by Scott Jurek
I can’t remember what we talked about, or if we talked about anything. All I remember is tuning into our new surroundings and surrendering to the pull of the white blazes, each one a rectangle of white paint, two inches by six inches. It used to be said that no matter where you were on the trail, if you looked north or south, you could always see a white blaze. Despite being so rugged, the Appalachian Trail is one of the most well-marked trails in the world. That white rectangle gave hikers the extra confidence they were on the trail, and I had already found comfort following them in the first few miles.
I hadn’t even begun to think of the run as an attempt, as the attempt, the FKT. I was enjoying the simplicity of connecting these dots, feeling more like a playful, exploratory kid, the type who dreams of someday embarking on a grown-up wilderness quest. That day had arrived.
At one point, JLu mentioned that we were making good time. I checked my watch, did a couple of calculations, and told her this was the pace I’d have to keep for the next forty-six days. She blanched (she’s always been pretty bad at hiding her concerns). Four miles per hour—consistent, efficient, and metronomic. It was just numbers. I knew I could outrun numbers.
Luis joined me eight miles in at a forest-road crossing called Hightower Gap, where JLu reclaimed Castle Black.
That first day, I felt myself slipping into a rhythm I would later try to remember and replicate during more challenging days. The tunnel swallowed me, then spat me out, then swallowed me again. The rain stopped, then started, then stopped. Notions of unpaid bills and house projects evaporated. Like it had during our cross-country car trip, my mind loosened a bit as I dispassionately examined things I’d normally taken for granted. We traded the four walls of our predictable domestic existence for the four wheels of life on the road. And for me, my two feet running and moving over thousands of miles of forest-covered mountains.
That was a feeling I would chase for forty or more days. Those first few miles were the template. I didn’t know what was next, and that was okay. That was more than okay. With each step, I felt as if I were being pulled forward. The reasons for the journey would come into clear focus, then blur, then sharpen again many times in the coming weeks. But my direction would never waver. After so many years of running, of winning, and then going nowhere fast, I was headed somewhere. For the first time in a while, I had a direction. North.
When Luis and I were on the trail together, he sometimes ran ahead doing his own thing, which left me alone for long stretches.
My mind ate up the silence, as it has done my whole life. I thought about JLu. And what we were doing, and what we had been through. I thought about our friend Dean. And I thought of my mother. She had been denied so much pleasure due to her struggles with MS, it made me not want to miss any. And I thought of my father, how discipline and control had been the pillars on which he built his life, even more so after my mother died. I remembered her stoic endurance of pain, and I remembered how my father’s demands helped forge me into the person I am. As I turned these familiar memories and feelings over in my mind, I felt them begin to change shape. My roots are the calculus of who I am, but they are not only who I am. I was in a new place, at the beginning of a vast journey, and I felt myself grow lighter.
When Luis rejoined me, I was well on the way to Big Cedar Mountain, twenty miles in and thirty to go. We ran through the grasses and ferns of Blood Mountain Wilderness before climbing again. I had started before dawn at 3,700 feet, spent much of the day plunging through small valleys and pushing through the mud and woods that guarded them, and now we were back at 3,700 feet. We took a moment to take in the view. The vista was obscured by thunderheads and dense clouds, but I could still see distant ridges, a reminder that Georgia was nowhere close to a flat state.
I remembered from the little preparation I did do that the name of Blood Mountain Wilderness came from war. Cherokee and Creek tribes loved this stretch of Georgia so much that they fought a battle for it. During the definitive encounter, Slaughter Creek ran red. The victorious Cherokee named the land Blood Mountain.
The memory injected a forbidding quality into the beauty of the landscape. It felt like a wild place, a place suffused with lives and deaths. A place dense and crisscrossed with more history than anywhere out west. It made me ponder my own memories of life and death.
I finished that first day wet and tired. I would remain mostly wet and tired for the next several days. But I was fluid now. I had tapped into the old El Venado spirit, the one who sensed all the trail rhythms. I had been waiting for this and wanting it more than I’d even realized. I remembered what Jenny said to me during that argument in the blistering sun of the Anza-Borrego Desert.
“I want to see the old Jurker. I want to see you care, I want to see you win!”
I felt that “old Jurker” flickering inside of me; the fire was beginning to spark and burn a bit brighter. Horty had said, “You were made for this, boy!” and I was finally feeling it again.
* * *
I’d crewed a ton of Jurker’s races, but this was total immersion, and it meant I was picking up duties I didn’t have much experience with. Or, in some cases, aptitude for. Everyone who knew me was shocked and horrified to learn that I would be in charge of all the cooking. I admit it—it’s not my strong suit. Climb, run, slack-line, design, sew, knit—yes! But cook? If I hadn’t married Scott, I’d still be eating cold cereal and almond milk for dinner five nights a week. The other two nights would be toast with crunchy peanut butter.
Jurker was obsessed with food; it was his love language. Me? No comprende. It was one of the many differences between us that made us fit together. He practiced discipline and detailed precision, while I embraced wabi sabi. At home, I pursued my design career and Scott did his running/speaking/writing thing. We ran together as often as we could, but then I went climbing with my guy friends while he cooked with their girlfriends. I planned our social calendar and he handled our day-to-day lives: paid the bills; took out the garbage, compost, and recycling; trimmed the bushes; shoveled the snow; raked the leaves; planned the meals; did the dishes. It was true, I was going to be like Jurker’s personal assistant out on the trail. But I didn’t mind. He was my cabana boy back home. Swapping roles for a few weeks couldn’t hurt.
It was never all about him, I enjoyed being out on the trail as much as he did and was having daily revelations of my own. At Neels Gap, where I waited for Scott at mile thirty-one, I parked the van in front of an old stone building that had been converted into a store called Mountain Crossings. I started making sandwiches for Scott while Luis went inside to look for coffee. He finally came out half an hour later and said, “Hey, kid, you gotta check this place out, it’s a trip.”
I went in. He was right. The store sold everything from dehydrated meals and water filters to AT souvenirs like bumper stickers and T-shirts that said I HIKED THE ENTIRE WIDTH OF THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL. Hanging from the ceiling were dusty, beat-up vintage hiking boots. Outside, a tree was hung with modern boots that had been left by hikers who’d abandoned their thru-hikes here, a mere thirty-one miles in. The place had an undeniable religious feeling. It was saturated with memory and history, like it was the last piece of civilization for pilgrims before their long, treacherous journey. When I’d stood beneath that giant map in the lodge the day before we started the trip, I’d been awed by the size of the task we were attempting. It felt alien and scary. But here, beneath a pair of worn-out boots from some anonymous hiker, I finally understood the magnetism that had reached out and touched Scott—and so many others. I could feel the communal devotion, the reverence that so many felt for the trail.
My reverie was cut short by a familiar sound from outside: the signature Jurker whoop. I rushed out—and saw no one. Just thick walls of leaves all around. I was already getting used to the way the Appalachian Trail seemed to hide its inhabitants. He was out there, and he was getting closer.
Finally he whooped and came into view. It was only the first day of our
journey, but I realized right away that he was genuinely having fun.
The morning of our second day started early, in the pitch-black predawn hours. We had parked on the side of the road the night before. Luis quickly packed up his tent while Scott got ready for the day’s first eleven-mile section. After I watched his headlamp disappear up the trail, the darkness and silence made me realize how much I really did like having Luis around. He was half asleep but he still had that El Coyote energy. With bags under his eyes, he told me he wanted to find his three essentials—coffee, WiFi, and a toilet. These turned out to be at the McDonald’s in a nearby town called Hiawassee.
We both checked our e-mail and looked at social media. I was surprised by how many people were already following and commenting on Scott’s posts; once again I realized how I had underestimated the draw of the AT. The overall chatter was encouraging and supportive, but there were, of course, some critics. They didn’t bother me, but Luis seemed disturbed. There was some predictable lecturing: The AT is for hiking, do your racing on the track and Don’t forget to stop and smell the roses. Other stuff was more personal: He’s washed up and He has no multiday experience. There was some truth to those armchair critics’ comments; this was slightly out of his wheelhouse. But let’s be honest—he had a pretty decent résumé.
Chapter 3
Wabi Sabi Masterpiece
Day Four
I had never been where I was standing now, never even been near it. Spence Field was just one more pretty little spot deep in the hushed heart of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It was high on a breezy ridge in the middle of my own little terra incognita—and exactly where I needed to be.
An entire world away from my life back home. Here at my feet, an Appalachian Trail anomaly: a grassy meadow, soft as a dream. And above me: a lone oak of rustling green and yellow. Nothing around me that even remotely resembled an obligation or a routine or a phone call or an e-mail or a presentation…just the trail, and miles.
I’d run a marathon already and I had twenty-five miles to go today. I was only halfway through. Then I would meet up with JLu, sit on the edge of Castle Black’s sliding doorway, remove my muddy shoes, and rinse off with a portable camp shower. We wouldn’t be answering any calls from the doctor or following up on any tests or appointments. After I cleaned up, we’d climb into our van and enjoy a meal of canned Thai coconut curry over rice noodles. Out here it was very easy to appreciate the few things we had with us. It was better than lamenting what we had lost.
I was in good shape physically. I was breathing steadily, and I felt my skin cooling as I took a moment to take in the view. I was tired, of course, but the ache in my muscles felt good; I was alive, doing what I did best, and pushing myself to do more. That was the reason I was out here.
I was still in my own little honeymoon phase. We had just entered the Smokies, and a handful of excited runners were venturing out to find us. There was a buzz in the air from the locals and the AT enthusiasts online. Just that morning, a gentleman had met me outside the van at five thirty. He’d driven six hours from Louisville just to run a few miles with me. I felt bad when I had to tell him that JLu and I had planned to start that day alone. But I invited him to join me after the first six miles. He did—and so did my one-eyed buddy adventure zealot Mikey Ray and his Macho Beach Running Club friends from Charleston, including a young runner named Victor.
Victor came with a very specific goal in mind: he wanted to join me for the remote, no-road-crossings, thirty-two-mile section of trail that connected Fontana Dam to Clingmans Dome in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I was happy to let him. We ran together for six hours or so until he told me he was going to scramble down the ridge to Spence Field Shelter and make a water run. I decided I would treat myself to a nap, the very first of the trip, while he was gone. I was making good time, and I was in good spirits, but I was so sleepy. The long trail days were taking a toll and I’d caught a case of the midday nods. Before Victor left, I told him to wake me up in twenty minutes. No matter what.
I arranged my hydration pack behind my head, stretched out, pulled my lightweight jacket over my chest, and let myself sink into the ground. I did some low-intensity calculations as I settled in. I was on a good pace. If I kept up what I’d been doing over the past three and a half days—difficult but doable—I’d be on track to set a new fastest-known time. Everything so far was going according to plan. Better than the plan, really. But then, as all the fatigue and sleepiness set in, doubts began to play with my brain. What had I gotten us into? Could I really do this for another forty days? What the hell had I been thinking?
Fat, majestic clouds drifted slowly across the sky, and the foliage of the Smoky Mountains forest whispered me to sleep.
I closed my eyes. And waited.
And waited.
My brain and body were not on the same page. I managed to steal a few minutes of rest for my legs, but my mind took up the slack. My thoughts were doing the racing now.
I thought back, with a pang of embarrassment, to two nights earlier when a magazine writer had called to talk about my attempt. I’d tried to express how important it was to me, how it differed from my hundred-mile-trail wins and the twenty-four-hour American road record, but I was reaching for feelings and ideas that were still incipient, even though I’d finally put my feet down on the trail. So what came out of my mouth was…less than articulate. I said something like “This is going to be my masterpiece.” I was trying to sound confident, but instead I sounded full of myself. The truth is that I was afraid to say I really don’t know why I’m out here. Hopefully I figure it out over the next two thousand miles.
This haphazard approach was new to me; it was more JLu-style wabi sabi than the calculation of my past records. But maybe I needed to fuse the dreaming artist and the scheming tactician and become a different animal. I didn’t have time to ponder; my twenty minutes were half up. Victor would be back very soon bearing water. I’d missed my nap opportunity.
I focused on recovering a positive mind-set and let my thoughts drift to the day before. It had been a perfect morning; the sun had been out and the birds were whistling their little beaks off. JLu and I were entranced. We couldn’t believe how loud and melodic they all were—the wrens, sparrows, and warblers especially—as we ran through a forested ridge under a canopy pierced by dawn beams. We had decided to try to run together, alone, every morning—and not to talk about logistics or strategy or anything “important.” We would just enjoy the trail until JLu reclaimed the van.
Later, right in the middle of another thunderstorm, I ran into two women well into their sixties. We all stopped to chat, and I asked how far they were planning to go. I was expecting to hear about a day trip, maybe an adventurous overnight, maybe a drop-off and pickup somewhere on the other side of the forest. They smiled and said, “Katahdin!” Their spirit sustained me through the rest of the day. It began to rain harder as we conversed, but it didn’t matter. I hoped to be just like them one day: older, vibrant, and on the trail.
Then I met JLu for lunch and submerged myself in the icy waters of the Nantahala River. I was feeling confident so I declined to pack my headlamp for the last stretch of the day, certain I would finish my miles before dark. But by the time I had climbed and descended a notorious stretch of trail named Jacob’s Ladder, the sun had set. I ended up having to use my phone as a flashlight. But my mistake led to a small piece of grace, a hallmark of the trail, I would come to discover—the dense darkness of my final mile or so sparkled with thousands of fireflies, making me feel less like I was in North Carolina and more like I was in outer space. It reminded me of my childhood in Minnesota, when endless summer days finally phased into a darkness I ignored, and my mom, unafflicted by disease then, would continue tossing the baseball to me in the firefly light. I was overcome with a mix of joy and sadness that could only be explained by nature’s hard and soft edges. Until yesterday, JLu had never seen a firefly. When I met her later that night, she was
wide-eyed with wonder—and I forgot my sadness.
I reluctantly rose to my feet before Victor came back. I would spare him the bother of getting me up. It was time to get going again. I hadn’t gotten any sleep, but I had spent some time remembering why I was out here in the first place, and that was just as good. Better, probably. It was probably okay that the off-the-cuff interview happened early in the trip, because I had to handle it. I had to accept that I would have doubts and not let those doubts derail my plans. I told myself that what-the-hell moment in Spence Field was a gift.
I knew even then that I was going to need to store up the good times. It was only day four. Day forty-four wasn’t going to be cool rivers and fireflies.
Victor came back, and we set off for Clingmans Dome, where JLu would be waiting with a smoothie. Back in our planning stages, we’d barely even considered going after the self-supported FKT. Self-supporting was impressive, but it didn’t fit my life right now. It involved mail drops and hiking off trail for resupplies, having the flexibility of crashing wherever the day ended, and not seeing your best friend the entire trip. The aesthetics and ideals appealed to me, but this time I wanted to share the experience with JLu.
The people along the way, like those two women I met and like Victor, were part of what kept my spirits up, even during those first few days.
At the same time, I began to realize I was becoming a flash point in an all-too-predictable controversy, one stoked by hikers and runners who crossed my path. The sad thing was that I was more sympathetic to the naysayers—the people who were using me as an example of the counter AT mind-set.
The controversy was perfectly summed up by a day hiker who shouted out, “Hey, what’s your hurry?” as I ran down a ridge to Buckeye Gap right on the border of North Carolina and Tennessee. I didn’t answer right away. I knew what he was really saying.
