Dutch was planning a visit to Washington, DC, before he had to return home. For a full forty-eight hours, Brew and I both tried to convince him that the nation’s capital was overrated and that the free museums on the National Mall were not that special. We were only joking, of course, but we wouldn’t have argued with Dutch if he’d decided to stay.
On his final night, he and I hiked over Three Ridges together. He laughed as I choked down a berry and Nutella burrito and then wiped the remaining chocolate spread all over my white-and-yellow shirt. On the backside of the mountain, we watched the sky light up in orange, then pink, and finally purple. Then we put our headlamps on, switched positions, and I followed the back of his dirt-covered shoes downhill to the Tye River.
At one point, we heard a small animal move right beside the trail. The unexpected sound made me instinctively leap ahead. I landed a few inches behind Dutch and grabbed his arm to regain my balance.
“What was that? A rabbit?” he asked.
“Nuh-uh, that wasn’t a rabbit sound,” I said.
I turned my head and looked back until my headlight located the brown-and-beige coil and flickering tongue just inches from the trail.
“What kind of snake is that?” asked Dutch.
“A copperhead,” I replied. (Just the day before, I had introduced Dutch to his first rattlesnake.)
“You know,” said Dutch, “I have seen more snakes, bears, sunrises, and sunsets with you in the past week and a half than on my entire thru-hike.”
I smiled. “That’s one of the best parts of trying to set a record,” I said. “When the animals start to come out and the other hikers go to bed, we are still out here taking it all in.”
Together, Dutch and I came to the banks of the Tye River just before ten p.m. Brew already had our tent set up, and after submerging myself in the nearby water, I climbed inside and ate dinner. Dutch came over to our tent and left something outside. Then without saying a word, I heard his nimble footsteps fade away.
I unzipped my flap and saw his elastic ankle braces resting near my shoes. My feet had been twisting and turning a lot recently and my ankles felt weak. Dutch knew I was uncomfortable, and he left me the same ankle braces he’d worn for his entire hike.
I pulled the worn, dirt-smeared sleeves into the tent. I examined them and then pulled the left one over my foot to see if it fit. Perfect. I started to slide it off my foot when a thought crossed my mind: If I could keep Dutch’s ankle braces, then perhaps some of his superpowers would remain with me. Maybe now I would be able to night hike over three miles per hour on my own! I decided that I was going to wear those supports on every rocky stretch between the Tye River and Springer Mountain. Regardless of whether they were a source of superpower or superstition, they reminded me of good times and a good friend.
In return, I asked Brew to present Dutch with several bags of Combos, some Clif Bars, and any other items that now caused me to gag.
The next morning at 4:45 a.m., I woke up and crawled out of my tent to see Dutch’s headlamp shining near the trail. Together, we hiked up the steep slope of the Priest. Just after summiting, we came to a road where Brew and Horton were waiting for us. I gave Dutch a long embrace, then reluctantly let go. I nodded my head at Horton and walked over to Brew. Dutch got into Horton’s truck and soon all that was left of my two friends was a cloud of dust rising from a gravel road. I leaned on my husband as I watched them drive away.
• 12 •
REINFORCEMENTS
JULY 14, 2011—JULY 21, 2011
As much as I wanted companionship on the trail, it was comforting and intimate to be only with my husband at the road crossings. There were certainly times when the two of us had been alone this summer, particularly if we had two support vehicles and different crew members meeting me at alternating trailheads. But the majority of our time had been spent with other people. Now, without additional helpers, the road crossings felt less frenetic and more honest. Brew and I both knew our roles and what needed to happen at the car; we didn’t have to communicate that to each other or coordinate with the crew. And when we did talk, we said more with less.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like shit,” I said with a smile.
Brew laughed. “That makes sense.” Then he paused thoughtfully, “I can’t believe we’re here.”
I nodded my head in agreement. I knew exactly what he meant by “here.” He meant home. We were finally in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We were an hour away from Charlottesville, Virginia, where we had gotten married, and we were crisscrossing paths where we had run ultra-races and gone on day hikes in the past. From this point forward, the mountains and terrain felt familiar. It was hard to believe that in a few more days we would enter Tennessee and North Carolina, and that after that we just had another seventy-five miles in Georgia until we reached the end. It was one of the first times that we had both allowed ourselves to think about it. But the thought didn’t last long.
“Well, you’d better get going,” said Brew.
I silently stood up and took my daypack out of his hand then gave him a kiss on the lips and walked toward the trail. Before I climbed the wooden stile over the barbed-wire fence that separated the road from the forest, I looked back at my husband.
“You know, Horton might not have said it this summer, but this is really special.”
Brew smiled. “I know.”
In a way, even though Horton wasn’t with us, he still kept his promise to provide support until the end of the trail. He’s one of the most connected ultra-runners in the world, and after he left, he arranged for several members of his tight-knit trail community to come out and help. The first person to join us after Horton’s departure was Rebekah Trittipoe.
Rebekah is a tremendous athlete and ultra-running veteran. She was also the first female I’d hiked with since Melissa left in northern Pennsylvania. It was refreshing to share the trail with another woman. I needed some girl talk.
From the time I started backpacking years ago, most of my hiking partners have been men. I know far more than I care to recount concerning jock itch and male chafing (both below the belt and around the nipples). Men are not the only ones on the trail with issues, but conversation about female medical concerns still feels unacceptable in mixed company. In fact, if you ever want to lose a male hiking partner, I recommend broaching the subject of menstrual cramps or yeast infections.
Rebekah could not only relate to my issues, but she could also share war stories from hundred-mile races and multiday fast-packing trips. She told me tales of her seven-day race through the Amazon rain forest, of surviving the stinging nettles and rocks on the Allegheny Trail, and of running dozens of Horton’s trail races.
Rebekah also shared stories from her path as a wife and mother. She was farther down that trail than I was, and I appreciated the advice she gave concerning the sharp turns and tough climbs that lay ahead. Above all, my favorite conversations with Rebekah centered around faith.
Rebekah was the first Christian I had been able to hike with all summer. One of the aspects I loved most about the Appalachian Trail community was its diversity of backgrounds and beliefs. But it was also nice to be honest and authentic with someone and not have them look at you like you’re crazy.
I understand that a religion like Christianity that is based on a man who died (then came back to life) 2,000 years ago seems far-fetched and radical. I also understand that I am a member of a religion that has had a hand in numerous wars and unspeakable tragedies. For a rational person, faith in a belief system like this can seem completely illogical. Which is why it’s really nice to just share it sometimes and not always have to explain it.
“So do you pray while you hike?” asked Rebekah.
“Yeah, all the time. But I spend so much time in my head that sometimes it’s nice to just listen.”
“What do you think God is telling you?”
“That I am supposed to be here. Not necessarily that I’m going t
o set a record, but that somehow, in some way, this is part of his plan for my life.”
“Don’t you wish that sometimes God picked easier plans?”
I laughed. “Yeah, that would be nice.”
“Well, what do you think God is teaching you through all this?” she asked.
“Trust. He’s definitely teaching me about trust,” I said. “And dependence. I need him more than ever out here.” I paused for a few seconds. “And also, I think I am learning to live in the present instead of worrying about tomorrow. Oh, and he’s teaching me about love. I am learning a heck of a lot about love.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the other night Brew told me that the reason he’s out here being so supportive and loving is because he feels like it’s his responsibility as a Christian husband. He mentioned the Bible verse where God calls men to love their wives like Christ loved the church. Out here, Brew is willing to sacrifice himself to love me well, and it’s making me fall more in love with him and more in love with Christ.”
Rebekah nodded her head. “You’re really lucky. Most men don’t understand just how manly unselfishness really is.”
All of the crew members had helped me physically and emotionally, but it was really nice to have someone like Rebekah to encourage me spiritually. Being with her reminded me of why Brew and I had set out on this journey. The purpose wasn’t to impress anyone, but simply to praise and delight an audience of One.
Despite being a runner, Rebekah spent three of her four nights with us carrying a full backpack for me. And watching a runner carry a backpack is almost as painful as watching a fish flop around on dry ground. It’s just awkward and out of place. I will admit, though, that after carrying a light daypack and having people “mule” me for several weeks, I didn’t fare much better.
The first night wasn’t so bad. We decided that we would camp near the James River, but we crossed it after dark and couldn’t find where Brew had set up camp. With his ACL tear, he was limited to hiking no more than a quarter mile, and after we traveled twice that distance, we still hadn’t seen him.
Rebekah handed her pack to me. She had picked up her overnight gear and some extra food at our car, which was parked near the James River footbridge. In my exhaustion, the pack felt as if it were filled with bricks. I sat on the trail and started rummaging through her bag, looking for snacks while she backtracked to see if we had passed Brew unknowingly in the darkness.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes and a few dozen vanilla wafers, I heard someone hiking toward me, and I called out, “Hello?! Brew? Rebekah?”
“It’s me,” my husband responded as his headlamp appeared through the trees.
“What happened? Where have you been? Where’s the tent?”
“It’s just a little farther,” he said. “I was making such good time that I accidentally hiked more than I was supposed to.”
I couldn’t decide whether to be happy that his knee was feeling good or suspicious that he was trying to increase my mileage for the day.
The next evening, after a long, hot day that started just south of the James River, I found myself crisscrossing the Blue Ridge Parkway near Roanoke. I’d hiked up and down steep mountains all morning and afternoon, and now my legs and chest felt weak. I knew that I had another twelve miles, almost entirely downhill, until I would reach the outskirts of Troutville.
I’d already put in forty miles, and I didn’t know if I had another twelve in me. Brew suggested that he could meet me at a forest service road after another six miles. There, if I wanted to, I could collect my backpacking gear and hike a few more miles before camping out in the forest.
I enjoyed the gentle descent off the parkway, but after a few miles, the trail started undulating up and down steep inclines. Where did these hills come from? And why were they so hard?!
The only two things I remembered about this section from previous journeys was that once I had seen a bear here, and the other time, I had hiked while watching the sunset. Why didn’t I remember all this climbing? It was as if someone had just put these hills on the trail within the past two years. Up down, up down, up down. My calves burned and my thighs quivered. When I reached the overgrown forest-service road where Brew was waiting for me, I was completely spent.
I sat down and he handed me my dinner—spaghetti stuffed inside a tortilla wrap. A look of disgust came over my face, though I knew full well I’d brought this upon myself.
Since leaving Maine, I’d asked my husband for foods that I could hold. Small finger foods or anything requiring a utensil took too much time and attention. But at this moment, my need to feel civilized outweighed my desire to be efficient. I refused to eat spaghetti inside of a burrito. Even a hiker had to draw the line somewhere. So I unwrapped the tortilla and buried my face in the noodles like a pig at a trough. That’s dignity for you.
While I worked on slurping up my dinner, Brew filled my large overnight pack with a tent, sleeping bag, nightclothes, more food, and more water. He also included a large foot-care kit with disinfectant, Vaseline, powder, corn cushions, athletic tape, and clean socks. After wiping the marinara sauce off my face with a Wet One, I stood up and put on my pack.
In reality, it weighed no more than twenty pounds, but it felt like a hundred. I adjusted the straps, but it still felt like a wooden yoke resting on my shoulders. Once I’d walked forty or fifty yards, Brew called.
“There isn’t any camping out near Troutville, so I’ll probably get a hotel room tonight in Roanoke. If you make good time, maybe I can take you back there in the morning for a quick shower.”
“Okay. Love you,” I yelled back. Then I kept walking.
My pace decreased significantly due to the pack weight. I thought about Brew. Then I thought about the hotel room.
After hiking just over a mile, I started to whimper and my eyes felt damp. I had been so tough for most of this trip. But in this moment I felt like a wimp, a wimp who wanted sympathy. I took out my cell phone and called Brew.
As soon as he picked up, I wailed, “I wanna stay in the hotel, tool”
“What did you say?” asked Brew. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” The reception was bad, so he was yelling.
I wiped my snotty nose with my forearm, leaving dirt streaks from my elbow to my wrist, then I tried again.
“I want to stay in the hotel, too. I want to take a shower tonight and sleep in a clean bed with you. Carrying a pack was a BAD ideal I should have just hiked to the next road.” I took a deep breath, then finished on a shrill note, emphasizing the last few words as each came out: “This is an inefficient—use—of——my—energy!”
Then I started whimpering again.
“Look up,” said Brew.
I lifted my head and rubbed my eyes. He was standing about fifty yards ahead.
Suddenly, I no longer felt the pack pressing into my shoulders or weighing down my legs. I started jogging.
“Slow down. Don’t fall!” he said.
But I was afraid if I didn’t get to him fast enough, he might disappear.
I threw my arms around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Well, I saw a short side trail by the road when I was driving up here earlier. I thought it probably led to the trail, but I didn’t want to tell you about it in case I was wrong and I didn’t get to see you again.”
“I don’t want to camp out anymore,” I sobbed.
Brew smiled. “Yeah, I gathered.”
Then he offered a solution.
“I can take your pack, but that means you won’t get down to the road until close to eleven p.m. If you get in that late and stay at the hotel with me, I still want you to get six hours of sleep. So you can’t start until five thirty or six in the morning. Is that a deal?”
I slung the pack off my shoulders and laid it at Brew’s feet. Just then, we saw Rebekah hiking toward us. She had started at the road near Troutville and hiked in to camp with me. We told her about the
change of plans, and she happily unloaded her overnight gear on Brew, as well. Then Brew left us, and together we continued downhill. The only upside of temporarily carrying a pack was that once it was off, I felt like I was drifting effortlessly down the trail.
The hotel and shower were worth the late night and the extra miles, but the next evening I found myself in a similar predicament. It became clear that Rebekah and I would have to pack in together and camp out on the trail if I wanted to achieve my target mileage. After my whinefest the night before, we decided that Re-bekah would hike in ahead of me, carrying a pack with all our gear. All I would have to do is wear my daypack and catch up with her.
I said good-bye to Brew at dusk and hiked into the forest to find Rebekah. Within a few minutes, I had to turn on my headlamp. After spending so many dark hours walking with Dutch and after receiving his ankle braces, I was now a more confident night hiker. But beyond Craig Creek Valley, the A.T. proved hard to follow. There were multiple times when I thought I was on the right path and then discovered that I was lost in a maze of rhododendron trees.
It took me longer than I’d expected to find Rebekah, which made me worry that she or I—or both of us—was lost. When I finally did see her, it was clear she was struggling under the weight of the pack. She looked like a spinning top wobbling out of control. We’d planned on camping at a spring near the ridge, but at the rate Rebekah was traveling, it would have taken us a long time to get there.
“Rebekah, let me carry the pack,” I said.
“No, you’re not carrying the pack. That’s my job.”
“You’ve already carried it most of the way. It’s my pack and it doesn’t fit you well. Trust me, we can go faster if I carry it.”
She still refused, and we continued slowly in the dark. After a long while, we realized that even though our pace was sluggish, we still should have arrived at the water source. The darkness and decreased pace had me feeling disoriented. I could no longer sense how far we had come or how far we had to go to reach the spring. Then a light rain began to fall.
Called Again Page 19
