Called Again

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  On the morning of my second day hiking through the Garden State, I passed through High Point State Park. And before I knew it, I had arrived at the parking lot near the summit of Sunrise Mountain. I saw our car there, but Brew was nowhere to be seen and neither was Melissa. I was starving. The car was locked and I needed more food and water for the next stretch. Where were they!? They were supposed to be here. I wanted to get more supplies so I could keep hiking as fast as possible over Sunrise Mountain.

  I called out, but no one answered. Then I started to cry. I knew exactly where they were. They were waiting for me on top of the mountain.

  When Brew and I came to this spot on our hike in 2008, we sat and prayed on the summit together. It was a therapeutic experience that helped me to recover from the suicide I’d encountered on the mountain three years before. We remembered the young man who had ended his life on the trail, and we prayed for his family. We thanked God for the healing power of the wilderness, and we voiced our hopes that the trail would continue to encourage and restore the people who spent time there. Our short service was redemptive. But it was also planned, thought-out, and discussed.

  This time, my body had arrived at this location before my mind. I was not ready for Sunrise Mountain. I did not plan to have a prayer vigil on top of the mountain, and I did not want to stop inside the pavilion that crowned the summit; I just wanted to get past it.

  Out of all the images that my mind had locked away from previous thru-hikes, the scene from the top of this mountain was the one that I most desperately wanted to get rid of. But I could still recall every vivid detail from that warm morning in May, and I knew there was nothing I could ever do to make the memory recede.

  I started hiking up toward the pavilion, and as I walked, tears started streaming down my face. I called again for Brew.

  Soon, I heard him calling back as he hiked down the trail toward me. He saw my face and he knew right away that he’d made a mistake.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you in the parking lot?!” My voice was desperate and accusatory.

  “Melissa wanted to take pictures, and I thought that you would want to pray like last time.”

  “I don’t want to pray,” I whimpered.

  “Do you want to go back to the car?”

  “No! I can’t go backward. Not now. I just want to get past it.”

  “Okay, hold my hand. We have food and supplies up there. We will get through the pavilion and on the other side of the summit before we stop. Okay?”

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  Brew guided me up the remaining ascent, through the pavilion, and down the rocks on the opposite slope before we stopped. I sat down on a slab of warm white granite; took a few gasping breaths; and began to eat, drink, and pull myself together. This was one of the only times on the entire hike that I was frustrated with Brew. I was upset with my crew for not intuiting my needs. Couldn’t they understand? The demands of this journey were so great that my wounds simply could not heal.

  A few miles before crossing into Pennsylvania, a reporter met us at Camp Road. I had been hesitant to allow any press to visit us on our journey because I believed that an experience and a story are two different things. An experience is personal; a story is public.

  To have a good story, you need a worthwhile experience. But too many times one negatively affects the other. Either the storytelling hinders the flow of the experience or the experience is altered to create a better story (and what you wind up with is “reality” television).

  I decided that I would make a concerted effort to share my story before the summer, and again after the hike, because it was a good story and an important one to tell. But on the trail, I knew that if we didn’t focus one-hundred percent of our energy on the experience, we might not create a worthwhile ending.

  Brew was able to write a basic blog about the trip and email it out every few days. But I had not held a pen, looked at a computer screen, or called anyone except my husband since we started.

  I was thankful that Brew could keep some kind of journal. It was fun for him, he is a great writer, and it kept his mind occupied during those times when he would rather be hiking. It would also provide us with a way to remember the adventure once it ended. I liked to picture Brew several years down the road with a little boy or girl sitting on his lap, listening to Daddy read about Mommy’s crossing the Kennebec River with Uncle Warren. The blog was more for our own PR (personal reasons), than for public relations.

  I declined a dozen or so requests from reporters who wanted to visit us on the trail, and all of them had understood our desire for privacy and focus—all but one.

  That writer responded by stating that it was his right to interview us and take pictures, and if he needed to hide in the woods and wait for us to pass, then he would. He made me hate the paparazzi without even being famous. I forwarded my concerns and the correspondence to his editor, and she handled the matter, saying that he would not bother us. Problem solved.

  Brew and I did, however, grant two press passes based on the following criteria: first, that I knew the reporter and had worked with him or her in the past, and second, that he or she had to be a really good hiker.

  One of the journalists who fell into this category was a photographer from the Hendersonville Times News, my hometown newspaper. We would see him in North Carolina—if we made it that far. The other was Keith, a freelancer from New York. He was young and fit and he loved to hike, and I had enjoyed working with him on previous articles. Even so, I made it very clear to him that any interview would take place on the trail while I hiked at least three miles per hour.

  When Keith arrived at the Mohican Outdoor Center, he had his hiking shoes on and he was ready to go. We set out from the road crossing together, and he did a great job of keeping up. I loved sharing the trail with someone new. For the past three weeks, my only substantial conversations had been with Brew, Melissa, Warren, and Steve. A new person meant new conversations, new entertainment, and new energy.

  Keith brought an excitement to the trail, and he asked great questions. Thinking about my responses kept my mind occupied, and before I knew it, we had crossed the Delaware River, which meant I was in Pennsylvania!

  That night, Keith camped out with us. As soon as I reached our final road crossing, I dove into my tent and fell asleep, but Keith stayed up a little longer to interview Melissa and Steve.

  The next morning, I kept hiking, and I didn’t see Keith again. I don’t want to say we made a mistake by allowing him to visit us on the trail, because I loved hiking with him and he didn’t cause the slightest hiccup in our logistics. But I soon regretted his visit, nonetheless.

  Keith said the editor at The New York Times was interested in his story. If I had been at home to hear that news, I would have done jumping jacks and cartwheels in my living room. But as I hiked over the rocks of Pennsylvania in hundred-degree heat, I didn’t want to give Keith or the article a second thought. I was too focused on mileage to care about what newspaper wanted to pick up the piece or when it would be printed.

  However, it was a big deal to everyone else. After Keith left, all Melissa talked about was the article. She brought it up constantly, and mentioned more times than I can count how cool it was that her photos were going to be in The New York Times. Steve did a good job of downplaying his excitement, but I could sense how thrilled he was to be included in the newspaper that all his New York buddies would read. Brew was also excited, but I told him that I didn’t want to talk about it, so we didn’t.

  Still, I could tell that the attention had shifted from the experience to the story. The group had lost its focus.

  I didn’t blame my crew for being excited. But it did leave me feeling frustrated, stressed, and angry. I wanted everything to be business as usual. We had all worked so hard and overcome so much to be in this position. I had gained a small lead on Andrew Thompson, but I knew we had to concentrate
on the details of every mile and road crossing or else the record would slip through our fingers. I needed the crew to keep all their attention on the task at hand.

  If this hike had taught me anything, it was that I needed to live in the present. If I thought about yesterday I would feel exhausted and distracted, and if I looked toward tomorrow I would become overwhelmed and demoralized. At any given time, the only thing I could do for certain was take one more step and then another and another.

  On a very hot, very muggy morning, which felt even more oppressive on the rocky terrain of Pennsylvania, Melissa joined me for a few miles of hiking.

  There were days when I wanted Melissa to talk to distract me; other times I wanted her to be silent. Sometimes I needed her to be happy, and on other days if she was happy, it would make me mad. I had told her before we began that I would have good days and bad days on the trail—and this was a bad day.

  That morning, as she hiked behind me, she couldn’t stop talking about her pictures, The New York Times, and how this hike would launch her photography business. The whole time, I was quiet, and Melissa interpreted my quiet as a sign that she should keep talking.

  All the while, I was fuming on the inside. My relationship with Melissa and Steve had been hit or miss ever since they started spending the night at Steve’s house in New York. And since we left New Jersey, I felt like both of them were helping us more on their terms than on our needs. Now, Melissa kept going on and on about The New York Times and referencing how my hike was going to help her business and . . . I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

  In the midst of my anger, I wondered what percentage of my frustration was justified and what percentage was caused by fatigue and hunger. I was aware that we were in Pennsylvania, over 1,000 miles from the start, with over 1,000 miles left to go. In both of my previous thru-hikes, this state had been marked by meltdowns. And here I was again, angry, irrational, and needing more from my crew. How was I going to communicate to a friend who had volunteered to spend three weeks of her summer with us, and who we thanked with freeze-dried dinners and Clif Bars, that I wanted her to stop talking about herself and give me more?

  I knew that what I really wanted was something Melissa couldn’t provide, and that was for my husband to be hiking with me.

  It wasn’t Melissa’s fault that Brew was injured and couldn’t hike. It wasn’t Brew’s fault, either. It was the fault of that dumbass who intentionally fouled Brew in a recreational league basketball game, tackling him on a lay-up like it was the game-winning shot of the NBA finals—when the guy’s team was already down by twenty points! That is who I was really mad at!

  But I was also annoyed that Melissa kept talking about her photos and The New York Times and her career and how great it was to hike in the “summer sun” on the “interesting rocks” in Pennsylvania.

  My head felt like it was about to explode. Just then, my big toe caught the top of a rock and pitched me forward onto my hands and knees. I stood up to dust off the dirt and examine what new scrapes had been added to my collection, when I heard Melissa say, “Maybe your shoes are causing you to trip. My shoes are awesome. They have great traction and are really comfortable, and . . .”

  That was it. I had had it! I wasn’t tripping because of my shoes. I loved my shoes. They were absolutely the best hiking shoes I had ever worn. I was tripping because I was hiking over forty-five miles every day and my body was exhausted, and sometimes it was a struggle to lift my feet as high as they needed to go.

  “Mel, I want to hike by myself right now,” I barked. “I’ll see you at the next road!” It wasn’t entirely polite, but it could have been a lot worse.

  I arrived at the road crossing several minutes ahead of Melissa and in a foul mood. New York Steve was sitting in the shade, drinking ice water. It was his last full day with us, since he would be going home tomorrow. And since we were farther than two hours from his home, he had been staying at a hotel every night. But tonight I couldn’t end at a road crossing, and I needed Steve’s help hiking in and camping out.

  “Steve, I need you to help me backpack tonight.”

  “No way,” he said.

  I guess I wasn’t the only one who could be blunt.

  “Are you serious, you’re not going to help me?”

  “I’m a runner, not a backpacker,” he said. “I don’t camp out.”

  Brew was standing over by the car, pulling fries out of a McDonald’s sack. I walked over to him.

  “I need to talk to you—just you,” I said.

  Brew nodded. “Grab some food. I have your pack and we can rest in the forest.”

  He followed me into the woods, and we each picked a rock to sit on.

  “Melissa and Steve are driving me crazy,” I said. “I know that I should be appreciative that they are here and that they are helping us, but neither of them will hike the next stretch because it goes over the Superffund site near Palmerton, and they both said it would be too hot and rocky. Steve isn’t helping me tonight because he doesn’t want to camp out. And if I hear one more comment about the freaking pictures or The New York Times, I am going to lose it.”

  “Do you want me to call Jim?” asked Brew.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “You know, Jim. Rambler. The hiker you met in the Bigelows. He lives in Pennsylvania and he emailed me the other day saying he could come out and help us if we needed it. It would be good to have some fresh legs. The past few days—and weeks—have been really hard on everyone. I know that you are completely exhausted, but Melissa and Steve are tired too. They are both planning to leave soon anyway, and we really need someone with us who knows the trail and can camp out with you.”

  “What are we going to tell them?” I asked.

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “Call Rambler.”

  Brew and I seemed to be experiencing a role reversal. Off the trail, I was far more comfortable with confrontation. I wanted to solve problems, not suppress them. Brew hated conflict, and he avoided it at all costs.

  But this summer, he was far more authoritative and assertive. He was showing me a whole new side of himself. I loved the old Brew, but seeing the new Brew in action was kind of a turn-on.

  Too bad I was becoming less attractive on this hike, not just physically, but socially, too. I knew that the record would test my mind and body, but I did not realize how much it would test my friendships. The record prevented me from putting others before myself. And it was causing a lot of collateral damage.

  That afternoon, at a road crossing outside of Palmerton, Brew and I thanked Steve and Melissa for their help, and together they drove away in Steve’s SUV. It was a tense, awkward parting. I had experienced so many good times with both of them in the past, and on the record attempt we had covered countless enjoyable miles together. But that last day was a bad one, and it left a foul taste in everyone’s mouth.

  My two friends drove away feeling hurt and unappreciated. I felt horrible about how everything ended, especially with Melissa. She had been with us from the beginning, and her help had been invaluable. I could never have made it to Pennsylvania without her. I had thanked her countless times along the journey. I even thanked her as she was leaving—but it sounded different.

  I watched Steve’s car disappear, and as guilty as I felt, I knew that asking them to leave had been the right decision. We would have all agreed that the group dynamics were not working. And in order to set the record, I needed more than a strong body and a strong mind working together; I needed a strong support team working together.

  I had to trust that when this was over, I could offer the heartfelt apologies, and we could have the tearful conversations that hiking forty-five miles a day did not afford. I hoped that our friendship was stronger than a few bad days on the trail.

  During my first thru-hike in 2005, I had allowed myself to express and experience all my feelings openly, and I had discovered sentiments inside myself that I didn’t know existed. But this
journey was just the opposite. I had to suppress feelings of frustration, fear, sorrow, discontentment, and pain. At times, I even had to rein in my excitement and pride because when I lost control, I lost sight of the goal. Maintaining that constant focus made me feel and act distant, and that might have been the most difficult part of the entire endeavor.

  Thank God for Brew. He was still human; he could still feel. Brew could express my sentiments to others even when I couldn’t. And he felt my inner struggle and excitement, even when I didn’t let it show.

  At our wedding, we had included a Bible reading from Matthew 10: “Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one.” Until now, I always thought that verse referred to sex, and because of that it was one of Brew’s favorite nighttime devotionals. However, this hike had given the passage new meaning. My husband could not physically hike, and I could not emotionally feel. But he was my heart and I was his legs, and together we were still whole.

  • 11 •

  THRU-HIKERS

  JULY 6, 2011—JULY 14, 2011

  Scrambling over the jagged outcroppings and wobbly rocks at Bake Oven Knob and Bear Rocks seemed much more difficult than it had been on my previous hikes. When I arrived at the Cliffs on a mid-summer evening, I could not believe that I had either forgotten or underestimated how dangerous this high, narrow ridge could be.

  In all three of these sections, the rocks seemed more ubiquitous, the late-day heat seemed more oppressive, and the potential missteps seemed more perilous than they had in the past. I decided that the heightened risk must be in my head. Either my increased age or my extreme fatigue was making me more timid. I concluded that the only thing different about these sections was that more graffiti had been added to the easily accessed overlooks.