Called Again (21 page)

The Dover Oak is a three-hundred-year-old white oak with a twenty-foot circumference. It is a gargantuan monument of twisted branches and rough brown bark—and it is breathtaking. It doesn't look graceful, but it does look wise and kind, even more so than I remembered. I doubt the tree had changed much in the past six years, but I certainly had.

As I walked past, I brushed my fingertips across its broad trunk. My encounters with vistas, waterfalls, wildflowers, and trees like the Dover Oak were brief on this hike. I didn't have time to stop; I had to take everything in while I was in motion. But the inspiration of these natural wonders stayed with me long after I left the scene.

On this hike, I didn't just draw encouragement from the wilderness; I took my strength from it. My most consistent motivation on the trail came from spotting wildlife, tracing my fingers lightly along the surface of boulders and trees, and drinking in views like they were electrolytes for my soul. My motivation to keep hiking was rooted in the magnificent details of the Appalachian Mountains, and the more of myself I poured out—the more energy I gave to the trail—the more it gave me in return.

I wasn't even halfway through with my third thru-hike and I was already making plans to come back to the trail again and again. It would be nice to return to the Dover Oak sometime in the fall and see the wide canopy of leaves turn into a brilliant red umbrella. It would be fun to come with friends and link hands around the massive trunk (I estimated that it would take at least six people).

The strength I gained from touching the Dover Oak, and the calories from the cannoli, stayed with me for the next five miles. I blazed down the trail. The soft dirt tread and rolling terrain allowed my feet to feel as light and sure as they had on the first day of the hike.

Within a few hours, I passed Nuclear Lake, a beautiful body of water and the former site of a uranium and plutonium research
facility. On the trail, there were still legends of former thru-hikers who had spotted three-eyed fish when the facility was active.

Past Canopus Lake, I unexpectedly arrived at a road crossing. Brew was not there and it seemed too early to have arrived at our next rendezvous, so I kept hiking.

But almost immediately I arrived at another road, and Brew was not there, either. I continued down the trail but soon felt lost and confused. Where was I? Was Brew waiting at a road ahead of me or behind me? I didn't have my cell phone or my bearings, and I was running low on snacks and water.

I was acutely aware that one mistake—one miscommunication or misjudgment by me
or
my crew—could ruin this record. However, strangely, I wasn't worried. I decided that if my flashlight had worked until I reached the top of Mount Washington, and if I had come across Kadra and Adam in the middle of nowhere Vermont, then God would continue to provide for me, and Brew would somehow find me. All I had to do was keep hiking.

I hiked down the path another mile or so and arrived at a stream crossing. I didn't see any signs of life, just cottage-sized boulders. However, my nose did detect something out of the ordinary. There was a slight scent of bug spray . . . with a hint of mac and cheese.

“Hello?” I called out. “Is anyone there?”

Then I heard a surprised response from behind one of those cottage-sized boulders. A few seconds later, a young couple stepped out from behind it.

“Hey, I'm trying to reach my husband. Do you all have a cell phone that I can borrow?”

A tan woman with dark hair called back, “Yeah, we just used it and it has service here. Let me get it for you.”

“Do you need any food or water?” asked the man as he rummaged in their food bag for extra goodies.

I accepted some water and called Brew, who had enough
experience at this point to know that he should always accept calls from unknown numbers. It quickly became clear that he was still two roads back, waiting for me. It was also evident that he was none too happy about the mix-up, and he blamed him-self—he had gotten better at cursing this summer, too.

I agreed to meet Brew at the next road. I didn't have a headlamp, but was fairly certain that I could make it there before nightfall. I thanked the couple for their help, then kept hiking.

I continued gliding down the path. When I thought back on the afternoon and calculated the miles, I realized that the entire mix-up had been my fault. It was good to appreciate nature, but I had been daydreaming and had lost track of time and miles. On this record attempt, I needed to have a one-track mind, and that track needed to be the dirt one under my feet.

JULY I, 2011—JULY 6, 2011

I
like New York—the cannoli, the pizza, the bagels. And I like the trail in the Empire State. It feels almost sneaky to hike a wild and scenic trail a mere thirty miles from one of the most densely populated metropolitan areas in the United States. I mean, how can something so precious remain hidden from so many people?

However, after my first twenty-four hours in New York, nothing about the state was how I had remembered it. It was now a rainy Fourth of July weekend. The storm made the rocks and mud on the trail extremely slick, and the upcoming holiday created sound effects similar to a war zone. For three straight days, brilliant displays of fireworks filled the night sky, and the daytime assault of firecrackers scared away all of the songbirds. I continued to
smell hikers and campsites hidden off the trail throughout the entire state of New York. But instead of cooked food or citronella, it seemed like every tent and shelter that I passed smelled like marijuana.

Though my experience hiking through New York was not how I remembered it, our friend New York Steve was exactly the same. He came out to help us and brought enthusiasm, encouragement, and homemade goodies from his wife Maryellen.

New York Steve is a trail-record junkie. He helped David Horton on his trail record in 1991; he helped Andrew Thompson on one of his first attempts in 2003; and in 2008, when Brew and I established the women's record, New York Steve was there to help with that, as well. He was my trail companion for part of the day, and he made sure Brew was well fed and taken care of the rest of the time.

New York Steve was fun and he was a great ultra-runner, but he was
not
a hiker or a backpacker. And Brew and I both knew he did not camp. Instead, at the end of the day, he would place his daypack inside his luxury SUV and drive back to his house, which was fifteen minutes away from Bear Mountain State Park. In 2008, he told us that his evening ritual consisted of sitting in his outdoor hot tub while sipping a strawberry daiquiri, then rinsing off in a long hot shower. After that he would enjoy a delicious meal prepared by his wife and eventually fall asleep on his Tempur-Pedic mattress.

On our last hike, after two days of hearing about how nice his house was and what a great cook his wife was, Brew and I stopped one late afternoon near Canopus Lake to visit Steve's house and test all of his amenities.

Everything was just as wonderful as he had described it. But something struck me while sitting in the hot tub, sipping a daiquiri made with fresh local strawberries. This felt too good, too easy, to be taking place on a trail record.

This time around, when New York Steve first arrived to help us, the weather was bright and sunny, and we traveled down the trail laughing and talking, reminiscing about old times and common friends.

However, the closer we got to his home near Canopus Lake and the messier the weather became, the less I saw of New York Steve and my crew. After each road crossing, he and the rest of them disappeared. I would continue hiking in the wet, foggy conditions—and Brew and Melissa would travel with New York Steve to his house to sit in his hot tub, take showers, watch TV, and drink daiquiris.

I knew that they needed and deserved this breather. Brew and Melissa had been with me for almost three weeks now. They'd suff-fered bug bites, sleepless nights, cramped cars, confusing roads, a hectic schedule, and one highly irrational hiker. So in a way, New York Steve was helping me by helping my crew.

But until this point, there had been a sense of solidarity. Brew and Melissa didn't rest until I rested. They didn't shower until I showered and when I was on the trail, they were either waiting for me, muling for me, or running errands for me. Now that we were in New York, the crew was taking mini-vacations, and it was driving me crazy.

I knew on this hike that I didn't have time to go to New York Steve's house. I knew that my job was to stay on the trail and hike, to listen to the pyrotechnic explosions, and to count the number of pot-filled campgrounds that I passed—but part of me really wanted to sit in a hot tub.

I could have dealt much better with my support crew's alternate reality if I didn't have to hear so much about it. Brew had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, but Melissa and Steve, the only two people who were hiking with me, did not hesitate to talk about their off-trail experiences.

It is hard to express the dichotomy of my emotions. I kept telling myself that I was happy for them. They were helping me,
and I wanted them to have some type of reward. Melissa even asked my permission before accepting New York Steve's invitation to spend consecutive nights at his house. And I gave her permission—I truly wanted her to enjoy a night, or several nights, off the trail. But when she came back in the morning and gave me the full report, I also wanted to smack her across the face.

My feelings were intensified while hiking in the rain toward Bear Mountain State Park. I had traveled this section in 2008 with New York Steve, and it had been one of my best memories from the entire summer. But this time, I was hiking alone, chilled from the sweat trapped inside my rain jacket, and tripping constantly on the slick rocks that littered the trail. The sound of fireworks was now complemented by actual mock-warfare taking place near the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. And all that external noise exacerbated my internal dilemma. I was in the midst of an emotional battle, and I wasn't quite sure who was winning.

I think the reason I was so bothered by my crew's off-trail excursions was because everything was still so hard for me. My shin splints felt better, but they still hurt. And while I had not suffered any stomach problems since leaving Vermont, I still felt weak all day. I no longer had to deal with the gnarly terrain of northern New England, but I had forgotten about the constant PUDS (pointless ups and downs) of New York. Things had dramatically and measurably improved. So why did every day on the trail still seem like it was the hardest day of my life?

Then it dawned on me: this was as good as it was going to get.

There was no five-mile handicap in bad weather. I didn't have any wiggle room on days when I felt especially tired. I was going to have to maximize every
minute
between here and Georgia. As it stood now, I had to average forty-nine miles per day to break the record. I was in pain, I was tired, I was wet, I was annoyed with my crew—and this was a
good
day.

When I arrived at the Bear Mountain Bridge, I met Brew and
he walked with me across the Hudson River. Ever since overcoming the sharp knife-like sensation in my shins, I began to embrace road walks, not just for their ease, but also because they allowed me to walk with my husband.

“It's hard for me to hear Steve and Melissa talk about all the luxuries at Steve's house,” I said.

“Well, you should tell them that,” suggested Brew.

“How can I? Don't you think I'll sound like a diva, and a bad friend?”

“Setting a record is not about building friendships,” Brew said. “You have to stay focused. And besides, if there is any time in your life when being a diva is justified, this is it.”

“Well, do you feel like things have changed since Steve got here?”

“What do you mean?” asked Brew.

“It just feels like there are more distractions. I really appreciate all his help and all the food he is bringing, but last night when he brought pizza and beer, I felt like he was upset with me when I crawled in my tent and didn't sit outside and socialize. I just feel like he wants to have a good time, and he expects it to be like it was in 2008. I don't think he realizes how different it is.”

“I'll talk to Steve and Melissa,” said Brew.

“That's not your job,” I replied.

“It's my job to make this trip less difficult for you and to allow you to focus only on hiking. So I'll take care of it.”

I turned toward Brew, not to say anything, but just to admire him. I always knew that I had a great husband, but still, something about him this summer seemed supernatural. Maybe he was like the Dover Oak; I could appreciate him better and take in more of his love when I was running on empty.

I continued hiking with Brew through the Bear Mountain State Park Zoo, which straddles the trail and is home to native Appalachian animals. For a hiker like me who loves wildlife, it is one of the highlights of the trail.