Called Again

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  One morning we were climbing up a grassy mountain slope. The birds were chirping and flitting in and out of the tall grass like rocks skipping over a still pond. I wanted to be present. I wanted to be in the moment and take it all in. But that was difficult when Brew was behind me, talking about his chronic chafing problems.

  My frustration heightened along with our ascent. Finally, after thirty minutes of listening to the same complaints and potential cures that I had heard many times before, I looked back and said, “Brew, I love being with you, but you know we don’t have to talk all the time, right?!”

  “I’m not talking all the time,” he said.

  “Well, you’re talking a lot of the time.”

  “I thought that was what you wanted.” He paused (but just briefly). “You always talk about how much fun you had walking with Nightwalker and Mooch on your first A.T. hike. It seemed like your hike got a lot better when you started hiking and talking with them.”

  “Well, it did, but we still didn’t talk all the time. We didn’t even hike together most of the time.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No, usually we all went at our own pace and then we met up to eat and camp together.”

  “Oh.”

  The way he responded, I suddenly realized that my husband hadn’t been talking incessantly for his enjoyment; he had been doing it because he thought it was what I wanted.

  After that, Brew was silent for a few minutes. And the next time he opened his mouth, he said, “Well, I’m not going to talk as much. But maybe I’ll start singing more.”

  For the last two weeks of our hike, we continued hiking together most of the time, but we were quiet more. We both spoke up when we had something to say, and three or four times a day, Brew would sing out loud. He wasn’t doing it to fill the silence; he was doing it because he enjoyed it. And I liked it, too.

  I don’t know of any situation where spouses, partners, or significant others spend more time together than on a thru-hike. Even if a married couple is working together, they will still spend time on their own. But hiking a trail with someone is like being tethered to him. You are dependent on one another for shared food and gear. You travel together during the day, and sleep in a small, enclosed tent at night. There is no personal space.

  Completing the Colorado Trail was an invaluable experience for the two of us as individuals and as a couple. Brew had learned how to thru-hike, and I had learned how to thru-hike with someone else. And once again, the trail had strengthened our marriage. We had spent more quality time alone together, away from friends and family. Even if it hadn’t been in Fiji.

  When Brew and I finished our five hundred miles together, we were literally finishing each other’s sentences. Before that trip, I didn’t know that I still had so much to learn about my husband. And even though we felt completely in-sync, there was still one thing that I hadn’t told him by the time we reached Denver.

  As soon as we were off the Colorado Trail, Brew started making plans for the following year. I couldn’t wait to spend another summer hiking with my husband, and this time, he was picking the trails, doing all the planning, and making all the decisions. The problem was, he was picking trails in Europe, and my heart wanted to go back to the A.T.

  Four months after our successful women’s record, I had gone for a hike with Warren and he had asked me if I would ever consider trying for another trail record. I scoffed at him. I was done with records.

  But then, a few months later, going on a long run by myself, I kept thinking of places on the trail where I could have saved time, where I could have hiked a longer day, or where we could have eliminated a mistake. I knew for a fact that I could do the A.T. better, more efficiently, and probably for a faster time. But in spite of that, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go back. Records were hard; they were trying on my body, on my emotions, and especially on my husband.

  I was hoping the thought of returning to the A.T. for another record would go away. I thought it would disappear on the Colorado Trail, especially once Brew evolved into a decisive musical hiking partner, but the longing grew stronger and the questions in my head grew louder.

  Now, my husband was planning our biggest, best summer of hikes ever—stops in Geneva and London with hikes in the Alps, the Scottish Highlands, and along the coast of Wales—and all I could think about was doing the A.T., and doing it in less than fifty-seven days. My soul was screaming and my mind was telling it to be silent.

  When I was quite sure I could not quiet these nagging thoughts on my own, I went to the one person who I knew would put them to bed.

  I was sure that if I brought up the idea of doing another record, Brew would squelch it immediately. And once he did, that would be the end of that.

  So on a late-summer evening, as we walked hand in hand, I carefully broached the subject.

  “Brew, I have a question.”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  He could tell by the sound of my voice that this was not just any question.

  “Do you think if I went back to the A.T. that I could do it better?”

  “What do you mean by better?” he asked as he tilted his head toward me.

  His probing stare left me wishing I could swallow the words that had just left my mouth. But once I had started, I had to keep going.

  “Well, do you think I could do it faster?”

  “Yes,” Brew replied hesitantly. “I do.”

  I continued.

  “Do you think I could do it in less than fifty-five days?”

  “Probably.”

  “What about less than fifty days?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about forty-seven?”

  Brew stopped walking and turned in my direction.

  He finally realized the full scope of what I was asking, and I fully expected him to shoot it down. But instead, he said, “If everything fell into place, and you didn’t get hurt, yeah, I think we could set the record.”

  We? That wasn’t the response I was expecting; and I interpreted it as a divine miracle. But it also proved to be a curse. Now that the door of possibility cracked open to reveal a glimmer of light, the thought of going back to the trail consumed me.

  After that discussion, I thought about the record every single day. I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t talk about it, but when things were silent and I started to daydream, my thoughts would always drift toward the trail. But it wasn’t quite time to make a final decision. Not yet.

  Instead, I agreed with Brew that we should enjoy another summer hiking side by side in Europe. Then, after more time and more miles had passed, we would revisit the A.T. discussion.

  When Brew and I went to Europe, we began our hiking extravaganza on a long-distance trail in Corsica called the GR20. It was one of the most beautiful and difficult routes I had ever been on. I loved being on a trail again and I embraced the degree of difficulty, but Brew was not expecting the strenuous climbs.

  Even worse, somewhere amid his planning, there was a discrepancy in the mileage, and after our second day of hiking we found that the GR20 was actually longer than we had anticipated. That meant we had to average close to twenty miles a day to finish on time. And that was not Brew’s style of backpacking.

  Midway through the trip, when we arrived at a rural campground that marked our one resupply stop, we were dismayed to discover a sparse pantry with only a few boxes of crackers, some cookies, and a stick of cured salami. We bought almost all the provisions they had, but I was still worried that it wouldn’t be enough to keep us fed. Even if there had been more food, we would have been at a loss because we were out of euros, the store did not accept credit cards, and there wasn’t an ATM in the town.

  After our resupply, I visited the facilities and savored the only shower stall that we would encounter during our week-long trek. The narrow closet where I bathed was covered in mold and built for petite Europeans. My six-foot frame banged against the walls whenever I reached for shampoo or bent to pick up the
soap. But I didn’t care. It was still a shower.

  When I was finished, so was the warm water. Without meaning to, I had left Brew nothing but an icy stream. I felt horrible, but there wasn’t anything I could do to make it better. Instead, I continued to do chores like rinse out our clothes at a nearby water pump. After wringing out our shirts, shorts, and socks, I hung them on a fence and walked back to our tent. I could hear sniffling coming from inside the thin Silnylon walls.

  I crawled into the shelter and started rubbing Brew’s back. I knew what was wrong—”everything,” according to my husband—but I asked anyway.

  “Honey, what is it?”

  “This is not how I thought it would be. My shower was freezing because you took all the warm water. I’m uncomfortable, our clothes are still dirty and now they’re wet, my legs and crotch are chafing so badly that I can hardly walk, and I screwed up planning this hike.”

  “It’ll be okay. Things will get better. We’ll still be able to finish.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand?”

  “This is still your thing. Not mine. I like the idea of backpacking, but I don’t like doing it all day, every day. I want the views without so much hard work. I want the memories without feeling dirty and tired all the time. I want hot food and time to read books and take naps.” Then Brew paused to wipe away the gleaming river of snot that was running through his beard. He looked up at me, and I could see the tears welling up in his eyes again. He put his hands over his face and declared, “I’m a Romantid”

  I tried as hard as possible not to let him see the tiny smile that was creeping across my face. It was true, Brew wanted things to be perfect, less painful. He was an idealist. But he was also becoming a pretty good backpacker, and that meant—despite the occasional meltdown—he was getting more comfortable being, well, uncomfortable.

  “Honey, if I had all your issues right now, I would be crying too. You are a Romantic, but you are a tough Romantic.”

  Unfortunately, my words did not provide any immediate consolation to Brew’s tender heart . . . or his tender crotch. It wasn’t until the next day, after he’d had a good night’s sleep, and after the sun had dried out our clothes and warmed our bodies, that we could joke about his romantic side.

  Together, we made it through the GR20 in Corsica—arguably the toughest trail in Europe—in only seven days. To celebrate our finish we found an ATM, then a pub with cold beer, warm food, and World Cup soccer on TV. Despite all the modern amenities in front of us, all Brew could talk about was how amazing the trail had been. At the end of each hike that he completed, my husband became a little less Henry David Thoreau and a little more Daniel Boone.

  After Corsica, we traveled to the Alps to hike the Tour du Mont Blanc. It became very clear to me on this one-hundred-mile circuit why people burst into spontaneous song in The Sound of Music. The Alps were perfect. The temperature was ideal, the views were amazing, there weren’t any bugs, and every day we passed a small farm where we could pick up fresh cheese, cured meats, or local wine. It was the perfect place for a romantic hike—and a romantic hiker.

  I cannot say the same for Wales. When we traveled to the southwest corner of the United Kingdom to hike the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, we arrived during a medium downpour and then spent the next two and a half days hiking through a torrential storm. I have never been so wet in my entire life.

  After the first day of slogging through inches of standing water, Brew made a decision.

  “Listen, if this keeps up, I am not going to finish this trail. You can do whatever you want. I am fine if you want to keep walking, and I can just meet you every few days or at the end or whatever. But if I have to go through another day of this, I’m done.”

  I knew my husband was sincere, but I also believed the rain would stop. I didn’t think it was possible for that much water to continue falling from the sky.

  Twenty-four hours later, we were still walking through a wall of rain. Brew and I hadn’t said much all day. I was miserable, and I assumed I would be on my own after that evening. Our guidebook, which was soaking wet, with pages glued together by the rain and ink running everywhere, suggested that toward the end of the day we would come to a town. We both assumed that when we arrived there would be a pub, or a bed and breakfast, or even a public restroom where we could briefly escape from the rain.

  As night fell, we reached the town to discover three small houses and a bus stop. Desperate, we knocked on the door of one of the houses. A man with white hair, red cheeks, and fine wrinkles on his face opened the door. His stare suggested that he was both taken aback and also empathetic to our haggard appearance.

  Without wasting time, Brew immediately said, “We’re sorry to bother you, but is there a hostel or pub anywhere in the area where we can get out of the rain.”

  The man shook his head no, then after a pensive moment, he smiled and offered in his thick Welsh accent, “You are welcome to stay in my barn if you want.”

  We immediately accepted. The man then put on his raincoat and, with his border collie by his side, led us through a nearby field to his barn. The building was made of rocks and clay and had a packed dirt floor, but it also had four sides and was divided into rooms so we could sleep separate from the sheep and cows. Finally, we were out of the wind and rain.

  When we were left on our own, I slowly started to open my pack. There was a puddle of water at the bottom. I pulled out my collection of zipper-lock and “waterproof” bags that were supposed to keep my gear and food dry, but everything was wet. I started to cry. I didn’t have any dry clothes, I was cold and wet, and my down sleeping bag was compressed and dripping with water, which meant it wouldn’t keep me warm.

  I started shivering. Brew’s sleeping bag was damp, but much drier than my own. He instructed me to take off my wet clothes and crawl inside. He then laid down beside me and started rubbing my back with his hand to try and warm me up faster. I looked up at him sitting beside me.

  “Are you going to quit?” I asked.

  “No way,” he replied. “I don’t care if it rains like this for the next ten days. I’ve given too much to this trail to give up now,” he said.

  That night, lying on the cold dirt floor of a barn that must have been several hundred years old, I had two revelations. The first concerned the Virgin Mary. I had heard the Christmas story dozens of times, and I had even played a shepherd in a church pageant, but I don’t think I had ever stopped to think about how Mary must have felt going into labor with Jesus. That night, it occurred to me that if I had been in Mary’s shoes and had known that God had the power to create a divine conception, yet had overlooked a reservation at the inn, I would have been pretty frustrated.

  Second, I decided that I really did want to go back and try for the overall record on the Appalachian Trail. I had given too much to that trail to give up now.

  I was wrong when I thought that it would be difficult to convince Brew to return to the Appalachian Trail. By the end of our European hiking trip, we both had committed to attempting the overall record the following summer.

  After having almost a year to think it through, Brew said that he would support me in whatever decision I made. On the same note, he made it very clear that if it was up to him, he would not choose to go back to the trail and run support because it is difficult, because there is a lot of pressure that goes along with it, and because it is not the most relaxing way to spend his summer vacation. But, he said, if it was important to me, then he would be fully supportive.

  I was thankful that Brew was so honest and realistic about his participation. Unlike 2008, this time my husband knew exactly what he was agreeing to. That transparency gave me the confidence to look him in the eyes and reply, “It’s important to me. It’s really important to me.”

  After we made our decision, we started to tell other people about it. At first, it went well. I told Warren and Horton that I wanted to try for the overall record, a
nd they not only thought I had a chance at succeeding, but they both agreed to help me in the endeavor. Then I wrote a lengthy email to Andrew Thompson, who was still the overall record holder. He responded graciously and with encouragement, offering to provide any of the daily mileages from his record and saying he would try to come out and hike with me when I passed through New Hampshire. However, after those three interactions, the responses became increasingly negative.

  My mom argued that I would wreck my body and not be able to have children. I had close friends who said I would tarnish my women’s record if I failed in an attempt for the overall record. And the majority of the hiking and trail running community thought that I was conceited or delusional for thinking I could break a record that had been held by elite male trail runners for the past thirty years.

  Some of the online hiking and running forums that I belonged to began to show a flurry of unkind comments in response to my announcement. Most of the runners thought I didn’t have the ability to set the record, and most of the hikers thought that wanting to set the record meant that I didn’t truly appreciate or respect the trail. At first I was upset at all the negative feedback, and then Brew offered a simple answer: “Ignore it.”

  For seven months leading up to my hike, I didn’t read or access any website or news source that offered commentary on my hike. Shutting out most of the external voices made it a lot easier to listen to my heart. I also had a lengthy sit-down visit with my doctor to talk about the long-term physical ramifications of hiking forty-six miles per day for a month and a half. Her underwhelmed response helped assuage my mother’s fears.

  Occasionally, I still had to deal with reporters who called and asked me about my upcoming hike. I was amazed at how every interview focused on a fear of failure. Reporters wanted to talk more about not setting a record than about actually accomplishing my goal. It made me realize how much our culture is paralyzed by the fear of losing. I wasn’t worried about not succeeding; I was worried about not trying.