Long Trail Trip Report 2019
Long Trail Female Unsupported FKT
Time: 6 Days, 11 Hours, 40 Minutes .
Trail Stats: ~270.6 mile (68,389.3 Vertical Gain, 68,130.9 Vertical Loss) Grade: 504.5 ft/mile
Gear List
In 2012 I hiked the LT for the first time at the end of October beginning of November while working for the Green Mountain Club. It was my first thru-hike and I didn’t know what I was doing. It was cold and wet but still so much fun. The only down clothing I had was a puffy Land’s End vest. I brought a wool sweater, about 4 long-sleeve shirts, the liner of my snowboard jacket, Nordic ski pants, 3 hats… the list goes on. I fell in love with hiking and the community surrounding the trail.
It is an honor to follow in the footsteps of so many amazing women and people who have paved the way for this journey. In 2007 Jennifer Pharr-Davis set the Female Self-Supported Record of the Long Trail as her first FKT in 7 days, 15 hrs, and 40. She has been a huge inspiration to me and a wonderful friend. Her time would serve as an abstract goal for my hike.
Currently, I’ve been living in the high mountains of Colorado for about a year. My training however, looks quite different than many FKT athletes. I hike nearly every day for work, but it is usually with children or vacationers looking for a leisurely stroll. I tried to get the most out of each day, often hiking 10 additional miles on work days. On my days off I took every opportunity to get out and explore the mountains consistently, with my biggest mileage coming in at one 30 mile day. In addition, I’ve gained insight and confidence from several long-distance hikes including the Pacific Crest Trail in 2014, Continental Divide Trail in 2016, Appalachian Trail in 2018, the Arizona Trail in 2019, and many other wanderings in between.
It was a whirlwind of travel and excitement to get to the Long Trail. It started by flying to Saint Paul, MN to spend the weekend celebrating the wedding of dear friends, followed by a flight to Boston, a bus ride to NH, and finally a car ride to my folk’s house. I had one full day to buy all my food, organize my gear, play with my family, and catch up on sleep.
Pre-hike: September 25th
My father and his friend Michael, a recent LT section hiker, drive me the 2 hours from my childhood home to the Northern Terminus of the Long Trail. On the way I read the newest edition of the Long Trails News, chat with Michael about his recent hike, send emails to my mentors, and double check my seven days of food and gear. After hugs and goodbyes, I hike the 3 miles to the Canadian Border from Route 105. There I meet and congratulate two LT end-to-enders and soak in the sun rays before retiring early to bed at Journey’s End Camp.
Day 1: 37.3 Miles
(~11,813ft gain, ~12,049ft loss)
After a 3:30am wake up I hike the half mile up to the official Northern Terminus, take some dark and blurry photos, and start hiking south at 4:10am. Windy and crisp, classic fall weather in Vermont. The lights of Canadian towns to the North flicker on the horizon. The first few miles fly by, so happy and content to be back on a trail, in a place that has inspired my love for hiking and connected me to so many wonderful people. The reality of the journey has not set in, and it may never.
Up and over Jay Peak before 8am, a glimpse of Mt. Mansfield to the south through a bank of oncoming rain clouds. I’d been warned of a low beehive as I approached Buchanan Mt. As soon as I think I am safe I hear a buzzing and feel the sting of the feisty creature I was looking out for! It gets me right behind the knee and the swelling begins immediately. Luckily, I am not allergic and find it a comical way to start this wild trundle. The sound of rain comes in with vengeance. I quickly put my raincoat on and make sure my pack is waterproofed. Not even half-way into my first day and I know there is a good chance I will be wet for the whole trail. In Vermont, if you become wet, you stay wet. I scurry up Haystack Mountain, happily surrounded by the roots and rocks I am so familiar with and hop into Tillotson Camp Shelter to get out of the rain and make a quick wrap – pepperoni, mayo, chips, yum. Even stopping for a brief lunch brings my body temp way down and I have to get moving fast to warm up.
Rain persists until just before Devil’s Gulch, which is full of dripping wet rocks covered in moss and ferns. Feeling strong and alive through the rolling hills, I make it to Corliss Camp by 7:30pm. It is dark, I am wet, my pack is heavy, and I know the terrain of the trail ahead of me is extremely rugged. After some internal debate I decide to stop for the night, cozy up in the loft, and plan to wake early in the morning. I can’t help but think about how, if I’d done this hike in the summer months, the daylight would last another several hours. I know that a primary challenge of this adventure is going to be lots of hiking in the dark. Excitement and adrenaline running high, I make a surprisingly good choice and get plenty of rest this first night.
Day 2: 41.6 Miles, overall mileage 78.9
(~13,428ft gain, ~12,748ft loss)
A 3:00am wake up is followed immediately by the climb up Laraway Mountain. It’s misty and drenched on top, with copious puddles and dense spruce/fir forests on either side, making it difficult to navigate the mud wallows. Water rushes off the cliffs above, the quiet of the forest echoes my footsteps. I pass Round Top Shelter in the dark and make it to Prospect Rock by 6:44am, where I am welcomed by a cloud inversion over the Lamoille River. I feel great and am excited to get up White Face Mountain and into some gnarly terrain. I turn my phone on to get a few messages out as I cruise along a short section of trail that becomes a bike path and then road walk. After a 3 mile dirt road climb, the terrain makes a drastic change gaining 1,000 ft per mile in some cases. I love this type of full-body workout hiking. It’s the kind of challenge and terrain I crave. Using my Colorado lungs, I make it up at a consistent pace, enjoying the sun as it burns off the lingering mist. My legs were still feeling strong but my energy is bonking as I reach Madonna Peak. I won’t let myself take a break until the top.
At the summit I plop down in the middle of the ski trail to eat a wrap and take in the views of Mt. Mansfield.
The decent to Route 108 is trying on my knees but I am so excited to be nearing a section of trail that is full of love and memories. By early afternoon I am at the bottom and enjoy walking a new boardwalk, built by my dear friends at the Green Mountain Club.
The sun is shining, the smell of fall in the air. I am flying- I feel strong, wild, nostalgic. I know this section of trail so very well after living here as a caretaker between Taft Lodge and Butler Lodge in 2013. I had run this trail countless times before sitting on the summit to count visitors or returning from a supply run to town. Every rock and foot placement feel rehearsed and familiar. I make a quick side trip into Taft Lodge to say hi and smell the nostalgic smell of the hut, hear the wind chiming through in the trees.
The .6 mile push to the summit of Mansfield is full of my favorite terrain. I can’t count the times I’d run up to the Adams Apple to watch the sunset or raced up to the summit in cloudy weather to just hang out with the Juncos and Ravens that would pop in and out of the mist. Today I could see north all the way to Canada, south towards Killington, east to the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and west to the Adirondacks. I’m in my happy place. The guy who kindly takes my summit picture hikes behind me to the visitor center, asking me questions of hiking and backpacking, eager to get into it but not knowing where to start. I enjoy sharing a few experiences with him as we traverse the ridgeline that brought the love of backpacking to me.
The decent of the Forehead is another favorite - I fly down the ladders and scrambled down the rocks. After this point the terrain flattens briefly, a happy shift for my tired legs. But sooner than my legs would have liked, the climb up Bolton approaches. It’s full of roots and rocks, ladders and scrambles. Dusk is approaching as I swing by Puffer Shelter to make a wrap. There are about five other hikers there who I happily engage with between shoving bites of wrap in my face. I want to get up and over Bolton for the day so I quickly wish them good luck and carry on. I am grateful again for my knowledge of this section of trail, it is full of roots and rocks and doing it in the dark is no picnic.
My feet and legs are protesting and I decide to set-up camp on the side of the trail around 8:45pm. To mitigate wind, I snuggle my small tent behind a rock. After 25,000 feet of elevation change today it takes my body a long time to settle into sleep. Tomorrow will hold more familiar terrain, a thought that keeps me motivated and at ease.
Day 3: 34.6 Miles, overall mileage 113.5
(~9,825ft gain, ~8,500ft loss)
I believe I wake up around 3:00am and am hiking just a few minutes later. My legs are feeling ackey but warm up quickly heading downhill towards Stimson Ridge. Between 2012-2014 I had worked both in logistics and on the trail crew for the 6 miles section of trial on Stimson Ridge. Every part of this section has a memory and even in the dimming light of my waning headlight I can recall exactly where I am, what tree we had attached webbing to for the grip-hoist, where we had lunch, our spike sites, funny jokes, running wild in animal costumes, and the countless hours of volunteer groups helping to cut in switchbacks. I remembered the first new white blaze we painted, eating quail and squash soup, and smashing rocks. It is still dark as I reach Highway 89 which is in full blown construction mode, with huge work lights and all sorts of beeping and mechanical noises. I scurry through the underpass and along Highway 2, which reminds me of when we rented a wood chipper to chomp up the trees we’d been cutting to clear the foot path. I feel so lucky to be here and present with memories, gliding down the path towards the Winooski bridge, a symbol of amazing people and community.
My partner, Koolaid, is section hiking northbound and we know that we might be passing each other at some point this morning. Both early starters, we somehow miss each other along the only mile of trail where this would be possible. He takes the old route, a walk down Duxbury Road, and I take the official new route through wet fields, wire fences, and lots of chickens. I want nothing more than a big hug in this moment, but it wasn’t meant to be. I will focus on getting that hug at the end of this journey.
I’ve ran the climb up to Camels Hump many times, today the ascent would be far from a run, I feel like I’m hiking through molasses. Feeling sluggish I also start to notice my feet. I stop on a rocky out-cropping to observe what is happening to my skin….not good. There are oozing sores on the tops of my toes and sides of my heels. I take out my first aid kit, duct tape and band aids will have to do. I’d forgotten to get the tape that works well and have a very limited amount of foot care products. After a few minutes of care and some chocolate, I continue the slow plod up. A trail runner passes by and I can’t help wishing my pack was as light as his.
The top is invigorating with winds whipping over the top so strong you could lean into them and stay standing. I’m happy to be on top before the rain. Descending the Hump is steep but I’m distracted as it provides some of the best views in New England. Jutting rocks from the gigantic mountain blend with the changing colors of fall and dark green from the spruce/fir forests. The wild beauty brings on tears, pure joy, a raw state of happiness. I flow over the rocks and roots down to Montclair Lodge to eat a wrap and air out my feet.
The following climbs go smoothly, enjoying the terrain up and over Mount Ethan Allan and Burnt Rock, while dodging rain showers. Around Cowle’s Cove Shelter I really begin to struggle with my feet and knees. As my socks dry the grit beginnings to act as sandpaper, my already open sores becoming raw with each step. I meet two other hikers here and we chat about the challenges and beauty of this trail. At this moment, it feels weird to have a conversation, the distraction is nice, but I feel so scattered and distant. At Birch Glen Lodge I soaked my feet in the stream and reminisce about nights I’ve spent here in that past. After a much longer break than usual I start the climb to Molly Stark’s Balcony. The rocks are very slippery, the little ups and downs seem monumental. I’m moving at half speed.
My knees have memory of the decent to Appalachian Gap, they are screaming and cursing by the time I reach the gap around early evening. I love this next section of trail, I’ve run it and hosted many volunteer work crews here. In this moment though, it’s as hard as it’s ever been. By the time I reach Stark’s Nest warming hut the rain has begun and my energy is spent. I open the door and instantly hear, “Early Bird!”. I look up and recognize a friend I’d given trail magic to last year in the Whites after my AT hike. We’d been following each other’s adventures since then. It is wonderful to see a familiar face! I wolf down a wrap, chatting between bites about the adventure so far but feel like I’m not making sense. Not able to stay long, I push out into the mist and rain. I pass the bog bridges I built with a crew from Harvard, a site where we had dropped off lumber with Burlington high school students, and the side trail for Glen Ellen Lodge, one of my favorites.
Darkness and mist close in strong. This combination makes using a headlamp almost counter-intuitive, the light’s reflection off of the mist limits my vision to just a few feet. The flat terrain is filled with puddles and mud, I can’t see, and the pain in my feet is crippling. At the top of Mt. Ellen in the darkness of a wide ski trail I get turned around and head in the wrong direction. I pull out my phone to see how much longer it is to the other warming hut and realize my mistake. I don’t have the energy to be frustrated, I turn around and back track until I find my way. By the time I get to Holt Hollow it’s 8pm, I’m out of water and I MUST take my feet out of my shoes ASAP. I trudge down the short side trail to water, knowing how much I loath side trails to water, I quickly find a stagnant puddle that will have to do for now. The trail again opens up onto another ski trail. I looked around in vain through the fog for the hut, I feel so lost. Suddenly a voice calls through the darkness “are you looking for this?!” and a small headlight shines in my direction. I follow the beam to the porch. It is me and one other person.
Dry and warm and out of the wind, I know I will stay here for the night. It is mentally challenging knowing that my mileage was low for the day, despite having hiked over 5 hours in the dark. I take about a half hour to take care for my open sores and take some Ibuprofen to deal with my knees. My right Achilles has flared up as well, limiting my foot’s range of motion. I’ve carried wet wipes and am grateful for them as I wipe away dirt from my sores. I’m nervous that they will get worse. For now, though, I let those thoughts go, I’m in a warm and cozy place, ready for rest.
Day 4: 38.5 Miles, overall mileage 152
(~9,000ft gain, ~9,908.8ft loss)
I wake up at 2:50am, take care of my feet and pack up quietly. After more TLC than usual I leave the hut at 3:30am, back into the windy mist and drizzle I go. My feet don’t feel as bad today and my excitement to have some of the hard terrain over with is mentally invigorating. I passed by Battell Shelter and see sleeping hikers. It’s comforting to know other people are close by. The decent to Lincoln Gap is easier on the knees but seems to take an eternity. Rain pours at the gap, and even in my rain-pants and jacket I’m freezing as I ascend Mount Grant.
Hours later I finally see some sun, it’s fighting to burn off the clouds as I fight to clear the pointless ups and downs of this section. Again, I am hit with memories of this area, volunteer projects, and trail runs. It’s different this time thought, I’m so locked in the moment here that every thought is quick and fleeting. Up and over Bread Loaf Mountain, by Boyce Shelter I am forced to take my feet out of my shoes; they are in rough shape, oozing yellow puss, raw as can be. I am almost out of tape and decided to forgo the temporary fix in favor of cleaning my socks and hoping for the best. I eat a wrap and hike on. Middlebury Gap comes and I’m feeling terribly slow.
Sluggishly I trundle up the trail, stopping in the dappled sunlight to eat another wrap, to stretch my knees, and wolf down more Ibuprofen. As the sun slips below the horizon, I make my way down the steep stone staircase to Brandon Gap. I won’t let myself break, eat, or turn my headlight on until I get to Sunrise Shelter. For the first time of this hike I get out my headphones and play a podcast. Listening to the stories of others is a great distraction for my mind as I trip over the many wet and protruding roots. I happen upon a small site just off to the side of the trail and decide to pitch my tent and snuggle up for some rest, 9:45pm.
Today I didn’t care to look at my phone app (Atlas Guides) for mileage and just kept hiking. It was a slow day and I really never felt strong. My feet were in bad shape and I was being carried forward only by staying 100% in the present, one foot in front of the other. When I finally checked to see how far I’d gone, I couldn’t believe the number. I’d only gone 38 miles, and it felt much more difficult than the handful of 50+ mile days I’d done in the past. Knowing there wasn’t anything I could do about it now, I accepted it. I closed my eyes, content where I was, with a cool night breeze and creatures scurrying around in the duff.
Day 5: 43.3 Miles, overall mileage 152
(~9,286ft gain, ~10,065ft loss)
I’d set my alarm for 2:45am and start out the morning losing one of my contacts. Eventually I find and pop it back in, pack my things and set off into the dark. The terrain between here and Rolston Rest Shelter is rolling and heavily overgrown. The rolling and looping trajectory of the trail makes me feel like I am doing circles around the same mountain, trapped in some sort of vortex. Eventually the sun comes out, filling me with energy and excitement. I am so close to my childhood home and so close to the Appalachian Trail. Absorbing the sunshine through the air I’m able to forget about my feet and knees, I practically ran to Maine Junction (where the AT and LT meet). I switch on my phone and make the only phone call of the trip. It is amazing to hear Koolaid’s voice, he is with my family and will relay my messages. I’m beaming, happy to chat with someone that can relate to this experience, happy to be in the sun, happy to be back on the Appalachian Trail. Rambling and stuttering, I cross Route 4.
I cruise up Killington, stomach rumbling as I approach Cooper Lodge. I stop in for a snack and feel much better. The leaves are magical, the aromas of spruce, fir and wet dirt fill the air. I put my feet in a brook to clean them off, quickly returning to the trail, having fun cruising over the rolling hills. The terrain is a happy happy change and I again try to keep in the present, trying to not have my mind wander to memories of the AT, my previous LT hike, or Trail Crew memories.
By the time I cross Clarendon Gorge I am getting my stride back, the roots and rocks passing under-foot smoothly. I stop at a rocky outcropping looking towards Rutland to have a wrap and elevate my feet. It is beautiful. I turn my phone on again and shed some happy tears reading messages from friends and family.
For the next hour I feel like I am flying. Going downhill doesn’t hurt too bad and the reality of being well over half is sinking in. Again, I wait until I am literally tripping down the trail to turn my headlamp on. I cross Route 140 and start up towards White Rocks. My pace slows significantly as the vertical gain hits 900 feet per mile. Frustrated I stop in the middle of the trail to rest my legs. My mood has done a complete 180, I’m fried. I tell myself I don’t need to be fast, just consistent. I decide to again pop my headphones in and listen to someone else’s story. The first thing that pops up is a Backpacker Radio episode featuring a women I look up to tremendously. Heather “Anish” Anderson is sharing stories from her record hike on the PCT. Tales about nutrition, dehydration, and working through challenges. It is the perfect way to continue. I dig deep as the Ibuprofen begins to fade.
About a half mile from where I am planning to camp the sky opens up. I try to hike faster but now I’m just slipping and sliding around. Ten minutes later, about 10pm, I find a flat spot to pitch my tent. It continues to pour and my legs continue to scream as I scramble to set up my tent. I get inside and just sit there, blankly starring into my tent wall. I finally break my blank gaze to look at my feet, they are oozing yellow liquid, the sores are getting worse and new sores are forming on the tops of my ankles. I clean them to the best of my ability while I listen to the sounds of wind and rain, then I hear the creaking of a tree above me. I am generally very conscious about checking for dead or dying trees around camp, tonight that didn’t happen. I lay here worrying about the tree falling on me but I am devoid of motivation to even check. It takes an hour to get comfortable and finally turn my headlamp off around 11pm.
Day 6: 42.3 Miles, overall mileage 237.6
(~8,190ft gain, ~7,358ft loss)
After dozing off for what feels like 5 minutes my alarm sounds, 2:30am. I have big plans to wake up early and get moving right away but when I lift my body to sit up I feel like I have been run over by a bus. It’s still raining and the tree is still creaking. My eyes are so puffy, my movements slow and full of pain. It takes me at least 10 mins to put my contacts in as my eyes are practically swollen shut. I’m too tired to get frustrated, I’m in the zone, for better or for worse. It takes me an hour to pack and take the plunge into the darkness and rain.
I’m comforted to know that hikers are nearby at Little Rock Pond, and that I will pass several shelters full of sleeping hikers. Their presence gives me energy. The terrain is mellow but still my pace is slow, my whole body is concerningly swollen. Light hits just before I crest the rocky top of Baker Peak in the morning mist. I’m happy but so puffy. My body is feeling very run down as I hike towards Griffith Lake where I stop at the small shelter to get out of the rain and eat a wrap. I hunker down under the low ceiling and have a quick conversation with a AT hiker. It’s getting harder and harder to hold a conversation. I leave in a haze and get poured on as I struggle to avoid muddy puddles on Styles Peak and try desperately not to think about my knees, ankles, and feet on the decent to Mad Tom Notch Road.
I’m emotional and raw, hiding in my raincoat, looking only at the few feet down the trail in front of me. The rain finally stops, but the mist clings strong to every tree branch, bush, and rock. The sound of falling water droplets is deafening. I hear a different noise and look up to see another hiker stopping to get her headphones out. I said ‘hi’ and she steps aside for me to pass. Ten minutes later and I reach into my pocket for a snack, turning around to see that she is right behind me. Out of nowhere I make eye contact with her and simply ask, “do you want to talk?” She is listening to a podcast but says, “sure.” Her presence is a gift in the moment.
We talk as we crest Bromley mountain, she asks me what keeps me going on trail. I share snippets of all the people who inspire me, the people that I am carrying in my heart. I turn around to look at her, tears streaming down my face. I’m so lucky to be here, I’m in pain, I’m overwhelmed. Now hobbling and with every step, shooting pain courses through every inch of my legs. She is open and glad to share stories. Tired and delirious, I gain strength from her smile, laugh and encouragement.
She is getting a ride at the next road crossing so we say our goodbyes. My feet and legs are throbbing. A hiker with a small backpack flies by me going the opposite direction, looking strong, excited and on a mission. I think, is he going for the record? I’m broken, slow, and weak. I find a chuckle in considering what I might have look liked to him, most certainly not someone going for a speed record of any sort. Needing a snack and a sit I sink down on a wet bridge and eat. I gather some water and start the 10 mile hike to Stratton Pond.
A switch flips in my brain and the miles fly by as the sun comes out. The mud is bad but I know it could be worse. I reach Stratton Pond, desperate for another feet-out-of-the-shoes break, and lie on my back with my feet in the air, beautiful foliage dancing in the background. This is what I love, simple moments that bring me into the present, where time seems to stand still. I could fall asleep here, but the pull of the trail is strong, my motivation still alive.
The climb up Stratton feels easy but just as I crest the top my right IT band sends shooting pains down my leg. Ugh, not now! Another Ibuprofen down the hatch and I continued on. Wind whipping through the trees, I am alone on the summit, 6pm. The clouds wiggle through the trees as I attempt to descend before dark. The terrain finally levels out, becoming easer, still I struggle to manage a decent pace.
It’s 9:30 and I reach my home for the night, Kid Gore Shelter. Two hikers are staying there and I am happy that they are still awake. I collapse into a pile and try my best to act normal as I settle in for the night. The moment I wedge myself into my sleeping bag the skies open and dump rain, I’m so happy to be under a roof. I look at my phone to see how many miles I have left for tomorrow, what I hope to be my final day. Expecting about 25, my reality says 33. I’m calm but confused. Confused and unsure that I can push that far for another day. I set my alarm for 2:30am and apologize to my shelter-mates that I will be sneaking out early. I lay down, trying to close my eyes, but the pain in my legs won’t allow comfort. Somehow, I find a few minutes of sleep, and wake up what seems like seconds later.
Day 7: 33 Miles, overall mileage 270.6
(~6,756ft gain, ~7,415ft loss)
Awake at 2:30am and on trail in 15 minutes. The mist is so thick, my headlight can’t cut through it, my visibility limited to just a few feet. I’m so ready for the light to come, hiking through the darkness is getting harder and harder to handle. My body whole is swollen, I don’t feel healthy. I crest Glastenbury Mountain as the first glimpse of morning light shines through the clouds. The rolling hills are wet and muddy, but the rain holds off for now and I’m happy for that. I’ve set a mile-stone, I must reach Route 9 before I can stop and eat my last remaining wrap.
The steep descent to the road is slippery, my legs are not responding well to this. This moment would be the only time I swear at the trail as my toes slam yet another rock. I’m quick to apologize though, this is not the time to jinx myself. When I reach Route 9 I find a group of other hikers, I greet them briefly but can’t bring myself to converse. Socks off immediately as I make my last remaining wrap. All that is left now if a packet of peanut butter, just 190 calories to rely on.
13 miles to go. Logically I know that the most difficult terrain is behind, I know that 13 miles is doable. Logic doesn’t change the way I feel, the reality of being so close to the finish isn’t sinking in, it seems like an eternity away. I put my socks back on and just that act feels like I’m ripping my feet apart. I walk 20 feet and realize I can now use my sleep socks, the ones I’ve tried so hard to preserve. I quickly dig them out and slide them on. It’s magical. Dry, soft, and fluffy. My mood changes immediately, my thoughts move away from dread and into hope. I suddenly feel as strong and confident as I did on day one and for the first time in days I hike at 3 miles per hour.
Quickly I reach Congdon Shelter, 10 miles left. I eat the last peanut butter here and refuse to look at my watch but just keep moving. It’s not pretty, but I’m doing it. I get excited and muster the courage to run the down hills, counting aggressively to keep my pace on the uphills. I slip twice into full superman position, head first down the trail, filling my raincoat sleeves with dirt and mud. Calm down, focus, this is not the time to break anything.
I pass Seth Warner Shelter, 3 miles left. I don’t know how to explain where this energy is coming from, I’m running now, full on. No water or food left in my pack, it’s as light as can be, I am flying. “This is what I’m made for,” I say aloud to myself through an enormous smile. Suddenly I’m a mile away, then .1. I crest a small rise and see the end. I see Koolaid and my mama. I pick up the pace further, sprinting, ducking under a fallen tree and jumping over another.
Then, just like that, I’m falling into my Mama’s arms, crying. I feel Koolaid’s arm support me, all three of us cry and hug in a big pile. I have no idea what time it is but manage to turn my tracking device off. Overwhelmed and in awe, I collapse onto a log, taking the pressure off of my legs. They hand me hot tea and fresh cookies, exactly what I need. With what little battery remains on my phone I Facetime my father and sister. Happy faces, the best faces. In 10 minutes my legs begin to seize, we need to get moving or I’ll never make it out of here. I hobble to the famous Long Trail sign and take the obligatory photos. Koolaid does the math on my overall time for the trip, but I am unable to think about an FKT. I’m just so happy to be with people I love in a place I love.
Now, the hardest part of the whole trip. The closest parking area is 3 miles away, this is going to be brutal.
Reflections:
The Long Trail will always have my heart. The memories, stories, people, and connections that this trail has brought into my life has undoubtedly shaped me into the person I am today. I will be forever grateful to this trail and its community. Hiking in the dark, feeling my body and mind working together, and pushing through challenges has opened my eyes to something new. Letting my body heal and recover is a process I don’t do well with as I feel the physical effects of the pressure I put on my body. I’m continuing to learn from this process and remain humbled and grateful for the lessons learned. Would I do this again? Absolutely!
