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| Rockin' the 7 (pic by Beth S.) |
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.
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| Michael and I cruising in to Dalton (Mile 15) |
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.
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| Pebble extrication (Mile 30.5) |
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.
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| Feeling good (pic by Beth S.) |
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.
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| Micro drop bag (pic by Beth S.) |
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.
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| Walking it in (Mile 100+) |
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.
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| Bib and buckle |
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