Called Again (29 page)

When I made it to the first road south of Shenandoah National Park, Brew congratulated me with some more positive numbers.

“Guess how many miles you hiked last week?” he insisted.

“I don't know. A lot.”

“Over three hundred fifty!” I liked positive numbers, but Brew loved them. “That's greater than the driving distance between Asheville and Nashville (a trip we made frequently to visit Brew's parents). And you did it on foot!”

“Well, I had a lot of help,” I responded. I put my hand on Brew's knee as a sign of appreciation.

“Yeah, about that . . .” Brew's voice trailed off along with his excitement.

“What
about that?” I demanded as my soft grip now started to squeeze his thigh.

“It's just that, you know Dutch is leaving in a day and a half, right?”

“Yeah, we've known that since Pennsylvania.”

“Well, Horton is going to take him to the bus station and then he's going home, too.”

“What?”
I shrieked. “Horton's supposed to be here until the end of the trail! Why is he leaving?”

“You know why he's leaving,” countered Brew. “He's not helping us on
his
terms, and we are going after this record on
our
terms. He's tired and hurt, and he needs to go home to be with his family.”

“But
we're
supposed to be his family right now.”

“It'll be okay. I'll find other people to come help us.”

I felt a lump in my throat, and I swallowed hard to keep it down. “Well, I don't want to talk to him about it,” I said.

“What do you mean?” asked Brew.

I wanted Horton to be where he wanted to be, and in my core I knew that he needed to be at home with his family. But it was still a broken promise, and it still hurt. I let go of Brew's leg and wiped a tear from my eye.

“It is really helping me to have him here. If he tells me he's leaving, I am going to cry, and I don't have the strength right now to deal with that.”

“Okay,” agreed Brew. “I'll let him know.” Then he gently ran his fingers through my hair. I reached for his other hand and placed it against my cheek. “It'll be okay,” he said.
“I'll
be here until the end. I promise.”

The disappointment I felt when I found out Horton was leaving did not negate the fact that he had been a helpful part of our team for five full days. I was thankful for every moment that he'd spent with us. And then there was Dutch. He had helped for ten days now, and he had hiked roughly two-hundred-fifty miles with me. He'd become a fantastic hiking partner and friend.

Dutch was planning a visit to Washington, DC, before he had to return home. For a full forty-eight hours, Brew and I both tried to convince him that the nation's capital was overrated and that the free museums on the National Mall were not
that
special. We were only joking, of course, but we wouldn't have argued with Dutch if he'd decided to stay.

On his final night, he and I hiked over Three Ridges together. He laughed as I choked down a berry and Nutella burrito and then wiped the remaining chocolate spread all over my white-and-yellow shirt. On the backside of the mountain, we watched the sky light up in orange, then pink, and finally purple. Then we put our headlamps on, switched positions, and I followed the back of his dirt-covered shoes downhill to the Tye River.

At one point, we heard a small animal move right beside the trail. The unexpected sound made me instinctively leap ahead. I landed a few inches behind Dutch and grabbed his arm to regain my balance.

“What was that? A rabbit?” he asked.

“Nuh-uh, that wasn't a rabbit sound,” I said.

I turned my head and looked back until my headlight located the brown-and-beige coil and flickering tongue just inches from the trail.

“What kind of snake is that?” asked Dutch.

“A copperhead,” I replied. (Just the day before, I had introduced Dutch to his first rattlesnake.)

“You know,” said Dutch, “I have seen more snakes, bears, sunrises, and sunsets with you in the past week and a half than on my entire thru-hike.”

I smiled. “That's one of the best parts of trying to set a record,” I said. “When the animals start to come out and the other hikers go to bed, we are still out here taking it all in.”

Together, Dutch and I came to the banks of the Tye River just before ten p.m. Brew already had our tent set up, and after submerging myself in the nearby water, I climbed inside and ate dinner. Dutch came over to our tent and left something outside. Then without saying a word, I heard his nimble footsteps fade away.

I unzipped my flap and saw his elastic ankle braces resting near my shoes. My feet had been twisting and turning a lot recently and my ankles felt weak. Dutch knew I was uncomfortable, and he left me the same ankle braces he'd worn for his entire hike.

I pulled the worn, dirt-smeared sleeves into the tent. I examined them and then pulled the left one over my foot to see if it fit.
Perfect.
I started to slide it off my foot when a thought crossed my mind: If I could keep Dutch's ankle braces, then perhaps some of his superpowers would remain with me. Maybe now I would be able to night hike over three miles per hour on my own! I decided that I was going to wear those supports on every rocky stretch between the Tye River and Springer Mountain. Regardless of whether they were a source of superpower or superstition, they reminded me of good times and a good friend.

In return, I asked Brew to present Dutch with several bags of Combos, some Clif Bars, and any other items that now caused me to gag.

The next morning at 4:45 a.m., I woke up and crawled out of my tent to see Dutch's headlamp shining near the trail. Together, we hiked up the steep slope of the Priest. Just after summiting, we
came to a road where Brew and Horton were waiting for us. I gave Dutch a long embrace, then reluctantly let go. I nodded my head at Horton and walked over to Brew. Dutch got into Horton's truck and soon all that was left of my two friends was a cloud of dust rising from a gravel road. I leaned on my husband as I watched them drive away.

JULY 14, 2011—JULY 21, 2011

A
s much as I wanted companionship on the trail, it was comforting and intimate to be only with my husband at the road crossings. There were certainly times when the two of us had been alone this summer, particularly if we had two support vehicles and different crew members meeting me at alternating trailheads. But the majority of our time had been spent with other people. Now, without additional helpers, the road crossings felt less frenetic and more honest. Brew and I both knew our roles and what needed to happen at the car; we didn't have to communicate that to each other or coordinate with the crew. And when we did talk, we said more with less.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like shit,” I said with a smile.

Brew laughed. “That makes sense.” Then he paused thoughtfully, “I can't believe we're here.”

I nodded my head in agreement. I knew exactly what he meant by “here.” He meant home. We were finally in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We were an hour away from Charlottesville, Virginia, where we had gotten married, and we were crisscrossing paths where we had run ultra-races and gone on day hikes in the past. From this point forward, the mountains and terrain felt familiar. It was hard to believe that in a few more days we would enter Tennessee and North Carolina, and that after that we just had another seventy-five miles in Georgia until we reached the end. It was one of the first times that we had both allowed ourselves to think about it. But the thought didn't last long.

“Well, you'd better get going,” said Brew.

I silently stood up and took my daypack out of his hand then gave him a kiss on the lips and walked toward the trail. Before I climbed the wooden stile over the barbed-wire fence that separated the road from the forest, I looked back at my husband.

“You know, Horton might not have said it this summer, but this
is
really special.”

Brew smiled. “I know.”

In a way, even though Horton wasn't with us, he still kept his promise to provide support until the end of the trail. He's one of the most connected ultra-runners in the world, and after he left, he arranged for several members of his tight-knit trail community to come out and help. The first person to join us after Horton's departure was Rebekah Trittipoe.

Rebekah is a tremendous athlete and ultra-running veteran. She was also the first female I'd hiked with since Melissa left in
northern Pennsylvania. It was refreshing to share the trail with another woman. I needed some girl talk.

From the time I started backpacking years ago, most of my hiking partners have been men. I know far more than I care to recount concerning jock itch and male chafing (both below the belt and around the nipples). Men are not the only ones on the trail with issues, but conversation about female medical concerns still feels unacceptable in mixed company. In fact, if you ever want to lose a male hiking partner, I recommend broaching the subject of menstrual cramps or yeast infections.

Rebekah could not only relate to my issues, but she could also share war stories from hundred-mile races and multiday fast-packing trips. She told me tales of her seven-day race through the Amazon rain forest, of surviving the stinging nettles and rocks on the Allegheny Trail, and of running dozens of Horton's trail races.

Rebekah also shared stories from her path as a wife and mother. She was farther down that trail than I was, and I appreciated the advice she gave concerning the sharp turns and tough climbs that lay ahead. Above all, my favorite conversations with Rebekah centered around faith.

Rebekah was the first Christian I had been able to hike with all summer. One of the aspects I loved most about the Appalachian Trail community was its diversity of backgrounds and beliefs. But it was also nice to be honest and authentic with someone and not have them look at you like you're crazy.

I understand that a religion like Christianity that is based on a man who died (then came back to life) 2,000 years ago seems far-fetched and radical. I also understand that I am a member of a religion that has had a hand in numerous wars and unspeakable tragedies. For a rational person, faith in a belief system like this can seem completely illogical. Which is why it's really nice to just share it sometimes and not always have to explain it.

“So do you pray while you hike?” asked Rebekah.

“Yeah, all the time. But I spend so much time in my head that sometimes it's nice to just listen.”

“What do you think God is telling you?”

“That I am supposed to be here. Not necessarily that I'm going to set a record, but that somehow, in some way, this is part of his plan for my life.”

“Don't you wish that sometimes God picked easier plans?”

I laughed. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Well, what do you think God is teaching you through all this?” she asked.

“Trust. He's definitely teaching me about trust,” I said. “And dependence. I need him more than ever out here.” I paused for a few seconds. “And also, I think I am learning to live in the present instead of worrying about tomorrow. Oh, and he's teaching me about love. I am learning a heck of a lot about love.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the other night Brew told me that the reason he's out here being so supportive and loving is because he feels like it's his responsibility as a Christian husband. He mentioned the Bible verse where God calls men to love their wives like Christ loved the church. Out here, Brew is willing to sacrifice himself to love me well, and it's making me fall more in love with him and more in love with Christ.”

Rebekah nodded her head. “You're
really
lucky. Most men don't understand just how manly unselfishness really is.”

All of the crew members had helped me physically and emotionally, but it was really nice to have someone like Rebekah to encourage me spiritually. Being with her reminded me of why Brew and I had set out on this journey. The purpose wasn't to impress anyone, but simply to praise and delight an audience of One.

Despite being a runner, Rebekah spent three of her four nights with us carrying a full backpack for me. And watching a runner
carry a backpack is almost as painful as watching a fish flop around on dry ground. It's just awkward and out of place. I will admit, though, that after carrying a light daypack and having people “mule” me for several weeks, I didn't fare much better.

The first night wasn't so bad. We decided that we would camp near the James River, but we crossed it after dark and couldn't find where Brew had set up camp. With his ACL tear, he was limited to hiking no more than a quarter mile, and after we traveled twice that distance, we still hadn't seen him.

Rebekah handed her pack to me. She had picked up her overnight gear and some extra food at our car, which was parked near the James River footbridge. In my exhaustion, the pack felt as if it were filled with bricks. I sat on the trail and started rummaging through her bag, looking for snacks while she backtracked to see if we had passed Brew unknowingly in the darkness.