Called Again

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  The worst part was that, because of my constant stops and the subsequent weakness, I was now covering barely a mile an hour. I felt weak, dehydrated, and exhausted. I had my headlamp, but at this rate, I would not make it out of the woods until one or two a.m.—if I was lucky.

  I pulled out my phone to call Brew—but there was no service. I knew that he would be worried sick about me when I didn’t show up at nine p.m. This was going to be even worse for him than Mount Washington had been. At least on Mount Washington, we both expected adversity. But now we expected things to get better, and he would be really worried if I were five hours late to a road crossing.

  This was it. Really it. This was the end of my hike. My body felt like it was running on empty, and after my numerous off-trail excursions, I was confident that it was empty. There was no way I could maintain a decent pace feeling the way I did, and making it to the road would use up all of my reserves. I would be far too depleted to wake up the next morning at 4:45 and continue hiking.

  I dragged my feet along the path. The flat and downhill walking were still bearable, but every time I had to travel uphill, I felt weak and light-headed.

  I didn’t think I was in danger, as I’d been on Mount Washington and Franconia Ridge, because I knew that eventually I would make it to the road. I just felt depressed. All my hard work, all my dreams, all down the toilet; or rather, a dozen cat holes. It wasn’t a sickness caused by food or bad water; I had experienced enough of those to know the difference. Whatever this was, it was a reaction to the stress on my body and the swelling that I’d suffered the past two days. I was going through a very violent detox.

  I kept moving slowly and kept having to make frequent rest-room stops. The sun was starting to set, and I was still six miles from the next road. Six miles should have seemed like nothing. When I was healthy and rested, I could easily run six miles on a trail in less than an hour. But in my current state, those six miles might as well have been on Mount Everest.

  I was walking down a gently graded mountain, dreading the thought of reaching the valley and having to hike uphill again. But when I reached the creek that divided the two ridges, there was something there that caught my attention. It was a road— sort of.

  It was a thin flat dirt path that could have easily been mistaken for an ATV track, but it was just wide enough for a car to travel down, as well. I knew that I didn’t have cell service because I had been staring at the empty antenna signal on my phone for the past two hours. I couldn’t call Brew to meet me here, but maybe the road was close to a campground or house where I could get some help. I looked down the road to the left and right, then I followed it downstream for a few steps.

  I thought that I could make out something white through the trees. I continued walking toward the light-colored mirage, then I stopped in my tracks.

  It couldn’t be! Could it? Eighty yards down the road, there was a white SUV. I rubbed my eyes as if I were hallucinating, but when I took my hands away, the car was still there. I didn’t care who it belonged to. They were going to help me.

  I started walking toward the vehicle, thinking about how I would explain my predicament without totally grossing someone out. Then, as I drew closer to the vehicle, I heard a noise. Thank God! Someone was at the car. I really was saved!

  “Hey, Jen, is that you?!”

  I froze. I didn’t recognize the voice, and I second-guessed whether I had really heard my name. I had been light-headed, so it was possible I was delusional.

  A man with a beard and a visor stepped out of the car and started walking in my direction.

  “Jen, it’s Adam. We met at the Mountain Masochist last fall.”

  I tried to imagine this man without facial hair, and he started to look familiar. I was beginning to put the pieces together in my head, but it still seemed too good to be true.

  I had met a man named Adam at a trail race in Virginia last fall, and he told me that he wanted to run the Appalachian Trail and that his wife, Kadra was going to support him. I even remembered seeing a Facebook post in the spring that said they were on the trail and had made it to Virginia. But this wasn’t Virginia. This was Vermont, the middle of nowhere Vermont. And to come across someone I knew on a road that didn’t exist in my guidebook was not a coincidence; it was a full-blown miracle.

  “A-Adam . . . ?” I stammered. Saying his name reinforced the fact that he might be real. And when he didn’t disappear, I continued.

  “I’ve been sick all afternoon. I can’t get cell service to call Brew, and I don’t think that I can go any farther. Can you help me?”

  At that point, Kadra appeared from a campsite that they’d set up near the car.

  “Of course, we can help you,” she interjected. “What do you need?”

  I didn’t know where to start.

  “I’ve had to go off the trail maybe twenty times today to use the bathroom, and I feel incredibly dehydrated and sick—really, really sick. But what I need more than anything is to get in touch with Brew.”

  Kadra walked to the back of their SUV and opened the trunk. Even in my desperation, I was envious of how much better organized it was than our Highlander.

  “We have medicine, water, and food that you can have,” she said as she opened the labeled Rubbermaid containers. “And then I can drive you down the road until one of us gets a cell phone signal.”

  I sat down and let out a deep sigh. I still couldn’t believe this was happening. But I was too tired and sick to question it.

  Kadra mixed an electrolyte drink—and handed it to me. Then she gave me some Nutter Butters to nibble on. Adam gave me some medicine, and because he was a doctor, it was really good medicine. Then, because there were only two empty seats in the car, Adam decided to stay at the campsite, and Kadra drove me down the narrow dirt road in search of a cell signal.

  Holding my phone to the windshield, I thanked Kadra over and over again for rescuing me.

  “You’re doing great,” she said. “So many people are excited that you’re out here. You just have to keep going.”

  “It’s . . . it’s just so hard,” I said. “I mean, I knew that it would be hard, but this feels impossible. It hurts worse than anything I have ever done before, and the hurt hurts so bad, and it hurts all the time.”

  “Adam felt the same way in the beginning,” she said. “I’m sure it will get better.”

  I smiled back at Kadra and nodded politely but with complete insincerity.

  After taking one look at Adam, it was clear we were having two very different trail experiences. He was not trying to set a record. His goal was to finish in seventy days. That meant he planned on averaging thirty-one miles a day, a far cry from the forty-six I needed to cover to set the record. Plus, Adam was running, not hiking, so his days were shorter. He had plenty of time with Kadra in the evening, and he actually got to sleep until the sun came out. It sounded like a vacation.

  Kadra and I traveled down the dirt road for an hour before either one of our cell phones could pick up a signal. When a bar finally appeared on my screen, I called Brew. He immediately packed up and we planned our rendezvous at the end of the unnamed dirt road.

  When Brew arrived, we thanked Kadra for everything and told her we would see her soon. But before we drove back to the trail, Brew took me to a state park where I could take a shower. I was already waddling around from the beginning stages of diaper rash. So much so, in fact, that I’d started to wonder whether I’d accidentally grabbed something other than striped maple on one of my many trips into the woods. This shower wasn’t so much a luxury for me as it was a necessity.

  At the state park, I stood under the steamy spray of hot water, shoving quarters into a metal slot and talking to Brew as he sat outside, cooking our dinner on a camp stove.

  “I can’t believe it,” I exclaimed. “I mean, if I hadn’t run into Adam and Kadra in the middle of nowhere, I would be miserable right now, and you would be worried, and I would have been forced to quit. Between this an
d my flashlight staying on until the moment I reached the summit of Mount Washington, I just feel like I am supposed to be out here. It’s like God isn’t letting me quit.”

  “You’re doing great, honey. You just have to get some food and water in you tonight, and you can put in another good day tomorrow.”

  It was amazing to me how supportive and encouraging Brew had been. We definitely didn’t have a perfect marriage, but since starting this hike, he had been a perfect husband. I knew the past twelve days had not been easy for him. I knew it was difficult for him to see me in pain. If it were up to him, we would be hiking twelve to fifteen miles per day, reading books, building campfires, and taking time off the trail to explore the local attractions. He had remained extremely positive, and even though we both wished that I’d gone farther the previous few days, he didn’t seem discouraged.

  That night at the campsite, I went to bed next to Brew while Kadra, Adam, and Melissa stayed up talking beside the fire. That was their reality, not mine. But I no longer felt jealous, just thankful. Because their reality had rescued my dream.

  The next day, I woke up in the dark again and started walking. The first and second miles felt good, but then I got sick again.

  I couldn’t believe it had come back. I was sure after being saved by Adam and Kadra that I would feel better and be able to keep going. However, my body was still in revolt. Weakness overcame me and so did despair.

  After several trips into the woods, I decided that this really was the end. I could not physically continue. I could make it to the next road, I thought, but I could not keep going after that. I did not want to keep going.

  I began to question my reasons for even being on the trail in the first place.

  More than anything, I believed that this was a calling and that I was honoring God by using my gifts and talents to their fullest potential. He had blessed me with a love for the trail and the ability to hike, and I felt like I was worshipping him by pouring all my strength and passion into this endeavor. But God loved me unconditionally. I knew He wouldn’t love me any less if I didn’t keep going. And, if anyone knew suffering, it was Jesus. He would understand if I quit.

  Sometimes I wanted to do the trail for Brew, because he loved me so much and because he was sacrificing his time and energy to help me pursue my goal. But I knew that Brew would also love me regardless of my performance. And, as he reminded me in the months and weeks leading up to our adventure, this was my dream, not his. He was still waiting for the time when we could get away from friends and family, learn how to communicate better, and spend countless hours together on the beaches in Fiji. It was probably too late to plan a trip to Fiji, but we could still plan a more relaxing vacation.

  For the most part, my family and friends were annoyingly underwhelmed by my trail accomplishments. All my motivation had been internal. In that moment, I wished I were trying to prove myself to somebody or something because maybe then I would have had the incentive to keep going. But regardless of whether I set the record or not, the relationships that were the most important to me would not change. The only person who I would be disappointing if I quit was myself.

  Maybe I could live with disappointment. It sounded a lot less painful than hiking.

  I began to daydream about what the summer would be like if I quit. Brew and I could take a few days to recover and then we could set out for Montreal or visit friends in New England. Maybe we could see Mooch, who was now a forester in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. There were so many fun and relaxing things we could do off the trail.

  Getting sick again this morning was the last straw. I had asked my body to accept the challenge of setting the overall record, but since day five I had been spiraling downward. Every time I thought it would get better and that I might gain some momentum, it only got worse. I was asking my body to give me forty-six miles a day on one of the toughest trails in the world, and it was answering back with an emphatic “NO!”

  It took me five hours to hike the eight-mile stretch to U.S. 4. On top of my frequent bathroom breaks, I also had to stop four times and sit beside the trail because I felt too weak to continue. I told myself that all I had to do was make it to one more road crossing and then I would never, ever, have to hike again.

  I heard the cars traveling down U.S. 4, and I knew that I was getting close, but before I left the forest, I found Brew sitting on a fallen log beside the trail. He knew that something was wrong because of how long it had taken me to arrive. “I got sick again,” I said as soon as I saw him.

  Brew was silent.

  I took a deep breath and a few more steps.

  “We need to talk,” I stated. Then I sat down beside him. Without any hint of doubt or hesitation, I continued. “My body can’t do this anymore. My shins hurt and I am still sick to my stomach. I don’t think we can get the record. I just want to stop.”

  So there, I’d said it. The record was over. There had been many times on the 9,000 miles of hiking leading up to this summer that I had thought about quitting, or had wanted to quit, but this was the first time I was actually doing it—and it was surprisingly easy.

  Brew looked at me for a moment. I had no doubt about what he was going to do. He was going to hold me, tell me it was okay, help me stumble down to the car and take me to get a shower and a hot meal, then lie in bed with me for hours.

  I looked up with my wet, wide puppy-dog eyes, waiting for him to engulf me in his arms and carry me away from this godforsaken place. But he just looked back at me and said, “You can’t quit. I’m not letting you.”

  WHAT?

  He kept talking, but I was in utter disbelief. I honestly could not believe what my ears were hearing. My husband is the kindest, gentlest soul in the world, and he hates seeing me in pain. HOW COULD HE NOT LET ME QUIT!

  I kept looking at his lips moving, but I still wasn’t listening. I was shocked. I had created a monster!

  Finally I tuned into what Brew was saying. He had been going on for a while, and he was laying out systematic points, so I could tell he had been thinking about this for some time.

  “You’ve given too much to the trail to quit now. You owe it to yourself to keep going,” he said. “And, a little bit, you owe it to me.” That was good, I thought. That was almost like external motivation. I might not be able to keep hiking for myself, but I could make it a little farther for my husband.

  “I still believe that you can set the record,” he said. “And if you want to quit, if you really want to quit, that’s fine. You can make that decision tomorrow, or two days from now when your stomach settles. But right now, you need to eat and take some medicine, and you need to keep hiking. You are too hungry, tired, and sick to make a decision right now. And if you make the wrong decision, you could regret it for the rest of your life.”

  That was it. Brew wouldn’t even let me see the inside of our car. I had to keep going.

  • 9 •

  POSITIVE NUMBERS

  JUNE 28, 2011—JULY I, 2011

  Brew believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. And in Vermont, Brew gave me the harshest, bluntest, and most loving gift possible.

  Twelve miles past Route 4, the medicine started to kick in. My stomach settled, I was able to eat more, and all of a sudden I no longer wanted to quit. I didn’t want to stop that night, I didn’t want to give up the next day, and forty-eight hours later, I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever wanted to leave the trail.

  I was lucky to have Brew by my side. I was also fortunate to have friends like Warren and Melissa who were willing to give up part of their summer to help me. I just wish I could have been a better friend to them. Warren left midway through Vermont, and I was glad. Because in my mind, he embodied the negative numbers and the doubts that I was trying to suppress.

  Warren knew better than anyone the difficulty of the task that lay before us. That is why he refused to celebrate or lose focus. He knew that I would need to push past the pain and emotional needs—but so did I. In
a way, Warren and I were too similar.

  When it comes to age, gender, and religion, Warren and I are completely different, but when it comes to the trail, he understands me better than anyone. We share a similar connection to it, and a gratitude to the wilderness for making us the individuals that we felt destined to be. He had been my logistical and philosophical trail mentor for the past eight years, and because of that we had grown very close, which was the problem. Warren knew too much about me and too much about the trail.

  When I came out of the woods at Route 4 in Vermont, Warren knew that I had a miniscule chance of recovering from my shin splints and diarrhea, then hiking another 1,700 miles in record time. And I knew that he knew.

  At that point, Warren and I both realized that I was going to have to average around fifty miles per day to break the record. We knew that at Route 4, I was no longer ahead of Andrew’s time. I was behind. And on top of that, I felt worse than I had since starting this journey. In his mind, Warren held an image of every mountain, rock scramble, and boulder field that awaited me. He could predict the hundred-degree days in the mid-Atlantic and the lightning storms in the Smokies that would hinder my progress.

  Warren doesn’t mince words. He knew that the truth would be demoralizing, and he didn’t want to confuse encouragement with false hope, so instead of saying anything, he was often completely silent during our time together. And to me, that just made things worse.

  On his final day with us, he gave me a long, emotional hug. Then without saying anything, we parted ways.

  I could never have come out of Maine and New Hampshire on record pace without Warren’s help or his knowledge of the road crossings and the trail. But I never could have continued past Vermont if he had stayed. I needed encouragement, even if it was flowery and false. I needed naivety. I needed someone who couldn’t describe all the long hard climbs that still loomed down the trail. I needed Melissa and Brew.

  Brew offered only positive reinforcement and support. And then there was Melissa, who made Pollyanna look pessimistic. Ever since getting through the Whites, she had been hiking more and more with me. Now, on average, she was with me for ten to fifteen miles per day. Some days as she hiked in front of me, I imagined her with a skirt and pom-poms. There was no doubt in her mind that I was going to set the record. She continually pointed out how beautiful the trail was and how lucky we were to be able to hike each day. And the better I felt, the more I agreed with her.