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,
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.
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. 
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.
