I was too tired to ask what he meant, but I was pretty sure that I agreed with his comment. I’d dealt with discomfort and pain this entire summer, but I’d continually told myself that the negative side effects of hiking forty-seven miles a day for forty-six days were perfectly normal.
I assumed that these effects were both understudied and unknown. I told myself that shin splints and stomach bugs were standard, that nausea was normal, and that exhaustion was expected.
Carl was right. After what we had all been through—indepen-dently and collectively—I don’t think we could have felt any other way.
That afternoon, the humidity and heat were oppressive. The ground was parched, and chalky red dust kicked up every time I took a step. On the last full day of the women’s record hike, the conditions had been identical, and I had come as close as I ever had to stepping on the head of a rattlesnake who was sunning himself on the trail. The vivid memory caused me to pay close attention to where I placed my feet. And yet, I still almost repeated my 2008 rattlesnake encounter when I stepped within striking distance of a snake sunning itself near the trail. In addition to my snake run-in, the crew had seen a black bear at one of the road crossings, and Brew was dive-bombed by a screech owl on a side trail as he tried to bring me a milkshake. The adventure was nearing its end, but that didn’t mean an end to the adventure.
When we reached Unicoi Gap, it was already six p.m. and I still had fourteen miles to cover. Carl agreed to walk with me for the last stretch, and his company was invaluable. We made it up the steep climb to Blue Mountain Shelter and across the rock fields near Chattahoochee Gap to reach the old railroad bed before dark. I loved it when the trail followed old logging roads and railroad beds. The width of the trail increased, there were fewer roots and rocks, and the grade was far gentler than most other stretches. Now, more than ever, I appreciated the gradual incline and lack of debris on the three-mile section into Low Gap Shelter. But soon after, the path left the worn trading route and returned to the natural contours of the forest. It was dark, I was following Carl’s shoes once again, and the trail kept going uphill.
I continued to hike, but started to feel claustrophobic with the dark closing in around me. I suddenly struggled to breathe, and more than that, my heart started to hurt. I had felt slight pains in my chest during the past two weeks, but I didn’t want to tell Brew about them because they were relatively minor and I didn’t want him to worry. But this time, it felt like my heart was cramping instead of beating, and my chest felt like it had a cinder block on top of it. The dull pain ached in my core.
I struggled to take a few more steps, then I fell to the trail, gasping for breath. I was hyperventilating, and my eyes started to water. Carl rushed to my side and asked if I was okay. I nodded yes, but then I continued to wheeze as tears streamed down my face.
I tried to relax and control my breathing as Carl sat behind me and massaged my shoulders.
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “Just focus on your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
His response was perfect. Even in the moment, I thought how nice it was to have someone as hardcore as Carl rubbing my back and soothing me with his words. His sympathy and the fact that he didn’t freak out—at least visibly—helped put me at ease.
When my breathing slowed down, Carl reached into his daypack and offered me food and water. I sat there sniffling, breathing, and shoving energy chews into my mouth until I started to feel better.
Finally, I felt good enough to stand and keep hiking. Carl continued trying to take my mind and his off my sudden chest constrictions, the consuming darkness, and the steep ascent that taunted us with every step.
“Hey, isn’t that Mumford and Sons song that Brew played at one of the road crossings, like, your theme song for the summer?” he asked.
I nodded my head, still a little winded.
“I have it on my iPhone if you want to hear it.”
My typical view of cell phones on the trail was that they were for emergency use only, but this still felt like an emergency to me.
“Yeah, that would be nice,” I replied.
So, hiking on a ridge in north Georgia, in a darkness so thick that it made me lose track of time and space, Carl and I listened to “The Cave.”
I had heard the song several dozen times over the past few weeks. The beat was catchy, the lyrics were poetic; it just resonated with me on multiple levels. But so far, I hadn’t taken the time to figure out why.
On this dark, warm night in the heart of backcountry Georgia, the song’s relevance to my situation became painfully clear. I listened to the verses as if for the first time. They called to me as if speaking in tongues only I could understand.
“It’s empty in the valley of your heart.
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears,
And all the faults you’ve left behind.”
• • •
“Cause I have other things to fill my time.
You take what is yours and I’ll take mine.
Now let me at the truth,
Which will refresh my broken mind.”
Immediately, I flashed back to the Long Trail, when I was hiking away from my brokenness. Everything seemed wrong. My life seemed shattered. Yet I managed to keep moving forward, and move away from the pain, toward love.
“So tie me to a post and block my ears.
I can see widows and orphans through my tears.
I know my call despite my faults,
And despite my growing fears.”
This verse alluded to Odysseus, my trail name’s namesake. He tied himself to the ship’s mast and filled his crew’s ears with wax to block out the Sirens’ song. Likewise, we took great measures to stay on course and limit our distractions. I was out here for a reason. I believed in my heart that the trail was a calling. And yes, there was suffering—both on the trail and off. The pain was hard and real. But at the end of the day, I had a choice to hide from it or hike through it.
“So come out of your cave walking on your hands,
And see the world hanging upside down.
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker’s land.”
Like Plato’s cave dweller, I had been exposed to a new reality on the trail. It was my job to explore it even if I didn’t fully understand it. But I needed help—dependence was imperative. At no other time in my life had I felt more reliant on my faith, my husband, and the people who surrounded us, or on the living spirit of the earth, than on this journey. And only in being completely dependent did I feel strong and free.
Finally, the chorus sounded one last time:
“And I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again.”
This song, this hike, this whole experience, that started from the day I left Springer Mountain as a twenty-one-year-old was all about hope. I knew about the darkness—the hanging I’d encountered on my first hike and the abduction of Meredith three years later. I had faced deaths, doubts, and fears. But the trail had provided a way to move past those obstacles and keep hiking forward. The forest had allowed me to find my true self. I had heard my name as it was called. And I’d become Odyssa.
The song ended. Carl turned off his iPhone and put it back in his daypack.
“You know, that’s not really a fun song,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. “It’s better than fun.”
We kept hiking for what seemed like forever, hoping that each new turn would bring us to the next road. Finally, before we knew how close we were, we heard a cry in the darkness.
“Sixty freak-ing miles!”
Brew had spotted our headlamps bobbing through the forest, and his voice let us know that we were within fifty yards of the Gap.
We’d made it. This was our last night on the trail.
I lay down on my foam sleeping pad at 11:30 that evening, and once again set my alarm for 2:45 a.m. Brew didn’t fight me this time; we both wanted to be done.
Then, as I wrapped a sleeping-bag liner around my torso, I felt another twinge in my heart. In a strange way, I was glad that it hurt. Well, maybe I wasn’t glad. But it just felt right, like it should hurt. Because sometimes things have to hurt before they can grow. And because of this adventure, my heart felt larger, stronger, and more full.
When I awoke on the last morning of the hike, I felt more miserable than excited. Every part of me hurt, and every part was exhausted.
I got dressed, crawled out of the tent, and began trudging along behind Carl’s feet. I purposefully tried not to engage with him. I didn’t even want to fully open my eyes. The closer I could come to sleep-walking, I thought, the better.
It was still pitch-black when we made it to Neels Gap. Brew had set up two chairs by the car, and he handed us both a hard-boiled egg tortilla wrap. I had eaten many of these protein-packed wraps on the trail. Sometimes Brew added cheese, but mostly it was just two eggs and some salt in a flour tortilla. But this time, as soon as I put the wrap near my mouth, I started to gag. Then Carl saw me out of his peripheral vision and instinctively began dry heaving too.
“I can’t stay here,” I said. “I’ll eat something on the trail. I really don’t want to throw up.”
I stood up and Carl followed. He stuffed several granola bars and two full water bottles in his waist pack and we were off.
However, before we even made it to the trailhead across the road, Carl had to stop and bend over. His whole body was convulsing in more dry heaves—and I could feel the bile building up in my throat.
“Carl, I have to keep going,” I said. “If I see you puke, I’m going to puke.”
Carl nodded his head, and I was off.
By the time I made it to the summit of Blood Mountain at the first light of day, I expected to hear Carl hiking up behind me. I called out his name, but there was no response. I kept hiking but walked slower. He had all our food and liquids and I really needed a pick-me-up. I had barely eaten at the campsite that morning because I knew I would see Brew in less than five miles. But at Neels Gap, I was too nauseous to eat. Now, I was on the southern slope of Blood Mountain, and my stomach was screaming for food. I’d hiked sixty miles yesterday and had come over 2,150 miles in the last month and a half. All that my body wanted to do was eat, and I didn’t have any food to give it.
Being famished and light-headed would not have worried me as much except that the last two times I’d felt this way, I’d passed out.
Once after an Ironman triathlon and another time while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, I had similar feelings of dizziness and low blood sugar. In both instances, I woke up on my back without remembering how I’d gotten there.
All summer, I had been very careful to monitor my caloric intake and carry a few snacks, even if a friend was muling me. But now on the last day, my fatigue and laziness had caused me to make a poor decision, and I was afraid I would pay for it by losing consciousness.
I had come all this way, and now there was a possibility that I would have a medical emergency and ruin my chance of setting the record with less than twenty-six miles to go.
I decided to sit down, figuring I wouldn’t fall as far if I fainted, and that I could rest while I waited for Carl to catch up.
I sat in the middle of the trail, calling for him every few minutes. I was probably there for twenty or thirty minutes, but it was long enough to realize that Carl was not coming. I kept thinking, He should be here by now. Something must be wrong.
My personal fear turned into worry for Carl. Was he okay? Should I go back and look for him? I didn’t know what to do.
Finally, I decided that I didn’t know where Carl was or how to find him, but I did know that I had six miles to the next road, and I should do everything in my power to make it there safely.
I stood up and started to hike. Surprisingly, instead of feeling depleted, I felt like I was floating. It was a weird, almost out-of-body experience. I was breathing through my nose, my mind felt disconnected from my feet, and I was flying down the trail. I remember Matt Kirk sharing a story about being in dire need of food and reaching a transcendent state of gliding down the trail— followed by several intense hallucinations.
This must have been the feeling he was describing. Fortunately, I wasn’t hallucinating yet. At least I didn’t think I was.
When I was two miles from the road crossing, I heard a noise I didn’t recognize. It was very loud, almost as if there were a storm or groundswell coming from the forest floor. I kept floating along and staring into the woods, when suddenly I saw two large wild boars. They saw me, too, and ran, crashing through the underbrush. But instead of charging farther away, they ran straight across the trail—fifteen yards ahead of me.
I was stunned to see the two portly animals with short, stiff legs move so quickly. And I was even more surprised to see the two adults followed by a dozen or so farrows, or baby boars. They were a collage of colors: pink, brown, gray, and black. Before this encounter, I had only seen four boars in all my years of hiking in the Appalachian Mountains. And now I was convinced that there was a polychrome family of fourteen running out of sight.
When I got to the next road crossing, Brew looked shocked to see me exit without Carl.
“What happened? Where’s Carl?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hoped he would be with you. I never even saw him. I thought he bailed before Blood Mountain and went back to Neels Gap. All I know is that I just encountered a whole lot of animals and I’m not sure they were all real. I need some food, and I need it now.”
I sat down and started chugging a Coca-Cola. The sugar revived me like an IV pumping through my veins. Next, I began to work on the hard-boiled burrito that Brew had made earlier. Three hours ago it had made me retch. Now it smelled tempting and tasted delicious.
As I started to feel better, I also started to get excited. I looked around and saw James and my oldest brother, Jones, standing by the car and pulling out gear so they could hike the last twenty miles with me. Maureen was there smiling and taking even more photos than usual.
I felt warm and full inside. It was probably a result of the egg burrito and the Coke, but there was also a part of me that felt satisfied by more than just food.
I glanced over at Brew, who was calling Carl from a borrowed cell phone while simultaneously rummaging through the trunk of our car to pick out my snacks and refill my water bottles.
“There’s no answer,” Brew said with a concerned and frustrated look on his face.
I told my husband the same thing I had repeated in my head for the past six miles. I said, “Carl will be fine. He is an experienced runner, and he knows these woods like the back of his hand. He can take care of himself.”
“I hope so,” responded Brew.
Then I asked, “Honey, do you feel it at all?”
“Feel what?” he replied.
“The finish.”
“We’re still twenty miles from Springer Mountain,” said Brew matter-of-factly. “When you hike another nineteen miles and when we find Carl, then it will feel like the finish.”
I knew that my husband was not trying to be a killjoy. He was just staying focused. And I needed to stay focused as well. I couldn’t let go of my emotions or my intensity just yet. But repressing my joy was a lot harder with my oldest brother standing five feet from me.
Jones had never come to the trail before. He had a frenetic, high-powered banking job that made it difficult for him to take time off. The fact that he was here, in the middle of nowhere Georgia, where his Blackberry didn’t work, helped me to realize just how special and important this day was going to be.
He and I set out together to hike the next section while James and Brew stayed at Woody Gap to wait for Carl.
“Jones,” I replied in a mixture of consternation and amusement, “I haven’t run all summer.”
To which he responded, “Well, better late than never. C’mon, pick up the pace!”
The prodding was so good-natured and humorous that I decided to appease him. I could hear Brew’s voice in the back of my head, saying, “Slow down. It is not worth it to run on your very last day and risk an injury.” But I couldn’t help it. All summer long, ultra-runners, endurance junkies, even a national magazine writer had tried to get me to transition from walking my miles to running them. Yet the only person who succeeded at the task was my brother, who spent eighty hours a week in a cubicle in Manhattan.
As we trotted down the trail, Jones kept provoking me over and over. But beyond reminding me to keep my cadence up, he also kept saying things like, “It’s so beautiful out here,” and “All you have to worry about is food and water. This is the life!”
My brother was right. Compared to his high-tech, high-speed world, my existence for the past forty-six days had been wonderfully simple. I had spent the summer going three miles per hour, never once having to look at a computer or use my phone except in emergencies. It’s amazing that even setting a speed record on the Appalachian Trail seemed unhurried when compared to our modern existence.
When Jones and I jogged out of the woods at our next road crossing, Brew’s jaw dropped.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“My brother the banker wouldn’t let me walk,” I replied.
Brew laughed and shook his head. “Just be careful,” he warned. “Really, really careful.”
“I will, I promise. Have you heard from Carl?”
Called Again Page 24
