We Don’t Have To

The year had already hit 80-degrees Fahrenheit. I’d just had a conversation with my boss involving rattlesnakes. How, on a six-hour patrol the previous spring, I’d nearly stepped on three that blended in with the leaves. 

I’m a Backcountry Ranger for the Bureau of Land Management. Whenever mentioned, the question that inevitably arises in peoples’ heads, whether it’s asked or not, is, “What the hell’s that?” 

The answer: no one knows.

Part of the job is “monitoring.” Patrolling areas that haven’t seen employee footsteps in a long time. Essentially black spots on our map. Where I live, a gushing spring of the previous century, today, is often a dry, intricately cracked depression. Recording these is a little game I made. It brings purpose to my otherwise aimless life. 

Searching for one at the head of a canyon was the day’s game. But I had to get to it first. Not always easy. I was attempting to reach it from above, which required raking through a lot of vegetation and tearing my clothes and cussing. A good sign for the spring. 

I was traveling through leaves. Remembering the conversation with my boss, I froze. And where my foot would have touched, had I kept going, over on the opposite side of the canyon, was a crunch. 

A large animal. 

Deer poop littered the ground. And I remembered ranchers have permits for the area. So, I figured it was a deer. Or, a stray, feral cow. Neither of which I was all that excited about running into in the bottom of a narrow canyon. 

Alright. Hang out, I thought. Give them time. 

*

Everyone agrees the coolest thing I’ve done (outside of having been Blake Shelton’s stepbrother), is once, guiding three clients in Denali, Alaska, I fended off an attacking bear.

That’s badass, everyone says.

Then, they hit me with the questions. 

It’s like I’m a celebrity. So, I answer in ways that leave out key information. That way, they’ll beg for it. 

Even you, reading now, want nothing more than for this sentence to veer toward Blake Shelton. The bear. But it’s not going to.

This one, either.

The trick to making anything—an essay, road trip, a life—worth participating in, is easy. Just make happen what the previous sentences made happen. The human mind is an energy-hungry machine. And every stimulus is kept at a passive arms-length. It’s like our switch is flipped to “standby,” until it’s proven something is worth burning energy for.  Danger, or novelty, are a couple of things that override that. 

*

Paralyzed, straining to hear a crunch or a rattle, anything that might signal my doom, I detected only the breeze and the sun baking the back of my neck. I imagined the thing, whatever it was, frozen—attempting camouflage—both of us in an eternal waiting game.

I began clapping. Breaking branches. Singing. Nothing.

Whatever. 

Getting to the spring required me to drop into the wash, then climb out the other side, toward the sound, before once again passing through a bunch of fucking leaves, up, into this alcove, where I’d hopefully find a damp circle with a monarch butterfly suspended in the cool air above a calcite-white perimeter. 

I made it. My relaxation lasted seconds as I noticed, in the sand, everywhere, mountain lion tracks.

*

1987 kicked off the inaugural ultramarathon eventually known as the “Badwater 135.” It takes runners through the hottest place in the United States. In July. At the same time, the possibility of not finishing a 135-mile race through a desert in July was invented. 

“Why would people do something like that?” Is a common response when people hear of it.

As of March 2025—thirty-seven years in—only two thousand, one hundred and seven people have completed the run. And not a single one had any reason to.  

Or, did they?

*

My heart rate skyrocketed. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. I felt sick. Trapped in ambush terrain. And if the noise was a big cat interested in doing anything to me, it just got a lot more stoked. Because predators know animals come here to drink. And know where they’ll exit afterward. 

Not a good place to be. 

*

On January 30, 2014, Emi Libokmeto and Russel Laikidrik, two locals on the Tile Islet, a Pacific Island ninety-six miles from the closest neighboring land mass, were shocked to discover a naked man clutching a knife and shouting in Spanish washed up on the beach. 

The man, José Salvador Alvarenga, was a Salvadoran fisherman. Before Emi and Russel found him, he’d been spending his time adrift at sea since November 17, 2012.

Why do these stories crop up so often?

No one knows.

The lesson: Don’t get in a boat with a South American fisherman. But the effect, on me, seeing the headlines, is the same as a donut addict shoved into a Krispy Kreme. 

I bite.

And, every time, scanning for juicy details about human potential, I’m left disappointed. Sure, they drank turtle blood. And clubbed frigate birds resting on their boat at 3 a.m. and punched a shark to death before eating it raw. 

Don’t get me wrong, that’s badass.

But the universal lost fisherman, if pressed—about what made it possible, how they were able to pull off what seemingly few others could—always answers: I did what I had to.

Like when a bear attacks you. 

You’re not calling the shots. 

The fisherman would gladly accept rescue if it came along. And I would have happily traded my cool story to return to a boring, bear-less hike.

And there’s really nothing special about that. 

So, I close the news article, my mind returning to “standby.”

*

After several minutes inching out to the edge of the alcove, feeling my heartbeat quicken, saying, “Just do it,” then freaking out and retreating, I eventually worked up my nerve. With no other option—reversing my steps, taking copious glances backward—I left that enclosed, vegetated, can’t-really-see-shit area.

*

In July 2000, Anatoli Kruglikov set the course record at Badwater, finishing in twenty-five hours and nine minutes. By most standards, that’s really fucking fast. So much so, it was unanimously thought of at the time to be unbreakable. 

Five years later, two weeks after becoming the first person to ever win the Western States 100-mile race seven years in a row, Scott Jurek toed up to Badwater. 

Seventy miles in, he was in a commanding lead. But by mile seventy-five, the sun literally started killing him. His body panicked, working to keep his most vital parts from overheating. He began projectile vomiting. 

He lay on the dirt beside the asphalt, listening as footfalls of more and more runners passed him by. Scott had just proven himself at Western States with what may be the most amazing achievement in ultrarunning. No one would have called him a failure if he threw in the towel. Limped to the next aid station. Awaited the chariot as medical hooked him to IVs.

Instead, he ignored the stop signals in his head. He listened to his vomit sizzle on the pavement. Sinking deeper into fear. Into the unknown. And, somehow, miraculously, with nobody holding a gun to his head, he fought back onto his feet. After a minute, he walked. Then jogged. Then ran. 

In the next sixty miles, he passed everyone, destroying Kruglikov’s record by over thirty minutes.

*

Back above the canyon, my larger plan blown, I pivoted. Found myself skirting the base of a cliff, stumbling on a series of caves about the size of a cabinet and approximately four feet off the ground. This time, looking around, there weren’t footprints. There was a bone. A big one. Sticking out of the sand right below the caves.

*

In December 2015, I lived in the Bay Area. I hocked used books on Amazon and trimmed friends’ marijuana for supplemental income. Neither of which, surprisingly, got me out much. 

I decided to go for a run.

The trail was two miles at sea level. With ample time by the coast listening to the Pacific batter rocks just below you. It was beautiful, and couldn’t get much easier. There were no hills. The substrate was nice, hard packed dirt, practically devoid of rocks. 

Piece of cake.

Like most new runners, I shot out too fast. I knew nothing about pacing or regulating my breathing. I just theoretically knew it should be faster than walking. 

With the majestic Pacific shouting a regular heartbeat and shorebirds aloft on the breeze, I was able to deceive myself into thinking it was fun. “This is great,” I said, between gulps of air. But as the trail turned inland, half a mile to go, everything inside of me was screaming to stop. I was drenched. Unable to suck in what felt like enough air. My chest burned. My temples throbbed with each quickening heartbeat.

“I’m dying!” 

I doubled over, bracing both hands above my knees. Trying to steady my dizzying vision. A concerned mountain biker asked if she should call 9-1-1.

Back at the car, I vowed to never do anything that stupid again. 

A week later, I was back at it. 

But, why?

*

In the book Breath, author James Nestor describes something plaguing office work. The result of the half-assed attention workers habitually find themselves in. Answering emails, attending Teams or Zoom meetings, jotting things down, scanning news articles, scrolling social media, sometimes all at once. “Email apnea,” it’s called. “Never focusing on shit” is another way to say it. 

Our breathing becomes shallow. Erratic. Sometimes half a minute will pass without taking a single breath. The health consequences, doctors discovered, mirror sleep apnea: high blood pressure, heart disease, heart failure, stroke.

Nestor is flabbergasted. The exact same behavior, breath holding, has been practiced since at least the first century BCE in India, as a way to reduce stress, lower blood pressure, and overall increase longevity. 

The only difference is whether the act is passive or active.

In the office, breath holding is something that happens to you because you were doing something else. It’s passive. Breath holding in India is conscious. A decision. Like dragging yourself off the ground to win a race.

*

An eyeball turned on its side. But dark. That’s what the cave looked like. I couldn't see anything past the entrance. In the bottom notch, stacked, were several fist-sized rocks. Creating a little wall. 

Odd. 

I poked my head above, and inside were more bones. 

Human ones.

*

On December 21, 2021, I tried committing suicide. 

Late that night, I pulled a standard plastic bin from under my bed. Inside were pickets, ice screws, pulleys, slings, crampons, and rope. I tied the rope to a utility hook on my bedroom wall with a bowline knot. 

Then I tied a figure eight on a bite, positioning it about a foot above my head. I placed a kettlebell on the floor below it. Using the rope for balance, I stood on the kettlebell’s handle and stuck my head through the bite of rope.  

Before I passed out, the utility hook exploded out of the wall. I would find sand-sized particles of drywall around my room for weeks afterward. 

It’s telling—how powerful thoughts are—that although I was willing to end my life, that I had all the tools and know-how to pull it off, the thought of going outside in the negative-thirty-degree night in order to do it was too much. It took my mind’s switch, which had been “on,” and turned it to “standby.”

Since then, I’ve learned a lot about driving forces. That it’s a paradox. The longer you live, the less your mind wants to engage with the world. But, in order to continue living, we must find ways to override that. You don’t have to do x, y, or z. But you should.  

It’s literally life and death. 

*

The most popular race in the United States is the 5K. Slightly more than three miles. It’s estimated about ten to fifteen percent of the population will participate in at least one within their lifetime. 

Ten percent looks like this: 0.1%

Slightly less than three percent will ever run an ultramarathon.

That looks like this: 0.0278%

*

The documentary “Hands on a Hardbody” follows an endurance event in Longview, Texas. Any participant that remains on their feet, without leaning against the vehicle, or squatting, while keeping their hands on—you guessed it—a hardbody, longer than everyone else, gets to take the truck home. 

In the film’s last moments, J.D. Drew, at sixty-four, the year’s oldest contestant and winner, sits behind the wheel of his new truck. And you hear the voice of Benny Perkins, a previous winner, say this about what the contest means to him:

“You basically learn the values of humanity, the values that you would put on another human being. Because you see other people struggling, fighting the same thing you’re fighting, wanting the same thing you’re wanting. And you see them lose, and that has value, even losing, because they at least tried. And there’s not that many triers in the world today. There’s not that many people that are willing to take a risk to do something, to stick themselves out in a position where they might get hurt. They don’t want to do that. That’s a risk. But yes, it teaches you human values. The very basic human values.”

*

I had discovered an ancient burial—Paiute, Anasazi, Hopi—a place designated as the final resting place of loved ones’ remains. It was weird. 

My heart rate increased. My breathing got rapid and shallow. Adrenaline and cortisol shot through my system. I felt scared, though there was no immediate threat. I became a puppet to these innate responses. I don’t know what the universe was saying, but twice in a short amount of time, I was in the throes of chemical reactions. Forced to engage.

*

Nowadays, I call myself “a runner.” I also say I’m “a writer.” Though, maybe there’s less evidence for the latter. The last year and a half, I’ve been ramping up distances.

Two Novembers ago, I ran my first marathon. At damn-near forty years of age. And the thought of running even one mile further after it was finished felt impossible. 

So, I immediately signed up for a thirty-four-mile race.

With the thirty-four-mile finish line behind me, I literally cried with gratitude and pride, but the thought of running even one mile further sounded very, very dumb. 

I immediately signed up to try fifty.

There’s something called reactive inhibitions. Neurons in your brain produce chemicals when your body starts working harder than usual. The chemicals tell you to quit. The symptoms of these chemicals shooting through one’s system are pretty intense. You’re unable to suck in what feels like enough air. Your chest burns. Your temples throb with each quickening heartbeat. 

Why do it, then? 

Why keep going?

The answer: you have to.

Or, maybe you don’t, but perhaps you should?

There are parallels in the writing world. A lot of shit I read feels limited. It isn’t bad. It’s boring. It doesn’t engage anything within me to read it. 

There aren’t enough triers in our sport. The fact I can think of only one—William T. Vollmann—is proof of that. Be honest, and your list would likely fit, if not on one finger, on one hand.

We’re stuck in a comfort bubble. I know, because I sat there for years. I saw my writing “succeeding,” and I became timid to try anything else. Anything different. Because I was scared to go back to being a failure.

I was on “standby.”

I’d love more people breaking past, writing shit they think is impossible. And when their body tells them stop, they don’t listen.

*

This February, I ran sixty-two miles. Last I checked, that’s a long fucking way. There’s something cool running that far teaches us. Multiple times throughout the process, you hit “the wall.” You feel like beaten shit. You want to stop.

But, if you don’t listen, you find out, eventually, the signals go away.

They always come back. But for the moment, you push into the impossible. Expand the limits of what you’re capable of. You live.

You become part of very basic human values.

In two weeks, I’m signed up to run one-hundred miles. It’s terrifying. There are signals inside of me feeding my doubt, even as I write this. There’ll be risks. A rattlesnake, or three, will tempt me. And all that’s in front of me, for now, is the near certainty of failure. 

But, I know, if I just keep going, if I make it through to the other side, what awaits is love.