Called Again (13 page)

Warren looked back at me, “Rest here. We have to go through another channel in the middle of the river. After that, we'll have one more sandbar to catch our breath, and then we will cross the third channel.”

Third channel?! No wonder crossing the Kennebec was so difficult. It wasn't like you were crossing one river; it was like you were crossing three.

I didn't respond verbally to Warren; instead, I nodded in understanding. I was too scared and focused to say anything.

After two or three minutes of rest, we started our journey through the second channel. It was just as difficult as the first one, but every time Warren repeated “feet down,” I tried to keep my shoes on the bottom of the river and move them a little closer to the opposite shore.

When we made it to the second sandbar, I looked back. Brew and Melissa were both sitting there looking at us, but they seemed so small. I couldn't believe how far we had come and how wide the river really was—or that we still had our last leg to travel.

Thankfully, the final channel of water came only to my waist, and twenty minutes after we had started, Warren and I arrived at the west bank of the river. I looked back at Brew and raised my hands into the air in celebration. The river was wild and free, and that was exactly how I felt, too.

Our successful ford of the Kennebec gave me a surge of confidence that kept me hiking strong throughout the rest of the day. In the late afternoon, I was making my way up Bigelow Mountain when I came across a northbound thru-hiker.

At this point, I had already seen four or five of them. It was still mid-June, and these folks were only days away from the end of their journeys. That meant most of them had completed the trek in only three months. The majority of thru-hikers take four to six months, but with high-calorie diets and lightweight gear, efficient hikers who don't spend a lot of time (and money) in towns can finish the trail in less than one hundred days.

The first handful of thru-hikers in the 1950s and 1960s usually completed the trek in about four months as well. However, in the 1960s there were not as many hiker hostels, shuttles, or local amenities for the trail community. These services are usually perceived as aids for a hiker on his journey—and they are. But they can also be a distraction.

Watching this thru-hiker descend toward me, it was clear that he was not easily distracted. This man was short and wiry. He appeared to be in his fifties, but he moved like he was in his twenties. His clothes were brown and smudged, and he wore a lightweight pack with homemade modifications. Even when he was close enough to me that I could detect a distinct thru-hiker smell, he still kept his head ducked and his eyes focused on the trail.

When he was finally at arm's reach, he lifted his head so I could see his entire face, or at least the part that wasn't hidden under his scraggily copper-toned beard.

Immediately, he exclaimed, “Odyssa!”

“Yes?” I responded hesitantly.

“It's me, Rambler. I was wondering when I would see you. Here, let me give you some of my food.”

Rambler reached into the side pocket on his pack and pulled out a bottle of Powerade, then he dug into the front pouch to search for a Little Debbie Cosmic brownie. If his appearance had not given him away, the lightweight, high-calorie, processed brownie that he produced from his pack was enough to convince me that he was a thru-hiker. Rambler held out his offering, and I gladly accepted.

Although he was dirtier and hairier than the last time we met, I now remembered him vividly. I recalled discussing his love of Cosmic brownies—which have a shelf life of several years—at a hiker convention this past winter. We had agreed it was shocking that snacks so completely void of nutritional content tasted so good on a long hike.

I also remembered this short, fit man with a cap and spectacles because, like me, Rambler was a repeat offender. He had hiked the A.T. multiple times. He was also a Triple Crowner, which meant he had completed not only the A.T. but he had also hiked the 2,665-mile Pacific Crest Trail and the 3,100-mile Continental Divide Trail.

I was excited to see a friendly face and I was thankful for the excuse to take a quick rest. But while I gladly stopped to talk to Rambler (and accept his snacks), he didn't let me have a sustained break.

“Are you trying to make it to the next road? You still have over ten miles to go. You better keep hiking so you don't get stuck scrambling down the backside of the Bigelows in the dark.”

Unfortunately, he was right. I had some really tricky footing coming up, and I needed to push hard to make it through the ankle-twisting terrain before dark. I nodded to Rambler in agreement and thanked him for the brownie and then I kept hiking. As I scrambled up the next rocky incline, Rambler called after me. “You're doing great! If you need any help when you get to Pennsylvania, send me an email. I'll be done with the trail and back home when you get there.”

I knew that I wouldn't need Rambler's help in Pennsylvania. I had dialed in my support crew months before, but seeing him in the middle of the Maine backcountry—a familiar face and an unexpected encouragement—allowed me to pick up the pace and make it over the Bigelows without the help of a headlamp.

On day five, I woke up to a chill in the air and a cold, runny nose. There are some hikers out there who consider temperatures below fifty degrees perfect for hiking. I am not one of those hikers.

Crawling out of my sleeping bag, my muscles felt stiffer than usual. After a quick bite to eat, I immediately started to hike. I knew the quickest way to get warm was to move. The problem was that the trail made a 1,500-foot climb. And the higher I hiked, the colder I felt. The wind started whipping through the trees near the summit, and I came off the back of the mountain with my jaw clenched to keep my teeth from chattering.

When I reached the next road, I met my crew, put on more clothes, and tried to eat a lot more food. I had been eating every hour, but I was still starving. My body felt like it wanted an extra layer of fat to combat the crisp weather.

In the next section, I had two difficult river crossings. The fords weren't as wide or as treacherous as the Kennebec, but because it had stormed during the night, the rivers were swollen and moving very fast. I couldn't make out any of the rocks beneath the torrents. So deciding where to put my feet proved to be a cold, wet trial-and-error process.

At the first river ford, there was a loose wooden plank that allowed hikers to avoid the worst of the rapids. The problem was that the water level was the same height as the board, and the wood was slick and wet.

If I had stopped long enough to think about it, I probably would have realized that walking on a beam partially submerged by a raging current wasn't safe. But I committed to the act before considering all my options. And it wasn't until I was halfway across the board that I was overcome with fear. I looked up at the water around me. Fallen tree limbs and debris raced past my feet.
My legs suddenly stopped moving. I regretted taking the risk. Instead of just getting wet in a ford, I now risked falling hard into the water and onto the unseen rocks below the surface.

Fear is supposed to be a protective instinct, so I don't know why it causes every muscle in your body to tense up and stop working. My sudden inhibition left me momentarily paralyzed and made it even more difficult to cross the now-submerged four-inch walkway. I took a deep breath and then willed my feet to slide across the last few yards of the board. When I made it safely to the other side, I thanked God for keeping me safe and silently vowed to him—and to my mother—that I would not be as reckless in the future.

At the next river crossing, I plowed straight through and arrived safely at the other side.

Exiting the waist-deep rapids, my legs felt even more stiff and tense than they had that morning. Because of the chill in the air, the freezing water, and my fear, I never felt like my muscles had the opportunity to warm up and stretch out as they normally would. Or perhaps they were just sore and inflexible after covering one-hundred and eighty-eight miles in the past four days. I couldn't pinpoint the primary reason for it; all I knew is that my legs felt like fossilized tree trunks.

At least I was about to start ascending Saddleback Mountain. That would loosen up my limbs. Saddleback is a monster climb from both directions, and I liked it. There are lots of rocks and roots to pull up on, so at times it is almost like climbing a step-ladder—a stepladder that leads to one of best views on the entire trail.

This is the same stretch of trail where Brew and I had missed a resupply in 2008, and I'd had to survive the climb by eating a package of Chips Ahoy cookies given to me by a thru-hiker. But on that hike, a view from the top of the mountain had made it easy to forget about the climb and the struggle that had gotten me
there. It had even made it easy to forget about the women's trail record and my husband waiting patiently at the next road.

I expected an incredible view and a transcendent moment at the end of this climb, too. A moment where everything felt right.

Instead, I arrived at the exposed ridge leading to the summit and the strong, bitter wind took my breath away. It also made hiking out in the open three times more difficult than walking in the woods and made my fingers, wrists, and face feel like ice. I knew that the frigid conditions and my added exertion meant I needed to get off the ridge as soon as possible. So I decided to run until I could return to tree cover and escape the wind. I ducked my head and focused on the trail. I tried to look up at times to see the incredible view, but I could keep my eyes open for only a few seconds before the piercing wind filled them with tears.

After I crested the mountain, I was able to increase my pace. I had been on exposed granite for several miles, and all of a sudden, I started to feel a pain in my lower right shin. I put more weight on the left side of my body to provide some relief, but then I felt a sharp discomfort in that leg, as well. Both my shins hurt, but I knew the pain would go away when I could make it to tree cover and stop running.

I entered the forest and began hiking, but the pain in my legs remained. In fact, it actually seemed to be getting worse. I treaded slowly and carefully down the mountain, but still the tenderness intensified. Whenever my toe caught a root or rock, the agony was too great to keep inside, and I released an involuntarily wail.

It felt like I would never get to the next road. The section felt infinitely longer than on my previous two hikes. I began to wonder whether they had rerouted and extended this portion of the trail. Finally, I came to a stream with a wooden bridge. I didn't understand why the local trail maintainers chose to build a small wooden bridge over a simple creek when they left the raging rivers untouched.

On the opposite side, I saw a note left by my husband. He had spelled out the word “LOVE” with broken sticks and branches. Because of the note, I knew that I must be within a quarter mile of the road; Brew couldn't hike any farther than that since he was still recovering from ACL surgery. It should have been a physical relief to know that I was so close to the road, but now that I knew I was nearing a respite, I stopped trying to repress my feelings. As I walked across the bridge, pain spread through every inch of my body and tears slid down my cheeks. All I wanted to do was get to Brew and get off of my feet.

When I arrived at Route 4, I fell into Brew's arms and he helped me to the car where I could sit and elevate my legs. I had put in thirty-three miles since five a.m., the sun was starting to set, and my final destination for the day was a road ten miles away. I felt horrible all over, and my shins were screaming. There was no way I could hike another ten miles.

“Don't sit too long. You need to keep going to make it to the next road,” Warren said.

The past few days, I had felt like Warren was trying to push me farther than my body was willing to go.

“I can't make it tonight. My legs have never hurt this badly. And I don't want to night hike until midnight,” I said.