In a strange way, it almost felt as if the pain in my feet and my nausea were connected, as if my stomach was having a physical reaction to the pain. But after an hour and a half of lying in the shelter, they both felt better.
I called my mom again to see if it was okay to hike to the next shelter. She said no.
An hour later I tried again. She still said no.
Finally, after four hours of waiting and resting, my mom called and said that the rain had passed and I could continue hiking.
Ten minutes past the shelter I heard thunder, and within the hour I was caught in another torrential downpour.
I decided that despite our advances in technology, sometimes in life and on the trail, I was simply better off with the information at hand. I traveled six miles and arrived at Lambert’s Meadow shelter at dusk, soaking wet and cold. I resolved not to let my mom perform any more armchair meteorology.
11
INSPIRATION
TROUTVILLE, VA, TO ROCKFISH GAP, VA—132.3 MILES
The Appalachian Trail leaves Roanoke and crisscrosses the Blue Ridge Parkway on its way to Rockfish Gap. People who drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway like to pull over to check out scenic overlooks and then keep driving. Thru-hikers work harder for the same views and know them more intimately. For a hiker, the prominent peaks are not connected by a road, they are woven together with hardwood forests and meandering creeks. Cold Mountain, The Priest, and Three Ridges each provide glimpses of the lofty Blue Ridge Mountains to the south and the green Shenandoah Valley to the north.
I couldn’t wait to get to Roanoke. The trail doesn’t actually go through Roanoke, it skirts the city on a high ridge and then dives down into the outlying town of Troutville. Pastor Leslie lived in Roanoke, but she was going to pick me up at the post office in Troutville around lunchtime.
I arrived at the post office earlier than expected and immediately went inside to collect a resupply box that I had sent. The mail clerk handed me the box of provisions I had prepared at home, plus another box that was twice as large and oozing something out of the bottom left corner.
I took both parcels outside. I hadn’t anticipated a second package, and when I saw that it was from my college roommates, I didn’t know what to expect—especially since it was dripping orange slime and they had paid thirty dollars to overnight it to Troutville.
When I tore through the wet cardboard, I found one shoebox full of homemade cookies and another full of individually wrapped orange mush that had created a puddle of sticky goo inside the package. Even in their melted state, I still recognized Katie’s sweet potato bars, and I immediately started eating and licking the orange goo off of the plastic wrap.
I loved my college roommates, and I knew that I always would. There was something about surviving such a transitional four years together that made me believe we would always be friends. My mom must have felt the same way, since Pastor Leslie had been her college roommate.
As I took another bite of my sweet potato bar and licked the dripping goo off my hand, I decided that my mom must have been relatively cool growing up, because she had some pretty amazing friends.
When I was a child, I was convinced that Pastor Leslie—which is what I grew up calling her—was just as much my friend as my mother’s. She would play sports with me in the yard, tell me stories that were usually reserved for the older kids, and let me drink Sprite at dinner. As I grew older, I saw Pastor Leslie less, but she remained an influential part of my life. I always wanted updates on what she was doing, and I was captivated by the mission trips she took to serve the sick and poor in Africa.
I never thought it was weird that Pastor Leslie was a white pastor at an African-American church. I had gone to her church once as a child and loved it. What I loved most was leaving the service and eating donuts and watching Bible cartoons in the basement with the other kids, but I also remember the singing. For the first time in my life, I’d heard people willing to sing above a whisper in a church service. I remember looking up at men and women swaying and singing with their eyes closed. Some clapped their hands, some danced, and the sound of their voices coming together . . . I didn’t just hear it. I felt it.
I arrived in Roanoke on Saturday, so I spent the day relaxing and doctoring my feet with over-the-counter first aid treatments. And the following day I went to church.
When I woke up on Sunday morning, I put on my nicest outfit, which consisted of clean, black rain gear. On the way to church, Pastor Leslie asked if I would be interested in speaking to the children’s Sunday School class and telling them about my hike. Her offer caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure what I would talk about, but I agreed, mainly because I love kids (and I was secretly hoping for some donuts).
When we arrived, I was ushered into the small sanctuary where the children gathered for Sunday School. There were just over a dozen kids in the room, ranging in age from four to twelve.
I asked them to raise their hands if they had ever heard of the Appalachian Trail, but no arms went up. Then I asked if any of them had ever been backpacking—still no hands. Finally I asked if they had ever been on a hike, and three children shot their fingers toward the ceiling.
I started with an overview of the trail. I told them how far I had come, what a typical day was like, what I carried in my pack, and how I resupplied. Then I opened the floor up for questions.
Instantly every hand went up. I called on the children one by one, and even after answering the first ten questions, there were still twelve hands in the air. I was a veteran at fielding inquiries about the trail from adults, but I was taken aback to hear an entirely new set of questions from these children.
Adults usually asked questions rooted in fear: Was I scared? Did I carry a gun? What did I do about snakes and bears? What if I couldn’t make it? What did my parents think?
The children, on the other hand, asked questions rooted in curiosity: What was my favorite part of hiking? What did I like about sleeping outside? What were my favorite animals? What was I going to do when I got to the end? Would I ever want to do it again?
Their interest was so great that even after our hour together had ended, there were still kids propping their hands up on a pew or holding up one hand with the other, hoping I would call on them. Our session ended abruptly when the adults flooded into the sanctuary and Pastor Leslie directed me to a front pew, where I sat waiting for the service to begin.
After starting with announcements, the congregation was called to their feet, and for the next hour, the small sanctuary was filled with heartfelt song.
Much like I remembered, this was not the praise music of contemporary churches, nor was it the bellows of traditional hymns. It was the music of a community overtaken by joy. Soulful harmonies filled the chapel, and I was amazed by the freedom of expression. The congregation swayed, danced, stomped, clapped, and raised their hands in the air, but it wasn’t for show, it was in celebration.
At most churches, the noon hour would mark the end of the service. At this Assembly, 12:00 marked the end of the music hour and the beginning of a period where people who were filled with the spirit could speak in tongues.
I had never heard anyone speak in tongues, and my home church treated it as taboo, so I was filled with curiosity when the first groans and mutterings filled the room. The congregation mumbled and uttered in ways I could not comprehend, but I knew that this was important to them, and I could tell that it made them feel connected to a higher power.
It occurred to me that hiking allowed me to experience God in a way that others might not understand. In many ways, I felt a direct communion with God through the trail: I saw His glory in the mountains, His presence in the clouds, His peace in the rivers, His power in the weather, and His ingenuity in the animals of the forest. Maybe hiking the trail was my version of speaking in tongues?
After the Holy Spirit had passed through the congregation, men and women walked up to a microphone at the front of the church and spoke the words that God h
ad placed in their hearts. And, as it turns out, God had convinced several people to talk directly to me.
The first woman who stood up was middle-aged, round, and dressed in all purple. She said, “God has a purpose for your hike. He is with you, and He will never leave you or forsake you.”
The congregation agreed: “Amen.” “Hallelujah.” “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm.”
Next, an older man with glasses and dark freckles on his wrinkled cheeks walked up to the microphone, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Sister, don’t ever think that you are alone in your journey, for even in the deepest valley and on top of the highest mountain, there God is, walking beside you.”
The crowd responded, “Yes, Lord!” “Preach it brother!”
I was embarrassed at being directly addressed, but I believed the words were true, and whether from God or man or both, I needed to hear them.
I was relieved when the time of sharing came to an end, but I wasn’t prepared for what came next.
The next part of worship began once again with gospel music, which I loved, and the singing led to dancing, which I liked, but then the dancing led to shaking, and I wasn’t so sure about the shaking. One by one, I saw men and women seized by convulsions that they couldn’t control.
Then one of the women stopped shaking and fainted. She really fainted! Then another man passed out . . . and then another! The only time I had ever seen anything like this was flipping through TV channels and watching televangelists yell and scream and then heal people with their hands. I had always thought that it was fake, but the people in front of me were really passing out! They even had spotters poised to catch the limp bodies before they hit the floor.
Speaking in tongues was one thing, but this was another level of crazy. I wasn’t prepared for it and didn’t know whether to believe my eyes.
And that’s when I began to feel it.
I felt lightheaded—really lightheaded. My knees grew weak, and then I had a head rush, and even though my eyes were open, everything around me went dark and I felt dizzy. As the darkness continued to close in, I felt for the pew with my hand and quickly sat down. Once I was seated, my vision and strength returned. I was the only person in the church not standing, but that was okay, because I hadn’t passed out.
I had never been overcome by such a powerful weakness in my life. If I had remained standing, I’m sure I would have fainted. I wanted to believe that it was low blood sugar that caused my dizzy spell, but I knew it was more than that. It felt like something had passed through me. I was scared to stand up again, so I was thankful when, a few minutes later, the entire congregation sat down to listen to the sermon.
I had grown up in a church where we weren’t even allowed to clap, but that morning I was convinced that the Holy Spirit could make people shake and faint. I didn’t want to shake or faint as an act of worship, I wanted to hike 2,175 miles.
It probably would have been a whole lot easier to just pass out.
Pastor Leslie sent me back to the trail with salve, powder, bandages, and, most importantly, moisture-wicking socks. Considering the shape my feet were in when I arrived in Roanoke, it was amazing how much better they felt after keeping them dry, clean, and rested for two days.
I didn’t just feel rested, I felt renewed. I couldn’t believe that I had hiked over seven hundred miles. I was proud of my accomplishment, but the distance had also taken a toll on my spirit, especially when I thought about the fourteen hundred miles I had left to hike.
The people at the church in Roanoke inspired me because they believed in a God Who could do anything, and Who wanted you to ask Him for everything. They were people who allowed the Holy Spirit to work in and through them without shame. They spoke words that were uplifting, they gave me hugs and handshakes that felt healing, and they prayed that God would protect me and provide for me. Their love, their fellowship, and their prayers gave me strength.
I felt like God had been sending me encouragement throughout my time on the trail. He had sent me sunsets, wildflowers, wildlife; He had sent kind words from strangers, or trail magic when I needed it most. But my time in Roanoke was His biggest gift yet. I no longer cared how crazy it seemed or what other people thought: I believed I had been called to the trail.
When Pastor Leslie dropped me back off at the trail on Monday morning, it was the middle of April and I was in central Virginia. That meant I was well ahead of most thru-hikers, so I only encountered a handful of people on the trail. It also meant that I was able to watch one of the prettiest stretches of the trail wake up from winter and bloom into spring.
Spring was timid in arriving. During the day, she would show her presence through a deer next to her fawn, the excited chirping of a songbird, or an early flower such as a bright orange Indian paintbrush poking up through the heavy, wet fall leaves. But at night, she surrendered herself to the cold temperatures and snow flurries that still gripped the darkness.
I decided that if spring needed encouragement to hang around, then I was going to be her biggest cheerleader. I thanked her each time the sun greeted me with a blanket of warmth, I laughed with the wafting breeze when it carried a scent of honeysuckle to tickle my nose, and I hiked late into the evening so that I could dance down the trail to the crickets’ serenade.
Like the weather, the trail had also become more kind. The path no longer presented grueling half-day climbs, but it did keep me busy with constant ups and downs that alternated their views between mountain vistas, expansive valleys, rolling meadows, and winding countryside.
Yes, it was a good time to be a thru-hiker in central Virginia. With so much beauty, so few people, and such mild terrain, I found myself unintentionally hiking thirty miles a day. I wasn’t hiking any faster than before, but the days were longer, the trail was less difficult, and I always wanted to go a little farther to see what pleasant surprise awaited me around the next turn.
I loved waking up to hike, but for the first time since starting the trail, I no longer loved to eat. Leaving Roanoke, I had filled a third of my pack with just food. But on this stretch, I didn’t want to eat any of it. I don’t know if I was distracted by the splendor of the trail or if I required fewer calories in spring’s warmer weather. Perhaps I was just tired of trying to consume four thousand calories every day. But whatever the reason, my appetite had vanished.
One night, I had a lollipop for dinner—that was all. The next day, instead of lunch, I just sucked on multicolored, sour neon gummy worms for energy. This seemed to be working, until I tripped over a rock and got one lodged in my throat.
I could barely breathe. I hunched over, hacking to try and dislodge it, but the worm remained. The sour coating burned the back of my throat.
Finally, red in the face and reduced to my knees, I dislodged it with a convulsive cough. It had been a freak incident, but I was traumatized by the thought of choking with no one around to help. And that did nothing to help my appetite.
Even though I wasn’t eating, my energy level stayed constant—until I reached Cold Mountain.
A lot of hikers love maps; they love to carry maps, they love to look at their maps throughout the day, and they love to figure out the specific distances and elevations separating different points on the maps.
I don’t particularly care for maps.
The trail is clearly marked, the mountains are clearly there, and the elevation is not going to change no matter how many times you pull out the map and look at the climb in front of you. If I am going to summit regardless of elevation, then I would rather determine the difficulty once I arrive at the top of the mountain and am able to look down, as opposed to standing at the bottom and looking at a map.
I was glad there were no maps warning me about the climb up Cold Mountain from Brown Mountain Creek. If I had known what I was getting myself into, I think I might have just stayed in the valley. It took several hours to reach the top, and the ascent was so steep that I had to walk on my tiptoes because my heels couldn’t reach the angled tread
.
At the start of the climb, I felt lightheaded and dizzy, then after an hour I began to feel a slight pain in my stomach. Initially, I thought it was a cramp, but then I realized it was a hunger pain. My body needed nourishment. The problem was that I was so lightheaded and nauseated from not eating that I couldn’t stomach the thought of food.
Originally, eating had been one of the biggest draws of thru-hiking. Being able to eat whatever I wanted and still lose weight was revolutionary. It was a no-fail diet. I never dreamed that I would get tired of it. But just like filling up a gas tank, keeping up with my caloric needs had become a chore.
I knew I wasn’t going to make it much farther if I didn’t stop to refuel, so I sat down and started gumming a granola bar. I sucked on it until it became soft, and then rolled it around with my tongue until I could swallow it. I didn’t want to chew. I was tired of chewing.
One hundred and fifty calories was enough to get me to the top of Cold Mountain. Unfortunately, climbing down the mountain wasn’t much easier than going up it. My body felt horrible hiking, but when I stopped to take a break, I felt even worse.
When I came out to a dirt road, I was tired, weak, and still unwilling to chew. There was a pickup truck nearby, and beside it stood a woman who was probably in her mid-thirties. Granola, as she introduced herself, had braided pigtails and wore a cute athletic tank-top and sport skirt. She was a vision of cleanliness and beauty—except for her legs, which looked like they hadn’t seen a razor in over a year.
“Are you a thru-hiker?” I asked.
“I was last year,” she said. “I made it to Katahdin in July, but I liked the trail so much that I just turned around and started hiking back to Georgia.”
The trail had a term for thru-hikes completed back-to-back in the opposite direction. “So you did a yo-yo?” I asked.
Becoming Odyssa Page 15
