It’s 2:15 a.m. My wife’s portable alarm clock sounds. The noise is like a submarine dive alarm. I am awake. I am drinking coffee made from the hotel coffee maker which tastes like boiled jockstrap water. We are doing the Trailblaze Challenge hike today.

I keep telling myself, “We’re doing this for C.C.”

3:03 a.m.—We are in a van with 13 other half-asleep Trailblazer hikers. We are driving to the trailhead where we will walk for 26.3 miles for the Make-A-Wish Foundation of Alabama, an organization that changes the lives of kids with critical illnesses.

My friend C.C. received a wish when he was a kid. He met Peyton Manning. His sister and caregiver is Paige, and she is our dear friend. They are why I’m here.

Namely, because I am not an athlete. I am more of a Little Debbie enthusiast.

4:49 a.m.—Now we’re at the trailhead. “Yay! We’re here!” shouts one perky hiker. It’s early. Many of the other hikers want to punch this hiker in the mouth.

5:12 a.m.—Rational people are at home right now, nestled in their feather beds. We are now hiking the far flung Pinhoti Trail, miles from human civilization. You could die from an infected blood blister out here.

“This is for C.C.,” my wife keeps saying with each step. “For C.C.”

5:31 a.m.—Our hiking pace is akin to refugees marching to a Russian gulag to be executed. It’s tar black outside, we’re wearing coal-miner headlamps. Someone in our group starts singing to lighten the mood. This person will never be seen or heard from again.

6:45 a.m.—We are not 3 miles in. We still have 23 miles to go. Sunrise on the mountain is nothing short of heaven-like. There is a hiker pooping just off the trail. I can see the perpetual whiteness of this hiker’s cheeks.

“This is for C.C.”

7:33 a.m.—I’m talking with a hiker who knows a kid who had a wish granted. The boy was a very sick child. The child is deceased now. Make-A-Wish made his greatest dream happen before his end.

“If you ever meet a kid who has a wish granted, it will really do something to you.”

8:21 a.m.—I’m ready for breakfast.

9:42 a.m.—Very ready.

10:06 a.m.—Doesn’t anyone in this godforsaken backcountry eat breakfast? Are we supposed to eat on our feet? We have 20 miles left to hike. Why wasn’t this catered by Waffle House?

11:27 a.m.—The first thing you realize when you go hiking is that it’s a mistake. You’re not actually going anywhere.

This is for C.C.

12:09 p.m.—We are at the aid station. We have hiked 14.6 miles. My blisters have blisters. They are serving Jersey Mike’s sandwiches. My wife informs me that she is quitting because of ankle joint issues. I am so glad to hear this. I tell her I am going to quit too.

“No, hell no, you can’t quit,” says my wife. “You’re doing this for C.C.”

1:36 p.m.—Now I am hiking alone on the Pinhoti. I have not passed another hiker for an hour. I have 10 miles left to go. I have never felt so alone.

2:41 p.m.—A big hill. I am ready to meet Jesus.

2:56 p.m.—No. Seriously. I want to meet Jesus.

2:59 p.m.—Now.

3:03 p.m.—My whole body is drenched in perspiration. People are asking me if I’ve been swimming in the river. But no, it’s just sweat. I am dying.

I have met many people out here who have had children with terminal illnesses that have received wishes.

One man has a child who received a wish. He starts crying about it. I start crying too. Not only because I am touched, but because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I will not survive this hike. Somehow I find energy to keep going.

3:11 p.m.—Hill.

3:20 p.m.—Another hill. I hate my life.

3:23 p.m.—Shoot me.

3:42 p.m.—I am not going to make it out of this forest alive.

3:44 p.m.—A group of energetic teenagers passes me. I am not proud of this, but I secretly pray for them to suffer debilitating sprained ankles

3:46 p.m.—I am crossing the finish line. There are people ringing cowbells and cheering me on. My wife is here. I am limping. And crying. Thinking of Paige and C.C., and how much I admire them. And how this little hike is nothing compared to what they deal with every day.

3:50 p.m.—My wife kisses my lips. She has tears in her eyes. She says, “This is for C.C.”

It certainly was.

And so was this column.