AUGUST 2011—THE PRESENT
The weeks that passed after Brew and I set the record were a blur. I can remember only bits and pieces of our post-trail experience, and even those memories are wrapped in a mental haze. It is hard to remember clearly what takes place when you are recovering from such an all-consuming endeavor.
The first few days after the hike, it felt as if I had just undergone a major surgery. I did not want to leave the bed, and when I did it was only to move to the couch or the hammock. I slept thirty-two of the first forty-eight hours that I spent off the trail. I didn’t even have the energy to read or talk on the phone. Then came the media requests, which were surreal and sometimes frustrating.
There were reporters who chastised me or even decided not to interview me when I didn’t immediately return their calls. Then there were the writers I actually spoke with, who simply printed the numbers even after I tried to give them a more holistic view of our journey.
No one seemed interested in what I’d learned or what the most valuable part of the experience had been. Instead, everyone wanted to talk about how I averaged 46.93 miles per day, or managed to consume 6,000 calories per day. They asked me if I was scared to see thirty-six bears this summer. Scared? Not at all. That was one of the highlights of the trip!
Why didn’t anyone ask about the notions of living in the present or choosing something purposeful and fulfilling over something fun and easy? What about the necessity of asking other people for help and of not succumbing to the fear of failure? Or the idea that persistence and consistency can be more valuable than speed and strength? Why didn’t they ask about everyone else who had helped us? Wasn’t it clear that this was a group endeavor? And what about Brew? Why did no one realize that the most miraculous part of the summer was not the record, but how well my husband had loved me?!
Many of the media outlets told the story of our record without ever touching on the most important parts of the journey. Perhaps the lessons of this past summer were so counter-cultural that reporters didn’t think to ask the right questions. At least the misrepresentation made it easier to disconnect from the feedback.
Opinions about our hike started to appear on websites and in my inbox, and were occasionally broadcast through the radio. The responses we heard ranged from those who questioned our record because they didn’t believe I could physically cover the 2,181-mile Appalachian Trail in forty-six days, to those who decided it was really rather underwhelming, and that given the chance, most people without a full backpack could do the same thing. Just as dangerous and misinformed, but far more pleasant, were the people who thought we could do no wrong.
I think I was relatively unaffected by both the criticism and the praise. Having Brew by my side helped me to value what we had accomplished and hold on to the truth. Anyway, widespread attention is fleeting, and for the most part, I slept through our fifteen minutes of fame.
There was one incident that happened our first week off the trail, though, that I remember with striking clarity. Beyond my husband, the man I had thought about more than anyone else in recent weeks was Andrew Thompson. I went back and forth between being completely in awe of him for being such an amazing athlete and despising him for the exact same reason. But the last thing I wanted to do was talk to him.
I now knew how meaningful the overall record could be, and how difficult it was to achieve. As much as I embraced our accomplishment, I wished that it could be shared with Andrew and the other record setters of the past. I would never have been successful without studying their approaches and learning from their separate attempts. It was clear to me that a record holder never really stands alone, but rather climbs on the shoulders of the ones who have gone before him—or her.
I dreaded the call or email that I would receive from always-gracious Andrew, congratulating me on my record. I was sure he would feel compelled to say things that he didn’t wholeheartedly mean. I had just taken something away from one of my heroes— how could this not be awkward?
The fateful day came when I saw his name pop up in my inbox. I did not want to click on the message, but the smiley face in the subject line encouraged me to just get it over with. When I opened the text, it contained just two words:
You bitch . . . Followed by another smiley face.
I laughed so hard that I started to cry. It was the most physical exertion I’d had since leaving Springer. I had never in my life been so proud to be called that name. Andrew had given me the most honest compliment imaginable. I knew right then that things would never be awkward between us.
I was fortunate that I could focus on rest and recovery and ease back into my work schedule because the physical effects of the trail remained for months. The initial symptoms were consuming fatigue and a decrease in appetite. I had lost about twelve pounds on the trail, but I lost another three or four the week after I finished. My metabolism was still raging but my stomach and my mind refused to eat as much as they had on the trail. I was transi-tioning from eating for survival to eating for enjoyment.
The next major phase of recovery was marked by dizziness and brief blackouts. I could not stand up without my head spinning, or my vision momentarily clouding over in a dark veil. I learned that I needed about ten full seconds to successfully transition from sitting to walking without passing out.
I didn’t want to go to a doctor because I was convinced that I was improving, and I was scared that I might discover I’d sustained some major damage somewhere. Instead, I researched online and self-diagnosed my condition as athlete’s heart. It not only explained my chest pains on the trail, but it also provided an explanation for my dizziness. According to numerous Web searches, athlete’s heart is caused when the heart expands and strengthens.
The heart is a muscle, and like other muscles, it can grow. This increase in volume can cause an ache in the chest. It can also cause light-headedness because a larger chamber takes longer to fill with blood when there are sudden vertical changes.
In other words, I was like the Grinch. In the end, my experience had literally given me a bigger heart.
The calluses, blisters, and corns on my feet took about three months to harden, then peel off. At times, I picked off purple, silver-dollar-sized scales from my feet. They were dense, stiff, and always a different shape. I asked Brew if he thought we should keep a few as mementos, but he said no.
It took a long time before I had any desire to run or participate in prolonged exercise, but it was just a few weeks after I finished that my heart longed for the trail. I started by taking short two- or three-mile hikes. In direct contrast to my record hike, I enjoyed traveling down the trail at a mile and a half per hour and taking as many seated breaks as I wanted along the way.
I think my biggest regret leaving Springer Mountain was worrying about any damaged relationships that I had left along the trail. But if anything, the journey had strengthened old friendships and kindled new ones. It even brought my family together in a manner that I had always dreamed of.
Once I started hiking again, I was able to enjoy short jaunts with some of the friends who had helped me over the summer. In particular, I spent time with Melissa and Warren. It was amazing how during the record hike the A.T. had seemed to strain our relationships. Yet now, spending time together on the worn dirt path quickly healed the hurt feelings.
I was thankful that all my apologies on the trail, in person, and over the phone went so well. I was especially awed by Warren’s reciprocal regret. He had never meant to make the hike more difficult for me. We talked at length about Mount Washington, about our misperceptions and misunderstandings. It only took four miles for me to realize that our time this summer hadn’t fractured our connection; it had brought us closer together.
Also, for the first time in eight years, I felt like my family finally understood why I went into the woods. My oldest brother seemed proud of me in a way that I hadn’t experienced before. I’d grown closer to James and Lindsay—and even more infatuated with my niece. In fact, I’d made plans to take her on her first section hike before she turned two. My dad was beaming with pride—as always. And my mom, well, my mom was there.
When I asked her if she was glad that she had come, she replied, “No. I thought your husband needed to be hospitalized because of the poison ivy on the back of his leg. And you were barely coherent. I have never been so worried about you two in my life.” Translation: she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
I think if I’d expected this hike to change my life, then I would have been sorely disappointed. After a few months, everything felt pretty ordinary. Brew and I had the same friends, the same jobs, and our bank accounts had not increased. But what I had expected was that the path would change me—and it had.
Someone once asked me if the record was more of a physical, mental, or spiritual challenge. When I thought about it, I couldn’t decide. In the end, I think it must be summed up as a love story. Not just a love story between a husband and wife, but one with multiple dimensions.
I love God and I felt called to the trail by him. I wanted to follow his voice and praise him with the talents and the gifts that he had given me.
I also love the trail. Out of all the paths that I have traveled, the Appalachian Trail remains the closest to my heart. That thin strip of dirt winding through those ancient peaks had taught me more than any other footpath and had truly changed my life. Because of that, I will always remain devoted to it and entranced by it.
And I love my husband. When I didn’t have the internal drive to continue putting one foot in front of the other, I thought about all the sacrifices he was making for me. I reminded myself that he was getting only five or six hours of sleep at night, and that his days were even more emotionally demanding than my own. I know that I could not have been successful without the knowledge that he would always be at the next road crossing waiting for me.
Perhaps the most important take-away from this past summer is the realization that love is more than a feeling. True love is very different from what is often portrayed in the movies and by the media. In fact, Hollywood has really done a disservice to our perception of love. That is probably one reason why there is so much discontent and divorce in our society. It could also be why seventy-five percent of thru-hikers don’t successfully complete the Appalachian Trail. Our ideas of devotion and romance are totally skewed.
True love isn’t an emotion; it’s a commitment—and it will be confronted by many trials and tribulations. Like the trail, love is not always easy and it is not always fun. If you really care about something or someone, you will be willing to go through hell for it (or him or her). It takes tough love for you to become your best self.
A few months before I started the trail, Brew had given me a silver necklace with a small medallion that had the word “Love” inscribed on it. I wore that necklace for half of the trail until it became so black and grimy that it started to cause a rash around my neck. Sometimes when I was struggling up a mountain or walking through a thunderstorm, I would reach for my necklace and just hold it for a minute.
When I finished the trail, I borrowed some silver polish from our neighbor and started cleaning off my necklace. I almost didn’t want to. The filth told our story much better than the shining silver ever would. I decided that love should be worn. It should be worn so that others can see it, and it should be worn in the sense that it should show its age—and its miles. Love is an unending trail; and more often than not, it will not be pretty. It will be dirty and sticky, and it may even cause a rash (hopefully one that will go away with time or a prescription).
Some days, when I am working at home or driving down the road, I will reach for my necklace and hold it between my fingers. Immediately, I think about the hundred-degree heat and the sleet storm on Franconia Ridge. I think about shin splints and diarrhea or how Brew refused to let me quit at the base of Pico Peak. I think about how some of my best friends got on my last nerve—and what a complete diva I was in return. I reminisce about hiking behind Dutch or trying to catch up with Rambler or sharing smiles and stories with Rebekah, Matt, and Carl. I remember my nine-month-old niece clapping for me at the road crossings. I thank God once again that my flashlight didn’t go out on my climb up Mount Washington and that I ran into Adam and Kadra at my absolute lowest point. I think about all of our family and friends who met us at the end, and about Brew’s expression when I laid eyes on him in the Springer Mountain parking lot.
When I let go of my necklace and let it fall to my chest, next to my heart, my focus returns to my work and to my ordinary, everyday surroundings. But sometimes, in the silence that ensues, I will hear the wind through the trees or the birds warbling nearby. Then I will sense a slight twinge in my stomach and a warmth in my chest. And when I lift my eyes and gaze out the window at the mountains that surround our home in Asheville, they somehow seem closer.
In those moments, I find myself waiting, wondering, and listening. For the familiar voice that will summon me . . . when I am called again.
