Called Again Read Online Free PDF Page B

a diet of Clif bars and freeze-dried dinners. In other words, he had to learn to be very uncomfortable, very quickly.
    But Brew’s emotional burden was even greater than his physical discomfort. He had to learn simultaneously how to be a new husband
and
a one-man support team. On the trail, my success and safety depended entirely on Brew. If he couldn’t find me, then I would not have any food or camping gear for the next section. My well-being was completely in his hands—and he knew it. And the fact that we started in the most logistically challenging and remote portion of trail didn’t help his anxiety.
    The northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail is in the middle of Maine, which is to say, the middle of nowhere. Katahdin, a large rocky monolith whose name means “Greatest Mountain,”rises from the surrounding bogs and forests like an impenetrable fortress. It offers fulfillment to the thru-hikers who arrive at its base and hope to those who depart from its peak. The mountain is a great teacher, but its answers are always changing and are often bestowed in the form of new questions.
    The day we began, I climbed the barren slopes of the Mighty Mountain with my new husband and then descended the arduous terrain on my own. After just a few hours, I exited the sanctuary of Baxter State Park. I paused at the park boundary and looked over my shoulder at the mountain behind me. I didn’t know when I’d see it again, but I sensed that someday I would.
    Ahead of me, Brew waited at the next road crossing. When I saw my husband standing at our car, I ran to meet him. He was my moving mountain, my migrating trail marker, a source of strength. Every time we parted, I would immediately look ahead and press forward to meet him again. Even on day one, it seemed that the motivation to set a record was less compelling than the incentive of hiking to Brew. At this point I was still thinking more about our wedding and our honeymoon than about the difficult task that lay ahead. I was too full of love to worry about the hardships of the next 2,000 miles.
    I gathered more food and supplies at our car and kissed my husband good-bye before entering the Hundred-Mile Wilderness. The common misperception about the Hundred-Mile Wilderness is that there are not any roads for evacuation, entry, or support. But it only feels that way. The thick woods, low-lying marshes, large undisturbed lakes, and abundant moose make the wilderness seem remote and impassable. But there are roads. Granted, they are mostly unmarked private logging roads that you have to pay to access and pray to navigate, but there
are
roads.
    Brew did a great job maneuvering through the maze of obstacles in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness and I was able to see him at least twice a day. After I hiked out of it and crossed the widechannel of the Kennebec River, access to the trail increased, and I could see Brew even more often.
    When the burly climbs, copious river crossings, and swarming black flies of central Maine began to wear on my body and spirit, I could always count on Brew to sing me a song, tell me a joke, or give me a kiss that would get me through the next section.
    There were multiple times when I was between road crossings, all alone, and my body felt like it couldn’t take another step. In those moments, I would start to sing—poorly and out loud— the Diana Ross chorus, “Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough, ain’t no river wide enough to keep me from getting to you.” And my determination to overcome everything to get to my husband was renewed.
    Brew felt the same way about finding me. Together we were a well-oiled machine, leap-frogging one another with perfect precision . . . until day six. That morning, I left early from our campsite near the still waters at Horns Pond Lean-to. Brew was still asleep in the tent, but I knew that in another hour, his alarm would sound and he would