Going for it
A story about not waiting to do something. And also, an FKT attempt announcement(!).
I’ve spent so much time this year thinking about what I want to do with my running.
What’s next what’s next what’s next has been on repeat in my brain, playing over-and-over again like a song that gets lodged in there for months.
But, the truth is, I’ve known what I want to do next.
There’s a trail that’s been in my head and in my heart for months now. Since I first set foot on it back in June. A 223-mile trail that winds through the high Sierra, skirting approximately 12 zillion alpine lakes and not crossing a single road along the way, just miles and miles and miles of uninterrupted mountain paradise. A trail that made me squeal “oh my wow” around every corner and actually cry a few real live tears of awe and gratitude and trail bliss for getting to set foot on that magical stretch of dirt and granite and 12 zillion alpine lakes.
The John Muir Trail. Or, the Nüümü Poyo – the People’s Trail.
But, as much as I’ve felt an undeniable gravitational force pulling me toward that stretch of the Sierra, I haven’t let myself own my desire to run the JMT – and attempt to set the record on it – because it’s seemed too big. Too uncertain. Too out of my league. Too not for me – for so many reasons.
The trail starts on the top of Mount Whitney, the 14,495’ peak that’s the highest point in the continental United States – and then it climbs up and down a chain of mountain passes that all sport five-digit elevations: 13,153’, 11,926’, 11,955’, and on and on, all the way to Yosemite. And I live and train at sea level – my red blood cell count is primed for a dash along the Oregon coastline, not sky-high Sierra running.
And the trail is rocky and rugged – and I’m best on buttery smooth trails. I can feel as nimble as a wounded elephant trying to do pirouettes on especially technical terrain.
And it’s a trail that is known for shutting down some of the strongest runners and hikers. Many people who’ve attempted an FKT on it have a collection of failed efforts to tell you about. Trail reports are full of stories about what a punishing and brutal trail this is – about how it will humble you in 10,000 different ways.
And the women’s record is stout, held by Darcy Piceu, who I’ve admired and respected since I first got into the sport. Her list of accomplishments would break the word limit on this post: many-time Hardrock winner – alongside many other mountain 100 wins.
The idea of attempting to break her record makes me boil with imposter syndrome.
Who am I to even flirt with the idea that I could do that?
In my head, the only way I thought I could ever attempt this record is if I devoted myself to it. If I trained and prepared with 1000 percent perfection. If I moved to the eastern Sierra for months (which, yes please) and trained on the course day-after-day-after-day-after-day. If my body could adapt to sky high, low oxygen running. If my legs could get to know every climb and my feet could acquaint themselves with every rock and rut along the way – until I knew that trail as well as I know my name and date of birth and social security number.
And so I’ve let it linger in my head as a goal that could be for me, but only if I attempted under the most prime conditions and preparation.
Instead of appreciating the many ways I am strong and capable right now, I have focused on all of the ways that I could be better. And I’ve let them hold me back from embracing my desire to try.
This summer, more than any other summer in Oregon, has been one of needing to have a Plan B through Z.
The big fires in the west started before the trails even melted out. For the first time, I was simultaneously scouting both snow and smoke beta, trying to figure out if the trail was still frozen or smothered by wildfire smoke. Or both.
Before every run, I’ve been refreshing mountain webcams and weather forecasts, trying to figure out where the smoke will be on any given run day. And that’s usually about as useful as trying to guess whether it will snow on December 14th, 2026 since smoke can shift faster than you can bake a tray of brownies.
Before I went to the Sawtooth Mountains in Idaho to do a big traverse with my friend Eric, I was performing my pre-run routine of smoke stalking. The Stanley webcam showed an ominously cruddy horizon and the weather forecast looked bleak. Just widespread haze for days.
I frantically tried to reach Eric on his inreach while he was backpacking in the next mountain range over, sure he’d want to cancel. But, he reported that the skies above him were clear, and so I got in my car and drove for 10 hours, my fingers crossed as they clutched the steering wheel and my eyes scouring the skies for any hint of smoke.
When we took off into the mountains the next morning, the distant horizon was fuzzy with haze, but the ground that we were running into was alive with rich color. We were treated to piercing blue lakes and sandy granite peaks around every corner of the trail.
The conditions weren’t perfect that day, but they were incredible, and it was one of my favorite runs of the summer.
As we jogged back to the car with our headlamps flicked on and our legs full of glorious mountain miles, I thought about how glad I was that I showed up and went for it – instead of waiting for the promise of the most perfect day.
The most recent Plan A that got squashed was my plan to hike the entire JMT starting on September 1st. It was going to be my first full trek of this trail. I saw it as a step toward getting ready to do it as a run some day. But California shut down all of the national forests the day before my permit started, and so I stayed home and unpacked my sleeping bag and snickers instead of heading to the Sierra.
While I was bumming about my cancelled 223-mile tour of the high Sierra, I thought about how lucky I was to run the Oregon PCT when I did. The PCT was plagued with fire closures this year – both new and old – and constantly smothered with smoke. The fact that I was able to run all 460-miles across Oregon without a whiff of smoke or fire feels like a work of miracles now. Between the pandemic and the climate crisis and the shit of life, we live in a constant storm of cancellations and loss. For so many reasons, nothing in our futures is a given. And the fact that I was able to actually do that big, special thing is something I will never not feel grateful for.
Two weeks ago, California opened most of their forests back up. I saw an announcement from the Forest Service on twitter and my heart bounded straight to the ceiling.
In that moment, I didn’t think about my insecurities or doubts about the JMT, I just felt that undeniable pull to the Sierra. And I knew that I didn’t want to wait for better anything – preparation or timing or anything. I knew that if I had a chance to go and run the JMT this year – I wanted to do it.
Because I know that if next summer comes around, and the trail is plagued by fire or forest closures, I will regret not going for it when I had the chance. Especially when the main thing holding me back is my own swarm of doubts.
And so, I’m going for it. I’m going to try and run the JMT fast enough to set an FKT.
This goal still feels huge and terrifying and uncertain – but isn’t that what I want from these things? To show up for something that seems like it might be too big and too hard and to empty myself out trying to see what I can do.
I know that I could be better prepared, but I also know that I am very strong and capable right now. And I know that this is something that I want to do with every ounce of my being. Something that I can’t stop thinking about. Something that’s excited me like nothing else since that run across Oregon. And I would rather fail at something I care this much about, than not give it my best try because I can’t get over my fears and insecurities. I would rather give myself a chance.
I know that failure is a very real possibility, but I’m finally appreciating that not trying would be a way more disappointing result.
So I came down to the Sierra last week for some sky high sleeping, to get my body at least a little bit more ready for some sky high running - and I whipped up spreadsheets and packed tens of thousands of calories and every last piece of gear I might need and made a plan to do this run. It feels a little scrappy and a little last minute, but also like I’m just doing what I’ve wanted to do all along.
There has been off-and-on smoke from the Sequoia fires floating over the Sierra since we got here, and I’ve been stalking webcams and forecasts like I do, but the skies are bright blue today and the conditions look promising for a 223-mile trek through the mountains for the next stretch of days, and so, if the air stays good and safe, I’m going to go and give the JMT my best shot this week - and see what I can do out there.
And if smoke does get in the way, then I’ll wait for another time, but it will be better air I’m waiting for, not a better me.
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