Joe Knight is a writer who lives in Fresno, California. In 1993 he retired from the military after 20 years of active duty and continued to work as a family practice Physician Assistant in the civilian world and retired from medical practice due to back problems. Not one to sit around the house and watch Oprah and Springer for the rest of his life, he went back to school and is now working on a Master's Degree in Geology at California Statue University in Fresno.
Joe has been a medical and science writer for over ten years, having been well-published in medical journals and consumer magazines. He continues his writing, and hopes to branch out into the scientific literature after obtaining his M.S.
Joe is a single Dad of three kids aged 10, 10 and 11. His dream is to move back to Fairbanks, Alaska within the next several years and study the effects of global warming on permafrost.
We're coming over the rise and now see the Mile 9 marker. My back hurts, my feet hurt. Weather's cool, thank God. My girlfriend Georgia is in front of me. Two guys in BDU's and wearing rucksacks trudge past me and say "Hi", then move on down the trail. I plod past the 9-mile marker...only 15 more miles to go. Boy, I hope I make it.
This whole wretched saga began when I read an article in Men's Health about a hike held in memory of the men who lived and died during the Bataan Death March during World War II. Of the 70,000 American and Filipino soldiers who surrendered, 16,000 men died in the hands of ruthless Japanese soldiers as they were mercilessly marched 63 miles through the Philippine jungles. If you stumbled or fell, you got a bullet or were beheaded. No mercy, no quarter given. Now White Sands Missile Range in Mew Mexico hosts an annual memorial march to give accolades to these POW's. Twenty-six-point-two miles through the desert - military and civilians invited. Starts at 6:00AM and ends when you cross the finish line or die. And don't stray off the trail; unexploded ordinance "may cause problems."
I had considered going on the Bataan Memorial Death March several times, but always had a reason not to go; had to work, the truck wasn't running well, the moon wasn't in the proper phase, etc, etc. I'd tell people I was training for the hike, but deep down I figured I'd never really go.
Then I met Georgia.
We had gone out several times, then one day I mentioned the Death March. I said I was training for it, but couldn't go because of (whatever the daily excuse was). Then she said, "We should go! We have six months to train for it!"
We?
I stuttered some lame excuse, and she said, "C'mon, be a man! We can do it!" I groaned, looked up to heaven, and said, "Nice one, God."
So the serious training began. Weights, treadmill, hiking, equipment purchases. Research. Attitude adjustments. Hell, I'm 54-years-old, and she's 47. Sure, we're both in good shape for our age, but I can feel arthritis knocking at the door. I've already retired once (from the military), and have 3 grand kids...heck, I should be driving around in a big old RV and going to AARP meetings. But Nooooo; here I am in the New Mexican desert going eye-to-eye with every insecurity I've spent my whole life trying to ignore.
So the morning of the march Georgia and I got up at 2:00 AM (or, in military parlance, "o-dark-thirty"), and went to the local IHOP for breakfast. By 4:30 we're on base at the formation area. It was an interesting site. Large tents striped red and white, thousands of people milling around, everyone in a jovial mood, freezing my butt off...life didn't get better than this. Military from all branches were there, along with German and Canadian troops. There were young and old there. It was almost a carnival atmosphere, which also included the mandatory 20-person line in front of each porta-potty. Around 5:15, the opening ceremonies began with the color guard. Then the expected speech was given, which became somber as the names of 19 survivors of the original Bataan march were read off - those who had died since the previous year's memorial march. Then we all formed up at the starting line. At 6:00 AM the cannon went off, scaring the hell out of everyone. We were off! Over the loud speakers Toby Keith's "American Soldier" played, followed by Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American." As we left the starting line, several stooped old men in WWII uniforms were sitting in a golf cart, shaking hands with each hiker as they passed. Original Bataan survivors. As I shook each hand, each man looked me in the eye and said "Thank you". Only later, in pain, humbled and exhausted, would I realize what they meant.
Everything started off with a sense of levity. People were joking, clowning around and just having a grand old time. The sun rose a little higher. As the temperature warmed-up, I started seeing articles of clothing being tossed along the trailside...sweatshirts, jackets, socks, t-shirts, hats, something that looked like a thong. A thong?Finally over the top of the hill. The wind is stronger now. Georgia is just happily plodding along. Nothing seems to bother her. I don't have any air in my body anymore. Must be the altitude. Maybe next time I'll bring an oxygen bottle. Hey! A break station is up ahead! Placed about every two miles on the trail, they're always a sight for sore eyes. Lots of water, Gatorade, oranges and bananas. And, oh-my-God, COTS! A place to sit down, take off your socks and shoes so you can inspect the damage you've inflicted on your feel. The only problem is that you've got to get off your butt and get moving again after you rest. That really hurts.
Back at mile 6 I noticed a "hot spot" developing at the base of my right big toe. It was time for a foot check anyway. Noticed a small blister forming, so slapped some duct tape on it. Boy, am I glad I did it back then. I'm checking out other people's feet during our collective groaning. I have no idea how some of these folks are going to make it.
I come around the bend. Oh-Boy!! Another sand pit!I don't see any vultures yet, but I know the little dirtballs are in the hills to my left, watching me with their beady little eyes, waiting for me to stumble and fall. Then they're going to swoop down on me and enjoy a feeding frenzy that will rival anything one sees on the Serengeti.
I must be getting delirious.
Georgia, with her long legs, is several hundred feet ahead of me. She looks back, probably wondering where wussy-boy is. She waits for me to catch up. She looks so...yummy. But the unexploded munitions thing suddenly comes to mind. It's amazing how a silly little thing like that can put a damper on your libido.
The scenery is spectacular. Mountain on one side, an awe-inspiring valley to the other. Poppies were in full bloom. Tall hills looking like piles of stone ready to fall at any time. The environment as a whole is almost surrealistic.
ATVs regularly police the trail, supposedly for security reasons, but I suspect they're there to remove bodies from the trail. An occasional helicopter passes over. Security is pretty tight. Good. Wouldn't want anyone to interfere with the fun I'm having.
We pass the 17-mile marker. Georgia and I are just chatting (well, she's chatting...I'm just whining). I think how horrible it must've been for those GI's in WW II. The heat, the humidity, the insects. Seeing your buddy stumble and fall, and get a bullet in the head for it. Days without food or water. Then having to face the atrocities of the POW camp if you survived the march. Beaten down, but never broken. This spurns-me-on out of respect for these heroes.
At a long stretch of nothing about 500 miles ago I saw a stooped old man along side of the road wearing a Bataan POW vest. Another original Bataan survivor. As I passed, he shook my hand, looked me in the eye,and, like the others, said "Thank you." Here I was sniveling and whining about a few aches and pains, and here is a man who went literally through hell. I was humbled.
It's about 5 PM. We've been hiking for 11 hours. We pass the Mile 25 marker. Only 1.2 miles left. I don't know if I can make it. An occasional ATV or military van passes by, carrying hikers who couldn't make it. Some of them were military. I knew they'd catch hell from their First Sergeants tomorrow.
One more mile. Both Georgia and I agreed we won't accept failure, and failure means not going the distance. There are several areas where we can take a shortcut, and it is tempting. But cheating is unacceptable to both of us. We both ran out of energy a mile-or-two back. Now we're reaching in deep somewhere that neither of us has been in years. We look at each other, each seeing the agony in the other's eyes. But each of us saw the determination that makes the other one click. We will not quit.
We're now walking along a long stone wall surrounding base housing. People are on the wall, cheering us on. I just want to lie down, but I know that if I even sit down, I won't make it to the finish line. I lean against the wall and stretch. Every joint, muscle and bone in my body screams in agony. My vision blurs for a second. Georgia asks me if I'm OK. For some reason I thought that was a rather silly question. I look at her and spend a few calories of my energy reserve to tell her that life doesn't get better than this. She looks at me like I'm some kind of nut.
Only 1000 feet to the finish line. I thought I'd be become energized when I saw it, but there was no energy left. We're just plodding now, gut strength forcing one foot in front of the other.
One-hundred feet. It's getting dark outside (or I'm dying...hard to tell which). I see people at the finish line, but no relatives or white tunnel.
Ten feet left.
Georgia and I cross the finish line, holding hands. A General is there to shake our hands and congratulate us.
Georgia and I hug each other. I'm hurting all over. My legs-muscles are knotted up. I'm nauseated, exhausted beyond belief. I feel like I'm going to pass out. Then I remember a stooped old man along the side of the road as we walked through Hell, who shook my hand and said "Thank you." Now I think I understand. Suddenly, I'm not hurting so much. I'm just...proud.
Hike Preparation
Start about six months prior to the hike. The treadmill is an invaluable tool. Even if you don't plan on carrying a backpack on the hike, wear one with around forty pounds in it while using the treadmill. Crank the incline up to 15-degrees and plod along at around 3.0 mph. Work up to an hour three-times–a-week. And wear the boots you're going to wear on the hike. A 26-mile hike is not the place to break in a pair of new boots.
About once-a-week, take a hike through various terrains wearing everything you plan on taking on the hike...the more difficult the terrain, the more prepared you'll be. Start off slowly, and plan on at least two 26-mile hikes several weeks before the real hike. At this point you'll realize what your week areas may be, and can start working on them.
What to Bring
I suggest you consider taking the following on the hike. It will decrease some of the misery you're going to go through:
- Individually-packed moist wipes. They're great if you're sweaty, and even better when you get to the portapotty and it's out of toilet paper.
- Duct tape. It's great to slap on that hot spot on your foot before a blister develops. Don't bring a whole roll. Contrary to the laws of physics, anything you carry on the hike becomes heavier as each mile passes. Bring only about a six-inch piece, and wrap it around an empty film canister
- Butt pack to carry all the small stuff, like wipes, gum, hard candies and cyanide pills.
- A pair of gym shoes. You'll want to rotate between your boots and gym shoes periodically.
- Several pairs of socks.
- A very (very) light windbreaker. You'll range from sweaty to chilly, depending the terrain, the sunshine and the wind.
- Sunglasses
More Information
More information about the hike, including photos of many of the participants, can be found at www.wsmr.army.mil