The A.T. Rollercoaster and suffering

The heat and humidity of mid-Atlantic summers are something I dread when I’m living in a house and sleeping in an air-conditioned bedroom. Those conditions become extra hellish while thru-hiking. The day I start the “Rollercoaster,” a 14-mile stretch of the A.T. in northern Virginia with frequent ascents and descents, is forecast to be in the mid-90s with almost 100% humidity. I’m not looking forward to it, but what gets me through is knowing I’m only hiking 10.5 miles before Steve picks me up for a 2-day rest. These monthly visits from Steve and the accompanying double zeroes (a zero day is a rest day where you hike 0 miles) I take while he’s visiting have been bright spots throughout my hike, keeping us connected and keeping me from homesickness for Philly and my family and friends.

I start hiking around 6:30am, which is early for me to get going, but I want to beat the heat as much as possible. What I’ve realized is that the temperatures are lower first thing in the morning, but the humidity is higher. As the day progresses, the humidity drops somewhat, but the sun gets higher and the temperature gets hotter. All of it is rough, but I’d rather get it over with as soon as possible and suffer through more humid air that’s a little cooler and while the sun isn’t high.

I text Steve to tell him I’m getting started and that I should be done and at our meeting place by noon, and then I get going. After the first couple of hours, I text Steve again to let him know it’ll be closer to 1pm, and an hour or so after that, I text again to say it’ll be closer to 2pm. As I navigate the ups and downs of the Rollercoaster, I find myself taking more frequent and longer breaks than usual, drinking more water and feeling sluggish. I know the dangers of dehydration, so I add electrolytes to my water three times—a typical day sees me consuming electrolytes twice, maybe three times in a longer day of hiking. It feels like I’m moving underwater or through soup. Everything is harder: breathing, lifting each leg to take a step, ascending and descending the rolling hills of this stretch of trail. The elevation gain and loss isn’t the most extreme on the A.T., but it feels relentless. I find myself wondering if the Rollercoaster would live up to its hype if I were hiking it in cooler weather.

I’m covered in sweat that doesn’t evaporate, even during an hour-long lunchbreak (a long one for me on a day when I’m meeting Steve). It’s late June and this is the worst heatwave I’ve experienced yet on the trail. I know that the next two days are going to be even worse, and I feel lucky and grateful that Steve’s June visit has coincided with this heatwave so I can avoid hiking during it. My tramily, who are a day or two behind me, are not so fortunate; they start hiking around 4am the next day in an attempt to avoid the heat and get through all 14 miles of the Rollercoaster in one day, and while they’re successful, there is a lot of suffering through it.

Suffering is one of the topics I ponder often while hiking. The very nature of thru-hiking has suffering built into it. It’s not easy, nor is it supposed to be. But I’m not sure what the lesson of suffering is supposed to be now that I’m in my 40s. When I was in my 20s and through part of my 30s, my self-worth was low enough that I felt that I deserved suffering, or I felt that suffering was necessary to achieve meaning in life. But in the last few years, I’ve been questioning that narrative. What constitutes a healthy level of suffering? Do we need to suffer to prove our worth and achieve great things? What if we want to prioritize self-love and rest? What if suffering is a sign that we need to back off, to change our approach, to stop?

My lack of willingness to suffer at an extreme level is ultimately what ended my thru-hike. The heat and humidity didn’t stay as brutal as they were that day I started the Rollercoaster, but they did continue unabated for another month as I trudged through West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York. My skin, which has always been sensitive, started to break down due to constant sweating and infrequent showering. I developed a rash on my shoulders that I assume started from sweat and chafing caused by my backpack straps. It started as small sores, and then the sores increased in number and in size. When I took my July double zeroes with Steve, the rash started to heal, but it worsened on my first day back on trail. After trying a 2-week break at home with over-the-counter antifungal cream, seeing the rash heal, then returning to trail and seeing the rash immediately return, I hiked for a week before seeing a nurse practitioner and subsequently ending my hike. My fear was that constantly open skin in a sweaty and dirty environment would result in a serious infection and the possible need for hospitalization. Being a medical editor shows you all the worst-case scenarios, but I think I was being wise in this instance. But there is still a sense of disappointment and grief in not completing a desired goal.

Would it have been better for me to have suffered through the open sores on my shoulders and to have just kept pushing? What lesson would I have gotten from that experience: a lesson in what I’m capable of, or a lesson in how deep self-loathing can run? By July/August, I decided that I knew what it took to thru-hike, and that I had what it took, but that I didn’t want to continue to push myself when my health was at stake. A minor injury or illness in normal life can quickly become a major medical emergency when you don’t have easy access to hygiene or medical services.  

I’m not sure what the lesson is here. They don’t make movies about people who don’t finish things. The more cinematic story is the person who suffers but perseveres and ultimately triumphs, with the final scene of the movie showing them at the top of the mountain or achieving their goal while stirring music swells in the background. But for me, it was a huge deal to take stock of a situation, realize it was better for my health to stop, and walk away from something I had wanted so badly. The compromise I made with myself is to finish the trail in sections over time, which I believe and hope will feel like an amazing experience in and of itself rather than a consolation prize.  

I wish that I’d been able to complete my thru-hike, and at the same time, I’m proud of what I accomplished and that I valued myself highly enough to take care of myself. I proved myself capable of tolerating suffering up to a point, and when I passed that point, I prioritized my health and well-being. It may not make for a great movie, but for me, it makes for a better and saner life.