Thirst. Heather Anderson
me awake. So, I dealt with it the best way I knew how—I sat down at my computer and wrote in my blog.
I have been called fearless. Brave.
But the truth is, we all have our fears and I am no different. Words that have always given me perspective and pushed me forward: “Courage means being afraid, but going on anyhow,” writes Dan Rather.
I was a scaredy-cat as a little girl. I was afraid of the dark, of ghosts, wild animals, spiders, getting lost, the water, sharks, aliens, rejection, failure . . .
Somewhere along the way I learned to stop letting fear stop me. And that has made all the difference. It has taken me on 3.5 thru-hikes. It has taken me into and out of relationships. Career changes. Race distances in the triple digits. I have been afraid of them all, and yet, each has made me stronger as I overcame those fears.
I am still afraid of many things. Some days it seems like an inconceivable notion that I sleep in the woods alone. That I have faced grizzly bears, wolves, bobcats, rattlesnakes, advanced hypothermia, dehydration, etc. That I routinely risk security in finances and relationships to pursue a life that John Muir would be proud of.
I wonder daily what I am thinking taking on a task so huge. A challenge so big. Who am I to think that I can do this?
Even so, I will step onto the trail and face fear. Fear of:
Rattlesnakes
Heat exhaustion
Dehydration
Pain
Injury
Cougars
Things that go bump in the night
Hunger
Failure.
Scenarios run through my head constantly. Ways I could die out there. Ways I could fail. How hard it will be to press on. How easy quitting will feel. Wondering how the exhaustion of finishing 1,000 miles in 3 weeks will feel when I know I have 1,700 more to go. The numbers scare me. Can I really do this?
The truth is, I don’t know if I can or not. However, I think I can, and that is more than half the battle.
At last the sun began a downward trajectory. The trail wound up into pine forests as I ascended the rolling Laguna Mountains whose rain shadow formed the Anza-Borrego Desert to the east. Wind sighed through the boughs and I breathed deeply. The scent made me ache with longing for the soft pine needle beds I’d spent so many nights on over the years and I felt reinvigorated with desire. With dusk rapidly gathering, I walked faster in the cooling air.
DAY 2 / 49 MILES
When the alarm went off at 5 a.m., I sprang up and packed. Despite not eating dinner the night before, I wasn’t hungry for breakfast. I bolted down the trail, eager to put as many miles in as I could before the heat returned. Yesterday was sweltering—at least 95 degrees. As I walked the crest of the range, I reveled in the beauty of the Anza-Borrego Desert at sunrise, bathed in perfect morning light. The eastern slopes plummeted to the desert floor, thousands of feet below. From where I walked, it looked smooth and golden—like a field of California poppies in full bloom. As the trail swung westward, I began to encounter oncoming runners.
I cheered for each. Some cheered for me. I was impressed by their run and they were impressed by seeing a thru-hiker. The camaraderie of these ultra-endurance athletes encouraged me. I’d run multiple hundred-mile races myself. I knew the runners’ thoughts, emotions, and pain firsthand. It wasn’t all that different from what I experienced the previous day as I’d passed the forty-mile mark.
In the late morning, I came to the Pioneer Mail Trailhead parking lot, which was also an aid station for the San Diego 100. Large, white canopy tents filled the space. Runners were trailing in and out while volunteers passed out drinks, food, and first-aid supplies. I spotted trash cans and walked over, eager to toss out the empty wrappers I had. Silly, really, but the few grams of dead weight weighed on my mind more than on my back. I hesitantly asked a woman wearing a volunteer shirt if I could throw away my trash in their bins.
“Of course! Would you like anything to eat?”
“No thanks,” I said. I had plenty in my pack. In fact, I’d only eaten a third of what I should have by that point.
“What about a cold Coke?” asked another woman.
I accepted the drink, but refused to take a seat. I felt the seconds ticking away inside my head.
As I guzzled the sweet, icy treat, I listened to the volunteers talk about the record number of runners dropping from the race during the previous afternoon. The temperature had hit 120 degrees. My stomach did a flip-flop. No wonder it had felt so hot. They looked at me.
“It’s supposed to be the same temperature again today,” a man said. “Load up on fluids and electrolytes.” With that warning on my mind, I said goodbye and hiked onward.
I encountered a string of runners over the next few miles, and then there was no one. Alone in the desert again, I shuffled along the hot sand. A line of clouds directly above the ridge I was following did little to diffuse the harsh UV, but it was something at least. I imagined my mom at home, washing dishes over the stainless-steel sink and looking out the window at the weeping willow tree swaying in the summer breeze. She’d be praying right now for shade over her baby girl. Tears welled up. I wiped them away and pressed on. It was only my second day on the trail and yet I felt exhausted from the emotional roller coaster I’d been on in the months leading up to that moment. Trying to maintain optimism when faced with something that was certain to be a complete failure was a tight-rope I was tired of balancing on.
I reached a junction and left the PCT to look for a water tank just across the road. Instead, I found the remains of another aid station. The runners were gone, but it was full of partying volunteers.
“Which way is the water tank?” I asked them.
“You need water? Here!”
They offered me as much water and soda and food as I could hold. I drank another Coke and filled my water, but, again, had to decline their offers of food. I just was not hungry, and there was already uneaten food in my pack. A day’s worth of food weighed about two pounds. I’d eaten about half a day’s worth in a day and a half. Throwing the extra two pounds into the trash seemed like a good idea, but what if my appetite caught up with me?
I poured water into my water bottle and bladder, threw away the wrapper from the single granola bar I’d eaten so far that day, and thanked them. They cheered for me as I left to return to the PCT. I relished the attention and the human interaction. I hadn’t anticipated feeling lonely so soon.
Back on the trail, I plodded through the sand and the heat. Again and again, I climbed a ridge and descended. The sun beat down on me and I felt as though I would melt—or, at the very least, my brain would. As I fought to make progress against the wind, I felt a familiar concentrated heat on the side of my heel. A blister was forming.
When I reached the next water tank on the flank of Granite Mountain, I sat in its paltry shade, pulled off my sock, and looked. The skin was already puffed with fluid. Not much I could do now. I put my sock back on. I took stock of my water and decided to bypass the tank, figuring I had plenty to get down to Scissors Crossing and San Felipe Creek.
As I wound along the shadeless mountainside, far in the distance, I could see the brown trail slicing across the bare, gray slope. I descended slowly toward the ancient alluvial plain that fanned from the mountain’s gullies across the desert floor. Soon I realized that my “plenty of water” was rapidly diminishing. I still had no idea how much water I needed to walk these distances in the extreme heat, and my westward progress in the