Notes
from the Tundra Ground, aka Hardrock Hundred 2004.
(Herding
sheep is merely the bonus)
[note for the text file version: gaps in the text are where photos reside in the Word document copy of this report; download it from http://tenacity.net/ultra/hardrock2004/Notes_from_the_Tundra_Ground_HR2004.doc"]
The
story actually begins….
…in 1998, when I saw an email about trail work
in Silverton over Memorial Day weekend. I
figured what the hell, so drove up, met Charlie and Andi, did some work on the
then-new Nute Chute and went for a bike ride and hike up to Cinnamon pass.
After
that point, time starts speeding up: I
email Eric Robinson to ask if he’d like a pacer, he would, I do, he finishes in
38:40; I pace the next year for him as well; I enter myself in 2000 and fail
miserably, trashing my knees on the decents.
In 2001 I actually have a chance – I’ve done several 50s, including lots
of mileage in the San Juans. I have a
bad stretch during the race from miles 30-40 and instead of fighting back and
recovering my pace I give up mentally, slowing down and eventually missing the
58 mile cutoff.
The
silliness of giving up like that haunts me and I wear my ID bracelet for 6
months afterwards until I decide that I will NOT enter in 2002, and will
instead pace someone until I can figure out what it is that is allowing me to
keep DNFing.
2002
is cancelled, so in 2003 I pace John Cappis from the beginning, as he is over
60. I trash my feet and stop at 60 miles
(AGAIN), he stops at 67 (not having fun anymore). I feel horrible – if I would have stayed with
him maybe we could have pushed and suffered on together. I have failed my runner.
Ok,
now I’m over myself. In 2004 I enter
Hardrock and find myself on the accepted runners list one more time. My training starts in December, when I build
my long run up to about 5 hours by mid-January.
In the past many of my “long runs” have been a wide mix of
running/hiking in the mountains. This
spring I kept those
long runs to rolling trails and thusly the running/walking ratio was about
95/5, and I kept the speed DOWN – perhaps using Maffetone’s method before even
hearing about him in April from the ultralist.
In
the first week of February I ran Pemberton 50k in a PR time with negative
splits, a sign that my long runs were doing me some good.
Four
weeks after Pemberton, I ran Old Pueblo 50 mile in
I
take Zane Grey very easy, and finish in good shape. The next several weeks I am taking a long
time to recover, unfortunately. I might
even have some lingering after effects from Old Pueblo. Based on this, I drop out of
May
and June my training seems really screwed up – I get in a few more long runs,
including a 50K with 6000 feet of climb
on the first weekend of June (same day as Squaw Peak), and another 22 mile run
with a climb to 13,000’ in the middle of it.
Besides those long runs, I am not doing a lot, and it worries me. My weight lifting has slackened (including my
squats, which have CURED my knee problems since 2001), and I feel like I am not
just biding time until Hardrock, but rather wasting it. On another level I know I am OK – I have put
in the mileage this spring that should pull me up to Hardrock just fine. So I try to think happy thoughts about when I
will get to take my vacation and go to Silverton.
I
go up 2 weeks early, an extra week compared to the last several years. Despite already living at 7000’, I think it
will still help. I spent the first week
in this way:
3
nights sleeping at 11,000; plus 48 hours straight at 12,400’ camping:
3
half day hikes with lots of steep climbing (even more than the average at HR)
2 other shorter hikes.
Like
usual, I spend a requisite amount of time at the Avalanche coffee shop, and
also a lot of time eating the trainload of food I’ve brought with me. I do the usual “
The
end of the week comes and goes, and brings with it the arrival of brother Greg
(who will pace me from Sherman in); the appearance of SO Dave, travel trailer
in tow; then the arrival of brother George (who decided to come out just days
ago to take photos and hang out). It’s a
lot of people to deal with when my usual HR thing is just to be in my “other”
life, my ultra-alter-ego. I do find that
I like having them around, which is a relief; sometimes I can be selfish with
“my” interests and friends.
I
am deliberately doing very little from the 2nd until the race, so on the 3rd
Greg goes out on course marking up
Monday
I take both brothers on the short & fast hike from Grouse Gulch to
Tuesday
Greg gets into a conversation at the coffee shop with Matt Mahoney, who then
convinces him to go on a Sneffels peak run.
They take off, and I am furiously neurotic and worried for half the
day. In the end I figure it will be
fine, and Greg is pretty sensible so he will stop if Matt is moving over
terrain that is uncomfortably exposed.
Of
course, it turns out just fine, and Greg gets his first 14er. Then there is the potlick – lots of people
show up, and we nearly eat all the food.
I’m impressed.
Check
in, race briefing… I am fluid and calorie loading by chugging huge amounts of
soup, which gets me some weird looks at the briefing. I wish best of luck to everyone I see,
assemble the drop bags, and get to bed around 8pm. I actually get about 6 or 7 hours of sleep,
not too bad.
THE
RACE
(race photos by George Feucht – http://www.georgefeucht.com)
Its
5am and I am waking up. My pack is
ready, my drop bags are on their way, and I feel somewhat disconnected. No nervousness, just a very zen-like
focus. I will hear comments about this both during and after the race for days – how
zombie-like I was at aid stations, not smiling much, just getting stuff
done. All of those people should have
seen me out on the trails. Every meadow
I ran through, every vista, every little stand of eastern-facing yellow daisies
was greeted with a grin from me. I
smiled more during this run than any other that I can recall – I was just
reacting to my surroundings. But more on
that later…. *grin*
Just
before the start I squeeze my way to the back where I find John and Jim and
Rollin and Chuck and Ulli, and I say, “there’s my people!”. Up at the front Karl has already put his headphones on
and is lost to the world (and my understanding, but that’s also another story).
We
start out up the hill to Jesus, then along the
powerline cut to Nute’s Chute and along the road until it is time to get our
feet wet.
I
am talking with everyone, loosening up and just getting into a rythym.
On
the way up to Putnam I fall in near the usual people: Joe Prusaitis, Ulli Kamm,
Jim Ballard, John DeWalt. These are guys that *will* finish, and they
are a wealth of knowledge that my neophyte brain can barely aspire to. The morning is starting out nicely, with a
little bit of haze from a fire to the west of us, but not too bad. Deb and Steve Pero relate their overnight
adventure with their dog Tucker, who escaped from his less than competent
dog-sitters’ watch. They asked another
local friend to watch him as a last minute favor, and that turned out OK. I could tell that Deb was still worried, and
I wanted to tell her that Tucker would be fine and she’s got other things to
think about for the next 46 hours…. But for some reason I didn’t. I got ahead of her, maybe.
At
the same time I passed Jim Sweatt, the man with a record here at Hardrock – a
rather lead-weight of a record, you might say.
He has started the run 7 times, counting this year, and no
finishes. As I passed him I also had
words for him that never came out, “Jim, I’m on start #3, so lets make the both
of us 2 for 10 as of this year.” He
looked in good shape, ready and eager to tackle the next 2 days.
We
made it up to the Putnam divide and got the lovely view of the Grenadiers and
Needles to brighten our morning. By this
time the legs are warming up, nervous silence is starting to flow into
conversations and general mirth - or at least that’s what it looked like from
the latter third of the pack. I imagine
there was little jolliness and mirth in the Karl-Curt-Kirk group way up ahead.
At
KT, it is as my brothers described it later:
An Indy pit stop. VROOOMM,
“I
need water in this bottle!”, VROOOOM,
“We
have bananas and oranges for fruit”, REVVVVV,
“Ok,
I’m outta here!”.
Both George and Greg are working here and fill my bladder before I grab
a few banana pieces (Peeled! Thanks,
guys!) and head out.
A
few hundred feet up the trail I see Gunner with his camera and he marches right
up to me and asks if I will talk. His
excuse is that he hasn’t talked to many women yet. I spout the usual lameties about taking it
easy on the downhills and just getting warmed up and enjoying the morning. Later of course I’ll think of all kinds of
witty and/or scatalogical quips to say.
Oh well, I’m not ready for my 15 minutes to start yet.
I
move up a little bit and see John DeWalt ahead, with a fresh and rather large
bandage on his elbow. Looks
like the first fall of the day has already happened. He is walking a little slow and looks beat
already. This makes me concerned, but as
I said earlier, I have no idea what is held in John’s heart in terms of ultra-abilities
and knowledge. Every once in awhile he
starts jogging and suprisingly goes quite fast, making up any ground he is
losing to me while walking.
After
some forested trail and the first tricky stream crossing of the day (without
getting feet wet) we are up in the lower Ice Lake Basin, heading towards Grant
Swamp pass (this photo only, by Richard Durnan):
This
is actually a much shorter climb than many of the others. By the time you can see the pass you are very
close to it, just a few hundred vertical feet to go. On this stretch I catch up to Lance Goss and
Steve Patillo, both of whom make me say, “what the hell am I doing up
here?”. In reality I was doing just
fine, it was they that were going relatively slowly. In another few short stretches I have caught
up to and passed Jim Fisher, and ditto to the last few sentences. Sheesh. Not a good day for veterans.
Then
we are up at the pass, ready for the fun run/slide down.
Down
we go, sliding a patch of snow in the very beginning, trying not to wipe out on
the icy chute at the bottom before we start on the bare dirt/rock part for the
next several hundred feet. Then the
“glissade” down: basically you run down, but every step you sink in and slide a
few feet, taking the mountain with you as you go. You don’t stop, you don’t think about the
bottom, you just squeal and keep moving (in fact, this is kind of the strategy
for most off-trail Hardrock descents).
A
quick run down the trails (where Gordon Hardman finally passes me again, and I
keep looking for Joe Prusaitis to do the same but he does not), and I am at Chapman Gulch aid
station, mile 18 or so. It is right
around noon, so I am “on schedule”. I am
not even looking at my pace charts, as I know all too well what the cutoff times
and generalized 48 hour pace times are nearly everywhere on the course.
I
have my first bladder near-disaster here.
I am pretty anal about my pack/bladder, especially when it is being
filled with drink and not just water. I
do not want to be covered in sticky juice, especially in the middle of the
day. But anyway, I reluctantly hand over
my pack to a volunteer who fills up the bladder and returns the whole thing to
me, now streaming fluids out from the bottom, which is soaked with energy
drink. Aw, crap! I take the thing apart and find out that at
least nothing is broken – but they’ve resealed the screw top in such a way that
the seal was bent and allowing the fluids to gush out. I fix it, put the soggy thing on my back after strapping on my rain
gear from my drop bag, and grab some food.
I also resolve to re-fill my own bladder from now on, and double-check
the seal each time, even if it takes longer.
I say hello to Steve Patillo who has just caught up to me, and who
doesn’t look very perky. I hope things
get better for him,
and leave on the trudge up to Oscar’s Pass.
Oscar’s
doesn’t really bother me so much in this direction. Yes its damn steep
and seems long, but its not as bad as the climb out of Telluride. I may change my mind when I have to RUN down
it after 78 miles next year going the other direction. This climb the conversation pack is myself, Steve, and Gordon, who is trying to take the climbs
easy so as not to get his usual HAPE started.
Poor guy – starts this race in a fit of brilliance in 1992, and has the
physical handicap of getting pulmonary edema when he so much dreams of going
beyond 13,000’. But with many HR
finishes under his belt, he’s still grunting it out one way or another.
In
a lull in the conversation, we are all perhaps thinking about how hot it is,
how steep the climb is, and then the inevitable declaration is made: “You know, we are
all here by CHOICE.” We ponder that for
a few moments, and then I say, “Yeah, and we paid good money to be here as
well.” From which point Gordon launches
into the 4 Stages of Dementia:
1.
You forget names
2.
You forget faces
3.
You forget to zip up your pants after taking a leak
4.
You forget to unzip your pants before taking a leak
Of
course this gets a hearty chuckle, especially when I respond, “I’ll keep that
in mind, uh…. Um…. What was your name again, sir?”
We
crest Oscar’s Pass and the Mendota Saddle, and start heading down the
Wheelbarrow basin towards Telluride on the Wasatch Trail. Gordon passes me in short order, and I will
not see him again. I hope he takes it
easy on those climbs!
Just
a few sprinkles hit me as I make this descent, which is a vast improvement over
2001 where I was thinking of taking cover from the lightning on this same
stretch. The descent is just on that
cusp of being too technical to run (a cusp that has inched up as I get more
experienced, but I know lots of people that could run this trail easily), and
for the first time I get little achy twings in my knees. Dammit, I knew I shouldn’t have slacked off
on my schqwahts the last month!
In
2000 and 2001 I had TONS of knee problems which I have cured about 99% of by
doing really good deep proper squats.
With good technique, they do NOT hurt your knees further, even if you go
beyond 90 degrees of knee bend.
I
guess I’ll just keep an ‘eye’ on my knees this time, and hope they don’t get
worse. From experience, I know I can run
at least 40 more miles on them before I have to stop, even if they keep
deteriorating. That will only get me to
Down
in Telluride, I am eagerly looking for Geri Kilgariff, whom I thought would be
working at the aid station.
Unfortunately, I can’t find her, so my bare ass will have to wait for
Javelina to be exposed again to an aid station crowd, willing or
otherwise. I get my drop bag, plow
through some of the food in it, and visit the facilities, whereupon I discover
that my “tummy tea” that I drank at Chapman has decided to take the A-Train
through my system. Shit. Um, I mean…. Hopefully things will clear up,
so to speak.
I
take a ton more food (2 whole sandwiches, if I recall correctly), and take the
essentials from my bag (flashlight, batteries, a few treats), and I head
out. My deduction from my previous
Hardrock failures is that I just don’t eat enough and then I run out of energy
and/or willpower and slow down far more than I should. This time I am really packing the food in,
and hoping my stomach doesn’t revolt. I
am taking Succeed! Electrolyte caps as well, at about 1 per 2 hours, and that
calms the stomach a little because it has baking soda in it. Aside from the bad tummy tea experiment, so
far all is well.
On up the road to Virginius. Now THIS is a damn long climb. Steep, unrelenting, and on
an old road grade. I fall in with
a few people: Jim from
We
all talk back and forth a bit, and then I get behind Jim,
and ahead of Jim & Diane on the final climb. I mistakenly tell Diane that the aid station
is “just around that saddle/corner”, when its more
like a mile. Crap. I then tell her to ignore me on all things
course related in the future. Jim D has
finished this race twice, both times under 44 hours and he says we are on good
pace, so that makes me happy. I know
that barring awful things like bigger GI problems or foot trauma I will NOT
slow down much in the latter stages, so at this point I can even dream of a 42-ish hour range.
So
we do finally get there, and have to scrabble much more than I remembered on
the final 50 feet up to the aid station.
Damn, that’s some loose footing!
And all the while my brother George is saying “alright Andrea!” and
snapping photos like a madman. But,
damn, they’re good:
I
am impressed, as he drove his 2WD Jeep up past Governor and then did the
brutish hike up to the pass, and has been hanging out there for a few hours
waiting for me to arrive. This is only
his 2nd time up to 13,000ft and he’s carrying a full backpack of camera gear,
his pro stuff worth thousands of dollars.
But I’m not the only one worrying about that….
Gunner
is up here, too, and he finally captures a somewhat quippy remark from me,
“Well,
my nose is still running and I’m pissing clear, so I guess that means I’m
well-hydrated and things are going well!”
The 3 of us (Jim, Diane and I) sit down for a few moments and scarf some
food; enough so that the aid station guy says that Diane has eaten twice as
much food as the next runner-up so far.
She is not surprised and says she is usually the only person she knows
that will gain weight during ultras (and not from bloating).
Next
we are ready to descend. George goes
first, basically hand over hand down the rope with the camera stuff in his pack
and slung around his neck. Gunner is
cringing. Finally he’s down and waiting
for us to start as well. The rope is
ready to go, and Jim is starting on his way down, also slowly down the rope,
almost timidly. Diane is putting on her
wind pants. I consider those options and
do the same. She flies over the edge
after hearing warnings from the aid dudes to “stay away from the rope!”, and
squeals her way to the bottom of the first pitch, very VERY fast.
Everyone
cheers and makes comments about how she’s been the fastest so far. Ok, I sense a challenge here. I get over on some newer snow away from the
rope; George is egging me on; and I throw my pants on and then let ‘er rip. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Bumping
and screeching all the way down, catching air on suncups, I plummet down. George is snapping more photos and managed to
get one of me airborne:
Still
on the adrenaline rush, we scurry off to the next 2 pitches to descend. These are not as slideable, but at least some
portion of each qualifies. Soon we are
at the bottom of the snow, and preparing for the run down to Governor. My gloves (leather work gloves, specfically
brought from Telluride for this very purpose) are packed with snow, wet and
heavy. But I’m glad I had them or I
might have really torn up my hands. I’ve
left George behind, but he’ll make his way down and hopefully get a good nights sleep tonight.
We
run down the road to Governor, a shuffle-jog thing that will be handy over the
next 30 hours. Only staying a few
minutes to admire the huge beer tent they have borrowed, we get some calories
in and head downhill to Ouray.
The
OURAY. Dave is
there, as are George and Greg. George is
no surprise, since I saw him a half hour ago, but Dave and Greg are a nice
surprise. I am initially concerned that
since its late, they should be resting for all the fun
tomorrow. When I first see them, I say,
“what are you doing here?” in what I think is a “hey, great to see you – wasn’t
expecting you – perhaps you should be in bed so you’re not tired later – glad
you could make it” tone of voice, but from what they’ve told me since, my tone
was more like, “hi – who are you – why should I care”.
A NOTE ON THE DISCONNECT: The inner vs outer attitude disconnect seems
to be very strong this year, and it both disturbs and fascinates me. All that time when I’ve heard crew talk about
how their runners are rude and not fun to be around during races; well, I just
thought, “that won’t happen to me” and “I’m always cheerful so I won’t be rude
to my crew”. But it seems to be one of
those things that, if its going to happen, its going to happen and there’s not
a ton you can do aside from being REALLY careful about everything you say when
you’re around your crew, and you make an extra strong effort to smile and joke. I can see why it doesn’t happen much – you
just don’t want to put that kind of effort into projecting cheerfulness when
you’ve got a RACE to think about. There
is one other aspect to
having a huge crew that includes family – you worry about
them! You hope that they can make the drive
to the next aid station without getting tired, you don’t always want to tell
them how the race is going and how you’re feeling – sometimes you just want to
exist in the race, with the other runners, and not emerge back out into reality
until after you cross the finish line.
So having family and close friends there is a great thing from the
perspective that THEY CARE and they are supportive, but sometimes it’s a
(small) extra burden on the runner. All
of this is my opinion, of course, and it also has a lot to do with how I deal
with people in general. Don’t take
offense, do take some salt.
Back to the story, in Ouray…. From what I can see, the aid station is a
huge cluster. I tell my number to
several different people on the way in, answering “yes” at least once to the
“do you have a drop bag?” question, and then never see the drop bag. I have to have George go find it for
me. There is tape strung out all over
the place, for no discernable reason other than to confuse tired runners, and
things just generally seem…. Chaotic. Through all this, I manage to eat some food,
have some soup made for me, and collect my drop bag
stuff. So far, only supplies have been
of use from my bags – the snacks I packed (dried fruit and nuts; chocolate
covered macadamias) just haven’t been going down well. Need a new plan for next time; it seems they
are too dry & concentrated for ultras, though they are the perfect food for
straight-up hiking or backpacking.
Jim,
Diane, and her pacer leave about 5 minutes before me – I say goodbye to them
and tell them I will catch up on the climb.
I am stronger than them on climbs, even if they can blow by me on the
downhills. There’s always some trade-off
in ability, I guess.
Even
leaving the aid station is difficult – I go the direction that looks right, and
then have to ask someone if I am going the correct way. I finally get the affirmative to that, and I
head out across town on city streets.
Before reaching
Just
before hitting the trail 2 lights catch up to me (in the night time, there are no “runners”,
just “lights” plodding along), and it’s a runner named Bob and his pacer,
Rock. They do not know the course so I
give them some generalities of the mile or so before we reach the river. The Uncompaghre is relatively low, and not
even that cold. We ford it into the lens
of a video camera and bright spot light – one of Gunner’s crew. Then up a few hundred vertical feet to the
highway, over it, and we are on the Bear Creek Trail. There are about 15 switchbacks, some of which
are covered in broken shale which makes a neat broken glass sound when you walk
over it.
Bob
has already told me that it doesn’t seem like he’s able to do anything on the
uphills, so Rock has stuck with me with Bob’s OK to go on ahead. I get the feeling that Bob and Rock just
don’t know each other well and feel like they don’t have anything to talk
about. Its too bad, since a primo pacer
can really perk up someone
like Bob on a stretch like this.
Soon Rock and I catch up to another group of lights – a rather large
group of about 6 people, as it turns out – and we all keep on up the trail.
I
didn’t get all the names, but there’s a guy runner and I think Roberta Orr in
the group, as well as Jim and Diane and her pacer Kathy (?). We all trudge up the trail, remarking about
the drop-off down to the river below (steep, perilous, etc), and generally
enjoying the evening.
It’s
a long haul to the Engineer aid station – you hike and climb and hike and climb
and you’re never gonna get there, and then you push through some trees and you
catch a glimpse of the campfire, and 400 yards later, you are there. The campfire is dangerous – don’t sit next to
it where you might get warm, because the next section of the course is the coldest
of the entire race. Just slurp down some
hot foods, get some TP from Lisa Richardson (le grande aid station queen, who
was nice enough to hike in to this remote locale and say hello to runners), and
head out. Rock was about to leave with
us (having announced upon arrival that he was my pacer), but I told him it
would be better if he waited for his runner just in case he was having any
trouble. I really hoped he didn’t fall
of the trail back in the canyon or anything, but he was probably just moving
slowly. Rock stayed behind. Good man.
We
left the aid station around 2:20am, I have to make another pit stop, and we
start up the bowl to the next pass.
Purportedly it is only 1200 more vertical feet, but this time of the
night it seems longer. We wander around,
following the actual course markers (something that I hear was not all that
common) around to the left of the basin before finally making the ascent up the
steep grassy slope towards a single red LED light that is positioned at the
top. I like that light – they have been
doing it for a few years, and it makes one feel better
about where you are going.
Unfortunately, it sounds like it also has the effect of drawing runners
in light moths to a porch light – leaving the aid station it is very tempting
to make a straight line for that red beacon, and I think quite a few people do
that each year. In any case, its cold, a
little wet (tall grass and marshiness), and – oh yeah – DARK. My twin lights are working well – the
headlamp gives a gentle glow in front of me, and my Impact II throws a beam to
find the markers in the distance. I was
worried that the headlamp would bother me, pinch my head, etc – but its been just fine.
We
do lose the course a few times but eventually are able to find more markers,
and finally we approach the red beacon, which seems to be (imagine Kirk
talking) SO. FAR. AWAY. right up until you bump into it. It’s a little freaky. Our climb is over, and we start down the jeep
road towards Grouse. I do remember this
stretch as always being about 1 mile longer than you think it is. We shuffle a little bit to try to make time,
but mostly just walk really fast. It is
damn cold up
here, and to reinforce that, it also starts snowing, just a few little
pellets. Jim has gotten behind us, so it
is me, Diane, and Kathy. The sky is
partly cloudy, and we can barely see a glow from the tiny little sliver of moon
that taunts us with its trail-illuminating ineptitude. I had forgotten how much of a difference it
makes on this course to be graced with a full moon. You don’t need lights, you can move more
quickly, and you don’t get as tired.
We
can see the aid station occasionally below about 2 miles before we reach
it. It looks (and is) very far, but we
still try to speed up a little. Just
before we arrive, we go past the teeny toilet, and I stop while they go
on. My gut (well, technically my colon)
is really starting to piss me off.
Grouse
Gulch. 5:15am. We are right on ‘target’ for a 46-ish
finish, and about 2 hours ahead of 48 hour pace, and 5 hours ahead of
cutoff. Last time I reached this point
on the course, in this same direction, it was 11am and you can guess what happened to my
wrist band. Both of my brothers are
here, as well as Dave, and I talk to them a little bit, but still in my
detached-race-zone.
We
stay about 20 minutes, enough time to eat, lounge about, and think about the
next section. I had a very tasty egg and
cheese sandwich and some soup. I have
still not had any caffeine, but I down a Red Bull on the way out for the next
climb. Real caffeine in the form of
coffee will hopefully be my ‘secret’ weapon when it gets dark on Saturday. I see John Robinson sleeping on a chair
across from me, and just as I’m about to ask someone how long he’s been here,
he wakes up and says hi to me. He is
dropping because his formerly broken foot is giving him trouble and he didn’t
want to make it worse. Another person
that is here but I won’t know about it until later is Sherry Kae – she arrived
about an hour before me, and is sleeping somewhere on a cot.
05:40
- Diane and Kathy leave about 5 minutes before me, I
head out to go catch them on the climb.
On the way out I see Dave again, and I say, “Now, I’m IN it.”
Previously,
I have never left an aid station at Hardrock after 60 miles with the intent of
continuing. I am glad to project my
intent so clearly at this point. I still
have really strong climbing legs/lungs, and that is a promising sign.
After
2 more pit stops, Diane and my paths rejoin somewhere up in the Grouse bowl
before the pass. Slogging up the trail,
I am actually excited to ‘show’ them their first view of Handies. I get ahead of them to reach the pass before
they do so I can do a Vanna White with the view. They are duly impressed and shocked, and that
makes me satisfied. From this pass, this
late in the race, Handies truly looks massive.
When you climb it, it is not nearly as bad, and that’s always a relief.
We have about 2000’ feet more vertical feet to
log – 500 down from our perch at 13,000, and then 1500 up to Handies’ summit of
14,048’. Down across the basin we trot, reaching the
other side quickly and immediately slowing back down to a slog. Diane’s NF guy – photographer for Diane’s
sponsor, North Face - is here again like near Governor, and takes a bunch of
photos of her from a perch in the rocks.
He states that he will follow us all the way to the top, and we are
amazed with his enthusiasm.
Several
switchbacks later we are still approaching the saddle, and feeling a little
weary. But we get to the saddle and then
start making the final climb. I know
that the last bit of the climb is both steeper and shorter than you initially
think – it does seem to go on awhile, but then all of a sudden you are at the
top and MAN the views from up there!
9am: When we reach the summit its like the
thinness of the air is making us feel lighter, physically and mentally. Our moods lift and finally it seems to be
evident that we can finish this race.
The big climb is behind us, we’ve got plenty of time, and the next 9
miles are all downhill to boot. We are
grinning as we start to pick our way down the north side of the mountain,
slipping and tripping on all the loose dirt and rock.
Lower
down the trail becomes more runnable, but I am still wary of thrashing my
quads, knowing there’s 35 miles and up to 20 hours yet to go, so I let the two
of them slip away slightly, catching up a mile or two further when they’ve
stopped for some blister repair.
After
that, they pull away again and I keep them in sight for the next few
miles. The descent passes quickly and we
are spit out into a valley where the ATVers run wild. The road juncture is visible just beyond a
bridge, and I stop under the bridge to get a little bit of water – the next 4
miles on gravel road are flat and hot and dusty. There is a toilet here, but with 5 tourists
in line. I sweet talk them into letting
me cut in line, saying I need to get on and run down the road to
Exiting,
I thank them profusely and give them what leftover TP I have, only to hear them
thanking ME profusely. Ok, that was a
good encounter.
The
runner behind me is Roberta and her pacer, and they also get ahead of me on the
road. I just don’t want to run much
until I feel more confident in how I’m doing.
Probably after
After
a few miles I look for the course markers that will indicate the cut-off down
to
Greg
is there waiting for me, and he looks happy to see me. I give him my pack and tell him to put water
in it – I’m ready for some different flavor by now. I sit for a few minutes and start feeding,
mostly out of my drop bag. This is the
“mother load” drop bag – in it I have an Ensure, a can of coffee, and a Red
Bull. If that doesn’t get me
zooma-zooming up the trail, I don’t know what will.
Unfortunately,
I do not see Diane here – she should have been not too far in front of me, and
then I realize that they probably missed the trail cut-off. Sure enough, they arrive about 10 minutes
after I do, looking shocked to see me there. I tell them about the cut-off, and its uncertain if they completely forgot about it, couldn’t
find it, or didn’t even know about it in the first place.
I
am feeling some emotions being here – this is the strategic location that I
wanted Greg, the entire focal point of my planning before the run began. I had never gotten more than 60 miles at HR
before, so by putting him at 71 with no ride out I was
trying to ensure two things – that I got there, and that we both kept going in
the race. Now I am experiencing that
rush of emotion when you realize that you’ve accomplished a very large piece of
a goal and are well on your way to completing that mission. I am grinning and slurping down my Ensure,
which actually tastes good. Yay, calories. In
this drop bag I also have all my 2nd night stuff - another flashlight, more batteries, a
warmer hat & gloves. I grab all of
it, take a PB&J to go, and after hitting the toilet, we start out.
Crossing
the river proves to be no problem (actually at the moment I can’t remember if
it was on logs or a bridge, but I didn’t get my feet wet), and we head up the
Cataract trail. Almost immediately my fatigue
manifests itself – I am convinced that we are not on the right trail. As far as I know, there is only one trail
around here, but I am still paranoid, so I have Greg run up ahead to see if
there are some switchbacks, because if there are I’ll know we’re going the
correct way. In a few minutes I catch up
to him and he looks dishevelled – I find out this is because he’s taken his
first fall of the day, misjudging some footing and scraping up his elbow pretty
good. Doesn’t look too bad to me, but
I’m sure he’s now worried that this will happen a lot over the next 30 miles,
as he is irrigating it with his water supply and trying to clean up. He actually looks a little fazed, so I hope
there’s no damage he’s not telling me about.
We keep going, now on the switchbacks that I was so concerned about,
making our way up to the wide open basin by following the Cataract drainage to
Pole Creek. A few times we have to cross
the stream, and we do get our feet wet, but so far the weather has been so
great that wet feet is not a big concern, and we plow through them after only a
couple attempts at balancing across on the rocks.
A
few miles up we reach the infamous river crossing where you could die. This crossing happens to be at a moderately
wide point of the river, where the water is deep and moves fast. The danger is that about 30 feet to your left is a
100’ waterfall with lots of pointy rocks on the bottom. So if you lost your footing and started to
get swept away… it wouldn’t be pretty. However, this year – not so much. The water is barely knee-deep so we wade
across with little heed to the current or the waterfall.
Not
long after this crossing we emerge above treeline and are in the vast basin,
slowly trudging towards our juncture with Pole Creek and after that, the Pole
Creek aid station. Greg and I are
talking, just moving along, following the course markers easily. In a short amount of time Diane & Co.
catch up to us, so we talk with them a bit.
I again express my condolences for the mix-up before
The
four of us keep hustling up the trail, which is supposedly 4 miles from Pole
Creek to Maggie. I kind of doubt that,
but we’ll see how long it takes. We roll
along in the wide valley, enjoying the flowers and breaking out jackets for a 1
minute sprinkle of rain. For the 2nd
time during the run we are threatened with rain that abruptly stops when the
jackets are donned. Along this stretch I
feel good enough to jog a bit, so we do – just not for very long at a stretch.
Soon
Greg and I lose Diane, and we look back a few times to make sure they are still
coming. We also pass another runner, a
guy that I have not met before (based on Mark Swanson’s race report, it was
probably him – he arrived at Maggie just after I did after a bad stretch, so
that might add up…). A short while later
we reach the saddle – the high point on this stretch. I am feeling good, so we run down into
Maggie, which takes about 20 minutes, and we lose
about 2500’ of elevation so it’s a fun, fast, and steep descent.
In
Maggie, we see George waiting for us.
He’s definitely getting into the “covering the race” aspect of taking
photos – going to several aid stations that he hadn’t planned on earlier. I’m impressed, especially since the road to
Maggie is pretty steep and his Jeep is only 2WD. He shoots a bunch of photos while we are
descending to the aid station, then hikes up the road
in anticipation of our route on the way out.
Since this is a “minor” aid stop I try to load up and leave again. Lisa Richardson is here, and again like at
Engineer the only thing I ask her for is TP.
She hands some to me, grinning as usual.
I think if Lisa were in labor, she’d be grinning – and then the kid
would ‘catch’ it, too, since that grin is infectious. On our way out, I tell Lisa that if she sees
Diane, to let her know that we’ve taken off and to “come catch us” on the
uphill. I hope they have a 2nd wind and
meet us again, they are definitely good company on the trail.
Out
and up the road – it is 5:55pm – on the new stretch of course which I have not
seen yet. I hear there are some pretty
dicey stretches descending into Cunningham, but that overall its
fun and easy to follow.
George
sprints ahead of us, taking photos as we hike up the road, and then follows us
up a trail as well, but then turns around.
Perhaps after reading about Diane’s NF rep dude following us up Handies
and whatnot, he will venture out even further next year. Of course, he *did* go up to Virginious…
I
love this photo but it didn’t compress well, even though it captures the
flowers just fine:
Initally,
Greg gets ahead of me, and I remind him again in my big-sisterly (read:
domineering bee-yotch) way that I want to lead, so he lets me by. We follow up a grassy ridgeline – really, is
there any better kind of ridgeline to be on when its wildflower season? – and traverse on some bumpy rocky stretches before we briefly
lose the course. We realize the error
when we see other runners heading on the ridgeline we just left, ahead of
us. So we clamber up again and sure
enough, there are some course markers.
The ridge is positioned at the eastern edge of the Buffalo Boy
basin/gulch/valley/whatever, several hundred feet above the wreckage, offering
a glorious vantage to the buildings below.
Around
the side of a small mountain, and we start descending to
A
few minutes later we are climbing that short incline out of Stony Gulch,
wondering about the trail below and just how intimidating it will be. Those thoughts are soon put on hold as we
round the saddle and move into the basin below
Finally,
the gully we are working down turns into a hanging valley, and we are spit out
into upper Cunningham Gulch. Now comes
the steep part – we slide, scurry, and try to jog down a new-ish trail that
accomplishes the combination of losing altitude very quickly and traversing the
slope. If the slope itself had
fingernails they would be dug into the side of the mountain, bleeding under the
strain and slowly giving way. All in all a fantastic trail. The much-maligned “nastiness” near the bottom
is not so bad. Yes, its
loose and dirty, and yes, there’s a cliff below you – but what is that kind of
a trail if not a Hardrock trail?
There
is a short road stretch down to the aid station, and then we are there. George is there, as are a huge bunch of
Other
than that, I didn’t pack too much in this one.
I think there’s an extra-warm hat if it seemed like I might need
it. 48 hour pace here is 1am, so I could
have come through when it was a bit colder.
We leave at 9pm, thinking only of the (last) climb ahead, as darkness
starts to overtake the valley.
Immediately I have to send Greg back because I forgot my sandwiches,
which on this climb I’m betting I will need.
I strap on my headlamp and have flashlight in hand already, so I won’t
have to dig for it later.
There
is a little confusion getting to the switchback trail up the slope – I keep
thinking that something looks wrong, but then I remind myself that this is the
ONLY trail around, so it has to be the right one. Only after seeing course markers am I calmed,
however. It would be far worse to see a
course marker and be so disoriented that you became convinced that the course
marker itself was misplaced, or that you were hallucinating it. At least it didn’t get that bad.
About
half way up the switchbacks I chug down the Red Bull – I can’t remember now why
I brought it with me instead of drinking it below. The darkness is nearly complete, and it is
fun to watch people come down the other trail across the valley, their lights
moving slowly.
I
also need to stop again, so I tell Greg not to shine his light unless he really
wants to see his sister’s white ass. He
does not, and does not. Assembling my
gear again to start the forward march I definitely have to slow down to make
sure I’ve got everything. Worrying that
I’m forgetting something, or that we’ve completely lost the trail in the 40
seconds that I’ve been standing still, I have to do a reality check on
myself. Yes, I’m here. I’ve just run 93 miles and I’ve got 8 to
go. I’ve really been awake and moving
for the past 40 hours, and I am really going to finish.
Ok,
on we go. The sensation of being apart
from the here and now has basically conked me upside the medulla oblongata (not
that I’m thinking in multi-syllabic terms at the time, mind you). I ask Greg to tell me some stories about
himself, “something I haven’t heard before”.
He tells me one short episode and I urge him to dredge up some more,
since I’m pretty much sleepwalking at this point. About every 5 seconds I have to remind myself
that I’m listening to my brother talk to me and that I’m also climbing up a
trail and that I’m also finding the course markers just fine and not falling
off the side of the mountain. In
retrospect, its really astounding. I am in a high-functioning stupor. I remember all the stories that he told me
(even now), but at the time I had to keep constantly querying myself to
ascertain the specific details of what I was doing (and why), who I was with,
what they were saying, and then actually think of something to say back to them
that was meaningful to the current topic of conversation.
By
this point I was not hallucinating – I don’t know that I had the neural
pathways open enough to allow *that* data through. If I was hallucinating anything at all, it was
my absurd situation, plodding in the dark towards yet more cold and discomfort.
And
then I saw the pole. I had become
convinced (again) that we were going the wrong way, and that the trail did not
seem familiar enough, though it was throwing off some serious déjà vu which I
had no choice but to trust. And it was
right – we had just arrived at the pole marking the high point of Divies-Little
Giant pass. I let out a whoop and
informed everyone of the situation (including Kristina Irwin, who had been just
behind us for the last half hour). We
had gotten there in 2 hours – I had “allotted” 2 ½ or so. I also had figured 2 to 2 ½ to get down, so
all of a sudden I was looking at the possibility of finishing under 43 hours.
So
we started scrambling down the loose Charlie-trail, still sleep walking, but
with 10% less disorientation. Perhaps
because the trail required more concentration, I was just able to muster it up
from somewhere. Despite that, I was
still having rapid-fire thoughts that seemed to not end, reminding me that what
I was doing was actually happening and that I was just sleep deprived and
that’s why I felt so weird. It was
actually not unlike being completely baked.
You’re a little nervous that things are not as they seem, but some higher
part of the conscious keeps that fear in check with its reassurances that
things will be OK.
Finally
we reached the jeep road, and had to consult the description to know which way
to turn. I *knew* which way (right), but
I still didn’t want to be wrong. From my
hazy state, the course description didn’t do much to reassure me. I mean, what if IT is wrong? It could be a malevolent course description,
foiling our every attempt to get to the finish.
Damn.
A
few miles down the jeep road, after a few more crises of navigation, we enter a
trail. The trail that I think will dump
us right into town. Alas, it peters out
and we are back on some jeep road again.
It is only the infrequent markers that we see that keeps me from losing
my marbles completely. Finally, another trail, and this one I remember. The nasty beaver pond
section, and then the trail that is really a stream. A muddy, cold, stream. Yuck.
Still we try to pick our way over dry spots, though I can’t honesty see
why we bothered at that point.
I
have Greg call Dave on his cell phone and tell him we are on our way. Twenty to forty minutes, I estimate. It is 12:45am, and we still haven’t really
seen much of the lights of Silverton. I
should have taken that as a sign. In any
case, at 1:45am, we are actually dumped out into town, and another phone call
is made: “5 minutes!”
Past
the ski hut, across one bridge, up the road, another bridge, cross
I
reach my arms out to the rock, touch it, then bend over and kiss the cold
bighorn sheep right on the lips. 1:52am; 43:52.