UltraPedestrian Wilderness Challenge: Easy Pass

     "Holy Shit!", one of us yelled, as a deer appeared out of the darkness, directly in front of the
headlight beams. Luckily, we were going plenty slow and slowed to a stop, waiting for what seemed like an eternity before the deer ambled off. It was 4:45 a.m. and I was riding along with John Barrickman and Scott Railton as we headed towards the Easy Pass Trailhead. We had done a key swap with Chris Bellevie and had just left him at the opposite end of out route, the Colonial Creek Campground along the Thunder Arm of the Skagit River.
     Thankfully, I wasn't driving during the deer encounter as I was running on fumed by that point. I had been unsuccessful at arranging a shuttle to do this route and when I heard about the key swap several days prior, I jumped at the chance. The only hitch was how insanely early everyone wanted to meet up. I figured no sleep was better than too little so I stayed up late and shortly after one in the morning departed Bellevue for the North Cascades.
     By the time we pulled up to the TH I felt as though I was going to pass out from exhaustion. Despite us all driving to the TH together, we would all say our goodbyes and goodlucks there as we would all be going at different paces. As it was still dark, I popped my headlamp beam on, shook hands, and hit the trail.
     The first mile and a half or so was pretty uneventful. The trail climbed at a pretty descent grade, crossing the occasional stream, forded by log bridges, or in some case, just logs. As I was moving the quickest, I had the honor of getting to remove the bajillion spider webs that spanned width of the trail via coniferous anchor points. The dark forest would not last long though and soon enough I would break out in to the open and see the first and only significant climb of the day.
     Just after emerging from the woods, I stared up a my day's objective. Easy Pass. From here on out, it was a monster talus and boulder field that led up to the pass, switch backing just enough to keep it hard, just not back breaking.

     About a quarter way up the slope, I realized it had gotten light enough that I not longer needed my head lamp. The dawn light was beginning to creep it's way along higher points of the mountain ranges and it wouldn't be long until the sun was visible.
     Just as I was admiring the wall of light moving along the upper slopes, I was scared silly by a raucous noise and movement both in front of me, as well as in my periphery. Once I got my wits back, I realized I had accidentally crept up on a gaggle of grouslings. It was hilarious watching them scatter about the rocks, perceiving me to be a threat. Their tiny little underdeveloped wings would only allow for a couple meters of flight at best before returning back to earth, bouncing off the granite and flapping wildly. I passed by quickly, not wanting to disturb them any further.
     Before I knew it I was getting near the top, but not before turning around and seeing John several switch backs below m. We waved and said hello, and then I continued up to the saddle and Easy Pass.

   My timing could not have been more perfect as the moment that I reached the high point, the sun pierced the mountain's horizon line behind me, blanketing everything in front of me with dawn light. I couldn't help but sit there taking picture after picture. And that's when I saw the moon. It was just sitting there, barely above a large mountain right in front of me. And it was even more spectacular as it was not it's normal color. I'm colorblind and therefor can't describe it but it was something special! Moon or not though I was here on a mission. I took a few more pics, packed up camera, and dropped down into a series of switchbacks that would quickly get me down to the valley below.
     The switch backs, though fun, were actually a bit dangerous due to soil erosion. On more than one occasion my foot slipped off and I would go for a short tumble. I would finally get to the bottom though and aside from a couple scratches and legs and shoes soaked from morning dew, I was in good shape.
     The next fifteen plus miles were amazing, though much of it was blurry. At this point the sun was up and I hadn't slept since the previous morning. I was on serious autopilot as I navigated the never ending roller coaster that was the trail back to Thunder Arm.

    That is one of the few things I do remember. That no matter how hard I tried, I simply could not get a solid stretch of running together. The trail was eternally rolling. So much so that I actually started to wonder if I was descending. In addition to that, I also got scared by a dear, lost for several minutes, met two back country trail workers, saw the infamous new double-bridge, and ran in to Chris, heading in the opposite direction.
     As I got down to the last few miles I remember just wanting to be done. Like the tail end of a 100, you know you are going to make it, the hard part is behind you, but there are still a couple more stupid miles to travel just to spite you. Fortunately, as I got closer and closer, more and more people began to appear. It was now full on morning and these were campers who had recently awoken and were now beginning to enjoy the day.

     The human sighting became more and more frequent and before I knew it, I popped out at the TH. I was so surprised to be done that it took me a second to remember to turn my watch off. I looked around, noticing a few people looking at me, perhaps wondering why I was huffing and puffing and sweating during breakfast time.
     I walked back to the car, stripped off my gear, and walked over to Lake Diablo. It was painfully cold at first touch but I didn't care. It was perfectly still and had that emerald tint that only comes with glacial melt. I gingerly got in, sat for a couple minutes, and then got up and returned to the car. It wasn't even 10:45 am. To put a cherry on top of my surreal, sleep deprived adventure, I was treated to an air show by the Blue Angels on my return drive home as it was Seafair Sunday. Crazy, just crazy.

The Details,
     Time: 5:36:52
     Style: Solo, Self Contained (Nothing was
     sourced, including water).
     Fuel: 200 calories (Black Cherry Clif Bloc
     4x50cal)
     Fluid: 15 ounces (tap water)
     Gear: Montrail Fluid Feel shoes, Drymax
     socks, North Face "Better than Naked Long
     Haul" shorts, North Face "Better than Naked"
     Singlet, Seven Hills visor, RayBan sunglasses
     Suunto Ambit II watch, Hydroflask 15 ounce
     soft flask. Ultimate Direction "Anton Krupicka
     vest", Nikon AW110 camera.

UltraPedestrian Wilderness Challenge: Chinook Pass

        It was just before seven o’clock as the frosty wind, ripping through the dawn air, made the confused runner shudder violently. He stood there, his bleary eyes transfixed over a cartoonish map of the surrounding trails, all the while his singlet doing nothing to contain what little body heat he had left. He questioned out loud his foolish decision to not bring a real map. Not wanting to risk getting any colder, and realizing that the map before him was not going to decipher itself regardless of how long he looked at it, the runner hit the start button on his watch and took off running toward an ornate stone bridge that he hoped signified the entrance to his intended route.

        As he made his way over the first few rollers, the surrounding topography indicated that he was indeed on the correct trail, as well as heading in the proper direction. He soon warmed up after several minutes of shuffling, heart rate increasing and blood vessels dilating. It was bright out but the sun was still behind the surrounding mountains. He knew his best miles would be put down in the cool morning air, before the sun would have a chance to fully rise and bake the trails beneath his feet. Up and down he went, terrain constantly undulating as well as ever changing in it’s composition. Granite, dirt, mud, pine needles, and streams, all making their presence known within the first several miles. Despite a recent sub-par performance, he felt fresh on this particular morning, and was cautiously optimistic about the run that stretched out before him.

         After three miles Large Lake Dewey instantly appeared on the left hand side, the ribbon of

single track trail running remarkably close to it’s western bank. Now warm from running, the water looked inviting, however he was on somewhat of a clock so there would be little time for extracurricular activities. The visual image of the alpine lake in the morning would have to be enough to suffice for the time being. Besides, this would be the first of many beautiful features he knew he would encounter on the day’s exploration of the unknown.

         Not long after passing the lake he thought he heard voices up ahead. This may normally come as a surprise given the time and location however, he knew there were friends ahead of him on the trail. Both the Book of Faces, as well as vehicles in the parking lot confirmed they would indeed be out there somewhere. 

         He soon spotted figures ahead of him and called out as to not stealth up behind them causing fright. The troupe ahead of him stopped, pleasantries and pictures were exchanged, and then it was time to move on. This group was there for pure enjoyment, while the man’s mission for the day was “Fast and Fun”, a motto as well as mantra he has adopted at the onset of the running season.

         The friendly encounter only served to further boost his spirits, which in turn had the positive effect of increasing his average pace. The next few miles seemed to melt in to a mélange of optical wonders, the likes of which his eyes were not accustomed to. As is often the case, the exact moment of when the runner entered “flow” could not be pinpointed. All that he knew was that he was in it and unless he wanted it to end right then and there, he needed to re-empty his mind. A calming effect washed back over him, the smell of conifers igniting his olfactory senses and the soft sound of footfalls pitter pattering in his ears. CRASH! POP! SNAP! Those along with many other violent noises jerked the runner out of his trance and brought him back to reality! Terrified, he realized he was surrounded by large “somethings”, and motivated by self preservation, jumped off the trail, into a small cluster of trees, and hugged one in a vain attempt to blend in. Following the loud destructive noises was a sound he had never in his life heard. It was as if whatever diabolical creatures were surrounding him were now communicating via a noise that could only be described as marsupial playing with a broken slide whistle. Cautiously, the runner slowly began to emerge from the trees to perhaps catch a glimpse of the jackalopes, snafflehounds, or whatever species of nefarious critter was waiting to exsanguinate him. After spotting the first of many creatures, he was able to let his guard down. During his endorphin fueled space-out, he had run right in to a heard of elk having breakfast on the wooded slopes. The elk seemed to be in just as much of a hurry as the runner so they were soon on their way, but not before the runner took a blurry video of them, similar in quality to those of Bigfoot and Nessy.

         Excited but a bit shaken up by this wild encounter, the runner continued on his trek, though at a considerably slower pace. Climbs and descents came and went, occasionally punctuated by stunning views of Tahoma. Once again he was able to let his guard down and get back to the business at hand. In what seemed like no time at all, he was prancing through the woods, silly grin plastered across his face. It was by sheer dumb luck that he happened to glance down the slope below him and notice another stretch of single track. Uh oh! He immediately realized he had missed a critical junction that he was supposed to take. He quickly turned around, heading back up the PCT toward the Laughing Water Trail junction. Disaster averted. The same thoughts that filled his head when he began were now once again dominating his head. “I should have brought a map”.

         Now safely on to the Laughing Water Trail, he began his seemingly endless descent towards the East Side Trail near Ohanapecosh. Endless or not, this trail would be the running highlight of the route as it was over 14 miles long and entirely downhill, save for a couple hundred feet of counter elevation. The descending ribbon of trail allowed him to find an ideal rhythm, one that would let him lose his grip on focused consciousness and drift off to that special place within a runners mind. That place where nothing is wrong, where legs are indefatigable, and where smiles are at their widest.

Then it happened. One minute he was floating over the trail and the next minute he was flying through the air. His cerebral abilities quickly began working overtime, running through computations and scenarios at speeds his conscious mind could never match. What he was able to determine was that his feet were no longer on the ground, his right big toe was on fire, and he was about to impact the ground… with his chest. Wham! Despite the fact tat he was alone, he sprung up to his feet with the efficiency that only sheer embarrassment could produce. Less than ten seconds of down time and he was back on his way. 

         Soon the sounds of rumbling Harley Davidsons and the Ohanapecosh filled air, reminding the runner that he was leaving the serenity of isolation and returning the more populated portion of the great national park.

         After darting across the 123, the runner became horrified as he encountered a fork in the trail. He new he would soon be heading back north but was unsure of which spur would lead him that way. A quick discussion with a young family convinced to head left and hope for the best. However, after a minute or two of nervous downhill running, he questioned yet another person as to the whereabouts of a bridge that would get him to the other side of the river and on to the Eastside Trail. He was simultaneously frustrated and relieved when he was told to head back the way he came, take a right, not a left, and the bridge would be up ahead. He profusely thanked his newfound corrector of bad directions and soon enough was happily on the Eastside Trail, heading north back to car. 

He found the first few miles quite pleasant. Gentile rolling single track just barely trending uphill, all the while the sounds of the Ohanapecosh roaring just several meters to his right.  Despite this, he knew the ease of this portion would be short lived as he had essentially been descending for the last 15 miles and would now have to slog his way back up. Before that was to happen though he was delighted to cross the river many, many times over very well built bridges, further widening his smile and providing more photograph opportunities. All good things come to an end though and soon the inevitable happened and the grade began to increase.

The runner was no stranger to steep grinding grades but this trail was quite the pain in the ass. Instead of a constant grinding grade, it would lull him with a comfortable ten percent grade before a well timed sucker punch of hands on knees death grade. The cycle repeated itself with a regularity that would disgust Sisyphus. A breaking point was almost reached when a nearly brand new Hoka was involuntarily removed from the runner’s foot by a malicious puddle of mud that must have certainly jumped out in front of the runner from behind a bush. Were there any hikers within earshot, they would have been treated to an epic string of curses and obscenities. Despite the hiccup, the runner knew he was close to the end, so he bit down and just started to grind. 

         Soon he would pass 410 for the first time, reaffirming his belief that he was close, and though he was, he wasn’t quite as close as he though. By the time he had passed the 420 once again and was now looking down upon Lake Tipsoo he had gone completely anaerobic. 

         Stumbling about haphazardly, most likely with a bit of drool hanging off his lower lip, he moved as quickly as he could towards the lake, knowing a trail nearby would bring him right back to his car. The problem was the multiple trails surrounding the lake. Not caring about his appearance, or social norms for that matter, he went running from one tourist to the next, gesticulating wildly and babbling incoherently about a stone bridge and a parking lot. Finally a German tourist, would be able to decipher the crazy man’s rant and pointed to a faint line of single track leading away from the lake, up a small hill, and in to some trees. Taking off with the grace of a toddler that hasn’t mastered running, he made haste to the tree line, hollering “danke” as he did so.

As he crested the hill and could now see through the thin line of trees, relief swept over him as he was right next to the stone bridge and could see the parking lot. Realizing he was over his goal time, though still on the clock, he took a brief moment to turn around, snapping one last shot of Tipsoo Lake and looked off at the vast terrain he had just covered. With a chuckle and a smile he turned back around, trotted down to his car, and stopped his watch. His day was done… and he was hungry.   

The Details,

     Time: 7:19:34

     Style: Solo, Self Contained (Nothing was sourced, water included)

     Fuel: 250 calories (Strawberry Clif Blocks, 5@50cal)

     Fluid: 20 ounces (tap water)

     Gear: Hoka Challenger ATRs, Drymax socks, North Face "Better than Naked"     
     shorts, North Face "Better than Naked" singlet, Seven Hills Visor, RayBan
     sunglasses, Suunto Ambit II watch, Ultimate Direction "Anton Krupicka vest,
     Ultimate Direction Fast Draw 20 handheld bottle, Hydroflask 15 ounce backup
     bottle, Nikon AW110 camera.

Edward Abbey is Full of Shit: A Zion 100 Race Report.

“I’ve walked the road to Hell, and it’s paved with slick rock”.



Rockin' the 7 (pic by Beth S.)

        It was 5:50 a.m. mountain time and here I was, shivering my cajones off at the start line of the Zion 100 in Virgin, Utah. What the hell am I doing here? I swore after Javelina that I would never return to the desert yet here I was. I hugged my parents goodbye as I prepared to start my descent into the absurd, flanked by Michael Linscott and Steven Kent, two fellow Washingtonian runners who had also made the trip down. Without much warning the huddled masses heard the countdown from 10 over the PA system and like that we were off.
         Not more than two blocks through the small town and we were already running across highway 9 with traffic thankfully stopped by the local sheriffs. This was a particularly lovely surprise as every trail run I have been a part of that crosses a road is done so at one’s own risk.
         Shortly after the road crossing we exited the pavement for the double track dirt road that would lead us to out first climb. On the way I quickly realized Michael, as well as Allison Naney (another Seattleite), were right behind as their talk was Northwest specific. Michael and I would eventually find ourselves next to each other and this would be the case for 95% of the next fifteen miles.
         As we hit the first climb up to Flying Monkey Mesa we transitioned from a casual run to a meaningful hike. Apparently the Government used to test out ejection seats by mechanically launching simians off the top of the mesa. I had heard that this hike was steep, somewhere around 900+’ in a mile but it didn’t feel that bad. I attribute this to fresh legs, a relaxed pace, cool weather, and good conversation with Michael. Aside from a sketchy 8 foot rope that was used to ascend a rather steep portion of smooth stone, the climb was rather uneventful. Michael and I reached the top, checked in at the aid station, and headed out for a loop around the mesa. We discussed not only our goals for the day but also life in general. Oddly enough Michael and I live 11 blocks apart from each other on the same road and have conversed regularly via the Internet but this was the first time we had actually run together. He’s a great guy and the miles seemed to melt away as did the darkness of dawn.
         During this loop I also met Denver, a young woman who was very pleasant and had run Badger, a local 100 in Washington. Our duo briefly became a trio and I soon learned that she was also running the Run Rabbit Run 100 in September. I eventually had to make a stop in the bushes and they pressed on. After my brief stop I felt better and cruised back to the Flying Monkey aid station, checked in, and began my descent.
         I live for technical descending so this was right in my wheel house. I had no plans to bomb down it as it was only mile 11ish and I needed to save my quads but I certainly wasn’t going to casually pick my way down. Everyone in front of me was very accommodating as a used a combination of rock hoping and dirt glissading to make haste. The only part that would have slowed me down was the rope portion in which a log jam had formed but thankfully there was a rather steep but safe way around. I took the later option ad quickly passed around 5 people, including Michael. Unfortunately though this roundabout caused a few pebbles to stow away in my shoes. No matter though as I would soon have the opportunity to extricate them. Michael rejoined me and we continued to chat away and before we knew it we rounded a bend and were looking down at the Dalton Wash aid station. From a couple hundred yards out I could see my dad and him me so he waved and then signaled to my mom to prep the layout of food and gear.


Michael and I cruising in to Dalton (Mile 15)

         The first thing I did upon arrival was grab a gel for the next portion as well as a PBJ, but not before Kobe, my super pup, managed to bite off a chunk. A quick dumping of pebbles from my shoes and a top off of my bottle and I was outta there. Michael stayed behind as he had to deal with a blister that had formed. Little did I know but this would be the last time that I would see him.
         As I exited the aid station I knew the next portion was a smooth uphill dirt road that led up to Guacamole Mesa as my folks and I had scouted out this portion in the days prior. As I calmly jogged up I marveled and the myriad highball boulders that were strewn about and couldn’t help but think how much so many of my climbing friends back in Washington would love it here. The road seemed to fly by and I was soon ad the aid station topping off my bottle and grabbing a berry flavored V-Fuel. The volunteers here were so nice and jovial and made the smile on my face even larger than it had been previous. This would quickly change though as I would finally learn the awful truth about slick rock.
         Slick rock is almost impossible to describe but it is essentially rolling rock that forever undulated in no particular patter or direction, only occasionally punctuated by troughs of dirt that have found there way up there over the years. It is simply impossible to get a groove going while running on it and it beats on you like a rented mule.
         Another unique aspect is that this portion was marked by a series of cairns and small wire baskets with rocks deposited in them. I had never seen such marking and it would have been fun except for the fact that you are constantly looking for them as there is no defined trail.
         I would soon join another runner, Nashville, and my two eyes became four as we searched for the next deposit of ruble that would guide the way. Nashville was extremely friendly with a very thick southern accent. We mostly discussed the difference in weather between out two home towns and he was shocked to learn that we only get a touch over 30 inches annually as opposed to his 50. I was saddened when he told me I should go ahead as he was going to take a walking break. He was good company and it made the slick rock a tad less hellish.
         All was not lost however as I would soon team up with Sweden, a young man making his 100 mile debut in the middle of a grand road trip across America with his brother. Sweden was also good company but as English was not his first language so I had to choose my words carefully so we could continue our dialogue. Sadly I would soon lose Sweden as well as he stopped to walk and eat.
         It was at this point that I was about a mile before returning to Guacamole aid station and I had finished the loop portion and was back on the stick of the lollipop. Traffic was now two-directional as the slower runners were making there way out for their loop. As one man approached we both slightly yielded the trail to allow each other to pass. Naturally I smiled and thanked him, making brief eye contact. Unfortunately though with my eyes looking at his they could not see the rock in the path of my foot. I was soon airborne, pulling a full on Superman pose before using my hand to break my fall. As I struck the ground I smacked my hip very hard as well as having the top of my handheld explode off the bottle and to my horror, witnessed my precious agua pour out. All was not lost though as I seemed to have not incurred any injuries and I could refill my water within a few minutes.
         Back at the aid station the volunteers were quick to wash the dirt of my bottle and refill it while I did my best to get cleaned up. I thanked them profusely and headed back down the dirt road to the Dalton Wash aid station where my parents awaited my arrival.
         I was in quite a good mood as I rolled up and was surprised when two young women called out my name as well as “Seven Hills, yeah!”. I wouldn’t find out till later but these women were Allison’s crew. They were super nice and it made for a great pit stop. I quickly ate another sandwich, emptied the dirt from my shoes, and hugged my parents goodbye.

Pebble extrication (Mile 30.5)

         Back across highway 9 I went, this time without the aid of the sheriff. I soon found myself on a four mile jeep road that led toward the devil off all short climbs, Gooseberry Mesa. On the way there I quickly realized that yes, I indeed was in the desert, and it was hot. It was now noon and the sun was directly above me. This intense heat would only be magnified as I was soon ascending the mesa on what I consider to be the most ridiculous ascent of my racing career. It wasn’t so much it’s grade, which was considerable (think Old Mailbox or West Bandera), but it’s composition. A trail that gains 1000’ in .7 miles is one thing but when it is comprised of loose rock and dirt, that’s a whole different story.
         As I paused halfway up to drink water some water and take in the views, I was caught by Tahoe, a Hoka ambassador, who was a solid ascender. I used her to mentally pull myself up the climb. Just before topping out I looked up and there was a very young face peering down at me from behind a boulder. He was sporting a Northwest Trail Runs tech hat and I realized Michael’s progeny, EPL. He was very polite and we introduced ourselves to each other and shook hands. You have a good kid there, Michael. I said goodbye, topped out, and arrived at the Goosebump aid station.

Feeling good (pic by Beth S.)

         I was really elated to be up there as the climb combined with the beating sun zapped me somethin’ fierce. Little did I know though that I was out of the frying pan and in to the fire. I didn’t linger at the AS and began a four mile portion to the Gooseberry Point aid station. More slick rock! And this time it slowly ascended with even larger undulations! It seriously began to kick the shit out of me.
         I had rejoined Tahoe and we muttered all sorts of disparaging remarks about this portion of the course. I soon found out that she was only running the 100k and I briefly envied her as I was entering my first low point of the event.
         In addition to funneling down in to a pit a psychological despair, I also soon realized that the fall earlier had done more damage than I realized. With every atrocious two foot step down on to slick rock, I would jar my hip, sending searing hot pain from my trochanter into my ischium. This was no f-ing bueno. On the fly I had to alter my strategy from casually running everything possible on the course to simply finishing. Sadly, this meant walking. I was determined not to DNF this event and by continuing to try and run, I could have caused a legitimate injury that would force me out of the race. While I hate walking, especially early and when I am full of energy, I was now in survival mode.
         I soon arrived at Gooseberry Point aid, ate a banana, and began a short 1 mile OAB out to the Point where I would use a heart shaped hole punch on my bib to indicate my completion of this portion. I had hear that in previous iterations of this event that there was an old cowboy who would mark your hand as proof. The fact that he wasn’t there should have bummed me out but I was in a bad way and getting worse. My sole focus at this point was to get off the slick rock and on the next portion. To my horror though this would require 7.5 more miles of sandstone ass kicking.


Micro drop bag (pic by Beth S.)

         After what seemed like an eternity of time and pain I got back to Goosebump aid station and was quickly greeted by Beth, Allison’s crew who I had seen earlier at Dalton. Her giant smile and immeasurable enthusiasm couldn’t help but cheer me up as she refilled my bottle and found my drop bag for me. You’re the best!
         Now it was off to Grafton by way of a 6 mile smooth dirt road the ambled downhill. My happiness was short lived however as my hip reminded my that it was in the drivers seat now. In addition to the pain there was also the mountain bikers, or more specifically, the cars they were driving. They couldn’t give two shits that there were runners on the road as the whizzed past at Ludicrous Speed, all the while churning up enough dust to destroy even the most expensive of Dysons. It was the like the descent from Sun Top on crack.
         Before reaching the Grafton aid station I look up and what I saw elicited both respect and humility. The leader was heading back of from this treacherous out and back portion and to say he looked strong would be an understatement. I quickly did the math and realized he was roughly 12 miles ahead of me. Yowzers! We exchanged “looking strong(s)” before going our separate ways. In the next two miles before Grafton I would also see 2nd and 3rd.
        The Grafton aid station was pretty uneventful. I was now in full on “100s are stupid” mode and wasn’t in the mood to linger as a grey cloud of despair was hovering over me. I thanked them and headed out thinking things couldn’t possibly get any worse. You have to hit rock bottom before you can swing back up, or so they say, and despite being low at Grafton, I wasn’t quite there yet, though I would be soon.
        The next four miles to Cemetery aid station were far more technical than I had imagined pre-race. Loose rocks, dirt, brush, and a course that meandered in a way that would allow for no rhythm. The decline was punctuated by a short but steep hill before the final descent in to Cemetery. I was hand-on-knees hiking up the little hill when I apparently missed a junction. Thankfully I was moving at a snails pace or things could have been really bad. I made it quite a bit of course before realizing there were now markers and it didn’t feel like the course would be this way. I panicked and began the horrible process of deciding to continue in hopes of finding a marker or turn back and see if I screwed up. The trail gods took pity on me though and all of a sudden I heard a runner off in the distance yelling to me to come back his way. Thank you, thank you, thank you! My detour didn’t cost too much time but it certainly didn’t help my current mental state. I hustled back on course and began the final highly technical 1 mile descent to Cemetery. This was also the type of descent that, despite it’s steep grade, must be respected and not bombed as it would only spell disaster in the form of serious injury. 15+ minute later I pull in to Cemetery where my parents are waiting with smiles, food, new shoes, and an insane Latvian innkeeper. In retrospect I feel bad because I was not the happy go lucky runner they had encountered at the previous aid station. I wasn’t mean or rude, just very curt. It also didn’t help that while I was trying to change my socks and shoes (and cramping horribly), this lunatic of an innkeeper was bombarding me with questions about ultra running. She was very friendly but at the time I wanted nothing more throw my dirty old shoes at her.
         As I was preparing to leave a young man, Atlanta, came over and asked if we wanted to team up on the return ascent back to Grafton. I hesitantly agreed, knowing my pace would be atrociously slow. We headed out and chatted for a few minutes before I mercilessly told him to go on ahead. After a bit of well intentioned protesting he went on only to quickly bound upward at a speed that I never could have matched at that point. I really appreciated him trying to stay with me as he clearly had several gears he wasn’t using in an effort to help.
        The ascent actually went by rather quickly and I soon realized that I was coming out of my funk. This sensation elated me and I was actually able to start running uphill, albeit slowly. I began to think about how lucky I am to be able to run and how not even three weeks prior I was laying in the emergency room having my leg stitched up. Whatever problems I had or was having were trivial in comparison to the rest of the world’s and for that matter, most likely some other runner out on the course with me. Due to this uplifting of spirits I made it back to Grafton in what seemed like no time at all. This time I was much more pleasant, exchanged some friendly banter with volunteers and fellow runners, and departed with a renewed sense of confidence. At this point however, my hip was staging a full on rebellion and I realized I was in for a long slog. It was okay though as I had hit bottom and already and even though things could go south again I didn’t foresee them being as bad as they had been.
         It took quite a bit of time to cover the six mile road back to Goosebump as I walked over 90% of it. Also by this point it had gotten dark but my headlamp was not needed as I was on a smooth road. I happily pulled in to Goosebump and devoured lots of warm food as I mentally prepared for what could be a dangerous decent back down the Gooseberry Mesa “trail”.
         Just as it had been before, the trail was beyond steep and chocked with hazards such as loose rocks and dirt but now since I was descending, the possibility of slipping was much, much greater. My descending skills served me well though and despite a few moments of uncontrolled sliding, I made it down very quickly, passing several runners in the process.  I now had roughly six mile of rolling desert terrain to get to Virgin Desert aid station where my parents were waiting ad where I would begin a series of three loops before making my way to the finish.
         This six mile portion felt as though it lasted forever. This was mainly due to the fact that I had thought it was flat before the race only to realize it was anything but, and because, you know, I was walking everything at this point. Some two hours later I came stumbling in to the aid station and was greeted by my parents. Though I was still a physical wreck, I was no longer the “turd of unhappiness’ (Urbanski, J., 2013). My parents could tell and I can only imagine they were relieved. I stuffed my face with chips, pretzels, and mandarins before heading out on my first of three loops, each progressively longer and more difficult, though I didn’t know it at the time.
         At this point in the my tale of woe I am very tired and details are scarce at best but I will do my best to relay to you, the reader, what transpired in the desert.
The first loop was thankfully fairly straightforward as it was the shortest and least technical. Aside from some rollers and poorly placed rocks it seemed to go by rather quick, and by quick I mean 4+ miles in an hour and fifteen minutes. The second loop showed it’s teeth as it seemed to forever lead away from the aid station. An eternity later it turn back and thankfully it was a pretty smooth return trip, despite taking almost two hours for a 6.2 mile loop. Now the crux came however. It was as if Matt Gunn, the RD, was trying to break the runners as the neared the end of their odyssey. This loop was just shy of seven miles and took “runners” northwest away from the aid station towards the very edges of the Virgin River, up and down large dunes or bluffs, and into a never ending chasm of desert darkness. I would stumble may way through this loop cursing Matt, myself, and the desert, while simultaneously beginning to get extremely cold.
         After topping out on one of the bluff/dune combo thingies I could see the aid station. It was still a good two miles away but I was just so relieved to be out the pitch black where my only company had been hallucination of rattle snakes that just turned out to be giant piles of multi-colored cow shit.
By the time I got back the Virgin Desert aid station I was freezing and despite the fact that continuous motion would help my body temperature from dropping further the sight of folding chairs and a fire pit was too much to resist. My dad helped me sit down and went to get me some broth for me as I enjoyed the warmth. As I sat there I couldn’t help but look around and the weary faces of my fellow runners. We were quite a sight I’m sure, broken but not defeated, each of us trying to summon up some iota of energy through getting off our feet, if only for a few minutes.  It’s funny to think that during the whole race the only time a sat down was to empty or change my shoes, yet here I am at mile 94, sitting by a fire with no concern.
         I had long since stopped caring about finishing time or position. Sub-24 was out the window and the thought of trying to run someone down made me want to vomit. After fifteen minutes or so I stood up from the chair, delighting in the fact that it was easy and I was not locked up. I hugged my Dad goodbye, told him I would see him in ninety minutes or so, and began my six mile walk of victory towards the finish.
         The six miles were rather surreal as I was now in the 25th our of the race and the sun was rising. After a few miles on the trail I popped out on to highway 9 at the 1250 block. I knew I had roughly a mile left at this point and I casually walked along the highway as cars whizzed past. I couldn’t help but wonder what the occupants of the vehicles must be thinking when the saw me. A dirty man on the side of the road, wearing shorts in the freezing desert morning, stumbling about, water bottle in hand, and sporting a numbered bib no less. I still snicker as I imagine their thoughts.
I would eventually reach 100th street in Virgin and slowly walked towards the finish through a line of crew vehicles. Some were occupied with crew and those that were gave me thumb up or rolled down  the window to congratulate me. I could see my parents a block away, as well as the finishing arch. As I approached, Matt Gunn called out my name over the PA. It was a nice gesture and made me smile but I was committed walking through the finish. Sure I could have run the last few yards but it would have been disingenuous, and probably would have hurt.


Walking it in (Mile 100+)

         I crossed the finish line in 25:07, followed shortly by Betsey Nye, one of my ultra running heroines. It was the longest of all my 100 mile finishes but it didn’t matter. The course threw everything it had at me and I gave it the finger in return. Plus, I got the 100 mile DNF monkey off my back. That little bastard had been weighing me down ever since Javelina last year. I hugged my folks, thanked Matt, grabbed my buckle, and kicked rocks.
         My day was done and the only thoughts that were left in my shattered noodle were those of shower, beds, and food. It was in no way a perfect day or an ideal race, but it was one filled with hardships, triumphs, and wonderful people. It will never be forgotten.
         Thank you Matt for putting together a first class event, the volunteers for their tireless work, my fellow runners for your friendship and encouragement, Steven Kent for the trail beta, Michael Linscott for the great company, Beth and Sarah for their smiles and assistance, Phil Kochik for your continued support and the jersey, Coach Matt for your guidance and friendship, the whole PNW running community, and most importantly my parents for being my biggest supporters as well as a first class crew.


Bib and buckle