Putting friendship first and learning hard lessons about who should crew.

Arriving in the US was a process — emotionally.

At first my ego was gratified with a sense of accomplishment, pride, and high-fives.

I’d conquered more hurdles than I care to remember when the rug was pulled and I plunged into culture shock. 

Fortunately, turmoil is a reliable companion and my friends are used to hearing me moosh chunks of shocking statements together, casually, like: 

Yesterday I experienced two confrontational death threats. When I went to make a statement, the police fobbed me off, and the next day when I was alone at 6 am and tried to flag down a cop for help, it turned out to be the sheriff… who shook his head at me and drove past! 

But at this point of the journey, relaxed gun etiquette wasn’t my biggest concern.

• I was still in the desert,
• In the peak of summer,
• The clock was ticking on van support, and 
• I was very aware that the expiration of my USA Visa was encroaching AND unsure if that date should be treated like a passport?

From the beginning

Back in Armageddon, 1000km left to reach the state of Colorado, where I would finally escape the fringes of the Chihuahuan desert — whose boundaries seemed to expand with my progress, dooming me to stay there…  forever. 

The heat was so humid, it sucked the dry air from my lungs and clinged to my skin, making every kilometre heavy.

Arid plants littered spikes that both prevented me from sitting to rest, yet stalled me relentlessly as I stopped over and over, forever pulling them out from the soles of my shoes. 

The silence wasn’t like the Atacama Desert, which carried a sense of purposeful absentness — instead it held a foreboding dread that dragged out every mile, reminding me constantly: 

I don’t belong here. 

Luckily (or unlucky depending on who you are in this story), I was not alone.

Background: I'm an Aussie attempting to become the first woman to walk the length of the Americas. It bugged me that in the 37 years since it was first achieved, about
three people have completed it, but no women.

Eight years on, I have become the first woman to walk the length of South America, and Australian Geographic Society’s Adventurer of the Year — alongside Wombat, my dog.

Queen of the desert (not me): Nine Days, 460 km

If you’ve followed from the very beginning, you might remember Angelica. We met on the first day of this journey, when I still had 36 million steps to go! 

We crossed paths again in her hometown, in the Atacama desert in Chile, and ever since, we’ve kept in touch.

So when she offered to crew for me in this final Desert section, I gave her the rundown of how unglamorous that would be… and in-spite of that — she assured me she could handle it and committed to come. 

With exactly nine days to cover 460 km, we hit the track.

While the rhythm came quickly, it wasn’t without strain. If you’ve never crewed for an athlete before, optimism will flower your expectations — even in the desert. 

I continued to start my day at 2am, covered 50km by the early afternoon, and would then rest, work and plan.

Angelica drove ahead, prepared snacks, and main meals — but grew weary of the repetition and lack of sightseeing, as realisation hit that her visit wasn’t going to be a holiday. 

Crewing is a job. A hard one. That will set an athlete up to win, or fail. 

I hadn’t done any dishes, or cooked any meals. I was completely immersed in staying focused on the job: leaning on whatever support I could get. 

Meanwhile, what Ang needed was a break. She was on leave from her school job, processing the anniversary of profound grief, and was excruciatingly nervous about wild camping.

In preparation, she’d asked a friend about what she should do each day to check the van, and hyper-focused on these side tasks, rather than the list I wanted prioritised. 

We went back and forth trying to nut out a common approach – but what I wanted, ultimately wasn’t what she had anticipated. 

I can’t fault this. It’s a common occurrence.  

To this day strangers ask if they can visit to come and hike with me — when the reality is they wouldn’t really want to, even if they could keep up — because of the time needed for behind the scene logistics. Plus the more obvious point: They are strangers and I am not a guide. 

But Ang was here, heart in her hand, doing her very best. 

So we met in the middle — Because I couldn’t see, from either perspective, how it would be possible (or fair) to bring someone into a full support crew role, when their expectations were so drastically skewed. 

So I threw out my expectations and did my best to go sight-seeing (did the dishes) and worry about logistics and storytelling later — a battle I felt was lost anyway. 

A true friendship is one that thrives in even the harshest of environments — I am fortunate to have many of these. 

Meanwhile, Wombat selectively spent time with the both of us, depending on the heat, or if cuddles and a sleep-in were on offer from Ang.

Culture Shock and Confrontations

With a new way forward Ang and I were finding our groove and enjoying a flat camping spot in a state forest, when a man called to us from his pirate-flag-adorned monster truck. 

He asked if we could read, explaining there was a private property sign on the gate (there was no sign, nor a gate) and threatened to shoot us if we didn’t leave. 

I asked him where we could set up that wouldn’t upset anyone, and he kindly gave us directions, then left as quickly as he came. 

We were nearly packed up to move on when a woman drove up the same road, yelling out: “do you wanna get shot?”. We explained we were leaving, and she left. 

I put my shoes back on, ran the distance to the campsite old-mate suggested, which happened to be at the local dump (pirate man has a funny bone). So we decided to scope out the town and ask the police what the G-O was. 

They confirmed we were fine where we were, but that we might enjoy camping at the ranger station rather than beside a rogue pirate town… 

Reasonable. 

It’s at this point I realised culture shock can happen while visiting a ‘similar’ country — which in my case I found far more jarring for its unexpectedness. 

After five years in spanish-speaking countries; english felt strange, interactions felt sharper, and invasive topics harder to dodge. 

In an open gun culture (weapons are licenced in Mexico), the constant No Trespassing signs, and widely accepted Castle Law was compounding among the pressure of the sudden cost spike and growing concerns for my budget. 

With making repairs on the ever failing van, covering costs of the support crew, and my own upcoming renewals like insurance and gear replacement — I was anxious. 

But nothing more so than my growing awareness of the tolerance people had towards a latino tourist (Ang) vs a caucasian one (me). 

I was internally raging – overly protective – and feeling unpleasant 

But then… signs of trail life started to reappear: Water caches, encouragement from trail angels, friendly faces, and acts of kindness, which all served a reminder of why I love trail life — and that people worth spending time with need to be found.

The common goal

Every day, Angelica and I edged closer to one promise: pie.

Early on, some more participatory police had told us: “If you reach PieTown for July 4th, you’ll find the best pies in America.”

It became our shared goal.

When rain finally came—after so many weeks of heat—I was giddy with joy. Angelica too, coming from the driest non-polar desert on Earth, it was really fun to celebrate the rain with her. 

But the joy was cut short when we realised the van’s windscreen hadn’t been fitted properly. Rain poured straight in, flooding the dash, and likely the electronics. So the next day we bought duct tape. 

My limit paying for van repairs had been reached. 

On our last day we reached PieTown. 

We started the day extra early to give us plenty of time to binge ourselves silly. But on arrival… The shop was closed.

We couldn’t wait, as Ang needed to get to the airport. So we made do with an off-the-highway diner instead.

A little note on cultural differences: in Chile, dessert pies are always served cold and never eaten straight out of the oven (sadistic, I know). 

So while we didn’t get pie in Pie Town, the shock on Ang’s face when she finally put a spoonful of warm pie in her mouth, made up for it!

Nine days. 460 km. Death threats, duct tape, rainbows, and friendship cemented in arguments about how to serve pie. 

It wasn’t the summary we planned for, but somehow perfectly us — and I’m grateful for it. 

Tech-no-Mark 

After Angelica’s farewell, I finally rested. Two weeks off—the first in seven months. I hadn’t realised how desperately I needed it until I stopped.

But rest didn’t last long. I did some gear maintenance in preparation for returning the van, Wombat was sent off to summer training (out of the desert heat, and to relearn how to socialise away from street dogs), and my last support crew member arrived: Mark.

Mark is an old friend. We met at a kayaking event called the Massive Murray Paddle, the longest kayak marathon in the world, where teams and individuals have support crews more often than not. 

Mark arrived for 3 months, and packed his bike packing gear for his own adventure once I was safely up in the mountains. 

Naturally we had a quick debrief about the coming weeks and how I hoped to proceed. 

Pies, Predators, and Fails

We returned for a second attempt at PieTown. This time? Success. Pies secured. Mark making friends with the locals the way dad-types do when you can’t drag them away from an extended conversation about motorbike customisation… but no complaints. It meant we stayed an extra day in our town, eating our way through the extensive menu. 

Eventually we got moving. 

We saw more and more animals including shadowy figures I’ve come to fondly call “shadow bears” that turn out to be deer, or a stump, or something not quite as mountain lion-y as the vibes first portrayed. 

But not everything went smoothly.

We tested our ability to separate—me walking trails, and Mark driving to the other end then navigating with his bike to meet me. 

Except the road we planned to practice on vanished into an actual trail. I ran low on water, overheated, and ended up dunking my shirt in a muddy puddle to cool down to hold off worsening effects of heat stroke. 

From Mark’s perspective, he decided to cut off trail to an abandoned farm house hoping to meet me there, while I stuck to the trail none the wiser and we completely missed each other. 

Reunited, exhausted but ok, Mark made a confession: he’s not a tech wiz, wasn’t able to navigate or use the messaging system, can’t cook and… snores. 

So he might not have been a star performer, but after everything that had come to pass at this point, he did bring laughter to even the worst moments.

I relinquished control. 

The upside? I snapped back into independence mode, and had less trouble transitioning to solo trail life again while grateful for the time I had in the company of everyone who came to help.

Lessons for athletes and support crews 

The hardest lesson I learnt from the support crew era was that I accepted help from people who approached me, rather than carefully choosing who I wanted with me during my most challenging moments. 

That is, my family or closest friends, who are experienced in logistics, capable of getting tasks done, without complications or additional burden, who take the role as seriously as a profession, and are completely on my team — ready and willing. And more importantly, are people I feel psychologically safe around. 

It’s a regret. 

This chapter will sound ungrateful so bare with me. 

I’m including it here because shortly after finishing the support crew leg, I had conversations with several other adventurers who contacted me to say they had anticipated these problems… But never thought to forewarn me. They were “I almost told you so” moments, which I have little space for.

So if you’re preparing to recruit a support crew, this part is for you. 

Not only did I deprive myself of a rare opportunity to spend time with family, I deprived them of an opportunity to help me. 

The mistake therefore, was a mix between inexperienced crew, and choosing appropriate people.

Each person who came knows I’m grateful for their contribution, though despite the briefings, only two had the experience to understand the full implications of what was needed — and they both happen to be as close as family. 

People who are suitable for a support crew role are the people who understand they need to do everything for the athlete so that the athlete can focus on one thing: getting the job done. 

They are the people who you don’t mind seeing you at your worst, so you don’t have to mask misery, fret about your behaviour, or carry additional burden (emotional or otherwise) of the crew. 

They will prepare your gear for the next day, have pit stops ready ahead of you so you don’t waste windows of opportunity to progress, and will make it look easy, so you take them for granted until the day you pay the favour back and realise how inadequate your efforts are in comparison. 

It’s a selfless and unglamorous role and if I had my time again, I’d do it differently. 

But I was the one who made the mistake. I am responsible for captaining my ship, and it’s not my intent to sink anyone with me. 

I now know better. 

“Having the right people in your corner during an ultra isn’t just helpful—it can change the outcome of your race.”

Jim Walmsley

From the Pro’s

This film gives a much better insight — From one crew to another, rather than anecdotal insight from the fatigued monster that is, an athlete.

“Their job is to get me from the finish line, back to the start line… my job is to get from the start line back to the finish line.”

Phil Gore: ultra marathon world record holder

Goodbyes & Gratitude 

Eventually, we reached Colorado. The end of the desert chapter.

It was bittersweet: saying goodbye to Mark as he started his own cycling adventure, and finally retiring the van for good.

From pie hunts to heat-stoke-induced mud puddle baths, laughter and loneliness… I’m still here. Still walking. And grateful to everyone who has carried me through.

Even though at times, it didn’t look the way I’d planned, this expedition has been a constant lesson, learning to be better at it. 

Which is all any of us can really ask. 

Lucy + Wombat 👩‍🌾🐶

~

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