{"product_id":"the-pursuit-of-endurance-isbn-9780735221901","title":"The Pursuit of Endurance","description":"\u003cb\u003eNational Geographic Adventurer of the Year Jennifer Pharr Davis unlocks the secret to maximizing perseverance--on and off the trail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJennifer Pharr Davis, a record holder of the FKT (fastest known time) on the Appalachian Trail, reveals the secrets and habits behind endurance as she chronicles her incredible accomplishments in the world of endurance hiking, backpacking, and trail running. With a storyteller's ear for fascinating detail and description, Davis takes readers along as she trains and sets her record, analyzing and trail-testing the theories and methodologies espoused by her star-studded roster of mentors. She distills complex rituals and histories into easy-to-understand tips and action items that will help you take perseverance to the next level. \u003ci\u003eThe Pursuit of Endurance\u003c\/i\u003e empowers readers to unlock phenomenal endurance and leverage newfound grit to achieve personal bests in everything from sports and family to the boardroom.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Pursuit of Endurance\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing short of inspiring . . . A must-read for anyone wanting to start working at the big dreams they have up their sleeves.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Trek\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jennifer Pharr Davis is an understated hero who matched the speed and endurance of some of the country’s best male ultrarunners—professional athletes with corporate sponsorships and well-financed expeditions—all on her own and with relatively little fanfare. A fascinating read, and a testament to the fortitude of an extraordinary woman.” \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Dean Karnazes, ultramarathoner and \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “There’s no better guide through the scientific and psychological tangles of extreme hiking than Jennifer Pharr Davis. She knows because she lived it.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Ben Montgomery, author of \u003ci\u003eGrandma Gatewood’s Walk\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Jennifer Pharr Davis eloquently reminds us that the feats of endurance we accomplish on the trail build the character to muscle through all of life’s ups and downs.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Kathryn Van Waes, executive director, American Hiking Society\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A fascinating look at how the world’s most famous long-distance hiking trail has challenged and transformed a cast of unique and diverse individuals, shining a light on the inherent gender equality of men and women pursuing the elusive Fastest Known Time.” \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Ron Tipton, former executive director of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Jennifer Pharr Davis shows us that a love for nature is not predicated on a specific speed or distance but through authentic outdoor experiences. Those of us who go outdoors are united by more commonalities than the activities that divide us, and she reminds us that all of life—and conservation—is an effort of endurance.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Chuck McGrady, president of the Sierra Club 1998–2000\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “At times reminiscent of the writings of such travel memoirists as Cheryl Strayed and Bill Bryson, this inspiring work could become a regular companion for distance hikers or, indeed, for anyone embarking on a personal challenge.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “[Jennifer Pharr Davis’s] natural storytelling ability and a charming cast of characters in the form of spirited hiking mentors make the pages fly in this accessible handbook, which reads less like a step-by-step instruction manual and more like an empowering blueprint to building one's own endurance. A captivating narrative guidebook that will inspire readers to test their own limits, on the trail and off.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Whatever stamina may look like to readers, \u003ci\u003eThe Pursuit of Endurance \u003c\/i\u003ewill prove an inspirational and educational read.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Shelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A provocative exploration into what motivates people to endure . . . Davis’s unique perspective, and the lessons she shares are applicable to personal experiences as well as athletic endeavors.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“For readers interested in hiking, endurance sports, or anyone with a strong drive to do something different. A truly inspiring read.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJennifer Pharr Davis is an American long-distance hiker, an author, a speaker, a National Geographic Adventurer of the Year, and an ambassador for the American Hiking Society. She has hiked more than fourteen thousand miles on six different continents. In 2011, Pharr Davis set the unofficial record for the fastest thru hike of the Appalachian Trail with a time of 46 days, 11 hours, and 20 minutes, an average of 47 miles a day, a record she held for four years. Pharr Davis lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with her husband, Brew, and their daughter and son, Charley and Gus.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e A Wild River Man\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If you can't beat them, you don't have to join them.\" —Warren Doyle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stooped over a thin stream seeping past clumps of dead leaves      and earth as thick as coffee grounds. My hands were grasping my      shins and my eyes were filled with tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I looked up and found myself directly in his shadow. His full      beard and round belly absorbed the rare rays of light that      penetrated the canopy above us. His presence was unmovable,      overbearing yet completely mute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Why doesn't he say anything?! I thought. Why won't he try to      motivate me or at least place his hand on my shoulder to comfort      me? I wouldn't be out here if it weren't for him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd already hiked the entire Appalachian Trail(AT) twice. But this      time it was different. This time, I was trying to become the      fastest person—male or female—to travel the 2,189-mile footpath. I      was aiming for a fastest known time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was day seven and I had already traversed almost three hundred      miles of the unforgiving yet alluring terrain. Maine—that dark,      full-bodied beauty—had taken more than her fair share out of me.      Now, just a few miles into New Hampshire, I was exhausted, filthy,      and crippled by shin splints. I longed for a quick, dignified end      to the shooting pains, the relentless discomfort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My current audience wasn't hiking with me. Instead, he had come in      by a side trail to check on my progress. I couldn't decide whether      I was grateful or angry to see him. I vacillated between crediting      him with my progress and blaming him for my near demise. At least      his presence gave me a reason to catch my breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Through heavy breathing and repressed sobs, I asked him, \"How do      you know when to quit?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a drawn-out silence. Just when I'd convinced myself he      wasn't going to respond, Warren said, \"There's a difference      between quitting and stopping.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I looked up at his backlit silhouette, then I returned my gaze to      the ground. Next to his thrift-store sneakers, he had displayed a      selection of vending machine junk food and neon-colored sodas.      None of it appealed to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Finally, I let out a deep breath filled with congestion and      unreleased emotion, picked up a purple vial of synthetic energy      elixir—the kind of unregulated ooze they hawk at gas stations—then      continued hobbling down the trail. Because we knew that if I      stopped, I would be quitting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was a week into my record attempt on the Appalachian Trail, and      with just one-seventh of the trail behind me I'd already wrestled      with the greatest hurt that I had ever felt. The pain from the      shin splints was sharp, stabbing, and hot, but the ache of      covering nearly fifty miles a day was widespread, dull, and      throbbing. It was an all-encompassing agony. I doubted I could      make it to the end of the day, let alone the end of the trail. But      with Warren by my side, I felt pressure-mostly positive      pressure-to keep going. We were two people who shared the same      questions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What was my capacity for endurance? Was it good enough to set a      fastest known time? And could I outperform all the men who had      come before me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Because I could still drag one foot in front of the other, I knew      that I had not yet found those answers. Warren's watchful eye held      me accountable to this very personal and painful scientific query.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A week earlier, I had set off from the summit of Katahdin with a      spring in my step. I descended just over five miles on a steep,      boulder-strewn path to meet Warren and my husband, Brew, at the      base of the mountain. Lots of folks wished me well, or said they      believed in me, but these were the only two men willing to drive      to the heart of Maine, a place filled with blackflies and bogs, to      begin this experiment by my side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With each road crossing Warren and Brew marked my progress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You made it here this fast,\" said Brew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You are this far behind the record,\" said Warren.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You have this far to the next road,\" said Brew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You should leave now to get there,\" said Warren.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After hiking 150 miles in three days, our team arrived at the      banks of the Kennebec River. Trying to use every minute, I decided      to ford the river. Alternatively, I would need to wait one hour to      take advantage of a canoe ferry. Steered by a seasonal employee of      the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, the canoe ferries afford hikers      a safe, mostly dry, transport across the dam-controlled artery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Warren had crossed the river numerous times on foot, so I followed      his sturdy calves into the water. His strong legs moved sideways      against the forceful current until they disappeared. Then his      waist waded past the white ripples on the surface of the water.      Soon he was immersed up to his armpits in the cold, flowing      channel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I kept my eyes on Warren and struggled to keep my toes anchored to      the large, smooth stones at my feet. Breathless from fear and the      chill of the water, I tried to stay in his wake. My sports bra      changed from a light purple to a dark violet as I forged deeper      and farther into the river. I listened to Warren as he voiced a      steady and concise refrain. \"Feet down. Feet down. Feet down.\" I      repeated the chorus in a murmuring echo, hoping to drown out the      profanities swimming through my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I noticed goose bumps on my skin as my stomach muscles rose above      the surface of the water. Soon my thighs slashed through the dark      grips of the Kennebec, and after a harrowing and invigorating      twenty-minute crossing, I stood dripping wet on the opposite      shore. My eyes turned to meet Warren's approving gaze. I smiled      and let out a half whimper, half giggle. Warren responded with a      deep, bellowing laugh. Then he struck a pose and shouted, \"I may      have the face of a sixty-one-year-old and the belly of a couch      potato, but I've still got the legs of a WILD RIVER MAN!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Here stood my ferryman: the person who had taught me the      difference between stopping and quitting, the man who believed      that I could be the first woman to set the overall record on the      Appalachian Trail, and the individual who showed me how to keep my      feet down and not get swept away by the current.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The year 1973 marked the beginning of the end of the Vietnam War.      It was the year of the controversial Roe v. Wade verdict in the      Supreme Court. The Watergate scandal infiltrated the ranks of the      White House.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Warren Doyle was twenty-three years old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was aware of the civil unrest and he was becoming a proponent      of social justice. As a child, he had witnessed his father, a      veteran of World War II, struggle to find work and support his      family. As an undergrad, Warren spent a summer volunteering in the      mountains of Jamaica. Most of the locals there lived in corrugated      metal shacks. When his mother came to visit, he refused to stay in      the hotel with her. The disparity between the wealth of the      tourists and poverty of the natives was so unsettling to Warren      that he preferred to spend the night with the homeless street kids      rather than sleep on clean white sheets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The summer after his senior year, he volunteered at a folk school      on the edge of the West Virginia coalfields, where he saw the same      type of injustice and economic disparity that he had witnessed in      Jamaica. Here he met the Appalachian poet and activist Don West,      who quickly became an inspiration and mentor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Warren was the first member of his family to attend college. After      receiving his undergraduate degree in elementary education, he      accepted a University of Connecticut fellowship that aimed to help      schoolteachers understand and implement desegregation through a      prestigious doctoral program. He was learning about society and he      was learning about education, but he still didn't know who he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I still had questions,\" he said. \"Was I a product of society or      was I an individual? I wanted to do something that didn't have an      extrinsic reward. I wanted an ultimate challenge—a cleansing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It isn't uncommon for a young adult to question his identity and      the culture in which he lives. But Warren was unlike many of his      contemporaries who were drawn to drug-infused music festivals and      social protests. As the youngest grad school student in his      program, he was an achiever, and he tried to respond to injustice      and uncertainty by excelling in his academic field.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After reading of the walkabouts and pilgrimages so important in      other cultures, Warren decided that he would hike the Appalachian      Trail. But because he didn't like to waste time or money and      because he wanted to know how much he could take-and how much he      could give-Warren decided to complete the trail in under seventy      days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Warren wasn't always driven. In fact, in middle school, he was a      mediocre student; social survival trumped academic achievement. \"I      was scared to raise my hand in class. I didn't want to stand out.      I was afraid if I knew the answers, I would get beat up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then one day his fifteen-year-old sister, Colleen, his only      sibling, developed a bad headache. Three days later, she died from      an undetected brain aneurysm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I remember my parents' grief more than my own,\" said Warren. \"I      can still see the look on their faces as they came up the stairs      to tell me the news. Their expressions were full of suffering. And      now they had to put that aside and find a way to try and comfort      me, their son, the only child they had left.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When a person is affected deeply by the passing of another, he can      choose to die, too. He can turn to self-destructive habits and let      his emotions become shriveled and cynical. On the other hand, a      grief that deep can also awaken something in a person and motivate      him to live life more fully.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I never wanted to see my parents hurt that much again,\" said      Warren. \"I vowed that I would make my life count double.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In May of 1973, Warren's parents drove him south from Connecticut      to Springer Mountain, Georgia. Recent heavy rainfall in the      Southern Appalachians had caused rivers to flood and roads to wash      out. When they stopped on their route to drop a resupply package      off at the newly built Nantahala Outdoor Center, the coursing      waters of the Nantahala River lapped at the wooden buildings on      its banks. In a week's time, Warren would need to pick up his      cardboard box filled with several days' worth of rations and      replacement gear in order to continue his journey. He left his box      of foodstuffs at the outfitter, hoping that his provisions and the      building would be there when he arrived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In north Georgia, the forest service road leading up to the      trail's southern terminus was in such poor shape that Warren      insisted his parents turn back. Without knowing exactly where he      was or how far he had to walk to reach the trailhead, Warren      buckled his pack over his blue jeans, slung a two-quart metal      canteen over his shoulder, and started hiking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Warren reached the top of Springer Mountain, his first      thought was for his parents' safety. He doubted their ability to      drive down the gravel road without incident. He envisioned the      soft shoulder giving way, his parents' car sliding off the side of      the mountain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The first three miles of his hike passed quickly as Warren worried      about his folks. But when he arrived at the Three Forks stream      crossing, he started to worry about his own predicament.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The mountain stream was swollen and the bridge had been washed      away. Warren knew he would have to ford the stream, but he didn't      want to get his new leather boots wet. When he unlaced his left      boot and heaved it into the air, it barely cleared the opposite      bank. He then removed his right shoe and threw it with even more      oomph, but the added strength caused the boot to hit a low-hanging      hemlock branch and drop straight down into the water. The current      swiftly carried it downstream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In a panic, Warren threw off his pack and plunged in, body surfing      around boulders and fallen branches until he was able to reach out      and grab the nearly submerged boot. With his free hand, he pulled      himself up on the bank. Once on terra firma, he dumped the water      from his boot and laced it up below his sopping wet blue jeans.      After navigating a maze of rhododendron branches upstream, he      finally buckled his dry pack onto his dripping body and plodded      half shod through the raging waters of the Three Forks to where      the other boot was waiting. Warren had exited the mainstream. He      put on his shoe and kept walking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the second day of his journey, Warren summited Blood Mountain      before descending to Highway 19 at Neel Gap, where there was a      small roadside store and hiker hostel. He took his boots off,      hoping against hope that they would eventually dry out, then he      used the pay phone to confirm that his parents were safe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Less than a week later, Warren found his resupply package right      where he'd left it at the Nantahala Outdoor Center. Then he worked      his way through Great Smoky Mountains National Park and over the      Southern Appalachian high points, Unaka Mountain, Roan Mountain,      and Mount Rogers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Three and a half weeks into his hike, Warren made it to      Pearisburg, Virginia. He'd come more than 625 miles. To celebrate      his progress, he went straight to the town's Dairy Queen, where he      consumed french fries, a cheeseburger, and ice cream. He felt a      little queasy, but he ordered a few more menu items for good      measure, placing them in his pack before walking back to the      trail, where he set up camp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next morning Warren woke up, broke camp, and polished off the      carton of orange juice, jug of milk, and other treats he'd been      saving for breakfast. Hiking out of Pearisburg on Route 460, he      started to cross the bridge that spans the New River.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He only made it halfway. He was suspended sixty feet above one of      the oldest rivers in the world when his stomach churned and      started cramping. He thought about turning back, but it was too      late. Maybe he could make it across if he took his time. He took a      step. Then he froze. He clenched every muscle in his body, but it      didn't matter. There was nothing he could do. Almost a third of      the way into his record attempt on the Appalachian Trail, Warren      Doyle stood on the shoulder of a bridge in Pearisburg, Virginia,      shitting himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWarren waddled back to town feeling physically depleted and emotionally ruined. He stopped at the first motel he came to and asked about a room and a shower. When the desk attendant saw him, she immediately called an ambulance. At the hospital, Warren receivedan IV, and once he started to feel better he called home with an update. When his father heard that Warren was in the hospital, he got in the car and drove south.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWarren Doyle, Sr., a toll collector on the Connecticut Turnpike, made arrangements to take as much time off as possible so he could support his son on the trail. As a parent who’d struggled financially and couldn’t put his child through college, this was a very physical way for a father to help his son. With his father’s support, Warren got back on the trail and began to make up time and miles. And with his father carrying the majority of his provisions in a station wagon and meeting him at road crossings, Warren could travel farther and more efficiently than before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt didn’t take long, however, for Warren Sr. to learn just how difficultit is to offer support on a long-​distance hike—especially to someone you love. Not only was he responsible for having the proper gear and food at hand, but he also had to navigate the unmarked forest roads of rural Appalachia with handheld maps. Even more difficultwas the emotional toll of supporting his son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Warren hit the mid-​Atlantic, the summer temperatures soared and his dad had to watch him suffer through oppressive heat.The triple-​digit temperatures and suffocating humidity made it hard to eat and sleep. Warren struggled to balance his electrolytes, but he sweated so much that it was difficult to take in the right amount of fluids and salts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn one scorching afternoon, Warren came to a road crossing inthe Wallkill Valley of New Jersey. His father was waiting for him. As soon as he saw Warren walk out of the forest, he brought out a bag ofice from the cooler in the back of the station wagon. He offered the dripping bag to his son, who was now hunched over in the passenger seat with the door ajar. “Why don’t you stop and take a rest? A day offwould help you get your energy back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithout hesitation Warren looked up, and with sweat dripping from his forehead and ice running down the back of his neck, he replied, “Dad, you need to \u003ci\u003epush\u003c\/i\u003e me right now. I need to be \u003ci\u003epushed\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he handed his dad the bag of ice, took up his pack, and started hiking away from the car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe northern latitudes and increasing elevation provided a welcome respite from the oppressive heat. As he climbed Mount Greylock in Massachusetts, he noticed the forest changing temperature and color. The chartreuse leaves of the deciduous trees gave way to dark evergreens and emerald ground moss. He breathed in smells of spruce and fir. His legs felt strong and his feet felt swift.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he reached the summit late in the day and started his descent into Vermont, he could see the sun setting over the Green Mountains before him. He kept a small transistor radio clipped to his pack, and as he strode gracefully down the dimly lit trail, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony began to play. His gait increased with the music and he started to see how long his foot could stay suspended in the air before touching the ground. It felt like flying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I leaped as I had never leaped before. The moment was filled witha vision of hope and the strength of athleticism that comes hand and hand with struggle.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe paused momentarily as he recounted the story, “I remember thinking: Isn’t the distance wonderful?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was his intrinsic reward. This is what he had come to the wilderness to find. He had obtained an answer and embraced a feeling that was made possible by a grueling journey, one that questioned his make‑up and tested his resolve. He knew he could never experiencethis joy—this nirvana—without suffering through a gut-​wrenching, soul-​searching inquisition.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter befriending adversity for sixty-​six days, Warren reached Baxter State Park, climbed the last mountain—Katahdin—and set the fastest known time on the Appalachian Trail. He left with a greater sense of self and a different perspective on society—an outsider’s view.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“After that, there was no going back,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, he would question everything—and everyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI first met Warren in 2004. I was nearly the same age he was when he set his record. But back then I didn’t know that the Appalachian Trail had records or that Warren had set one. I was just out of college, and despite my having zero backcountry experience, there was an immutable innervoice that said I \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e to hike the Appalachian Trail. In an effort to acquire some last-minute skills before my departure date and to assuage my mother’s fears, I enrolled in the Appalachian Trail Institute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWarren had founded the institute fifteen years earlier in order tohelp aspiring thru hikers—individuals who hoped to hike the entire trail in a calendar year—accomplish their goal. Since Warren’s first thru hike and successful FKT (fastest known time), he had returned to the trail time after time with the goal of completing the entirepath. And every attempt had been successful, in spite of the fact that the overall completion rate on the AT hovered just above 25 percent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt baffled Warren that only one out of four hikers who started the trail would complete their journey. In his mind, the low finishing rate was caused by poor emotional and mental preparation. Most aspiring backpackers spent countless hours sitting behind a computer researching gear, but they neglected to train their brain for the challenge of being in the wilderness—and away from home—for months at a time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is easier to debate the merits of a down sleeping bag versus a synthetic sleeping bag than it is to process the reality of shivering all night when the temperature drops below the chosen bag’s comfort rating, or to conceptualize the discomfort of the wet and matted stuffing draped over your body after rain leaks into the stuff sack, or to consider the rank smell of sweat and mold that will seep out of the fabric regardless of how many times you wash it. Selecting a sleeping bag is easy; using it for five months is hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy first morning at the Appalachian Trail Institute, Warren pulled me aside after the initial classroom session and said, “The AT will change you.”","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300773122277,"sku":"NP9780735221901","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735221901.jpg?v=1767741121","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-pursuit-of-endurance-isbn-9780735221901","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}