Camel's Hump to Mansfield in a Day

Ultra far.

I’ve never been more convinced of my own failure than I was after 20 miles of running through the Green Mountains. It was the farthest I’d ever run, and my time was better than I’d expected, but it wasn’t enough. I was trying to run (and hike, when the terrain was too much) the roughly 30 miles from the summit of Camel’s Hump to the summit of Mount Mansfield. For most of my life, those were simply the two big mountains you could see from the interstate, one on each side, each feeling more like the backdrop of the landscape than a reasonable day-hike objective.

Descending Mount Mayo, the third peak of the day, I heard the empty suck of my hydration bladder over the skittering of rocks I’d kicked loose on my descent. It’d been hours since I could keep up with the rocks. Now I just watched jealously as they effortlessly shot downhill ahead of me. For the first time after three days of carbo-loading, I was hungry - starving - and the only food on me was Clif Bars and fig bars. Four hours of sucking for breath had dried my mouth to the point of being sticky, and adding dry, cakey food just resulted in a coating of crumbs and a complete inability to breathe or swallow. My wife and our friends Jess and Joe were waiting for me miles ahead, somewhere, with food and water. I’d forgotten exactly how far away they were, and even downhill travel was hopelessly tiring. Water had been the only relief, and now it was gone.

Continuing was a miserable option. My speed, even after a summer of training, was gone. Absent calories to power my muscles, my uphill pace through the lumpy gap between Mayo and Mansfield was a crawling 45-minute mile (my goal for the day had been to stay faster than a 20-minute mile the entire time). On each the few stretches of incline between me and my friends, I proceeded cautiously: my legs moving as fast as they could carry me, with my arms free and ready to catch a fall when — not if, because I was now certain my body was on the verge of failure — one of my feet simply refused to lift itself off the ground and take the next step. I saw comfortable seats in and on every dip, lump and boulder along the trail. I imagined stopping this endless shuffle and spreading out on one of those seats, taking a nap. It didn’t feel like a fantasy so much as a plan for whenever my legs quit. I wanted to cry but I was too tired. I wanted to stop, but stopping without water and food felt genuinely dangerous - I wasn’t sure I’d stand back up under my own power. I was no longer mad at myself for attempting something so ridiculous, no longer afraid of the consequences of being unable to continue. The entire moment was consumed by the misery of moving down the trail, now more out of desperation than determination.

When I came around a corner and saw Jess, Joe, and Tori, I felt very little. There was immense relief that I could stop, sit and drink water, but any joy was offset by the deep anxiety I felt about the choice I now had to make: Continue another 10 miles up to the summit of Mount Mansfield, Vermont’s highest point, or call it off and walk back to the Nebraska Notch parking lot on a side trail. The decision had been bouncing around my head for the better part of an hour, and every time I had to go even slightly uphill I felt as though the decision was being made for me: I simply could not climb any more.

I sat quietly in my stench, not unlike a cat litterbox now that my body had exhausted its carbohydrate supply and started burning muscle to move me down the trail. (Nitrogen is a major byproduct when burning muscle, and through the joyous magic of evolution, the body gets rid of that nitrogen by sweating ammonia. Very sexy.) Tori and Jess and Joe chattered around me with an energy level that felt artificially high - arm gestures and laughter were tiring just to watch - and kept the mood light as I sipped Gatorade and came back to my senses.

Jess and Joe, God bless their souls, had carried a slice of pepperoni pizza with them on the mile hike from their car to our meeting spot. The idea of any food felt repulsive to me for some reason, despite the hunger, but I took a few bites of the slice as I sat there on a warm boulder at the side of the Long Trail. I didn’t mention that I wasn’t sure if I’d finish. A half-dozen friends and family-members were already beginning their hike on a different trail to the top of Mount Mansfield, where they planned to see me reach the top and join in the celebration. I didn’t want to let them down, but I also didn’t want to keep them waiting up there into the night. It was only early afternoon, but I couldn’t even imagine my body being capable of another 1,000-plus feet of elevation gain.

After about 20 minutes, I felt my energy level coming back up. My brain, which had been in hazy single-minded pursuit of rest and recovery, was noticing the conversation around me and assessing how my body felt (aside from the prevailing exhaustion). The first half-mile back towards the car was the same route as the first half-mile to the summit of Mansfield, so I quietly pushed my decision time back and began getting my stuff together, pretending I was definitely going to finish. Tori was planning to finish with me, covering the final 10 miles of the day and keeping me moving.

We geared up and set off, and after a few minutes it felt like the day was starting over. My legs felt fresh, not just functional, and I was euphoric. That pizza slice had been nothing short of magical. There was no question in my mind that I could finish as long my blood sugar didn’t crash again. It struck me that despite my intense awareness of how my earlier hypoglycemic state was hurting my physical performance, I had completely ignored the very real and very sinister effects it had on my mind and morale. A simple change in blood chemistry was the difference between certainty of failure and near-certainty of success. My muscles could do it all along, but my blood tricked my mind into thinking otherwise.

I never mentioned my near-intention of quitting to anyone. We said goodbye to Jess and Joe at the trail intersection, and they went back to the parking lot to shuttle a car to the finish for me and Tori. I pressed on with Tori as planned, chattering to her about the 20 miles behind me, amazed that I could move so well again.

In the quiet moments, it began to dawn on me that I was going to finish, definitely. In the afternoon sun, with a light breeze blowing over from Lake Champlain to our West and the sun over our shoulders, we reached the “forehead” of Mansfield - the beginning of the summit ridge that works its way past the “nose” to the slightly upturned “chin” that is the true summit, forming a face looking ever skyward.

We were behind schedule, and friends had already been waiting for us on the summit for at least an hour, but the final stretch to the summit felt like a playful jog in the park. There was a lot of foot traffic on the trails as a result of the dozens of carloads of sightseers who drove the Stowe toll road to the mountaintop, and it was surreal to jog past comfortable, flip-flop-clad families in their jeans and sweaters after trekking mostly alone through the forest for 25 miles.

As Tori and I rounded the final curve in the trail and came into view of the summit, everyone in front of us seemed to explode into cheers. I’ve walked that same trail to the summit quite a few times, and it’s almost felt like a cathedral up there — not silent, but small groups of hikers quietly taking in the views and sharing snacks. Seeing a group that felt like a dozen people all burst into cheers felt almost like a hallucination, and the fact that they were directed at me was maybe the first time it set in that I had a small village of people ready to spend their whole Saturday just to support this crazy, arbitrary quest of mine to go from Vermont’s most iconic peak, Camel’s Hump, to its tallest in a single day.

These people are not distance runners or thru-hikers or physical therapists (or pizza delivery drivers, though Jess and Joe probably made the most rugged pizza delivery in Vermont that day). The thing I was doing wasn’t as important to them as the fact that I was doing it and asked for their help.

Before the run, I raised more than $5,000 for suicide prevention and shared more openly about my own struggles with depression. The whole point was to turn a relatively selfish pursuit (taking risks in the mountains for no practical reason) and making it constructive. The only hope I had for my own depression was that the constant exercise of training for and completing the run would be a good way of managing it, and it was. But the most cunning, evil part of my depression is what it does to relationships. It tells me that most of my friends are really just Tori’s friends and they tolerate me being around. It tells me that people take notice when I’m at my worst and write off any virtuous behavior as an elaborate, disingenuous performance. It tells me not to take up too much space because the only possible outcome is that someone will finally come out and say these things to my face, and that would break me.

When I reached the top of Mansfield, I turned around and knelt in front of the summit marker. I tried to look along the ridge to Camel’s Hump and take in the scale of the journey, but my view was blocked. Noah, my rock climbing partner who last year kept my leg bones intact by catching a big fall (even though the resulting pull on the rope launched him straight into a snowbank) had jogged up right behind me to snap photos of me reaching the very end. My dad and brother rushed up behind him, along with my cousin (and Noah’s girlfriend) Emma, and my father-in-law, and my sister-in-law, and Tori. It was overwhelming and amazing, and everyone was giving me high fives and taking photos. Other hikers on the summit asked what the fuss was about, and I overheard my friends and family bragging about where I’d started and then laughing at the surprised reactions of whoever’d been asking.

Up there, I transformed from the trail runner pushing his limits to just another member of the happiest gaggle of hikers on the mountain. I was not alone, and these people were not just tolerating me or rolling their eyes at my over-the-top attempt at seeming like a good person. They were all but carrying me on their shoulders, and I couldn’t go a minute without catching one of them giving me a disbelieving look or telling me how proud they were. These people, who have seen my worst instincts and heard my meanest thoughts, who know how very far from perfect I am, showed up and supported me anyway. There was no pretending, with this group, that they just didn’t know how broken I am inside. I’ve shown them every ugliness in my arsenal, and they came and cheered because they see —even when I cannot — that those worst moments aren’t the sum total of who I am.

We worked our way at a leisurely pace down lower on the summit ridge where we could get out of the wind and sit, and then we sat, and it was glorious. Noah and Emma, who increasingly seemed like angels sent from an impossibly good heaven, pulled a thermos out of their bag and served up warm pulled pork with macaroni and cheese.

Going 30 miles across my favorite stretch of mountain skyline was the fulfillment of a dream I’ve had for years and mostly doubted I’d ever accomplish. Covering that ground was the experience I bargained for and then some, but the high point of the day that I hope I never forget was this one: Sitting on top of Mount Mansfield surrounded by close friends and family, laughing and joking, eating warm food that wasn’t a Clif Bar, and feeling so thoroughly loved.