Called Again

by Jennifer Pharr Davis

  We also identified two ways that Melissa could maximize her assistance on the trail. The first was that she could “mule” me on the stretches we hiked together. “Muling” is an ultra-running term that describes a support crew member carrying the food and supplies of someone who is running a race. Although I had barely noticed the weight of my daypack when I started the trail in Maine, five hundred miles later, those extra five pounds felt more like fifty.

  Melissa also started planning her days so she would have enough energy left to hike the last section of the day with me, which meant I would have company in the dark. The rocks and technical trail in Maine and New Hampshire had shattered my confidence for walking past dusk. But when Melissa was with me, all I had to do was point my headlamp at her shoes and follow her feet.

  The night after Warren left, I came into camp at 9:30 p.m. right behind Melissa. And as soon as Brew saw us, he started whooping and hollering victory cries into the night air. He handed us our freeze-dried dinners, then began his debrief.

  “Great job, girls! I didn’t think you two would get here before ten. You arrived thirty minutes early, which means you averaged over three and a half miles per hour.”

  “No more numbers,” I said.

  I was still recovering from the steady stream of numbers that Warren had presented at every road crossing in Maine.

  “I agree, no more negative numbers,” said Brew. “From this point on, we are only going to talk about positive numbers.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, what is your purpose for being out here?” he asked.

  I hesitated. We had talked about this a lot before we started the trail. For me, the main point of coming back to the trail wasn’t to set a record; it was to do my best. I wanted to know what my best was, and I believed that it was good enough to obtain the overall record.

  Finally, I looked up at Brew’s headlamp, which made it seem like his words were coming from the mouth of a Cyclops. “I want to do my best,” I said.

  “That’s right. You want to do your best. And from now on, that is our focus. The only time we will mention numbers is when they are helpful and encouraging.”

  “Like what?” All I had heard since the beginning was how I was falling behind, so I didn’t know what encouraging numbers Brew was talking about.

  “I was hoping you would ask,” said the Cyclops. “How many days faster than your 2008 hike do you have to travel to set the overall record?”

  “Ten.”

  “That’s right. And in 2008, after two weeks, you were just reaching Hanover. Now, you are almost in Massachusetts and you have already gained roughly three and a half days.”

  The corner of my mouth lifted slightly.

  “There’s more,” said Brew. “How many miles per day did you average in 2008?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Right now, you are already averaging forty-two- miles per day, and at this point three years ago, you were only averaging thirty-four miles. To set the record, you need to average eight more miles per day than you did three years ago. And that’s exactly what you’re doing!”

  Now both sides of my lips curled. I was out here to do my best, and so far, I had given the trail every ounce of my being. For the first time in two weeks, I was more proud of what I had accomplished than worried about what was to come.

  The next day, Brew continued to use positive numbers to motivate me. I came to my first road crossing after an exhausting slog through ankle-deep mud, then I collapsed in the folding chair beside the car.

  I looked at him incredulously when he immediately shoved a 1,000-plus calorie meal in my direction. I was so tired from walking that the last thing I had the energy to do was eat. But coming to a road crossing did not mean that I got to have a break. It meant that I would have ten or fifteen minutes to ingest as many calories as possible and to load up the daypack before I could continue down the trail.

  I started taking large bites of a deli wrap, washing each mouthful down with gulps of chocolate milk.

  “Guess how many miles Andrew Thompson did through this stretch of trail?” asked Brew.

  “How many?”

  “Thirty-nine. Andrew only did thirty-nine miles here. You should really be able to gain some ground here today.”

  Without letting my anger or frustration show, I stared straight at Brew, and after taking another swig of milk, I calmly asked, “Do you want to know why Andy only did thirty-nine miles on this stretch?”

  “Why?”

  Then, in a less-calm voice, I barked, “Because this section is hard as shit! Don’t you think if he could have gone farther than thirty-nine miles, he would have?”

  Brew looked at me and tried to appear compassionate for a moment before breaking down in laughter. I laughed too. He was used to my honesty, but my potty mouth was a new development, and it still caught us both off-guard.

  Before this hike, I hadn’t used bad words much. But now that I was on the trail, they had started to make sense. Ever since the first week of this hike, I had been peppering my roadside reports with cursing because I needed something far more offensive than my normal vocabulary to express how much I was suffering.

  That said, I decided I might never use swear words again after the summer because I didn’t want to devalue the deep, consuming pain I was experiencing right now.

  I finished my wrap, chips, cookie, and chocolate milk; changed socks and shoes; doctored my shins with pre-wrap and athletic tape; and was back on the trail in sixteen and a half minutes. The break lasted a little longer than I’d wanted, but I valued the extra ninety seconds with my husband. I wouldn’t see him for another sixteen miles. And past that road crossing, Melissa would help me pack in all of my overnight gear so that I could try to hike more than thirty-nine miles and gain a lead on Andrew, even though this section was, in my own words, hard as shit.

  In Maine and New Hampshire, I hardly ever thought of Andrew (except for that damn perfect smile he flashed hiking up Mount Washington). In those two states, it was all about survival. But now that I was in the Green Mountains, it felt like I was racing the current record holder. We had his itinerary, and I knew where he had started and finished every day. At this point, our averages were very similar. So on a day like today, I almost felt like if I looked over my shoulder, I would see him. Occasionally, when I spotted a day hiker ahead of me, I would pretend it was Andrew and then speed up to pass him.

  It was strange how someone who was never a part of our record attempt made his presence felt almost every day. Sometimes, Brew and I would try to vilify Andrew and his crew chief, JB. We talked smack, pretending that they had somehow offended us and were horrible people who ran puppy mills and meth labs. But the problem was, we knew that wasn’t true. Andrew and JB had never been anything but gracious—and that made wanting to beat their time more difficult.

  Brew and I had talked with Andrew and JB at several of David Horton’s trail races. I always felt like there was an aura around them. They were the “cool kids.” They looked cool, dressed cool, they wore cool hats cocked to the side, and they had cool girlfriends. In fact, sometimes the races weren’t cool enough for them, so they made them even cooler.

  Instead of simply running the fifty-plus-mile Mountain Mas-ochist with three hundred other runners, Andrew and JB decided to start twelve hours early and run the course in the opposite direction in the dark, then compete with all the other runners as they retraced the course in the daylight!

  When I was at a race with Andrew and JB, they always took time to encourage me in my trail pursuits. I usually responded the same way a thirteen-year-old would respond to Justin Bieber, with flushed cheeks and mumbled words. Brew would make fun of me, but he was equally impressed with the two of them. At one particular ultra-race, he deserted me after the first mile because he had struck up a conversation with Andrew. And I didn’t see him again for another forty-nine miles. What a traitor!

  There was no denying that we were bo
th in awe of Andrew and JB. As hard as we tried, there was nothing we could find to dislike about them. In fact, if anything, the past two weeks had heightened our esteem.

  It amazed me that Andrew was able to come back to the trail and try this three separate times before setting the record. After the past fourteen days, I knew that—regardless of the outcome— I would never again try for the overall record.

  Moreover, I couldn’t believe that JB had crewed for Andrew so successfully. Brew had taken an oath in front of God, our friends, and our families to support me in sickness and bad times, and I still barely convinced him to crew me. JB didn’t owe Andrew anything. Yet, he remained committed to him on three separate record attempts—and there wasn’t even any sex involved! Their dedication and their record was becoming more and more impressive with every step I took.

  My first day in Massachusetts, I made it to a road crossing by mid-morning and was staring at Andrew’s printed-out blog from his 2005 record hike when it finally clicked. I realized that Andrew Thompson’s initials were literally A.T. I wasn’t just competing against Andrew; I was battling fate!

  I called out to my husband as he was busy refilling my water bottles. “What are we doing out here trying to beat someone whose initials are the same as the trail’s?”

  Without skipping a beat, he responded, “Well, honey, his initials may be A.T., but your maiden name is Pharr. So there’s no reason you can’t go all the way.”

  Good point. I belong. I belong. I belong. I still had to remind (and sometimes convince) myself on a daily basis that I was right where I was supposed to be.

  The entire concept of a trail record appealed to so few that I wondered if it was fate that brought would-be record setters to the trail. I wondered if, in fact, the trail had called us by name.

  Each day I was feeling more and more like I was supposed to be out here. I had never felt a stronger sense of purpose. Even though the outcome remained uncertain, I was convinced that it was my job to wake up each morning at 4:45 a.m. and hike as far and as fast as I could, allowing myself to rest only after the sun went down. And this sense of purpose gave me a newfound freedom and joy. I may not have been in control, but I trusted that I was where I belonged.

  The less difficult terrain of Massachusetts and Connecticut had allowed my shin splints to continue to heal, and accruing a few forty-five- to fifty-mile days bolstered my confidence. Now that I was in New York where the road crossings were becoming more frequent, I was feeling even better.

  When I came out at NY County Road 20, I sat down in our camp chair and propped my feet on the back bumper of the Highlander. Brew passed me a cannoli and chocolate milk from a bakery in nearby Pawling, and I started working on my pastry while Brew began to reorganize my pack.

  “How was the last stretch?” he asked.

  “Good,” I mumbled with my mouth full of whipped cream and chocolate. “I passed the Dover Oak.”

  “Oh, yeah? I might try to walk in and see it. It’s close to the road, right?”

  “Super close.”

  “And it’s worth it?” Brew asked as he wiped a chocolate sprinkle off my nose.

  “Definitely.”

  The Dover Oak is a three-hundred-year-old white oak with a twenty-foot circumference. It is a gargantuan monument of twisted branches and rough brown bark—and it is breathtaking. It doesn’t look graceful, but it does look wise and kind, even more so than I remembered. I doubt the tree had changed much in the past six years, but I certainly had.

  As I walked past, I brushed my fingertips across its broad trunk. My encounters with vistas, waterfalls, wildflowers, and trees like the Dover Oak were brief on this hike. I didn’t have time to stop; I had to take everything in while I was in motion. But the inspiration of these natural wonders stayed with me long after I left the scene.

  On this hike, I didn’t just draw encouragement from the wilderness; I took my strength from it. My most consistent motivation on the trail came from spotting wildlife, tracing my fingers lightly along the surface of boulders and trees, and drinking in views like they were electrolytes for my soul. My motivation to keep hiking was rooted in the magnificent details of the Appalachian Mountains, and the more of myself I poured out—the more energy I gave to the trail—the more it gave me in return.

  I wasn’t even halfway through with my third thru-hike and I was already making plans to come back to the trail again and again. It would be nice to return to the Dover Oak sometime in the fall and see the wide canopy of leaves turn into a brilliant red umbrella. It would be fun to come with friends and link hands around the massive trunk (I estimated that it would take at least six people).

  The strength I gained from touching the Dover Oak, and the calories from the cannoli, stayed with me for the next five miles. I blazed down the trail. The soft dirt tread and rolling terrain allowed my feet to feel as light and sure as they had on the first day of the hike.

  Within a few hours, I passed Nuclear Lake, a beautiful body of water and the former site of a uranium and plutonium research facility. On the trail, there were still legends of former thru-hikers who had spotted three-eyed fish when the facility was active.

  Past Canopus Lake, I unexpectedly arrived at a road crossing. Brew was not there and it seemed too early to have arrived at our next rendezvous, so I kept hiking.

  But almost immediately I arrived at another road, and Brew was not there, either. I continued down the trail but soon felt lost and confused. Where was I? Was Brew waiting at a road ahead of me or behind me? I didn’t have my cell phone or my bearings, and I was running low on snacks and water.

  I was acutely aware that one mistake—one miscommunication or misjudgment by me or my crew—could ruin this record. However, strangely, I wasn’t worried. I decided that if my flashlight had worked until I reached the top of Mount Washington, and if I had come across Kadra and Adam in the middle of nowhere Vermont, then God would continue to provide for me, and Brew would somehow find me. All I had to do was keep hiking.

  I hiked down the path another mile or so and arrived at a stream crossing. I didn’t see any signs of life, just cottage-sized boulders. However, my nose did detect something out of the ordinary. There was a slight scent of bug spray . . . with a hint of mac and cheese.

  “Hello?” I called out. “Is anyone there?”

  Then I heard a surprised response from behind one of those cottage-sized boulders. A few seconds later, a young couple stepped out from behind it.

  “Hey, I’m trying to reach my husband. Do you all have a cell phone that I can borrow?”

  A tan woman with dark hair called back, “Yeah, we just used it and it has service here. Let me get it for you.”

  “Do you need any food or water?” asked the man as he rummaged in their food bag for extra goodies.

  I accepted some water and called Brew, who had enough experience at this point to know that he should always accept calls from unknown numbers. It quickly became clear that he was still two roads back, waiting for me. It was also evident that he was none too happy about the mix-up, and he blamed him-self—he had gotten better at cursing this summer, too.

  I agreed to meet Brew at the next road. I didn’t have a headlamp, but was fairly certain that I could make it there before nightfall. I thanked the couple for their help, then kept hiking.

  I continued gliding down the path. When I thought back on the afternoon and calculated the miles, I realized that the entire mix-up had been my fault. It was good to appreciate nature, but I had been daydreaming and had lost track of time and miles. On this record attempt, I needed to have a one-track mind, and that track needed to be the dirt one under my feet.

  • 10 •

  A CHANGE OF CREW

  JULY I, 2011—JULY 6, 2011

  I like New York—the cannoli, the pizza, the bagels. And I like the trail in the Empire State. It feels almost sneaky to hike a wild and scenic trail a mere thirty miles from one of the most densely populated metropolitan areas in the United Sta
tes. I mean, how can something so precious remain hidden from so many people?

  However, after my first twenty-four hours in New York, nothing about the state was how I had remembered it. It was now a rainy Fourth of July weekend. The storm made the rocks and mud on the trail extremely slick, and the upcoming holiday created sound effects similar to a war zone. For three straight days, brilliant displays of fireworks filled the night sky, and the daytime assault of firecrackers scared away all of the songbirds. I continued to smell hikers and campsites hidden off the trail throughout the entire state of New York. But instead of cooked food or citronella, it seemed like every tent and shelter that I passed smelled like marijuana.

  Though my experience hiking through New York was not how I remembered it, our friend New York Steve was exactly the same. He came out to help us and brought enthusiasm, encouragement, and homemade goodies from his wife Maryellen.

  New York Steve is a trail-record junkie. He helped David Horton on his trail record in 1991; he helped Andrew Thompson on one of his first attempts in 2003; and in 2008, when Brew and I established the women’s record, New York Steve was there to help with that, as well. He was my trail companion for part of the day, and he made sure Brew was well fed and taken care of the rest of the time.

  New York Steve was fun and he was a great ultra-runner, but he was not a hiker or a backpacker. And Brew and I both knew he did not camp. Instead, at the end of the day, he would place his daypack inside his luxury SUV and drive back to his house, which was fifteen minutes away from Bear Mountain State Park. In 2008, he told us that his evening ritual consisted of sitting in his outdoor hot tub while sipping a strawberry daiquiri, then rinsing off in a long hot shower. After that he would enjoy a delicious meal prepared by his wife and eventually fall asleep on his Tempur-Pedic mattress.