, I was overcome with peace. I knew that just by starting the trail, I would never have to look back and wonder what if.
I decided that, if nothing else, the training had made the decision worthwhile. The benefit of having my own hiking company was that I was able to spend fifteen to twenty-five hours a week on the trail in the three months leading up to the summer. When I was not guiding, but rather training on my own, I tried to find the steepest mountains near my house and go up them as many times as possible.
One morning I woke up, walked out my front door, and hiked forty miles to the top of Mount Mitchell, the same peak where Brew and I had enjoyed one of our first dates. On my twenty-eighth birthday, I pulled another forty-mile day hiking almost entirely uphill from the French Broad River to Black Balsam on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. Brew met me with pizza and beer at the finish, which made it a perfect day.
Because I knew the summer would not allow time for scenic rest stops, I indulged myself during training by always carrying a camera and taking breaks at waterfalls and overlooks to enjoy the view. Sometimes, after a long day of training, I would hesitate before taking a shower, thinking that perhaps I should go ahead and train my mind and body to get used to the discomfort and dirt that I would encounter that summer. But I almost always succumbed to a warm rinse and a full eight hours of rest—I figured that I should make the most of it while I still could.
• 6 •
A ROCKY START
EARLY JUNE 2011—JUNE 21, 2011
Nothing felt strange about leaving home in early June to drive up to Maine and start the trail. For the past eight years, I had spent the summers hiking. The well-refined tasks of packing, wrapping up work, and cleaning up our house for a renter filled our thoughts and our time before the departure.
Upon leaving Asheville, we enjoyed our two-and-a-half-day road trip up to northern New England. Brew had a bounce in his step that I hadn’t seen in a while. Not only was he excited to conclude a very trying school year, but he was also recovering nicely from the ACL surgery that he had undergone in March. Because of his unexpected knee injury, he would not be able to hike with me this summer. But thankfully, many of our friends offered their on-trail and off-trail support as a substitute.
It was a bit demoralizing to parallel almost the entire 2,000+ mile A.T. in less than three days especially when I knew how difficult it would be to work my way back down south on foot. But the full magnitude of the undertaking did not set in until we met Warren and Melissa in the small logging town of Millinocket, Maine, the closest civilization to Katahdin.
Warren had offered to help us with road support and logistics on the first two weeks of the trip. Melissa was a friend from home who had joined the team once Brew sustained his injury. She off-fered to help us by taking photographs, doing crew chores, and providing me with some much-needed company on the trail.
Together, we sat around a table at the A.T. Café in Millinocket. The four of us went over the details of the first twelve days. I knew the first two weeks on the trail would be the most difficult. I would be traveling over the most challenging terrain, and my body would be going through all the aches, pains, and adjustments of a multi-day hike. There was limited crew access on many sections, which meant I would be traveling long stretches on my own and without resupply. The weather was also a major factor in this portion of the trail. The tall peaks in Maine and the White Mountains of New Hampshire threatened snow, sleet, and violent thundershowers, even throughout the summer. Being in the wrong spot during a bad storm in this terrain could not only mean the end of my record, it could also be life-threatening.
Warren had planned out a very ambitious schedule for the first two states, and I had agreed to it. I decided that the sooner I could make it through Maine and New Hampshire, the better.
As far as Warren was concerned, there was another reason I needed to accomplish high miles in the beginning of the hike.
“Once you get past the Mason-Dixon Line, you won’t be able to match Andrew Thompson day for day, so it’s important to establish a lead in the first half of the hike.”
“How do you know I can’t match Andy in the southeast?!” I fired back.
“Well, I’m glad that you think you can,” Warren said with a smirk. “Just remember, once Andrew hit Maryland, he put in consistent fifty-mile days until the finish. If you fall behind before the half-way point, it will be oppressive knowing that you will have to average over fifty miles a day to break the men’s record.”
I corrected him. “You mean the overall record.”
“What?” Warren didn’t understand what I was getting at.
“You mean the overall record, not the men’s record.”
I wasn’t trying to be disagreeable. The fact was, I wasn’t trying to beat the men’s record. I didn’t have anything against the boys. But by phrasing it that way, I was already considered an outsider, an underdog. The world may have seen me as a dark horse, but I didn’t see myself that way. The “overall record” sounded far more inclusive. Wording was important and would continue to be important throughout the hike.
The next forty-seven days would be filled with concise mantras and encouraging self-talk. Whether it stemmed from sports psychology or the insanity of spending long periods of time alone, I do not know. But I was certain that I would draw from my favorite phrases of hikes past, such as “Every step is one step closer,” “Hike it out,” and “It can’t always get worse.” I also knew that there would be new phrases that summer, and one that had already surfaced was, “I belong.”
I belonged out on the trail, and I belonged among the other A.T. record holders. Just because no woman had ever tried for the record or set the record in the past didn’t mean that I hadn’t earned the right to be at the base of Katahdin, ready to establish a new mark. This wasn’t about being male or female; this was about being the best. And I believed that my best was good enough for the overall record.
The next day was spitting rain, but I had waited two full years for this moment, and I didn’t want to delay any longer. We drove to Baxter State Park and established our campsite at the base of Katahdin. I spent the rest of the day making sure that the car was organized, knowing that Brew would quickly undo all my hard work. But when the chores were over and all the gear, food, and first aid had been put in its proper place, I still looked for something else—anything else—to do.
I found myself feeling both anxious and impatient. The waning hours of the day felt endless, and the sun seemed locked in the sky. Knowing that my miles would be slower through the technical terrain in New England, we had decided to start the hike close to the summer equinox in order to maximize the daylight hours. I never looked forward to night hiking, but on the rock scrambles and steep inclines of Maine and New Hampshire, I dreaded it.
At 9:45 p.m., when the darkness settled on the forest, I had the excuse I needed to crawl into my tent. I zipped up my sleeping bag, then stared wide-eyed at the thin gray fabric of the ceiling. The moon was so bright that it looked like someone was shining a flashlight outside. Every fifteen minutes, I checked my wrist-watch, hoping more time had passed than I’d expected. Even though I knew that my watch alarm was set for sometime just after midnight, it was still my longest night of the entire trip.
Finally when the piercing sound of the alarm filled the night air, I slipped on my shoes and a jacket and broke out of the tent like a caged animal.
I wanted to start extra early on the first day since my initial miles did not count toward my summer total. I needed to reach the summit and touch the sign for the record attempt to begin.
I started my ascent up the Greatest Mountain. I had completed this hike as a recent college grad and as a recent newlywed. Now I was here because I needed to know what I was capable of. My mind was racing. The third time on the trail would be the charm, I told myself. Either that, or a sign of insanity. Either way, I would need both luck and a little bit of madness to be successful this summer.
As I reached the end of the rock scramble, I looked out across the tableland that leads to the mountain summit. I turned off my headlamp. It was 3:25 a.m. The full moon illuminated large cairns that marked the trail. The gleam was so bright that I no longer needed artificial light to guide me down the path.
My feet gracefully carried me over the loose stones and dirt of the ridge. My breathing was short and quick, and my heart felt like it wanted to escape from inside my jacket.
The path began to rise to the summit. And then it appeared, the beautiful haunting sign that marks the northern terminus of the trail. I slowed to a reverent pace as I neared the worn brown marker. I approached the wooden altar that demanded so much sacrifice, and I stood before it. I reached out my right hand and began to trace the large white letters. K-A-T-A-H-D-I-N.
I took the deepest, most relaxing breath that I had enjoyed since starting my ascent of the mountain. I looked up at the moon watching over me and experienced a penetrating sense of calm. Part of my burden was already lifting. I would not have to wonder what might have been. I would never have to think about what if. The answers were out there. Now all I had to do was hike to them.
Every ounce of me loved being back on the trail. I felt graceful and fluid as I moved through the woods. Even though I had hiked on six continents, I still preferred the Appalachian Mountains.
Every time I set foot on the A.T., I feel like it is giving me a loving embrace. The stifling humidity in the south is like a warm breath on my neck, the verdant tunnel through the forest like long, strong arms enveloping me. The wisdom of the ancient summits whispers in my ear, and the consistency of the wildlife and plant life is like a familiar scent. I welcome the embrace, and it does not let me go.
I enjoyed the blue skies that welcomed me on the first day of the journey. I knew that they wouldn’t last, but I was grateful to at least start in good weather. Based on previous experience, I was also prepared for many of the obstacles that the trail threw my way. I knew to take only one hiking stick to the top of Katahdin, because I would need my free hand to help with rock scrambles on the descent. I was covered in all-natural bug spray to keep the black flies at bay, and I carried a pair of dry socks to change into after my two early-morning river crossings.
And as familiar as it all felt, I was struck by the subtle differences that made this a completely new experience. The water in the rivers was higher than it had been in the past, the reflection of Katahdin in Rainbow Lake was more brilliant, and I saw fewer people and stepped in more mud than I did in either 2005 or 2008. It was both exciting and daunting to know that no matter how many times I covered the distance of the A.T., I would never hike the same trail twice.
I met my crew four times that afternoon, which meant my pack stayed light and so did my heart. I loved seeing Brew’s smiling face and hearing Melissa clapping when I came to a road crossing. Each time I arrived, they would pull out a folding chair and ask what food and drinks I wanted from the car. They refilled my daypack, and once or twice, Brew even rubbed bug spray on my legs so that I wouldn’t have to.
It was amazing how quickly I got used to this treatment.
At the final road crossing of the day, I exited the woods without fanfare or greeting to find Melissa and Brew sleeping under bug netting and Warren nowhere in sight. I was disappointed and a little frustrated. I knew that the entire team had been up since three a.m., but if I was still going, then I expected the same from the crew. I grabbed some snacks and replenished my water bottles on my own at the car, and then I shut the trunk door loudly to wake up Melissa and Brew. They both bolted upright and looked at each other in horror. I could tell by the look in their eyes, the apologies, and the offers to help, that they felt horrible for lying down on the job, but by the time they were on their feet, I was already ten yards down the trail.
After shoving a handful of cheddar cheese and pretzels in my mouth and drinking some juice, it occurred to me that, like clockwork, I had become irrational. I had covered over forty miles, it was after five p.m., and I no longer had any perspective. As I began to digest the calories, I realized that I should be thankful that my husband and friends were out here helping me, not upset that they were exhausted and needed a quick nap. I realized once again why this was so hard on Brew. And I recognized that I would need to do a better job of controlling the hungry, tired monster that came out around six p.m.
That night when I arrived at our campsite, I walked out of the woods apologetic and appreciative. Warren and Melissa had already set up their tents and retired. Brew had our tent set up as well, and my freeze-dried dinner was cooked and waiting for me. Inside our shelter, Brew hunted the dozen or so black flies that had made their way in. This from the man who had scowled at me on our first date when I squished an ant because it was enjoying the picnic I had packed. He hated cruelty—even toward insects. But that was before 2008, when he was introduced to the black flies in Maine. Now he made it a point to kill as many of the tiny blood-sucking insects as possible.
On my side of the tent, I was using a handful of wet wipes to try to remove the grime and dirt that already covered my body. It was hard to believe that three nights ago, we had stayed in a hotel with a hot shower, an indoor pool, and a clean king-sized bed. Now, I was scrubbing my body down with a product primarily intended for babies’ bottoms, listening to my husband verbally abuse tiny biting insects while he randomly clapped his hands in the air in an effort to squash them. It was both comforting and horrifying to consider that this would be our routine for the next month and a half.
The next two days were exactly what I expected. They were hard.
I was sore and in pain, but I was still incredibly happy to be back on the trail. Because I had traveled this terrain twice before, it seemed like every new turn held an old memory. It was amazing how much of the trail I actually remembered. Sometimes I would reach out for a limb on a steep climb and remember placing my hand there before. Other times, when I stepped on a wooden bog log that protected the fragile lowlands, I would recall slipping and falling on that same damp piece of wood three years prior.
The one thing I didn’t remember with such clarity was just how arduous the Appalachian Trail was. No matter how many times I told myself that hiking would be challenging and tedious, I was never fully prepared.
The A.T. is not a smooth, well-graded trail. It is rugged, steep, and filled with constant elevation change. There are fallen trees that you must climb over and crawl under, river crossings that saturate your lower half and threaten to whisk you downstream, and sections of mud that seem to take pleasure in swallowing your ankles.
It is a blessing and a curse not to fully remember the challenges. This selective memory allowed me to return to the trail, but it also caused me to second-guess my decision and my abilities once I arrived.
Although the Hundred-Mile Wilderness is less difficult than some sections of trail in western Maine and New Hampshire, it has two very challenging mountain ranges. The north side of Whitecap leaves you feeling as if you are condemned to a never-ending staircase. And the steep grade of the Barren Chairback Mountains makes you feel as if you are scrambling up a ladder, not a mountain. I had to climb both ascents in one day, and the task left me both exhausted and elated.
When I arrived at Long Pond Stream at the west end of the Barren Chairback range, it was dusk. I quickly went down to the river to bathe, but as I approached it, I placed my foot on a slick rock and
fell forward, my hands and knees landing in the water. I pulled myself back to the shore and grabbed my ankle. Something didn’t feel right, so I gently tried to roll it clockwise and I knew immediately that it was sprained. I could still put pressure on it and I was thankful that it wasn’t injured worse, because I knew that I could keep hiking on a sprained ankle. But I hated feeling like I had come so far that day only to sustain a setback when I had finished hiking.
I submerged my ankle in the cold water to reduce the swelling. Sitting there in the dark, on the banks of Long Pond Stream, with my elbows on my knees and my face buried in my hands, I knew that all summer, I would feel as if I were hiking two steps forward and one step back. And I was humbly reminded that it would only take one split second, one misstep, or one mistake to end my dream.
The next day, my ankle hurt and my energy level was depleted, but I was still happy to be on the trail. I didn’t make it quite as far as I wanted to by the end of the day, but I knew I had set myself up to cross the Kennebec River the following morning.
The Kennebec is a wide, raging river that flows near the small town of Caratunk, Maine. Historically, many thru-hikers crossed it on foot. Then after someone lost their life in the ford, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy implemented a canoe ferry for hikers. On my last two thru-hikes, I had taken the ferry across. But this time I wanted to try to ford the river.
It had nothing to do with the record. In fact, fording would exert far more energy than just riding across in a canoe. And timing-wise, there was no real advantage since I’d arrived at the water’s edge just before the ferryman started to take hikers across. It was just that I had always wanted to cross the river on foot.
I loved listening to stories of thru-hikers from the sixties and seventies who said crossing the Kennebec was almost as meaningful to them as climbing Katahdin. I was out here to experience the trail in a new and different way, and because I wasn’t traveling with a full pack on my shoulders, I thought this would be the perfect time to ford. Plus, I had Warren.
Called Again Page 7