Thirst. Heather Anderson

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?