North

by Scott Jurek

  But just to be sure, just to confirm that my mind wasn’t concocting some excuse to quit so I could give myself an easy out, I got out of bed and took a step…and clenched my teeth in agony. I lay back down and took some comfort in the fact that this time no one could say I had given up. My body had given up on me.

  And then, the voice of cruel reality.

  “Just get to Roan Mountain and Carvers Gap,” said Horty. “Roan’s the key. It’ll be a nice climb, make you feel good, and the uphill will be easier on those injuries. It’ll remind you of the Pacific Northwest up there. Big ol’ pine trees, and it’s foggy. Jenny, when you get to Carvers Gap, drive up toward the summit and walk on up to the lookout. Bee-you-tiful! It’s a little hike, but, man, is it worth it!”

  Horty was all rambling optimism this morning. He was saying some nonsense about…getting out of bed and getting back on the trail. I let his Southern-drawled comments pass without reply. Instead, I reflected on several things, ranked in order of pertinence. One: I could barely walk. Two: Roan Mountain was a crushing thirty miles and forty-five hundred feet of elevation from where I lay at that moment, looking up at the hotel ceiling. Three: Because of the pitiful thirty-three miles I’d covered yesterday, I now needed to average over fifty miles a day just to stay on record pace. Four: I would be lucky just to make the thirty-six miles to Carvers Gap today. Five: I risked further injury if I pushed myself too far. Six: Horty would be leaving this morning, Luis had left two days ago, and I did not like the idea of JLu alone on the rutted dirt roads of the Deep South while her crippled husband hobbled along somewhere too far away to help her. Seven (and possibly most important): Horty was a crazy old man.

  I ran down this list with JLu. She understood how I felt, she said, but disagreed with two of the points. She said that I wouldn’t do any permanent damage, that I knew my body well enough to pace myself. And as for my concern about her well-being in Dixie, she gave me one of her give-me-some-freaking-credit-Jurker looks. I got the impression that if I stayed in that motel room, she would knock out the five remaining points as well.

  So on June 3, at 6:30 a.m., after downing a banana, a Nuts and Seeds Clif Bar, and a room-temp coconut-milk latte, I put on damp shoes, wrapped my knee and quad, kissed my warrior wife good-bye, and started limping toward sixty-two-hundred-foot Roan Mountain, a towering pile of mossy rocks and conifers in eastern Tennessee and the highest peak before the AT dipped into Virginia. I was outnumbered in that motel room. Horty and JLu weren’t going to let me stop.

  Anyone following my progress on the GPS tracker thought I was on day eight of my courageous attempt at the FKT. To me, though, it was day one of the second phase of an impossible goal. I was crawling up from the bottom of a seemingly bottomless abyss. I had lain in bed and given up, and if it weren’t for the grit of my wife and the wanton disregard for my health that came naturally to Horty, I would gladly have fallen back to sleep in the shadow and comfort of that abyss. So this second phase was going to be different. I felt that immediately. It had to be.

  I was going to put the FKT out of my mind. I needed to focus on just being here. I’d make it through the next few miles, few hours, few days by keeping my mind tethered to the ground. No more forecasting forward, no more lofty goals. I wouldn’t be pursuing anything. I wouldn’t be trying to prove anything. I would be a guy with two bad legs out for a long hike. The pain was still there, and it was still enough to rule out a record attempt, but I’d figured out a way to use my hiking poles as crutches and lighten the load on the leg that hurt the most. I wouldn’t set any speed records, but I wouldn’t cripple myself. JLu was right. I knew my body and how far I could push it. And maybe Horty’s half-baked wisdom would turn out to be somewhat true.

  After Unaka Mountain and seventeen miles of crutching myself up another vicious, rocky, hellish, sweaty, Rorschach-inkblot-looking stretch of land that most would hardly term a trail, I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey, peg leg,” JLu shouted from just up ahead. She caught me midmaneuver; I was halfway over a huge tree trunk, straddling its girth with my bum legs.

  I wasn’t expecting to see her yet, miles away from Iron Mountain Gap, and my first thought was a funny one. When I’d left her that morning, I had been ready to give up, so I felt I needed to look suitably tortured now, but I was just too happy to see her. My plan from that morning—to keep things simple—had already begun to work its destressing magic. Jenny’s presence made it even stronger. So what if I knew I wouldn’t make the record? So what if she still thought I could? We were together, we were in the mountains, and we were alone. And at least I was making some progress. She hiked and I hobbled along to Cherry Gap Shelter so that we could sign the shelter logbook, another way to leave bread crumbs and proof of my progress. Transparency and documentation were high on my list.

  JLu continued on the shorter outbound path that reconnected with the AT, and I crutched myself back up the way I’d come on the inbound shelter trail. Jenny asked what I was doing, and I told her that I was making sure I didn’t miss any of the trail. If I was going to complete the AT, record-setting or relaxed, I was going to hike the entire AT. No shortcuts, even if it was only a hundred feet.

  That kind of austerity was important to Horty and fundamental to the ultrarunning ethos. Honor and integrity were everything. Not that I’d needed reminding of it, but Horty called me anyway the week before we drove to Georgia. “Now, make sure that whenever you leave the AT, whether getting water or going to a shelter, you come back to the same point you exited. And at the end of each day, cross the road and touch a landmark, a tree, rock, or sign, where the trail continues. That way you’ll know where to start the next day and you won’t miss a speck of the trail. That’s what I did.”

  I didn’t do it because Horty told me to, nor was I some self-righteous stickler for rules; it’s just that the mystique of the AT had always seemed to me to be its comprehensiveness. Not doing it all was the same as not doing it, period.

  Not everyone pays as much attention to the unwritten code of conduct on the AT. The more obvious violators are easy to spot, if only by what they leave behind: Beer cans, toilet paper, empty bags of potato chips—the quality-of-life violations endemic to all public land in the nation. Then there are the more subtle transgressions: Cutting switchbacks, leaving fire rings, and making a lot of noise after dark, particularly in areas where there are likely to be other campers, like shelters. These are the misdemeanors of the AT, irritating and impolite but they often go unnoticed. Some people just don’t know any better. And some hikers get accused of “yellow blazing”—that is, hitching a ride (yellow referring to the stripes on paved roads) to avoid a section of trail. Among the unwritten, wildly interpreted FKT ethics, there is only one inviolable rule: Cover every step of the trail under your own power.

  Personally, I chose a strict FKT ethic because unfortunately, for whatever reason, people really do cheat. That was the primary reason I carried a seven-ounce GPS tracker, and why I’d decided to share the tracker online. There were plenty other smaller and lighter trackers available, but I heard this one was the best. Anyone could check on me at any time. I also made sure to take time-stamped photos, post updates on social media, and talk frequently to fellow hikers. I knew there would be doubters, as there always were when anyone was trying to break a record. As there should be. I was well aware of the friendly rivalry between the trail-running and hiking tribes. I welcomed the scrutiny.

  It was early afternoon by the time JLu headed back, and I was covering only two miles an hour. The terrain exacerbated my injuries and tested my newfound mindfulness.

  I was a full-time hiker who was hobbling. I planted my poles on a mosaic of rocks that looked like a tile floor slapped down by a madman, swung my left leg, planted it again. Tapped the ground with my right. And again. And again.

  It was a particularly tedious stretch of the trail, a section of slick rocks and shifting mud. These mountains were ancient here, which meant that I was hiking over
a kind of graveyard of gigantic boulders. Over eons, the mountains had sunk into the earth and been worn down into low hills by unrelenting winds and rain. Now I clawed over their harsh, bleak remains, and I too felt ancient.

  As I picked my way forward over the rocks, I heard some hikers approaching me. I felt a twinge of annoyance—I was feeling sorry for myself and wanted to walk it off in solitude.

  It was two women, probably in their early fifties.

  “Hey, you’re Scott!” one of the women said. “We’ve been reading about you. How’s it going?”

  “Not very well right now,” I said before I could censor myself.

  Their faces fell; it was as if one of their own children were hurt. “I’m sorry,” they both said, almost in unison.

  I felt embarrassed that they’d caught me at a low point.

  “Where are you ladies from?” I asked.

  “Ohio.”

  I told them I was from Minnesota. They were section-hiking southbound for a week. I asked them to tell me more, to tell me all about their plans. They seemed surprised—they’d probably expected me to talk about my adventure, but I was much happier to hear about theirs. They had no rigid schedules, no timetable, no mission besides enjoying nature and their friendship. They had a confidence and cheerfulness that reminded me of my mother, and I found myself telling them about my injuries.

  “That sounds bad,” one of them said sadly, “but you can do this, Scott. I can tell that you’ve got what it takes.”

  “We’re rooting for you,” the other said softly. I guess I wasn’t going to be the one providing inspiration this time. They left me and continued on south. Those women had given me something more than a nice story about their hike. They’d given me hope.

  To be a trail angel, in the parlance of long-distance hikers, is to offer one or many acts of kindess. Some angels conjure their magic in quiet, subtle ways. Others are more practical and direct, bringing food and water and good cheer. I knew I could count on JLu for much of the latter. Without knowing it, the Ohioans had given me a bit of the former. (Later I would meet other angels: The stay-at-home runner moms who got me through a rough patch in Virginia. A seventy-year-old mother from Elizabethton, Tennessee, located me because her son, living across the country, said I would be coming through and she had to meet me. She told me he had taken up running after reading about me in Born to Run and Eat and Run, and it had changed his life. Then there were my tribe-based angels, the ones who brought vegan vittles to me or arranged rocks and leaves to spell out GO, SCOTT in the middle of the trail. I would encounter scores of them, and I would enjoy their smoothies, chocolate cakes, cold beer, fresh fruit, and notes of encouragement.)

  Finally, there were the heavy hitters, the big-league angels who achieved trail-wide fame. One drove a van up and down the roads that the AT crisscrossed, looking for anyone who needed a lift. Another let hikers stay at her house for free. Some offered showers; others, laundry services. Some angels left coolers filled with cold water, soda, and even beer in the middle of the trail. However, in the hiking community, there was a growing concern that the activities of these angels led to littering and that they attracted hikers who weren’t hardy enough to be on the trail.

  Some angels set up grills at road crossings and cooked up burgers and dogs for hungry hikers. I even got a homemade tempeh burger from one of these barbecue angels. The veteran angels even had names: Baltimore Jack, Trail Angel Mary, Miss Janet. They, along with the quieter, more anonymous angels, all performed variations of trail magic, which was experienced by others as unexpected instances of serendipity or just moments of Whoa, I needed that. Some people outside the trail world might just call it performing random acts of kindness or being a Good Samaritan. Or maybe, at the core, helping someone reach a goal is what it means to be human. I would lose count of the angels I encountered as well as the doses of trail magic they bestowed on me.

  As the long, slow day dragged into evening, I needed to heed nature’s call. So I scanned the leafy ground cover for rattlesnakes and then walked into the brush. I was an ultrarunner and a lifelong outdoorsman; dropping a deuce in the woods was nothing new to me. But my right knee could barely flex forty-five degrees, and the quad muscle on my left leg couldn’t support even half my body weight, so squatting became an acrobatic feat. I managed to get myself into a position that was more like an improvised yoga pose than a squat, but when I finished, I realized that if I tried to get up, I would either pitch face-first into the ground or fall backward, creating even bigger problems.

  Then I heard the raven call. “Kraaaaa!”

  JLu had apparently gotten concerned about my lateness and run in from the next crossing at Hughes Gap to meet me. Unfortunately, she arrived just in time to see me with my pants down in my absurd yoga pose. She asked, “What are you doing?” She tried to hold back her laughter but couldn’t. I didn’t bother to answer. Dodging the poison ivy, she found my hiking poles, put one in each of my hands, and magically pulled me upright. Trail magic in its most rudimentary form.

  * * *

  Before El Coyote left, he’d very solemnly looked me in the eyes and said, “I don’t want to leave you, kid.”

  I faked some confidence and said, “Oh, don’t worry—he’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not worried about Venado,” El Coyote replied. “I’m worried about you.”

  I knew what he meant even though I tried not to think about it. Luis had been driving with me in Castle Black as I navigated (directions were not El Coyote’s strong suit, as I found out) all these dirt roads and back ways, through mud and rocks at all hours of the day and night, often totally cut off from the reassuring resources of cell service and law enforcement.

  And now Horty was leaving too. He didn’t want to go—I could tell he was just getting started—but he had signed up to ride his mountain bike along the Continental Divide. I’m not sure how it happened, but Horty had grown on me, and his departure was bittersweet. He’d brought a ton of trail knowledge with him, he’d been in Jurker’s shoes, and he’d given us confidence that we weren’t doing it all wrong. Not only that, but he actually doled out a compliment on my navigation skills. I was shocked. “Oh, you mean not bad for a female Asian driver, right?” I joked, but I had to admit I was kinda killing it at the map-reading game.

  After a week of chasing a moving target on the Appalachian Trail, I was starting to be able to read the contours of the mountains and accurately guess where our next road crossing would likely be. Even through the thick trees, I could almost sniff out the trail. Though I wasn’t following every step of the trail, I felt as though it was becoming a part of me.

  I was also getting a handle on Castle Black. In our first week living out of the van, we’d fallen into an inefficient rhythm: make a mess, clean it up, make an even bigger mess, clean it up. We were drowning in too much stuff. Jurker was a classic just-in-case packer and he’d filled Castle Black with plastic bins and boxes of crap that were constantly getting in my way. I realized I had a golden opportunity in Horty’s departure.

  “Hey, Horty, do you mind if I give you some things to take home with you? We can pick them up on our way back to Colorado.”

  Before he could respond, I started loading boxes of nondairy milk and bags of rice into his trunk. I packed up all of Scott’s casual clothes—jeans, shorts, button-down shirts, Birkenstocks—and loaded them into Horty’s trunk. How naive we had been. I’d imagined us going out to dinner or grocery-shopping some evenings, but the sad reality was that Scott wasn’t going to be wearing anything but running clothes for the next five weeks.

  I also grabbed some pots and pans I hadn’t used yet, as well as our only stove.

  Horty said, “Hang on.” He dug around in his trunk and came back with a tiny Jetboil camping stove. “Here, take this. This is all you need.” It was perfect. Our camp stove was a bulky two-burner device with a two-gallon propane tank. Just as Horty and I were finishing our trade, I heard a voice in my head. It was Jurker sayin
g, You did what with our stove? Have you lost your mind? So, on second thought, I brought our stove back inside the van. Better keep this, just in case.

  I opened the back doors and glanced through Jurker’s bins. I shouldn’t go rifling through those; they held his essentials: trekking poles, hydration packs, headlamps, energy food, stuff like that. But then I saw boxes of unopened Clif Shots. They were the über-caffeinated ones, the double espresso and chocolate cherry shots. He hadn’t had a single one; the last thing he wanted to do was stay up at night. At the end of each day, he just wanted to pass out. And the boxes were taking up room. I was tired of moving them to get to the other flavors.

  “Hey, Horty, do you think you can use these on your bike ride?”

  “Sure, I’ll take those.”

  Little did I know this one decision would come back to haunt me.

  Horty packed up and told me to call him with updates. I was sad to see him go, but I was more than ready for Jurker and me to blaze our own adventure.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Just before leaving, Horty took me aside and gave me a final suggestion. He told me that I should make sure to drive up the side road to Roan High Knob when I got to Carvers Gap that night. The remains of the old Cloudland Hotel were up there, and on a clear night the views were incredible.

  Cloudland, I found, was appropriately named—the road seemed to be cloaked in cotton. It was dusk and I could barely see five feet in front of me. I inched up the road, nosing the van through the heavy fog. It had an eerie feel and suddenly I was hyperaware of being alone.

  Then headlights came up behind me out of nowhere and started tailgating me. Since I had no idea where I was and no desire to speed in these conditions, I pulled over to the far right and waved the car to pass. Instead, the driver pulled up behind me.

  A man got out of the car. He started walking up to my door. I immediately rolled my window up. As he approached, he gave a friendly wave, and I cautiously rolled the window down halfway. I could still barely see through the fog, especially with his glaring headlights in the background.