Читать книгу Thirst - Heather Anderson - Страница 19

Even after days of walking through the desert, bleached by the sun and nearly crazed with constant thirst, I was struck by its variety—in vegetation, animal life, and terrain features. The Pacific Crest Trail weaves three separate desert ecosystems together—the Anza-Borrego, the Sonoran, and the Mojave—each with their own unique personality. Even when the trail is not technically in one of these desert ecosystems, the chaparral, scrub oak, and pines remind you of the dryness of this land.

My experiences in the deserts of the Grand Canyon had changed me forever. The realities were harsh, yet I was in love. I’d begun hiking in a desert and here I was in the desert again, twelve years later, on the cusp of starting my life anew. My ability to survive the arid austerity of the desert had grown since that first day on the Bright Angel Trail. I stayed as hydrated as possible, wore my long sleeves and skirt, and never forgot my sunscreen. Smiling with cracked lips, I surveyed the landscape around me. The desert would always be my first love.

An hour after receiving my diploma in May of 2003, I handed it to my parents, hugged them goodbye, and jumped into a Geo Metro with my two best friends. We drove all night—sleeping for just a few hours—to a remote mountaintop at the end of a rough dirt road in northern Georgia. The three of us walked a mile to the summit and promised to see each other in six months. Then, I started out, intent on walking from Georgia to Maine: 2,200 miles along the Appalachian Trail.

I had no practical experience with multi-night backpacking. It was a steep learning curve, but in my soul, I felt I was doing exactly what I had always been destined to do. I also felt a deep connection with my great-great-grandmother growing within me. I felt her blood pulsing in my veins as I climbed mountain after mountain and hiked mile after mile through thick forest. In the tradition of thru-hikers, I took a trail nickname: Anish—short for Anishinaabe—in her honor.

I went on to hike other long-distance trails over the next three years: the 2,600-mile-long Pacific Crest Trail and the roughly 3,000-mile-long Continental Divide Trail. Then I retired from walking. I married and started a career. To stay sane, I took up long-distance running. Soon I was running thirty, fifty, even one hundred miles through the mountains alone. It filled the void for a while, but, in the end, there was nothing that could replace living in the wilderness for months on end.

My marriage ended in 2011. In the two years that followed, I severed nearly every other tie to society that I’d ever had. After our separation I sold what belongings remained. A year later I quit my job at the software company and left my apartment. I moved into a cabin with no indoor plumbing and only an ancient cast-iron woodstove for heat. Then, I walked back into the mountains, uncertain and questioning. I returned to the PCT, getting on the trail in southern Oregon with the intention of walking nine hundred miles back home. At first the trail was very difficult as I struggled to find my thru-hiking muscles again, but once I did I discovered that the answer to my question was the same as it had been nearly a decade before: this is home.

As that hike drew to a close, I felt a deep urge inside me to embark on an even longer journey through the wilderness. I needed to return to the path I had once walked, but simply walking the trail again was not what I was seeking. I needed a new type of intensity. I needed to pit myself against something I had never faced.

The answer came to me clearly one evening while I lay in my tent: Hike the Pacific Crest Trail faster than anyone, male or female, has ever done before. It was both insane and completely logical. Although it was outside the scope of anything I had ever done before, I felt comfortable and at ease with the decision. Just as I had known that I was fulfilling my destiny the first time I thru-hiked, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was meant to attempt this record, even if I didn’t know why. I returned home from the hike and started to research. I found a website that contained information on every Fastest Known Time reported and studied the information diligently. There were standards and loose rules to follow, spelled out on the introductory pages, as well as hundreds of records held on as many trails and routes. Most of the people I didn’t know. However, the PCT page assured me that the current record—64 days, 11 hours, and 19 minutes—was held by hiking legend Scott Williamson. I nearly gave up my nascent idea when I read his name. He’d completed many hikes of the PCT including the first yo-yo—hiking from Mexico to Canada and then turning around and hiking back in one continuous trip. Armed with new information, I brooded on the thought of setting an FKT for several months, telling no one about my plan.

Now, with ten miles to go to reach my planned campsite, and overwhelmed with fatigue, I simply wanted to stop. The trail had turned from scrubby hills to a tumultuous landscape of boulders as it wound its way past pale rocks, following ridges that were seemingly endless. Each one folded in upon itself, disguising its true length like a coiled diamondback. I followed the serpentine course, breathing deeply of the vistas all the while lamenting the aches of my body.

“Are you excited for your hike?”

The question that everyone had asked in the weeks leading up to my hike still bounced around inside my head like an echo that wouldn’t die. As my departure had grown imminent, I knew that I had to explain my upcoming disappearance from everyday life. In the final months of preparation, I’d begun telling my friends and family about my goal . . . and eventually strangers on long runs. Inevitably, they were superficially interested—few comprehended the actuality of what I planned to do—so I always answered yes, because I knew that I was supposed to, even though I felt more like I was being forced to walk the plank. On trail I didn’t feel excitement either, only impetus. The few people I had met gave me effusive praise for attempting this seemingly crazy endeavor. I received it with a mix of emotions, drawing courage and strength as well as resentment from their words. People believe I can do this! Maybe they are right! Yet, I feel like a sacrifice to vicariousness. If people were this eager to see someone break this record, then why didn’t someone else do it already? Why me?