Called Again

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Called Again Page 17

by Jennifer Pharr Davis


  “I need to leave. I need to go right now” I said.

  “You need to sit down and eat something,” said Brew.

  “I can’t. I don’t want to see him again.”

  I started crying again as Brew handed me a McDonald’s chicken sandwich and a drink from the car.

  “Alright, go. I’ll take care of this, and I’ll meet you at the next road crossing.”

  I sped off into the woods. It was one of the only times on the entire hike that I bypassed a rest stop, and it was also one of the only times that I ran.

  When my pace and my heart rate began to slow down, I tried to rationalize what had just happened. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. It was just a reporter trying to take a few pictures of me on a public hiking trail. What was so hostile about that?

  But my attempts to justify what had happened did not work. Ever since my first correspondence with this particular journalist, he had acted aggressively and had ignored any requests I made or boundaries I put in place. His editor told me that she had handled the situation and asked him not to come to the trail to take any pictures. But obviously, he had disregarded her wishes as well. We had not been giving live updates on our location, so that meant this stranger had been doing some pretty heavy recon to pinpoint our whereabouts—and the fact that he had hidden in the forest and jumped out at us right when we passed made me furious.

  In my backpacking clinics, I always told women that one key to staying safe on the trail is to trust your instincts. And my instincts, my intuition, every ounce of my being were screaming at me to stay as far away from this man as possible. But how could I make sure that he stayed away from me?

  Two hours passed. I helped a confused backpacker with directions, and I also spotted a black bear. I felt safe deep within the forest. I knew based on this guy’s oversized stomach that he would only be a threat near the road crossings. But as the sun started to hang low in the sky and every step brought me closer to PA 501, my anxiety returned. Then I heard a noise up ahead. I looked down the trail and saw a lean hiker taking long, quick strides in my direction.

  “Dutch!”

  I was relieved to see my new friend, and I quickly rushed to his side. I wanted to hug him and thank him for coming in to find me, but both Dutch and Rambler were shy when it came to receiving praise or affection, so I settled for hiking on his heels.

  “How are you doing?” Dutch inquired.

  “I am pissed—and a little scared. . . .” My first few words sounded mean, and my final word sounded shaky. I stopped to take a deep breath. “Thanks for hiking in to meet me.” My voice remained wobbly, but I continued. “Did the photographer come out of the woods when I left?”

  “Yeah. He tried to hide just inside the forest for a little bit, but Brew saw him.”

  “Then what happened?” I no longer stuttered. And, now, it was Dutch who paused and took a deep breath. “Dutch! What happened next?”

  “Well, Brew and the reporter got into an argument. Brew asked him to leave you alone, and he said no. Then Brew threatened to call the police. At that point the photographer started screaming and cursing at Brew. He was very angry.”

  “What did you and Rambler do?”

  “We stood at the car and watched.”

  Dutch’s honest, straightforward answers helped me set the scene. I could clearly picture my two brilliant, pacifist thru-hiker friends standing awkwardly behind the protection of an open car door, glancing at each other with wide eyes. The thing was, normally Brew would have been standing there with them. For as long as I’d known him, I had never once heard him raise his voice to another person. He only yelled after the Tar Heels lost important basketball games, and even then, he directed it at the TV.

  “Well, how did it end?”

  “Brew wrote down the man’s license-plate number and then called the police. The photographer got in his car and continued screaming at Brew as he drove away.”

  Now that I felt safe with Dutch and knew that my husband had stood up for me, I immediately went from feeling scared to feeling strangely excited.

  I was shocked and a little surprised at how confident and authoritative my husband had been during the incident. He had just deffended my honor. He had protected me. Once again, this was a side of him I had never seen before—and I liked it!

  When we met Brew and Rambler at the road, I ran into Brew’s arms. I don’t know if his lean, wiry frame had ever felt so safe or comforting.

  With my head tucked beneath his chin, my husband filled me in on the remaining details in his usual soft tone.

  “Everything is going to be all right. I called the local police and filed a report. I gave them the photographer’s name and license-plate number and they were going to try to find him and warn him that if he continued to follow us down the trail, we could file harassment charges.”

  I lifted my head and looked my husband in the eyes. “So you really raised your voice at him?” I asked.

  “I was stern,” Brew demurred.

  “And he basically cussed you out?”

  “Yeah,” Brew chuckled. “All while grandstanding about professional integrity and how I should respect his right to take pictures.”

  “But you never cursed at him?”

  “No,” said Brew. “If teaching five years of inner-city middle school prepared me for one moment on this hike, then that was it.”

  “Do you think he’ll bother us anymore?”

  “He better not,” Brew responded.

  I squeezed my husband’s neck even tighter. I could never do this without him. Then, for only the second time since we started the hike, we got a hotel room.

  When we reached the Mason-Dixon Line, my aunt and uncle greeted us at Pen-Mar State Park. As soon as my aunt spotted me, she ran down the trail with her arms wide open. My mom’s older sister had always been supportive of my hiking endeavors. For the past eight years, she had encouraged me by providing food for the trail and what she called “food for thought,” which consisted of newspaper clippings and magazine articles that I could read in my tent at night.

  That afternoon, after embracing me and all the sweat and stench that covered my body, she led me over to my uncle, who was stationed next to a blanket in the shade. On the blanket was a buffet of berries, tortilla chips, and guacamole. My aunt had gone out on a limb and even purchased a container of gluten-free brownies from a local health food co-op. Being able to enjoy a brief family picnic near the halfway point of this grueling journey was the best gift I could have received. I don’t think anything would have lifted my spirits in quite the same way. But sitting there in the shade on that soft blanket, shoving handfuls of blueberries into my mouth, I began to miss my mom.

  I used to really struggle with the fact that my mom did not support my love of backpacking. But as I grew older, I began to understand it more.

  Over the years, she has become more accustomed to the trail. She no longer thinks that it is as dangerous or unsafe as she did when I first started backpacking. And Brew’s companionship on my journeys provides her with more peace of mind. I think after eight years, she’s even beginning to understand why I want, or need, to be in the woods. But she still feels helpless.

  My mom knows that the trail is going to be hard on me. She knows that I am going to hurt, and, worst of all, she knows that there is nothing she can do about it. My mom does not like feeling weak. Like a mama bear, she is stubborn, territorial, and protective. And as Brew likes to remind me, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  Entering the south marked the third and final phase of our journey.

  Phase one focused on survival. The first twelve days, hiking from Maine to Vermont, had been about enduring the most difficult terrain and conditions on the entire trail.

  During phase two, the goal was to gain a lead. Every day between Vermont and Pennsylvania, our intention was to travel a little farther than Andrew Thompson had in 2005. Some days, I would hike a few miles farther, other days I just stumbled a few step
s past where he’d slept. Our strategy and our persistence had worked. Now that we were in the southeast, we had gained almost a full day on Andrew’s record.

  In Maryland we started our last and longest phase. For the next three weeks, our objective would be to hold steady and maintain our lead—something that would be easier said than done.

  Maintaining our position from this point forward would be more difficult than it had been to gain an advantage. I was completely worn down, and I was well aware of the fact that Andrew lit through the South like Sherman’s army. On a positive note, the Mason-Dixon Line marked the first time since we’d been in Maine that I was not feeling my shin splints on a daily basis. My legs had been on the mend since reaching Vermont, but it took over 1,200 miles before I could stop taping them altogether. For the past six states, I worried daily that the slightest tweak or misstep could send me back into a state of misery.

  From the beginning, my strategy had been to hike the majority of my miles. However, I had always believed that when I reached milder terrain in the mid-Atlantic and southern section, I would need to run short sections in order to compete with the trail runners who had set records in the past.

  Now, even though my shin splints were healed, I had lost the ability and desire to run. My running muscles had realigned themselves to support my hiking motion. And, more importantly, my thoughts had shifted, too. It was clear to me now that I did not need to run to set the record.

  Looking back, it seemed that the shins splints were a sadistic blessing. The pain taught me to pace myself and kept me from running on the first half of the hike, and this reduced the risk of injuries or falls. It also made me rely on my hiking poles, which protected my joints from some of the pounding I asked my body to endure each day. In Maryland, I no longer believed that an inability to run was a disadvantage; if anything, my odds of setting the record increased once I realized that I could accomplish my goal just by hiking.

  It was hard for our friends and critics to believe that we could cover our daily mileage without even an occasional jog. But beyond trying to escape the unwanted reporter in Pennsylvania, my gait never increased. A writer for Runner’s World magazine kept calling and asking Brew how much I was running, and Brew had to keep telling him, “She’s not.” The reporter refused to believe him and pressed him for a percentage of miles that I was running each day.

  Sometimes Brew would joke with me as I neared the car, “C’mon! Here we go. Five strides. You can do it! If you run you can have an article in Runner’s World. I’ll call the reporter and tell him right now that my wife just ran 0.001% of the Appalachian Trail.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh when Brew implored me to run. Then I would look at his smiling face and meet his knowing, confident gaze. Together we had taken ownership of this hike. We were no longer following someone else’s footsteps. Brew was secure in his role as the crew chief, and I had proved to myself that I could set the record. We weren’t operating the same way that Warren or Horton or Andrew had when they set the record. The men who had been my trail heroes and mentors were becoming my peers.

  Our routine also did not involve following the precise schedule that Warren had left for us. Instead, we set daily goals each morning, but we always remained flexible. I would put in long, efficient, consistent days. And Brew would meet me as much as possible, help me focus on positive numbers, and solicit extra help along the way—lots of extra help. If one thing differentiated my hike from previous records, it was that we were receiving far more support.

  There are many traditional aspects of backpacking that you don’t experience on a record attempt. But one thing that seemed consistent was sharing intimate moments and building close friendships.

  I depended on, appreciated, and cared for the people who I shared the trail with more on this hike than on any other. If Brew had not torn his ACL, we would not have asked for additional help, and we probably would not have been ahead of Andrew Thompson. Brew’s injury, like mine, now seemed to be a blessing in disguise.

  I needed old friends like Warren, Melissa, and New York Steve to make it through the difficult transition at the start of the trail. Dutch and Rambler reaffirmed the idea that offering support could be enjoyable for both parties. They also helped us survive the mid-Atlantic. Unfortunately, Brew and I knew that Rambler would be leaving us soon, and that Dutch would follow him within the week. I hated to see them go, but their impending departure coincided with the arrival of one of my favorite people.

  From the moment we left Katahdin, I had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of David Horton.

  Sharing the trail with David Horton is always a memorable experience, so I was elated when he arrived to help us.

  He appeared on the heels of completing a 3,000-mile bike race along the Continental Divide Trail and was still worn-out from his adventure and nursing a bum knee. I knew that he was exhausted and hurt, but I didn’t think it would matter. I still had Rambler and Dutch hiking with me for a few more days so I didn’t need Horton nearly as much on the trail as at the road crossings. Horton was one of the best and most enthusiastic motivators that I had ever known. And I needed all the encouragement that I could get.

  However, even Horton’s encouragement couldn’t change the high temperatures. Since we had reached Maryland, every moment of every day had been unbearably hot. The highs were in the upper nineties. I started pouring sweat the moment I stepped out of my tent and didn’t stop until fifteen or sixteen hours later. My skin glistened with water and white salt crystals. For the first time in my life, I took sodium pills to try to keep my electrolytes balanced. But I still felt depleted. I also felt nauseous—really nauseous.

  On our second day in Virginia, I encountered the “Roller-coaster,” a thirteen-mile stretch of trail with six steep climbs and six sudden descents. There was no level terrain in the Rollercoaster and no place to rest. Dutch and I hiked through this section during the hottest part of the day. It was the only time I hiked with him when I felt like the stronger half. The temperature was oppressive to me, and I had grown up in the South. For Dutch, coming from the mild climate of Northern Europe, the hot, heavy air was unbearable. It felt as if we were choking on it instead of breathing it. Toward the end of every climb, Dutch had to stop and bend over with his hands on his knees while I continued to stumble down the trail feeling as if I was going to throw up.

  When we exited the Rollercoaster and reached the next road crossing, Dutch and I both collapsed.

  Dutch turned to Brew and said, “Do you have any ice in the car that I could have?” It was the first time since joining us in Pennsylvania that Dutch had actually asked for something.

  Brew dug into the cooler and handed a clear, frozen chunk to Dutch, who then held the dripping slab on the back of his neck as it melted.

  In the meantime, I had taken off my shirt and was sitting in our camp chair in my sports bra and shorts. Rambler held a newspaper over my head to try and provide some shade.

  Brew came over to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and asked, “Do you need anything?”

  “Don’t touch!” I gasped, and he quickly removed his hand.

  It was still too hot for affection. Even my husband’s gentle fingers seemed to burn my skin.

  “I don’t think I have ever seen you struggle so much with heat,” said Horton.

  “That’s because I’ve never felt heat like this before,” I replied.

  I thought I knew heat, but that day in northern Virginia seemed to redefine the word. It was much worse than anything I had experienced in the desert of Southern California or in Australia’s bush country. It felt like I was competing in the Badwater Ultramarathon through Death Valley. Except that I knew after I finished this race, I would have to wake up and run it again tomorrow.

  That night in our tent, I slept naked without my sleeping bag in an effort to stay cool. Brew was extremely receptive to my cooling technique, but unfortunately for him, not even the darkness brought relief. It was still too hot to
touch.

  The next morning I woke up, drank a protein drink and continued down the trail. The vanilla Ensure that I consumed at the tent seemed stuck between my throat and my chest. I wanted it to go down, but it wanted to come back up.

  I took some deep breaths in an attempt to force the shake into my stomach, but it didn’t work. The upchuck was imminent, and tears were welling up in the corner of my eyes.

  “Keep it down,” I whispered. “Keep it down.”

  I needed those calories and I hated—I mean hated—throwing up. Even when I was violently ill in Vermont, I told myself that at least it was diarrhea and not vomit. At home, my efforts to avoid puking always led me to cut off any food intake once nausea set in, but out here I had to keep eating.

  Thankfully Horton was used to helping exhausted ultra-runners through such illnesses. At the next road he replaced my Clif Bar and fruit juice with doughnut holes and Powerade, and miraculously, the sugary snacks provided almost instant relief. Talk about alternative medicine!

  When I stood up, I felt good enough to give Rambler a hug and say good-bye without worrying about leaving a present on his shirt. Brew and I thanked him profusely as he blushed and rushed over to his car to end the praise. Then our short, scraggly thru-hiker friend left, just as quickly and unpretentiously as he had arrived.

  I wished Rambler didn’t have to leave, but I felt certain that I would hike with him again. Brew and I both agreed that Rambler had been the crew’s MVH, or Most Valuable Hiker. He had come to the trail when we desperately needed help, he was always willing to hike—even at 4:45 a.m.—and he had brought Dutch. He also left Dutch, who was able to stay an additional three days. I planned to make the most of his remaining time with us. And together we entered into Shenandoah National Park.

  Dutch and I started our stretch in silence, but as the doughnut holes and Powerade started to wear off, I immediately struck up a conversation to take my mind off my returning nausea.

 

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