Following is a two-part report of the Ultrapedestrian
Wildnerness Challenge (UPWC) Double Desolation Mind/Body Challenge. This is a 93-mile route from the North
Cascades Highway to the Canadian border and back via the Ross Lake East Bank
trail that includes two summits of Desolation Peak. Jack Kerouac spent a summer on this peak in
1956, and a part of this challenge is a reflection of his experiences and
mine.
27 June 2017
[Posted online] **Calling my shot. On Saturday, 1 July, I will attempt the UPWC
Double Desolation Mind/Body Challenge. Following
is my introduction.**
In the 1995 edition of Desolation
Angels, Joyce Johnson penned a thoughtful introduction that described Jack
Kerouac’s 63 days as a summer fire lookout on Desolation Peak as one of his
last major adventures. Based on his
writings and personal letters of the time, she speculated about his apparent
disconnect with society, his constant search for meaning, and the pervasion of
restlessness in his life. With his early
death at the age of 47 from complications associated with long-term alcohol
abuse, some quickly dismiss his writings and philosophies while pointing to
this untimely demise as evidence of waste and senselessness. Perhaps it’s easier that way. Perhaps that’s how we make sense of it. Perhaps that’s how we cognitively sort it,
categorize it, understand it, stow it away, and move on.
But, his life. His
life - it begs to be examined.
Jack went to Desolation Peak as a modern day
pilgrimage. He hoped to find something
in himself. He hoped to find
meaning. What he found was his need to
be around people. He could not find
peace in The Void. From atop this
precipice, he stared at mountains and horizons for 63 days. The prominent peak to the North of his
lookout was Mt. Hozomeen. “O Hozomeen!”
he would constantly exclaim. It did not
dream, it did not sleep, it did not move.
I wonder if this scared him.
I can’t help but draw parallels in my own life. I’m a mess.
I’m freshly divorced. I
constantly seek adventure. I search for
purpose and meaning in it all. And I
gave it all up in pursuit of this dream - dogs, house, white picket fence,
marriage, stable career - gone.
And it scares me.
I’ve immersed myself into Kerouac’s life. I’ve poured through his books - from On the Road where he epitomizes and
romanticizes the Beatnik life, to Dharma
Bums and Desolation Angels where his
philosophies become reinforced and refined, to Big Sur where his misanthropic and cynical views combined with alcoholism
and depression led him to question the very life he lived and the movement he
led.
As I write this, I sit in a steeply discounted rented
bedroom of a close friend. My only
worldly belongings are found in this small 10x10’ room. I have just enough money for gas and ramen
(and even then I’ll have to transfer $50 out of savings). But off I go - in search of meaning - to see
if I can find what Kerouac found on that mountain.
Given how he died, a part of me hopes that I don’t.
But, given how he lived, a part of me hopes that I do.
So off I go.
_______________________________________________
15 July 2017
I waited a couple weeks to reflect on the experience before
drafting my report. I had countless
thoughts throughout the ordeal. Hours on
the trail alone lends itself to that type of introspection and reflection -
when we’re alone with our demons and fears. But I wanted to find that congruent and
cohesive line, that tangent between physical pain, emotional awareness, and
metaphysical being.
61 hours and 8 minutes later, I think I found it.
I stepped off from the East Bank trailhead at 5:45 a.m. on 1
July with approximately 15 pounds of gear, food, and water on my back. Although I have been an ultrarunner for
nearly five years, I had only fastpacked four times before this, with no more
than 25K at a time. This was very new to
me.
The first 25K to Lightening Creek campground went
swimmingly. The trail meandered through
quiet forests just inland from Ross Lake, then skirted along the lake’s edge for
a few miles while offering a peek of the sights to come. I savored the new experience, basked in the
excitement of the journey ahead, and marveled at my body’s abilities. I was beyond ecstatic. I waxed poetic about the trail, the trees,
the wildflowers, and the smells. I was a
modern-day explorer. I ran the majority
of it at a 50-mile pace, and uncertain of my food situation, decided to only
eat every two hours vice every one while also neglecting to hydrate as the
pontificating and marveling continued.
Mistake.
The sun crested the eastern mountains and the mid-day heat
began to amplify just before I made the climb up Desolation Peak - 5,000 feet
over 5 miles. I pushed hard. Focused on a last-minute goal of a two-day
fastpack, or even a one-day/30-hour straight-through attempt, I pushed.
Two miles up, I crashed.
It began as stopping for a moment’s rest every 100 feet, but quickly
devolved into me splayed out in the middle of the narrow singletrack while
hikers stepped over me as I incoherently mumbled, “I’m okay. Thank you.”
I had hit the Bermuda triangle of ultrarunner death – too hard, too
fast, and not enough fuel. On top of
this, I was also dehydrated and had run out of water. This was a new dimension. This had four sides.
I summited, signed the summit register, sent a Spot message
with my location, chatted with the fire lookout and another ultrarunner out on
a training run, ate some trail mix, and seemingly revived, sped off down the
mountain renewed in my decision to push hard.
I stopped at a spring just one mile down from the summit (that I had
passed on the way up without even acknowledging it), refilled my bladder,
reconnected with the ultrarunner from the summit, and then ran with her down
the mountain. She was fast. I kept thinking that fact to myself, but was
enjoying her company and welcomed the respite from silence. The moment we hit the flat trail at the
bottom of the summit, I realized I couldn’t maintain. She quickly pulled ahead, I quickly passed my
good-byes, and then I quickly splayed out again on the middle of trail. Ten minutes later I was moving again. I reached the end of the Desolation Peak trail,
then turned left toward Canada, determined to make it 15 more miles to the
border and five more miles back to Willow Lake for a few hours rest. The trail began to climb steeply. Every 20 feet I stopped for a few seconds to
catch my breath. Every 75-100 feet, I
stopped for a few minutes. I was
crashing again. My body was telling me
no. My body was giving in. I had never felt this bad before. My legs were shaking, I could barely catch my
breath, my heartbeat refused to slow down, and my mind was beyond foggy. I finally reached my max. I had never been here before. Although my mind was telling me I could, my
body was telling me to simply go fuck myself.
The realization hit me - I could not go on. Wow. I
had never failed at any physical pursuit in my life. And, as this realization deepened, I also recognized
that I had never failed at any academic or occupational pursuit also. I had never failed at something I
attempted. I had never failed.
But I was right now.
And it struck me hard. I cried.
As I slowly hiked back down to Lightening Creek campground, I
began to accept this limitation. But
this wasn’t a limitation – this was failure.
That finality continued to circulate in my thoughts. I cried all the way down.
I began to come to terms with it that night. As I explored it, I couldn’t help but to
question why, in fact, this was my first failure. I am 39 years old and this was the first time
I failed. What exactly does that
mean? Key to this acceptance was figuring out this
why – it simply meant that I wasn’t taking enough risks. That was it.
I had not failed because I had not risked enough. Everything I had ever attempted in life was
grounded in a high degree of certainty and over-preparation - physical
endeavors, jobs, relationships, college, everything. I over-prepared for every distance or
physical challenge. I spent my entire
life institutionalized in the United States Navy with never a concern for
financial stability. I chose a safe
marriage that adequately provided for my emotional and physical needs. I earned an MBA for its high return on
investment and marketability.
But, I’ve never really reached. All of my choices were safe bets. Perhaps they weren’t even what I really
wanted.
This was a first.
I came to terms with this failure and slept soundly. The next morning I awoke and happily thought
about the quick hike home and a weekend of Netflix binging. I took my time having breakfast and made my
way to the fork just outside the campground.
I stood there for five minutes.
To the right was 5 hours and 15 miles back to the trailhead. To the right was safety. To the left was 2 days and 60 miles. To the left was uncertainty.
Something hit me. And
all of sudden, I turned left.
I started laughing as I crossed the suspension bridge across
Lightening Creek. I said aloud to
myself, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
I quickly moved up the incline that just hours before had completely
destroyed me. After one mile, the trail
crested. I started weeping again. I continued on.
The next two days flew by.
I slowed my pace, stopped for breaks periodically, ate hourly, hydrated
continuously, went for swims over lunch and enjoyed the trail. I sang.
I talked. I smiled. I reverted to my original plan – 50K per day. On day two I made it up to the Canadian
border and back to Lightening Creek; on day three I summited Desolation Peak
once more and steadily made my way back to the trailhead. 61 hours and 8 minutes had elapsed. I took the token selfie, threw my pack in the
car, and drove home.
I didn’t fail. Not
this time anyways. But I came through
this ordeal, this mind/body challenge, with a new understanding of risk -
namely my crippling fear of it. That
fear has held me back my entire life. Jack
Kerouac is one of my favorite authors.
Although his writings can be one long stream of consciousness at times and
wildly esoteric at others, his novels are largely autobiographical and based on
his own adventures. Although he may not
have found what he was looking for throughout his years, and his restlessness
and lifestyle choices may have contributed to his premature death, the one overarching
theme throughout his writings is risk. He
seized every moment and every pleasure he could. He chose a life of continuous searching. He risked and he lived life. I hope to do the same.
On summiting Desolation Peak my second time, I made the
following entry in the summit register:
“I am no longer a slave to fear.”
That was it. I found
it.
