I finished last in the Ozarks Mountain Challenge & I still feel like a winner

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When I arrive at the Ozarks Mountain Challenge on Saturday, May 2, 2026, I’m reminded of coyotes tearing through the woods around my house. The collective energy of my fellow hikers is palpable, their dozens of voices a shot of adrenaline that makes the prospect of hiking 23 miles in 12 hours on a few hours of sleep feel like a party. 

“We’ve got this!” I say to people I’ve just met; they return my encouragement with a grin. We’re minutes away from our first ascent, and for the first time in months, I’m not worried about whether or not I’ll make it up the mountain eight times. 

“I hope I can do it,” I confess to my cousin a few weeks before the event.

“They’ll celebrate you even if you only do one,” she replies. I know she’s right — the focus on self-discipline over competition is one of the reasons I was drawn to the challenge in the first place — but her words don't boost my confidence. 

“I don’t care if it takes me 12 hours and I’m the last hiker to finish, I just want to complete all eight ascents on time,” I add.

“You know what they say: ‘mind over matter.’”

By the time I finish my fourth ascent, breaking for lunch is nonnegotiable. My heels are sore, my hips are tight, and the complimentary veggie wrap making its way through my digestive system feels like its own reward. The first three ascents were shockingly doable, but after ascent number four, my body demands rest.  

“I hope I can do it,” I tell the women I’ve just met. It’s the night before the challenge, and we’re at the Spark of Strength Ceremony — an event that’s part ritual, part meet and greet. They aren’t the first hikers I’ve introduced myself to, but they are the most talkative, and I’m grateful for their friendliness. 

“The way I did it last year was by telling myself: ‘If I can do one, I can do two; if I can do two, I can do three,’ and so on,” one of the women tells me. She’s come all the way from Kansas City, and I won’t forget her words. 

When event volunteers start handing out paper and pens, I toss “self-doubt” into the fire and watch it burn. 

By my sixth ascent, my feet are taped, my left knee is taped, and my internal monologue has changed from: “If I can do one, I can do two,” to, “just keep putting one foot in front of the other; time is on your side.” My stubbornness and the support of my loved ones fuels me as much as the protein, carbohydrates, and electrolytes I consume during shuttle rides down the mountain. 

“Good luck tomorrow!” my coworker texts me the day before the challenge. 

“You’re going to have a great day, killing those ascents,” my friend texts me while I’m breaking for lunch. 

“You’re doing great sis! I’m so proud of you,” my sister texts me during my sixth ascent. 

I’m limping my way through ascent seven when hikers nearly twice my age are on their final ascents. Others tell me they’ve already finished all eight ascents and are now hiking “bonus” ascents. They’re full of encouragement as they pass me by, saying things like: “You’re doing great. Keep going!” I return their kindness with a “thank you!” and a smile. In my head, “just keep putting one foot in front of the other; time is on your side,” plays on a loop.

“Elizabeth, your life will not end if you don’t climb that hill one more time, but your knee might hurt for a while,” a family friend tells me as I’m preparing for my eighth and final ascent. 

“It is pretty bad,” I admit. I’m seriously considering giving up when I remember what I told another friend two days before the challenge: “If I don’t do all eight ascents, I’m going to feel bad about myself. That’s just a fact. I really need a win.”

When a hiker I know offers to lend me her trekking poles for my final ascent, I don’t hesitate to accept her generosity with a “thank you so much” and a hug. 

“Well, if anyone can do it, you can,” my family friend says with resignation. 

Ascent eight is my loneliest. I’m about halfway through before I see another human. She spots the tape on my knee and the trekking poles in my hands. “You are brave beyond belief,” she says in an accent I can’t quite place. When she asks if she can take a picture of me, I oblige her with a brief pause and an exhausted smile before continuing up the trail. 

Only my thoughts keep me company for a while after that: “Seven years ago I almost died, and now I’m doing this; eleven years ago I was living with an abusive boyfriend, and now I’m doing this. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. You can do this. Okay, alright, okay.”

I’m wondering if time is still on my side when I notice an event volunteer hiking up the trail behind me. It’s obvious he’s sweeping the trail for hikers and I’m the last one, but he doesn’t tell me that. Instead, he keeps pace with me as I limp and trek my way through the last leg of the trail. 

“What made you want to do the challenge?” he asks. 

“I needed something in my life besides work,” I tell him. “And I wanted to feel strong. We all need a win, right?” 

He tells me a little bit about his role as a cross-country coach. He mentions his daughter. When my boot hits a rock the wrong way and a sharp, shooting pain finds my aching knee, he responds to my groan: “Take your time.” His tone is a mixture of stern and concern. In that moment, I’m certain he’s a good coach. I imagine he’s a good dad as well. 

“What time is it?” I ask. 

“It’s 6:55,” he tells me. “You’re going to get your hat!”

We reach the top of the mountain together. I get my hat — the coveted green cap hikers receive if they complete all eight ascents in 12 hours. I get high-fives and fist bumps from event volunteers and hikers who finished right before me. I get my picture taken. I can’t stop smiling. 

I’ll limp for a week after completing the challenge, and not once will I regret hiking all eight ascents.