Are You Afraid of the Dark? [New England Trail - Day 2]

Originally published on thetrek.co

Meet me in the morning.

The sun simply rose too soon the next morning following a long first day on trail. Crisp, cold air once again flooded my lungs as
I got some calories in and packed up for the day; once again begrudgingly ditching my puffy in the main compartment of my pack. Walking those first few stiff steps up to the paved lot of Wendell State Forest, mist billowed up from Ruggles Pond.
As I passed by, I watched an otter slide above and back under the rippling water. I caught sight of trillium blooms among the residual hail coating the leaves from yesterday. In spite of the frost, greenery flourished. My breath and footsteps were the
only things disrupting the stillness. Quiet mornings on trail are my favorite for moments like this.

Finding my rhythm on the relatively flat trail, I met a day hiker with her two dogs. One, a grey-muzzled veteran plodding faithfully alongside its owner; the other, a puppy who was very much interested in continuing on wherever I was going. She asked if I was thru-hiking the trail. I responded that I was, and enjoying it so far! She stated she loved this section and brought her canine companions here every morning. After a short exchange, she wished me luck. Even though I wanted to keep moving,
I couldn’t help but laugh at the younger dog doubling back to follow me 2, 3, 4 times. I helped reunite them and continued on my way.

We’re just getting started.

For the majority of the morning, I was making really good time. Miles came easily, winding through state parks on well-graded dirt paths and old forest service roads/road walks. As I hit mile 20 around 12:45 PM, it was becoming increasingly apparent
the first marathon of my day was just a warm up. Leaving behind the gentle flow after descending Mt. Lincoln, I swept into
the well-trafficked Holyoke Range. Though not very tall, the seven miles of ridge line are [in]famously jagged and technical.
Here I’d find the bulk of the daily elevation gain – in the final 12-14 miles. Unsurprisingly, the tougher climbs were met with
the better rewards.

Here I found, in addition to the steep and crumbling PUDs [‘pointless’-ups-and-downs], a plethora of interesting geological features. Traversing over from the never-ending Long Mountain, the climb up the high point in the range – Mt. Norwottock – is equally relentless. Nearing the summit you’ll find a very cool, albeit kind of sketchy rock pile to squeeze through called Horse Caves. A mini ‘Lemon Squeezer’ was not on my NET bingo card!

Let’s get technical.

Realizing I would soon be running out of daylight, I sprinted down the lengthy descent from Norwottock just to shoot up
Bare Mountain on the other side. Up on the ridge again in the blink of an eye, soon at the summit of Mt. Hitchcock, eyes lit up with the surrounding gradient sunset hues. Sandwiched between the former and the namesake of the range – Mt. Holyoke – are a series of spiked basalt knobs called the Seven Sisters. Exhaustion crept in while I began making my way across the persistent vertical scrambles followed by knee-buckling drop offs. Panic started to set in around 7:00 PM. I did not want to f*ck around and find out with this terrain in the dark. Still so far to go, each climb taking a little more life out of me with it.

Chasing daylight.

I never really had to hike at night on the AT, especially not alone. I’m not sure why the thought of having to do it in this instance caused me to hyperventilate and question every bit of experience I had. Perhaps it was a feeling of guilt for biting off more than I could chew as this would be my longest hiking day ever. Not being as prepared as I could have been, or a good old-fashioned case of ‘are you afraid of the dark?’ Maybe it’s more my own demons resurfacing than what might be lurking when the headlamp needed to come out.

When I’m out on trail solo [as I usually am], I find myself contending with my own thoughts and experiences frequently. Unfortunately, I live in my head, which can be full of negativity and crippling self-doubt at times. A big part of the draw to endurance sports for me is this subconscious processing of [*ahem* running away from] my problems through actual movement. But you can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. No matter how weak or fearful I felt, I couldn’t just stop moving; I’d have to keep fighting through it.

Sunsets over South Hadley.

A spotlight from my headlamp illuminated the darkening single-track. Tapping into the strength of the trail community I know and love, I told myself this wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I thought of friends from the AT who genuinely enjoyed hiking at night, attempting to wrap my head around it. I found solace in the hundreds of thousands of ultra-runners and FKTers who valiantly storm into the night, unbothered, because the clock stops for no one. If they can do it, I can do it.’

The greatest motivator, however, was making it to the Mount Holyoke Outing Club Cabin. This is a reservation-only, club sponsored and kept building with electricity and other amenities to sweeten the pot. Reprieve from the cold, being able to charge up, and knowing I’d get to sleep in before catching a ride across the river kept me going. I crested the final ‘Sister’ while lights of the nearby college towns flickered into view through the trees. It took all that was left of my concentration to safely navigate the final summit of Mount Holyoke and hobble down the other side.

All’s well that ends well.

Opening the door to a little cabin I had all to myself was incredible. It was late, I was still in shock over how much ground I’d covered that day. While my dinner rehydrated, I cozied up one of the cots for the night. My feet stung from overuse. Not one to usually get blisters, I had two forming in the same spot on the balls of both feet. I reckon it has to do with the repetitive friction from all the damn road walks. I doctored them up before digging into my hiker slop. Laying in bed, reflecting, I considered my own limitations. How we never know what we’re truly capable of until we push the envelope. My feet were wrecked, but I was immensely proud. Pushing through discomfort shows you what you’re made of. Maybe we’re all more limitless than we think. Isn’t it pretty to think so?