On day two in the park, Matt and I began hiking in the darkness and silence a little before five a.m. We traveled together on an overgrown trail through dew-soaked grass and copses of Frasier fir. Neither of us said a word for about two and a half hours, until I heard him stop behind me. “Look up,” he said.
Thirty yards ahead, there was a black bear standing in the middle of the trail. He stared at us, and we stared back at him. Then, after several seconds, he finally moved a few steps farther down the trail. Matt and I took a few steps as well. The bear looked back at us, we looked at him, and once again he sauntered slowly along before stopping to see if we were still behind him.
The scenario repeated itself two or three more times, and in each instance, when the bear turned his head to look at us, he seemed more and more annoyed that we were still following him—not angry, just annoyed. He acted as if we had seriously inconvenienced him by disrupting his morning berries-and-bathroom routine. Like Matt and me, he was not quite ready for social interaction.
When the bear finally walked off the trail and Matt and I were able to pass, it was after eight a.m. and we were awake enough for conversation.
“Man, I’m glad the sun finally came up. I was tired of drooling on myself,” said Matt.
I glanced back at him in confusion. I had no clue what he was talking about. Then I spotted the tiny LED light that was strung to a nearly invisible piece of thread around his neck. I wondered how he could use it without the elastic headband that secures it to the forehead. Then it came to me.
“You carry your headlamp in your mouth?!” I exclaimed.
Matt quickly defended himself. “Not having the elastic headband saves weight. And you don’t have to wear your light on your head for it to be hands-free.”
I loved the fact that Matt altered most of his gear and hiked in such a simple, Spartan style. But the image of him salivating on himself for the past two hours made me laugh so hard that I started to drool too.
That day, Brew had managed to break up our thirty-mile stretch by recruiting a friend from Asheville to hike in and meet us at Spence Field Shelter. Each extra resupply that Brew coordinated saved Matt and me from having to carry extra weight, and that resulted in extra energy. Extra energy meant stronger hiking, and stronger hiking meant a faster time. We were still just a day ahead of Andrew Thompson’s record, so every minute mattered.
When Matt and I were running low on water, he was the one who hiked off-trail to locate springs and refill our bottles. I was able to stay put and eat, or keep hiking and wait for him to catch up. But even with the added help, when we reached the turn-off to Shuckstack Fire Tower and started the long, steep descent to Fontana Lake, I felt weak and dizzy.
The switchbacks near the base of the mountain seemed never ending. They reminded me of a dream I used to have about being stuck in a stairwell that I couldn’t escape. There were several places where I thought I heard a road or believed I could see the blue waters of Fontana, but by the time I reached the next switchback, the noise or view had disappeared.
When Matt and I finally exited the woods at the base of the Smokies to find our respective spouses, Uwharrie, and my dad waiting for us, I almost couldn’t believe they were real. But then I sat down in our blue camp chair—the one that had cost us ten dollars at a discount store—and nothing had ever felt so real, or so comfortable. In fact, it felt like a throne. Over the past ten hours, I had stopped for only a five-minute break at Spence Field Shelter. We were now just one-hundred-fifty miles from the finish, and I longed for the time when I could sit and rest for more than fifteen minutes at a time.
On the banks of Fontana Lake, Matt and Lily bid us farewell, but our number still stood at four. My dad had come to help us finish, and somewhere near the next road crossing Maureen was waiting to greet us with her tripod and camera. My father was the one person who had greeted me at the end of the Appalachian Trail in both 2005 and 2008, so now that he was here, the finish felt more real.
I spent the next sixteen miles alone. For the first time on the entire hike, I didn’t just tell myself that I had what it took to set the record; I started to believe that I actually would set the record. I had reminded myself again and again on this journey that I belonged out here, but suddenly that statement no longer felt like self-affirmation. It felt like a fact.
When I arrived at Stecoah Gap, it was clear that while my anticipation and excitement had begun to increase, Brew was still business as usual. He did not talk about the finish or have a gleam in his eye that suggested we were close to the end. If anything, he seemed more uptight.
After a brief respite in Gatlinburg, it was now evident that Brew felt a huge amount of pressure to be perfect. We were potentially two and a half days away from Springer Mountain, and while that notion warmed my heart, it made my husband sick to his stomach.
His mind was traveling faster than I could hike. I could see the horrible hypothetical scenarios hidden in his tired eyes. If we did not succeed because of a missed road crossing or because he forgot to pack my EpiPen on a section where I got stung by bees, or if I should get sick from some piece of food that he handed me, then he would always feel as though he’d let me down. He never seemed to consider that he was the only reason I was in a position to be successful.
The next morning in the twilight, I hiked down from Cheoah Bald to the white rapids of the Nantahala River. Then I walked across the wooden bridge that carries the trail through the heart of the Nantahala Outdoor Center.
And as I began the calf-burning ascent out of the gorge—the most difficult climb that stood between me and Springer—I looked back and thanked Anne Riddle Lundblad for joining me.
Anne was voted the best female ultra-runner in North America in 2005 and 2006. She had won countless national and international races and was the silver medalist in 2005 at the USTAF 100k Championships in Japan. Even though Anne and I both lived in Asheville, I didn’t know her that well. And that was my fault.
During our past interactions, she was always very kind and would ask thoughtful questions, and I would answer her with bright red cheeks, mumbling like I had pebbles in my mouth. And when she CC’ed me on a group email inviting me to train with her on the local trails, I was always too intimidated to respond because I felt like I was too slow.
Brew, however, had no problem communicating with Anne and asking her if she could help us this summer. And she eagerly agreed to come out for one of our final days.
Now, staring up at the steep ascent that led to Wesser Bald, I could think of no better hiking partner than Anne. I was too fatigued to act star struck, and I was immensely grateful to have such a talented athlete to help me.
Five minutes into my first two-sided conversation with Anne, I knew that I adored her. I asked her several questions about her most well-known athletic feats, and she indulged me with stories and answers. But in the end we spent most of our time talking about family, careers, books, and hobbies.
By the middle of the afternoon, my overall impression of Anne was that she was an amazing athlete, but that she was also extremely grounded. It was clear that the trail was not the most important thing in Anne’s life, and I think that made her an even better runner. She didn’t have to prove her identity in a race—that was already well established in the loving eyes of her daughter.
One thing I noticed when hiking with both Anne and Rebekah was that they seemed to be more well-rounded than the men I knew who had built comparable trail resumes.
“Do you think that being a woman helps you to be a better trail runner?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Anne replied.
“Well, I was just thinking about it, and it seems to me like Mother Nature forces us to take breaks. Whether it is a monthly break for our cycle, or a seasonal one to have children, we’re not always expected to perform at our best. It’s like we have an excuse— a damn good excuse—to take breaks. I almost feel bad for men who have the pressure of competing at a high level all the tim
e.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” said Anne. “But I know that without breaks, I probably would have burned out by now.”
“You know, it might seem crazy, but sometimes I think we have a leg up when it comes to endurance sports,” I suggested. “After all, women outlive men, and we’re also the ones who give birth. So when it comes to longevity and pain, it seems like we might have an evolutionary advantage.”
Anne laughed and said, “I like that theory.”
All day Anne and I talked and hiked, and the miles seemed to fly by without either of us much noticing. I was surprised when we left Highway 64 and the sun started to go down. The day had passed quickly, and now I found myself night-hiking for what I hoped would be the second-to-last time on this trip. Anne and I walked in the dark with our headlamps on toward the fire tower that crowned Albert Mountain.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you for giving a presentation at my daughter’s school last year,” said Anne.
“It was fun,” I responded. “I love talking about the A.T. and getting kids excited about the trails and the outdoors.”
“Well, my daughter was definitely inspired.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, she thinks you are a rock star, which is funny considering she simply tolerates most of my races.”
“Do you want her to be a runner?” I asked.
“No,” said Anne. “Not unless she wants to be. I just want her to find something she loves and be able to pursue it.”
All of a sudden the lack of calories and sleep deprivation brought to light what I had been trying to make sense of for so many miles.
Multiple people had told me that I was a role model for going after this record. And that hadn’t really made sense to me. After all, this type of endeavor probably appeals to less than 0.01% of the people out there. I mean, how does hiking the Appalachian Trail in a short amount of time positively impact anyone? But Anne made me realize that being a role model isn’t about inspiring other people to be like you; it is about helping them to be the fullest version of themselves.
The main legacy of this endeavor would not be to encourage others to set a record on the Appalachian Trail, but to encourage them to be the best form of their truest selves. And it just so happened that my best form was a hiker.
When I went to bed that evening, it was with the knowledge that the next day, I would walk into Georgia. I had roughly ninety-five miles to go and just one more full day and night on the trail, so I wanted to make the most of it.
“Are you really setting your alarm for 2:45 a.m.?” asked Brew.
“Yep.”
“But it’s already past eleven,” he protested.
“I know.”
“Do you think it’s safe to be this tired already and hike for five hours in the dark on so little sleep?”
“I think the safest thing to do is to try to finish as quickly as possible,” I said. “The longer I am out here, the more potential there is for error.”
Brew shrugged.
“Well, at least you’ll be hiking with Carl. Make sure you go slow, okay?”
“Okay,” I promised. Then instead of saying good night, I looked at my husband and said, “Good nap.”
Brew chuckled. “Yeah, ‘good nap’ to you, too.”
Roughly three hours later, I woke up. After gagging on a protein shake and energy bar inside the tent, I crawled out to find myself in the middle of Carl’s headlamp beam. I am sure I was not a pretty sight.
I’d never met Carl before 10:45 the previous night, when he had arrived at our campsite just as Anne left. He was a friend of Matt Kirk’s, and he lived and trained in the North Georgia mountains. He’d agreed to hike with me the last day and a half—when I was at my most delirious—to ensure that I didn’t wander off-trail or, God forbid, start hiking north by accident.
I half groaned and half growled at Carl to acknowledge his presence. Together we located the trail, and for the next five hours, I centered my headlight on his large gray sneakers, never once averting my gaze. However, I did remember views from this section, so when we passed a rock outcropping on our left, I could imagine the dark valley below us. And when we arrived at the sign pointing toward Carter Gap Shelter, I pictured the original, primitive lean-to built by the Civilian Conservation Corps and the more modern structure nearby with additional sleeping space and a covered porch.
You’d think I’d have built up some confidence after covering 2,100 miles in forty-five days, but I was still in awe of, if not flat-out intimidated by, the athletic caliber of our support crew. Carl was no exception. Then again, he would have intimidated most people. He was hardcore.
For one thing, he looked hardcore. He was several inches taller than I was, but unlike Dutch or Matt, who looked down at me but probably weighed less than I did, Carl was a tank. He looked more like a lumberjack than an ultra-runner. He had thick, muscular legs and broad, defined shoulders.
Carl did things that were hardcore, too. He didn’t bother with ordinary ultra-races; instead he only signed up for the most sadistic races in the country, the ones put on by Gary Cantrell.
The most notorious of these races was the one-hundred-mile Barkley Marathon. The route had nearly 60,000 feet of elevation gain and another 60,000 of loss. It had been going on for twenty-five years, yet it had only thirteen finishers. Andrew Thompson was one. So was David Horton. Carl was not a finisher yet, but he probably would be soon. There were no female finishers—but I couldn’t think about that, not right now, at least.
At that moment, what Carl and I were doing did not even remotely compare to the Barkley. All we had to do was hike sixty miles to Tesnatee Gap.
In a way, sixty miles should not have seemed that far. I had strung together several back-to-back fifty-mile days already. And the thought of being close to the end should have carried me down the trail effortlessly. The problem was that the idea of the finish remained in my head and had not yet infused my body with extra energy.
The idea of putting my body through another sixty-mile day, at the end of a 2,100 mile journey, seemed unbearable if not impossible. I had started this hike with a full tank of energy and athleticism. Now my energy gauge was on empty—even the fumes had dissipated.
It was hard to drink, hard to eat, it was even hard to form words to communicate my thoughts. Every step and every breath was labored. So far, my mind and body had worked in tandem, propelling me down the trail each day. But at this point, there was a strong disconnect between what my mind wanted and what my body could do. I started praying my way down the trail; begging God to give me a little bit more energy and enough strength to reach the finish.
Carl, on the other hand, was fresh, and he was only out here for a day and a half. After finishing nearly eighty miles at the Barkley, surely he could do sixty miles in the mountains of north Georgia. Right?
But while it was true that my new hiking partner was not as worn down as I was, it turned out he was suffering from one of the most notorious and debilitating organisms found on the trail. Carl was carrying a protozoan parasite in his digestive tract called giardia.
Giardia makes you feel like someone is constantly punching you in the stomach. It causes explosive, unrelenting diarrhea, which quickly leads to dehydration. Even after you survive the initial symptoms, you will feel completely depleted and more than a little worried every time you need to pass gas. Carl had contracted giardia a month ago by drinking untreated water from an impure source, and he was still suffering from some of the unpleasant side effects. His frequent side trips off the trail reminded me of how miserable I’d felt in Vermont when I fell victim to similar symptoms.
You would think that seeing our able-bodied crew at the next road crossing would have been uplifting, but they were as motley and as haggard as we were. Brew was there rummaging around our disorganized car with a big black brace on his right knee. But the four-inch scar from his ACL surgery didn’t look half as gnarly as the back of his left leg
. He had come in contact with some poison ivy near the Nantahala Outdoor Center, and now he had a dime-sized, puss-filled blister surrounded by pink welts that seemed to spread by the minute.
Next to Brew stood Maureen. Finished with her initial treatments and not yet in remission, Maureen was yelling at Brew for letting the SUV that she had cleaned just ten days ago regress back into a disheveled mess of granola bars, damp worn socks, camping equipment, and first-aid supplies—all speckled white from a Gold Bond powder explosion.
On top of that, my dad had gone missing. Apparently, he was roaming around Hiwassee, Georgia, running errands and trying to buy my husband a new phone. For the second day in a row, Brew had managed to sabotage a cell phone—this time by dropping it in a Dairy Queen Blizzard. Now my sweet father was trying to buy my husband a new one while also assuming the role of central command since his phone actually worked.
Even our car was showing signs of wear and tear. It had a red, muddy bottom and a dry, dusty top. Brew had refused to wash it since leaving Maine because he thought the dirt and filth brought us good luck. And it didn’t really make sense to clean the outside of the car when we were still putting our soiled and smelly clothes, gear, and bodies on the inside. We’d taped artwork from our goddaughter and neighbors and well-wishes from our cousins to the ceiling above the passenger seat. And we’d covered the buttons on the driver’s-side door with duct tape to prevent us from accidentally rolling down the window when we couldn’t get it up again.
There we all sat at a road crossing near Hiwassee, Georgia, in hundred degree heat on July 30. I was a zombie, Carl had diarrhea, Brew had the beginning stages of a staph infection behind his left knee, Maureen had cancer, my dad was MIA, and our car had entirely lost its resale value. As a team, we didn’t look like we could win a 5k, let alone set a record on the Appalachian Trail. But this trip had taught me that a trail record wasn’t about looking good; it was all about survival.
Sensing the despair of our ragtag team, Carl spoke up. “This is what it’s supposed to feel like,” he said.
Called Again Page 23
