Freeze-dried Humble Pie – The Trek

I wonder if Mountain House makes dehydrated Humble Pie, because I might need a few pouches. At sixty years old, overconfidence isn’t my default thru-hiking mode, but I’ve always felt like I would finish whatever I set out to backpack. I never doubted I would summit Mount Whitney on the JMT, and I was determined to finish thru-hiking the CDT and PCT. I do not share that steely resolve about the Appalachian Trail. I’m worried life is going to dope slap me halfway up the approach trail and that—best case—I stand on Springer Mountain wondering, why am I here? Why do I think I can hike to Maine? How can I manage these hills when I wished for a bench halfway up the stairs to my second-floor doctor’s office just the other day? I think I have a lot of Humble Pie to eat, and I don’t even carry a stove. It’s going to be cold-soaked Humble Pie.

Hey, I’m Cynthia, and my trail name is Golden. I’m trying to get my Triple Crown this year by completing my third big thru-hike. In 2022, my husband and I had planned to hike 700 miles on the CDT through his home state of New Mexico, but instead, I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, had surgery, endured four months of chemotherapy, and spent the rest of 2022 healing. We headed to New Mexico in April of 2023, and the trail delivered a magical experience. When we got off the trail in Northern New Mexico, I spiraled sadly, imagining our trail friends still immersed in the hike. After a month at home, I bought a train ticket to Montana and hiked southbound back to New Mexico, completing the CDT. I decided a Triple Crown quest would keep me pushing forward. In 2024, I hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, with some bumps along the way from snow in the Sierra, wildfire, and a broken arm, but it was an incredible trip.

Everyone loves a survivor story like that, I think. No one likes talking about cancer, which feels too randomly possible, but everyone likes a victory. Keep fighting, we tell cancer patients, don’t give up! It’s a relief to hear that someone lived to do epic adventures. Unfortunately, ovarian cancer has a sneaky tendency to come back, and recurrent ovarian cancer can’t be cured. When I finished the PCT, I was more than two years cancer-free and planning to hike the AT in 2025. Feeling great, I went in for a routine scan and got the worst news possible: the cancer had come roaring back, engulfing a lymph node and spawning a growth that looked like a big pork chop plopped in my abdomen. Getting an initial diagnosis was hard, but it included hope. You cannot imagine the difference, hearing it had come back, the black-and-white reality that I will not outlive this.

What a shitty thing cancer is. I hated that cancer would beat me. When I was on the CDT and PCT, I would whisper at the top of every epic pass, “Fuck you, cancer, I win!’ Every cool thing I did was a victory, but now cancer whispered back, “Fuck you, I win after all.” There wasn’t much to do but get over it. One thing we all have in common is that we will die, and no amount of warrior language will stop that. I’m in an acceptance phase, where dying isn’t my main concern anymore. Living is all I’ve got—it’s all anyone has. So what better way to live large than to get back on the trail and finish what I started? I may have a cancerous pork chop, but I can take it for a hike. And maybe with luck, I can make it pose in a Burger King crown on top of Katadhin as I celebrate my Triple Crown. Nothing says fuck cancer quite like that.

I promise not to dwell in this dark place on my blog. There are new treatments for ovarian cancer that offer hope of several good years, and alternative treatments I’m exploring. I’m guardedly optimistic that this will be a great summer. I remind myself that the Appalachian Trail is challenging for everyone, thinking of the novice hikers who will struggle. But that’s why I need a slice of freeze-dried humble pie: I start the trail only two weeks after finishing my sixth chemo session. With my wonky blood counts and a winter spent mostly in bed, I will be gasping for breath as I leave Amicalola State Park, but in my head, I’m an experienced badass who can summit Forrester Pass in deep snow, sleep soundly while alone in grizzly country, and hike thirty-mile days. Somehow I must reign in my expectations and make peace with my new situation. My biggest test on this trail might not be my physical weakness but my refusal to accept it.

There is plenty to look forward to. My younger daughter is joining me for the first three weeks, and she makes every hike a joy. Alex notices details others blow past; she’s the scientist who spots arrowheads, morels, and tiny creatures. She loves folk and bluegrass, so hopefully, we can find mountain music to make up for the three weeks away from her banjo. She is truly a badass hiker, a trail runner, and a field biologist who leads crews into wilderness areas in Idaho and Montana. We live in Oregon and are excited to see a region we haven’t visited and explore local foods. Alex can’t eat wheat, so we will be on the hunt for the elusive gluten-free southern biscuit. We plan to start slow, take our time, and savor the trail.

So come along on a hike with me as I settle into my new role as a not-badass hiker, huffing northbound with porkchop and pie.

Happy Trails,  Golden

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