Posted by: pointlenana | August 15, 2018

Guest Post: Janet’s Big UPWC Owyhigh Lakes Adventure

Owyhigh Lakes Loop:  Summerland, Ohanapecosh Park, Grove of the Patriarchs, to Owyhigh Lakes

August 6, 2018, 07:11-19:55 (elapsed time 12:44)

Janet Vogelzang (and Mark Cliggett)

On Sunday, August 5th, Mark suggested we hike the Owyhigh Lakes Loop – a UPWC route – sometime very soon as he had races scheduled and time was wasting.  Plus, we just buried our best furry friend of 13.5 years and desperately needed distraction.  Plus, I’m not in great shape right now and shouldn’t be given time to overthink anything.  We agreed on Tuesday, the 7th.  Then I suggested “tomorrow”.

Off we went.

I’ve done little hiking at Rainier.  We climbed to the summit many years ago on the Emmons Glacier; but since then, I’ve only done a few easy walks out of Sunrise with less ambitious hikers and the Northern Loop (last year) with my much speedier husband, Mark.  Never been to Summerland.

There’s a great children’s book by Michael Chabon called “Summerland” about some slightly misfit folks who travel in an old Saab named Skidbladnir and play baseball as a team (ALWAYS losing their games).  Nearly every character from mythology and American folk tales appears in the story, including Chiron, Paul Bunyan, and Sasquatch.  It’s a wonderful, wacky story to have in mind to start a long day-hike in August.

The other thing that made for a nice way to start the day was how mild the weather seemed.  We’d expected HEAT, but the sky was hazy (with smoke) and slightly cooler than we’d anticipated.  A beautiful trail through some nice woods led to easy climbing and more open views.  We greeted a few folks out for a slower stroll and steadily climbed into high meadows, crossing small streams and meeting the first of many backpackers (roughly 33) we’d see that day on the Wonderland Trail.  The flowers grew more colorful and copious as we climbed.  We listened for birds, and Mark hoped to see a bear.


Summerland came upon us in full flower.  All the meadows we walked through gave us gifts of discovery.  Asters and lilies, paintbrush and lupine, spirea and monkeyflower, lousewort and false hellebore, columbine and heather.  Our favorite evoked Dr. Seuss characters:  the pasqueflower seedhead.  We gloried in the various colors and shapes – each meadow seemed to have a unique mix of species that made it special.  But Summerland was the first of these, and we paused and took it in with more awe than the rest.

As we walked up the trail out of Summerland, we spied a large hoary marmot crossing the trail ahead.  She cruised behind a boulder, came around the other side nearer us, then climbed atop to flop down on her furry belly.  She lay facing the trail, calmly allowing us to walk right up and past with barely a bat of her eyelashes.  We took photos without seeming to disturb her in the slightest.  She seemed to be enjoying her morning, so we left her alone to soak up the hazy rays.


We walked on, only occasionally breaking into a short trot when the trail was level and non-technical – so, not much running at all.  Fine by me.  This beautiful trail on a beautiful day (peak flowers?) deserved all the time we felt we could give it.


We climbed up and walked down.  Up and then down.  And again. Repeat.  We passed glacial run-off streams cascading down the cliffs, crossed rushing creeks bordered by profusions of pink monkeyflowers.  We exchanged “Have a good day”’s with hikers.  We saw a little wildlife – the marmot, orange-gold butterflies, grey-blue butterflies, a vole on a wooden bridge, no bears (phew), and no dogs (as expected in the National Park).

At around 2pm, thirsty and weary from the long downhill on the Cowlitz Divide Trail (on this section we saw only a family of 5 who were camped at Ohanapecosh Campground), down across the road, and looping back up to the Grove of the Patriarchs, we were happy to take a brief break to fill our water bladders, get our hats wet, dig out some trail food, and take a moment to dry out a stream-dipped phone.  (No more of those distracting calls, thank goodness! 😉)

Slowly building a little momentum after getting some calories on-board, we began the long afternoon along the Eastside Trail.  Here we only saw another 5 folks – one group of 3 plus another couple – none with backpacks.  The couple warned us of a bear they’d seen a mile back (a mile ahead for us) crossing under a bridge they were on and following the stream downhill to the river.  We proceeded watchfully, but we never saw any sign of this bear.  Another disappointment for Mark and relief for me.


This section of the loop makes multiple creek crossings and helped give us a mental/emotional lift with every bridge over yet another amazing deeply carved granite channel with loud, white water flowing below our feet.  We longingly passed some glorious little pools of clear, quiet water that would’ve been heaven to our hot, tired toes.  But time was passing, and we weren’t moving along at the pace we’d hoped to maintain.  We had our headlamps; but I knew that once the light faded, I’d have to slow down even more just to keep from tripping and falling.  So we shuffled along.

The last climb through a forest and then up into yet another gorgeous, flowery meadow (still no bear sightings) nearly led to despair at the odious biting flies.  And then the mosquitoes came out.  [Sorry – can’t stop to pee, gotta’ keep moving to a breezier spot where the bugs are slightly diminished!]

Finally passing Owyhigh Lakes in the late afternoon/early evening light, enjoying pretty reflections of the craggy ridge behind while moving at a pace designed to avoid the majority of mosquitoes and flies, we continued with renewed resolve toward the car somewhere some miles ahead.

The last few easy downhill miles went slowly.  Slowly because we were ready to be done and everything seems slow in that mind-frame, slowly because the inspiring scenery was behind us, and slowly especially because I was determined to stay upright in spite of stiff, tired legs and feet.  I felt sorry for Mark — I know we COULD have moved a lot faster, but it wasn’t happening that day.  Yep, slow but steady. One foot, then the other. Step by step. Down down down.

Back at the car just before 8 pm!  Still daylight! We fist-bumped and quickly changed into dry clothes, hopped into the car, and turned down the hill toward home.

Great day.  Great route.  Great way to start to process grief. Great thanks to UPWC for throwing down the gauntlet. Great appreciation to Mark for solid love and companionship and for gladly sharing the chips and chocolate milk.

–Janet V.

Posted by: pointlenana | August 14, 2018

Ouray 100 – July 2018

December 3 2017, Elevation: 200 feet, Seattle 6:50pm :  After not getting picked in the Hardrock lottery again, I sign up for the Ouray 100 mile race in July.  The Ouray course is this weird spider-looking thing with lots of out-and-backs vs. Hardrock’s elegant loop but Ouray is similar to Hardrock in terms of challenges – 100 miles, lots of climbing, altitude, and weather.  Most importantly it offers one thing that Hardrock does not – I can get into the race simply by signing up.  No lottery where I’m vying with 1900 other people to get one of 45 spots.  Maybe I won’t enjoy running in Colorado anyway and I’ll be able to skip future rounds of the Hardrock lottery…

ouray course

The Ouray 100 course – ok, maybe it doesn’t look spider-ish.  Maybe it’s more like a praying mantis with a ragged leash.

May 5 2018, Elevation: 800 feet, Stinson Beach CA 5:20am:  I’m 2 miles into the Miwok 100k race.  I’m not sure I should be here – I’ve been struggling with a bad hamstring/tendon problem for 6 weeks and even had to skip the Boston Marathon 3 weeks previously.  But with Ouray looming at the end of July, I’d like to find out if it’s realistic to train or if I’m kidding myself.  I don’t expect to have a great day – I haven’t run much in 6 weeks – but I hope that my leg will be solid enough to hold up through 62 miles.  If I can finish, I can probably train for Ouray.  Heading up the Dipsea trail in the darkness 2 miles from the start, I trip over a rock and yank my tendon. It hurts for the next 15 miles and then I trip again.  Somehow I finish the race and feel relatively ok within a couple days.  I decide I can train for and run Ouray.  Oh goodie.

May 28, 200 feet, Seattle 2:30pm: Since Ouray is coming in a couple months I figure I should start studying all the course/race info.  Wait – 42000 feet of climbing!?! What’s Hardrock?  33,000 feet.  And Hardrock is known as a HARD race, maybe the hardest non-Barkley 100 mile race in the US.  Shit.  SHIT!   I read the detailed course description and see phrases like “the trail has some exposure”, “extended section with poor footing”, “ball bearing rocks that roll right out from under you”, and “an area of high exposure where runners need to use extreme caution”.  I wonder about navigating those conditions after not sleeping for 30 or 40 hours, on exhausted muscles.  Panicking, I vow to avoid flat miles in all of my training runs and seek out hills.  Most of June is spent doing mindless laps up and down the steepest hills I can find within running distance of my house and/or driving to the steepest mountains within 30-60 minutes of my house.  My weekly climbing totals are things like 15,000 feet and 22,000 feet.  That’s a lot but it’s not 42,000 feet.  Shit again.

ouray description

An excerpt from the comprehensive course description.

June 25, 800 feet, North Bend WA, 8pm:  I’ve just completed 5 laps up and down Mailbox Peak.  From my turnaround point at the bottom, to the summit, it’s about 2.5 miles and a bit less than 4000 feet of climbing.  In 14 hours I’ve climbed 19,000 feet and travelled 26 miles.  Doubling that still leaves me 50 miles and 4000 feet short of Ouray’s totals, but it also leaves me with 24 hours to get that extra stuff done and still beat the 52 hour race cutoff.  Even with fatigue, aid station breaks, and some weather delays (e.g. waiting for storms to pass so I don’t get incinerated by lightning on an exposed ridge), I think 24 hours is enough.  I feel good after 5 laps and could keep going.  Better yet, my legs feel fine a day or two later – none of the typical quad pain I get when my legs aren’t ready for downhills.  For the first time in several weeks, I don’t feel as much panic.  With a month left until the race, I declare my training complete and scale things back so I maintain, rest and don’t injure myself.

July 17, 7800 feet, Ouray CO, 2pm:  After 1200 miles, 19 hours of driving, and 32 hours of elapsed time, I arrive in Ouray and almost immediately set off on a hike up the 2nd-to-last climb of the race – up to Chief Ouray Mine.  I feel surprisingly good in the thin air, and although the trail exposure matches the written description, it’s not nearly as scary in person as it seemed on paper.  I’ve been on trails and climbs that are much sketchier.


Looking up at Chief Ouray Mine from the streets of Ouray.  The mine is plainly visible in the upper middle of the picture.


Ok, if that wasn’t so plain – here’s a closeup.  There’s a shiny rectangular thing in the center of the picture.  That’s the mine.


Chief Ouray Mine.

July 18, 12300 feet, Ouray, 9:45am:  I’m standing on the Bridge of Heaven, at the top of the last climb I will do in the race.  I know it will be harder at the end of the race but the 4500 foot climb has been surprisingly fun on fresh legs – a steep climb up to a ridge, and then a lower grade trail up through trees along the ridge.  The upper part has been surprisingly runnable and I can see basically all of the Ouray 100 course in front of me to the southwest.  I can also see the La Sal Mountains in the distance – 150 miles away? – where I ran last October during Moab 240.  The views go on forever.  Ouray is a cool town.


Looking west from Bridge of Heaven.  The La Sal Mountains are barely visible on the left horizon.


Looking south from Bridge Of Heaven.  A lot of the Ouray course is in this picture.  Red Mountain/the Ironton loops is fairly obvious in the upper left.  Crystal Lake is barely visible at the bottom below/right of Red Mountain.  Ironton is just past Crystal Lake, also in the clearing.  Hayden Mountain is in the middle and the high traverse takes place on the big green alpine slopes below the ridgeline.  Camp Bird Road goes up the valley to the right of Hayden Mountain.  Ft. Peabody/Imogene Pass is probably on the distant sunlit ridge line on the right.

July 19, 12700 feet, Silverton CO, 9:45am:  I arrived in Silverton the previous afternoon, to volunteer at Hardrock and check out the Hardrock scene.  After staring at Kendall Peak and the avalanche gully below it all that afternoon, I decided to try out the first segment of James Varner’s John Cappis 50k Fat Ass course – a steep ascent up the avalanche gully to the summit above and then a ridge run over the other Kendall Mountain and back towards Silverton.  At 9:45am the next morning, I am on all fours, moving slower than a slow loris, trying to ease my body weight across a bulge of loose scree without crushing body parts under rocks and/or sending rock downhill, especially towards the guy below me.  I’d started up the “run” by myself but caught up to 4 guys near the top as they got stalled out by loose and progressively steeper rock.  They occasionally send a rock tumbling down towards me – I don’t like this – so I hurry to get up even with them.  As I arrive, one guy kind of gets himself stuck and isn’t sure where to go.  His way seems treacherous, and it looks like things will mellow out a bit if I can get over the bulge and onto slightly less steep terrain.  After 5 minutes and a long sequence of very small weight shifts, all the while trying not to consider the possibility that the entire mountain is about to slide out from under me, I get to solid(er) ground, breath a sigh of relief and coach the other guy over to me.  At the top the 5 of us celebrate being alive and uninjured.  (I talked with James Varner the next morning just before he started Hardrock – he said he’s going to change that part of the course.  In years past there’s been a snowfield there and it was ok, but without snow it is – in James’ words – “scary as shit”.  Yup.)  The rest of the run was incredible – by myself on a high ridge looking at all of Colorado.  I could feel the altitude and it slowed me but not to a crawl – a good sign for my race a week later.



The John Cappis Kendall Mountain climb – straight up the avalanche gully, take the right fork, continue up the talus to the top.


Halfway up the Kendall Mountain climb, looking down towards Silverton.


Nearing the top.  My four new friends are visible towards the upper left – note that a couple of them are already using their hands and it hasn’t gotten steep yet.


Looking back down at the crux.  One of the guys is visible in the middle, easing himself over the Bulge.


At the summit of Kendall Peak, thrilled to be alive.  Silverton is 3000+ feet below.


Looking south, from one Kendall Peak to the other.  I’ll run along the ridge in the middle and then down the ridge on the left.


One person described this as “the lame way to the top”.


Gratuitous flower picture, near the second Kendall summit.


Looking down at Silverton from the second summit.


While I was on the summit, a raven landed nearby…


… and then took off.


Looking back up at the summit from the ridge “trail” down.  The trails are different in Colorado – not the soft forgiving trails of the western slopes of the Cascades.

July 22, 11400 feet, Ironton CO, 11am:  I’m scouting the Ironton/Richmond Pass part of the Ouray course.  The clouds have rolled in, a friend has predicted bad thunderstorms in the afternoon, and after seeing Richmond Pass and a bit of the road down towards Richmond – a gnarly looking jeep road that won’t be fun to run/walk on – I’m hustling back down towards Ironton.  The clouds are rolling in and I don’t want to get fried by lightning, at least not before my race starts.  I come across a mom and dad and two kids coming up.  This is a steep trail and I’m impressed that they’ve come up this far so I say something like “You kids are strong – nice job” as I pass.  I wonder about the parents – either they know what they are doing weather-wise or they have seriously bad judgment.  (It turns out both are true, at least in the case of the mom – I’ll come back to this in a bit.)  A bit later, just as I reach my car, the rain starts and a short time later the thunder and lightning starts too.


Climbing through the aspens, towards Richmond Pass.


Nearing Richmond Pass, looking towards Red Mountain.  During the race, we do two loops around the left Red Mountain, first counterclockwise then clockwise.


In the off-trail section of Richmond Pass, looking towards Richmond.  Imogene Pass is out of the picture to the left, and Ouray is down and around a valley to the right.


Looking down towards Ironton.  The Ironton aid station will be in the small parking lot barely visible to the left of the big field.


Flowers in Richmond Pass



The top of the jeep road to Richmond Pass.  I will go up and down this in a few days.  It won’t be fun.

July 25 7800 feet, Ouray CO, 8pm:  I’m sobbing on the phone with Janet.  Before I left Seattle, our 13 ½ year old golden retriever Moani started limping and had some swelling in her shoulder.  Janet took her to the vet a few days after I left, they did a needle biopsy and we breathed a sigh of relief because there were no signs of anything really bad, but the vet wanted to do a surgical biopsy just to make sure.  A week later – the morning of July 25 – the other biopsy happens and the vet sees “disordered tissue”.  The official test results won’t come back until after I start the race but this is not good news – tumors make disordered tissue.


The day before I left for Colorado.

July 26, 7800 feet, Ouray, 8pm:  My race starts in 12 hours.  Janet is at the emergency vet place, checking Moani in for the night.  Moani didn’t really come out of the anesthesia fog from the biopsy the previous day, hasn’t recovered today after visiting the usual vet for a few hours, and needs care Janet can’t provide at home.  Janet tells me to just do my race but I’m pretty sure I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time.

July 27, 7800 feet, Fellin Park/Ouray 7:45am:  I’m standing at the start, focusing on the ~48 hours ahead and trying not to dwell on what’s happening at home.  I talk a little bit to the few people I’ve met.  Howie Stern is there to photograph the race.  I’ve crossed paths with him a few times in the past couple years – running together at Angeles Crest and Tahoe, having my picture taken by him at Moab, at Hardrock a week ago – but I don’t know him well.  15 minutes before my race, he gives me the best advice I’ve gotten on deciding when lightning is about to get “real” – look for wisps under the clouds, hail is usually a bad sign, count the seconds between the flash and the sound and start worrying if it’s getting shorter.  We set off 15 minutes later at the usual lethargic 100 mile pace (for most of us) or possibly even more slowly – it’s going to be a difficult couple days.


Waiting for the start.  Photo:  Howie Stern

July 27, 11500 feet Silver Basin, 10:30am, 8 miles into the race:  I’m standing on hardpack next to some water that is apparently a lake, looking at a small stake/sign in the ground that tells me to punch my bib and turn around.  I feel like I’m standing on one of those pieces of property you might find at the edge of a rural town – not developed yet, but heavily used for many years.  This is a mining and/or jeep area so even though the ridges around me look rugged and wild, people have been driving up and poking holes in them for a long time.  This is the top of the first of ~14 climbs on the route – an out-and-back from the Camp Bird aid station.  Rather than park a person up there to watch us on these climbing out-and-backs, they have us punch our bib with a “distinctive punch”.  The Associate Race Director In Charge Of Ouray 100 String Cutting Operations (ARDICOOOHSCO) hasn’t been super-generous with the string that attaches the hole punch to the sign, so I have to squat down to make the punch reach my bib.  There are 6 more of these punch locations on the course – mostly towards the end of the race – so as I punch my bib, I contemplate how my ability to squat will evolve over the next 94 miles and quietly hope that the ARDICOOOHSCO will get more generous with string.  I’m feeling ok and have been pretty disciplined about keeping the effort easy.  As I’ve climbed up, I’ve counted runners coming down ahead of me – I’m something like 40th, solidly in the middle of the 80-90 person pack.


Hiking up Camp Bird Road.  Only 98 miles left to go!


Above Camp Bird, on the way to Silver Basin.


Nearing Silver Basin.  Photo:  Howie Stern


At the Silver Basin turnaround/hole punch.

July 27 10100 feet, 11am, 11 miles:  Nearing the Camp Bird aid station, I run with Luke for a couple minutes.  Luke is running his first 100 mile race.  He’s pretty small even for an ultra runner, but it’s ok because he still has a few years of growth ahead of him – Luke is 14 years old.  At the aid station, when I hear the volunteers ask “what can I get you” and Luke answers “I don’t need anything, thanks”, my Inner Parent takes over and before I can zip my lips I hear myself say “you know you need to eat throughout this race, right?”  I also notice that my nostrils are fully flared.  Fortunately, I manage to clamp my mouth closed before a full lecture on race nutrition comes out.  I slowly retract my nostrils, take care of my own needs, and set off uphill towards Richmond.  I see that Camp Bird is not some pristine old campground, but a working mine with heavy machinery doing something – maybe not mining but certainly churning dirt around.  Luke won’t finish this race, but he had the courage to start it.


Camp Bird, during business hours.

July 27, 11500 feet, 12:15pm, 15 miles:  Vale Hirt and I are discussing the relative electrical conductive properties of our trekking poles.  Mine are carbon fiber and hers seem to be aluminum.  We’ve run together for a few minutes, long enough for me to find out that this is Vale’s 4th attempt at finishing a Ouray race.  She’s DNF’d the 50 mile race twice and the 100 once – she lives in Ouray so I’m thinking it’s fun for her to smash her head against bricks every year and she’s back for another round because it’s so easy to get to.  It will turn out that most of the people in Ouray know Vale and they are all out volunteering in the race or cheering at aid stations.  For the rest of the weekend I constantly run into people who ask me “Do you know Vale?  Do you know where she is and how she’s doing?”

Vale and I are talking about poles because the weather has gotten real just as we’re heading up the exposed climb to the Chicago Mine Tunnel.  Thunder is happening all around us, and we’ve just been pelted by big chunks of hail.  When the hail stops, Vale shows me the red welts on her legs and asks why I don’t have welts.  I explain that I’m slightly more evolved and point to the thick coat of protective fur on my legs which not only helps with hail but gives me early warning when biting flies land.  Vale vows to stop shaving her legs, then wonders if she should ditch her poles until she comes back down.  I suggest that her poles might conduct better than mine, so it might be good for me if she hangs on to her poles.  (She claimed later that I snickered as I said this, but I don’t remember that.)  She ditches the poles and we continue on up into the rain and wind and thunder sound – we figure that worst case we can hide in the mine tunnel if things get really bad.

As we climb, I tell Vale about my scouting on parts of the course, and at some point she asks “did we see you Sunday near Richmond Pass?”  It turns out she was the mom I met who was leading her kids up into the maw of a terrible lightning storm.  As I suspected, she knew what she was doing – they didn’t get fried – but by signing up for Ouray, not just once but four times, she also proved she has poor judgment.  We reach the top of the climb and then walk out to the exposed edge of the tailings pile to the hole punch.  (I don’t remember for sure but I think there was a huge sign out there next to the small hole punch sign, that said something like “Don’t Be An Idiot – You Don’t Want To Be Here In Thunder And Lightning”).  We punch our bibs and flee downhill.  Vale collects her poles even before I remind her.


Looking up towards the Chicago Mine Tunnel, somewhere in the middle of the picture.  Not a lot of places to hide from lightning up there.

July 27, 13300 feet, 2:10pm, 19 miles:  I’m standing next to Ft. Peabody, the high point of the entire Ouray course.  It’s been a bit of slog up the road to Imogene Pass plus an extra scramble up talus near the top, but I feel ok and for the rest of the race I’ll have more oxygen available than I do right now.  I did part of the climb with Vale but she’s acclimated to altitude and I’m not so she pulls away – I meet her coming down while I’m still going up.  At the top, I can see forever and even though it’s raining a little, it doesn’t feel like I’m about to be smote down from above by lightning so I stop and take a couple pictures.  I forget to take one of Ft. Peabody though – it’s a small wooden shack barely bigger than an outhouse, with a small rock wall around it.  It doesn’t seem like much, but between great visibility, holding the high ground, and the oxygen challenge for anyone trying to get up there from below, it was probably more secure when it counted than it looks.


Looking down the Imogene Pass road towards Richmond and Camp Bird in the valley beyond.


Looking up towards Imogene Pass on the ridgeline and Ft. Peabody on the small summit above the ridge.


The final climb to Ft. Peabody.


Looking west from Ft. Peabody.

July 27, 12300 feet, 3:45 pm, 24 miles:  As I hike up The Hellish Jeep Road From Hell towards Richmond Pass, I run into Howie Stern hiking down.  He’s gone up there to take photos but it’s pouring, his camera equipment will get wrecked if he pulls it out to use it, and he says “it feels too exposed up there”.  He gives me the obligatory “you’re looking good” and then watches as I head upwards exactly towards the place he says is too exposed.   The Hellish Jeep Road From Hell claims to be a road but it’s really just a big talus slope of sharp bowling ball-sized rocks that’s been slightly flattened to look like a road.  I work hard to not roll an ankle, while trying to ignore the pain that happens whenever one foot catches a rock and pulls it up into the back of the other foot/ankle.


The off-trail section of Richmond Pass.  Clouds, rain, and a couple of other runners barely visible in the center of the picture.

July 27 9800 feet, 5:05pm, 27 miles:  I arrive at the Ironton aid station.  After 5 straight hours of rain, at times heavy, the rain suddenly stops and the sun comes out.  I’m 90 minutes ahead of schedule and won’t need my headlamp/night stuff during the first Ironton loop.  Vale is just leaving the aid station, so I down some food quickly and chase out after her.  I catch her and we hike together for a bit.  She says she really likes this part of the course – Corkscrew Gulch – because it has great views.  I realize that I’m working too hard so I “let” her go ahead of me.

July 27, 11100 feet, 6:05 pm 30 miles:  I’m hating Corkscrew Gulch.  It’s a jeep road with a series of short flat sections broken up by steep uphills.  The jeeps are still out so I also have them to contend with.  The top part of the climb turns into a sustained uphill.  I feel tired.  And the coup de grace – something doesn’t feel right in my shoe, so I pull it off and find my insole crawling out of the shoe past my heel.  This happens rarely, always when my shoes are really wet from weather.  Not sure how to fix it, I shove the insole back in to the correct position and grumble my way on up the road.  I don’t consider the possibility that my other shoe might have the same problem.  It does, but I won’t find that out until very late in the race, once the insole has worn a hole in the side of my heel.


Looking up at Red Mountain from Corkscrew Gulch.


High on Red Mountain, just a few switchbacks to go.

July 27, 10800 feet, 9pm, 37 miles:  I’m doing the second Ironton loop, this time in a clockwise direction, and loving this part of the course.  The exact same course is infinitely better in this direction than counterclockwise.  It starts with an uphill single track – hard to run down but fun to hike up.  The clouds clear and a big full moon comes out from behind them as I top out on the climb and cross the ridge back towards Corkscrew Gulch.  The jeeps are done for the day.  The alternating flat/steep sections that were hard to hike up are fun to run down, and I run non-stop down to the aid station.

July 27, 10000 feet, just before midnight, 45 miles:  I made two mistakes at Ouray, a big one and a small one.  As I climb back up towards Richmond Pass, I suffer the consequences of the small mistake.  When I packed for the trip I packed 3 iPod shuffles for music during the race, but forgot to pack any of the USB-headphone jack charging cables.  Leaving the Ironton aid station, I turn on the iPod and my fears are confirmed – after sitting in a box for 2-3 weeks, the battery is low.  I consider rationing my use and saving the music for emergency needs but decide it is too much to think about.  The music is mostly for enjoyment and distraction, and I’m in a gorgeous place.  The one real need is that sometimes when I’m really sleepy it wakes me up when nothing else will.  Oh well, hopefully that isn’t a problem.  I cross the off-trail portion of Richmond Pass under a full moon – with light reflecting off the rain-soaked landscape, it’s almost bright enough to run without my headlamp.  (Sensing an opportunity, my Inner 8-track Tape Player quietly slides in Kate Wolf’s “Telluride” – and plays it non-stop for the rest of the race.  It’s a pretty song, and geographically-appropriate, but it’s mournful and not something you want to listen to for 30 hours during a hard race.)


July 28, 9500 feet, 3am, 51 miles:  I’m running down the Camp Bird road, trying to separate myself from that headlamp somewhere behind me.  After surviving The Hellish Jeep Road From Hell again, I pull into the Richmond Aid station with plenty of water.  At this point it’s supposedly a water-only aid station but I have to ask because I’m craving – “Do you have any orange slices?”.  A few other runners are there doing something.  No orange slices so I leave after 10 seconds in the aid station.  As I leave, one or two of the other runners pull out behind me.  I trot along for a while and notice they are keeping pace with me.  This bugs me for some reason, so I try to open a gap and start playing games.  I speed up.  I take walk breaks and then break into a run the moment I’m out of sight around a bend in the road.  Some people get disoriented or paranoid in the middle of the night – in this case I get weirdly competitive.  I can smugly say though that I made it to the next aid station without being caught – much better than slowing down for a few seconds in the middle of a 52 hour race and meeting another runner.

July 28, 10700 feet, 4:45am, 56 miles:  I’m nearing the top of the Weehawken/Alpine Mine Climb.  The course description says that the hole punch will be at the very top, at an overlook where we can see the town of Ouray thousands of feet below.  I come across another runner above me who is convinced that the hole punch is at that turn below/behind me.  I tell him it’s at the top at an overlook – RD Charles would never leave any part of a climb on the table in this race – but the runner basically makes me go back and confirm the hole punch isn’t there at the turn.  We climb on up while he mutters about the RD, and I remember that another thing that sometimes comes with lack of sleep is paranoia (been there and done that, see my third night out at Tahoe 200).  At the hole punch/overlook, we look down and see the lights of Ouray 3000 feet below.  On the way down I meet Vale and her pacer coming up.  She was in a great mood and ahead of me at the start of this climb, but she stopped to fiddle with something and now she’s clearly struggling.  We say hi to each other and she sounds really tired.

July 28, 10000 feet, 7am, 61 miles:  Woah – where did this section come from!?!  I’m climbing over Hayden Mountain.  I had hoped to scout this “ball bearings” part of the course but ran out of time – so many trails so little time.  Based on the detailed elevation profile it didn’t seem especially notable compared to any of the things I’d done in training, except for the one sketchy section where apparently it’s easy to go flying off the trail and down the hill.   But it’s a 3500 foot climb at the 100k mark, quite steep in the sketchy section, and long – there’s a lengthy exposed (to weather) traverse at top before you descend steeply to the Crystal Lake aid station.  Then you turn around and immediately do it all in reverse.  I think I’d love this section on fresh legs, but I’d underestimated it and instead of enjoying it on race day, I whined to myself most of the way to the Crystal Lake aid station.  As I leave the aid station to head back up towards Ouray a woman asks me, “Do you know Vale?  Do you know where she is and how she’s doing?”

July 28, 11800 feet, 11:15 am, 68 miles:  I’m hustling.  I’m high up on the Hayden traverse, the clouds have rolled in, and I want to get off the traverse before the weather starts.  The rain starts as I hit treeline on the descent towards Camp Bird Road, and I hear thunder back in the area where I passed all those people still heading towards Crystal Lake.  I fly down the hill as fast as I can, trying to get through the ball bearing section before it’s both loose AND wet/slippery.  I reach that section and stop briefly to talk to a couple runners still coming uphill.  While I talk to them I move my left foot very slightly and suddenly find myself sitting on the trail with my left leg dangling into space off the hill.  I pull myself back up and continue on, to the musical accompaniment of thunder.  As I reach the bottom, the skies open up and hail falls.  I hide under a tree and pull my raincoat on.  5 minutes later, the hail stops, the sun comes out, and the temperature rises 20 degrees.  I pull my raincoat off and head back towards the start/finish/Fellin Park.  I have 3 climbs left, although there’s also that little blip up from Silvershield.  That can’t be anything.  Right?


The traverse on Hayden Mountain.  The storm’s a brewin’.

Howie Stern’s Hayden Pass Photos Here and Here


Descending the north side of Hayden Mountain.  The ball bearing section is just below, and Camp Bird Road is just visible down in the valley.

July 28, 10000 feet, 3:30pm, 76 miles:  I’m on the steep climb up to Twin Peaks, I’m tired, and although I’m moving forward I’m not doing it quickly.   Nearing the top, I see a few runners coming back down with their pacers and they seem to be moving a lot faster.  The clouds and thunder have come back and I’m wondering how to handle the top.  There’s a steep exposed section just below the top – I scouted this section before the race – and it will take me a good 10 minutes to get up that.  If lightning is a problem I’ll either have to wait below that and hope for at least a 15 minute window to get up and down, or climb past that and wait in trees very near the summit.  I reach the exposed section, get lucky with weather, punch my bib and head down towards Silvershield.  (I talked to one of the “Matts From Canada” after the race – both Matts From Canada finished in the top 6.  This Matt was up on Twin Peaks during the weather I experienced on Hayden Mountain, and he had to wait in the trees at the top, covering his ears and watching lightning hit the rock summit too-few yards away.)  As I head towards Silvershield I realize I’m bonking.


The start of the Old Twin Peaks trail.


Looking up at Twin Peaks from Ouray.  The trail goes up the gash in shadow in the middle.  Silvershield is down the ridge/valley to the right.


Looking down from Twin Peaks at Ouray, on the day I scouted this part.  The trail comes up the gully in the middle left of the picture.

July 28, 8500 feet, 7:10pm, 82 miles:  I’m headed down on the steep Old Twin Peaks trail, hurrying because once again I’m trying to avoid weather.  The skies have opened up, it’s pouring, and I don’t want to be in this steep narrow creek bed with tons of water coming down next to me.  The climb up from Silvershield was anything but a blip – sure, 1500 feet isn’t much compared to the rest of the course but it’s 1500 feet.  But I ate a lot at the aid station and feel decent again.  I consider putting on my raincoat but it’s still warm and I’m working hard, so I decide to just let the rain fall on me.  Maybe it will wash away some stink, and anyway I have dry shirts waiting for me at Fellin Park.  As I drop into the town of Ouray, the dirt roads are covered with 1-3 inches of flowing brown water.  I slosh my way back to Fellin Park and get ready for the last two climbs.  Only 12-ish hours left!  (Meanwhile, high up on Bridge Of Heaven, the other Matt From Canada is completely exposed and running downhill as fast as possible as lightning hits the ground all around him.)  In the aid station at Fellin Park, I make my big mistake – I don’t take off my shoes and socks to air dry my feet for a few minutes, nor do I put on dry socks/shoes.  It seems pointless – it’s pouring and everything will be wet instantly anyway.  After the race I talk to Medical Director And Savior Todd Nardi, who saved my feet at both Tahoe 200 and Moab 240, and he tells me that 5 minutes of air-drying might have helped a lot.  As it is, I don’t do anything for my wet feet and I finish the last 15 miles of the race with mascerated feet – pasty white thick skin that folds over on itself, causing pain and blistering in spots that don’t normally blister.

July 28, 8000 feet, 8:30pm, 86 miles:  It’s been pouring for almost 2 hours.  Approaching Lower Cascade Falls at the edge of Ouray, on the way up to Chief Ouray Mine, I see that the falls have changed since I was there 10 days previously.  When I scouted this section, the creek was a little trickle and there was a pretty rainbow in the spray at the falls.  Now it’s a huge torrent of brown water falling off the mountains above.  I’m glad I noticed a bridge crossing the creek when I scouted, because the creek is now a boiling mass of water that I’d be scared to ford through.  I think ahead to the crossing at Upper Falls above.  Same creek, 1500 feet up the hillside, a waterfall above on one side, 10 feet of flat creek/trail to cross through, and a sheer dropoff on the other towards where I’m standing now.  Might get a little sporty up there with a lot of water flowing.


Lower Cascade Falls, on a day with no rain.

July 28, 10000 feet, 10pm, 88 miles:  The moment of truth is near – I’m almost at Upper Falls.  Several people have come down as I’ve climbed up so clearly the creek is passable but a couple people have said  things like “You have to ford it – the water was up to my knees”.  “Sounds sporty” I think.  I get there, hop on a few rocks, keep my feet dry, cross the creek, and finish the last few yards to the metal shack of Chief Ouray Mine.  A few minutes later, crossing the creek again on the way down, my foot slips off a rock and the current yanks my foot towards the precipice, but by then my other foot lands on dry ground and I shuffle on.


Upper Cascade Falls, also on a day when there’s no rain.  If you go over the edge, you go a long way down.

July 28, 7800 feet, just before midnight, 91 miles:  I’m back in Fellin Park, ready to get Bridge of Heaven and the entire race done.  I’m in and out of the aid station quickly – I have plenty of food and water in my pack and I have a stomachache anyway, so there’s no reason to hang around.  There’s a good quarter mile of flat road between Fellin Park and the trailhead and I should run it.  But I don’t.  My mascerated feet hurt too much.

July 29, 10300 feet, 2:15am, 94 miles:  I’m so tired.  I’ve been sleepwalking my way up the mountain, forever.  My survival instinct is strong and I’ve avoided pitching myself off the edge of a trail that is literally cantilevered off the side of the mountain.  But my brain is in dreamland – I have a running commentary going about the trail design.  Basically, I’ve concluded that someone designed the trail on a computer somewhere, and then the mountain was constructed to support the trail.  “They put too much scree right here.”  “This is the 3rd patch of thick vegetation – 2 patches would have been plenty.”  “These connections where we turn off trail onto a fire road and then back onto trail are stupid – they should have made it continuous trail.”  I’m also incredibly focused on finding places to lie down and nap.  “If I could just drop off for a moment…”  I try several times but never manage to fall asleep.  One time I lie down in the mouth of a cave with a strong big animal scent – what could go wrong? – but it isn’t very comfortable so I get up and move on.  At 2:15am I’ve finished the steep part of the climb and reached the ridge that was so fun when I scouted it.  The trail goes right, up the ridge, but I turn left, walk a few feet, lie down with my feet on my pack, slide the headlamp off my head so the batteries in the back stop making that painful sensation on my skull, and close my eyes.  The almost-full moon shines down on me, there’s no wind, I’m not cold.  A runner comes down the hill towards the turn, spots me and asks “are you ok”.  “Yep, just trying to take a quick nap.”  “That’s a great place for a nap.”  After a few minutes I give up again, and head up the trail.  I reach up to turn on my headlamp – oh right, I took it off.  I turn around, walk back to about my nap spot and feel around on the ground in the dark for a black-on-black headlamp.  My heart lurches briefly when I can’t find the headlamp, but I take my backup light out of my pack, turn it on, and see my headlamp 5 feet away.


The trail up to Bridge Of Heaven.  That log is held in place by metal stakes driven sideways into the hillside.  Then scree was piled on top to create a trail.  This picture is in the dictionary under the definition of “cantilever”.

July 29, 12300 feet, 3:50am, 97 miles:  Somehow I’ve reached the top.  I shuffle over to the hole punch, punch my bib, and start down without looking even once at the view.  I’m so sleepy.  I shuffle down the hill with a runnish-stride but when I look at my watch it tells me I’m doing 22 minute miles – much slower than I walk even when I’m tired, and I’m going downhill.  I speed up a little and the pace drops under 22 minutes – barely.  I can’t believe it and it’s depressing that I’m moving that slowly but it is what it is.  I descend.  I think briefly about what’s going on at home and hope it’s better than I fear.   The lead 50 mile racers pass me with legs that look fresh and strong, while I shuffle at my 22 minute mile pace. (Two days later I realize that my watch was on lap screen and 22 minutes is my average pace for that segment including the climb.  Just another brain-was-fried indicator.)  “Telluride” has gotten old by now – well, it got old a long time ago, but now it’s really old – so I wrestle with my Inner 8-track Tape Player for a bit, trying to swap Kate Wolf for some weather-appropriate Japandroids.  It won’t yield though, so in desperation I pull the tape player’s power cord.  There’s apparently an Inner Uninterrupted Power Supply, and “Telluride” plays on as if the tape player is expressing its independence from the hot mess it’s stuck inside of.  “We grew up in the usual fashion, never wanting to grow up at all…”

July 29, 7800 feet, 6:04 am, 102 miles:  The sun comes up as I shuffle through the exposed/sketchy/cantilevered section – the survival instinct is still strong – and I eventually reach the road.  ¼ mile left.  I walk, slightly quickly, almost into the Hot Springs/Fellin Park parking lot, until I’m 100% sure I can run the rest of the way to the finish line.  I run, and then have to decide whether to go into the park through the left or right gate.  I choose right, run between some picnic tables and then look around for a finish line.  I finally spot two orange cones behind a tent set up in the field, so I wind around the tent and go between the cones.  At 6:04 am, after 46 hours of more or less constant movement, I’m done.  I’m fine for a moment but then dust or something gets in both eyes so I wander off for a couple minutes until that clears up.


Near Fellin Park.  I don’t think I broke the speed limit during my race.  They do things differently in Ouray.

July 29, 7800 feet, 8:46am:  Vale Hirt crosses the Ouray finish line for the first time and earns a 100 mile buckle after running more than 200 Ouray miles.  Half of the town of Ouray is apparently there to welcome her in.  I miss this though because I’ve wandered off looking for a cup of tea.  As I pay for the tea, the person serving me looks at me, decides I’m more likely to be One Of Those Runners than a genuine homeless person, and asks “Do you know Vale?  Do you know how she’s doing?”

July 29, 7800 feet, 11:59am:  I’m sitting at the finish line with one of the Matts From Canada – this is Slow Matt From Canada, who finished 6th, behind Fast Matt From Canada who finished 4th.  Tina Ure (multiple Hardrock finishes) came in around 11:00am and based on the livetracker we think she will be the last 100 mile runner to finish before the cutoff.  I don’t have a watch/phone and I’m only semi-conscious.  A bit later another runner appears – we assume that it’s a 50 mile runner but then look at the bib and realize it’s a 100 mile runner.  Slow Matt glances at his watch/phone and starts screaming Go Go Go!  The runner appears a little dazed and has the same trouble finding the finish cones that I did.  Matt screams Go, the runner winds around, goes through the cones, and falls on the ground.  Matt holds up his phone with the finish time – 51:59:59.  One second before the cutoff.  And this runner has been hustling to make the cutoff.  It took me something like 6 hours to do this last leg and this guy – Jake Richter – has done it in something like 4 ½ hours.

July 29, 7800 feet, 2pm:  As I ask the woman at the counter at the Ouray Inn if I can get in my room early – I’m kind of tired and would like to shower – she mentions that a friend ran the race too.  I don’t even ask, but just say “yeah, Vale did great!”  The woman smiles and nods.  I call Janet – Moani is still with us but not doing well, Janet is really sad while working really hard to care for an incapacitated dog.  I’m too tired to start home immediately but will try to get going first thing in the morning.

July 30, 8am:  After a pretty good night of sleep, with a body that feels relatively intact, I climb in the car to drive 1200 miles home.  Moani hasn’t improved but she’s still with us.

July 31, 2pm:  I arrive home.  Moani hasn’t improved but she’s still with us.  She doesn’t wag her tail when I sit down next to her, but I hope that she can smell me.  The next 36 hours are hard.

August 2, 8:45am:  I’m on the phone to the vet, begging for an “emergency” appointment – Moani hasn’t improved, isn’t going to improve, and seems to be suffering.  During the 30 seconds it takes the vet to figure out how to fit us in, Moani stops breathing and passes away.  We bury her later that day up in the San Juan Islands, with her mom and sister on property where she spent most of her first weeks of life.

August 3, morning:  I’m very tired and very sad, but I can finally relax.  It’s been a long 2 1/2 weeks.



The race numbers:


Posted by: pointlenana | July 25, 2018

Ouray 100 Tracking

(Update 7/26 – The race director sent out mail saying our trackers may not go live until a few hours after the race starts, due to a glitch with the tracking service.  If it’s not working immediately, check back later in the day.)

My Ouray 100 mile race starts Friday morning July 27 at 8am Colorado time (7am Seattle time).  While not as elegant as the Hardrock loop course (Ouray basically has a spine with a lot of out-and-back sections off the spine), it’s plenty tough – 52 hour cutoff, 102 miles, 42000 feet of climbing, average altitude of 10300 feet.  That’s about 800 feet up for every uphill mile, and 800 feet down for every downhill mile.  Just for comparison, Hardrock has a 48 hour cutoff and “only” 33000 feet of climbing in its 100 miles (although the average altitude is a little higher).

We will all be wearing GPS/SPOT trackers, and you can follow our progress at

This is going to be a very hard race for someone from sea level, and my one-and-only goal is to finish.  Below is a link to a detailed spreadsheet with info about each segment of the race and my guess as to when I might arrive at aid stations.  After being here scouting for a week, I’m most worried about hitting the first cutoff (leaving Ironton the first time by 7:30).  I should make it but I don’t expect to beat it by a lot.  IF I make that, and IF I don’t fatigue a lot more than I expect from the constant up and down, I should be ok after that and finish before the cutoff Sunday at noon.  Unless there are thunderstorms… Not much you can do in that situation but hunker down below tree line, wait for the storm to pass, and hope you don’t get too wet and cold in the meantime.    On the bright side, it looks like there will be a full moon Friday night and the moon will be in the sky for most of nighttime both nights.

Ouray Planning Spreadsheet

IMG_1999 - smaller

Looking down from near Richmond Pass, towards Camp Bird.  There are a lot of chossy trails and jeep roads in Colorado – these are not the soft firm trails of the Pacific Northwest.

Posted by: pointlenana | March 16, 2018

Black Canyon 100k – 2/17/18

Posting this for completeness.  I accomplished my goal – getting my Western States qualifier done for 2018 – but otherwise this year’s Black Canyon 100k was a pretty uneventful race.  Certainly nothing like last year’s brush with hypothermia.  Before I started this year, I figured my likely finish time would be somewhere between 12 hours (if I had a great day) and the 14+ hours I (barely) finished in last year.  Wrong.

Huge thanks to Nikki and her brother Jon, who conspired to provide me with free lodging at Jon’s home in Phoenix.  Jon ran the race as well – his first 100k and maybe 3rd ultra – so it made logistics really easy for me.  Get up when he gets up, get in the car with him, etc..  Thank you!

Unlike last year, when atypical storms forced a last-minute course change, this year we had perfect weather – supposedly the best weather they’ve ever had for the race.  It was cool at the start – high 30’s I think – but after 40 minutes I was shedding arm sleeves and gloves.  My plan was to start really easy, and see if a smart start (for a change) would pay off in the ability to run faster in the second half of the race.  Wrong.

Last year my favorite part of the race was the descent ~7 miles into the race where you drop off the plateau near Spring Valley, down into Black Canyon.  When I hear “Canyon” I think canyon, but the Black Canyon is more of a big valley between ridgelines – scrub, sand, cactii, but not really a canyon.  I enjoyed the descent again this year, but held back going downhill hoping to save myself.  We exited off the downhill onto the flat mile into the Hidden Treasure aid station.  In a place where there was nothing to trip on, I tripped, flew horizontally for a few feet, positioned my handheld water bottle to take most of the impact, and went down.  My hands got fairly chewed up but none of the running parts of my body seemed injured so I carried on into the aid station.  Washing the blood off my hands in the aid station, I tried not to look at the flaps of skin hanging off.

Things warmed up over the next hour or so.  Rolling into the BumbleBee aid station at 10:30, I was hot and realized that 45 degrees and cloudy hadn’t trained me for nice Arizona weather.  The aid station was in a bar-like area in a resort of some kind, and I contemplated just plunking down for the day.  Instead I put ice under my hat and set off slowly.

For the next 7 hours or so, I got warmer and warmer, and went slower and slower, and it felt like most of the race passed me.  By Gloriana Mine (mile 23, 11:30am) I had ice in my arm sleeves also.  I decided I did not want to spend the day red-lining and puking, so I kept the pace nice and easy and tried to stay warm instead of hot.  At Soap Creek (mile 31, halfway) I sort of wanted a portapotty so of course that was one of the few aid stations without one.  From Soap Creek on, it was all new terrain.  Last year river flooding forced the organizers to make the race an out-and-back, from Mayer to Soap Creek back to Mayer.  This year we continued on from Soap Creek to the northern outskirts of Phoenix.  I had heard this second half was much more beautiful and interesting, which is partly why I chose to return.

Rolling into Black Canyon City (37 miles) at about 3pm, after still more people had trundled past me in the past few hours, I was really happy to see my friend Steve.  He’d been signed up also but had to DNS due to an injury and came out, somewhat unexpectedly, to watch and help (me, if not others).  He kindly put ice on various parts of my body, pushed gross sweaty things into my pack, and basically cheered me up by being there.  I was way behind schedule at this point – my choice was to go “fast” and be slow due to puking and feeling rotten, or go slow and be slow but feel ok.  Not a hard decision.

Steve Black Canyon pic

Leaving Black Canyon City – that’s ice in my sleeves, not ripped biceps and forearms.

The longest segment of the course is between Black Canyon City and Cottonwood Gulch – close to 9 miles in the hottest part of the day.  We crossed a “river” a few times, but it’s been a dry winter so it was just a creek with a few inches of water.  I carried my BeFree water filter so I was able to restock on water – that was a good call because otherwise I would have run out of water miles from the aid station (or carried more bottles).  This section also has the biggest climb.  I think it’s only 600-700 feet, but I was moving slowly and it felt endless.  We climbed higher and higher, and way down I could see tiny runner dots crossing the river below us.

This was the section where I decided I am done with the Black Canyon 100k.  I really should rave about this race.  It’s an elegant line running down the valley from Mayer to Phoenix.  The race is very well organized by Aravaipa, with great support.  It’s a Western States qualifier.  The weather is great, coming from Seattle.  It’s cool desert scenery.  But… it’s kind of boring – about 60 miles of weaving around in the desert.  There are no really dramatic views.  You don’t move through different climate/plant zones.  If you like that stuff, it’s heaven.  If you are having a slow, bit-too-warm kind of day and you need a change of scenery mid-race to perk you up, you are out of luck.

I kept things interesting on the way into Table Mesa by purposefully not pulling my headlamp out as it was getting dark.  I kept looking at the last of the daylight and estimating the distance left to the aid station, and kept thinking I’d just make it.  Yep, by about 4 minutes.  It started cooling off as the sun set, I started feeling better, and I passed a couple people.  Steve was waiting for me again at Table Mesa, and again touched gross wet things that non-runners shouldn’t have to touch.

My favorite part of this year’s race was the evening part in the darkness.  I didn’t have to look at the same-same scenery anymore.  I cooled off and felt like I could move faster without risking heat problems.  Best of all, I started passing people who were suffering from getting too warm earlier.  Not a lot, but at least I wasn’t moving backwards anymore.

Shortly after I left Table Mesa, I passed a woman standing, facing uphill, vomiting at her feet.  Channeling the most gracious, helpful version of myself, I suggested that if she faced downhill she would splash her shoes less.  (I probably did offer some more useful suggestions about how to take care of herself, e.g. try to get some calories in even if was only taking tiny sips of gel.)

I continued on, chasing headlamps ahead of me.  The trail was very winding, so headlamps that seemed just ahead would take many minutes to catch, but mostly I caught them.  A rare heel blister exploded about a mile from the last aid station and 4 miles from the finish, and I was very unhappy for a few minutes.  I spent about 20 seconds in the last aid station, and then trundled on.  I heard someone just behind me using me as a pacer – I figured they’d pass me but somehow I stayed ahead so I tried to open up space on whatever terrain I was better on.  The finish eventually arrived.  My finish time was about 14 hours 40 minutes – 30 minutes slower than last year when I could barely stay upright finishing.  Mr. Drafter finished 13 seconds behind me.

Steve was there again at the finish, and again went above and beyond helping me – getting food, making warm drinks, keeping Jon’s dog semi-under control, searching for my drop bags, finding me a chair.  The list goes on.  Thank you Steve.

Jon didn’t have exactly the race he wanted, but he did pretty well in his first 100k – less than 12 hours, 51st overall out of 352 finishers.  And he was kind enough to wait 3 hours (!) for me to finish so I could ride back with him.

One thing that really surprised me when I looked at my splits afterwards is that even though it felt like most of the 450 person race passed me during the warm part of the day, I actually held my own.  When I saw the splits below (place is at the end, marked as degrees), I realized that most of those people passing me were running the 60k – which started an hour after we did.  As I was shuffling along in the hottest part of the day with about a marathon left to go, they were smelling the barn and heading to their finish – surprisingly disheartening because I didn’t realize they were running a shorter race.  Moving from 205th midday to 168 at the finish is not the best ever but at least I moved up.  It was a little better race than I understood while I was running it.  This was sort of confirmed when I spoke to other people who ran slower this year than last year.  I also spoke to a couple runners who’d spent part of the day puking due to heat, so I was ok with not pushing my own pace.

Antelope Mesa (7.3M) 01:17:38 Saturday 08:17:38 203°
Bumble Bee (19.2M) 03:20:53 Saturday 10:20:53 205° 2
Gloriana Mine (23.7) 04:25:15 Saturday 11:25:15 205°
Black Canyon City (37.4M) 07:54:20 Saturday 14:54:20 176° 29
Table Mesa (50.9M) 11:37:00 Saturday 18:37:00 185° 9
Finish 14:39:33 Saturday 21:39:32 168° 17

And as I said above, that’s probably it for the Black Canyon 100k.  I like getting the Western States qualifier done early in the year but I’m not sure I can take 60 miles of that terrain again.  Well, I can probably take it – as ultra challenges go, it’s a pretty mild one.  I would prefer something else though.

Thank you again to Jon, Steve, the organizers, and all the volunteers who made the race possible.


Posted by: pointlenana | December 27, 2017

Donald Cliggett – 1925-2017

This will get published somewhere official in the near future, but saving my sister’s beautiful obituary for my dad so I can always find it.

LEXINGTON- Donald P. Cliggett, Ph.D, 92, husband of the late Kathleen Haug Cliggett, passed away peacefully on Wednesday, December 13, 2017. He was born in Brooklyn, New York on November 8, 1925 to the late Birger and Marit (Anderson) Glittenberg (both of Norway). At age three Don lost his birth parents and brother Eugene. He was subsequently adopted by Patrick Henry and Sarah Clemens Cliggett, who also adopted another boy, George. His two older natal brothers, Helmer and Clemet Glittenberg, were raised in the Norwegian Children’s Home, Brooklyn. Luckily, his adoptive parents invited Helmer and Clem to the Cliggett home for Sunday meals throughout Don’s childhood, ensuring the boys remained in contact during their youth.

Don’s childhood in Brooklyn was filled with mischief, adventure and fun – themes that ran throughout his life.  As a boy, Don explored far and wide across Brooklyn by bike, played stickball in the streets, took great pleasure in detaching the power connectors on streetcars and jumping the turnstiles for the local trains. When his adoptive father died and his mother began working nights as a nurse, Don, age 13, snuck out bedroom windows and down gutters for nighttime adventures. It was also at this time that his mother learned to drive and took her sons on summer trips to visit relatives in Ohio, Chicago and New Mexico. According to family lore, his mother had run off to join the circus when she was younger – impressing her family with her snake handling and horse riding skills. Her zest for life was certainly the foundation of Don’s approach to the world.

Upon graduation from high school in 1943, Don enlisted in the Army Air Core. It was during basic training in North Carolina when he found himself standing in line with his brother Clem, and reconnected with his Glittenberg brothers – a connection that remained until their deaths in 2005.

When WWII ended, Don used the GI Bill to attend the University of New Mexico – chosen because of his fond memories of summers riding horses with his mother’s relatives.  He completed his PhD in psychology at NYU in 1957, having spent three years at the Menninger Foundation for Psychoanalytic training, in Topeka Kansas.  It was in Topeka where Don and Kathleen – a nurse in training – met, and married in 1954. The newlyweds moved back to New York City so that Don could finish his degree, while Kathleen worked as a nurse.  They had two children – Mark (born 1962) and Lisa (born 1965), and soon after the second birth, undertook another family adventure: moving to the San Francisco area where Don joined the dynamic psychoanalytic professional community at Mt. Zion Hospital. The Cliggetts called Marin County, CA home from 1965 until Don’s retirement in 1998. During those 33 years, Don brought a joy of life and optimism to his family, colleagues, and friends, seemingly unbounded by any notions of limits or expectations. He believed in pursuing passions and curiosity, giving and service, and at his core, in the social foundations and meaningful connections of our lives.

Don loved travel, learning, the New York Times and New Yorker, and being active. Even in his later years, Don resisted boundaries of age. He rode bikes around Marin’s hilly landscape and played tennis into his late 60s. At age 73 he moved with Kathleen to Seattle to be close to their grandsons.  After the loss of Kathleen in 2000, Don turned to his innate curiosity of the world for comfort, and became a student at the University of Washington as an “Osher Life Long Learner,” taking courses in anthropology, history, politics and religion, and making new friends. Much later, as signs of dementia began to emerge, Don remained full of life and optimism, assuring his family that he was happy and going to be fine, and persisting in seizing each moment of joy he could. In 2016 Don moved from Seattle to Lexington KY to be closer to his daughter, and to benefit from the “Best Friend’s Approach” to dementia care – a move that allowed him to remain active and socially engaged in his final years.

He is preceded in death by natal brothers Helmer Glittenberg (Fairfax, VA) and Clemet Glittenberg (Dyer, Indiana), and adoptive brother George Cliggett (Sante Fe, New Mexico). He is survived by his daughter, Lisa (Charles Hite) Cliggett, Lexington; his son, Mark (Janet Vogelzang) Cliggett, Seattle WA and his grandsons, Will and Wyatt.    Private services will be held at a later date. In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to the Alzheimer’s Association.


Posted by: pointlenana | December 2, 2017

Conquer The Castle Then Take The Crooked Road

A few months ago…

HQ: “Hi, this is the fraud department at Race Registration headquarters.”

Me: “Uh, oookaaay…”

HQ: “We’re calling because we detected suspicious activity on your account.”

Me: “That doesn’t sound good.”

HQ: “We’ll get it sorted out.  Our records show that you recently signed up for the Conquer The Castle 100k – is that correct?”

Me: “Yes”

HQ: “Ok, the reason we’re calling is that someone just signed up in your name for the Crooked Road 24 Hour race.  That starts less than a week after Conquer The Castle.  No one in their right mind would sign up to do a 24 hour race that soon after a 100k.”

Me: “Yes, that’s true.”

HQ: “Oh good!  I’m glad we called.  So that wasn’t you who signed up for Crooked Road?”

Me: “Well… yeah, that was me who signed up.”

HQ: (silence)

Me: “You must talk to Sean Nakamura just about every week.”

HQ: “Yeah, we’ve become quite close – he invited us over for Thanksgiving.”

Me: “Van Phan?”

HQ: “She’s on speed dial.”

These were meant to be fun runs.  I started Conquer The Castle a year ago at the beginning of a trip to see family, but it was harder than I expected and the trip schedule was tight so I DNF’d at 75k to avoid screwing up the family part by showing up after not sleeping all night.  This year, I scheduled the same family trip with another CtC attempt at the beginning, but I gave myself more time to finish and recover after the race before travel from the race (in Cleveland) to family in KY.  Then I realized that I could stay back east for a couple extra days after the family visit and do another race – pick up another state in the world’s least ambitious 50-state attempt, run a cool trail somewhere, and/or try something new.  There weren’t many options actually – I think I found 5 within reasonable distance of my family.  I settled on the Crooked Road 24 Hour race in Virginia, mostly because I’d never done a 24 hour event and it seemed interesting after watching various friends do amazing things (American AG record – Bob Hearn, running for a national team at Worlds – Yvonne Naughton, etc.) in 24 hour races.  I was contemplating signing up for a 24 hour next year (since cancelled) near Janet’s family in CA and I figured CR24 would give me a chance to try it out in a no goals/no risk situation and see if I enjoyed running hamster wheel loops.

Conquer The Castle

This is one of those really creative big runs located in a fairly small park – a really twisty loop repeated 4 times.  Although it’s advertised as a 100k, Jim Van Orman (the winner this year and last year) just measured the loop with a wheel and the loop was closer to 27k than 25k.  So it’s more like a 108k/67 mile race than 100k/62 miles.

CtC Route

Just follow the twisty Yellow Brick Road, except it is much more likely to be six inches of dried yellow leaves hiding roots that like to grab feet.  The North Chagrin Reservation (just east of Cleveland) is not much bigger than 2 miles by 1 miles, but each lap is 16+ miles. 

Last year I ran the first loop ahead of Jim Van Orman – not a very smart approach since I knew he was a lot faster than me.  But the race starts at noon and I knew it would get dark towards the end of the second loop so I wanted to cover some ground.  It went fine and I eventually eased back.  There were lots of leaves on the course and I went down hard a few times during the second lap when my feet collided with hidden roots.


My friend Beth took some pictures of the course after last year’s race.  Really well-marked, and (but?) the race director Eddie does his best to maximize the number of the leaves on the trail to give us the the best experience.  He did a better job with leaves last year than this year though – this year the trail was bare in spots.


Here, the trail is obvious – who needs flagging when you’ve got disturbed leaves to mark the way?

After that it was fine until the third lap when I tripped over a grain of sand on a downhill behind Squires Castle – I went down hard again but this time kept going down until the friction of my face sliding against rocks slowed me.  When I got up it was clear I was bleeding, and when I got a band aid at the next aid station they told me “you might want someone to look at that – you might need stitches”.  I continued and planned to finish but as I finished the 3rd lap I realized I was on track to finish early in the morning and might have to go to the ER after that – dropping and being awake for family made more more sense than continuing.  I think I was in 4th place when I dropped.  Luckily the doctor friend I was staying with was still awake when I arrived back at their house – she consulted with Janet, we collectively decided stitches might be more trouble than benefit, and my friend patched me up well enough so I didn’t end up with a scar.  (Thanks Beth and Dan!)


That was last year.  This year, I just wanted to finish – I suspected I was still tired from Moab 240 a month before, and I had the really-poor-judgment 24 hour race to do a week later.

I did start with Jim Van Orman – I introduced myself and we talked a little about the Santa Barbara 100 we had both signed up for last year.  But I let him go after about 5 minutes and settled into a steady pace.


That’s me in the red/gray hat, smart enough this year to start (just) behind Jim Van Orman in blue with the black hat.  Photo: Stu Siegfried (thanks!)

There’s not a ton to say about the race.  There were fewer leaves in spots than last year, so it was easier to stay upright.  I didn’t push on the downhill behind Squires Castle, so I finished without an ugly cut under my eye.  The volunteers were as amazing this year as they were last year – I had mistakenly assumed that non-west-coast people would somehow not be awesome ultra community, but they are at least as awesome as west coast people.  I managed the cold better – last year I was pretty cold but this year tights and a sweater layer kept me comfortable during the last 2 laps.  I had fun running for a while with a guy named Tyler who was doing his first run longer than 50k.  During the 3rd or 4th lap it snowed very lightly for a little while – that was really pretty in the light of my headlamp.


Tyler and me.  Photo: Stu Siegfried.

I did learn something – in the really rooty sections it’s much less trippy to run lifting feet up high than to walk carefully, since I tripped hard and often when I was walking but generally was fine when I ran.  It’s so hard to do though, knowing that a running trip is more likely to end in a fall, and as legs get tired.


Carefully noting the roots ahead.  Photo: Stu Siegfried.

I finished just before 3am, in about 15 hours, 8th out of 20. (And second 40+ male finisher, behind Jim Van Orman who won overall.)  I hung out at the finish for a few hours, mostly to avoid waking my friends up in the middle of the night.

I did get a Sir Runsalot finishers medal for my efforts.  This is probably my favorite race medal – it’s handmade by the race director.  All finishers get one, so you can get one for as little as 25k/16 miles.  Between last year and this year, I had to run 175+k to get mine.


Sir Runsalot

Crooked Road 24 Hour

This was supposed to be a no-risk fun run.  I always need to set a goal for any run I do though – I’m just wired that way.  For Crooked Road the obvious goal was running 100 miles in less than 24 hours – I’d never done that before.  I got myself in trouble though by looking at past results for the race – the winning distance for the past few years has been slightly more than 100 miles.  If it was reasonable for me to run 100 miles in 24 hours, it was almost as reasonable to think I could win the race.  There are not many races where I have a non-0% chance of winning, and at the age of 55 it’s not likely this is going to change for the better.  Over the space of a few days my goal went from “fun race” to win the race – it seemed a shame to pass the opportunity by, even though I would probably still be recovering from Moab and would definitely be fatigued from a 100k a week before.  That took away some of the lightheartedness.

I looked at the entrants list in UltraSignup to assess the competition.  A few former race winners, a handful of people who had the experience to do well, and some faster (and often younger) people who hadn’t run farther than 50k/50 miles.  Looking at past results for the race, the 3 best distances were 139 miles (several years ago), 122 miles and 110 miles.  After considering a few possible distance goals, I finally settled on pacing for 125 miles.  All the data I had indicated that would likely be enough to win.  125 might or might not be realistic, but probably would get me far enough into the race that I could adjust or give up as needed.

My friend Bob Hearn (who has set the American men’s 50-54 age group record twice in the past couple years) uses an even pacing strategy – figure out how many miles you want to run, start at that pace, and try to finish at the pace.  I had a chance to talk to Courtney Dewaulter after Moab – she holds the American women’s 24 hour record – and she also said even pacing is the way to go.  The laps at Crooked Road are a bit less than 1.2 miles – I did some math and decided I’d aim for 13 minute laps, which would get me about 125 miles depending upon things like bathroom breaks.  Bob was kind enough to look over my plan, and told me that if I was running too fast in the beginning to compensate by walking more.

After Conquer The Castle, I traveled on to Kentucky, had a nice visit with family, then drove through West Virginia to Rocky Mount in Virginia where Crooked Road is held.


Gratuitous picture of West Virginia because the state is pretty.  I went into a Starbucks there wearing a bright yellow Asics rainjacket.  All the guys I saw had camo jackets on.  Which one of these is not like the other?

I had assumed the path was basically flat.  It is basically flat relative to mountain trails, but when I walked the path the day before the race I noticed some ups and downs.  Not a lot – maybe 50 feet of climbing per loop, but multiplied by ~100 loops it’s a lot more climbing than a 24 hour track event.  I decided it was a good thing though – a little more variety for my muscles.  As if I had a choice.

The race eventually started (just like this blog post eventually gets around to talking about the race), and had 3 phases:

Phase 1:  Everyone Runs Away From Me

I started at my 13 minutes/lap pace, which was meant to be running at 10:30/mile with 1 minute of walking per lap.  Except that I quickly found out I couldn’t run slow enough.  Instead of 10:30 it was high 9’s or on a really good lap maybe 10:05.  I was also walking faster than I had estimated – maybe 15 minutes/mile instead of 18.  As a result, all my early laps were more like 12:20 than 13:00.  I made my walk breaks longer, and gradually settled on splitting the walking into three sections – up the one notable hill early in the loop, again on the back stretch, and just after the aid station.  I tried to slow down the running.  Still, it wasn’t until my 24th lap (close to 30 miles into the race) that I finally completed a lap slower than 13:00 (13:02).

In the meantime, the entire race passed me, lapped me, and in some cases lapped me several times.  There were a couple young guys up front flying along – I figured that either they were planning on finishing early or would eventually implode.  One that had me worried was Davy Crockett – he won last year, has an impressive race resume, and was several laps ahead of me after a few hours.  I knew some of the other people ahead had won the race before too.


Working my way backwards – I’m in the green jacket/white cap towards the back.  Photo: Matt Ross (thanks!)

(My Davy Crockett story:  When I ran my first 100 – Cascade Crest – a few years back, I was about 25 miles into the race and wanting to get to the next aid station.  I heard very faint music ahead and decided it must be the aid station.  I ran for a while, and I could still barely hear the music.  The aid station didn’t come.  More running, more faint music, and no aid station.  I traveled 3 or 4 miles – how is it possible to hear music that far ahead in the mountains? – and finally arrived at the aid station, where there was noise and music.  I left the aid station, and soon after started hearing the music again, louder this time.  Shortly after, I caught up to a runner – who was singing.  I looked at the splits afterwards to figure out who had led me on: Davy Crockett.)

It was unsettling to want to win and yet move backwards in the pack that quickly and consistently for hours on end.  I had to tell myself repeatedly that the others were running too fast (probably) and would eventually come back to me.  The timekeepers at the start/finish had a big screen tv displaying interim results.  Mostly it just showed people’s lap times as they came through.  One time a few hours into the race it had a leaderboard with the top ~30 people – I glanced at it but realized I wasn’t anywhere close to those people.   I decided not to look at the screen for a long time – no useful information for me so it would just be wasted time.

One disadvantage to my start slow/stay slow/finish slow plan was that it made me somewhat antisocial.  Normally, after a few miles in a race I end up with people roughly my speed and there’s a chance to talk. This time, the people who were ahead would move by fairly quickly when they lapped me.  The ones who were on my pace were mostly in no hurry and would stop for a while at the aid station or take longer walking breaks.   Everyone seemed quite friendly (it’s an ultra after all) and I did talk to a few people.  One guy had run a half-marathon race in the morning and was trying to get in at least a marathon at Crooked Road.  Another fast guy who lapped me several times in the early going had some kind of Marines shirt on – I notice those things with our son Wyatt in the Marines.  I happened to sync up on a walking break with the Marine-shirt guy – named John – he’d never run more than 50k (I think) before and was trying to see how far he could get, hopefully 100 miles.  I crossed paths a lot with a friendly blond woman but she was with friends and we never actually traveled together for any length of time.  At some point I met Alan Doss, who was on my short list of possible competitors for the win.  He’d noticed me in the UltraSignup list and remembered that I had done Moab.  We chatted for a bit but then he took off running way faster than I wanted to go.  Mostly I listened to music and let the time pass.


The race happens around a big lacrosse field in woods, kind of in the middle of nowhere.  Photo: Matt Ross

My plan to start slow no matter what began to make sense about 30 miles in when my legs started feeling way more tired than they should 1/4 of the way into the race.  I figured it was residual fatigue from other races – and expected that – but it reminded me that I needed to be able to keep going at a decent pace for 24 hours, not accumulate a bunch of miles in the early going and then fall apart.  Slow and steady, slow and steady.  I did try to keep going though – very brief slowdowns at the aid station or to get stuff from my drop bag, but otherwise moving forward.

Phase 2 – The Transition

Bob Hearn told me I wanted to be midpack halfway through the race.  I was definitely there, if not further back, about 6 hours in.  As expected, or at least hoped for, things started shifting.  People stopped lapping me so quickly, and after a while stopped lapping at all.  Then I started catching people who had lapped me earlier and even lapped some of them.  The younger guy way out in the front at the beginning seemed to be walking a lot.  I continued on – running in the 10s and walking for 30 seconds/20 seconds/20 seconds in the usual spots around the loop.


Space Needle/Seven Hills Running Shop shirt – representing our great local running store that specializes in trail running.  Photo: Matt Ross

I never figured out my nutrition before the race, partly because I’m lazy and partly because I didn’t have a clear sense for what would be available at the race nor would I have crew supporting me with special concoctions.  I brought a huge pile of Gu and had them out at my drop bag (the RD had brought me a chair I could set my stuff in since I was traveling and wouldn’t have crew).  I used Gu for a couple hours but then started grabbing pb&j’s at the aid station.  In addition to the usual sodas (plus 5 different flavors of Gatorade!), they also had sweet tea so I started drinking that for the calories and caffeine.  This all worked great for a while, but sometime during the afternoon my stomach went a bit off.  I’m told it was the warmest-ever Crooked Road – it wasn’t really warm but it was probably warm enough to cook myself just a little bit.  I started in on the Ginger Ale, hoping it would settle the stomach.  It stayed a little unhappy until well into the night but mostly cooperated.  At some point I grabbed my handheld and filled it with sweet tea, figuring that frequent tiny sips might work better than one or two cups of fluid every 1-2 laps.  I continued to slip some solid calories in – a bite of doughnut, pb&j, oreos, an occasional gel, soup of various flavors (that potato soup was really good!).


The Gatorade selection.

Early in the evening, about 12 hours in, I stopped to look at the leaderboard.  In addition to the screen with recent lap times, they had started writing the leaders by hand on a whiteboard.  The first time I looked, it said I was in 7th place (sorry Bob – not midpack at the halfway point).  The next time – 5th, with the leader just 2 or 3 laps ahead.

I got really sleepy early in the evening.  After shuffling slowly for a lap or two, I finally gave in, dumped my stuff out of the chair, and lay on the ground with my feet/legs up in the chair hoping to doze off for a couple minutes.  I figured a small reset wouldn’t put me much further behind, and might help a lot later.  I lay there for about 10 minutes, maybe dozing for a minute, until I felt cold, and then continued on.  After that I didn’t have a problem with sleepiness.

Around 10pm (14 hours race time), I saw that I was in 3rd, and the hunt was on.  First was a guy named Rick Gray – he hadn’t been on my short list before the race because although he seemed plenty fast and has a long impressive running resume, he had done two long races in the preceding two weeks.  (We will conveniently ignore my CtC 100k at this point in the race report.)  I was pretty sure 2nd was the guy who had run really fast for a long time and then did one lap walking barefoot and then much slower laps after that.  Rick was in a yellow shirt and I started looking for him on the course.  The course is a small loop and big loop, connected by a bridge that we’d run over at the beginning and end of the big loop.  I’d see the yellow shirt come out of the bridge on one lap, and then see if I had gained or lost ground after the next lap.  It looked like I was gaining.

Unfortunately, my stomach suddenly rebelled – I scrambled off to the side and did a quick emptying.  (Maybe it was that baby dill pickle I ate a half mile before?  “Hmmm – I’ll try that.  What could go wrong?”) The next time through the aid station I decided to lie down briefly hoping to complete the reset.  The rain had started by then so I ducked up by the bathrooms and lay on the concrete under the roof for a couple minutes.  That seemed to settle things and I didn’t really have problems after that – probably because it had cooled off.

For someone from Seattle, the rain and cool night wasn’t a problem.  I ran in shorts, a smartwool top, gloves, and arm sleeves.  When I got a little cold, I pulled the sleeves up.  When I got warm I pushed them down.  It was kind of windy but it never rained really hard, and I was pretty comfortable most of the night.  I was still running a fair amount, whereas others were slowing and having to don clothing.


Plugging ahead.  I like how the Seven Hills logo lights up – nice job Phil!

Roughly 16 hours into the race I pulled by Rick Gray in the darkness and took over first place.

Phase 3: Prevent Defense

After Crooked Road, I read a really nice post from Laz Lake (Barkley RD) in a Facebook group called Running Against Time, where he explained how to run a 24 hour race (e.g. “Plan to run for 24 hours.”).

Up until I took the lead, I had executed decently for a 24 hour race.  Keep moving, minimize stops, steady pace.  It wasn’t perfect – stomach issues, stopping for a dirt nap, pacing a little erratic, etc. – but I knew going in that tired legs wouldn’t lead to a huge distance total.  Once I was in the lead though, I abandoned any thought of seeing how far I could go in 24 hours.  I just had to stay ahead of people behind me.  Actually, it was worse than that – I started having fantasies about getting far enough ahead that I could walk the rest of the way or even stop early.  Definitely not channeling Laz Lake.

I moved ahead, roughly on plan.  But I added a little bit to my walking breaks – 4 breaks of 20 seconds each, then 30 seconds each, walk this running section here, and maybe that one too, etc. – and didn’t move quite as quickly through the aid station.  The priority was avoiding any major issue, not maximizing my distance.  The leaderboard was only updated occasionally so most of the time I didn’t have a clear picture of where I was.  I didn’t seem to pass people like Rick – I was definitely looking and hoping to lap them but it wasn’t happening.  But somehow I did lap them (I think they must have stopped somewhere, or dropped out entirely – e.g. Davy Crockett disappeared long before the race was done) and I eventually had a 2 lap (~2.4 mile) lead.

With 4 hours left in the race, I was feeling pretty confident.  I had a long walk break talking with Alan Doss – he said I was running as much as anyone and it looked like I had the win sewn up.  While we were talking and walking, someone in an orange windbreaker trotted by.

With 3 hours left, the orange windbreaker went by again – I watched the person pull away for a bit, and then went “S&^%!  Who is that?”  I ran after the person, skipping walk breaks for close to a mile and running a little faster than I wanted to, just so I could pass the start/finish at the same time as the other person and find out our relative positions.  Good thing.  The people at the start said “Kerry – 85 laps!  Mark – 87 laps!”  Ok, so I was still ahead but this guy Kerry seemed to be pretty strong and not too far back.  I caught him, and we traveled together for a bit and talked.  He said I was too far ahead to catch, and I told him 3 hours was a long time so I was worried.  Somehow my walk break ended before his and I pulled ahead, knowing that I couldn’t be a complete slacker for the rest of the race like I had hoped.

Two more hours passed – one hour to go – and I started feeling confident again.  I could probably walk for the hour and do ~3.6 miles.  Someone would have to run at least 6 miles in that hour to catch me.  Not impossible, but unlikely.  I stopped for a moment at my drop bag and put on my custom Dauwalter/Walmsley shorts, in silent appreciation of two people who’ve inspired me (and because Courtney Dauwalter basically dared me to wear them after I posted a picture on Facebook.)

Taken with Lumia Selfie

The sweet-looking Dauwalter/Walmsley shorts.  I decided not to wear them for the whole race because I was afraid my leg hairs would snag in the holes and tear a big chunk of flesh out of my leg.

I walked along chatting with two people who were talking about their friend Kerry who was having a great race.  “No kidding – he’s had me running scared for the past two hours!”  As we were talking, someone flew past and they said “way to go Kerry!”.  Uh-oh.  I bolted again and caught Kerry.  We had a really nice lap together, talking (among other things) about old age and dementia – my visit to KY was in part to see my dad who might have recognized me this time.  I suggested to Kerry that we might be far enough ahead that we could walk a final victory lap together, stop 30 minutes early, and still finish 1 and 2.  We checked carefully at the start/finish, seemed to have enough of a lead, and walked around the course one last time.  At about 23:35 we declared ourselves done.  114+ miles for me, 112- miles for Kerry.


Kerry and me, during our victory lap.  Photo: Matt Ross


Are we done?  (Note the Dauwalter/Walmsley shorts…) Photo: Matt Ross



Kerry and I checking very carefully to see if we could finally stop.  Photo: Matt Ross

This is probably the only race where I’ve had had official duties during the awards ceremony.  Because the Crooked Road is a country music scenic route in the area, the winners’ trophies are a small banjo (the second time you win you get a fiddle).  I finally met the friendly blond woman – Cindy Barbour who won the woman’s race, set a VA state AG record for 24 hours, and finished 5th overall.  I was somewhat relieved to hear that Cindy had stopped a little early too because her lead was big enough and she was past 100 miles.  I thanked RD Ricky Scott and every volunteer I could find for a really-well run race.  By the time I packed up my stuff and was ready to leave, the place was empty except for the last few volunteers loading stuff in trucks.


Cindy and I modeling with our bling.  Photo: Matt Ross


The 10 100+ mile finishers, including one who wasn’t quite ready to get vertical again.  Photo: Matt Ross

I’m really happy with the win, but Most Impressive Race definitely goes to Kerry Alexander.  He’d never run more than 50 miles before, has a really busy life and probably can’t train like I do, and probably didn’t have American AG record holders advising him.  He ran a really smart race, and until I talked him into quitting early, was on track to finish just as his fuel tank was reaching empty.  Well done!

Kudos to everyone who was out there.  Ricky Scott sent this out recently: “Some interesting items to note, not only did we have 10 folks go over 100 miles, but we had 48 do at least 100k, 76 do at least 50 miles and 117 go beyond the marathon distance. That’s over 90% of those that started!”

And thank you to Ricky, the timing folks at Kilted Timing, and all the volunteers – you were all awesome!  As I’ve said before, this is actually a team sport and all the non-runners play a huge role in getting people to the finish.


Ricky and his team put on a really nice event.  Photo: Matt Ross

Some other thanks:

  • Beth and Dan, for hosting me again in Cleveland.
  • my sister Lisa and Charles for a nice stay (and successful recovery) in Kentucky
  • Bob Hearn for the advice and confidence (after the race I saw a post in Running Against Time where Bob predicted before the race that I’d win)
  • Janet for being there as always, and for letting me go visit my dad just a few days after the memorial service for her dad.

This isn’t race-related, but my streak of unlikely celebrity runner sightings after races continues…  I’ve run into Lauren Fleshman on a plane after Janet and I volunteered at Western States, Shalane Flanagan at the airport after San Diego 100, and Jenn Shelton during/after CIM last year.  This time I was walking through Seatac after arriving back from Virginia, looked at someone in the terminal, and had to ask: “Are you Seth Swanson?”  (2nd at Western States when I ran it, 4th at UTMB that same year).  Yep.

Taken with Lumia Selfie

As a friend says, photos or it didn’t happen.  Seth Swanson is, of course, a really nice guy. 






Posted by: pointlenana | November 8, 2017

Moab 240

Knock me down, tear me up, I would bear it all broken just to fill my cup – The Decemberists

Rule #2 (According to Janet, Rule #1 is that you can walk whenever you feel like it.    Rule #1 is already taken, so I’ll have to go with Rule #2):  If you have a huge multi-day race, don’t rack up a lot of “I’ll do that right after my huge race” commitments.  It gets in the way of writing the really long race report.

Moab 240 short version:  238+ miles, 30000 feet of climbing, highs in the 80s, lows in the teens (or lower for some racers), elevations ranging from 3000 feet to 10500 feet, and 90.5 hours of learning a lot about myself.

Longer version:  There are two stories here.  One is the typical race thing – I crossed a start line, stuff happened, I crossed a finish line.  The other is a more interesting vision-quest type of thing (not that I’m an expert) – days spent in nature, sleep deprivation, temperature extremes, fasting physical exertion and personal discovery.  This mostly covers the first story and hints at the second.  If you really want the second story, you might consider running a 200+ mile race.


I drove from Seattle to Moab over 3 days, just to avoid really long days in the car which might wreck my aging body.  Eastern Oregon, Idaho, and northwest Utah – all places I’d never been – are all really empty.  Make sure you fill your gas tank when you can.  I got lost on Yale Road in Idaho, which is an inside joke.  The Wasatch Front (Salt Lake City and the apparently-600 mile stretch of suburbia around it) are not my favorite, although the Wasatch mountains looked pretty awesome with oaks turning red on the hillsides (kudos to Janet for knowing what might be red).  About an hour east of the Wasatch Front I finally found myself in the Moab version of Utah I expected when I left Seattle.


Yale Road, Idaho.

I camped at the start/finish for a couple nights before the race.  It was quite the setting – in a beautiful valley along the Colorado river between sandstone cliffs, just south of Moab.  When I arrived, I met Randy and his wife Laurie (who looks really familiar) from Vancouver camping next to me.  I went to the Moab Brewery for dinner and the person next to me – Dan From Cincinnati – was also running the race.   The day before the race I ran a short distance up (actually down, according to the river flow) the valley and was astonished at the steep red cliffs around me.  I checked in, had a nice brief chat with the AMD (Amazing Medical Director – Todd Nardi, who we met at Tahoe last year), talked to a few other runners, and had some kind of minimal dinner.


An official pre-race picture, before the wear and tear.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


I took this photo about 50 feet from the tent I camped in before the start.


Drop bags: 130 runners x 240 miles = a *&^ton of stuff.


This was the best drop bag I saw.  Priorities.  Proper ultra nutrition in a handy carrying case.


A small portion of race headquarters.  They also had folks in town where there was reliable cell service/internet.  The ham radio operators who were working at the start/finish set up a local wifi hot spot – how cool is that?  It was solar powered though so it died every evening.

Race morning was cold.  At the start, I found myself next to someone named Courtney Dauwalter – she set an American record at a 24 hour race my friend Bob ran earlier this year, and that’s a very small world – and introduced myself.  Then, realizing I was way too far forward, I moved well back in the pack to be with my equally-speed-challenged peeps.  I shivered for 10 minutes until someone said we could go.

Day 1:  I knew the first half mile was on relatively flat road, so I ran a little harder than I wanted just to warm up.  Easy tradeoff – use the energy to shiver or use it to cover some ground.  We turned off the road, and headed towards 50 or so miles of very remote running just east of Canyonlands National Park.


Looking north-ish back towards the start.  The scenery was decent. Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


We wound down the canyon, with a mesa above on the left and the Colorado river below us on the right.  I stepped off the path a lot in the early miles to let people I should never have been in front of pass me.  After 4 or 5 miles I found a reasonable spot in the pack and chatted with people I would see on and off for the next 230+ miles/4 days.  At mile 7 or so we dropped down the one truly notable feature of the course, Jackson’s Ladder.  Van Phan posted a picture of it with the caption “Suicidal Descent”.  It wasn’t quite that bad but it was definitely steep and with a little effort it would have been possible to descend fatally quickly.  After that we settled into, oh, 40 miles of running on a jeep trail in the middle of nowhere, working towards the final, oh, 190 miles of the race.


Starting down Jackson’s Ladder.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


Looking down Jackson’s Ladder.  There are runners in the shadow just past the sun.


Near the bottom of Jackson’s Ladder.  That road in the valley is pretty typical of the rest of the day – mesa to the left, jeep road, and sun-baked.

The scenery was gorgeous – some combination of old Western movies and The Martian.  We ran along plateaus with mesas to the east and canyons and the Colorado on our right, with an occasional descent or climb up a wash to keep things interesting.

After the cold start, the day gradually warmed up, and then warmed up some more.  I knew it would be warm but somewhere in the second leg (maybe 20 miles into the race?) I realized my brain was a little off and I was getting too hot.  “Danger Will Robinson!  You can’t get hot.”  The emergency brakes fired and I slowed a little.  Or maybe a lot.  This probably saved me.  By the second aid station, 6 people (out of about 130 starters) had already dropped, probably due to heat.  Another friend from Seattle wrecked his race here – he didn’t drop until many hours later but he got hot during the day and his race unwound.  I made a couple small mistakes at the first two aid stations – not filling a fourth water bottle at the first and not topping off a bottle at the second, and ended up rationing water a little bit between aid stations – I carried 110 oz of water in the hottest sections and intended to carry about 130 oz.  I ran out of water a mile or so before the aid stations but was close enough.  Other people simply ran out of water and suffered on for 2, 4, 6 miles in the heat until an aid station materialized.



The first aid station at Hurrah Pass.  Note how it’s hidden away in a not-so-dark hollow.  I’ll come back to that later.


Looking north along the Colorado.




The Colorado River is barely visible in the middle.  Canyonlands lies beyond.


Here’s a good view on how the first day went:  We’re headed for the right side of the picture, which is a mile or two away.  To get there, around the canyon/wash, we run about 8 miles up to the left and around the valley before we arrive back at the right side of the picture.  Repeat that about 10 times, throw in some heat, relentless sun exposure, tired legs and fear over the remaining 200 miles, and you start to get the idea.


I sat at the Breaking Bad aid station for a little while, trying to recover and reset after getting hot.  As usual, I didn’t recover for quite long enough – instead of aiming to feel better, I should aim to feel better and then get to the point of being bored.  Instead I continued too quickly and about a mile out of the aid station my stomach told me not to put any more food in it.  I had 18 or so miles left until the next aid station, so I told my stomach “ok” and proceeded to walk for about 6 hours until it got dark and the aid station finally appeared.  I probably had two gels during that time, sipping them very very slowly to avoid a stomach rebellion.  This stretch was pretty flat but also very sandy (1-3 inches deep in the jeep road) and windy.  Thankfully the wind wasn’t strong enough to carry the sand up to my eyes but I did get a scour from the waist down.


I think Breaking Bad is actually in New Mexico.  I took this photo at the spot where they originally planned to put the Breaking Bad aid station.  I wonder where the name came from?  The course description mentioned a “rough looking trailer”.  If Candice Burt offers you something that is “rough looking”, you might want to be extra careful.


Trying to move forward in spite of not eating.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern

Hamburger Rock aid station was probably the busiest aid station I’ve ever seen in ultra racing.  (Ok, a couple of the early stops at UTMB – with 2300 runners, vs. the 130 runners at Moab – might have been busier.)  At 10pm on Day 1, Hamburger Rock was packed.  All the sleep spots were taken.  People were passed out in chairs near the fire.  I arrived later than I wanted and needed to reset after many hours of not eating and dealing with heat, but there was no space.  It was also too early for me to sleep.  So I ate, talked with Van Phan about the crowded aid station, fiddled with all the stuff in my drop bag, and left.


I think this is Hamburger Rock and I guess I got my foot worked on there – I don’t remember that.  I’m sitting just past the yellow volunteer shirt, talking with Dan From Cincinnati.  Look at all the people waiting on the runners.  The volunteers were awesome.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern

The first few miles out of Hamburger Rock were on a nice dirt road and then a paved road.  I was starting to feel better, so I scooted along in the darkness, chatting with and passing a few people along the way.  We turned off the road, and then turned into the first of a couple river/stream transits.  I worked my way up the narrow stream, crossing back and forth over it about 1743 times while trying to keep my feet dry, and tried to open a small gap between me and the occasionally-distracting headlamps behind me.  Eventually the other headlamps disappeared, and after some unknown amount of time The Island aid station appeared.

I plunked in a chair, and focused on the most important to-do at every aid station I slept at – feeding all my electronics so they’d stay alive through the race.  I got my portable charger out of the drop bag and plugged in my headlamp battery and my watch and my Inreach gps and maybe one other thing.  Once I’d gotten those going, I ate and told an awesome medical volunteer I’d need some taping after I slept.  Stupidly, I wandered off towards the sleep tents without a headlamp and managed to walk through some pokey bushes along the way.  Oh yeah, I might have detoured into one of the luxury port-a-loos – picture a small teepee tent over an orange Home Depot bucket with a garbage bag inside the bucket and a toilet seat perched on top.  Luxury.  Thankfully it was airy.  Anyhoo…  I made it to the sleep tent, found an empty berth, and crawled in under a blanket next to my friend Randy from the campground before the race.  I lay there, noticing that the blanket wasn’t warm enough, and also noticing that with every gust of wind, the tent side would bend in, raising the tent corner, which would raise the vinyl pillow, which would bang into my head and neck.  It turns out it’s very hard to sleep when your pillow is banging you in the head every 10 to 15 seconds.  After a restful-but-sleepless 30-45 minutes, I sighed, and made my way back to the food/drop bags.  The medical volunteer  taped up my hot spot nicely.  I retrieved my electronics, ate some more, and set off into the 4am darkness.

It’s amazing how beneficial lying flat and not sleeping can be.  When I left the aid station, I felt 1000 times better than I had during the hot first day.  I passed a handful of people in the next several miles, and gradually the sun came up.

Day 2:


One of the best things in the world is seeing the sun come up after a night traveling in the dark.  Somewhere near the Bridger Jack aid station.

I don’t think I have my nutrition worked out enough.  Over and over again – until I got a tip later in the race – I would run (or at least travel) well for the first 2/3 of the very long legs (15-21 miles between aid stations) and then fade.  Running from The Island to Bridger Jack, I noticed this for the first time.  I felt great and could move, then I faded, and then I started hating life.  I rolled into the Bridger Jack aid station and plunked in a chair.  My other foot was going by this point so I needed more taping.  I knew the steepest climb was coming up, and (DON’T DO IT!!!) did the math – I’d run about 80 miles and only had… holy shit, wtf… 160 miles left.  A wonderful aid station volunteer – we’ll call him Dave – started giving me shit.  “Runner #2 – I need you to know that you’ve been sitting here for 20 minutes and the cutoff is only 12 hours away.  You probably need to get going.”  And then Wonderful Dave told the medical volunteer that I wasn’t in a hurry so I got skipped over for taping (grrrr…).  I waited for the medical person to come back and ate some more, and Dave said he couldn’t tell if I was tired or annoyed by his yammering or something else.  Mostly tired…

While I was sitting there waiting for the medical volunteer to finish with a runner that apparently had 170 hot spots on his feet, another runner came in and sat down next to me.  Her crew converged.  I looked at the person in front of me.  “Are you Jason Koop?”  Yep.  I chatted with him for a couple minutes until I noticed his runner giving me a dirty look because I was distracting her crew.   Ooops.  Nice guy though.  Another runner came in and cadged some Ibuprofen off a volunteer – they don’t stock Ibuprofen in the aid stations because runners do stupid things (like take 400 tablets in 6 hours), but this guy (Brandon) had rolled his ankle and wanted to keep the swelling down.


Jason Koop (coach to some amazing runners) and some bad-smelling dude.

Eventually I got my foot taped and trundled down the road towards the Shay Mountain climb.  After a nice downhill, I ended up in an endless, sandy, endless riverbed.  I could see a runner ahead and for hours (forever?) we followed the sand through the riverbends.  It was warm again, my feet hurt, I had six zillion miles ahead of me, and the riverbed wouldn’t end.  But it did eventually, and we crossed one of the few freshwater sources on the course (this was all grazing land, so “fresh” is generous here – I’m glad I had my BeFree water filter).  I filled up, and started up the Shay Mountain climb.


The horrid riverbed we followed on the approach to Shay Mountain.


Before things got hard.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern

Sean 2

I don’t know where this was taken, but it captures my Shay Mountain mood.  Photo:  Sean Mulvaney

Everyone passed me in the next few miles, at least that’s what it felt like.  The other runners moved steadily up the hill in the heat, while I wilted and seemed to move backwards.  I only had 155 miles left – shit, wtf.  I considered texting Janet (no cell service but I had my Inreach which can text via satellite) and telling her that I wasn’t having any fun and would drop.  People kept passing.  At some point I found myself with sprained-ankle Brandon and somehow managed to keep up with him or at least keep him in sight.  I forgot about dropping, caught Brandon, and talked with him about the likelihood of having to ascend the jeep road ridiculously high above us on the hillside across the way.  Yep.  We trudged up.  Brandon got to the next aid station a little ahead of me, but I was efficient and ready to leave around the same time he left.  Except that I found the world’s best outhouse on my way out.

After a day in the heat, we expected it to cool off and get really cold.  It started to do that just as we left the aid station – cool enough for more clothes and a little breezy.  I need to take care of business though so I detoured into the campground outhouse.  It was one of those big airy outhouses with a cement floor, and it had been warming in the sun all day.  No breeze, it was warm, and I could sit down.  I might still be there today but for some inexplicable drive to continue and finish.

I headed down the paved road, running pretty quickly and passing a couple people who had passed me going up Shay Mountain.  I caught Brandon and two others just after we turned off the paved road – all three of them were peeing in the bushes and they told me that peeing in that spot was mandatory.  I ignored them and continued down the road in the fading sunlight, hoping to get most of the way to the next aid station while I could still see.  Clearly my brain was not functioning in that moment – it was hours away.

It got dark and then cold.  The road wound around and around.  I thought it was supposed to get straight and flat but it wound and went up and down.  It got really cold.  I was semi-running with Brandon at this point, but we were both cold and I don’t remember if I was with him or behind him or ahead of him.   The temps dropped further – up high, for the faster runners, it supposedly got down to 9 degrees.  For us slower runners in the lowlands, it might have been high 20s.  I put on all the clothes I had – barely enough – and hoped I’d get to the aid station and my drop bag with more clothes before I turned into an ice cube.  After hours of running in dark cold – like 5 hours? – we stumbled into the Dry Valley aid station.  Brandon was sure it was a sleep station.  I wasn’t so sure but I talked myself into think it was.  It wasn’t.  But it did have a heated tent with room for about 15 people, a couple cots and a few chairs.  We looked at the volunteers standing outside in the wind wearing down coats and wrapped in 3 blankets, and dived into the tent.  We asked a volunteer to find a couple pads so we could lie down.  “This isn’t a sleep station”.  “Ok, we won’t sleep – would you find those pads now?”  Maybe we said “please”, but I don’t think so.  2 pads appeared – Brandon took one and another runner closer to the volunteer took mine.  WTF?  Fortunately, Jeff Wright from Seattle (who nabbed my “Oldest Issy Alps 100 solo/unsupported finisher” title one week after I nabbed it) returned from the dead on one of the cots right then, and I took his spot.  The cot was farther away from the propane heater though, so I shivered under a blanket for a while and finally gave up on sleeping (which wasn’t allowed anyway…).  The tent was getting crowded at that point and Brandon got up right then, so we dressed and steeled ourselves for a few more hours of dark cold.  I put on everything I had, and we forced ourselves out of the tent just as a volunteer said “This isn’t a sleep station, anyone who has been here two hours needs to move on to make room for others”.

Thankfully, the next leg was ~11 miles of pretty flat smooth dirt road, and eventually 2 miles of paved road – mostly easy running with some walk breaks.  I was really really cold for about 10 minutes and then got amazingly warm and comfortable.  I stripped down to just my wool shirt, arm sleeves, buff, hat, and a thermal sweater (with tights over my shorts) and had a very enjoyable run with Brandon in the dark.  Brandon is some kind of super-human because he stayed in shorts.  The bite valve on my hydration pack started freezing every couple minutes, so I either drank frequently or blew the water up the tube back into the pack.  Time passed.  We looked for headlamps ahead of us.  When we saw one, we tried to do more running than walking.  We caught a couple people, and as we caught them we’d walk and talk with them for a couple minutes before moving on.  We traveled on while trying to figure out where we were, and looked for the aid station.  We got to the paved road, and started up a really long gradual hill.  Brandon was ready to run the hill, and I tried, but I was doing the “start strong and then fade” thing again, so Brandon hung back with me and we walked more than we ran.  We marveled at how well the race had concealed the aid stations – it was dark and we should’ve been able to see the lights at a distance.   After several turns and a drop into a dark hollow that could only be seen from 50 feet away (joking but it felt that way), we arrived at Wind Whistle.  We ate, I got my sleeping bag out of my drop bag, we crawled into sleep spots, and slept.  Again, I was a little cold in my damp clothing but the sleeping bag mostly kept me warm.  Brandon woke up around the same time I did – maybe an hour later?  We ate, and set off just as the sun was rising.

Day 3:  In some ways, day 3 was the crux.  We knew we had a long climb ahead and would end up doing the high section in the La Sal Mountains when it got dark and very cold again.

The first part of the day though was easy.  Easy is a relative term here – we’d covered 135 miles and had been awake for most of two days.  But we were on a fairly smooth dirt road and except for a down/up to get through Hatch Wash it was pretty flat.  Brandon and I ran a fair amount with occasional walk breaks, and looked for runners ahead to catch (and behind, to stay ahead of).  I generally stuck to my walk break plan, and when we’d see a runner ahead Brandon would continue running to catch up.  Then he’d walk and talk while I gradually worked my way up to them.

Sean 1

This might be my favorite picture from the race.  I spent 2-3 days with Brandon.  Photo: Sean Mulvaney (thanks Sean!)


This is the other Mark/Brandon picture.  Someone is fading a bit.  Sandstone mound in the distance.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern

There were cool sandstone mounds in the desert – a bit like Joshua Tree but larger and sparsely located on the plain.  As we approached a very large one with some kind of alcove, I saw what looked like a loading dock/distribution center built into mountain in the alcove.  I wondered if I was hallucinating so I asked Brandon if he saw anything.  He looked for a bit and and then said “there are houses over there – it’s some kind of settlement.”  We passed a road leading to the village, and Brandon read a small sign:  “Rockland Ranch – Modern Caveman Living”.  (After the race I asked Courtney Dauwalter if she’d seen the Modern Caveman place – she had, and someone told her it was some kind of polygamist community.  I found this article, with some good pictures.)


That’s me in the bottom right.  Almost certainly.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


Looking Glass Rock.


A peek through the looking glass.

We arrived at the Road 46 aid station in good spirits, ate and got ready to go.  Brandon wanted some foot taping, so I walked ahead down the road knowing he’d run until he caught me.  He did, shortly before we turned off the road to start the long 4500 foot climb to the high point of the race in the La Sals.  Right after the turn, we saw a couple trailer-camping in the middle of nowhere – they were cheering us on with cowbells.  I said something like “since you’re cheering, this must be the finish, right?”  It turned out it was race director Candice’s mom.  They offered a noon glass of wine to fortify us – we declined but thanked them for being out to support us.

We wound our way up a jeep trail and then turned up a really gnarly wash – basically a talus slope.  Fortunately, it didn’t last long and were back on a jeep trail on a high plateau sloping up towards the mountains.  It reminded me of being up high on the shield volcanoes in Hawaii, with a little more southwest scrub and a lot less lava.  We walked and ran, looking for runners ahead to catch and runners behind catching us.  As we turned up the steeper road in the midday heat, I started my “every segment fade” again – people started catching me and Brandon gradually pulled away ahead.  Time passed and we kept going up.  Eventually the road leveled out and we started working our way around the backside of the La Sals.  I crossed paths with Van Phan at some point.  I was still hot in the late afternoon heat but I passed a gully coming down from above and really cold air blew past me.  Shortly before the sun disappeared behind the mountains, we arrived at the Pole Canyon aid station.


Brandon with the La Sal Mountains behind him.  We’re headed up there.


Looking south, I think towards Shay Mountain which was about 24 hours and 60 miles ago.


It’s not quite Mauna Loa, but it’s more like Mauna Loa than a lot of things.

8 or 10 of us sat there, including Van and Brandon.  In the 5 minutes after the sun disappeared, the temperature seemed to drop from 75 to 35.  We ate, pulled out our warm clothing and headlamps, and contemplated traveling the next 17 miles at 9000+ feet of elevation in freezing temperatures.  Brandon and I talked about how it would go for him in shorts – his pack was pretty small and he had no tights – and just then someone volunteered that they had spare tights if anyone needed them.  Brandon quickly squeezed himself into the compression tights and we set off.

We climbed up the trail through the woods as the last of the daylight disappeared.  I’m sure this section was beautiful – I’m told this by people who passed through in daylight, and from below as we climbed during the day we could see patches of yellow aspen on the hillsides.  For us it was a very very long, very very cold process of climbing up to some saddle in darkness, dropping into a valley, climbing to another saddle, etc..  The trail was pretty narrow, often with a steep slope going up on one side and falling away sharply on the other.  At some point, Brandon literally started falling away – he’d hit some loose soil at the edge with his foot, slip off the trail, and then basically catch the trail in his hands as he started downhill.  I reached down and hauled him up a couple times.  Then he went a little further down and caught himself as he tumbled past some small trees.  I looked down the hillside past him with my headlamp and couldn’t see anything but steep slope below, so I told him to stop throwing himself off the trail.  And he did.

We caught up to another runner who hadn’t seen trail markings for a while.  We had, so we told him he was on course and continued.  We ran into another runner who was heading up the trail towards us – he’d gotten turned around and was headed in the wrong direction.  (Ironically it was the person who explained to everyone before the race how to use the Gaia app on their phones for navigation).  Van Phan caught us – she said she was really cold and was considering putting on all her clothes and lying down in her bivvy sack for a while until she warmed up.  The three of us traveled on, hoping we were close to the aid station.  After the aid station didn’t appear and didn’t appear, someone wondered how far we were.  I pulled out my Inreach, put it in navigation mode, and said that the Inreach claimed we were 5.7 miles from the aid station – two or more hours at the pace we were traveling.  Brandon and Van almost took my head off.



Looking past Moab towards Canyonlands.  Photo:  Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


During the last three hours of that leg, my brain switched off and I learned some things about myself.  I was conscious and remember a fair amount about the trail, but I stopped thinking.  Every part of me just focused on taking the next step.  All the mental energy that I normally use getting from point A to point B – whether it’s on a trail or some personal goal in life – thinking about where I am, how far the goal is, how long it will take, why am I not there already, etc. went into taking the next step, and then the next one, towards my goal.  And that was much better.

Brandon, Van and I stayed loosely together most of the way but towards the end they disappeared behind me.  I waited for a bit until I could see a headlamp behind me, and continued on.  The headlamp disappeared again, but I figured the Oowah Lake aid station was very close so I continued and finally arrived.  Brandon showed up, followed shortly by Van, and he told me his headlamp gave out and he had to stop to change batteries – I felt a bit guilty about not being there to give him some light to work with.

The Pole Canyon to Oowah Lake segment took us about 8 hours.  Temps were probably in the mid-teens, and someone said we did 5600 feet of climbing in the 17 miles.  As I sat in the chair with a blanket around me, trying to warm up near the heater, I felt wrecked but knew that the hardest part was behind us.  We still had 55 miles to go but it was mostly downhill from Oowah Lake to the finish and the sun would be back to warm us.

We disappeared pretty quickly into the sleeping tents.  I had my one genuinely-good sleep there – I finally had the brains to change into a dry shirt before crawling into my sleeping bag.  It wasn’t long – maybe an hour – but I woke up feeling good and ready to go.  I wasn’t sure where Brandon had ended up – I thought I had heard him heading into another tent.  I didn’t really want to leave without him but I also thought he might need the sleep.  My goal before the race was to finish before it got dark for a fourth night, and although it seemed unlikely I thought there was a slight chance that with a downhill (for sure) and decent trails/roads (hopefully), I might still make it.  Also, if my “start strong and then fade” pattern continued, there was a good chance Brandon would catch up anyway, so I got ready to leave.

10 seconds before I was going to leave, Brandon appeared and wondered why I hadn’t woken him – apparently he was lying on the pad next to mine.  We talked about how long it would take for him to get ready and I decided to wait.  I did it begrudgingly at first but then decided that it was stupid to focus on saving a few minutes vs. continuing on with a great companion.  I waited and then Brandon said I should go ahead because he’d probably catch me.  Also, his phone had disappeared somewhere and he wanted to find it.  I looked in the sleeping tent for his phone and couldn’t find it, and he told me again to take off.  I gave him a spare headlamp out of my drop bag – like me he hoped/expected to finish before the fourth night and was out of spare batteries.  I set off, thinking that if I moved along he might not catch me until we were at a point where I could talk him into running with me to the finish even when I faded.

Day 4

It was just getting light as I started – a short trot down a dirt road and then a 1000 foot climb up a trail through the aspens to the dirt road that would take me all the way to the Porcupine Rim aid station.  I looked out past Moab towards Canyonlands and all the terrain we’d covered over the past 3 days.  I spotted Hatch Rock/Modern Caveman Living and saw the Shay Mountain area where I’d suffered, way the heck in the distance.  The next dirt road was in great shape, it was downhill, my legs felt decent, and I was headed towards the finish.  I covered 5 or 6 downhill miles in about an hour.  Life was good.



Looking up at the La Sals, where we’d traveled through the night.  Yes, that is snow.


Canyonlands in the distance.


Have I mentioned that I like sunrises after a night in the dark?

The road leveled out/turned up a little and it was getting warm again, so I went back to running some and walking – a lot.  A few houses appeared – probably the first I’d seen in a couple days (except at Rockland Ranch).  I suddenly got really sleepy and settled down next to a metal gate hoping to nod off for a moment.  After a few minutes I gave up on a nap and continued.  A bit further on I lay down in the road and tried again.  Nope.  Time and miles passed, and I wondered when Brandon would appear.  The road wound around towards Porcupine Rim and Castle Valley, and eventually deposited me at the Porcupine Rim aid station.

I announced that I would love to lie down on a cot and take a nap.  They fed me and then took me over to a cot near the radio station/truck where they report runner progress back to race headquarters.  As I settled in, I heard Brandon arrive and called over to him.  I lay there trying to nap and then I heard the radio say “would you tell runner 136 (aka Brandon) that they found his phone at Oowah Lake – someone is driving it down and will probably arrive before he does”.  Hmmm – Brandon was there but I hadn’t heard any phone delivery.  I called over and told him his phone had been found.  I lay there some more and still couldn’t sleep – it was late morning, I had a bit more than 50k to the finish, there were 7-8 hours of daylight left, and it was mostly downhill.  I might not make it to the finish in daylight, but could I get there soon after?  After maybe 30 minutes of laying there I gave up and went back over to eat some more.  I filled my soft flask with Coke – Brandon had told me that he does that and the calories and caffeine seem to buy him an hour or more of good times.  When I was ready to go, Brandon was still eating and in theory his phone was about to show up.  We agreed again that I should move on and he would catch me.

The section from Porcupine Rim to Arches aid station is pretty spectacular.  (‘ve used that word a lot but the race was like that.)  You start up high right along the cliff down to Castle Valley.  Janet and I stayed for a night in Castle Valley a long time ago after a mountain bike trip in Canyonlands, and I had already been aware of it from some pioneering climbs Layton Kor did back in the early 60s.  That part of the view alone was amazing, but when you turn around you see Arches National Park to the west and Canyonlands to the south.



Looking out over Castle Valley.  Castleton Tower is the spire on the right.  Layton Kor did the first ascent in 1961.  Sandstone is not the most reliable rock to climb.  I’ve seen it described as climbing on quicksand.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern



Looking up Castle Valley towards the La Sals.

Although mountain biking is huge in Moab, I hadn’t really seen many bikes until now.   About a mile out of the aid station, they appeared in force.  People stopped along the rim looking down into Castle Valley, people working their way up the hill, and many more working their way downhill in the direction I was going.  I probably saw 300 bikes in 15 miles of downhill trail.  A couple asked “is this some kind of marathon?” and I’m not sure they believed me when I explained what Moab 240 meant.  A few others knew exactly what I was doing and cheered me on.


Arches National Park

The trail was rougher than I hoped – lots of rocks and drop-offs – and it was getting hot again so I didn’t exactly speed along.  I was also tired for some reason. Go figure.  Late in the descent there was one last spectacular spot where you traverse high along the edge of a mesa with the Colorado River about 500 feet straight down and then the high red cliffs of Arches just beyond.  After that it was rocky descent down to the river and road, and I thought I was close to the aid station – just over a mile maybe.  The Coke in my soft flask had done the trick – I wasn’t fading like I had before.


Working my way down towards the Colorado River and Moab.  We stayed high and traversed just above the cliffs.

This video shows the trail better than my photo.  I wasn’t moving as quickly as the bikers do, and I wonder how often someone goes over the edge.

The Colorado bends a lot as it works its way into Moab, so I looked at the bend ahead and decided the aid station was just past that bend.  I walked along (and ran a little), ready to eat and rest a bit.  The bend ended and there was another one beyond.  “The aid station must be over there”.  Nope – another bend.  By now I was in a bit of a mood and gave up trying to run at all.  I was walking along at a decent pace, I clearly was going to do most of the final section in darkness whether I did this part quickly or slowly, I was in a pretty spot and there didn’t seem to be any point in pushing.  Maybe Brandon would finally catch me.  By the time I reached the aid station, my watch said that the 1+ mile was more like 3 (although I think the canyon walls may have messed up the gps some).  I walked in feeling a little defeated and with sore feet but I told myself I just had one more 18 mile section.

Arches aid station was awesome.  I actually went back there the day after I finished to thank people.  (I wish I could have done that for all the aid stations, and thankfully some of those other folks were at Arches again or showed up at the finish.)  Anyway, I sat down, they cooked up the world’s best quesadilla for me, and volunteer after volunteer came by to make me feel like the most awesome person in the world.  Dave – the guy who was playfully harassing me at Bridger Jack – tried it again and this time I responded with enough humor that he said “wow, you are doing great – if your mood is that good you’ll have no problems from here.”  Given that I was going to finish at midnight or later, I wanted to try to nap again, so they shepherded me over to the tent (Dave’s Love Tent it was called – not sure I want to know more about that…), I asked them to get me up in 30 minutes, and I lay down.  This time I think I nodded off.  I heard one runner arrive and leave soon after, but I didn’t hear Van Phan who came through and left quickly.  They woke me up a little later, and I had another quesadilla.  Brandon arrived as I was getting ready to leave – his phone hadn’t arrived at Porcupine Rim and the heat had gotten to him on the way down – and then he disappeared into the Love Tent to recover.  I filled my soft flask with Coke again and bumbled my way out.  I had trouble finding the route right out of the aid station – brain trouble, just not looking for the markers I’d been looking at for days – so I went back and John Brew (Jeff Wright’s pacer) kindly walked me a short way down the trail before turning around to wait for Jeff.

Arches aid had worked wonders on me – my feet didn’t hurt any more and I felt good, so I ran most of the 5 miles through Moab at a decent clip.  It was dark now.  I got to Kane Springs Road – the finish was just 3 miles away to the right, but I turned left to follow the long-way-’round course.  After a while I found the turn off the road up onto the trail traversing the base of the ridge just south of Moab, and then immediately missed a marker and turned on to an obvious-but-wrong path in the direction I knew I should go.  I ended up in some kind of drainage ditch and realized I hadn’t seen a marker.  I turned around and headed back a ways, then pulled out my Inreach and eventually bushwhacked a short way through the scrub to the real trail (aka Pipe Dream, as it is known to bikers).

When I was looking at the ridge line before the race, all I saw was how high the ridge was – I knew we’d be climbing it late in the race.  What I didn’t notice was all the aretes/projections/ridges running straight down from the top to the bottom.  Now, all I noticed was those ridges.  Out around a ridge line, then back into the gully beyond, then out around a ridge line, then into a gully.  Over and over.  At times there was kind of a dropoff to my left – maybe not fatal if I went over but not a good thing.  “Oh well, it’s not like I’m tired or foggy.”  One more insult was that I’d advance southeast down the trail for a ways, climbing slightly as I went, and then over and over there would be a switchback taking me downhill back to the northwest and giving up any elevation I’d gained.

More mountain biking video, this time of Pipe Dream:

In spite of the terrain and the wear and tear of 225 miles, I was in a great mood.  I felt good, I was moving quickly all things considered, and the finish was a few hours away.  I wondered if I would catch someone and kept looking for lights ahead.  Moab slowly passed by me on the left, and as I reached the end of town I assumed (mistakenly as always) that the turn up Hidden Valley was just ahead.   The only light I saw came towards me – a runner on yet another switchback maybe?  It turned out to be a biker out for an evening ride on a rough thin trail with a non-trivial dropoff.  He congratulated me and told me there were two people ahead of me.  I continued on well past where I thought the turn should be, but kept seeing markers and knew I was just overly-optimistic.  Finally I saw some water jugs by the trail – the last unmanned, water-only aid station.  9 miles to go.

As I turned up the Hidden Valley trail, I briefly saw a headlamp high up above me.  I pushed up the hill as quickly as I could, thinking maybe I’d have company for the last few miles.  After winding around and around, I arrived at what I thought was the headlamp spot about 25 minutes later.  “Probably not going to make up that gap.”  I ran and walked up through what I assumed was a big cow pasture (I’m told it was a beautiful meadow with cliffs on one side that have petroglyphs.)  Then I hit the slickrock mounds/cliffs that I had seen along the river before the race started.  It’s hard to place markers there, but there were white dashes of paint (for bikers) and just enough markers that I never doubted the path.  Some of the climbs were very steep, up feature-less rock like very small versions of the hiker route up Half Dome – but traction was good and thankfully the climbs were short.   I topped out, made a few turns, and finally started down towards the road and the finish.  As I thought about how huge the past few days had been I got teary – this seems to be common, someone told me he called his wife from there and suddenly started bawling into the phone.

That descent was gnarly.  On the elevation profile, it shows a drop of maybe 1000 feet in one mile and it was a rough, very rocky trail.  My legs and feet decided they were done, and I minced my way slowly down the trail.  A couple cars went by through the darkness on the road below – probably runners’ crew heading to the finish.  I picked my way down carefully and eventually exited into the trailhead parking lot and the paved road.  (There’s a Facebook video below of race winner Courtney Dauwalter coming out of that trail – it’s somewhat reassuring to see her looking a little rough and moving slowly on the technical trail.  Apparently even phenomenal runners take a beating over that distance.)

As usual, I underestimated the distance left.  I took off running, thinking I was a mile or less away.  I looked for lights of the finish line ahead – probably around the next bend, or the next one, or maybe this one, or for sure that one?  Remembering my experience of fainting after running hard to the UTMB finish, after a mile of running on the road with no finish lights in sight, I walked for a bit.  Eventually I saw lights, and I ran and crossed the finish with the 10 or so people awake at 1:30 am cheering me in. Then I asked Candice if I could cross the line again since once didn’t seem enough for 238 miles.

I stood there for a bit, talking and trying to comprehend what had just happened.  My main feeling at that moment was gratitude – for the help of so many people to get us through the race, for the family and friends in my life, for a body that was able to take me that far, for the opportunity to spend that long outside in a beautiful place.  Howie Stern took pictures of me and I picked out a belt buckle (not the first thing on my mind, but someone took me over there anyway).  I think I sat by the fire for a little while with a couple other runner zombies and ate something.


The first time I crossed the finish line.  Not a lot of people out at 1:30am.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


Howie took about 1000 pictures of me right after I finished.  My Facebook profile picture is from Angeles Crest, near the top of a brutal climb at a place called Dead Man’s Bench.  There’s a sign on the right of the bench that says “Reserved For Howie” – same Howie, he was running Angeles Crest that day also.  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern


It’s ok to do the math now – I’ve gone 238+ miles, and that leaves … Oh.  Good!  Photo: Scott Rokis/Howie Stern

It was a little rough for the next few hours.  I drove down to the campground shower – the shower room is unheated and the door was wide open.  It was probably 35 degrees in there.  I staggered out of my foul clothing and stood under warm water for 20 minutes until I stopped shivering.  I cleaned as best as I could – somehow my legs still supported me enough to balance on one leg to wash each foot.  Once I was sort of clean and sort of warm, I scrambled to get all my clothes on before the shivers started again.  I drove back to the campground and thrashed around with the car seats trying to get them out of the way so I could sleep in the back.  One seat was very reluctant to fold down – after accidentally knocking bags out of the door and breaking a couple of my Moab 240 pint glasses, I finally noticed a seat belt thingy in the way and solved the problem.  I crawled into my sleeping bag and lay there as the last of my body heat gradually seeped out of me to warm up the car and all my personal possessions.  I slept, cold yet again, for maybe 5 hours until the sun came over the cliffs and warmed everything up including me.

The day after the race was great.  I hung out at the finish for most of the day, watching runners finish, talking to other semi-dazed finishers like me, and going back to the finish line buffet ever hour or so to get another big plate of food.  I also got an awesome massage from Scott Pauker, who was there because a friend was running and to help us runners recover.  Scott recently bikepacked over 3 years from the Arctic Circle to the tip of South America, so he’s no stranger to odd endurance events.

I drove back to Seattle over the next two days, stopping in Boise to sleep in an actual bed for the first time in a while.  Then I started in on the list of “I’ll do that right after Moab”, which took most of the past two-three weeks.

My stats:

  • finish time: 90:27:54
  • 33rd out of 98 official finishers (I finished just after Van Phan, but didn’t know that until Janet told me the next day – Janet thought we might have been running together at the end based on tracking but we were ~30 minutes apart.)
  • sleep: probably 2 somewhat-solid hours, and another 3-4 hours trying/resting
  • post-race body carnage:  Very little – yay!  No falls, no overuse injuries and only minor blisters on my feet.

Kudos to others:

  • the volunteers!  They were outstanding – I don’t think I’ve ever felt as cared for as I do at the aid stations in Destination Trails races.  Many of the volunteers work at aid stations for all 4+ days of the race, standing around in the cold and the heat and probably not getting a lot more sleep than we do.  The runners get fame and fortune for finishing, and the volunteers get a t-shirt.  And our love.
  • the race organizers –  Destination Trails does everything it can to make the runner experience great.
  • Brandon, who somehow traveled 200+ miles on a sprained ankle without whining about it once.  He finished a couple hours after me.  It was fun traveling together, and I’m sorry that we didn’t quite sync up on the last day.  Brandon also finished the Javalina 100 two weeks after Moab, even though his foot was still tender a few days beforehand.
  • Courtney Dauwalter who won and beat second place by 10 hours.  10 hours??? When does that ever happen in a race?
  • Sean Nakamura – the second place finisher and male winner – who might have been able to keep the gap smaller if only he hadn’t also won the Tahoe 200 4 weeks before Moab.  Another Javalina finisher, and he ran a sub 24 there even though he started the race 5 hours late after major flight issues.
  • Mike Koppy, who at the age of 67 finished the race 8 hours faster than me.
  • Pam Reed, the second woman, who is a year older and (in this case) 16 hours faster than I am.
  • The Triple Crown finishers who somehow did three 200+ mile races in about 2 months.  Woah…
  • All the finishers – 238 miles, that’s ridiculous.  Who would do that?
  • All the starters even if they didn’t finish – no one shows up at that race without some serious fitness and even more mental toughness.  And some seriously poor judgment.
  • Holly Thompson, who I’m told had never run anything longer than a half marathon.  She made it to mile 229 before it was clear she’d miss the official finish cutoff and would be running by herself for several hours if she continued.  She was out there about 20 hours longer than I was.
  • Scott Pauker – that massage had me feeling good the next day and it was great talking.  Thanks for showing up at the race.


Posted by: pointlenana | October 9, 2017

Moab 240 Tracking


I start the Moab 240 Friday morning (Oct 13) at 7am Utah time.  Here’s all the info for those of you who enjoy watching paint dry:

  • My main goal is simply to finish and enjoy the area (near/in Bears Ears National Monument) before it gets strip-mined or turned into a private resort for cabinet members.
  • My extra-credit/quality-of-life goal is to finish before it gets dark for a 4th night – 84 hours or less.
  • Here is a link to live tracking for the race.  Every runner in the race will be carrying a GPS tracker and will show up on the map.  I’ll be wearing bib #2.
  • Ultrasignup will also have (somewhat-delayed) aid station splits at:
  • I will also be carrying my Garmin tracker – no real reason to look at it but sometimes it’s more accurate than the SPOT trackers we’ll be using.
  • None of those things is likely to be 100% accurate on its own, but collectively they should give a good idea where I am at any given time.

Here’s a short video of the course/area – the music makes me think I’ll probably run into the High Plains Drifter and/or Sergio Leone.

Thank you and kudos to Gene Dykes who created this document with “pictures” of the course generated in Google Earth: MoabGoogleEarth.

Here is some information about each leg of the race – estimated time of arrival and departure at aid stations (I will eat everywhere and hopefully sleep in a few spots), distance between aid stations, and how much up and down there is.  The time estimates are not much better than a guess, and the farther into the race I get the more likely they are to be way off.  This schedule gets me done before the 4th night sets in, but when I’m out there I focus on being efficient with my energy and time vs. trying to stick to some plan.

Thanks for looking at my little dot moving around the big circle!

In Day Target In Out Day Target Out Total Distance To Next Up Down
Start Fri 7:00 AM 0 15 2155 2108
Hurrah Pass Fri 10:40 AM Fri 11:10 AM 15 18.7 2025 1705
Breaking Bad Fri 3:40 PM Fri 4:10 PM 33.7 22.2 1727 1307
Hamburger Rock Fri 9:40 PM Fri 10:25 PM 55.9 12.8 737 273
The Island Sat 1:30 AM Sat 4:15 AM 68.7 15.5 2239 715
Bridger Jack Sat 8:00 AM Sat 8:30 AM 84.2 19 4228 2389
Shay Mountain Sat 2:30 PM Sat 3:15 PM 103.2 18.5 618 2866
Dry Valley Sat 8:15 PM Sat 9:00 PM 121.7 13.6 559 884
Wind Whistle Sun 12:30 AM Sun 3:15 AM 135.3 13.6 879 931
Rd 46 Sun 6:45 AM Sun 7:30 AM 148.9 17.6 3446 679
Pole Canyon Sun 1:30 PM Sun 2:30 PM 166.5 17.3 5895 5568
Oowah Lake Sun 8:50 PM Sun 11:35 PM 183.8 20.4 1248 3754
Porcupine Rim Mon 5:45 AM Mon 6:45 AM 204.2 16.3 876 3653
Arches Aid Mon 11:45 AM Mon 12:30 PM 220.5 9.3 1234 582
Hidden Valley Mon 3:15 PM Mon 4:00 PM 229.8 8.5 1601 2053
Finish Mon 6:30 PM 238.3



Posted by: pointlenana | September 21, 2017

Plain 100 DFL! 9-16-2017

I finished Dead Last at Plain 100 this past weekend.  I reached the finish about 2 hours before the 36 hour cutoff, and within 30 minutes of my arrival pretty much everyone – other runners and race organizers – had packed up and left.  For me, that’s somehow indicative of how small and intimate this very hard, very wild race is.

In my tracking post, I described the race a little and included lots of video footage of the trail.  To summarize again – ~107 miles, 23000 feet of climbing, 36 hour cutoff, small field of runners (I think 34 people started the 100 mile race with another ~7 people running the first 100k/62 miles with us), no course markings, and a single aid station/drop bag at the 62 mile mark.  For the rest of the course you carry your own food, use directions to make your own way through trail intersections, find your own water, take care of yourself, and for large sections of the course run by yourself.  In the early history of the race, few people finished.  With time, the finish rate has grown to 50% +/-.

I’ll mostly describe my race here, but at the end – for someone who is considering/planning to run this race – I’ll get specific about how I handled some of the challenges in case it helps.


Rob Rives’ Strava activity pretty much captures the experience.

The pre-race briefing started at 4pm Friday before the race in the Lake Wenatchee Rec Club – a small meeting room/kitchen at the edge of a grass airstrip.  I was one of the first to arrive and met a few other early arrivals – Rob Rives who had flown in from Vermont, race directors Tim Stroh and Tim Denhoff, Van Phan who has had a stellar summer race-wise, Yitka Winn who I knew only through her writing and Issy Alps adventures, George Orozco who created the Issy Alps routes, and others.  (I met/talked with several more after the briefing – Phil Ullrich who knew me from Strava, Steve and Gina Slaby who won bronze and gold respectively on their US 24 hour teams at Worlds in July, plus several old friends.)

The briefing lasted about 1 hour and 20 minutes.  That seems like an incredibly long time compared to the briefing for a typical marathon (no briefing).  But at some point Tim Stroh asked for a show of hands – how many have run the race before, how many have finished, how many have spent time on the course, how many are brand new – and it looked like a majority of the runners were brand new.  So people were intensely interested in a few topics – where is the water on course, which turns are tricky, which parts of the route are hard and which are runnable, etc.. We also had to practice our Search and Rescue checkpoint technique during the briefing.  Although there are no aid stations, there are handful of spots where S&R people drive out (usually on very long rough dirt roads) and track us as we pass through.  Each year they create a different passphrase that we have to give at the checkpoints – this year they read a poem about the importance of having heart to get through hard things, and our passphrase (said with hand over heart) was “This is my heart.”  I’m pretty sure this is a clever way for the S&R people to assess our mental state – if we show up at a checkpoint and can’t remember the passphrase, it’s probably a bad idea for us to continue.  After the briefing there was a really good dinner organized by race volunteers and then people mostly bolted to get ready and get some sleep before the 5am start.

I woke up at 3am, got dressed, went back into the lodge (I slept in my car in the parking lot), ate a pancake and oatmeal breakfast the volunteers had organized, and then finished getting ready.  By 4:30am I was parked at the start and starting to take off warm things and put on race stuff.  Shortly before 5 we all lined up behind a piece of tape in the darkness.  Someone said “ok, we’re going to start in about… 3 seconds.  Go.”

I probably ran too hard during the first 9 miles.  It was all dirt road, about half of it flat, I felt good, and at some point I found myself running with Yitka.  We talked about her writing and our various running misadventures, and the climb up to Maverick Saddle went more quickly than I had planned.  We got separated dropping down to the Mad River and I continued on.

Although this was a focus race for me, I didn’t really have a time goal.  In fact, after I ran the Tunnel Marathon a few weeks ago, I felt relieved that I was done with races where I cared about my finish time.  My one goal at Plain was to finish.  Nevertheless, just so I’d have a sense for how I was doing, I made a little projection where I estimated my progress along the route based on a finish time of 32 hours.  I came through Maverick Saddle well ahead of 32 hour pace.  Good at the time, maybe not so good in the grand scheme of things.

About 11 miles into the race I was passed very quickly by a guy who told me that he’d already run 3 bonus miles due to a wrong turn early in the race.  Two questions immediately popped to mind – how do you make a wrong turn that early in the race, and how do you pick up 3 miles on someone (me) in just 11 miles?  He continued on and was quickly out of sight.  Shortly after that another person passed me – apparently he was still driving to the start as we headed past the starting tape at 5am, and he was trying not to wear himself out in this race so he hadn’t run much yet.  At this point I felt entirely mediocre – I was working hard but getting passed by people who were making major mistakes and/or coasting.  I plugged away, and got passed some more – Yitka, George, a couple other people went by, all well before we got to Klone Peak.

My scouting in July paid off big time – I had no problem going through junctions and heading out on the right trails.   I pulled out my Inreach a couple times just to confirm that I wasn’t being stupidly overconfident, but I was always on course.  When I reached the turn to Klone Peak I was well ahead of my scouting pace, but I attributed a lot of that to 1) not making wrong turns and backtracking like I had in July and 2) not slowing to film the trail like I had in July.  On the half mile out-and-back up to Klone, I saw 8 people coming down ahead of me, and coming down I saw two more just behind me.  So ~22 miles into the race, there were about a dozen of us (out of 40+ starters) within a couple miles of each other.  Some fast people were ahead and a few slower people were behind.

I continued on through the rolling ridges past Klone.  In July I hit a few miles with a lot of blowdowns but some trail/motorcycle angels had cleared those in the interim and the trail was straightforward.  As I started the very long descent to the Entiat River, I caught up with Dave Braza who I ran with for a short time in the Redmond Watershed Marathon about 5 years ago.  He’s one of the first people I ever met in trail running – just for those few minutes.  Somehow I remembered his name and he also recognized me.  We ran a good 6 or 7 miles together down to the river.  At some point I felt like the downhill was hard – it never felt that way during the scouting – but because I was running with Dave I didn’t want to stop or walk.  We filled up every available container with water in Tommy Creek just before the big climb to Tyee Ridge – I had about 110 oz/7 pounds of water as I left the creek.  Then I bonked hard and Dave dropped me.

The bonk is still a bit of a mystery to me.  I ate pretty regularly starting 40 minutes into the race and while I may have gotten behind in fueling I don’t think I was way off.  I suspect it was a combo of things – some slight undernourishment, running a little too fast in the beginning, and some lingering fatigue from too many (or the right amount of!) fun adventures this summer.  In any case, after struggling uphill for 15 or 20 minutes I realized what was going on and started eating – a lot.  Gels, waffles, bars.  They all went in, every 15-30 minutes.  What finally fixed me – somewhere near the top of the very hard 4000-feet-in-4-miles climb – was (literally) a PB&J “Bonkbreaker” bar that packs 260 calories.  It’s like eating a big pb&j sandwich that has been compressed into a 2 inch by 1 inch by 1/4 inch bar.  Once I got that down, life seemed to get better.  And even with the bonk I was still somewhat ahead of my scouting pace and my 32 hour projection.

I continued on through the high, cruel traverse near Signal Peak.  On the topo maps, it looks like a traverse but it’s a steady uphill for several miles.  After the very hard climb to the ridge, the last thing you want is more uphill but you just do it because that’s where the trail goes and there’s no choice if you want to finish.  By this point I was on a high open ridge and could see ahead and back – there didn’t seem to be anyone ahead or behind me.  After anticipating it prematurely for a good 30 minutes, I finally reached the turn onto the Billy Creek trail and headed downhill.


Oh, hi Ross!

The downhill mostly went by in a blur.  I picked my way down a rocky uneven trail, wound around in some woods, and came across Ross Comer taking photographs of runners.  Seeing a photographer on a course like this is always a good sign – it means you are close to an aid station.  Except in this race, there are no aid stations, just S&R checkpoints.  I passed through the S&R checkpoint (“Runner 163 and This is my heart”), and pushed my way into the overgrown bushy section I encountered in July.  Tim Stroh explained at the race briefing that the overgrowth happens in ~8 year cycles – the bushes grow up for several years until they knock a few riders off their motorcycles, and then they get pruned back and the trails are clear for a while.  I made it through the brush and the steep rocky downhill all the way to the Mad River while it was still light out, and it didn’t get dark until I was almost to the Mad River crossing and heading up to Maverick Saddle.

Someone caught me on the way to Maverick Saddle and a few more passed as I headed towards the 100k aid station at the start/finish.  Most were 100k runners smelling the barn.  At some point I tried to run but things hurt and I felt really tired so I just shuffled along.  I realized I was in trouble – normally I can run those downhills but it wasn’t happening this time and there was a lot of distance left.  Not good.  Van and a friend ran past me a couple miles out from the aid station – I think she was a little surprised to see me walking and unable to pick it up and run with her.  I shuffled into the aid station and plunked in a chair.

For a race where you mostly self-support, they had an outstanding aid station.  My drop bag showed up at my feet.  Bowls of soup kept reappearing in my lap.  Another chair showed up next to me so I could organize my stuff while I ate.  A blanket wrapped itself around me.  Tim Stroh told me how well I was doing.  I ate and went through the checklist I had put in the drop bag – get my headlamp, gather my warm/night clothes, restock with food, decide if I need a charger for my electronics, grab my poles, etc..  By this point I knew water was plentiful on the course, so I decided to rely on my BeFree flask/filter and a small emergency flask – I pulled out my hydration bladder to save a little weight.  After about 30 minutes in the aid station – eating enough to put a permanent end to any bonk, and getting ready for a long solo night – I left, just a couple minutes after Van and her friend left.   It was shortly before the 18 hour mark in the race, around 11pm.

It was already pretty cold out.  I’m not sure, but it may have gotten down into the high 30s during the night, especially at the higher elevations.  I left the aid station wearing all my clothes – arm sleeves, warm sweater, rain jacket, warm hat, gloves and buff around my neck.  I decided against putting on tights because my legs are always fine until it gets to freezing or lower.  After a couple miles, most of the warm things came off and I spent most of the night in a short sleeve shirt, arm sleeves, buff, warm hat and gloves (plus my shorts, in case you were wondering).

My plan was to walk through most or all of the night.  My night running is barely faster than walking and a lot can go wrong when I try to run (e.g. tripping over rocks/roots).  The section right out of the aid station is also one of the worst in terms of mogul-y up-and-down motorcycle ruts.  After landing very awkwardly in troughs a couple times when I was trying to go faster than walking, I gave up on any running.  And around then, my left knee started hurting consistently, to the point where walking hurt and running was out of the question.  Like the bonk, the knee pain is a little mysterious.  Sometime just before or after the aid station I reached down to shake a rock out of my left shoe and a lot of muscles in my left leg almost seized.  I survived that, but between the near-cramps, the awkward landings in the trail, and the pounding from downhills in the first 60 miles, my knee was very cranky.  I continued on hoping it would get happier, but if anything it felt worse after a couple more miles.  At that point I had about 17 hours to travel maybe 42 miles to finish on an unhappy knee. I thought of Ellie Greenwood’s quote at the end of her Comrades race report – Never ever give up.

Even though I was approximately on the 32 hour plan and ahead of my scouting pace, I realized that finishing at all with my cranky knee would be an accomplishment.  I had to travel about 3 mph or slightly slower – that seemed doable but from scouting I knew there was a lot of hard uphill and rocky treacherous downhill ahead where I would go slower than 3mph.  I stopped thinking about moving quickly – too risky – and focused on moving steadily.  A couple hours passed and slowly I got through the flattish Chiwawa Trail section and into the uphill.  My knee stayed cranky but after experimenting a bit I figured out that I could make the pain go away for a few minutes by stretching my quad.  From that point – maybe 66 miles into a 107 mile race – I stopped and stretched every 5 to 10 minutes for about 15 hours.

Most of the second loop/section of the Plain course is deceptively brutal.  It looks like a long gradual uphill, but the scale of the climb hides a lot of nasty short uphills and downhills.  For example, it looks like the Chikamin Ridge trail does a long flat traverse towards Chikamin Tie, but that trail is constantly ascending and descending 50-75 feet in short distances as you round a corner or drop down towards a creek.  The night passed and I eventually worked my way to the Chikamin Tie checkpoint just before sunrise.  “1 6 3, and This is my heart.”  I had about 27 miles left (barely more than a marathon!  almost done!) and 11 hours to finish, but I was just reaching the steep part of the climb.  Up through steep trails in the woods, past some small talus slopes, traversing up through a huge talus slope, turning onto the Pond Camp trail, and finally the last endless cruelly-uphill climbs to what I assume is the Pond Where People Camp.  When I finally reached the top, I had about 8 hours to go 20 miles.  Doable but I certainly wasn’t increasing my buffer.  I was also puzzled why people weren’t passing me – surely someone behind me had managed their race better than me and would fly by soon.

And then the trail still doesn’t go down reliably.  It goes down, then it’s flat, then it goes up for a bit, then down, then up, then down, then up and down, for a good 5 more miles before turning downhill for real towards the Chiwawa River trail.  I had time to finish, but the unknown was whether my cranky knee would hold up on the 4000 foot descent.  Near the high point, a motorcycle passed me on the trail – the only non-Plain-100-runner I saw out on the trails in 30 hours of July scouting plus 34 hours of racing this weekend.

Unlike previous portions of the trail, where my race experience was easier/better than my scouting experience (e.g. blowdowns went away), it turns out this section had gotten much longer in the 2 months since scouting.  You are supposed to hit a short road section about 5 miles from the Alder Ridge trail junction.  5 miles came and went, and I travelled for another mile or two through some magically-inserted trail before the road finally appeared.  Another dirt road section that passed in a few minutes last time seemed to take hours this time.

At the very bottom of the dirt road, just before I headed back onto the last 8 miles of trails, I came across 3 motorcycle riders who were about to head up the trail I had just run down.  One asked me “Are there a lot of runners behind you?  Is there a marathon or something going on?”  I thought about it for a moment.  “At most there are a few.  Actually, I could be the last one.  It’s a 100 mile race.  We’re almost done.”  He gave me a blank stare and said “huh” and then headed uphill.

I shuffled down to the Chiwawa River Trail, refilled my bottle at the creek, and greeted the S&R people – “1 6 3, and this is my heart.  Do you know how many people are behind me?”  “I think you’re it.  We just got out here to wait for you.”  I thanked them, looked around, got a bit confused with the various tracks in the woods, took out my Inreach, and headed south towards the finish.  7.1 miles left, just less 32 hours in, 4 hours to finish.  At 3 mph it would take a bit more than 2 hours.   I needed to not get lost and keep my knee on the balky-but-ok side of dysfunctional, but I would finish.

My watch started playing tricks on me in this section.  During some parts of the race it was highly accurate – a segment that was 5.4 miles on the map was 5.45 miles on my watch.  In others – this Chiwawa River section – it seemed to miss stuff.  Lots of time passed and yet the miles didn’t tick off very quickly on my watch.  I crossed some roads but didn’t remember where they were with respect to the finish.  I wondered if I could possibly take more than 4 hours to go 7.1 miles.  After traveling 3.5 miles according to my watch, I arrived at the “treacherous” Goose Creek Camp trailhead where people manage to get lost and wreck their races every year.  I realized I had actually traveled about 5 miles down the trail and only had about 2 miles left.  I had a chance to finish just under 34 hours.

I ran most of the last 2 miles – my knee was a little cranky but not too bad and I knew I’d be done soon.  Incredibly, the trail had a few more genuine uphills waiting for me and I hiked up those as quickly as I could.  I wasn’t fast on the downhills or flats but I moved along.  As the 34 hour mark approached and the hills and windy trail continued, I didn’t think I’d make it but I thought of Ellie Greenwood again – never ever give up.

My watch read 33:59 as I started down the last bit of trail.  Someone below at the finish caught sight of me – they’d been waiting for the last runner for a while – and said “there he is”.  I heard cheers and cowbells.  I popped out on the road and saw about a dozen runners and volunteers waiting, then waved hi to Dave Braza who had dropped me 16 hours ago, and finally crossed an ambiguous finish line where Tim Stroh was waiting to congratulate me.  And I forgot to stop my watch.  My official time is 34:00 – I may or may not have made it under 34 hours but I was close.  After confirming that I was DFL, I pondered the fact that there were still 2 hours left in the race and yet everyone else had given up long ago.

A chair appeared under me, a beer appeared in my hand (I could only handle a couple sips), and I got quick race summaries from Yitka, Van, George, and Rob who had waited around for me (or simply couldn’t get their tired bodies out of chairs).  My race friend Joachim stopped by briefly to say that he had DNF’d because – wait for it – he’d gotten lost at the Goose Creek Camp trail junction starting the second loop even though he’d finished the race last year.  I’d spent the last 8 or 9 hours running dead last mostly without knowing it.  We chatted for a bit and then within a few minutes the race packed up and we all disappeared.

When I scouted the course in July, I decided this is my favorite race.  The trail is hard, you have to be self-sufficient, there are lots of ways to screw up, you travel in an empty wild place that is unremarkable in some ways but beautiful in many, and there are not a lot of frills.  (Before you start, you get a rock that has “Plain” painted on it.  If you finish, you can exchange it for a rock that says “Plain 100”.  No shirts, no medals, just a rock that is like the 10000’s of similar rocks that you pass by during the race.)   What I found out from running the race is that the race organization – the meals, the S&R, the lone aid station, etc. are every bit as excellent as the other parts.  There are very hard races that are difficult to get into, e.g. Hardrock and Barkley.  For someone who wants a big challenge like that, Plain is an awesome choice and you can actually get into the race.  This wasn’t my best race ever, but it’s definitely the finish I’m most proud of.

Thank you to both Tims and all the other people who make the race happen.  And thank you to the other runners for sharing that time out there even if I didn’t meet all of you.  Some went fast, some didn’t, and some didn’t finish, but it was inspiring to be around people willing to set off on this completely ridiculous adventure.  And the amazing thing to me is that we all – runners and volunteers – fit in that lodge Friday evening.  It was kind of like a family reunion for the Tribe Of People With Very Poor Judgment.


Who wouldn’t do a 107 mile race to get one of these artisinal finisher trophies?

Plain Advice

That’s it for the race report.  Here’s my advice for someone doing this for the first time.

Scout the course beforehand.  You can study maps and put the course on your gps but reality doesn’t quite match what you see on the maps.  Some details are just wrong, e.g. the turn onto the North Tommy Trail comes 1/4 mile past where my original gps track said it should.  Some details are just too small.  E.g. people get lost at Goose Creek Camp because they follow the very obvious trail straight ahead instead of turning right onto the road-like thing that is actually the trail.  Going out beforehand gives you a chance to stumble around when it doesn’t matter (and in daylight when you can see what is going on).  If you use a gps, scouting also gives you an accurate gps track that you can use later during the race.  If you can’t scout beforehand, it’s worth it to slow down slightly to travel with someone who knows the course – better to lose a few minutes (which you may gain back during a strong finish) than big chunks of time wondering whether you are in the right place.

Water is surprisingly available.  We’ve had a dry summer with no rain in a while (it started raining about 20 minutes after I finished – the first rain in 2-3 months).  Somehow most or all the creeks that were running for me in July, just as the last snow up high was disappearing, were still running after months of dry weather.   Where does the water come from?  Pika pee?  You need to carry a lot of water through the 14 mile section from Tommy Creek to Tyee Ridge to Cougar Creek, but otherwise a single BeFree filter/flask should be enough.  Lots of people don’t bother to filter to save time, but the BeFree gave me both speed and plenty of filtered water.

Create some variety in your food, especially for the 2nd loop.  I have an iron gut and can be ox-like when it comes to doing something hard/endless/stupid but towards the end I was really tired of the bars/gels/waffles I was carrying.  In a typical 100 mile race, you can get some variety at the aid stations (like the excellent soup I had passing through the mile 62 aid station at Plain).  Here you have to plan for your own variety.  It would have been great to have something savory, e.g. jerky or things like that.  I did carry one baby food pouch – that was awesome at mile 85 and worth it even if it’s bulky relative to the calories.

Be ready to be alone for a very long time.  I left the 100k aid station around 11pm Saturday evening.  I saw 2 or 3 people very briefly at the Chikamin Tie checkpoint around 6am.  At 1pm I saw a few more at the Alder Ridge Trailhead checkpoint.  At 3pm I finished and returned to civilization.  The rest of the time I plugged away by myself in the middle of nowhere.  I trained for this over the past several months, and I’m glad I did.

Focus on finishing.  Sure, if you are Gina Slaby you can go out and set a course record in your first attempt.  (Congratulations!  and note that she ran with Steve Slaby who ran/won it last year…) But of the 18 finishers this year, only 6 people finished under 30 hours.  The rest of us finished in a 3+ hour window between 30:48 (Rob Rives – and he’s fast) and my DFL time of 34 hours.  If you aim to be towards the fast end of that narrow window, you might instead end up with a rock that could easily be read as “Pain”, vs. one that says “Plain 100”.




Posted by: pointlenana | September 15, 2017

Plain 100 Tracking


Plain 100 is a different kind of ultra – no course markings, no crew or pacers, and one aid station/drop bag about 60 miles into the race.  Here is tracking info for me this weekend:

  • The race starts at 5am PDT this Saturday (Sep 16).
  • Live tracking for the race (demo this year, with a subset of runners hopefully including me.  As of this moment there’s a small glitch in the tracking course – we actually start at the 3-way intersection just above the flag, do an out-and-back to the flag, and then finish much later at the 3-way intersection.  I’m not sure how this will appear during tracking, but we have an extra 1 1/2 mile to run at the beginning, and will finish 1 1/2 miles early relative to the tracker.  Perhaps this will get fixed before we start.  But if not, for the 1000’s of you who will be up before dawn to watch us start, we’re not actually running in the wrong direction at the beginning.  At least, I hope not.)
  • Link for my personal tracking device (in case I don’t manage to get myself into the demo)
  • ~105 miles, 20000 feet of climbing, 36 hour time limit, 30 runners signed up
  • Guesstimated finish time: 33 hours +/- 3 hours
  • Videos of the course below.

Lots more info:

I was intimidated when I signed up many months ago, and I’ve “studied” harder for this race than any other ultra I’ve done – running the Issy Alps 100 solo this spring, 3 days scouting the Plain course in July, 40 miles solo and unsupported down at Rainier a couple weeks ago, and various other misadventures in the mountains this summer.  I even found myself mentally walking through all the trail junctions/turns yesterday to see if I had them memorized.  All that “studying” has paid off though – I expect it to be a challenging 100 mile race but the minimal support doesn’t seem so daunting now.

As I mentioned above, they are experimenting with live tracking this year for people who have their own gps trackers.  I submitted mine but as of now there are only 4 of us in the list.  Still, the page shows the course and corresponding spot in the elevation profile so even if there aren’t a lot of us you can figure out where I am, where I am heading, and how likely it is that I am suffering right at the moment.

Conditions look to be decent – relatively cool but not cold, some chance of smoke in the air but no fires really close by, and little to no rain during the race.  It will be dusty though – the race director included this comment in a note a couple weeks ago:  “I feel this year will be an awesome year for Plain dust! We’ve had several years of late where we actually had rain ahead of race day and, unfortunately, that really knocks down the dust. I don’t think there is a threat of that this year!”  Aside from dust in the air at the beginning when the massive mob of 30 runners starts out, the main challenge from the dust will be keeping our feet somewhat intact despite grit in our shoes.

I’m guessing I’ll finish in 33 hours or so.  It’s hard to read too much into results, but last year the finishing times ranged from 29:22 to 35:36.  That is an unusually narrow spread for a 100 mile race – and the winner was on this year’s US 24 hour team at the World Championships so he’s not slow over long distances.  After running much of the course, I think the narrow spread reflects that there are a bunch of sections where you are limited by the trail conditions not fitness.  E.g. it doesn’t really matter how fast you are if you are pushing through bushes, picking your way through a very rocky section of trail, or climbing over blowdowns.  We’ll see though – the top 10 performances in the 20 years of the race include times ranging from ~23 to 26 hours.  Maybe the trail has gotten harder as trees have fallen and bushes have grown, or maybe last year was slow for a specific 2016-only reason.

I scouted ~98 miles of the course over 3 days in July.  In about 30 hours on the course, I did not see another person on the trails.  No hikers, no runners, no off-road motorcycles.  Just me and a lot of open space.  Ironically, I did run into someone at the trailhead/race start/finish – it turned out to be a guy named Scott Weber who has finished Badwater 13 times and was the first person to do a “Triple Badwater” (going back and forth on the course 3 times – close to 500 miles – continuously in Death Valley in the heat of summer.  Sounds fun!).  So, lots of open space, one seriously badass/deranged person, and me. While I was out there, I took some video.  The course is basically two big loops/lollipops – I did the first loop one day, part of the connector/sticks of the lollipops the second day, and the second loop the third day.

Here’s the video tour…  Sorry about the breathing – rather than add music, I figured I’d show how quiet it is out there.

Day 1/Loop 1:  The first 9 or so miles are on a dirt road, gradually climbing up to Maverick Saddle.  I parked about 6 miles into the course, and left the car at 6:20am.  I couldn’t see anything for a while, but eventually Lake Wenatchee and Fish Lake and distant mountains came into view.

From Maverick Saddle, I dropped down to the Mad River and got on the trail proper.  It was about 13 miles of singletrack up to the summit of Klone Peak, rolling a little bit but gradually gaining 2500 feet up to the high point of the course.  The trails are apparently maintained more by an off-road motorcycle club than anyone else, and in some places were reinforced with concrete lattice I’ve never seen before.  The downside of the maintenance/motorcycle use is that the trail had small “moguls” in spots – 1-2 foot rises and dips that made running a little funky.  Route-finding was mostly straightforward – it was mostly following the directions and signs.  A couple of the turns were a little more tricky than they had seemed from the directions and/or the online maps/gps and I had to pull out the paper map at least once to figure out what was going on.  That was the point of scouting though, to figure out where the turns were when I wasn’t worried about cutoffs.  It was quiet – a few birds, running water when I was near some, a little wind, my footsteps and breathing, and not much else.

Great views all day, whether it was the wildflowers up close or the mountains in the distance.  I don’t know that area well though so except for a few big landmarks (Glacier Peak, Mt. Stuart) it was all nameless to me.

A few miles on from Klone Peak, I ran through an area that had burned in recent years, and there were lots of blowdowns to contend with.

After rolling for a bit, the trail finally headed downhill, losing about 3500 feet in 10 miles.  Some nice single track with turns carved by motorcycles, 3 miles of pavement which was kind of nice after the blowdowns, and a final drop along Tommy Creek almost to the Entiat River.  The crux climb lay just ahead so I filled my bladder (70 ounces of water) and two flasks (another 30-40 ounces) at Tommy Creek before heading up.  That’s about 7 pounds of water.

The next 6 miles from Tommy Creek are hard.  There’s a quote on the Plain website:
“The Signal Peak climb is possibly the hardest single climb in ultra running that nobody knows about.”

4000 feet of climbing in 4 miles to a false summit, a short downhill reprieve, and then another 750 feet almost to the top of Signal Peak.  This climb is also at the start of a 14 mile section with no water.  And, as will happen for me in the race, the climb happened during the warmest part of the day.  A heavy, hot, slow grind for 4 miles and then it somehow manages to keep going up for a few miles more.  As I started the climb (around 2:30), with somewhere around 20 miles left to go, I texted Janet (using my InReach – no cell service for my phone) that I’d probably arrive at our friend’s house in Plain for dinner at 8:30.

After the climb, just as I turned downhill, I updated my ETA to 9:15 although I still hoped the downhill would go quickly and I’d arrive earlier.  It was not to be.  The downhill was slow due to rocky trails, brush overgrowth, and a couple really steep open sections where it would have been bad to trip (the GoPro shows one section but doesn’t do justice to the steep hillside).  My water held out though – hopefully race day won’t be any warmer.  On the other hand, the “short section” along the Mad River turned out to be 3-4 miles of overgrown trails, ending with the wettest water crossing I did all day just as the sun was going down.  Arriving back at Maverick Saddle I pulled out my flashlight – glad that I carried it for the first ~50 miles of daylight – and trotted the last few miles to my car.  I unlocked the car from a distance and tried to open the door/climb in/close the door quickly, but still had to spend a couple minutes hunting mosquitoes that entered with me.  And instead of arriving early, I rolled up to our friend’s house at 10:30pm.  My watch died near the end, but the day was roughly 53 miles in a bit less than 16 hours.

Day 2: Connector from Start/Finish to Loop 2

The second loop/lollipop of the race starts with a 7 mile “stick” – run out to get to the 2nd loop and then back afterwards to get to the finish.  After my long first day and an upcoming long-ish 3rd day on the 2nd loop, I wanted to keep the day short so I decided to do the trail connection between the start and 2nd loop.  I had envisioned this being a flat dusty dirt trail 15 feet away from the Upper Chiwawa road, but in reality it was rarely close to the road and rolled up and down for most of the 7 miles from the start up to the beginning of the 2nd loop.  It was dusty though, and there were more motorcycle moguls in the trail here than on most of the other trails.  Oddly, people tend to get lost in this section due to the many trails and roads that cross the route.  I didn’t understand this before running it, but after passing through a couple intersections where you could follow a trail straight ahead but should instead turn more sharply to the right or left, I can see how a tired runner at night could make mistakes.  Another benefit of scouting this route in advance is that now I’ve been on the correct trails and should be able to create a more accurate route for me to follow on my Inreach.

Day 3: Loop 2

On the third day I parked at the Alder Ridge trailhead to do the 2nd loop.  The trail continues on the Lower Chiwawa trail for a few miles, climbs up a bit on the Chikamin Trail before doing a long relatively-flat traverse to Chikamin Tie.

From the Chikamin Tie junction, the trail goes up 3000 more feet on the way to Marble Meadow.  In fact, from the start/finish/~62 mile aid station the race travels mostly uphill for about 30 miles before the sustained downhill back to the finish.  Some of it is pretty gradual, but still – a 30 mile uphill?  I had to pull out some deet spray in a hurry in this section – picaridin worked fine the first two days but this 3rd day it wasn’t nearly enough.

After the long hill, the route travels along fairly flat trails among high meadows, climbs one last hill to a great view out over the Chiwawa valley, and drops back down to the trailhead where I parked.

The second loop took me about 10 hours, and somehow I stole a Strava segment record from James Varner while I was out there (which of course has been taken away from me since then – I’m not someone who sets Strava records).

Depending upon smoke from fires this weekend, I may have to go back to these videos to remind myself what I ran through.  Oh, that reminds me.  There was an interesting discussion recently in the Plain Facebook group about the best respirators to wear while running a 100 mile race in smoke.  As a friend once said, “everything about that sentence is wrong”.  Or maybe it captures ultrarunning accurately.

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