Running the Andes helped me face fear
An extract from her book shows how a solo run through dangerous mountains in Bolivia taught Jenny Tough to work with her emotions
I was trapped on an island in a deep valley with knackered legs. I was a sitting duck
“No tienes miedo, gringa?” (Aren’t you afraid, foreigner?) Those were the questions that accompanied my solo run through the Bolivian Andes. “How do you stay safe?” “How do you charge your phone?” and, “What about pumas?” (I will admit that one surprised me a little.)
Fear is a companion we all travel through life with. The adventurers I watched growing up constantly proclaimed “fearlessness” as a value system, banning weakness and hesitation.
And I will admit I had adopted a habit of preparing my campsite for defence, or a quick escape each night. My shoes were placed next to me with the laces loose and the tongues pulled back so I could step into them quickly. The trekking pole was laid next to me, a weapon. My knife stayed in my right-hand pocket. Every time I woke and thought I heard something coming, I clenched the folded blade in my hand.
Still, the locals thought I was crazy. Before hitting the final sub-range of Quimsa Cruz, a mountain range in La Paz, a woman told me that if I continued into that valley, I would never come out. “It’s a very poor region, and the police don’t bother going there,” she said. “It’s lawless, and there is a lot of crime. You’re rich, and you will simply be murdered for your things. They won’t think anything of killing you.” Then: “You do have a gun, right?” I responded that I did not. She tried, and failed, to disguise the fear in her eyes. “You really need a gun if you want to go there.”
I had grown used to warnings by that point, but that one stuck with me a little. For the first time in the journey, no one in the pueblo [village] greeted me. The younger men stared with disdain. I realised I was unwelcome. Suddenly, the warnings against this valley seemed very realistic.
My anxiety increased with the drop in altitude. I removed my watch, camera and iphone, and stuffed them deep in my pack. A feeble gesture – I was still a white gringa on “holiday”, no one needed to see which version of the latest GPS watch I was using to know that I had more money than them. I had already ducked off the main track, slowly bushwalking my way alongside the route, hoping to avoid detection.
Trucks carrying workmen passed now and then, and as soon as I heard the engine from around a bend, I made sure to be out of sight. My fear escalated at every corner and gripped my throat. I decided that if I saw a public bus – or maybe a cop car? – I would get in and skip this section. Doing the full length of the mountain range meant a lot to me, but surviving meant more. All I knew, for sure, was that I did not want to be where I was. If I was going to trust my instincts, I had to listen to what they were screaming at me. “Get out.”
As dusk closed in, my anxiety increased. I noticed a few lights on the hill above me, and remembered that field workers would be returning to the pueblos. Wary of attention, I ducked back under my grey tarp. I had the sense of being watched. There were more lights on the hill now, and my heart beat hard in my chest. “Just don’t come down here.” I prepared dinner without my torch and, as soon as my tin mug was boiling, switched off the flame.
Huddled under my tarp, I ate nervously, gulping down my quinoa and tomato soup far too quickly. I watched anxiously as the lights on the hill increased. Workers criss-crossing the trails that would lead them back to the route to their homes. I kept my eye on their movement, overwhelmed with thoughts of what I could do if any of the lights came down to the river. I was tired, exhausted from more than 10 days of running. I looked at my belongings – bright colours favoured by the outdoor industry back home. Reflective details and bright zippers.
“Ridiculous,” I thought as I stared at my things. The things I was told I would be killed for. And then it started. I noticed one of the lights winding its way down to the water’s edge. “Don’t come closer. Please, don’t come any closer.”
I thumbed my knife in my pocket and pulled my shoes on. The light had reached the edge of the foliage, and would soon make it through the trees that would lead to the river. Only a small ford stood between us now. If I had been seen, I was trapped on an island in a deep valley with knackered legs. I was a sitting duck.
The light was now hovering at the water’s edge. My mind raced. What would I do? Could I really use a knife? I had heard the case for not fighting back, and just letting them take what they would. How would I recover? The sickest thoughts that every woman pushes down came rushing to the front. The worst news stories I had been aware of. Movies I had to close my eyes for. Things that I knew women all around the world endured every single day. And now I had to choose – how would I handle it?
The light began moving across the water, and then it picked up pace. Suddenly, it moved incredibly fast – too fast. Firefly. It was a f---ing firefly.
I do not believe in fearlessness. Fear is an important function of your human brain that can help alert you to danger. When fear is triggered, I listen to it. But fear can be limiting. If you let that fear take up too much space, let its voice grow too loud, it takes the helm, controlling your journey through life. It is a companion that, like any other long-term relationship, requires work. My time in Bolivia forced me really to listen to my own voice of fear and find new ways of working with it. It was uncomfortable, but I’m grateful for the experience. Ever since that journey, my relationship with fear is healthier than ever.