New year, same Long Covid
But a promising return to Sassafras and a hike I have deeply missed
Before I got Covid and developed Long Covid (LC), one of my longstanding traditions was to do a fairly intense First Day Hike to celebrate the new year. I haven’t really been able to do this since I got sick—the first couple years I was so sick and exhausted that I could manage a walk in the neighborhood at best, and last year my partner went with me to do a mild but new-to-us hike.
This year, since my baseline has been better, I resolved to do my traditional solo First Day Hike, and to return to the mountains of western Maine where I used to do these hikes. That drive is between 90 minutes and 2 hours each way, and truth be told, the solo round-trip drive was more concerning to me than the hike itself.
I laid low for most of the week between Christmas and New Years, trying to save up spoons to have the energy to go. I opted to skip Pleasant Mountain, my actual First Day Hike tradition, because it was more mileage than I’ve hiked in a long time and that on top of the driving by myself felt like too much to ask my body to do.
At first I was sad not to be hiking Pleasant, but as I considered alternatives, the perfect mountain sprang into mind: Burnt Meadow Mountain, in Brownfield.
I discovered Burnt Meadow Mountain my first six months in Maine. In the before times, I hiked it roughly every two to three months.
The trail starts almost immediately with ascent for about half a mile, where you hit a trail junction to choose the blue North Peak Trail or the yellow Twin Brook Trail. I have *always* ascended on the blue North Peak Trail and descended on the yellow Twin Brook Trail, enjoying the sharp ascent and hard work at the front and the more gradual, lingering descent. Ascents, especially hard ascents, were always my favorite part of hiking, and this trail made me fall in love with Burnt Meadow Mountain.
I’ve hiked this trail in all seasons, picking blueberries in the early summer, battling black flies in high summer, marveling at the color change and slipping on leaves in the fall. Winter is one of my favorite times to hike in general, and with a good set of poles, microspikes, and even snowshoes, I have hiked this trail even in nasty conditions.
So on the one hand, I was excited to return to an old friend who I hadn’t seen in about 4 years.
But on the other hand, the hike was deeply symbolic. I hadn’t hiked this trail since December 2019. I tried to hike it in March 2020, when the whole world had entered lockdown. That Saturday in March, I rolled up to the trail to find an overflowing parking lot (remember that time in 2020? The entire world was stir crazy and discovered hiking for a few months, and that day was the first time I saw the chaos in-person). I ended up fleeing to another small mountain in the area.
On my drive home from that hike, I identified my first Covid symptoms. This was March 2020, when there were no tests, we were told to weather it at home unless we absolutely had to be hospitalized, everyone thought it was a nasty pneumonia, and we had no knowledge that Long Covid even existed.
My life has been forever changed by that day.
So returning to Burnt Meadow Mountain on a First Day Hike—my first hard solo hike involving a roundtrip single-day drive since I got sick—felt right. It was the full circle reclamation of Sassafras, I hoped.
I was quietly very scared.
I was scared that the drive alone would exhaust me, that the sharp ascent would make me feel like death, or that I would be so exhausted by the end of it that I wouldn’t feel safe to drive myself home.
Most of all, I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to complete the hike, would have to turn around before I got to the summit. I couldn’t even mention that possibility for total devastating disappointment to anyone. I was afraid even expressing the fear out loud would somehow make it come true.
I set an alarm for 7:30 so that I could get on the road before 9, so I could give myself plenty of daylight to work with. Winter days in Maine are short. The hike used to take me about 2.5 hours but with my LC body, I had no idea what to expect. I figured the ascent would take me twice as long as normal if I didn’t have to bail on it. I was thinking the hike might take me around 4 hours. I wanted no stress to rush through it.
Getting there
Zola woke me up just before 7:30 insisting to go out, so the alarm proved to be unnecessary. Such a helpful dog.
I was excited but nervous on my drive. I listened to Grace Potter for the whole drive, lingering especially over Lady Vagabond, and visualized the hardest parts of the trail as I remembered them.
When I was a triathlete, that was a big piece of my race day prep: visualizing how the race would go, what could go wrong, how I would handle it. I mostly focused on visualizing my transitions and walking through them then; now, I visualized the pieces of the trail that are the trickiest or hardest, where I could stop to take breaks if I needed them, what I would do if I slipped or hurt myself.
I got to the parking lot around 10:15. There was one other car in the parking lot.
The ascent
My heart pounded in my chest as I began. First it was from nerves, but quickly it was from the steepness of that first half-mile ascent. I knew this part was rough (it used to be one of my favorite things—an intense start!), and I had visualized it a lot on the drive. I took several breaks to shed layers, start drinking an electrolyte drink, and to breathe.
My heart rate was high. Much higher than it used to be, pounding hard in my chest. My breathing was raspy and strained. My legs felt leaden and sluggish.
All of this I had anticipated. It’s what any hard exercise is for me now, this feeling like I am exercising FAR more intensely than I actually am, that my heart might explode at any moment, that death is not far off. (And, yes, I have been fully evaluated by a cardiologist, who could find nothing wrong. So I don’t think death is actually imminent, but my body FEELS far worse than it used to when I was doing far more intense things.)
But despite expecting it, my body’s response rattled me. My muscles burned as if I was sprinting, despite taking it slow. I kept telling myself if it grew unbearable, I would quit and turn back. My stomach dropped every time I thought about having to give up.
At the trail junction a half-mile in, I had the choice to take the longer but easier yellow trail, or the sharp, challenging blue trail I’ve always done. I stood for a moment and considered.
The yellow trail was technically easier, the ascent spread out over more distance. So physically, it would be less taxing, and I was already hurting. But it was also longer. And I had never hiked it that way, didn’t know where the tricky bits were.
The blue trail was much steeper but shorter. It was harder and more challenging, but also more familiar.
Of course I took the blue trail.
I’d done my final shakedown hike before the AT this way, carrying 30+ pounds on my back. My time in Maine had been bookmarked by hiking it. No matter how hard it was—no matter if I ended up having to turn back early because of the difficulty—it was the only trail I wanted to ascend on.
Decision made, I turned onto the blue trail and continued.
About halfway up, suddenly, there was snow everywhere and the clouds parted to let the sun in. Not a lot of snow, maybe an inch or two, but at ground level there was none and it was gloomy and overcast, so it was a stunning, beautiful moment. It lifted my spirits. I pushed on.
One pleasant surprise: my memory of the trail had not been lost in my LC brain fog. I still remembered all the quirks and tricks, the sections where hand over hand was helpful, the places that made for good breaks or rests, the scenic overlooks. My old friend was still my dear friend, despite us not having seen each other for 4 years. More worn, a bit rough around the edges from our recent storms, but hey, so was I.
It was an interesting ascent in this way. Emotionally and spiritually it felt totally fucking amazing to be back out on this trail. Physically, it was the worst I had felt in a long time. I spent 2023 largely not pushing my body so that my days weren’t overwhelmed with fatigue, and this trail was PUSHING my body.
My thighs, knees, and calves felt incredibly heavy. My heart pounded disturbingly hard. No amount of air felt like enough, and my body temp kept swinging wildly, which made figuring out my layering frustrating. Half my breaks were to put clothing on or take clothing off.
And yet…I kept going. I’d be lying if I’d say I physically felt up to continuing. I didn’t. It sucked.
But I couldn’t help but think back to the AT, to the extreme agony both feet were in for most of that hike, and how I. Just. Kept. Going.
I knew this feeling, of a body betraying me. It was a different form of unreliability and betrayal, but the feeling was similar. Slow it down, Sass. Take more breaks. Pay more attention where you’re placing your feet. Use your poles. Really pay attention here because this is an angled rock face and if you hit ice, you’re gonna go down. Use your poles. Look at that view. Take more breaks. Slow it down. Be thankful you’re out here.
A hiker passed me going the opposite way. This was encouraging—it meant I’d probably have the whole summit to myself. If I could just get there.
Somehow, far sooner than I expected, I faced the last all-rock, steep, almost climbing section. I stopped at the base of it, panting heavily, and stared up. How had I gotten here so quickly? It seemed impossible. I was elated. I also felt like my chest would explode.
Yet I couldn’t help but smile. I made it. This part was hard, but it was the best kind of hard. You can’t do it fast since it’s a lot about hand and footholds and not falling. And as I stared up at it, the memory of every previous hike here folded onto itself and over me, like a choir.
In that euphoria of success, I remembered where my hands and feet should go, where to use my poles or drop them. I grinned and slowly dragged my body up, taking twice as long before each movement to be careful.
By this point, I had shed every layer on my upper body except a long-sleeved Under Armor shirt and removed my hat and gloves. I had gotten sweaty—always a danger when winter hiking—but not so badly that I was worried about hypothermia. The sun slowly dipped back behind the clouds. As I worked my way up, I kept looking around me. I was here. I was finally back here. It was happening.
As I hauled myself up past the last rock stretch, I used my poles to push myself up and laughed outloud. I picked my way down to the spot I always sit at to have a snack, texting my partner and my bff to confirm I was at the summit safely so they wouldn’t worry.
As I sat there, looking out over a view I had missed so much, I heard a raven call from below and miraculously saw it floating on the updraft between the peaks. Aside from that, there was no sound other than the wind and my own heavy breathing.
To be back here, after so much time, with a body that functioned so differently…it was far more than I had possibly dared hope for, these last few years.
I shot a tearful video of myself and another of the view, drank more electrolytes, and inhaled some snacks. My body temp started to plummet as I sat still, so I added layers back on.
The descent
After 10-15 minutes at the summit in total, I packed up to hit the yellow trail to descend. Winter hiking in the mountains is like this: lots of push to get to the top, but then you can’t stay still for very long, so it’s a fairly short and precious moment.
I geared myself up mentally for the descent. Descents are my least favorite part of a mountain hike. In my opinion, they’re the most dangerous, since gravity encourages you to trip and fall a lot more sharply.
Despite the electrolytes and the food, I could feel the fatigue from the ascent starting to set in. With my fatigue, my cognitive abilities somewhat decline, so I knew I needed to be overvigilant in this stretch. Within the first 100 meters of the descent, I slid on a patch of ice and almost went down. I paused and surveyed what I could see of the trail below me. Microspikes still seemed a bit like overkill, but I needed to pay better attention.
Here, too, my memory of the trail was intact. I remembered the slippery rock faces that sometimes required spikes, the places I should climb down backwards. As I passed each hurdle, I checked them off in my head. Many of these were places I had slipped or tweaked something when I was far fitter and healthier, and I approached them now with an even more heightened sense of caution.
My vigilance paid off. I didn’t slip badly or fall again the entire hike.
As I descended, more and more people passed me going the opposite direction: up. I kept thanking myself for getting up early so I could have that precious summit time without having to hear or see anyone else.
The last mile of the hike felt like an eternity, my leg muscles starting to ache with fatigue, even my arms struggling a bit from using the poles so much to ease the burden on my legs and keep myself from falling. But this, too, wasn’t a surprise: the last mile always felt long. I knew this. I expected it.
Getting home
At the parking lot, I texted again to let folks know I was safely done, changed my socks and shoes, and delightedly put on my seat warmer as I started the car. I wanted to weep for joy. I had done it. And in slightly under 3 hours—so despite all of those breaks and feeling like death, I didn’t hike it significantly slower than I used to!
The drive home was somewhat harrowing. I was euphoric but definitely totally wiped. I was worried I would fall asleep at the wheel or get into an accident. I tried to sing a lot to keep myself awake, stopped to get gas, and even refused to stop and pee the last 30 minutes because the discomfort helped me stay awake.
After I got home, I took a very long, very hot shower and then proceeded to alternately sleep and eat the rest of the night.
Final thoughts
Now, four days later, I’ve had time to really sit with the experience. (I’ve also had three days of still feeling completely and totally wiped, which got worse before it got better; two days where my throat, voice, and lungs felt like someone ran them through a cheese greater; some insomnia despite extreme fatigue; and extra cognitive struggles.) The recovery has been rough, but I expected that.
I keep replaying the video from the summit and tearing up each time. I did that. The ascent sapped me of all my energy and I still had to survive the descent and the drive home. It was incredibly hard. But those were tradeoffs I knew I’d be making, and I did it anyway, and I was overall okay (by my current standards). I did it.
On so many levels, 2024 is the year of Sassafras being back. And I can’t think of a better way to show that to myself—or the rest of the world—than this triumphant return to Burnt Meadow Mountain.