6 a.m.

My wife Emily and I arrive at Davenport Gap in the dark. Here the Appalachian Trail enters the northeastern edge of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and here is where I will begin a 72-mile run to promote clean air in these polluted mountains.

I stuff down a few vegan muffins made especially by my wife and crew chief, Emily. Then I kiss her goodbye and begin running the white-blazed AT. The tallest mountains and steepest climbs on the AT are found along this 72-mile section. The first five miles include over 3,000 feet of elevation gain. I climb steadily through the morning fog, reaching Mount Cammerer around daybreak.


8:45 a.m.

I cross the Snake Den Ridge Trail junction, about 12 miles into the run. So far, it’s been almost completely uphill. Many sections are choked with vegetation; some sections are so overgrown that six-foot-tall tendrils of blackberry brambles criss-cross the trail. One thicket trips me and sends me face-first into the rocks.


10 a.m.

I ascend Mount Guyot and wind through scenic cloudscapes of the Smokies. It feels great to be so completely alive amid all of this beauty. I refill my water bottles from springs trickling along the trail and eat my first energy bar.

11:30 a.m.

Ultra-running queen and good friend Anne Riddle meets me around mile 22 and runs the rest of the way to Newfound Gap. In my excitement to see her, I forget to re-fill my water bottles at nearby springs, and run the next six miles parched and dehydrated. But I don’t really notice. Anne’s good spirits keep me feeling great, and she helps me maintain a comfortable, steady pace. Finally we reach the Ice Spring Shelter springs at mile 28, where I gulp down cool mountain water.

1 p.m.

I arrive at Newfound Gap. Supporters and Canary Coalition Executive Director Avram Friedman meet me at the trailhead and welcome me to Mile 31. The bustling parking lot is filled with hikers and tourists, many of whom are milling around the Canary Coalition table. Also at Newfound Gap are Asheville runners Randy Ashley and Scott Bowers. Randy, a two-time Olympic Marathon Trials qualifier, is a running hero and a long-time mentor; Scott, president of the Asheville Track Club, is a loyal friend who has helped promote the run and been incredibly supportive of my efforts. Randy and Scott help me prepare for the next 8-mile section to Clingmans Dome, which they will run with me. Emily, meanwhile, spreads a bonanza of fruits and carbohydrates before me: fresh strawberries, peanut butter sandwiches, soy ham and cheese sandwiches, pretzels, defizzed Coca-Cola, and more of those delicious vegan muffins.

I reload, relube, and return to the trail with Scott and Randy at 1:30 p.m. The sun has broken through the clouds, and the afternoon is heating up quickly.


2:30 p.m.

The climb to Clingmans Dome gets steep. At 6,640 feet, it’s the highest point on the Appalachian Trail. Randy and Scott help me run the flats, occasional downhills, and a few of the moderate ascents. I walk the steeper, longer climbs. Along the way, Scott asks thought-provoking questions that keep my mind off the heat and hurt, while Randy entertains us with inspiring stories — and a few lewd, obscene, and outlandish ones — to keep us going.

3 p.m

I’m starting to feel lightheaded, and I notice my breathing is shallow. It hurts to breathe in deeply. I attribute it to the high elevation and keep cranking up the mountain. Unprepared for the ruggedness and steepness of this 8-mile stretch, we do not bring enough water, so Randy runs ahead to Clingmans Dome to get us more fluids, while Scott and I trudge up the trail. Randy returns with water bottles about a half-mile from the summit.

3:30 p.m.

Once at the top of Clingmans, I guzzle more fluids and rest against a spruce tree, trying to catch my breath. Emily meets me there with more snacks, and we briefly discuss our final meeting point 20 miles ahead at Russell Field Shelter (Mile 58). I re-stock my pack with energy bars, gels, and electrolyte tablets, but in my lightheaded delirium I do not pack the headlamp. Instead, I ask Emily to bring the headlamp to the final re-supply point.

I’m having a lot of trouble breathing. My breaths are rapid and shallow, and it is difficult to breathe in deeply without coughing. With a long downhill stretch ahead, I hope that the lower elevation will alleviate my breathing problems.

A group of hikers greet us, and they are very supportive of the clean air run. “Thank you,” says the female leader of the hiking group. Her words inspire me to get back on my feet. I hobble and wheeze down the trail.

6 p.m.

My breathing problems have worsened dramatically. I’m breathing really shallow and rapidly, unable to take any kind of deep inhalation. I can’t make it up hills without walking very slowly, careful not to get my breathing too fast. I hyperventilate on a long uphill climb near Double Spring Shelter and have to sit down in the trail to catch my breath.

For the first time, I realize that I’m having an asthma attack. I later discover that the Smokies’ air pollution readings register in the oragne alert zone on this Saturday afternoon. It’s literally unsafe to breathe in our nation’s most visited national park.

The irony of a clean air run being slowed by pollution-induced asthma is quite fitting. I’ve never had any kind of asthma or respiratory problems. Yet I am clearly experiencing an asthma attack caused by dangerous levels of air pollution (Doctors later confirmed that the asthma attack was likely triggered by air pollution).

I check my map and my watch; I’m still 13 miles from Emily and Russell Field Shelter. For the first time, I begin to doubt my ability to finish.


8 p.m.

Wheezing and lightheaded, I stumble into the Derrick Knob shelter area to refill water bottles. A couple is cooking dinner over a portable stove near the shelter, and I ask them if they know anything about asthma. The husband is a phys-ed major and offers a brief explanation: Asthma causes air exchange tubes in my lungs (called alveoli) to collapse, blocking the full exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Rest and a shot of albuterol from an inhaler can restore their function, but continued exercise will likely prevent the collapsed air tubes from rebuilding. In other words, continuing to run is only going to make my breathing worse, and without enough oxygen intake, could cause me to lose consciousness.

It wasn’t exactly the pep talk I was looking for. He suggests that I breathe through a wet cloth to help re-saturate my dried-out lungs. My sweaty running singlet is certainly wet enough, and it seems to make my breathing a bit less labored and wheezy on the uphills.

But I am still almost 9 miles from Russell Field Shelter, with a brutal climb up Thunderhead Mountain just ahead. And the sun is about to sink behind the mountains.

9:30 p.m.

Slow going. Breathing still bad. Trail is tough. And in the forest at dusk, it’s difficult to see the trail beneath my feet. I stumble across the rocks and trip over exposed roots, occasionally knocking me off my feet and off the trail.

It’s completely dark now. A whippoorwill calls through the trees.

10 p.m.

I finally reach the grassy fields of Thunderhead Mountain, and a few minutes later, the exposed granite of Rocky Top. Stars shine through the gloaming. If I wasn’t wheezing and hyperventilating, I might enjoy this peaceful mountain moment beneath the stars.

In the dark, it’s hard to follow the meandering trail across the grassy bald. At one point, I wander off trail and accidentally step on some kind of small mammal, which squeals and scurries into the waist-high grass. I drink the last dribbles of water from my bottles. I try to calculate how far I am to the next shelter, but it’s too dark to read my map.

Suddenly I hear a loud crash beside me on the trail, followed by a deep growl. I faintly make out the furry outline of a bear. It runs away from me into the woods and growls again. I try to keep calm, and stumble onward along the dark trail.

10:30 p.m.

I can’t breathe. I can’t see. And I don’t want to jump another bear. So I plan to stop at the next shelter — Spence Field Shelter — which is somewhere nearby. However, it’s not directly along the AT, and I can’t read my map to find it. Nor can I read the trail signs. Even when I try to Braille-read the wood-carved trail signs using my fingers, I don’t feel any letters that spell ‘shelter.’

I blindly wander the AT and the side trails searching for the shelter, but no luck. For the first time, I realize that I could be in a bit of trouble. Exasperated and still hyperventilating every hundred yards or so, I sit down in the trail to catch my breath. In vain, I spread out my map before me and hope that perhaps my eyes will adjust. After five minutes, I still can’t see anything on the map. My sweat-heavy shorts and shirt stick to my body, and I’m starting to shiver now in the cool night air.

Why didn’t I bring my headlamp? Why didn’t I bring matches or light source? What was I thinking?

Somewhere, in the dark recesses of my oxygen-starved brain, a light goes on — actually, more of a phosphorescent glow. I suddenly remember that I packed a watch with an Indiglo light button. I dig through the pack, find my watch, and use the Indiglo illumination to read the map. The shelter — and a nearby spring — are a quarter-mile away on a side trail.

I hobble along the rocky trail and collapse on the dirt floor of the open-air shelter — at least a haven from bears and three-sided protection from the cool wind. Three college kids are sleeping in the bunks; one of them lends me a sheet. I strip off my wet clothes and wrap myself naked in the sheet. After a few hours, my breathing begins to slow down. I wait sleeplessly for the first signs of daybreak and worry about Emily, who is stranded at another shelter three miles away wondering what has happened to her husband.

Sunday, 6 a.m.

At the first blush of twilight, I slide back into my sweaty clothes and scamper down the trail. After sitting for eight hours in the shelter, my breathing has mostly returned to normal, and I am running strong. Perhaps I can still finish the run after all. But all I can think about right now is getting to Russell Field Shelter and to Emily.

6:45 a.m.

I arrive at Russell Field, where three friendly guys packing up at the shelter inform me that Emily stayed the night there and was already hiking back to her car down a side trail. They assure me that they watched out for her and lent her blankets and pads to sleep on. They even protected her from a bear that visited the shelter the previous evening. At this point, my only option is to meet her at the finish some 14 miles away.

8 a.m.

I fly down the trail and power-hike the steep uphills. I’m moving really well. I stop briefly at Mollie’s Field Shelter to chat with a thru-hiker and refill my water, then continue through Devil’s Tater Patch, over Doe Knob, and up the steep, scenic Shuckstack Mountain. Along the way, I see lots of berry-lined bear scat, and once I’m pretty sure I hear a bear bolting away in the woods nearby. I also see wild boar tracks in the trail mud.

10 a.m.

I plunge down the long downhill toward Fontana. About two miles before the dam, I cross paths with Canary Coalition Executive Director Avram Friedman, who had slept in his car and hiked in from Fontana to meet me. He hugs me and is relieved to see that I am OK. I glide down the final two miles along AT singletrack, and then run the endless 1.5-mile stretch of pavement to the Fontana Dam finish. At 10 a.m. Sunday morning, almost 28 hours since I stepped foot on the AT, I arrive at the southwestern edge of the Smokies and the end of my journey. Afterward, I kiss my teary-eyed wife, who endured unthinkable anguish and showed incredible courage through it all. Scott, Randy, and Avram are also at the finish to greet me.

I’ve learned more in the past 28 hours than any other period of my life. Along the way, I was buoyed by the support of the hikers, tourists, and crew. Though a pollution-induced asthma attack had slowed — and nearly ended — the clean air run, teamwork, patience, and perseverance enabled us to successfully reach our goal. It will require a similar kind of dogged determination to clean up our dirty mountain air. I’m confident that the region’s clean air supporters — everyone from track club presidents to elite runners to casual day-hikers — have the grit and soul-fire to go the distance.