Called Again (11 page)

I was thankful that Brew was so honest and realistic about his participation. Unlike 2008, this time my husband knew exactly what he was agreeing to. That transparency gave me the confidence to look him in the eyes and reply, “It's important to me. It's really important to me.”

After we made our decision, we started to tell other people about it. At first, it went well. I told Warren and Horton that I wanted to try for the overall record, and they not only thought I had a chance at succeeding, but they both agreed to help me in the endeavor. Then I wrote a lengthy email to Andrew Thompson, who was still the overall record holder. He responded graciously and with encouragement, offering to provide any of the daily mileages from his record and saying he would try to come out and hike with me when I passed through New Hampshire. However, after those three interactions, the responses became increasingly negative.

My mom argued that I would wreck my body and not be able to have children. I had close friends who said I would tarnish my women's record if I failed in an attempt for the overall record. And the majority of the hiking and trail running community thought that I was conceited or delusional for thinking I could break a record that had been held by elite male trail runners for the past thirty years.

Some of the online hiking and running forums that I belonged to began to show a flurry of unkind comments in response to my announcement. Most of the runners thought I didn't have the ability to set the record, and most of the hikers thought that wanting to set the record meant that I didn't truly appreciate or respect the trail. At first I was upset at all the negative feedback, and then Brew offered a simple answer: “Ignore it.”

For seven months leading up to my hike, I didn't read or access any website or news source that offered commentary on my hike. Shutting out most of the external voices made it a lot easier to listen to my heart. I also had a lengthy sit-down visit with my doctor to talk about the long-term physical ramifications of hiking forty-six miles per day for a month and a half. Her underwhelmed response helped assuage my mother's fears.

Occasionally, I still had to deal with reporters who called and asked me about my upcoming hike. I was amazed at how every interview focused on a fear of failure. Reporters wanted to talk more about not setting a record than about actually accomplishing my goal. It made me realize how much our culture is paralyzed by the fear of losing. I wasn't worried about not succeeding; I was worried about not trying.

In a worst-case scenario, I was going to spend some quality time on a trail that I love, with the man I love, doing what I love. I didn't see what was so scary about that.

I was scared about how difficult it would be, and how much I would hurt, but I wasn't afraid of letting other people down. I loved hiking. I loved the trails. But at the end of the day, my self-worth wasn't tied to the trail. I believed that God loved me unconditionally, and I knew that my relationships with my husband, family, and friends were not performance based.

As the time drew near, instead of being filled with anxiety, I was overcome with peace. I knew that just by starting the trail, I would never have to look back and wonder
what if.

I decided that, if nothing else, the training had made the decision worthwhile. The benefit of having my own hiking company was that I was able to spend fifteen to twenty-five hours a week on the trail in the three months leading up to the summer. When I was not guiding, but rather training on my own, I tried to find the steepest mountains near my house and go up them as many times as possible.

One morning I woke up, walked out my front door, and hiked forty miles to the top of Mount Mitchell, the same peak where Brew and I had enjoyed one of our first dates. On my twenty-eighth birthday, I pulled another forty-mile day hiking almost entirely uphill from the French Broad River to Black Balsam on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. Brew met me with pizza and beer at the finish, which made it a perfect day.

Because I knew the summer would not allow time for scenic rest stops, I indulged myself during training by always carrying a camera and taking breaks at waterfalls and overlooks to enjoy the view. Sometimes, after a long day of training, I would hesitate before taking a shower, thinking that perhaps I should go ahead and train my mind and body to get used to the discomfort and dirt that I would encounter that summer. But I almost always succumbed to a warm rinse and a full eight hours of rest—I figured that I should make the most of it while I still could.

EARLY JUNE 2011—JUNE 21, 2011

N
othing felt strange about leaving home in early June to drive up to Maine and start the trail. For the past eight years, I had spent the summers hiking. The well-refined tasks of packing, wrapping up work, and cleaning up our house for a renter filled our thoughts and our time before the departure.

Upon leaving Asheville, we enjoyed our two-and-a-half-day road trip up to northern New England. Brew had a bounce in his step that I hadn't seen in a while. Not only was he excited to conclude a very trying school year, but he was also recovering nicely from the ACL surgery that he had undergone in March. Because of his unexpected knee injury, he would not be able to hike with
me this summer. But thankfully, many of our friends offered their on-trail and off-trail support as a substitute.

It was a bit demoralizing to parallel almost the entire 2,000+ mile A.T. in less than three days especially when I knew how difficult it would be to work my way back down south on foot. But the full magnitude of the undertaking did not set in until we met Warren and Melissa in the small logging town of Millinocket, Maine, the closest civilization to Katahdin.

Warren had offered to help us with road support and logistics on the first two weeks of the trip. Melissa was a friend from home who had joined the team once Brew sustained his injury. She off-fered to help us by taking photographs, doing crew chores, and providing me with some much-needed company on the trail.

Together, we sat around a table at the A.T. Café in Millinocket. The four of us went over the details of the first twelve days. I knew the first two weeks on the trail would be the most difficult. I would be traveling over the most challenging terrain, and my body would be going through all the aches, pains, and adjustments of a multi-day hike. There was limited crew access on many sections, which meant I would be traveling long stretches on my own and without resupply. The weather was also a major factor in this portion of the trail. The tall peaks in Maine and the White Mountains of New Hampshire threatened snow, sleet, and violent thundershowers, even throughout the summer. Being in the wrong spot during a bad storm in this terrain could not only mean the end of my record, it could also be life-threatening.

Warren had planned out a very ambitious schedule for the first two states, and I had agreed to it. I decided that the sooner I could make it through Maine and New Hampshire, the better.

As far as Warren was concerned, there was another reason I needed to accomplish high miles in the beginning of the hike.

“Once you get past the Mason-Dixon Line, you won't be able to match Andrew Thompson day for day, so it's important to establish a lead in the first half of the hike.”

“How do you know I can't match Andy in the southeast?!” I fired back.

“Well, I'm glad that you
think
you can,” Warren said with a smirk. “Just remember, once Andrew hit Maryland, he put in consistent fifty-mile days until the finish. If you fall behind before the half-way point, it will be oppressive knowing that you will have to average over fifty miles a day to break the men's record.”

I corrected him. “You mean the
overall
record.”

“What?” Warren didn't understand what I was getting at.

“You mean the
overall
record, not the men's record.”

I wasn't trying to be disagreeable. The fact was, I wasn't trying to beat the men's record. I didn't have anything against the boys. But by phrasing it that way, I was already considered an outsider, an underdog. The world may have seen me as a dark horse, but I didn't see myself that way. The “overall record” sounded far more inclusive. Wording was important and would continue to be important throughout the hike.

The next forty-seven days would be filled with concise mantras and encouraging self-talk. Whether it stemmed from sports psychology or the insanity of spending long periods of time alone, I do not know. But I was certain that I would draw from my favorite phrases of hikes past, such as “Every step is one step closer,” “Hike it out,” and “It can't always get worse.” I also knew that there would be new phrases that summer, and one that had already surfaced was, “I belong.”

I belonged out on the trail, and I belonged among the other A.T. record holders. Just because no woman had ever tried for the record or set the record in the past didn't mean that I hadn't earned the right to be at the base of Katahdin, ready to establish a new mark. This wasn't about being male or female; this was about
being the best. And I believed that my best was good enough for the
overall
record.

The next day was spitting rain, but I had waited two full years for this moment, and I didn't want to delay any longer. We drove to Baxter State Park and established our campsite at the base of Katahdin. I spent the rest of the day making sure that the car was organized, knowing that Brew would quickly undo all my hard work. But when the chores were over and all the gear, food, and first aid had been put in its proper place, I still looked for something else—anything else—to do.

I found myself feeling both anxious and impatient. The waning hours of the day felt endless, and the sun seemed locked in the sky. Knowing that my miles would be slower through the technical terrain in New England, we had decided to start the hike close to the summer equinox in order to maximize the daylight hours. I never looked forward to night hiking, but on the rock scrambles and steep inclines of Maine and New Hampshire, I dreaded it.

At 9:45 p.m., when the darkness settled on the forest, I had the excuse I needed to crawl into my tent. I zipped up my sleeping bag, then stared wide-eyed at the thin gray fabric of the ceiling. The moon was so bright that it looked like someone was shining a flashlight outside. Every fifteen minutes, I checked my wrist-watch, hoping more time had passed than I'd expected. Even though I knew that my watch alarm was set for sometime just after midnight, it was still my longest night of the entire trip.

Finally when the piercing sound of the alarm filled the night air, I slipped on my shoes and a jacket and broke out of the tent like a caged animal. I wanted to start extra early on the first day since my initial miles did not count toward my summer total. I needed to reach the summit and touch the sign for the record attempt to begin.

I started my ascent up the Greatest Mountain. I had completed this hike as a recent college grad and as a recent newlywed. Now I
was here because I needed to know what I was capable of. My mind was racing. The third time on the trail would be the charm, I told myself. Either that, or a sign of insanity. Either way, I would need both luck and a little bit of madness to be successful this summer.

As I reached the end of the rock scramble, I looked out across the tableland that leads to the mountain summit. I turned off my headlamp. It was 3:25 a.m. The full moon illuminated large cairns that marked the trail. The gleam was so bright that I no longer needed artificial light to guide me down the path.

My feet gracefully carried me over the loose stones and dirt of the ridge. My breathing was short and quick, and my heart felt like it wanted to escape from inside my jacket.

The path began to rise to the summit. And then it appeared, the beautiful haunting sign that marks the northern terminus of the trail. I slowed to a reverent pace as I neared the worn brown marker. I approached the wooden altar that demanded so much sacrifice, and I stood before it. I reached out my right hand and began to trace the large white letters.
K-A-T-A-H-D-I-N.

I took the deepest, most relaxing breath that I had enjoyed since starting my ascent of the mountain. I looked up at the moon watching over me and experienced a penetrating sense of calm. Part of my burden was already lifting. I would not have to wonder
what might have been.
I would never have to think about
what if.
The answers were out there. Now all I had to do was hike to them.

Every ounce of me loved being back on the trail. I felt graceful and fluid as I moved through the woods. Even though I had hiked on six continents, I still preferred the Appalachian Mountains.

Every time I set foot on the A.T., I feel like it is giving me a loving embrace. The stifling humidity in the south is like a warm
breath on my neck, the verdant tunnel through the forest like long, strong arms enveloping me. The wisdom of the ancient summits whispers in my ear, and the consistency of the wildlife and plant life is like a familiar scent. I welcome the embrace, and it does not let me go.