AUGUST 2007
One of the thru-hikers who finished the Appalachian Trail with me broke my heart; the other helped to mend it.
On my way to Vermont, I stopped in Connecticut to see Mooch. After my first hike on the Appalachian Trail, I hadn’t expected to stay in such close contact with him (or to continue dating Nightwalker). But our experience had been so intense and our bond so unique that we couldn’t figure out how to move on without one another. Like me, Mooch had sworn off thru-hiking at the top of Katahdin. And like me, he had spent every summer since on a long-distance trail. In fact, he had completed the Long Trail just a few weeks prior to my visit.
After ten hours of driving, I pulled into a driveway in Trum-bull, Connecticut. Mooch was sitting on the steps to his apartment. I was disappointed to see that he no longer had the long, curly hiker-hair or shaggy beard that he sported on the trail.
As soon as I stepped out of the car, he walked over to me and engulfed me in his long, lean arms. He whispered into my ear, “Oh, Odyssa. Sweet, sweet Odyssa. It’s so good to see you.” He paused. “But you are a mess! You’re going through heartbreak, not a thru-hike. You know you can still take showers, right?”
My friend laughed, grinning from ear to ear. I smiled too. I was pleased to see that Mooch still had the same kind spirit and offensive sense of humor that had made even the worst situations on the trail seem tolerable.
Next, he lowered his nose to my synthetic tank-top and inhaled near the crook of my neck. “You know, dressing—and smelling—like you do on the trail isn’t going to bring Night-walker back. Come on, Odyssa. Let’s get you inside and under a showerhead.”
I heard what Mooch was saying, and I appreciated the unique way that he was able to console my aching heart with criticism, but in that moment all I could think about was how nice it was to hear the name Odyssa. I missed trail names and the personas people took on when hiking. Odyssa embodied strength and adventure, the ability to overcome adversity. I felt that if Odyssa could overcome the challenges of the hike, if she could find a way to traverse the Long Trail in eight days, then Jen could somehow overcome her broken heart.
That afternoon, after a much-needed shower, I sat in Mooch’s apartment going through my pack and separating my food into zipper-lock bags while Mooch sat on his couch humming and strumming his guitar.
“So you really think you can finish the trail in eight days?” he asked indignantly.
“Odyssa, you know it took me three and a half weeks to hike the Long Trail, and I was going at a solid pace. The northern half is as difficult as the Appalachian Trail in Maine and New Hampshire.” Then, prodding me, he continued, “I don’t think you can do it.”
I looked up at Mooch and saw a smile reaching almost to the bottom of his ears. He knew me well enough to know that being told I couldn’t do something was the best motivation I could receive.
The next morning, after cooking me a large hiker breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and bacon, Mooch drove me to the Vermont-Massachusetts border and the southern terminus of the Long Trail. When we arrived at the trailhead, the last thing I wanted to do was get out of my friend’s air-conditioned car and step into the late-summer heat wave. I should not have hesitated. It was like looking off a bridge before BASE jumping.
Suddenly, none of this made sense. How was hiking a difficult trail with an impossible goal going to solve anything? I didn’t want to face my problems or the trail. All I wanted was to go back home, back to my bed, and sleep.
Mooch looked over at me, reading the doubt in my eyes, and quickly responded, “Oh no you don’t.”
He got out of the car, removed my pack from the trunk, and then walked around to the passenger door. In a last-ditch effort, I tried to push the lock button, but it was too late. Mooch lifted the outside handle and the warm blanket of humidity wrapped around my body.
My friend reached in and grabbed my elbow to help me out of the car. “Remember, this is what you wanted,” he said. “Plus, I like to see you suffer. So c’mon, out we go.”
With a little more pulling and prodding, I climbed out. Mooch hoisted my green backpack—filled with gear and several days’ worth of food—onto my shoulders. I tightened the straps around my chest and the buckles around my waist and gave Mooch one last long, wistful hug. Then, just like the day before, he whispered softly in my ear, “It’s time. Let go.”
So I did. I let go and started slowly up the hard-packed dirt trail littered with worn gray rocks and surrounded by verdant outstretched arms of mountain laurel. Within seconds, the thick green tunnel hid Mooch, and I was on my own.
I took one step after another. My breathing fell into a rhythm, and after hiking a mile, all of the anxiety that I had experienced at the car vanished. I felt better than I had in weeks. I felt at home.
My euphoric return to the trail lasted all of seventeen hours. After leaving Mooch and camping at the border, I began my trek the next morning at six a.m. and hiked forty-six miles that day. Forty-six miles! It was the farthest that I had ever traveled by foot in a twenty-four-hour period.
During the morning, I felt light and the miles passed quickly. By the afternoon, my legs started to stiffen and my pace decreased. And as the daylight turned to dusk, my shoulders ached, my hips were sore from my pack weight, and the lower half of my body cried out with pain and fatigue. My skin was cold to the touch and my stomach was empty. Even my brain felt tired. As simple as walking was, it was hard to focus on putting one foot in front of the other for sixteen straight hours.
But I didn’t feel completely horrible because my chest felt warm and full. I was proud of coming so far in such a short amount of time. I had made it to the north side of Stratton Mountain, and now the disappearing sun and my exhausted legs told me it was time to find a camping spot.
As the forest faded into darkness, I continued to walk, searching for a flat spot to lie down. But I was not paying attention to the path in front of me, and as a result, I stepped on a large, loose rock. The stone rolled out from under me, and my left leg twisted as I fell.
My first response was to get up as quickly as possible. I never liked to assess injuries sitting down because things always seemed worse from the ground perspective. If I could self-diagnose while standing or walking, then the prognosis was never as bleak. I put most of my weight on my hands and unfolded my lower limb as if I were trying to come out of a difficult yoga pose. Then I transitioned back to a Homo erectus stance. My knee was sore but steady, and everything seemed to be okay. I took a few more steps to rebuild my confidence and loosen my knee, then I found a place where the shoulder of the trail was wide. I unrolled the light foam pad and unpacked my thin down sleeping bag.
I crawled inside my bed and took a brief moment to look up at the stars. It was a very comforting scene. The twinkling lights were far more magical and hopeful than the pale white ceiling of my bedroom.
When I awoke the next morning, I knew even before I sat up that my left knee was not okay. It felt hot and stiff, and I was barely able to contort it to get out of my narrow sleeping bag.
When my kneecap came into view, it was swollen and pink. I poked at the bulging flesh with my finger. It now looked and felt like a serious injury, and based on previous ailments that I had incurred on the trail, I realized that there was only one cure: I had to keep hiking.
While doctors recommend rest, ice, compression, and elevation, I knew that increased circulation, a large range of motion, and gritted teeth had fixed many of my trail injuries in the past. The pain might increase before my knee felt better, but that was part of the healing process.
I reached for my shoes and carefully placed my left foot into the sneaker, but something inside didn’t feel right. I figured it must be from the altered state of my knee, and I reached for my other shoe. Then I noticed something orange underneath the tongue. I looked closer and spotted a pinky-sized slug adhered to it.
“Uck.” I picked off the slug and hurled it onto a nearby tree. Then I reached into the toe-bed and found two more slimy creatures. Chills went down my spine as I unlatched them and flung them into the woods. I was not scared of slugs, but I didn’t care to handle them, especially first thing in the morning. I put my shoe on and started to stand up when an unpleasant thought crossed my mind.
“Nooo!” I took off my other shoe, and just as I had suspected, my sock was completely covered in opaque orange goo. Judging from the high concentration of gunk, there had been at least as many slugs in my left shoe as in my right—and none of them had survived.
That morning was miserable. Every other step hurt, and walking on uneven terrain intensified the pain. During a treacherous descent down a boulder field, I placed my hands on two neighboring rocks to brace my step, and as I eased my foot down into a small crevice, I felt something bite my ankle. I looked down and saw a large yellow jacket. Suddenly, I was overcome with adrenaline, and I ran the next forty yards down the trail.
I have a moderate allergy to bees, and the thought of my throat swelling shut trounced the pain of my aching knee. Once I was a safe distance away, I looked down and saw two red bull’s-eyes. I immediately took some Benadryl and put my EpiPen in my hip pocket in case I started wheezing. The ache in my knee returned, now accompanied by a sharp pain in my ankle. I kept hobbling down the trail and watched my shin change shades of red and then swell until it resembled a doughnut just above my low-cut sock.
For the rest of the day, I was not focused on a trail record. I was only focused on putting one foot in front of the other. I didn’t care how slowly I hiked. I just wanted to keep moving forward. As the sky grew dark, I came to a cold creek where I submerged both of my legs. The muscle definition in my left leg was gone. It was red and swollen from my toes to my lower thigh, and it was hard to look at, let alone bend.
After completing two and a half days and over a hundred miles on the Long Trail, my leg was still inflamed, I was still in pain, and I was coming to a road. Few long-distance hikers would quit their treks if it were not for the constant presence of roads. Roads are a reminder of creature comforts, food, and social support. Physically and emotionally, roads are the most dangerous place on the trail.
As I approached U.S. 4, every part of my body was yelling at me to abandon the hike. I was willing my feet down the north slope of Killington, listening for the roar of the highway and contemplating what to do, when I heard an adult voice singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.” It was an appropriate serenade considering how many spiderwebs I had hiked through that morning, but where was it coming from? I turned down a switchback and saw a grown man jogging up the trail with a toddler on his shoulders. Both the man and the little boy smiled and said hello as they passed me, and they continued to sing as they turned up the next switchback.
At first, I was frustrated by the encounter. I was having trouble walking downhill, and this man was happily pacing uphill with a sixteen-month-old on his shoulders—while singing! But despite my bitterness, there was something too innocent and joyful about the encounter for me to stay sour. In fact, in a strange way, I felt attracted to the man—or at least to what he represented.
I thought about my ex-boyfriend and my broken heart. As miserable as the pain in my left leg had been, it was all consuming. And that had been a blessing. But now, after passing the father and son on the trail, something inside me felt hopeful. I had been part of a great relationship with a great guy who loved life, loved me, and loved the trail. But there were other great guys out there. Guys who would run up a trail with their child on their shoulders, singing corny kid songs. That was my type of guy.
As I spotted my first car through the trees, I no longer wanted to quit. And just as I exited the woods, I heard a voice calling from behind me.
“Hey! Hey, wait up. Are you a thru-hiker?” It was the father and son bounding back down the mountain. And I could tell just by the way the man said “thru-hiker” that he either was one or wanted to be one.
“I’m thru-hiking the Long Trail,” I replied. The first hundred miles follow the same path as the Appalachian Trail, so I wanted to differentiate my 272-mile journey from the 2,180-mile one.
“That’s awesome,” he said, smiling. “My wife and I thru-hiked the A.T. for our honeymoon several years ago.” I knew it.“We’re up here vacationing with our kids. Do you need any trail magic?”
I thought about that question. The first time someone offered me trail magic, I had been hesitant to accept because as a society we are taught not to accept gifts from strangers. But now I loved getting help from people I didn’t know. It was one of my favorite parts of the trail.
At this point, however, I didn’t need any food or a ride into town. I looked down at my red, irritated leg. It was covered in lacerations from a thorny section of overgrown trail, and they were starting to ooze puss. If I didn’t clean them out soon, there was a good chance they would get infected.
Finally, I responded. “Well, I could really use a shower.”
“Great! We’re staying just a few miles down the road. You can shower at our place.”
Within the span of an hour, I went to their rental cabin, met the man’s equally gracious thru-hiker wife and their three-year-old daughter, showered, cleaned my leg, iced my knee and ankle, and administered anti-inflammatory pills and salve. I also ate a large portion of homemade vegetable lasagna and then returned to the trail.
Back at the trailhead, the mom and dad stood at their car, attaching babycarriers for a second afternoon hike. The kids were yelling and looking for the orange slugs I had told them about. As I continued hiking into the woods and away from Vermont Route 4, my body didn’t hurt as much, and neither did my heart.
Putting my life back together started at the base of Pico Peak that day. I no longer thought about quitting the hike. Instead, I pushed onward each day with the goal of reaching Canada as quickly as the trail would permit. Unfortunately, the path was not overly permissive.
Once the Long Trail split from the A.T., I traveled through several patches of overgrown stinging nettles. The invisible hairs that hung from the leaves of the plant quickly attached to my legs and caused a burning sensation that lasted anywhere from five to fifteen minutes. At times, the pain was so intense that I could only manage by screaming at the top of my lungs until it subsided.
The trail was all but deserted in central Vermont, and I doubt anyone ever heard me yell, but if they did, they probably dialed 911 out of concern.
The weather on the second half of the hike was as bad as it could be in the summertime. In every twenty-four-hour period, it rained for at least eighteen hours. More often than not, the downpour was accompanied by lightning and thunder.
The water turned the mountain slopes into a treacherous minefield of slick stones and boulders. During the lightning storms, I felt less threatened in the dense hardwood forest, but I was often delayed near the summits where there was no protection. Sometimes I hid underneath rock outcroppings and inside trail shelters, waiting for the storms to pass. Over and over again I would count the seconds between the lightning and thunder, hoping that the storm would weaken, but it seemed locked in place.
The heavy rain reminded me of the countless tears I had shed over the summer. So in the midst of hiking through the storm, I talked to God. It was not a prayer of reverence or thanksgiving. Instead, I complained and literally cried out to God, blaming him for my broken heart. I asked over and over why my last relationship didn’t work out and what I was supposed to do now. I wanted an immediate answer, but all I got was more thunder and lightning.
The trail threw one punch after another: bad weather, slick rocks, poorly marked junctions, and just when I thought I had covered the most difficult stretch, I came to Doll Peak. The elevation of the mountain did not compare to the unending slope of Mount Mansfield, the highest summit on the Long Trail. And the climb was not as technical as the boulder scramble near Camel’s Hump in central Vermont. But for my tired, sore, soaking-wet body, this felt like the toughest ascent of the trail.
When the trail becomes technical, you are frequently forced to place your hands on boulders or trees to gain balance. Sometimes you have to attach your hiking poles to your pack and use arm strength to pull yourself up a steep pitch. Technical trail can also demand sitting and sliding or crab walking down a mountain. If nothing else, the degree of difficulty increases since every step could result in a sprained ankle or twisted knee.
As I hiked up Doll Peak in the pouring rain, I used both hands to scramble and maintain my balance. I spent enormous energy willing my thighs in front of my body, then hoping my calves and feet would follow. With every step I tried to put my shoes on large, stable-looking rocks to prevent a fall. But it didn’t work.
I fell five times in five minutes. My legs weren’t going where my mind told them to, and on top of that, I couldn’t see the next few yards through the clouds and fog, let alone the summit. I wanted to sit down and give up. But that wasn’t an option, not in this weather and not on this terrain.
Just then, I remembered something Warren had said when we were waltzing at the gas station near I-81 in the early morning hours. “You can’t fight the music, you have to flow with it.”
There I was in the middle of a nor’easter, my knee was swollen, and scrapes and bruises covered my body, but I was still out there in the terrible, awesome onslaught of the wilderness. And I knew that I had to keep pressing forward. I realized that all summer I had been hiding from my own soundtrack. I hadn’t wanted to hear the music; I’d just wanted to sleep and cry, to reject the truth that was blaring all around me.
Warren was right. I needed to embrace the rhythm, not worry so much about falling. And right now, the storm was my music and the rocks were my dance floor. So as I continued up the trail, my chin lifted and my footsteps grew stronger and more certain.
When I made it to the top of Doll Peak, I let out a victory cry. I wanted it to sound tough, but instead it sounded like a squeaky cheer at a pep rally. For me, those cries never seemed to reflect the guttural emotion that had formed them. Nevertheless, I was deeply proud to be on the top of that barren mountain in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, that physical and emotional barrier that I had overcome—and I only fell twice on my way back down.
After seven days, fifteen hours, and forty minutes, I reached the Canadian border. I had danced the dance, I had felt the pain, and now I could hear the music changing. The rain had stopped and so had my tears.
I felt lighter than I had in months. The Long Trail had allowed me to express my sadness and my frustration. It had allowed me to scream and cry; it had given me an arena to hurt. And I learned that sometimes the hurt has to get worse before it can get better.
By the end of the trail, I also felt that God had given me an answer through all my yelling and pleading. The first time I thru-hiked, it was to figure out who I was and what I was going to do with my life. But it wasn’t until this trip that I finally realized the trail was more than a solitary adventure or something to check off my bucket list. The trail was my passion, and now I wanted it to be my profession.
I had big plans. I couldn’t wait to call Warren and tell him about my hiking adventure and my new resolution. The next day, as soon as I had cell service, I dialed his number.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Warren, it’s Jen.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m done with the trail.”
“You’re already finished?” Warren asked in disbelief.
“Yep. I finished in less than eight days. That’s good enough for the record, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
“Well, it was awesome,” I said excitedly. “I can’t wait to tell you all about it. And I think I figured a lot out while I was hiking. I will be driving home in a few days, so maybe I can stop by and fill you in on everything.”
“I would love that,” Warren replied. “What you accomplished is just incredible.”
“Thanks, Warren. Oh, hey, I was wondering . . . who had the unsupported record on the Long Trail before me?”
Warren chuckled. “Well, until this morning, I did.”
After our phone call I felt shocked and a little embarrassed. I should have been able to figure out on my own that Warren held the previous record. After all, he could never have given me such good advice if he hadn’t been there before.
On my drive home, I started making plans for my new hiking company. I wanted to help other people get outdoors. I was convinced that the trail was the best and the cheapest therapy I knew. By taking other people into the woods, I hoped that they could experience some of the joy, serenity, and truth that I felt in the wilderness. Plus, I knew that personally, I wanted—no, I needed—to keep hiking. Now that I had set a record on the Long Trail, my attention was focused on the Appalachian Trail.
Warren was right to suggest a shorter trail for my first record attempt, but now that I had gotten a taste, I wanted the full course dinner. A record attempt was more focused and more difficult than a traditional thru-hike. It required discipline and intensity, and it stripped away the interruptions and got you to your destination a lot sooner.
Now it all made sense why I had to go through the agony of a broken heart. I could never dedicate my life to training, hiking, and getting other people outdoors if I had to worry about a boyfriend.
I resolved to be single, and I focused on the trail.
