Slow & Steady
Lessons from thru hiking with a Chronic Illness and Running for the bus
Sweat beaded down my forehead as I dragged one foot in front of the other. Leaning entirely way too much on my trekking poles, trying to focus all my might on the 12 inch pathway of dirt beneath my feet. My head spun and my vision blurred. I didn’t know how fast I was moving but I knew it was slow. Barely walking, I might as well crawl, I chuckled.
I stopped to tie my shoes and immediately collapsed down on a rock, cradling my head in my hands, gasping for air, trying to quiet the beating of my heart as my vision went black. Over 300 miles under my feet and I thought I was too well conditioned to struggle like this again. Slow and steady I stuttered under my breath, just keep moving slow and steady.
My vision steadied and I sipped electrolytes from my battered plastic water bottle I’d carried for hundreds of miles before propping myself back onto my trekking poles, lovingly referring to them as my anti-faint sticks, and continuing forward.
My boyfriend at the time, out visiting for 80 miles of my thru hike, looked at me with frustration and disappointment before saying “you can’t do it. You should turn around and hitch around this climb.”
and while I can look back now with the acceptance that he was trying to stop my struggle, as someone who has spent her life with this chronic illness, the last thing I wanted was someone else making decisions for me.
I was no stranger to bailing. To giving up on a goal or pushing it back. I’ve turned around and stayed home and cancelled plans. Through close calls and trial and error, I’ve found my limits. I’ve found out what my body is telling me, how to give it what it needs, and how to push through when my symptoms flare.
Anger flared in me as I stated for the third time that morning, “I know I can do this. I just need to do it at my own pace. Go ahead if you want, I’ll be fine. I’m over half way at this point.”
Slow and steady.
I repeated it over and over. My mantra for getting through. Knowing if I just kept moving at the pace that felt comfortable, I’d make it anywhere I wanted to go.
Slow and steady.
I reached the top, taking in the sight of Yale, Harvard, and Priceton, the 14ers surrounding us, and smiled at him waiting on the side of the trail.
“I know it’s hard to watch me struggle but I know my body. I know what it can take and how to take care of it. I didn’t need your advice or opinion in that moment unless I ask for it, what I needed what some love. Some belief. I’ll never be able to hike as fast as you but that’s okay with me. I just need you to accept this is my reality.”
Within 10 minutes of sitting in the doctor’s office, she looked at me with a smile, “Well you clearly have POTS. Do you know what that is?”
Eight years of bi-annual appointments with a variety of doctors across the US with my long list of weird symptoms solved in minutes. No cure but an explanation that allowed me to understand the physiology of how to best help my body. Surplus electrolytes and an emotional attachment water bottle.
For anyone who doesn’t know, POTS stands for Post-orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It’s a type of orthostatic intolerance, a form of dysautonamia. Typically, your body adjusts your heart rate and blood pressure to keep your blood flowing at a healthy pace despite whatever position you’re in. With POTS, there’s an issue coordinating blood vessel constriction and heart rate response, i.e. your blood pressure response is fucked. The symptoms are varied and the intensity is a spectrum but most notable is lightheadness when standing, fainting, brain fog, heart palpitations, fatigue, chest pain, headaches, frequent urination, and shortness of breath.
I was diagnosed at 24 but I can remember the spinning black out of pre-syncope as early as 7 or 8. There’s no cure but a lot of ways to manage it to limit the impact it has.
I rubbed the crust from my eyes as my phone buzzed. 4:30 am. Time to boogey.
I’d taken a detour off the PCT the day before up to a fire tower with Mort, despite the additional miles and hundreds of feet of elevation gain it added onto my day. I’d always wanted to go into a fire tower and apparently this one is known for giving tea and snacks to thru hikers. We passed the rangers hiking out as we almost reached the ridge line, disappointment that we wouldn’t get inside lingering until the view from the tower wiped my mind clean. My stomach rubbled. The view was worth it anyways. I had a sneaking suspicion that Mort slowed down to wait for me. He’d past me as I stopped for a break on the climb up, legs cramping out of sheer exhaustion, my food bag down to a packet of oatmeal and a squeeze pouch of peanut butter. Twenty feet ahead of me, he turned around with a grin, placing a piece of wrapped hard candy onto the trail to power me through the rest of the climb.
“Trail Magic!”
We climbed up the rickety stairs, taking in the view for far too long. Shaking in the cooling night air. I wanted to hike another 6 miles before camp but a wrong turn by Image lake, took me three miles up a mesa and away from the PCT. I’d retraced my steps, finding Mort where I left him, settled into his orange tent as his ramen cooked. We studied the map together. Figuring out where I went wrong and I abandoned any thought of getting those 6 miles in. I didn’t want to leave. Part of me wanted to just stay with Mort for the rest of the trail. He was fun. He was kinda cute. He was really sweet. I smiled as I stood up and said goodbye, picking a campsite up the hill. Over the past couple months, I’d met a scattering of people that gave me a little tingle of possibility. Split second wonderings of what-ifs turned quickly into that’s not what we’re here fors. Not that I was opposed but I wasn’t slowing my pace for anyone. I also didn’t really want to sacrifice this time alone, especially with just over 100 miles left. I’d walk this far on my own schedule and I wanted to see it through. Wanted to cherish this. Not willing to give up my freedom for a couple nights cuddling with a man from Sweden I’d never see again. Not that he was offering regardless. My tired mind running with pointless hypotheticals.
I set up my tent with a sigh, now I had 6 more miles on top of the 20 planned that stood between me and Stehekin. About 18 of those are entirely downhill. Mental math of speed, per miles, elevation, breaks rattled through my brain as I stared at the sun setting on Glacier Peak. The shuttles ended at 5 but so did the bakery hours. I didn’t care if they didn’t have anything vegan. I was eating a baked good. I was going to make it.
I snoozed the alarm. Ten minutes later, groaning, I stuffed my tent away in the morning cold. The light already leaking into the sky, turning the blue-black into a deep purple. I ate cold oats out of an old peanut butter jar, still crunchy after just a few minutes of cold soaking. The 12:30 shuttle, that was the goal. I wanted as much rest and down time as possible. My headlamp barely illuminating the path in front of me. Out of the bushes, two black bears sprinted down the trail, stopping me in my tracks. I waited a minute or two, gingerly stepping closer to my destination and closer to the direction I’d scared them off to. My voice cracked as I sung at the top of my lungs, hoping the mama and cub had wandered into the woods. Mr.Brightside, a habit I picked up from Appleseed at Highway 3. At last, I saw the familiar sight, the wooden carved PCT sign pointing up to Suiattle pass. Hikers were approaching in the distance but I turned away from them and set my sights on Stehekin. Hot Coffee. Baked goods. Rest. I could do it.
A mile in, I met Rocketman, stopped to photograph the sunrise over the stunning valley below. “Aiming for the 3:30?”
12:30.
“Woo, good luck, I’ll let you go.”
I hopped down the trail. You’re fast. You’ve hiked 1500 miles. You got this.
The trail shifted uphill and quickly Rocketman and the two sisters, Pop and Poet, he hiked with past me. I crumbled mentally. You’re slow. You’re not a very good hiker. No way you’d make the 12:30. Legs weak.
Pure Stoke and Stanley appeared out of no where. Same conversation. “Aiming for 3:30?”
Hoping for 12:30 but I don’t know if I can make it.
“Us too!”
I watched them disappear. They’ll make it. I’d never seen anyone hike faster than the two of them and their friend Eli. They’re true thru hikers. I’m just a lasher. I’m slow and I don’t know why I thought I could hike 4 miles an hour for hours on end. That’s a pace I rarely did, for a hour at most. I put my head down defeated. I pulled out FarOut, the mental calculator figuring out if I could at least make the 3:30. I sauntered until the trail headed downhill again. FarOut. Mental math. It’s all downhill from here. I think I can do it.
Fast and strong.
It popped into my head and I stopped walking for a second as I breathed it in.
Fast and strong.
I launched forward with a new determination. I past Pop, Poet, and Rocketman. My pack feeling weightless, the trail soft under my feet. Small uphills were met with determination. Fast and strong. 12:30 shuttle. Chocolate chip cookies. Croissants. An oat milk latte. Sitting by a lake in my sandals. Shower. Friends.
I powered downhill, catching a glimpse of either Pure Stoke or Stanley’s orange z-rest sleeping pad strapped to the top of their packs down trail. I was a thru hiker. Despite starting on trail over a thousand miles into their thru hikes, I’d manage to stay in their bubble for the last 7 weeks. The day I met them, I expected they’d finish weeks before me. They could have for sure but here we were. Maybe we’d all reach the terminus together. Friends to celebrate with. I moved faster than I thought possible, taking swings of pure Jiff out of the tube of peanut butter shoved in my hip belt pocket. My pack cinched as tight as possible, my food bag an empty sack.
Far out. Mental math. Three miles left. I’m not going to make it. 12:45 probably, Maybe 1:00. I’m going to have to sit at this bus stop for hours waiting for the next shuttle. Fuck. Slow and steady I guess. Far Out. Mental math. Maybe if I jog a little.
I’ll still get my rest. Just not with food and starting my errands early. If I have to sit at a ranger station for hours, I’ll sit at a ranger station for hours.
Fast and Strong.
I smiled. It felt like a game. I thought about that day on the Colorado trail. I thought about how broken and weak I’d felt. Joy radiated out of me. I didn’t care if I made the shuttle. I mean I did but I also knew it didn’t matter. I wasn’t 26 anymore. This wasn’t my first thru hike. I didn’t let men tell me what I was or wasn’t capable anymore. I leaped over rocks.
Farout. Mental math. Push. Push. Push. Jog when you can.
I crossed the bridge over a turquoise creek feeding into the river, the bus peak out through the trees on the other side. Half a mile left, maybe less. People were filing out. I held onto my pack straps and started running. Stepping out onto the road, gravel crunching beneath my running feet, I almost trampled a SOBO.
“You’re so close! Maybe they’ll wait for you!”
I looked at my phone. 12:30.
I sprinted down the road and slowed as I stepped my foot onto the bridge. 12:31, I smiled at the sight of the blue bus, doors open 100 feet away. One step forward and the doors closed, pulling forward. I’d made it this far. Fast and strong. I sprinted.
The bus kept turning away from me and I stopped running with a giggle. Slowing to a walk. Classic Hiccup. A minute too late.
If I hadn’t gotten into my head,
if I hadn’t done so much mental math and just focused on moving forward,
if I hadn’t gone up to the fire tower, if I hadn’t…
The bus stopped. Pure Stoke and Stanley waving wildly out of the back windows of the bus and I sprinted, a smile plastered wide across my face as the bus driver welcomed me on board with a clap. I sat across my friends beaming.
I didn’t think I’d make it.
We knew you would.
That felt like a movie, I always wanted to scream “Stop the bus!!” Stoke laughed.
I felt high on the day. I felt strong. I felt fast. I felt invincible.
Slow and steady had gotten me so far. It had taught me to respect my body, how to push myself with a chronic illness, how to be determined anyway when I couldn’t perform like the people around me. But maybe it wasn’t what I needed anymore. Maybe now that I knew how to be slow and steady, it was time to try to be fast and strong. Time to push the boundaries of what I knew I could handle. Even if it didn’t change my performance, maybe I’d been holding myself back mentally. Thinking in terms of caution instead of possibility.
My mind swirled on the bus. The national park visitors and families up front looking at our dirt covered legs bewildered. Our laughter echoing through the bus.
Fast and strong. That’s what I am now.
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p.s. thank you for taking the time to read my rambles. All my writings are available for free but if you ever feel the desire to support my work and help me find more time to write and hopefully become a better writer, buy me a coffee and I’ll love you endlessly
