Since 1986, the Barkley has been operating entirely under the radar, rising from a casual underground affair to a cult obsession. Few even figure out how to enter the Barkley, fewer still come close to finishing it. Today, people come from all over the world for the chance to annihilate their minds and bodies in a 60-hour, 100-mile, sleepless, nearly impossible gauntlet through the merciless mountains. Lost and alone, they struggle through hallucinations, extreme cold, heat, thunderstorms, sleet, and rock-bottom exhaustion while they navigate vast stretches of sinister, unmarked woodland with only a compass and their prayers.

Year after year, a new mêlée of poor souls offer themselves to the Barkley gods. They volunteer to plummet into the depths of mental and physical agony crossing questionable waters, gaping ravines, and brutal cliffs in the dead of night. They train for years, for decades, to vie for a spot they usually don’t get, then puke, bleed, and hyperventilate alone in the woods until the moment their body collapses or they make the decision to give up and go home with their hope and pride dragging like empty cans behind them.

And for what? For the chance to be anointed to the highest of ranks, for the chance to become something more than human, something unbreakable and invincible, for the chance to have their fearlessness fossilized in the annals of a near-impossible feat, and above all else, the reason they do it is for the chance to prove their worth, not to themselves, but to the figure they worship and revere.

The Bearded Saint. The Godfather of the Woods. His hallowed name, a single syllable: Laz.

The truth is, I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into when I took the assignment to write a piece on the Barkley Marathons. I didn’t know that I would end up venturing out into the vicious terrain myself. I hoped I might just be able to watch from the sidelines, cheer on the waning runners as I scribbled observations about endurance, prison culture, punishment, and the vast peculiarities of Southern culture. But as I got more involved with the people in the race, my perspective began to shift. The more I got to know him, I started to see Lazarus Lake in a strange new light. My story was not about the race at all.

It was about a man named Gary Cantrell.