Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [3]
It took us a little over an hour to navigate the dark forest and rocky terrain at the base of Katahdin, but at 5:00 AM we emerged from the woods and arrived at an endless uphill boulder field. The terrain ahead resembled a rock quarry, with stones scattered across the mountainside, masking the trail in front of us. But with the atmosphere now dimly glowing, we tucked away our headlamps and began winding our way up the rocky slope, scanning rocks and boulders for the painted blazes that would guide our path.
On June 20th in central Maine, the sun starts to break through the clouds too early for most to appreciate. The first rays hit our backs at 5:30, and I was thankful for the warmth and light that they provided. There were several moments during the ascent when I stopped to look out over the softening sky. I was inspired by the sea of clouds beneath us and the three distant mountain peaks that sat like islands amid the dense white depths. I struggled to keep my focus on the rocky path, and instead watched the vast shadow of Katahdin serve as a sundial, rotating over the ocean of clouds below us.
I was so taken by the beauty and stillness of the morning that the reality of the task ahead didn’t sink in until we neared the top of the mountain. Walking across the rock-strewn field that led to the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, I was suddenly struck by the significance of each forward footstep that I planted in the soft, damp earth.
I had been on this same trail, in this same place, three years earlier. But my first climb up Katahdin wasn’t as lighthearted or light-footed as my current traverse. I had arrived at the mountain after the four hardest months of my life, and had viewed my climb to the rocky apex as merely the means to an end—the end of physical hardship, the end of emotional distress, the end of unsavory encounters, and the end of spiritual unrest. I swore to myself that I would never come back to this mountain, and that I would never again entertain the idea of thru-hiking.
God must have been laughing down on me as I made those shortsighted vows. What I didn’t realize at that time was that my climb up Katahdin had not marked the end of a journey, but the beginning of a new life. I had no idea that the challenges I faced as a twenty-one-year-old woman hiking the Appalachian Trail would so deeply impact who I am, what I believe, and how I want to live. And I certainly would never have guessed that my epic misadventures on the AT would lead to an enduring love of long-distance hiking.
The path was uneven, but Brew and I walked hand in hand to the worn wooden sign that marked the top of the mountain. It was 6:20 AM, and I was ready to set out on a new adventure, to begin a new chapter of my life, with the man I love by my side. Before I started, we took a few mountaintop photos, then I grabbed hold of my warm, sweet-smelling husband as he prayed over the next 2,175 miles. Together we asked God for safety and good health, we asked that He would strengthen our relationship, and that He would allow us to help others along the way.
After we said “Amen,” I set off down the mountain. As I went forward, I reflected on the trials and trails that had led me back to this place. A large smile spread across my face as I considered the past five thousand miles and three and a half years, and remembered the preparation for my first thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. As I transitioned from the upper plain of Katahdin to its rocky spine, I laughed as I thought about how far I had come from the insecure twenty-one-year-old who had started the trail in 2005. I was now able to look ahead and see where I wanted to go, but I was still close