Alone on the Mid State Trail:
A Journey of Endurance, Grit, and Redemption
The….Beginning?
Where to even begin. My story behind setting the Fastest Known Time on PA’s “wildest footpath”, the Mid State Trail, does not start on April 26th, 2025. This story begins nearly 10 years ago, in 2016, when I was searching for a bit of purpose in life. Don’t worry, we’ll fast forward a bit 🙂 but I can’t possibly begin without some context. As you read on, I will do my best to explain what an unsupported Fastest Known Time is, why someone (more specifically, me) might want to go after it, and what that journey entailed.
For starters, what is a Fastest Known Time (FKT)? This term refers to the record time for any course or route. It is generally a long distance and often in remote locations. It was established in 2000 as a concept by Buzz Burrell, Peter Bakwin and Jeff Schuler. Their website went live in 2017 or 2018 and others could more readily participate in the new trend to push the limits of what we think the human body can endure. In 2020, with trail races all over the country and world being canceled, FKTs exploded in popularity! You can learn more on their website here.
What is an unsupported FKT? Unsupported means you truly have no external support of any kind. You must carry everything you need from start to finish except water from natural sources. This includes your food, shelter, first aid, etc. These requirements naturally limit the length of trails that can be completed in this style. Remarkably, the longest unsupported FKT to date was set by a woman – Heather Anderson – on the 800 mile Arizona Trail. Heather ‘Anish’ Anderson has been a huge inspiration to me, and I’m sure many others, as I continue to journey down this rabbit hole that is the unsupported style.
What is the Mid State Trail (MST)? As the name suggests, this is a route that runs through the middle of PA from the Maryland border to the New York border. While you can feasibly start in either direction (north to south or south to north), I chose to travel northbound starting at the MD border. Much of the trail traverses technical terrain, State Game Lands, private property, State Forest Land, and you even get to pass through a couple State Parks (always a treat). The trail as a whole has about 55K in elevation gain, which I would consider moderately challenging without any other context. When considering the terrain, distance, and the window of time to complete the trail – very challenging. While some sections are very well trafficked and maintained, other sections are very remote, strenuous to get to, and difficult to maintain.
Why – why set the unsupported fastest known time on the Mid State Trail?
The short answer is – because I believed it needed to be done. The longer and more accurate answer is actually very personal, not fully understood even by me, and more than I plan on sharing here in this blog. So, here is the middle answer:
I struggled with a mental health diagnosis from a young-ish age. It pretty much ruled my life on and off, but mostly on, from age 13 until my mid-twenties. That’s when I discovered hiking. I had just moved in with my parents at age 25 and was looking for purpose in the world around me. Having grown up in a rural area, I found joy while playing “imagination” in the woods next to my childhood home. There was magic in exploring the natural world, and I needed that magic back in my life again. I started exploring the local hiking trails, which included Rothrock State Forest. This is where I saw my first trail runner, and also my first backpacker, as they traveled along the Mid State Trail. This caught my attention and didn’t let go. I dove in head first (almost literally…but that’s a story for another day) and set out to complete my first backpacking trip, solo, on the MST. It was a trip full of mistakes, talking to living and nonliving things that couldn’t talk back, and so much learning. I was HOOKED.
Over the next few years I would dive deeper into the backpacking world. I met my now husband, and we thruhiked the Appalachian Trail together in 2019. Around the same time, I was discovering the joys of trail and ultra running. Through the trail running community, I met many friends who would play a role in this FKT later.
In 2020, a friend of mine (Eric Idiot Runner Kosek) was in the process of completing his supported FKT on the Mid State Trail. I had taken some time off work to meet him and run a small section with him, which just so happened to be part of the section where I completed my first solo backpacking trip back in 2016! At some point that day, the idea of the unsupported style came up. This sounds like something I can do. I had just completed the Appalachian Trail, and thought I knew a thing or two about back-to-back long days carrying weight across difficult terrain. Yeah, I could do that. Just give me some time to reduce my pack weight. Lol. Boy was I in for a treat.
The 5 Year Lead Up
I spent the next 2 years “training” and dialing in my gear to be ultra light. Looking back, I can now see that I could have used some advice, but I was enjoying the process of figuring things out on my own. In 2022, I believed I was ready for my first attempt. I reached out to Bob Stewart (current record holder) to let him know I was going for the overall record. He was super supportive and excited for me, which is what I love about this community! However, in 2022, I was not yet mentally or physically prepared for the challenge. By day 4, the pain in my hips was so terrible that I hadn’t slept more than 1 hour per night and lost all my drive to continue. I quit around mile 143 after about 80 hours.
By 2024, I had hired a coach (Sayard Tanis Coaching) and completed numerous fastbacking training efforts on the Mid State Trail. I had completed each part in sections and scouted everything. I was ready to do this!
But nope, once again, I was not quite ready. I pulled the plug around mile 147 about 72 hours in. I moved faster and stronger through tougher conditions as the trail was very overgrown and it rained for the first 48 hours. Other than my emotional state, all the facts indicated I was doing well. I have my own theories on what went wrong, though, and it meant I had some work to do. The very moment I got off trail I was ready to try again. Over the next year I would hone in my training on the strengths and weaknesses that the first 2 attempts helped me to identify. I signed up for two more ultra trail events, the Jigger Johnson 57 miler and the The Wild Oaks Trail 112 miler, which would each test me in different ways while being moderately unsupported.
The Story
At 5 pm sharp on April 25th, 2025, my husband drives me to Maryland, where we stay in a hotel for one last night indoors. I’ve found a room and a town with local restaurants about 50 minutes from the official MST trailhead. The plan is to grab dinner in Hagerstown and head to the PA/MD border early to start at 9 am sharp.
Day 1 (April 26th, Saturday)
We arrive at the corner before the trail begins around 8:40 am, and I begin double-checking all my gear. My devices are charged, the pack weighs in at 29.07 lbs (food ~15 lbs, water 2 lbs, gear 12 lbs), and I am ready to go. Over the course of the next 7 days, I’ll be eating that food making my pack steadily lighter as I become more tired. I wonder how much those two variables will balance each other out? Will the pack feel just as heavy relative to my exhaustion? Only one way to find out. There’s a minor snag in my plans as I realize my new GPS tracking watch (Coros Pace 3) no longer offers a battery saving feature I’d used in the past. It dawns on me that I’ll need to use the standard GPS tracking feature, which requires more battery power… meaning I’ll need to conserve power on all other devices. Okay, not great, and not as planned. Worse will happen. Deal with it.
9 AM - GO TIME
As I settle into Day 1, I make a mental note of the growth along the trail. It doesn’t appear to be recently maintained, but it also isn’t growing over the trail just yet. This feels like a good sign for later when I reach the ridgelines that historically become overwhelmed by briars in May. The light rain lowers the temps a bit, and the wind feels refreshing. When I pass the trail sign, where I know a few pink lady slippers grow, I’m looking and I almost miss it. There’s only one pink lady slipper this year so far! She hasn’t bloomed yet, but I take a photo anyway 🙂 I love these weird lil thangs.
In an attempt to conserve battery power for the next 7 days, I decide to see how long I can go without using my headphones, and try not to check my phone unless absolutely necessary for navigation. I’m using the FarOut app for nav, so I’ll need my phone to stay powered the entire trip. When the urge strikes to check how far along I am, the mantra “You’ll get here when you get there” or “You’ll be there when you’re there” helps keep me centered and in the moment. I reach the third and final briar ridge and am ecstatic to see that it’s been cleared by some volunteers recently! It looks like an entirely different trail. This isn’t an easy section to get to, and I silently thank the volunteers responsible for making the trek and taking the time.
The theme for Day 1 is “Serenity.” Full of birdsong, the wind through the trees, and rain falling from leaves. In the solitude, my thoughts begin to come through in what I can only describe as a terribly executed Australian accent. I’ve been watching The Good Place before bed recently, and one of the characters has a really sweet Australian accent. I’m guessing that has something to do with it. Before long, my thoughts become words, and I’m speaking out loud to myself in the same terribly executed accent. Nothing to see here – no one to see me.
32 miles into the day, I arrive at my camp in Everett before sundown and ahead of my planned itinerary. As I set up my tent near a willow tree in Tenley Park, the only legal camping spot for miles, a cop pulls into the parking lot and approaches me. He wants to confirm that I’m the hiker who submitted the camping permit and wants to make sure I know to call 911 if there’s any funny business in the park. We briefly chat about what I’m doing, and I lightly mention that I plan to get to sleep for an early hike the next day, when I’ll be trying to cover nearly 50 miles to the next legal camping spot. He leaves me to my devices. Human sighting #1!
For this first night, I’m hoping for 4 hours of sleep. I soon discover that the weather has other hopes for me. Several times throughout the night, I wake to wind gusts way stronger than the predicted 20 mph winds. My Tarptent Pro Lite has held up through many storms, wind, and rain, but this night gives my poor lil tent a run for its money. On a few occasions, I wake to being hit in the face by the sides of my tent. The strength of the gusts makes it seem as though my body weight might be the only thing holding this structure down. Each time, I wait out the gust, then check the tent stakes. Once, I even have to get out to actually re-stake it. Of the hundreds of nights I’ve spent sleeping in a tent, this is by far the worst wind I’ve experienced—and in a town park no less.
Day 2 (April 27th, Sunday)
I wake at 2 am and rush to break camp. Be efficient, I think to myself. I’m hiking by 2:45 / 2:50am ish and following the trail as it heads through then out of town. There is a long road walk before the trail takes you back into the woods and up to a narrow ridgeline. As I make my way out of town, I’m approaching a 24/7 lotto club (one of those buildings with like, no windows, and a neon sign that says “24/7 lotto”. You know the type.). Up ahead, a car pulls into the parking lot and backs in. Okay, that’s not too unusual, I think, but my inner alarm systems are tuning in and tuning up. As I walk past, headlights flick on to shine directly on me. Okay, now that is a little unusual. Don’t love that. The driver clearly saw me and my headlamp walking up the sidewalk as they pulled in. Why would they turn their headlights off, only to turn them back on just as I walk by? Just keep moving, give no attention to this. Moments later I hear the car start up and slowly begin driving up behind me until they are just in front of me. Then they stop. A man rolls his window down, and looks at me from his stopped car, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
Facts: It’s 3:30am. I’m a woman alone on foot and this man is in a car. My alarm system is fully on and ready to wail. I don’t want to engage this guy. He’s likely under some influence and I’m not overly interested in finding out what he’s thinking. I stare back and hold my stride, shining my headlamp directly into his eyes as I approach. I’m pretty close to his car now and he suddenly states “Oh, wait, nevermind.” and drives off into the night. Who knows what he thought was happening here…but for the next few miles, a small part of me expects him to realize I am hiking the MST. Maybe he knows the trail and where it goes and plans to surprise me out there while I’m alone in the dark woods. The trail crosses about 5 utility and/or forest roads before heading up to the ridge, and he could be waiting at any one of them if my worst fears are correct.
When I finally reach the section of trail that climbs up the mountain, and am past all the utility roads, I can breathe easier (figuratively).
I’m over 8 miles in for the day, and I reach a previous bad-time memory milestone, which I’ve re-named Turtle Rock (fka Crying Rock), and I’m elevated by the thought that I’m here before sunrise. I’m moving so fast! Trying not to compare myself to old me too much, I power on. The miles move along as they do, and the day becomes sunny and warm. Winding along Maple Run, I’m calmed by the silence of the forest. Just birds, wind, and my footsteps. This is where the magic lives.
By midday – it’s beginning to get very hot and there is no leaf coverage or clouds to protect me from the direct sun. I don’t have a sun hat, which now feels incredibly silly. Assessing the tools at my disposal, I try buttoning my sun shirt all the way up. I pop my collar to cover my neck, then place my unused Shokz headphones around the collar to keep it popped. I hope I look like Dracula, I think…but probably not. I may not have a sunhat, but I do have a hat with a brim. I swivel the cap around to block the sun from my face. When the trail turns, the hat turns. This action would soon become automatic, because little did I know, the sun was not going away for a long, long while.
Note – I silently pass Human Sighting #2 walking their dog around this time, over 50 miles into the adventure.
After miles of gravel road walking, it is time to head back into the forest. I’m back to rock hopping and dodging fallen trees and minor overgrowth. I am moving along at (what I think is) a pretty good clip. Head down, cap forward, and BONK! My body is moving forward without me. My trekking poles flail to find purchase while my legs keep hiking. I look around and realize I’ve just walked headfirst into a low branch. “How ridiculous am I” I laugh to myself, as I realize how much I must have resembled a cartoon character just now. Onward I go!
Around evening, I begin to notice something wrong with my left big toe. Anytime I kick a rock, even lightly, an act that ordinarily wouldn’t phase me, I feel searing pain. It lingers for quite some time before dissipating back to a dull ache. I try to find the words to describe the pain to myself “Acid fire? Yea, acid fire.” I begin using the mantra Rhoda Smoker imparted on me during my first 100 mile trail race “Pain is just pain”. Add a “Bollocks” or an “Oh bugger” with my new Australian accent here and there and I found myself a decent pain killer.
I reach camp, Mt. Etna station, by 9:15pm ish and send an InReach (satelite) message to my husband to let him know I’ve arrived safely. I’m going to allow myself some extra ZZs tonight to make sure I have a bank of sleep for if/when the hip pain returns. When I remove my socks and shoes, I discover the source of acid fire toe pain. A large blister has formed under the toenail, lifting the nail fully off on one side. I’ve heard of this type of blister before but it has never happened to me until now. I text my coach thinking I’ll send her a picture, she’ll know what to do. I think better of that. She doesn’t need to see your toe blister, no matter how neat it looks. I still send a text asking if I should lance it but quickly realize there is no way she’s going to get this message, I have next to no reception. Two minutes later, I decide to go for it. I sanitize my knife with a lighter and lance the blister. I have a single-use packet of triple antibiotic ointment that will now have to last 5 more days as I now have an open wound on my foot. I have a few bandaids but I don’t trust them to stay on alone, so wrap it all in leukotape to make sure everything stays put. I set my alarm for 3:15am, charge my watch, phone, etc for the following day and hit the hay.
Day 3 (April 28th, Monday)
4 AM start. I make it to Rothrock State Forest just as the sun is rising. It is so peaceful that I turn my headlamp off to hike in the dusk light. I watch and listen as the world wakes up around me. The trail turns right, leaving the forest road and heading into the woods, where I need to stop and filter water for a 20 mile water carry. Typically I would carry 2L of water for that mileage but I don’t love the idea of lugging 4.4 lbs of water. I drink .5L right off the bat and decide to make 1.5L last. The infamous rocks of Rothrock State Forest start really showing their face at Spruce Knob, which is fast approaching. Then it’s rocks, rocks, nothing but rocks for the next 30 miles or so.
I know I won’t be able to cover as much ground today but I have other goals for this day. 1.) don’t cry, 2.) don’t fall on the rocks and 3.) keep moving. Everything seems to be locking into place the past couple of days and I need to keep that momentum going. The Mid State Trail through Rothrock isn’t just all rocks. It also provides plenty of wonderful views from the ridgeline. It’s actually a really cool section when you’re not trying to speed along with too little sleep and about 100 miles on your feet. Even then, it’s pretty neat. I’ll be passing through the area where this all started, the trail that introduced me to backpacking and gave me the fever to keep exploring. In other news, as I continue the 30 odd mile march along the rocks, I realize that lancing my toe blister was definitely the right call. I can kick rocks as much as I damn well please (and I do).
By noon, I’m a full marathon in for the day and reach Metz Manor (109 miles total). This is officially the end of the long dry stretch and I can refill my water bottle. I decide to take a 15 minute nap by the creek to try and recover my energy, which started waning a few miles back. No tree coverage and no clouds again today. While I felt super hot during the hike, as soon as I stop moving, my body starts to shiver uncontrollably. I close my eyes and elevate my feet but don’t sleep a wink. I decide it was enough to just rest my mind and body and pack up to continue, but I’m still feeling a bit off. For the second time in over 100 miles, I turn on my music and listen to the playlist that helps me tap into the “animal mode” and rage run, as I like to call it. Very cathartic. As I’m singing obnoxiously outloud to myself, I see another human – Human Sighting #3 – on a bike as the trail crosses a gravel woods road. He looks at me. I give a quiet head nod, pretending I wasn’t just yelling obscenities at the top of my lungs, and run away down the trail until the rocks force me back to a hike. As the sun starts to set, my energy shifts back into high gear and I can run more. After a long day of hiking on rocks, it feels like heaven to use my muscles slightly differently and on pine needles and soft dirt. Moments like this are what keep me going when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. The tide can change, just like that.
I reach camp well before sundown (around 7:30 pm) and I’m ecstatic. The camp is perfect, and I’m excited to fall asleep with the forest as the sun sets. All my goals are achieved! No crying, no falling, and I kept moving minus one 15 min rest. I’m nearly 123 miles into the trek and it’s time to get some Zzzs. But sleep does not come easily. The hip pain has joined the journey. I review my stash of Tylenol and Advil and am horrified to realize that I am considerably under-stocked. I will need to hold off on taking any pain relievers / anti-inflammatories each morning until nearly halfway into my day. I could then start taking “half doses” (one pill instead of two). This would allow me one full dose of Advil just before bed— hopefully enough to help me sleep.
Day 4 (April 29th, Part 1 & 2)
Part 1:
I start hiking by 2:30 am and have big plans for today’s mileage. I hope to cover 56 ish miles. This is the day historically where everything unravels for me, so I am determined to break old patterns. I collect hundreds of spider webs through the rhododendron sections here but I have a handy-dandy-spider-stick-trick (waiving trekking poles in front of me) which helps. Then again, do spider webs give you armor skin? Isn’t that how spider man’s web works? I really should learn more about spider man. I reach Penn-Roosevelt State Park while still dark, then follow the trail as it climbs back up to the top of the mountain to meander through mountain laurels. I had just covered this section a few weeks ago, and it is all fresh in my mind. As I cover those miles again, memories of the book I was listening to last time run through my mind. This is why I love audiobooks on the trail, especially trails I visit often. It’s like the trail is my library, and I can pick up my stories along the way.
Nearly 11 miles in for the day and my mood starts to drop again. I make it 2 more miles before allowing myself a 5 minute rest instead of 15 min. The goal for today is big miles and don’t fall apart. I need to hold it together. The next section is so pretty, but it’s also long and a lot of the same. It feels like highway hypnosis, but for trail. I try listening to a podcast about birds and cannot focus on it for the life of me. I ordinarily would have loved this episode, but instead I find myself arguing out loud with the hosts like a madwoman. As my mood plummets, my pace begins to follow suite. When I try to run, my legs aren’t responding. I decide to stop once again, only a few miles from the last stop, and this time give myself the full 15 minute “nap”. And maybe a caffeine pill.
This time the rest takes and I begin to run. I cover nearly 8 miles of mostly running. My pack is still over 23 lbs, but I am listening to my rage run playlist and I am focused on only one thing. Get out of Poe Paddy state park. Three years ago on my first attempt, I had quit and exited the trail at Poe Valley State Park. I was humbled and totally wrecked. I hadn’t slept over an hour in 4 days, and was defeated. One attempt #2, last year, I passed this point of the trail and began to lose control of my emotions almost immediately. I started to cry uncontrollably and I couldn’t place why. My brain decided it was because I couldn’t do this. I was not cut out for this type of challenge, and I was silly for trying. I wandered around Poe Paddy State Park, only 5 miles further than on my previous attempt, until I found someone to help me call home. The moment I got off trail I realized my mistake, and knew I’d be coming back. Sometimes I feel as though the trail holds parts of my self just like it holds my stories. I was picking up old me along that section of trail from last year, and I didn’t yet realize I’d need to leave her behind.
Time to break those old patterns. I give a small salute to the sign at Hunter Trail, where I quit on attempt #1. I don’t linger. I run the entire ridgeline, jumping over rocks, and refusing to think about anything except my footfalls. I stop near the trail register at Big Poe Rd to filter more water and dunk my head in the creek. It is getting very hot, and the creek feels refreshing, but I must keep moving. This is where I lost control of myself on attempt #2. As I run past the park, memories of old me flash briefly through my mind. I shut them out and keep moving. My pace is waning, but I refuse to stop until I’m on the other side of the tunnel that leads out of the park and onto the rail trail. And then I’m there— I’m through the tunnels and farther than I’ve ever gone before. I celebrate quietly and briefly. I still have over 150 miles to go— I’m not even halfway yet. I find shade on the other side of the tunnel and lay out my sleeping pad for a 15 minute rest.
15 minutes later, I’m packing up and getting ready to hike again, when I notice a bulge under the bandage on my big toe. I poke it. It doesn’t hurt, but there is a noticeable squish. I remove the leukotape and bandage to find an even larger blister now formed at the base of the toenail, but this time not underneath and I could easily see it to lance it (bonus). Minor toe surgery part 2 commences. Mid surgery, I’m lancing my blister when a guy walks out of the dark tunnel and says to me “I never knew my footsteps were so loud”. I look up from my seat on the ground, knife in hand, chuckle, and return to gently guiding puss out of my foot. Human Sighting #4.
With that new challenge handled, I’m off to uncharted territory in the world of Erica’s fastpacking experiences. I’m farther than I’ve ever gone before in such a short amount of time, and I’m more trained than I’ve ever been. Let’s go.
Today would reach 85 degrees, and I’ve spent more time training in freezing rain than I have in temps over 50 degrees for the past 6 months. I do not feel physically or mentally prepared for this, but I’ll have to find a way to be. I push until it affects my pace, then adjust my plans accordingly.
The trail climbs and climbs and my mind is unraveling. My thoughts are pin balling around in my mind. It’s too hot. You’re doing great. Why is it so hot. Keep moving, you’re moving well. I need to get away from this sun. No crying, you’ve made it this far. No crying.…on and on the cycle continues for seemingly hours. I yell at the sun “Stop touching me!” and roar at the forest in anger. I start speaking out loud to soothe myself. All the while, I feel an overwhelming urge to tear my skin off just to stop feeling the sun’s rays, as if that would provide any respite. It all feels quite dramatic, but I’m also over 150 miles in, haven’t slept more than 9 hours over 3 nights, and the sun has been beating on me for 14 hours straight for 3 days in a row. The conditions are a bit dramatic.
155 miles and 79 hours into this adventure, I finally break a little. Sobbing uncontrollably for the next 2-3 minutes, I hike as fast as I can with clouded vision. I finally find the only evergreen tree left on the planet and pounce on the little spot of shade. I set up my sleeping pad for a much needed 15 minute rest. It was as my whole body took a sigh of relief the moment I was off my feet.
The next miles swim by in a heat haze, but the day is cooling slowly once 5 pm comes and goes. I pass the halfway point, then I reach Pine Creek Shelter around 7:15pm. I stop at the shelter and take a quick minute to plan out the rest of my night. I’m hiking away from the shelter when suddenly I feel an atmospheric shift. I turn and peer up at the sky behind me. It’s as dark as night. Within seconds, gusts of wind are raging through the tree tops and branches are falling around me. I run back to the shelter thankful that of all places, I am here. My husband calls to tell me that my mom just called him, and wants to know that I am okay. She lives just 20 miles west of here, and the storm (a qualified weather event) had come through just minutes ago taking out multiple trees in their neighborhood. I decide to take a 90 minute rest in the shelter to wait out the storm. The storm is quick and brutal, and I just happen to be at the only shelter for 80 miles in either direction. I feel a strong sense that the universe is looking out for me in this moment.
Part 2:
By 10:30 pm I am hiking again and heading to my next camp for the night. It is so refreshing to hike in the dark and enjoy the cool weather! I arrive just before midnight and set my alarm for a short sleep.
I do not sleep well.
Day 5 (April 30th, Wednesday - Thursday)
With my broken sleep, I snooze my alarm for the first time of this adventure. I don’t get moving on the trail until 4:08 am. This is the latest start so far, and I try not to think about what that means. It means I could be hiking long into the night again to make the 50 miles I hope for.
Despite the late start and broken sleep, I move along at a consistent run. My pack is now just under 22 lbs and the trail is pretty smooth into Raymond B Winter SP. The sun starts to rise as I approach Sand Mountain Fire Tire and I notice once again, someone had been through to cut back all the mountain laurel. Yay! I run downhill thinking how great it feels to use these different muscles and land on my feet just a bit differently. I stop briefly at White Deer Creek, where I had hoped to make it last night, and take a 5 minute rest to elevate my feet. Continuing towards I-80, I see a female turkey and remember seeing a large male turkey glide down this same gully a couple years back when I was scouting… I wonder if they know each other.
The miles keep ticking by and I reach White Deer Hole Creek, 15 miles in for the day. I filter water, change the bandage on the big toe, where I find a third blister to lance and re-treat. With the heat of the day fast approaching, I decide to put my dry socks on my feet and secure my wet socks to the top of my backpack to dry out in the sun while hiking. Another bonus of the sun, I tell myself. The trail then steadily climbs towards North White Deer Ridge. Along this ridge I hear a motor running in the distance. As I approach I slowly put together that it’s the sound of a weed wacker. I’m suddenly excited, thinking I’ll get to meet a trail volunteer. When was the last time I talked to another human? Sure enough, I meet Ed, the Mid State Trail Association president. He is clearing mountain laurel from the trail. We talk briefly and I explain that I’m attempting the unsupported fastest known time. I’m so thrilled to talk to someone other than myself that I have to force myself away. As I run down the trail away from Ed, I’m struck by how incredibly unique that moment was. Human Sighting #5.
Now noon, the heat is building once again for the day. I’m super excited as I remember that I packed a small towel knowing that it might be hot! I was so focused on my goal to make it through the day yesterday that I completely forgot this little detail. I dip the towel into the water at Ravensburg State Park and drape it around my neck. Hopefully this will cool down my core temperature to avoid overheating like yesterday. I am happy to be reaching the mountains near Zindel/McEllhatten, where I spent a lot of time exploring over the past 8 years. I hope to make it all the way to Henry Run, 8 miles away, before stopping again. I put in an audiobook to pass the miles. Time to climb!
25 miles in for the day, I pass the Old Prohibition Still site where I’d camped a couple years ago during a scouting trip. I remember arriving here in the dark and looking around at all the standing dead ash and evergreen trees, thinking, “Good Lord, I’m so glad it’s not a windy night”. Now the site is littered with dead trees. One of the dead trees that I was especially concerned with on that past night had since fallen. It is now laying right where my tent had been. Yikes. As I climb up away from this “camping” area, I pass a second trail volunteer. He is carrying a chainsaw, so I thank him for clearing the tree less than a mile back that looked freshly cut. He asks me if I’d seen any blow downs through Ravensburg, and I say no. As I walk away, however, I realize – I actually have no idea. For the past 5 days I’d just been plowing through, over, and around any/all blow downs as if they were just another part of the trail. The only reason I noticed the one he’d recently cut is because I love the smell of fresh cut pine. I hope my response didn’t lead him wrong! But I don’t have time to turn back. Human Sighting #7.
By 2 PM, I’m nearly 200 miles into the adventure and having my 2nd meltdown on Ramm Rd. I set up my sleeping pad in the small ditch off the road to rest and recover. The sun is already driving my bonkers, and it isn’t even the hottest part of the day yet. When I reach the next water stop, I dunk my entire sun shirt into the creek and put it back on…my body goes into a brief shock as the cold fabric clings to my skin. When I begin to hike, though, I am in heaven.
Within 1-2 miles, my shirt is bone dry again from the heat and beating sun. I reach Henry Run and take another break to rest, dunk my shirt in the creek, and apply sunscreen. While there isn’t much shade in the forest at all, there will be even less now as I walk the roads and rail trails through McElhatten. I run as much of this as I can to get through and make up time. I wonder what the passing vehicles, construction workers, and dog walkers on the rail trail think of me. I don’t know what I look like anymore. My hat swivels with the sun, my hair sticks out in who knows what directions, and at this point, even I can smell myself. I lose track of my human count here as well, but no one tries to talk to me.
The day cools as I reach the end of the road walks and climb out of the town of Woolrich. My foot pain is beginning to rival my hatred for the sun. Thankfully the sun is going down and I am back on dirt trails to soften the blow of each step. I hike into the night.
Around 9 pm, 210 miles in, I call my husband. I’m having a hard time staying awake on my feet and I’m hoping he can talk me through it. He tries, but after 15 minutes or so, he tells me I sound like I’m about to pass out. We say goodnight and I stop to lay in the dirt. I hug my knees to my chest in the fetal position to reduce the pressure on my hips / lower back and fall into a waking REM sleep. I remember thinking the stars were really pretty, but I was dreaming at the same time. Waking REM is so weird. The alarm goes off and I’m once again moving and running downhill to the stream crossing at Gamble Run. There is no good way to cross this creek so I say so long to my dry shoes, walk across the creek, and start the long long climb up. Only this one climb, one long downhill, and a shortish walk along Pine Creek to reach my camp now. I’m just a few miles away. I can do this.
I earn 4 blisters in just that short stretch. I sing songs to myself to keep awake. I imagine there are campers hearing “Ironic” by Alanis Morisette echoing through the valley, and smile inwardly at the silliness of it. I finally reach camp by 12:10am and set up as quickly as I can. I barely chew my food as I fall into a spasmodic shiver episode before passing out. I leave day 5 behind around 1 am.
At 2 am, I am awake and in terrible pain. I roll around trying to find a comfortable position for seemingly hours. My mind is spinning with hourly paces, minute / mile goals, and what I’d need to pull off in order to make it to the finish before 8:39am on Saturday, May 2nd. I still believe it is within reach. I last look at the clock around 3:45am.
Day 6 (May 1st, Thursday)
My alarm (a random song from my Spotify playlist) sounds at 5am and I snooze it. At 5:10am, snooze again. 5:20am, the song “I Have Everything I Need” by Trevor Hall begins to play as the randomized alarm song. My coach had sent me this song a couple years ago when I expressed concern that training was taking some of the joy away from trail running, and I was desperate to find the joy in exploring again. The lyrics:
Mmh, I have everything I need
I have everything I need
I have everything I need
Mmh, from the mountain to the sea
All of this is within me
I have everything I need
This song snaps me out of my sleepy daze and reminds me what I am out here to do. I begin breaking down camp but I’m moving slowly. I’m rolling up my tent when the tears come. The last 6 hours were so difficult on my mind and body, and I’m struggling to look forward and trust that it will turn around again. I open my phone and find the text my coach had sent me prior to starting this journey days ago.
Do this for all the versions of you that can’t. Do it for all the past versions that would never have dreamed it was possible, and the ones that dreamed it was possible but it wasn’t yet their time. Do it for the future versions of you who will no longer be in the phase where it is possible. Do it for you now, because you can! And it will be a gift you give to all the versions of yourself.
If your mind waivers, go back to the facts. Go back to the facts of your resume. Go back to the facts of all the wisdom you have acquired. Go back to the facts of all of the training you have nailed. Feed yourself facts like you would to a client or friend or stranger who you know needs to revisit the truth to recharge confidence to press on.
Go out and let your mind find peace. Following that vein of peace you will find your path, and you will continue to continue.
Her words give me the needed boost to start hiking. I’m in familiar territory now, Pine Creek Valley! The memories of old me along these trails give me a little lift as I climb out of the valley, along the ridge, back down into the valley, and repeat. I stop for water at Ramsey Run and have one of those magical moments all to myself as the sun shines through the trees and sparkles on water cascading over rocks. I wave at the water and say to it “You’re so darn pretty look at you be.” (Or something like that, it was an odd lil moment). Throughout the next several miles, I encounter prayer flags. I’ve never seen these here before, and they feel special, like they were here just for me. Thank you, flags.
10 miles in for the day, and 227 miles into the adventure, I’m bartering with myself to keep moving. I set new goals, telling myself I’ll rest when I reach them, then convince myself to keep moving when I arrive. We (me, myself and I) are in the hot part of the day now and I’m praying for a cloud. Just a couple big clouds, maybe? I’d settle for one. I continue dunking my sun shirt in every creek or water source I can find.
Finally, I reach Bark Cabin Natural Area, around mile 236 at 1:45pm. The pine needles underfoot are as close as I can imagine pillows might feel under my feet, and the dense evergreens create a cool shade from the direct sun. I am thrilled to realize I am less than 100 miles from the finish now. I’ve run 100 miles before. I really can do this.
After the misery of the previous night, I call my coach and explain that I don’t want to hit the planned mileage today as it would have me going until after midnight. I want to cut it short by about 10 miles so I can finish my hike around 10:30 and hike more in the dark after waking up. There is something very rewarding about covering 20-25 miles before noon, and I want to feel that again. She agrees with my plan and encourages me to still get up & out of camp early, 3:30am. I like that idea and decide you got it, that is what I’ll do.
A thunderstorm rolls in as I climb to Gillespie Point around 9 pm. It rains buckets. On my way up, I feel my back pain rolling in quite strongly. I take two Advil and hope for the best. The pain sticks with me all the way up and down Gillespie Mt., through Blackwell, and along the Pine Creek Rail Trail. I try adjusting the weight on my back every which way but to no avail. I even try running with my back flat as a tabletop— hunched over at a 90-degree angle. The pain lasts until the turn to climb up to Johnson Cliffs. I start up the wooden steps installed at the base of the mountain, hunched over at that 90-degree angle again, and I finally feel relief. While the climb is a total downpour, I suddenly feel alive. Each step feels strong and powerful, as if everything is clicking into place both mentally and physically.
I reach camp at Upper Stone Quarry Run by 10:30pm and set up my tent in the rain. It rains hard for hours. I know, because I’m awake. I might get 1.5 hours of sleep this night.
Day 7 (May 2nd, Friday)
At 3:40am, I’m moving again. The rain stops while I’m breaking camp, but it doesn’t matter; there’s so much water on the trail and on the trees, it might as well still be raining. It’s a slow-moving morning, which I attribute to the wet rocks and the night navigation. As I approach Stony Fork creek, the thought occurs to me that it is likely flooded. The rain stopped about 2-3 hours ago, and I’ll reach the crossing at sunrise, so I’m hopeful it’ll become passable in that much time. I mentally (but not logistically) prepare for a workaround just in case. I don’t want to spend time figuring out reroutes if I don’t have to, but I do want to be emotionally prepared for the inconvenience.
My first view of Stony Fork is absolutely terrifying. I’m grateful not to be crossing here because it’s deadly fast and entirely impassable. This doesn’t bode well for me. By 6am, I’m at the fording point, and find I have a right to be concerned. I walk the bank looking for a spot to cross but it’s hard to discern the best spot. The water is brown and too deep to see the bottom. I decide to give it a go, telling myself I’ll turn back if it gets too dicey. I unclasp my backpack so I can easily cast it off in case of an emergency. I move all my snacks and gear to higher points in my pack and secure my inReach (satellite SOS device) in my shirt’s chest pocket just in case I’m separated from my pack and need to contact someone for help. Here we go.
Attempt #1:
I start to ford, moving sideways and facing against the current. Within 3-4 steps, the water is already up to my ribcage and promises to only get deeper. I abandon this attempt and go back to shore.
Attempt #2:
Over a year ago, I forded this creek in November and found a slightly wider, shallower section a bit further downstream. I remember it being in view of the trail crossing. I move to that section and try again. I move just as before—sideways, facing against the current, one step at a time. I take one step without testing the depth with my trekking pole first, and it’s a critical mistake. The stream sweeps me up off my feet and I’m swiftly drifting downstream. I pass a boulder and try but fail to gain purchase. I pass a second boulder soon after, and this time I grasp it enough to pull myself around it. I bear hug this rock for a bit until I can position myself around it to head back to shore. There are fast moving currents moving around the boulder and more water between me and the shore, but somehow I make it back.
Attempt #3:
As terrifying as attempt #2 was, I’ve learned from it and still believe I can make it across. I move ever so slightly upstream from the second attempt and make some adjustments. Instead of moving sideways, I move diagonally forward against the current. I take no steps with my feet until the trekking pole reaches out first to test the depth so I know I can gain stability.
I succeed! Now on the other side, the adrenaline that got me here is no longer keeping me upright. I go to my knees and with my hands over my head and face to the ground, I allow myself 15 minutes to just feel everything. Then, I slowly begin hiking up the next mountain to Roland Run. I’m in a daze and wondering if the entire experience was worth it. At Roland Run, I assess the water damage to my pack and am grateful I moved all my gear to be safe from the water exposure. Everything inside my pack & pack liner is dry. I change clothes, wring out the souls of my shoes, and put my snacks back in their handy dandy location on my hip belt.
Back to it. When I finally get into service, I call my husband to explain what happened. He normalizes the experience for me by telling a story about a similar experience he had while fly fishing. It is what it is, and I did what I did, I decide. I made it across. “What ifs” be damned.
When I reach the village of Antrim, I am in rough shape. I can barely move without agony. I planned to run this section, but it takes all I have to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. My low back/hip pain is in full swing, and the sun is high in the sky, beating on me once again. I decide I’ll need more sleep if I plan to move quickly today. I stop at a creek called Robinson Steele Run and set my alarm for 45 minutes.
The typical routine continues. Highs, lows, quick rests, repeat. Around 4 pm, I’m over 283 miles into the trail and I call my husband to talk about finish times for tomorrow. I warn him that my battery life is very low, and I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to communicate the following day in order to give him updates. We settle on a 4 hour range for him to be ready for me at the end. I’m no longer shooting for the overall record, but I’m going to close the gap as much as I can. I’m not letting go of giving this trail everything I’ve got. When he asks what food or drink I’d like to have at the finish, I start to feel the excitement and reality of it all. So much of me has been dumped into this effort so far, and it was time to get this done.
The rest of the day is road walking and private property routes. My emotions get the best of me on these private property walks, where I’m either walking through a sloshy overgrown farm field, trudging through mud and cow pies, or through a completely unmaintained forest littered with downed trees and no real path to follow other than the orange blazes. Some trail cams definitely capture footage of a sweaty, cussing woman slipping and stomping through their forest that day.
I reach camp by 8 PM, and the rain is beginning to roll in. I prepare my cold soak of ramen and mashed potatoes for “breakfast” before hitting the hay. The original plan is to “nap and rally” for 90 minutes, but after the last 24 hours, I don’t think I can handle another day of not allowing myself to sleep enough. I choose to allow myself another opportunity for 3 hours of sleep. I try to charge my phone, but find the battery pack is dead. My watch has 70% charge, which I know should get me through the next day, but my phone is only at 20%. I’ll need to find a way to make 20% last me a full 35 miles of navigation.
Day 7.5 (May 3rd, Saturday)
By 12:30am, I’m eating cold cooked mashed potatoes and ramen and breaking camp. I believe I got about 2 hrs of sleep considering the pain that woke me over the last 3ish hours. It’s raining and will continue to rain for nearly the rest of the day. The trail returns to road and private property walks. At one point, I hear a couple of barred owls hooting, and then I hear sheep baaing somewhere in a field next to me behind some bushes. That’s interesting…that’s real, right?. I record the bard owls with my phone just to be sure.
I make it to Hills Creek State Park in the dark and plan to refill my water at one of the bathhouses. Unfortunately, the bathhouse is temporarily closed, surprise! I’m out of water, and the FarOut guide says I won’t see water again until Stephenhouse Run, nearly 4 miles away, and after a long climb. I’ll find a puddle, I decide. Sure enough, there’s a gutter running under the road leading out of the park, and I filter water from that. It tastes…fine.
After a long familiar climb, the trail hits a road and eventually turns left into some spruce trees before heading back down towards Stephenhouse Run. It starts to rain again while I’m hiking through the spruce trees, and I decide to stop and put my raincoat on, thinking I might get cold on the upcoming downhill. After situating the raincoat and throwing my pack back on, I turn to continue on my way. As I look around, I notice that this section of trail, which I’ve probably traversed dozens of times (I run loops here every year for a friend’s event), looks different. I chalk it up to sleep deprivation—I’m just out of it. Keep going. Then the trail dumps me back out on the road that I’d entered on. “Oh, that’s why it doesn’t look familiar. I’m going the wrong direction.”
Laughing at myself, I turn around and continue on my way, again. It’s hard to consider the finish at this point. I’m too far away in my mind. 25+ miles is still too much to contemplate and feel any excitement. I reach a fire tower and forest road, about 11 miles in for the day and 24 miles from the finish, and I lay down with my sleeping bag at first light, 5:30am. I lie there, cowboy camp style, letting my down sleeping bag get rained on (it’s a light sprinkle), not giving a single care.
As I reach Ives Run State Park, I realize I’m actually enjoying running on the squishy muddy ground. It’s a welcome break from the hard, dry ground that’s covered in rocks so much of the time. My feet are okay with this. Then come the many miles of road walking again. At this point, I’m crying 60% of the time on road walks. I wish I could listen to music to redirect my thoughts, but my phone is down to 11% battery on extreme battery saver mode. I desperately need to lay down and rest my eyes, but the rain makes that nearly impossible. Once, on the long gradual road climb up to Scenic View Campground, I actually try. I lay down in the ditch, put my rain coat over my face and close my eyes. When the first vehicle drives by, I abandon the attempt and keep moving. When I reach the top of that climb, though, it all flips. I can now feel the finish line in my veins. I start to run.
I run the entirety of Shepard Creek Road, dodging hundreds of little orange newts along the way. I hit the road—and don’t cry. I just keep running. Finally, I only have the 9 miles of trail around Cowanesque Lake! It’s a bit harder to navigate than I remember, but I still have 4% battery and can reference my FarOut App guide. By the time I reach the north side of the lake, my feet are intensely inflamed and I’m slowing down again. I’ve run 90% of the last 8 miles and it’s taking its toll. I stop to change into the only pair of dry socks I have and feel “great” for about 0.25 miles before the trail takes me through wet terrain again—bye bye dry socks.
I think about my dad and how he believes in me. I think about my mom and how she’s probably worried, but excited for me. I think about my friends and husband who are just standing in the rain waiting for me to get this over with. This is my fuel to stay strong and keep pushing.
I’m crying again when I reach the turn to leave the lake, hit the road and head uphill to the finish. I was dreading this climb for the past few miles, trying not to think of it. Now that I’m here, though, I put my head down and give it everything I have left in the tank. I run hard until I can’t—and then I run more. I promise myself I won’t think about seeing the finish line and just pushing until I can hear my friends and family.
After nearly two miles of uphill running, I round a corner—and I see them. My parents. My husband. A couple of my closest friends. They’re standing there in the rain, waiting for me, and cheering me on. My heart swells and it feels like everything I’ve pushed through has led to this exact moment. It’s beautiful and overwhelming in the best way.
I had expected to cry at the finish, but tears don’t come. What’s left is something quieter, steadier—I’m happy. I’m relieved. I’m proud. And I’m completely exhilarated.
This is the end. 7 days, 4 hours, and 15 minutes. I’ve set the female unsupported Fastest Known Time on the Mid State Trail.
What a wild adventure it’s been.
THANK YOU! To my husband, Jesse who put up with my never-ending talking, planning, and training for this effort.
Thank you Sayard, the best coach I could ask for. You just always know to say or do even from a distance. I’m so lucky!
Thank you to my parents who always believed in me even are happy for me because I’m happy.
Thank you Callie, Eric Idiot Runner Kosek, and Jess for being there to cheer me in and special shoutout to Callie, who can make any event (even cold rainy ones in the middle of BFE) feel extra special.
Thank you to all my friends who followed along on this journey and were there with me in spirit.