Called Again by Jennifer Pharr Davis, Pharr Davis
Authors: Jennifer Pharr Davis, Pharr Davis
Ads: Link
stretch, I saw Brew hiking toward me. He had found a closer road and then hiked north. I started running over the scattered rocks.
âDonât run!â he called. He didnât want me to fall and get hurt, but he couldnât stop me from sprinting toward him. Within twenty seconds, I was in his arms, apologizing over and over again. I hoped that one of them would sound right. I would have done anything to show Brew that I was sorry. I would have quit right there if he had asked.
Brew tightened his grip on me. âIâm sorry too,â he said. âI feel like Iâm giving you everything out here. But if you need more, I will find a way to give you more.â
From that point on, I never again questioned Brewâs level of commitment.
Up until the Smokies, the few occasions when we had received additional help had been a luxury. But at Davenport Gap, it became a necessity. It was mid-August and I still had two-hundred forty-miles left to hike, but Brew had to go home and go back to work as a teacher.
He had been my physical and emotional support the entire trip, and I was heartbroken that he had to leave. We had been on the trail together for over fifty days, and now, with less than a week left, I couldnât imagine finishing the trail without him. We were both a wreck.
When I came out to Waterville School Road, our last road crossing together, I discovered that he had lost the keys to thecar, and I couldnât get any provisions. Instead of being upset with Brew for being chronically disorganizedâor for the fact that I would not be able to eat or drinkâI simply leaned on my husband as he peered inside the windows to see if he could spot the keys. I didnât need food or water nearly as much as I needed my husband.
Brew convinced me to keep hiking another two and a half miles to Davenport Gap. He promised to find the keys and meet me there to say a final good-bye. When I arrived at the northern entrance to Smoky Mountain National Park, he was sitting in the car with the doors open, giving final instructions to his replacements.
Although Brew was leaving, I was not going to load up my backpack and complete the remainder of the trail on my own. My husband was sitting near the trail, instructing three sixty-year-old men on how best to provide support while he was away.
The fourth-quarter subs were a motley crew. Two of them were short and round, one with a permanent tan and silver hair, the other with a sideways ball cap and a white Santa Claus beard. The third member was tall, fit, and clean shaven and had a buzz cut. When they saw me coming down the trail, they all started to cheer.
I grinned. I donât think that we could have put together a more diverse team of men; I know for certain that we could not have found another trio of sixty-year-olds who I loved more.
The tall, svelte man who looked like a military officer was our friend David Horton. I had met him when he was sprinting up the muddy tread of a Virginia mountain named âThe Priestâ during a rainy morning on my initial A.T. hike in 2005.
Horton had set the overall Appalachian Trail record in 1991 by hiking the trail in fifty-two days. The summer after we met, he also set the record on the Pacific Crest Trail. Horton had also introduced me to ultraâtrail running by inviting me to several of his races in Virginia. Thatâs where I discovered that trail runnerswere a lot like thru-hikers. They loved the trail and a good challenge; they just usually had less time to be outdoors.
The man standing next to Horton with the light beard and crooked hat was none other than Warren Doyle. He had helped me prepare for my first A.T. hike, and we had crossed paths on the Pacific Crest Trail. He had also mentored me before my Long Trail record, and now he was here to assist me once again. He didnât wear Hortonâs smile of excitement, but instead looked thoughtful, almost stoic. Knowing him, I could
âDonât run!â he called. He didnât want me to fall and get hurt, but he couldnât stop me from sprinting toward him. Within twenty seconds, I was in his arms, apologizing over and over again. I hoped that one of them would sound right. I would have done anything to show Brew that I was sorry. I would have quit right there if he had asked.
Brew tightened his grip on me. âIâm sorry too,â he said. âI feel like Iâm giving you everything out here. But if you need more, I will find a way to give you more.â
From that point on, I never again questioned Brewâs level of commitment.
Up until the Smokies, the few occasions when we had received additional help had been a luxury. But at Davenport Gap, it became a necessity. It was mid-August and I still had two-hundred forty-miles left to hike, but Brew had to go home and go back to work as a teacher.
He had been my physical and emotional support the entire trip, and I was heartbroken that he had to leave. We had been on the trail together for over fifty days, and now, with less than a week left, I couldnât imagine finishing the trail without him. We were both a wreck.
When I came out to Waterville School Road, our last road crossing together, I discovered that he had lost the keys to thecar, and I couldnât get any provisions. Instead of being upset with Brew for being chronically disorganizedâor for the fact that I would not be able to eat or drinkâI simply leaned on my husband as he peered inside the windows to see if he could spot the keys. I didnât need food or water nearly as much as I needed my husband.
Brew convinced me to keep hiking another two and a half miles to Davenport Gap. He promised to find the keys and meet me there to say a final good-bye. When I arrived at the northern entrance to Smoky Mountain National Park, he was sitting in the car with the doors open, giving final instructions to his replacements.
Although Brew was leaving, I was not going to load up my backpack and complete the remainder of the trail on my own. My husband was sitting near the trail, instructing three sixty-year-old men on how best to provide support while he was away.
The fourth-quarter subs were a motley crew. Two of them were short and round, one with a permanent tan and silver hair, the other with a sideways ball cap and a white Santa Claus beard. The third member was tall, fit, and clean shaven and had a buzz cut. When they saw me coming down the trail, they all started to cheer.
I grinned. I donât think that we could have put together a more diverse team of men; I know for certain that we could not have found another trio of sixty-year-olds who I loved more.
The tall, svelte man who looked like a military officer was our friend David Horton. I had met him when he was sprinting up the muddy tread of a Virginia mountain named âThe Priestâ during a rainy morning on my initial A.T. hike in 2005.
Horton had set the overall Appalachian Trail record in 1991 by hiking the trail in fifty-two days. The summer after we met, he also set the record on the Pacific Crest Trail. Horton had also introduced me to ultraâtrail running by inviting me to several of his races in Virginia. Thatâs where I discovered that trail runnerswere a lot like thru-hikers. They loved the trail and a good challenge; they just usually had less time to be outdoors.
The man standing next to Horton with the light beard and crooked hat was none other than Warren Doyle. He had helped me prepare for my first A.T. hike, and we had crossed paths on the Pacific Crest Trail. He had also mentored me before my Long Trail record, and now he was here to assist me once again. He didnât wear Hortonâs smile of excitement, but instead looked thoughtful, almost stoic. Knowing him, I could
Similar Books
