Pain, self doubt and perseverance

What 41 miles on the Appalachian Trail taught me.

There we were -- Brad, Dom, and I, childhood friends going back four decades -- getting ready to run down the Appalachian Trail together in the pitch black of night. I can’t speak for the other guys, but my mindset was somewhere between invigorated and completely terrified as we plunged into the darkness toward the Delaware Water Gap. 

With more than 13 hours and 38 miles of running and power hiking already behind us, this was high stakes stuff. One small mistake or lapse in concentration could mean big trouble. At the very least, it would lead to a painful fall. At worse it could lead to a broken … something. 

I had run this section a handful of times during training, although not with a 10-pound pack on my back, and definitely not at night. Even in daylight hours it was a brutal stretch. The 1,200 feet descent covered three miles and thousands of jagged rocks.

We had come so far. Not just the 38 miles from High Point in North Jersey where we started just before dawn, but even getting to this moment. There had been two months of delays and postponements thanks to work stuff, kid stuff, life stuff, COVID stuff. 

We managed to pull it together at the last minute, nailing all the tricky logistics with a massive assist from supportive spouses and parents. All that was literally behind us, like the sun setting over Sunfish Pond, signaling it was time to begin this final stretch. 

That’s when this picture was taken. Looking at it four months later brings me immediately back to that place. I can taste the dryness in my throat and feel the ache in my shoulders from carrying my pack. I had spent a good part of the day wrestling with meaning: Why was I out here and what was I trying to prove? 

As darkness settled over the forest and the night brought its own reality, I finally surrendered to the present. All the pain, fatigue, and dehydration became non-existent, leaving nothing but the sound of our breathing and the beam of bouncing light from our headlamps. 

Feeling loose for the first time all day, my focus never wavered from the few feet of illuminated trail in front of me. When the headlamp slipped off my head, I caught it in my hand and quickly wrapped it around my knuckles without breaking stride. I allowed myself a quick smile. “Not bad, dude.” 

There were dozens of moments like that. Each one could have meant the difference between success and catastrophic failure. They seemed to unfold in slow motion. I had prepared well. 

During training, I emphasized running downhills over technical terrain. That helped transform a glaring weakness into a skill I could harness for just this moment. I began to sense exactly when to let up so I could speed walk over rocks like a mountain goat, and when it was safe to push the pace. 

I also knew the landmarks. There was the section we called the rock garden, a quarter mile stretch covered by an endless sea of ill-shaped stones that would require precision and finesse. Beyond that was a two-foot drop where the AT meets a local trail. Misjudge the timing and it would feel like missing the final step at the bottom of a flight of stairs, only much, much worse given our achy, tired joints.  

Further ahead was a four-way intersection indicating we had a little more than a mile left. Then we heard the rush of water from the creek to our left. At the end of the trail was a wooden bridge. Just beyond the bridge was an entry-point to the creek where we would wash the dirt and grime off our bodies in the cool, clear water. And just beyond the late-night bath was Brad’s ever-patient wife, waiting in the darkened parking lot to take us home. 

There were smiles and nods at the end. No hugs or physical contact. No time, really, to linger in the moment with my friends. Together, the three of us had traveled more than 41 miles over almost 6,000 feet of rocky climb on terrain that can only be called relentless. 

This was more ground than I ever had covered by foot in a single outing, a milestone I had worked all summer to achieve. It was also slower and more painful than I anticipated, making it less a declaration of my hard-earned fitness than a survival test that I was sure I was failing. 

None of that mattered anymore. Honestly, nothing really mattered at that point. A day we had planned for months was suddenly over with nothing to take its place on the calendar. I came home to my parents’ house where I had grown up, ate a pizza, took a shower, and slept for 12 hours. 

When I woke up the morning after our Appalachian Trail adventure, my first emotion was relief. Not elation or even satisfaction with the accomplishment, just relief that I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. It beat feeling broken, but it wasn’t the feeling of euphoria I was expecting. I sat with that noncommittal feeling for a few days before it gave way to sadness, as I knew it inevitably would.

I’ve come to recognize post-event depression as an important part of my recovery process. Just as my body’s immune system is compromised after big outings, so too are my brain’s defenses. It takes time to build them back up again, especially while letting go of a singular focus that had taken up a good bit of my life the last few months. 

Of course, nothing felt normal in 2020. It’s hard to remember a time during the last nine months when I haven’t felt depression’s cold creep. Every day feels like I’m keeping the wolves at bay, and it takes all I’ve got just to stay on the beat of everyday life. I’m proud of my resilience, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t taken a cumulative toll. 

My burden is certainly no worse than anyone else’s, and I have spent many hours giving thanks and gratitude for my family’s health and safety. We are fine. Not great certainly, but fine. 

It took several weeks, maybe even months, before I finally began to understand that just doing the AT from High Point to the Gap had to be its own reward. Accomplishing something -- anything -- at this point in time is worth celebrating. When I look back on that picture of Sunfish Pond, I don’t see pain and self-doubt. I just see perseverance. If that’s the best I can do, well, that’s really all I can ask of myself.  

How about you? What accomplishment from the past year are you celebrating? 

Programming note: No Friday Ramble this week. Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and thank you for coming with me on this journey. See you on Monday.