is this what it feels like?

I arrive at the Pine Creek trailhead at 8:30am.

It is not early enough.

The trail out of Pine Creek is steep; in some sections it’s really just an ancient mining road, two barely-visible wheel ruts littered with an avalanche of fist-sized rocks. I climb fast, though. My brain shuts off and my legs move automatically, like two stodgy, capable pistons. Up, down, up. I pour sporty fangirl podcasts into my ears and look out at the canyon, the aspens, the striated cliffs below Bear Creek Spire, and the imposing remains of the old mine.

By noon I’m at the junction to Italy Pass, and an hour or so later, the trail has basically disappeared. There was a sort of ghost-trail for a while, and it wound me up the broken cliff faces until I felt like a little turned-around top toy, totally unclear as to whether I’d actually walked the same stretch of trail two or three or perhaps five times. After that there were cairns here and there — but now the heres and theres are so widely spaced that following the cairns doesn’t seem worthwhile. I can see the pass and I just head straight toward it, crossing a barren moonscape of boulders and talus at an erratic but acceptable pace.

At 2pm I’m within 500 feet of the top. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, way back at the trailhead, and there’s a yawning emptiness in my legs and stomach. The space behind my eyes seems to be full of floppy water balloons. I start to trip over obvious, highly avoidable rocks. I want so badly to stop and eat at the top, but I force myself to be real about the risk of breaking an ankle. I tuck behind a boulder and stuff my face with muffin. The wind is going insane.

There’s no trail on the other side of the pass, either, so I pick my way down the rocks and then through a damp springy meadow to Italy Lake. The map shows a trail-like line skirting the lakeshore. I get right down next to the lake and walk the phantom line, and soon, like magic, there is an actual trail again.

The new trail is fickle, though; I keep losing it and wandering in circles until I find it again. I do not make very good time.

Finally, at 5pm, I hit the JMT junction. Superhighway! Reliable trail! Smooth and bouncy! I take a selfie next to the trail sign. I drink water. I suck down a gel. I’ve been hiking for almost nine hours, but I don’t want to camp yet, because stopping here would mean I have to do some appalling number of miles tomorrow to close my loop back to the car — and going back the way I came seems like a boring and generally unattractive option.

So I turn south on the JMT, and I walk.

And then I get the weirdest second wind. I feel like I’m flying. I am flying; the paces on my watch are ridiculous, considering how many miles I have in my legs and how badly, just fifteen minutes ago, I wanted to sit down and nap. Adrenaline like bottled rock music pumps in all my veins, making my throat and the tips of my fingers tingle. I have a blister, and I don’t care. My calf hurts, and then it doesn’t. The sun starts to sink on my right, and I push harder, chasing the last of the light up the slope toward Selden Pass.

I have always been moving. I will always be moving. My legs swing back and forth with the perfect rhythm of pendulums, totally frictionless, capturing their own momentum and driving it into the next stride.

Is this what it feels like to be delirious?, I wonder idly. Or is this what it feels like to be immortal?

Maybe I broke something in my brain.

Maybe it was something I didn’t need anymore.

I’m almost out of water, but I pass stream after stream without stopping, putting my trust in the bizarre raw energy — at the speed it’s carrying me, I almost have no choice. Finally, the last bit of sun vanishes behind the ridge. The temperature drops. You have to go to the next water, I tell myself firmly. Don’t think about it, just keep moving.

Small, fast steps. The pendulum arcs of my legs compressing, breathless storage and release of momentum carrying me uphill. Driving off the strong, hard edges of my shoes, swinging my body around the corners of switchbacks. Almost there.

I pitch my tent in the very last sliver of light at Marie Lakes. Steam rises off every inch of my body, and my skin stings as the salt cracks in my palms fill with wind.