Nightwalker touched it first, followed by Mooch, but it didn’t feel like any of us had really finished until all three of us laid hands on the sign and raised our poles, hands, and mop stick into the air with a conquering yell. We hadn’t conquered the mountain or the trail. We had conquered our doubts, fears, and weaknesses.
After a few minutes of hugs, shouting, and celebrating, the boys and I started the traditional photo shoot by the sign. It was great to have my brother there, not only for moral support, but also as a photographer with a digital camera—especially since Nightwalker had broken his.
We took solo shots, group shots, silly shots, and triumphant shots. Before leaving, my brother let me scroll through the dozens of photos to make sure that we didn’t want to retake any. I laughed at the pictures; I didn’t know my smile could stretch that far. To an outsider, the images of dirty sun-worn travelers by a brown mountain sign would mean very little. But those who could appreciate the hard and trying story preceding those photos would understand that the pictures are worth more to me than anything I have ever owned.
When the photo shoot was over, we turned around and started to hike back down the mountain. I don’t want to say that climbing Katahdin was a letdown, because it wasn’t. But I thought I was going to have an epiphany once I reached the top. I thought I would feel different at the brown sign marking the mountain summit.
But when I was there, I was just happy.
Driving back home to North Carolina with my dad and brother, I had a lot of time to think. I thought about how strange and somewhat demoralizing it was that the same journey through a mountain range that had taken me four months to hike through could be completed in two days by car.
I also thought a lot about Homer’s Odyssey and its hero, Odysseus, my namesake. In college we had a class discussion about whether the tale of Odysseus taking ten years to return home in the midst of magic, gods, distraction, and disaster could be a real story. I was the only one in the class who thought it was possible.
Now it all made sense. I had just spent the past four months traveling a 2,175-mile footpath. And during that time, I had been struck by lightning and caught in a blizzard. I met a pirate, escaped a stalker, and encountered illegal drugs. I walked with a moose, avoided serpents of supernatural size, and fought with dark armies (of bugs). I suffered unexplained ailments, underwent spells of fatigue, and was rescued countless times by complete strangers. My best friend was a traveling comedian and minstrel, and I happily took part in a romantic subplot with a mysterious and handsome man. I had been met by a higher power Who guided me along the path, and even when I came face to face with death, I continued to seek out life.
But now that it was all over, I wondered: what did Odysseus do once he was back home?
21
HOMECOMING
SUMMER 2005 TO SUMMER 2008—3 YEARS
“You need to know that the trail can and will change you. Once you finish the trail, your life might not look the same as it did when you started. If you don’t want things to change, then you need to rethink thru-hiking.”
The words Warren Doyle had spoken at the Appalachian Trail Institute haunted me. I was looking forward to going home, but I didn’t realize how hard it would be to reconcile the last four months with the rest of my life. The world was the same, but I was different. I had connected on a deep level to my existence in the woods, and civilization wouldn’t be able to satisfy the parts of me that I had discovered on the trail.
The full impact of my thru-hike didn’t set in all at once, but revealed itself through my thoughts and interactions over the next weeks, months, and years. Post-trail, I fearlessly set out to find a new home and career, and I quickly found a position at a museum in Virginia. I loved my job and my coworkers, but I didn’t love my window. I should have been thankful for the window—with an office in the basement of a two-hundred-year-old house, I was one of the only employees who could look outside. And while I was happy to have the view, I became covetous of what I saw. From behind the glass pane, I watched the seasons change gradually, I observed the rain and snow as an onlooker and not as a participant, and worst of all, I saw feet, lots of feet, walking by my desk. I couldn’t see past anyone’s kneecaps because the window was above me and the view was limited, but all day every day I saw the shoes of museum visitors walk by, while my feet spent most of the day hidden underneath my desk in uncomfortable dress shoes.
My home life was good. I loved the apartment I lived in with my friend Alice. I loved the cold fruit that came from the refrigerator, the hot water that came from the spigots, and the warm and cool air that came from the vents. For the first few weeks after the trail, I was thankful for every meal, every clean piece of clothing, and every hot shower. But then my gratitude began to fade, and one winter night, standing under the forceful, steaming water shooting out of the showerhead, I realized how commonplace it had become. I remembered my joy at the jailhouse in Palmerton where I’d turned on every showerhead and run through the hot water like a child through a sprinkler, smiling and laughing out loud. My appreciation was now being washed away daily, and I no longer felt thankful for modern conveniences. Instead, I once again felt entitled to them.
It was easy for me to meet people in a new city, but most of my relationships stopped after the introduction. There were people around me all the time, but I didn’t feel like any of us really knew one another. Without seeking depth, I once again began to categorize people: church friend, work friend, good-looking friend, successful friend. And I once again felt alone.
I missed being by myself with my thoughts, and thinking things through to completion. I missed being able to sing out loud. I missed being serenaded to sleep by Mooch. And I much preferred my mountaintop and lakeside dates with Nightwalker to our frequent phone calls and e-mails.
A year after starting my hike at Springer Mountain, I felt like everything around me should have made me happy, but it didn’t. I had reverted back to a “normal” life, a life where I met everyone else’s expectations and not my own, a life that made me feel numb and empty.
I began to long for discomfort, for any pain or struggle that made me feel alive. I wanted to feel wet, tired, sore, hungry, and thirsty. I didn’t necessarily want to be cold, but I wanted to appreciate being warm. I missed always spending the night somewhere different, and I started to resent my stationary bed. When I fell asleep at night, I would dream of adventure, and when I woke up in the morning, I would thirst for real fellowship. I would get up, take a shower, put on clean clothes and makeup, but looking in the mirror, I never felt as beautiful as I did when I was a sunburned, bug-bitten hiker in Maine.
I wanted to go back into the woods.
I wanted to be Odyssa again.
I didn’t go straight back to the AT; that took several years. Instead, I saved up every penny I earned at work and took long breaks to thru-hike the Pacific Crest Trail and the Long Trail in Vermont. I traveled internationally to explore Machu Picchu in Peru, climb Kilimanjaro in Africa, and hike the Bibbulmun track in Australia. And every time I went into the woods, I came out different, better, more complete. As if instead of being Jen or Odyssa, I was finally melding together into one identity, on and off the trails.
Through all my travels and hiking, I felt certain that someday I would return to the Appalachian Trail. I knew I would come back, because for me there were more lessons embedded in that ancient mountain chain than anywhere else.
I always assumed that I would return alone. I was wrong.
My love life was pretty uneventful after finishing my first Appalachian Trail thru-hike. I stayed with Nightwalker for a while, but then we decided to become friends, and after that I became more interested in hiking than dating.
In August of 2007, I went for a short car ride with my brother’s friend Brew. Brew was six feet tall, with icy blue eyes and dirty blond hair. He was funny, sweet, and attractive, but he was my brother’s friend, so I thought our relationship would remain as platonic
as they come. During our twenty-minute drive across town, I informed Brew that I would be hiking the Appalachian Trail the next summer. Neither one of us could have guessed that we’d be married before then.
Falling in love, and doing it so quickly, changed my life and my hiking plans. By January, Brew and I were engaged, and while I still wanted to go back to the Appalachian Trail, I didn’t want to do it without Brew. As a schoolteacher, he had the summer free, so we decided that I would attempt a supported hike, with Brew providing a 2,175-mile slackpack, so that I could try to set the women’s speed record for the Appalachian Trail.
When I first met David Horton and Trail Dog, I never thought that I would one day try to join their ranks as a record-holder. But the thought of flowing down the trail as quickly as possible first intrigued me, and then captivated me. I thought about it every day and dreamed about it at night. It was never really about being a record-holder or hiking the trail in a specific number of days; it was about doing something amazing with my body that in the past had only been attempted by men. It was as simple as doing what I loved, in a place I loved, with the man I loved.
On June 8th, Brew and I were married. We honeymooned for twelve days in New England, then we set out from Katahdin on June 20th to try to set the women’s record on the Appalachian Trail.
I averaged thirty-eight miles a day that summer, which still surprises me, especially since I never felt rushed. I just let my body loose. For me, hiking quickly down the trail was like a free-form dance. It hurt and it was hard, but it never felt oppressive; it felt liberating and full of grace.
I also learned a lot from traveling down the trail so efficiently. Hiking for a record refined my understanding of simplicity and focus, and taught me lessons in communication and trust. There was no way that I could have traveled 2,175 miles in record time without Brew, and after finishing the adventure it felt like we had been married for two years instead of two months—in a good way.
On August 16th, after hiking for fifty-seven days and after seeing thirty bears, I arrived at Springer Mountain. I walked the short one-mile climb from the parking lot, holding hands with my husband and followed closely by my friends Warren Doyle, David Horton, and my family. I touched the rock on top of Springer Mountain amid cheers and the sound of cameras clicking.
“You’re probably gonna cry, or yell, or laugh when you get to Springer,” David Horton had said.
“It is going to be a profoundly meaningful and deeply moving moment,” countered Warren.
But now that I was there, it was Horton who was cheering and yelling and tearing up, and Warren who was reflecting upon the deeper significance of the moment. I felt much as I did the first time I summited Mount Katahdin: I felt happy.
We stood on the mountaintop and took pictures for several minutes. After taking photos, I knew right where to find the hidden journal. The last time I signed this register, I didn’t know who I was going to be, but this time I concluded my entry without hesitation.
Since setting the Appalachian Trail record, I have continued to work and I have continued to hike. In 2009, my husband and I thru-hiked the five-hundred-mile Colorado Trail together. It was Brew’s first thru-hike and my first time having a hiking partner for an entire trail. We both loved it.
At our home in Asheville, North Carolina, there is a list of potential hikes posted on our refrigerator. It includes local trails for day-hikes, trails that I would love to set a record on, trails reserved for Brew and me to do together, and—if one day we are blessed with children—we have a column for family-friendly hikes too.
For most people, I am defined by my 2008 Appalachian Trail record, which is strange to me, because it was my first thru-hike in 2005 that defined me. People often ask how I prepared for hiking the trail in fifty-seven days, how I developed the stamina and the mental toughness to keep pushing my limits day after day, and why I would even want to attempt such an endeavor. The problem is that most of the time the people who ask the questions are expecting a short response, an easy response, and that’s not possible. As a twenty-one-year-old, it took me four and a half months and 2,175 miles to find the answers.
2008 ITINERARY
DAY 0
Mount Katahdin to Nahmakanta Lake (south end)—40.8 miles
DAY 1
Nahmakanta Lake to Rural Logging Rd—43.8 miles
DAY 2
Rural Logging Rd to Maine 15—29.9 miles
DAY 3
Maine 15 to Caratunk (US 201)—36.7 miles
DAY 4
Caratunk (US 201) to Horns Pond Lean-To—31.5 miles
DAY 5
Horns Pond Lean-To to Maine 4 (Rangeley)—37.3 miles
DAY 6
Maine 4 (Rangeley) to South Arm Road—26.4 miles
DAY 7
South Arm Road to Speck Pond Campsite—25 miles
DAY 8
Speck Pond Campsite to Gorham (US 2)—26.5 miles
DAY 9
Gorham (US 2) to West Branch, Peabody River—25.1 miles
DAY 10
West Branch, Peabody River to Ethan Pond—24.9 miles
DAY 11
Ethan Pond to North Kinsman Mountain—30.2 miles
DAY 12
North Kinsman Mountain to Mount Cube—33.5 miles
DAY 13
Mount Cube to New Hampshire–Vermont Line—30.8 miles
DAY 14
New Hampshire–Vermont Line to Chateauguay Road—30.9 miles
DAY 15
Chateauguay Road to VT 103—32.1 miles
DAY 16
VT 103 to Spruce Peak Shelter—35.2 miles
DAY 17
Spruce Peak Shelter to VT 9—37.3 miles
DAY 18
VT 9 to Hoosic River—33 miles
DAY 19
Hoosic River to Tyringham, MA—36.3 miles
DAY 20
Tyringham, MA to Conn 41—41.9 miles
DAY 21
Conn 41 to Schaghticoke Rd—40.5 miles
DAY 22
Schaghticoke Rd to NY 301—37.9 miles
DAY 23
NY 301 to Orange Turnpike—38.6 miles
DAY 24
Orange Turnpike to Gemmer Rd—40.2 miles
DAY 25
Gemmer Rd to beyond Camp Rd—40.2 miles
DAY 26
Beyond Camp Rd to Lehigh Gap (PA 873)—45 miles
DAY 27
Lehigh Gap (PA 873) to Port Clinton, PA—40 miles
DAY 28
Port Clinton, PA to Rausch Gap—41.1 miles
DAY 29
Rausch Gap to beyond Scott Farm—42.4 miles
DAY 30
Beyond Scott Farm to Sandy Sod Junction—47.3 miles
DAY 31
Sandy Sod Junction to Dahlgren Campground—45.7 miles
DAY 32
Dahlgren Campground to Bears Den Rocks—37.8 miles
DAY 33
Bears Den Rocks to US 522—33.4 miles
DAY 34
US 552 to Skyland Service Rd—37.2 miles
DAY 35
Skyland Service Rd to Pinefield Hut—36.7 miles
DAY 36
Pinefield Hut to Rockfish Gap (US 250)—33.2 miles
DAY 37
Rockfish Gap (US 250) to Porters Field—40.2 miles
DAY 38
Porters Field to Matts Creek Shelter—39.1 miles
DAY 39
Matts Creek Shelter to Black Horse Gap—40.9 miles
DAY 40
Black Horse Gap to VA 624—39.3 miles
DAY 41
VA 624 to VA 635—46.3 miles
DAY 42
VA 635 to VA 606—46 miles
DAY 43
VA 606 to VA 623—37.7 miles
DAY 44
VA 623 to Va 16—40.7 miles
DAY 45
VA 16 to VA 600—40 miles
DAY 46
VA 600 to Low Gap (US 421)—38.6 miles
DAY 47
Low Gap (US 421) to White Roc
ks Mountain—40.1 miles
DAY 48
White Rocks Mountain to Carvers Gap (Tenn 143)—33.3 miles
DAY 49
Carvers Gap (Tenn 143) to Nolichucky River Valley—31.8 miles
DAY 50
Nolichucky River Valley to Flint Mountain Shelter—37.1 miles
DAY 51
Flint Mountain Shelter to Deer Park Mountain Shelter—35.5 miles
DAY 52
Deer Park Mountain Shelter to Davenport Gap (Tenn 32)—32.6 miles
DAY 53
Davenport Gap (Tenn 32) to Buckeye Gap—46.5 miles
DAY 54
Buckeye Gap to Cheoah Bald—46.4 miles
DAY 55
Cheoah Bald to Mooney Gap—46.7
DAY 56
Mooney Gap to Neels Gap (US 19/129)—65.6 miles
DAY 57
Neels Gap (US 19/129) to Springer Mountain—30.7 miles
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The trails are such an amazing resource, and I want to thank the organizations, volunteers, and trail maintainers who work so hard to keep the trail open and accessible to the public. I especially want to thank the Appalachian Trail Conservancy and the AT Trail Crews who help to protect and preserve the 2,175-mile miracle in the mountains.
Becoming Odyssa Page 30
