“Well, you see, I, uh, experienced God . . . differently than before. In the canyon itself.”
His brow wrinkled ever so slightly. I looked him in the eye.
“You see, I’ve decided that I don’t want to go into the ministry after all. I want to be a vagabond.”
To his credit, Dr. Shively looked confused, but he didn’t immediately react—at least not outwardly. Finally, after pausing for several moments, he set the papers on his desk and folded his hands.
“A vagabond. So, tell me more about what you mean by that—and how you came to decide that during your internship.”
“Well, I went hiking. And we did these services on the rim of the Grand Canyon. And my friends and I drove to Utah to see Zion and Bryce Canyon. All these incredible places touched my spirit in a way I’ve never felt before. I did some really difficult hikes. I ran out of water when it was really hot. My shoes fell apart and I hiked across the canyon barefoot. I prayed all of those times and for the first time I really felt like someone was listening. I stopped feeling God inside the church. Or with other people. Or really anywhere except when I was out hiking or moving through a landscape. It was like seeing God with my very own eyes instead of closing them and imagining him. I felt like Eve must have when she first opened her eyes and saw the beauty of the garden.”
I gushed, in what I hoped was an articulate manner, all the thoughts that had bounced around in my head ever since my first hike into the Grand Canyon. “I realized that I don’t feel comfortable telling people to believe what I believe the way I believe it. I don’t want to tell people to worship as I do. I realized that what I enjoy about mission work is that I am tangibly helping people. And I still want to do that. But for me, I don’t know if I can go back to sitting in a pew. After graduation I’ve decided to hike the Appalachian Trail. I can’t imagine anything better than being immersed in nature for months on end. I don’t know how or where I’ll end up from there, but it doesn’t matter. I’d be happy living in my car and hiking for the rest of my life. The way I feel out there is whole and complete. For once, I found a place where I actually belong and everything feels right. It’s all I’ve ever wanted from life.”
His eyebrows arched higher and higher as I talked, until I was certain they’d fold in half. When I finally paused to catch my breath, he lowered them and nodded.
“The natural world is a very powerful representation of God. Just don’t confuse the two.”
I nodded. I hadn’t spoken my thoughts to anyone else and I felt a heady lightness inside my chest as though I’d released something very heavy into space. He picked up my file and closed the folder.
“I think this internship was very powerful for you. Whatever calling you accept I am certain that God is guiding it. I’ll be sure to get the forms sent in so that you can receive full credit.”
“Thank you, Dr. Shively.”
“You’re most welcome. I hope this doesn’t mean you won’t be tutoring my Greek students this year?”
“Oh, of course I will.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
I walked out of his office almost giddy. Dr. Shively hadn’t rejected the honest outpouring of my inner thoughts. I felt a measure of acceptance that I had never felt before. For the first time, someone seemed to accept my alternative way of feeling, believing, and acting. It was OK to be me.
CHAPTER 5
CLEVELAND NATIONAL FOREST, CALIFORNIA
DAY 5 / 43 MILES
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