THE ROAD TO DENALI
The first sign of trouble was a loud hissing sound, followed by a series of rapid-fire cold blasts to my legs. The canister had punctured on impact, and a delightful mini-jet plume of “nonlethal” mist whirled it around like a festive top as we unsuccessfully hopped around to avoid the burning spray. We were on the road to Denali.
My personal road to Denali actually began 24 years ago in 1997 – long before I started distance running – and 3,611 miles away at Badwater Basin in Death Valley National Park. In the years leading up to my personal quest, I had become a decorated US Navy Search and Rescue swimmer, flight instructor and wildlife conservation pilot. While those jobs had been exciting for an adventure-seeking 20-something-year-old, they also came with crashes, close calls, and lost shipmates and friends. Those events and losses apparently had been creating little ticking time bombs that started detonating one jet-black winter night while I was flying a low-level poaching enforcement flight. Although I would not be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) until later, I knew then that experiencing debilitating panic attacks while speeding above treetops at night was not sustainable. So, I reluctantly left a career in aviation that
