North: Finding My Way While Running the Appalachian Trail

by Scott Jurek

I was at the lowest of lows and couldn’t imagine things getting any worse. And then I heard that voice. “There’s that runner! How ya doin’, boy?” Good old Horty was back in his usual form. Quite frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for Horty or for his boundless energy. I’m not sure what I was in the mood for, but whatever it was, it wasn’t Horty. But he knew this trail, and twenty-five years ago, nearly to the day, he had been chasing the same speed record. Now, at sixty-six years old, he had a wealth of experience and wisdom—and, unfortunately, he knew that. “What’s da matter? You lookin’ like an ol’ man,” Horty hollered for the entire forest to hear. I shook my head, wincing in pain and signaling my mood. Don’t even start with me, I thought. “It’s bad. Real bad,” I said. “I’ve never had a muscle tear like this, right in the belly of my quad. I can barely hobble. It’s taken me two hours to go the last two miles and I’m getting slower and slower.” Horty knew where I was at, physically and mentally, and, to his credit, he used the opportunity to be helpful rather than just loud and obnoxious. Fortunately, we weren’t far from the crossing. “Let’s get down to the van. Jenny’s made you some sandwiches and she’ll get ya some dry clothes. Will found some ibuprofen. Got a real nice, long climb ahead. It’ll get you feelin’ better. Those eccentric contractions are the worst for that quad and knee. These downhills are naaasty!” I let out a big sigh of frustration and said, “Horty, I don’t...