I jolted awake when my head hit the window, the cold flat surface making contact with my forehead. I opened my heavy eyelids, still drowsy. I looked outside and saw that we were still driving on a dirt road. Raindrops were racing down the window. The sun was just starting to peek through the trees in the woods. I looked up to the front of the car and groaned when I saw that it was only 5:03 a.m. “How much longer until we get there?” I asked, my voice still raspy from waking up.

The sign said, “You’re entering Maine’s largest wilderness.”

“Wait, what? Only now we’re entering Maine’s largest wilderness?” I joked as I strode proudly up Baxter State Park’s infamous Abol trail. This was one of the more challenging routes up Mount Katahdin with almost a four-and-a-half-mile ascent featuring a steep, rocky climb before a flat top. This hike was said to take ten hours, but I knew we could do it faster.

I used to hate running. Every time there was a cardio day in soccer practice, I wanted to go home. It would only take a few minutes before my legs burned and I was gasping for air. In cold weather, my cheeks would become red as a tomato. I would always be sweating, even on a short jog. 

But here I was. At a cross country meet. Feeling nauseous.

A bright and vibrant cotton candy sunset with hints of fluorescent yellow fills the June afternoon sky, yet it feels earlier than it actually is. I eat a bowl of creamy mac and cheese that my mom cooked for me and Dylan. The cheese gets all over my face, even behind my ears... I’m a messy eater.

It was my final track meet for the year, and all teams in the region would be competing. The lanes radiated heat as I walked through them to the field. The grass was warm to the touch, and the sky was a light blue with few clouds scattered throughout. I walked to the fence that surrounded the track. Putting my arm on the fence to watch the teams arrive, I immediately pulled it back. It burned.

I hated swimming lessons. All the other kids swam faster than me. I was always doing something wrong, and each time I did, the swimming instructor yelled at me. Right arm, then left, and kicking my feet. It was a lot to coordinate for a kid like me.

“Bang.”

The gunshot rang in my ears as I took my first stride. Immediately, I heard the sounds of heavy breathing and felt the rhythm of my feet hitting the rubber, and my heart pounding against my chest as though it was trying to break free.

I picked up an old, soggy, stick with green moss enveloping it like a blanket. Small ferns brushed my feet as I strolled through the woods on the way to our fort that was just off the edge of the soccer field. Holden was reinforcing the wall with mud, so I decided not to bother him. Instead, I walked up to Chris, who was tying a vine around the base of the makeshift walls. When he stood up and turned around, I had to crane my neck to look up at him. He was huge compared to me--I was only six and he was a 4th grader.