The Last Three Miles
“There’s only three more miles.”
The dark storm clouds that were once in the distance had begun to loom overhead. At dinner, we had opted to leave behind every last ounce of what we deemed unnecessary weight, which included our jackets and rain ponchos, as at the time, the storm clouds weren’t even in the distance. However, dinner was a few hours ago, and now the clouds were almost right over us. We had been offered the chance to quit when our navigator came close to death and had to be evacuated via car, but the rest of us had declined, hanging on to those few words of encouragement from our navigator: “there’s only three more miles.” After all, when you’ve already hiked over 45 miles, what’s a few more?
Our original large group had split into two smaller groups after the evacuation due to differences in walking speeds. I was in the first, along with a friend and my brother-in-law. The second group consisted of my father, my brother, and one of my brother’s friends. When the second group stopped to take a short break, the rest of us had decided to continue onwards, and as a result, we had no idea how much distance separated us. All we wanted to do was get to the end of that trail.
The wind came first. It blew at our backs, offering a push as we continued down the path. We became less grateful at the help when the freezing rain followed. The speeding drops bit into our backs and exposed legs, feeling more like hail than rain. The darkest part of the storm wasn’t even overhead yet, and with every passing minute, the grey sky turned darker and darker. We reminded each other that there were only three more miles and joked that Nature was only trying to speed us along, as eager as we were to be done with it. Someone pointed out that at least the mosquitoes had stopped biting us, and I forced out a chuckle along with everyone else to try to keep the mood light.
The laughing stopped with the wind, as when the wind stopped blowing, the rain became a torrential downpour. Within minutes, we were soaked through and through. After an hour, there was no part on our body that even resembled dryness. The trees didn’t provide any cover, as they were just as soaked as we were, and since we had left behind all of our rain ponchos, we were left to the mercy of the elements. Still, we pressed onward, believing that just a single mile separated us from the finish line.
At the third mile after our navigator was rescued, the trail began to gradually drop downhill, showing no signs of ending. It cut into the mountainside and slowly sloped downward, chasing a river. That’s when the lightning started. There would be a flash, and I would frantically count the seconds of silence before the thunder rolled around us. We were on a path that was more river than trail now with two steep, barren, rocky cliffs on either side of us. I desperately clung onto counting those seconds in between flash and rumble. As long as I made it to five, in my mind, we were safe from certain death.
The rain continued in its drenching onslaught, giving not a single moment of reprieve, and the lightning refused to cease its assault on the Earth. The thunder was almost constant, a deep roar that echoed over and over as it rolled through the valley. I’m extremely near-sighted, to the point that I can only see clearly for up to about a foot away from my face without my glasses. There came a point on the trail, about four miles after our “three more miles” point, where there was so much water pouring down my face and over my glasses that I could see better without my glasses on. In fact, in order to see the trail at all, I had to hold my glasses in my hand so the water would cascade around my eyes instead of over them.
The cold had also set on at about that time. Instinctively, my arms seized up and kept pressed against my chest to preserve body heat. Despite my best attempts, though, the rain continued to suck away any warmth I had left. I began to shiver so hard my teeth clattered together, though the sound was mostly covered up by the thunder and rain. One of the benefits of the cold is that all the pain in your legs and muscles seems to dissipate. The coldness must have provided some form of numbness as I distinctly remember not feeling any pain on those last “three” miles, which I am extremely grateful for. However, the surprising lack of pain may have been due to the fact that I was more concerned about my life than my legs.
The main challenge of hiking 50 miles in under 20 hours, a 50-20, as it is called, isn’t actually the physical part of it. Sure, your knees may ache and creak, your calves may burn, your thighs may start to feel like jello, your feet may become covered in blisters, and even your arms may start to feel like they’re going to fall off, but that’s not the real challenge. The real challenge is purely mental and emotional. When the terrain you’re walking past looks exactly the same as the terrain you passed 20 miles ago – scrubby junipers and gangly pines that grew in such a way that the trunks formed a wall between you and anything off of the never-ending, unerringly straight, maddeningly constant trail – it will start to feel like you’re not making any progress, that you are walking the exact same mile over and over again. It will start to feel like you are never going to get off of that trail, but you have to keep believing that you can make it, that you’re not going to die on the trail. The magic of something as terrible and as painful as a 50-20 is that whatever you believe will happen. However, it’s a constant battle to keep thinking positive, and that is a battle that I lost on the last stretch of the trail.
I don’t like to admit it, but those last “three” miles broke me. It was getting late, around 7 pm, the sun was going to set, though we couldn’t see it through the clouds and only knew it by how progressively darker it became every passing minute, and we were supposed to have reached the end of the trail three miles ago. I became convinced that we would die on that trail, and when I became convinced of that, I started to freak out. Thankfully, the rain made it impossible to differentiate between the streams of water pouring down my face and any tears that may or may not have leaked out of my eyes.
My brother-in-law offered a suggestion to the group to keep warm by doing a little trick that involves touching your thumb to each finger over and over again. He told us it would help our circulation and stop our hands from getting any colder than they already were. I knew that it was also a neat way to tell if your body temperature is getting too low. If the act of touching your thumb to the tips of your fingers becomes difficult, then you are too cold and at risk of getting hypothermia. I noticed as I took my brother-in-law’s advice that it was hard to touch my thumb to my fingers, but I denied the truth of the matter and told myself that it had nothing to do with my body temperature in a desperate attempt to try to keep hold of what last shred of sanity I possessed.
We eventually came across a closed tunnel and opted to take a short break in the entrance, partly to wait for the second group to catch up and partly because it was the only dry spot we had encountered in miles. The ground was dusty, the overhang above the entrance was just old wooden planks, and the air was slightly musty, but at least it was dry. After just enough time to wring some of the water out of our clothes, the other group came barreling down the trail. Not a single one of them even paused to tell us to follow as they sped along. The three of us taking a rest and wringing our clothes quickly followed; we had no desire to get left behind.
Within a few moments after leaving the tunnel, we came across some of our mothers standing on the trail, holding umbrellas that ranged in color from bright yellow to funeral black. They began to cheer and wave when they saw us and accompanied us the rest of the way to the cars, which were thankfully only a few minutes away. Almost as if on cue, as soon as the vehicles came in sight, the rain stopped completely. The sun even peeked through the clouds as it was setting, almost like it was congratulating us on surviving before it left for the night.
As we hikers sat in the cars, covered in towels and blankets, still soaking wet and shivering, overcome with the euphoria of finally having reached the end of the trail, we began to discuss how in a few weeks or months, when the injuries had finally healed and the pain subsided, we would probably look back on this whole ordeal with smiles. In time, we’d probably actually think that this was an enjoyable experience, even if that idea was completely alien to us at the time. While joking around with predictions of how long it would take us to recover, the navigator, now mostly recuperated from his near-death experience, took a final count of the millage and time and discovered that we had gone almost 60 miles in under 17 hours. We hadn’t just accomplished our original goal; we blew it out of the water, even with the hardship of the last “three” miles.
On the two-hour drive home, as each of us mulled over our thoughts – or slept, as the wiser of the group did – I started to hope that perhaps in the future, I could take inspiration from this accomplishment. I began to hope that when I encountered fearsome trials or heartbreaking struggles, I would look back to what I had achieved despite the grueling challenge of it all and tell myself that I can do hard things. In the end, it’s not really about how difficult the challenge was, or the nature of the challenge. It’s about the fact that I was able to push through and survive that ordeal despite everything that tried to make me fail. It’s about knowing that I can weather the storm and the challenge and do difficult tasks regardless of anything. The 50-20 was just the hardest thing I had done to that point in my life, and so I started to hope that I would look back to that pinnacle of difficulty when I faced challenges and know that I can endure anything. After all, when you’ve survived a 50-20, how bad can most anything else be?
The dark storm clouds that were once in the distance had begun to loom overhead. At dinner, we had opted to leave behind every last ounce of what we deemed unnecessary weight, which included our jackets and rain ponchos, as at the time, the storm clouds weren’t even in the distance. However, dinner was a few hours ago, and now the clouds were almost right over us. We had been offered the chance to quit when our navigator came close to death and had to be evacuated via car, but the rest of us had declined, hanging on to those few words of encouragement from our navigator: “there’s only three more miles.” After all, when you’ve already hiked over 45 miles, what’s a few more?
Our original large group had split into two smaller groups after the evacuation due to differences in walking speeds. I was in the first, along with a friend and my brother-in-law. The second group consisted of my father, my brother, and one of my brother’s friends. When the second group stopped to take a short break, the rest of us had decided to continue onwards, and as a result, we had no idea how much distance separated us. All we wanted to do was get to the end of that trail.
The wind came first. It blew at our backs, offering a push as we continued down the path. We became less grateful at the help when the freezing rain followed. The speeding drops bit into our backs and exposed legs, feeling more like hail than rain. The darkest part of the storm wasn’t even overhead yet, and with every passing minute, the grey sky turned darker and darker. We reminded each other that there were only three more miles and joked that Nature was only trying to speed us along, as eager as we were to be done with it. Someone pointed out that at least the mosquitoes had stopped biting us, and I forced out a chuckle along with everyone else to try to keep the mood light.
The laughing stopped with the wind, as when the wind stopped blowing, the rain became a torrential downpour. Within minutes, we were soaked through and through. After an hour, there was no part on our body that even resembled dryness. The trees didn’t provide any cover, as they were just as soaked as we were, and since we had left behind all of our rain ponchos, we were left to the mercy of the elements. Still, we pressed onward, believing that just a single mile separated us from the finish line.
At the third mile after our navigator was rescued, the trail began to gradually drop downhill, showing no signs of ending. It cut into the mountainside and slowly sloped downward, chasing a river. That’s when the lightning started. There would be a flash, and I would frantically count the seconds of silence before the thunder rolled around us. We were on a path that was more river than trail now with two steep, barren, rocky cliffs on either side of us. I desperately clung onto counting those seconds in between flash and rumble. As long as I made it to five, in my mind, we were safe from certain death.
The rain continued in its drenching onslaught, giving not a single moment of reprieve, and the lightning refused to cease its assault on the Earth. The thunder was almost constant, a deep roar that echoed over and over as it rolled through the valley. I’m extremely near-sighted, to the point that I can only see clearly for up to about a foot away from my face without my glasses. There came a point on the trail, about four miles after our “three more miles” point, where there was so much water pouring down my face and over my glasses that I could see better without my glasses on. In fact, in order to see the trail at all, I had to hold my glasses in my hand so the water would cascade around my eyes instead of over them.
The cold had also set on at about that time. Instinctively, my arms seized up and kept pressed against my chest to preserve body heat. Despite my best attempts, though, the rain continued to suck away any warmth I had left. I began to shiver so hard my teeth clattered together, though the sound was mostly covered up by the thunder and rain. One of the benefits of the cold is that all the pain in your legs and muscles seems to dissipate. The coldness must have provided some form of numbness as I distinctly remember not feeling any pain on those last “three” miles, which I am extremely grateful for. However, the surprising lack of pain may have been due to the fact that I was more concerned about my life than my legs.
The main challenge of hiking 50 miles in under 20 hours, a 50-20, as it is called, isn’t actually the physical part of it. Sure, your knees may ache and creak, your calves may burn, your thighs may start to feel like jello, your feet may become covered in blisters, and even your arms may start to feel like they’re going to fall off, but that’s not the real challenge. The real challenge is purely mental and emotional. When the terrain you’re walking past looks exactly the same as the terrain you passed 20 miles ago – scrubby junipers and gangly pines that grew in such a way that the trunks formed a wall between you and anything off of the never-ending, unerringly straight, maddeningly constant trail – it will start to feel like you’re not making any progress, that you are walking the exact same mile over and over again. It will start to feel like you are never going to get off of that trail, but you have to keep believing that you can make it, that you’re not going to die on the trail. The magic of something as terrible and as painful as a 50-20 is that whatever you believe will happen. However, it’s a constant battle to keep thinking positive, and that is a battle that I lost on the last stretch of the trail.
I don’t like to admit it, but those last “three” miles broke me. It was getting late, around 7 pm, the sun was going to set, though we couldn’t see it through the clouds and only knew it by how progressively darker it became every passing minute, and we were supposed to have reached the end of the trail three miles ago. I became convinced that we would die on that trail, and when I became convinced of that, I started to freak out. Thankfully, the rain made it impossible to differentiate between the streams of water pouring down my face and any tears that may or may not have leaked out of my eyes.
My brother-in-law offered a suggestion to the group to keep warm by doing a little trick that involves touching your thumb to each finger over and over again. He told us it would help our circulation and stop our hands from getting any colder than they already were. I knew that it was also a neat way to tell if your body temperature is getting too low. If the act of touching your thumb to the tips of your fingers becomes difficult, then you are too cold and at risk of getting hypothermia. I noticed as I took my brother-in-law’s advice that it was hard to touch my thumb to my fingers, but I denied the truth of the matter and told myself that it had nothing to do with my body temperature in a desperate attempt to try to keep hold of what last shred of sanity I possessed.
We eventually came across a closed tunnel and opted to take a short break in the entrance, partly to wait for the second group to catch up and partly because it was the only dry spot we had encountered in miles. The ground was dusty, the overhang above the entrance was just old wooden planks, and the air was slightly musty, but at least it was dry. After just enough time to wring some of the water out of our clothes, the other group came barreling down the trail. Not a single one of them even paused to tell us to follow as they sped along. The three of us taking a rest and wringing our clothes quickly followed; we had no desire to get left behind.
Within a few moments after leaving the tunnel, we came across some of our mothers standing on the trail, holding umbrellas that ranged in color from bright yellow to funeral black. They began to cheer and wave when they saw us and accompanied us the rest of the way to the cars, which were thankfully only a few minutes away. Almost as if on cue, as soon as the vehicles came in sight, the rain stopped completely. The sun even peeked through the clouds as it was setting, almost like it was congratulating us on surviving before it left for the night.
As we hikers sat in the cars, covered in towels and blankets, still soaking wet and shivering, overcome with the euphoria of finally having reached the end of the trail, we began to discuss how in a few weeks or months, when the injuries had finally healed and the pain subsided, we would probably look back on this whole ordeal with smiles. In time, we’d probably actually think that this was an enjoyable experience, even if that idea was completely alien to us at the time. While joking around with predictions of how long it would take us to recover, the navigator, now mostly recuperated from his near-death experience, took a final count of the millage and time and discovered that we had gone almost 60 miles in under 17 hours. We hadn’t just accomplished our original goal; we blew it out of the water, even with the hardship of the last “three” miles.
On the two-hour drive home, as each of us mulled over our thoughts – or slept, as the wiser of the group did – I started to hope that perhaps in the future, I could take inspiration from this accomplishment. I began to hope that when I encountered fearsome trials or heartbreaking struggles, I would look back to what I had achieved despite the grueling challenge of it all and tell myself that I can do hard things. In the end, it’s not really about how difficult the challenge was, or the nature of the challenge. It’s about the fact that I was able to push through and survive that ordeal despite everything that tried to make me fail. It’s about knowing that I can weather the storm and the challenge and do difficult tasks regardless of anything. The 50-20 was just the hardest thing I had done to that point in my life, and so I started to hope that I would look back to that pinnacle of difficulty when I faced challenges and know that I can endure anything. After all, when you’ve survived a 50-20, how bad can most anything else be?