Leadville 100 Course Weekend

(Looking south from Hope Pass: 14ers Oxford, Belford, and Missouri on the left.)

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I awoke this morning with an ache in my legs. I burrowed down into my bag, rolled onto my right side in a semi-fetal position, and fully extended my legs. Grooooaaan, that feels nice, but still that same ache. Due to all my injuries over the past year, I haven't had the pleasure of that type of early morning sensation in my legs for quite some time. It is a feeling that is only brought on by lots and lots of running.

The running I did over the weekend was planned to give me a sense for where I am fitness-wise on the Leadville 100 course. This is ground that I've run quite extensively, and often while in the best shape of my life, so it offers a useful barometer for ascertaining where I am and what I need to work on.

Saturday's run covered the first 40 miles of the course: starting in Leadville at the corner of 6th and Harrison, down the Boulevard, around Turquoise Lake, up and over Sugarloaf, through the dreaded road section, and then finally finishing with nine rolling miles of buttery singletrack into Twin Lakes. It's a fast 40 miles of running to be sure, with only about 3000' of vertical spread over two semi-significant climbs.

Prior to this past weekend I hadn't run over four hours since a double-crossing of the Grand Canyon way back in November, so I didn't have a lot of confidence in going this far. Nevertheless, in the past, I've been a bit slow and maybe too relaxed on the run down to Mayqueen during the race, so on Saturday I decided to experiment a bit with a marginally faster initial pace.

A run like this assumes a very specific, goal-oriented nature. If this particular route weren't that of a race, I would never run it. It's simply too uninteresting, and quite frankly, includes too much road (especially when there's a perfectly good singletrack trail that would get you to the same place; alas, it resides in the Mt. Massive Wilderness Area, where organized races aren't typically allowed) and not enough hills. Yet, I have goals, and am willing and curious enough to occassionally sacrifice a little aesthetic appeal and running pleasure to satisfy such priorities.

The day went well with me covering the Leadville to Twin Lakes portion of the LT100 in 5:06. I may have been running off a little angst about not running in California that morning (nothing but complete respect and admiration for my buddy Hal, however). Life became difficult in the expected spots (long, monotonous sections of smooth road), but I was reminded of quite possibly the number one rule of ultrarunning: it doesn't always keep getting worse. One hundred mile runs, and even a forty mile run, are so long that the body tends to go through multiple peaks and valleys of energy and metabolism. The mind's will ebbs and flows. One's legs can ache irritatingly and seemingly without reason, and then be completely rejuvenated by sometimes the most confounding of stimuli (a precipitously steep uphill? a handful of salt? what kind of world is this that I live in?).

But this is (part of) the beauty of the endeavor. If I simply persevere, it is likely that something satisfying will occur. That "thing" may only be a mere finish of the ordeal--the run, the race, the climb--but when that run or race continues for hours upon hours upon miles, or that climb extends for thousands of vertical feet, merely finishing takes on a much greater depth of meaning.

Of course, for some of us, we like to operate with the hubris that "just finishing" is no longer such a big deal and that "finishing this thing as fast as possible" is a worthy objective. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I do know that striving to "finish as fast as possible" takes me much, much closer to flirting with that fringe-laden edge where life can either quite quickly go to shit or propel you into an indescribably satisfying blaze of achievement, personal transcendence.

And so Saturday went. I scooted surprisingly effortlessly down the final hill into Twin Lakes, a hill I had not run for two years--not since my participation in the 2007 Leadville Trail 100--punched my watch at the aid station garage, sat down in the shade, peeled my filthy shoes off, and reveled in the glow of a distance well run. For sure, I could not have run another 60 miles at a similar intensity, but it was a satisfying confidence-builder nonetheless.

Sunday's run was essentially the antithesis of Saturday's. Hope Pass is at once terrifying and inspiring. It sits there at the mid-point of the Leadville 100, waiting to be scaled not once but twice, precisely when things are just typically starting to get a little bit above-average tough--due to the accreted mileage--anyways. So, running that pass twice is a good thing to rehearse. Additonally, it is gorgeous. The 12,600' pass enjoys grand views of numerous 14,000' peaks and boasts extremely well-constructed--but still steep--trail nearly the entire way.

On Sunday, I was happy to be running with tired legs. Saturday's forty miler would give Sunday's Hope Double-Crossing a more authentic tinge of tightness, soreness, and fatigue as to what could be expected in the actual event. The first 3400' climb went well. Maybe better than it has ever gone before. My diligent scaling of the area's 14ers seemed to have been paying off and I trotted up and over the alpine summit with unexpected ease.

(Coming into the ~12k' meadow on the north side of Hope; LT100 '07)

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The descent down the other side never ceases to shock me. Every year, my first run down the south side of Hope Pass almost always disheartens me. The bottom half is steep. It pounds the shit out of my quads. And the entire time you know that you just have to turn around--after visiting Winfield--and grunt back up the thing.

Which, of course, is exactly what I did. However, somewhere in the pounding descent, a gel--100 calories of life-giving sugar--managed to shake itself loose from my shorts pocket, leaving me to fend for myself among the rocks and roots and leaves. What, oh what, was I going to do without my sugar? Bonk, that's what. I started the second, 2800' (in 2.5 miles) climb with optimism: the first climb had gone well, why shouldn't this one? I thought for sure my snail's pace ascent would allow me to re-locate my errant Tri-Berry Gu foil packet amongst it's exceedingly more organic surroundings and I would just get the opportunity to slurp it down anyways. Finally, I knew I should complete the climb before three hours of running was up--my usual longest gel-less run length.

Some marmot must've happened upon a tasty breakfast. I did not spot the gel, and I suffered. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. But it did bring into stark relief the absurdity that ultrarunning can bring out in life. How can a packet of Gu become so important? The trickle of a spring? The relief of some shade? I was happily skittering giddily along that fringed edge.

Ultimately, the final climb of the day did not suffer too badly. I climbed as quickly as I ever have during a double crossing and the descent down the gentler northern side was enjoyed. The shallowness of one's energy reserves are not as easily exploited when gravity is on your team and not the opposing's.

Afterwards, in the positively raging Lake Creek, I sat, braced against the snowmelt rush. The hot, high-altitude sun on my upper body could not stave off the goose-bumps brought on by the swirling water. Chafing under my arms smarted. From whence my fitness has come I am still not sure.

Mt. Elbert

The public radio station (91.7FM, out of...Golden? Maybe?) is broadcasting the fantastic music program, World Cafe. Wisconisin band Bon Iver's excellent track Skinny Love strums through the speakers. I sit and read about the revolution occurring in Iran. I try to imagine what it would be like to live in a society where the government gets away with killing protesters. Relatively, running to the top of a mountain doesn't seem so important.

And yet, that is what I do the next morning. Mt. Elbert beckons. The highest point in the state at 14,440', and only 65 feet below California's Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the contiguous U.S. As a geologist, I wish I had a more coherent--or any, actually--explanation for why so many mountains fall within in the seemingly arbitrary 14000-14,500' range. Something to do with weathering and age of orogeny I'm sure.

As a result of this distinction, the Elbert trails are well-traveled, even mid-week. I pass my first hikers well before treeline, but they certainly aren't the last. I fight the desire to feel so possessive of the mountain, as if I should have it all to myself. There is nothing special about me or my chosen activity for this trail, and yet, this default selfishness is hard to fight past in my mind. I harbor a low-level dread for the customary, trivial interactions that I am forced to engage in upon meeting/passing each hiker.

Part of this, I suppose, has to do with the relationship I have with running in the mountains. I am not likely to be mistaken for a religous person, but upon reflection--while awash in a post-run glow, maybe lying beside a rushing mountain stream--running up a mountain takes on a meaning of almost sacred dimensions. The mountains are where I worship, where I honor and experience whatever greater oneness or connectedness there is in the world. As a result, disruptions can be...just that. Plus, there ain't a lot of extra air to waste with talking.

Above tree-line, the switchbacks seem to take on a predictable rhthym: I turn to my right and am greeted with steepness, a slight overdraft on my account of available energy and general muscular responsiveness; I turn to my left and the trail is discernibly flatter, my stride subtly lengthens and I am allowed a slight recovery.

At about 12,700', the trail flattens considerably in preparation for skirting a formerly glacial cirque, the headwaters of Box Creek. From my current vantage point, the top of this cirque erroneously appears to be the top of the mountain--the first of many false summits on this peak. The flat section reminds me of a stretch of the South Kaibab Trail on the Skeleton Ridge of the Grand Canyon in that it offers a brief respite at approximately the half-way point of a consummately arduous ascent, and then proceeds to climb even more steeply. Mt. Elbert is conspicuously without oppressive heat, ankle-deep red dust, and mules, however.

(Flat trail leading to the steep climb past the cirque, to a false summit.)

The summit cone of Elbert is still mostly covered in snow, but previous footprints afford a convenient if inconsistent staircase of sorts to the top. After much effort and multiple wellings of false hope, I am finally there: the highest point in Colorado, the apex of the morning's run, the cessation of significant effort. But, someone forgot to tell me about the party. The top of the mountain is veritably crawling with people. Nearly a dozen or so folks from Wichita alone. A portly fellow sporting an enormous backpack, full ear-coverage noise-canceling headphones, and a t-shirt with a "Polska" insignia. Can I take his picture? Sure, why not.

Again with the selfishness. Am I really that bad of a person? I guess so. It doesn't help that I--wearing only shoes, shorts, and a watch, with a 3 oz. jacket stashed in my waistband--am so obviously different from every other person up there. But so it goes. The morning is stunning in its beauty. The sky is indescribably blue. Royal blue. Like the blue you would paint a house. There is not a hint of haze. And eventually the crowd leaves, disperses, descends.

And eventually I do to, after a few moments alone. On the descent it occurs to me that running up a mountain could be seen, in its own way, as an act of protest. A temporary flinging aside of all the things that constantly clamor for our attention. An outrageous confirmation of agency in a world where we can often feel a little lost in the shuffle. At its core, for me it is the most authentic expression of personal freedom I can conceive. And, if nothing else, it is selfish. But, for now, I am okay with that.

Kokomo Pass and Area Peaks

Sometimes you must wait. I had planned on doing this run on the Colorado Trail on Saturday, but when I awoke the day was cloudy and dark even though the sun should've already been making it's daily arc across the sky. Low clouds, heavy with moisture, scooted past the surrounding peaks. I anticipated thunderstorms and lightning, which is never a fun thing above tree-line, so instead opted for a comparatively tame thirty miles on the Leadville 100 course around Turquoise Lake and up and over Sugarloaf Pass. Shortly after my run it began raining and didn't stop until the sun went down. I had made a good decision.

Sunday morning started in much the same way, however. When I awoke to rain tapping lightly on The Roost's roof I merely grunted and rolled over, taking refuge beneath a thick layer of goose-down. Thirty minutes later, I gave up sleeping and resorted to reading; waiting, waiting for the rain to stop. Of course, it eventually did.

The Colorado Trail between Camp Hale and Copper Mountain Resort has two 12,000' high points, Kokomo and Searle Passes. I eyed this section of trail on the map mostly because it promised a substantial amount of time above tree-line and because of its proximity to Leadville. Plus, a double-crossing of a mountain range between two highways (Highways 24 and 91) sounded neat.

I made quick work of the 2700' climb to 12,022' Kokomo Pass. Whenever I am on the Colorado Trail my mind inevitably wanders to the prospect of running the entire length in one go. My friends Hal and Ian had run a then-record effort of nine days or so back in 2003, and I tried to imagine what it must've been like to toil up a pass such as this with so many miles behind you and so many more lying ahead. Daunting, I would guess.

(Looking towards the northern Sawatch, from Kokomo Pass)

At Kokomo, the trail traverses the northeast-facing side of Elk Ridge, contouring at 12,000'. This is where the snow began. Colorado's unseasonably wet and cool spring has delayed melting in the high country, and the portion of the CT between Kokomo and Searle Pass was no exception.

No matter. One of my favorite things about running is its versatile nature, its infinite adaptability. Before mechanized travel and the domestication of beasts the best way to get around quickly was on one's own two feet at a steady, sustainable aerobic pace. Our own soles were the first--and are still the best, in my opinion--all-terrain vehicle.

By sticking to the grassy tundra of the high ridges and peaks in the area--12,000 to 12,600'--I was able to stay clear of any significant snow and enjoy the unfettered freedom of true cross-country running. Additionally, I was afforded the luxury of unparalleled views of Mount of the Holy Cross and the Mosquito and Ten-Mile Ranges.

In high school and college "cross-country" had meant relatively flat and fast anaerobic sufferfests of 5K or 8K in length, typically over an outrageously manicured and watered, golf-course grass surface. Conversely, cross-country running on the alpine tundra of Colorado hews a bit closer to the phrase's literal meaning: I'm standing "here" and I'm going to run across that majestic landscape to "over there" and maybe come back. I much prefer the latter.

As a result of my off-trail exploits, I was granted the view from many lesser summits in the 12,400-12,600' range: Corbett Peak, Sheep Mountain, and North and East Sheep Mountains. Despite the snow, it was still an idyllic day with almost 2hrs of above-treeline time followed by a requisite dip in the Eagle River. And I now know that waiting for this particular section of trail to fully melt out will be worth it.

Mt. Antero and Boulder Peaks

The past two days have granted me the fortune of many a summit view. I am often queried by folks for advice regarding running training, usually for ultramarathons, and I almost always feel somewhat sheepish in my response. I know that people are merely interested in what, empirically, has worked for at least one individual to achieve a certain measure of success in a discipline that they themselves are interested in maximizing their respective potentials, but I'm always afraid that people will feel a bit miffed when they hear my seemingly overly-simple approach.

When I left the frustrations of my collegiate running and racing career behind, I resolved to follow a much more intuitive, mountain/trail-based, often excessive, typically fueled-by-joy, approach to my running that doesn't easily lend itself to the logic and rationality of more typical running performance programs.

So, my advice is typically: think of what inspires you and use that to fuel your running. I happen to be pretty intensely inspired by mountains, so as a result of doing it consistently, and doing it with joy, over the course of a season I tend to improve at the singular skill of running up and down mountains. Which is typically what trail ultramarathons ask us to do. So that is what I do in my training. I run up and down mountains. Not coincidentally, I enjoy it. To a certain degree, I believe in doing the things that make me happy. (I'm not entirely prepared for an in-depth discussion of the finer points of John Stuart Mills' theory of Utilitarianism, so I'll just leave it at that.)

This week has seen me run up and down a lot of mountains.

On Wednesday I needed to be in Boulder for a meeting regarding my graduate research, so I planned for an early morning of running up mountains before my 9:30am appointment. Boulder's western skyline is dominated by the uniquely slicing profiles of the Flatiron peaks, three in particular: Green Mountain, Bear Peak, and South Boulder Peak, all of which top out somewhere between approximately 8100' and 8500'.

(Flatirons of Boulder, CO)

I've run Bear and Green a few times before, but there seemed to be a certain pleasing symmetry or aesthetic to summiting all three in the course of a single run. Additionally, I wanted a full tour of what will soon become my backyard, home ascents. However, after 2:20 minutes of running, and a total of four summits (Bear twice), I knew that I'd be attempting the next day's run with an unadvised level of residual fatigue.

(Mt. Antero, 14,269')

On Wednesday evening, my buddy Alex and I sat on the tail gate of my S-10 pickup with its convenient, hinged loft and fiberglass cap--my cozy living quarters of The Roost--and ingested our respective dinners. I chowed on PB&J after PB&J while Alex drank cold soup from the can. Deep in the valley carved by Chalk Creek, Mt. Antero and Mt. Princeton looked down on us from either side. The occasional mosquito buzzed. We discussed the possibility of giardia in Baldwin Creek. I contemplated a third PB&J.

Suddenly, a beat-up red Jeep Wrangler came bombing down the rough Mt. Antero road at an alarming rate. The vehicle rolled to a stop at our roadside pull-out and bobbed ominously. Alex commented on the clearly broken front left shock.

The driver leapt from his seat with a swagger as if the endless jouncing of his downhill ride had affected his inner ear. It probably had. With his stringy hair in a ponytail, John Lennon glasses, a Lebowski goatee, and dust-covered clothes, this man was a sight.

"You fellas headed up the hill tomorrow?"

"Yup." I'd decided on the third sandwich and was in mid-construction.

"What for?"

A worthy question, but a bit strange coming from another human being that had clearly just been somewhere up on that hill. Indeed, why were Alex and I going to run up that hill tomorrow morning?

"To see the view." The smart-ass in me takes over sometimes.

"A lot folks go up there for a lot of different reasons. I've got a claim up there with aquamarine in it. I'll give you guys something with zero agenda and expecting nothing in return."

With that he reached into the pockets of his filthy jeans and pulled out two of the tiniest crystals of somewhat bluish-colored, quartz-looking material. Neat. He happily roared away in his Jeep that was visibly listing to the left.

The next morning, we enjoyed precisely 19 seconds of flat warm-up before leaning into the 8 1/2 mile hill that lay before us and getting to work. Antero features an excellent mining/jeep road for 7 1/2 miles of the climb. At 13,700' the road ends on a flat shoulder where the aquamarine can be found. Alex commented on how the surrounding mountains looked like the Alps. A certain amount of snow is decidedly aesthetically pleasing.

(Final switchbacks leading to the 13,700' shoulder.)

A certain amount of wind is not. For the last mile of the climb, our existence became that of merely surviving the wind. Fighting, defying, pleading with the wind. The trail climbed straight up a steep talus ridge for the last 500' of vertical and on this we entered that world where emotional objectivity disappears and only the screaming, unflinching, uncaring wail of the cosmos can be heard. It could be terrifying if one lets it.

And then, as if we'd entered the eye of a hurricane, the very pinnacle of the mountain was an incredible, eery refuge from the battle being waged immediately below. Alex and I sat at the summit, amazed. Sitting on the summit of a 14,000' mountain in central Colorado is like standing on a bluff on the California coast and staring west into the incomprehensible vastness of the Pacific Ocean. The immensity of the void, the sheer scale of the landscape, the unquantifiable nature of what you are viewing, is, most of all, humbling. I am nothing. These mountains simply don't care. Despite all usual evidence to the contrary, I am clearly not the center of the universe.

But then the Canadians we'd passed on the way up huff their way to the summit, the spell is broken, and it is time to go. Alex and I step not three feet below the peak and the raging hurricane returns. The next 10 minutes are, upon reflection, comically hair-raising with the wind trying with all its might to send us spiraling into the great beyond, but soon enough we are back down to the road, have once again shed our shirts, and tuck into the glorious descent with the giddy glee that can only be induced by having just touched the top of a mountain. It never gets old.

(A view of the descent.)

Mt. Massive

(Was a mountain ever more appropriately named?)

Running up a big mountain is dramatic on so many levels. But, Mt. Massive sneaks up on you. The drama is given a chance to build gradually, first climbing easily out of the creek valley, then striding oh-so-comfortably contouring through the trees with the morning sunlight filtering through to occasionally warm my numb hands, and then the trail turns upward and I'm out of the trees and on the tundra and holy shit, THAT is a mountain, until suddenly there I am toiling up an impossibly steep slope, stubbornly refusing to give into the storm raging inside my skull, the world seems to be screaming so loudly that eventually it drowns out even the internal voices imploring me to walk, stop, sit, repose, rest.

Like I said, dramatic. If one could simply summon the presence of mind to objectively look at the situation, the absurdity and general calm would be obvious. However, stuck in my head, in my situational psychic reality, it feels as if the world is falling to pieces around my ears. A pleasant breeze is elevated to the level of howling gale, every simple rock step-up becomes a nearly insurmountable obstacle. If only the trail were always as consistently smooth and forgiving as this short stretch of sublime alpine singletrack I could emotionally bear the thought of continuing my cadence all the way to the summit. But it's not, it quickly turns back into the rock-strewn, ice-encrusted rut that is the norm.

But therein lies the beauty of grinding inexorably up a mountain face. Eventually, thought is forced to cease existence. It can no longer be born. It is the only way I can cope. I somehow even forget that I want to walk. Don't look up, don't look at the summit--for chrissakes don't look at the summit!--it's simply too soul-crushing to contemplate the objective, the final reprieve, whilst laboring at what feels to be the absolute zenith of effort. At what cannot possibly be a sustainable effort. But, of course, by turning off one's goal-oriented brain, it becomes sustainable.

Why? Because, all I really have to do is take one more calculated, perfectly-placed, as-efficient-as-possible footstep. Certainly I can take one more step? Of course, and, little by little, the ground is covered, the delta elevation is scaled, the absolute presence is experienced. Nothing else even exists but the here and now of inching my way up this goddamn mountain. And that, my friends (a phrase I will never look at the same way again, courtesy of John McCain), is an indescribably beautiful, important thing. It is living. In the end, it's all there really is.

And, thankfully, running (uphill, without much oxygen, it seems usually) is the one thing I've been fortunate enough in this life to find that reliably transports me to that psychic/emotional space of living, relentless, rife with effort (suffering?), but somehow, unexplainably fulfilled. Filled with life.

And then I get to the top. And my organism can't even express how ecstatic it is to be asked to do nothing else but BREATHE. Enormous, gulping, body-consuming breaths that each originate somewhere deep in my thorax, my spine, my soul. Hands on knees, elbows locked, praying to the decomposed granite between the toes of my shoes, I sway slightly, dizzily, in the ubiquitous mountaintop wind and, not so much inhale but consume the delicious, sweet, chilled air.

Finally, gradually again, on the downhill, making my way back into the valley carved by Halfmoon Creek between Mt. Massive and Mt. Elbert, I re-enter the world where the mind wanders, thinking of other things than the task at hand, deftly stepping over roots and rocks, so unconsciously engrossed in something else that I forget to stop and drink from the spring that saturates the trail just after Willow Creek. But, that's okay, because for at least the next 24 hours, my psyche will be nourished by the fact that--for at least some, nontrivial amount of time--I was there, I was in it--life--and nowhere else.

Leadville

(14,421' Mt. Massive watching over the town of Leadville)

This morning, on my jaunt down to Turquoise Lake, I noticed that the leaves on the aspen trees lining The Boulevard have only just reached a stage that could be considered anything beyond merely "budding". It is mid-June. Down on the Front Range, or in my home state of Nebraska, temps have typically moved on to the consistent 90F range by now, and the fact that it feels like summer is generally without dispute. Not in Leadville, at 10,152'.

(Mt. Massive as seen from the shores of Turquoise Lake)

It rained here briefly yesterday evening, as I was snugly burrowed into my sleeping bag, nose in a book (David Foster Wallace's mammoth opus, Infinite Jest), dry, courtesy of the fiberglass shell a foot above my head. I thought nothing of the quick (but shockingly violent, as most high mountain weather cells are) shower, but as I strided comfortably shirtless down my narrow dirt path this morning I was mildly surprised to see a fresh dusting of snow above tree-line on the Sawatch and Mosquito Ranges, shimmering in the morning sun.

The gently undulating profile and soft, decomposed pine needle padding of the trail on the shores of Turquoise Lake provided my legs with a welcome respite from the more rugged surfaces and arduous grades that I've pursued this week.

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(Sugarloaf Pass, 11,200': mile 20, LT100 '06)

On Mount Princeton, Bald Eagle Mountain (reached by ascending the Leadville 100's famed Powerlines climb to Sugarloaf Pass), and Prospect Mountain earlier in the week I'd begun the process of acclimating my legs and chest to the rigors of running extended up- and downhills without the aid of more standard amounts of barometric pressure to force the oxygen into my lungs.

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(Padding around Turquoise Lake, mile 94, LT100 '06)

I remember a camping trip that my family took to the Canadian Rockies in 1995, my first summer of running. Doing loops around the campgrounds in the evenings, I couldn't figure out why I was never able to achieve the same feelings of relaxation and comfort that I could while running at home in Nebraska. It wasn't until later that I learned of the effects of altitude on aerobic performance. Nevertheless, it was trips like that--hiking to alpine, glacial lakes, sitting around campfires at night--that unconsciously provided the impetus for me to permanently gravitate towards the higher elevations as an adult.

Of all the towns that I've been to, in my mind Leadville's geography is only rivaled by Silverton or Ouray in it's ability to provide inspiration and instant access to the contiguous U.S.'s highest mountains. And I would argue that Leadville has the single best 360 degree skyline with the towering Sawatch Range to the west, the Continental Divide wrapping around to the north, and the 13-14,000' ridge of the Mosquito Range directly to the east. Leadville sits so high, and the peaks of the two highest mountains in Colorado--Elbert and Massive--are so imposing, that it's easy to forget that the bump of Mt. Sherman right behind town crests 14,000' as well. I am grateful to be here.

Creede

Mountain stream water is not supposed to be orange. Yet, the water flowing out of the Commodore Mine’s Nelson Tunnel portal and into West Willow Creek (which, in turn empties into the mighty Rio Grande about a mile and a half later) about one mile north and upstream from Creede, CO makes the adjective “rusty” seem quaint. “Intriguing”, “repulsive”, and “toxic” seem more appropriate.

As a runner whose preferred environment is the alpine landscapes of Colorado, I have been an unfortunate witness to innumerable examples of this type of water due to Colorado’s rich mining history. Most of my favorite launching pads for trail runs in this state—Leadville, Aspen, Silverton, Ouray—began as mining boom towns where environmental concerns (The mountains are so big! We could never permanently mess them up!) couldn’t be bothered with when there was so much money to make.

As a result, waste rock from mines was piled where ever was most convenient and watershed hydrology was never even considered. In the case of the Commodore Mine in Creede—as with all kinds of mines all over the Mountain West—thousands upon thousands of cubic yards of waste material was dumped directly into West Willow Creek where exposure to air and water oxidizes the iron pyrite (FeS2) and other sulfides in the ore resulting in extremely acidic creek water (typically a pH of 3 or 4) that in turn sends the heavy metals in the waste rock (all sorts of frightening stuff: zinc, lead, copper, cadmium, manganese, even arsenic) into solution where it then flows downstream and typically disallows the existence of any kind of significant organic life. Vegetation and fish cease to exist. The water is clearly unfit for human consumption. It can’t even be used to irrigate crops as it kills the crops and/or collects in them in unhealthy levels. Fun stuff.

This sort of blowback from Colorado’s mining heritage makes mining easy to hate. However, the fact is, mining is an integral part of human history in the state, and most towns’ historical identities revolve around it. This cannot easily be ignored or trivialized. Nevertheless, it also doesn’t do anything about the ongoing ecological disasters that continue to occur across the state.

Now, as part of my becoming a graduate student at the University of Colorado in Boulder, I will be spending the next two years learning a lot and ultimately contributing to the reclamation of Creede’s Commodore Mine by parsing out the finer details of the hydrology of the West Willow Creek watershed and ultimately of the Commodore Mine itself. The goal is to come up with a sustainable, workable solution to stopping the flow of acidic water out of the mine and into the creek.

Creede, like many Colorado mining towns, is a visually stunning place. The region’s extensive historical volcanic activity has resulted in a landscape of towering volcanic tuff cliffs that are several hundred feet tall, idyllic aspen-covered mountains, and roiling mountain streams that is all located at the foot of the impossibly high reaches of the snow-capped Continental Divide a few miles out of town.

The mountain running is outstanding. The town itself sits at 8800’ on the banks of the Rio Grande River. The single track Wason trail is available one block off of Main Street and climbs immediately into the surrounding mountains. Within 1h15 I was above treeline in Wason Park—a strange, perfectly flat tundra plateau at 11,800’—and marveling at the cloud-enshrouded reaches of La Garita Peak (13,707') and the Continental Divide directly in front of me as a herd of a dozen elk galloped away from me across the massive meadow.

Additonally, Creede--for an old mining town--has a pretty vibrant tourism industry. Although only about 300 people live there, the town maintains a downtown/Main Street with varied shops and classic, old Victorian buildings and there is even a fair bit of culture. There are a number of art galleries, but the main draw is the historic Creede Repertory Theatre. I look forward to going back.

My participation in this project is not an accident. It is all motivated by my deep connection and appreciation for the mountains that I am privileged enough to run in on a daily basis, and I expect that working to improve the health of those mountain’s watersheds—all while learning, respecting, and preserving the cultural history endemic to the region—will be as fulfilling an activity as actually running through them.

47340

I started running 14 years ago. I was mostly just an 11 year old kid who wanted to do well at the Presidential Physical Fitness Test's 1 mile run because I had been the fastest kid in my class the previous year when I clocked a smoking 6:29 (my 6th grade class had 12 students or so; Niobrara Public Elementary School is not large). So, some time in February of 1995 I started running 1 mile per day to prepare for the P.E. class test some time in March. I ended up running 6:08. By my 12th birthday later that summer, I'd lowered that to a 5:32.

(Start of the Lake Okoboji Marathon near Spirit Lake, IA; July 19, 1996. I'm the tiny person in the blue singlet near the back.)

(Finishing my first marathon in 3:50:11, age 12, a year and a half after I'd started running.)

Because I had already consumed enough 70s-era running literature gleaned from the local Goodwills and second-hand bookstores, I began keeping a training log on April 12, 1995. It was in a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook, the cover on which I soon glued a photocopied picture (see below) of Roger Bannister at the anguished moment of him breaking the finishing string of history's first sub-4minute mile.

Anyways, the point of this post is that this past weekend marked 14 years of recorded running for me. So, after going back through all my logs, I came up with a lifetime total of 47340 miles for those first 14 years. Divide that number by 5113 days and the result is a mathematical average of 9.26 miles per day. For 14 years. I'll take it.

As an aside, it just occurred to me that I am now roughly 2662 miles away from 50,000 lifetime miles, which seems like a nice round number. If I average 166 miles per week for the next 15 weeks or so, I should eclipse that milestone directly on my 26th birthday on August 2nd. We'll see.

Week Summary: April 6-12

Mon-am: 2:20 Stratton Open Space. 1000' vertical
pm: :44 barefoot
Tue-am: 2:34 Barr Camp. 4000' vertical
pm: :33 barefoot
Wed-am: 2:46 Jones Park/Loud's Cabin. 3300' vertical
pm: :41 barefoot
Thu-am: 2:41 Mt. Buckhorn-Gold Camp-Stratton. 2300' vertical
pm: :42 barefoot
Fri-1:38 Railroad Tracks & barefoot
Sat-5:10 Section 16-Intemann-Rampart Range Road Overlook-Waldo-UPT. 6000' vertical.
Sun-4:26 Jones Park-7 Bridges-Buckhorn-Dog Rock-Crystal Park Road. 5500' vertical.
Total: 24hr15min, ~170 miles, 21,000 vertical

This was a pretty good week. I really felt "on point" for the Sunday run where all the climbs (a 3000' climb, a 1000' climb, and a 1500' climb) felt really solid, despite the snow. I also got in a good amount of barefoot this week, which I was hoping for.

The Sunday run was out of control. I started the run at 6:30am when it was ~40F with low clouds. However, within 30 minutes it was sleeting, and that soon turned into enormous, floppy, wet flakes that were quickly accumulating until I was running through anywhere from 6-12" of the white stuff. This was fine until I became completely soaked through by precipitation that seemed to be half-snow/half-rain (typical springtime crap) that was just dumping out of the sky, and I was confronted with a 2500' six mile descent that didn't allow me to maintain a whole lot of body heat. The last three miles or so running through the streets back to my house found me plowing through ankle-deep slush/water and getting repeatedly sprayed by passing cars. Fun fun. I nearly got in the shower with my shoes still on because the lack of function in my fingers wouldn't allow me to untie the laces.

It was actually great fun, and I was summarily heartened by the iconic passage from Thoreau's Walden that I heard on NPR upon exiting the shower: "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately." I'll spare you the rest of the marrow-suckingness in the passage that has almost become cliche, but suffice it to say that, if nothing else, during my run on Sunday morning I was certainly living deliberately and I emerged from it once again awakened and with my soul wide open. I have no other reason than that to do a run like that.

I can only imagine/assume Thom Yorke gains a similar feeling from composing and performing music like this:

Bear Creek Canyon: A Lesser-Known Gem

Today I ran from my doorstep (always my number one preference) to the Bear Creek Canyon area here in southwestern Colorado Springs. The start of the true uphill (read: mountains) is only 2 miles away, and the singletrack starts only 3 miles away. I actually prefer this because I usually spend the first 20-30 minutes of a run moving slowly and awkwardly as the sleep and stiffness leaves my bones.

The main reason I've been biking to Manitou for the past week or so is because Barr Trail offers a highly-trafficked route into higher altitudes when there is abundant (un-packed) snow on most other trails. With the last few days of warm weather, though, that is no longer the case, and today I was excited to get back to my more favored stomping grounds of the next-major-drainage-to-the-south-of-Ruxton/Englemann: Bear Creek.

Today I took 666, the most direct ascending trail route in the area (also known somewhat affectionately as Balls-to-the-Wall and/0r El Diablo among Colorado College XC alums because of the 2000' of gain in three miles that kicks off the climb). This beautiful little singletrack ascends quickly along the southern (north-facing) wall of Bear Creek Canyon until it crosses over at about 8500' and flattens slightly over the next 1.5 miles where it deposits a runner in a beautiful opening in the valley at 9100', Jones Park. The trail passes waterfalls. It has inspiring views back out to the city. It offers several springs from which to drink. It is home to several groves of aspen. I love it.

There are two things I love about running to Jones Park: 1) I very rarely see anyone. 2) Even though it is at 9100' (and only 8 miles from my doorstep), the network of trails up there has only begun and within another 5-10 miles of running I can be as high as 12,300'. I understand that Pikes Peak's Barr Trail has all the history and fame--and this certain race that is contested on it every August--but for me it's hardly worth it to run over there regularly in the summertime because of the literal crowds that are on the trail. Granted, it is badass to run to the top of a 14,000+' mountain. But, most of the time, a 12,300' mountain or two (Almagre and Baldy) and 11,500' Rosa will do for me. I look forward to getting back there consistently in the coming weeks and months.

And, finally, a little sumin' sumin' to keep the foot tapping:

Barr Camp: Accumulated Fatigue

Today was a tough run. The weather was gorgeous; I ran shirtless the entire way, even at 10,200', but my legs just didn't have anything and I could pretty much tell it from the first step. This is to be expected. I'm about 10 days into a fairly significant step up in terms of training volume, and the back-to-back runs this weekend were definitely still in my legs. However, as much as a run like today's can be a drag, I see it as a sign that my body is preparing for a new level of fitness. As long as the stress isn't increased, maybe even slightly backed off, the body will recover, adapt, and come back even stronger. So, today I just tried to settle in and never push too hard knowing that is the best thing for the next day.

A run like today's is most beneficial mentally, I believe. I did not want to run up a 4000' hill today. My body really didn't want to. But, this sort of effort is often what we ask of ourselves at the 70, 80, or 90 mile point of a 100 mile race (well, today's run actually wasn't nearly as painful as the 2nd half of a 100), and it helps me immeasurably to have rehearsed that sort of fatigue numerous times in training. The important thing is to monitor how I'm feeling the day after a particularly tough run because if that sort of fatigue lasts for more than a day or two, I know it's time to back off and make sure that I don't dig myself into a rut. However, the more common response from my body is that of renewed energy the day after a low-energy effort.

And ultimately, today was one of those pristine mornings in the mountains that one wishes happened every day. The wind was low, the sun was high and bright, and the trail is progressively more and more ice/snow-free every day. Luckily enough, these sorts of days happen an awful lot here in Colorado/Manitou Springs.

Week Summary: March 30--April 5

Mon-2:15 Garden-Red Rocks-Intemann-Bear Creek
Tue-2:30 Barr Camp. 4000' vertical
Wed-am: 2:30 Barr Camp. 4000' vertical
pm: 33min Monument
Thu-am: 2:36 Barr Camp. 4000' vertical
pm: 30min Monument
Fri-1:36 Monument and barefoot
Sat-4:25 Rampart Range Road to Williams to Waldo to Longs Ranch Road to Bob's Road to Barr and back home. ~6000' vertical
Sun-4:07 RRR Overlook to Waldo to Williams to RRR to Garden. ~5000' vertical.
Total: 21hrs, ~145 miles, 23,000' vertical

This was a nice solid first week of real training. I'm just hoping to stay consistent at this level for several weeks to come with the only real increase in volume to come from an (eventually, much) longer Saturday run and a few more barefoot miles in the evenings as the weather warms up and the grass is more inviting. A nice (and important, considering the nature of Western States' profile) bonus to doing a lot of vertical ascending is that my quads have to absorb all of that downhill, too.

Finally, the NB MT100 is proving to be an excellent shoe. I wore it for all of my mountain runs this week (so, everything but Monday/Friday), and it is outstanding on the varied terrain that Colorado Springs has to offer, especially the rocks. It may warrant a post all to itself sometime in the near future.

Barr Camp...again

I took yet another trip up to see Neal and Teresa today. The little mini-storm that pummeled me in my evening jaunt last night left the trail quite a bit slower on an otherwise brilliant morning. There was ~1" on the Ws, 2" at No Name, and five fresh inches at Barr Camp itself. However, the soft snow provided some tacky footing on the usually icy downhill, so I was able to open up the stride a little more than usual.

Some may question repeating the same run multiple days in a row, but for me it's all about consistency and doing something I enjoy. I don't get bored running the same trail, even when there are so many others to choose from. There's something comforting in the familiarity of a given run that usually makes it easier to endure (because, let's be serious, no matter how much I like running in the mountains, there are moments in a 4000' climb that are undeniably endured rather than, say, enjoyed).

But, for me, it can all be summed up in a quote from the pioneering mountaineer Willie Unsoeld (among other things, first ascent of Everest's West Ridge), brought to my attention by a good friend: "Life begins at 10,000 feet." That alone should be enough reason to run to Barr Camp as often as possible.

Barr Camp--New Month

I ran up to Barr again this morning. The 4000' of climbing on the way up went without undue stress, but once I got there I knew it was time to turn around and scamper back down the mountain: the air was starting to emit flakes, and the Peak had already disappeared behind a veil of swirling greyness. As a result, the run on the way down was a game of cat and mouse with the clouds catching up to me on the flatter, icier stretches above No Name and then me plummeting back down into sunshine once I hit the Ws. Great fun. I made it back to the house just as the spring snow squall took over the Westside for a few minutes. Springtime in the Rockies; can't be beat.

I realized today--after looking over my log for the past month--that I've actually not missed a day of running since Jocelyn's birthday (February 4th). I've had a weeklong stretch where I did little more than 40-60min jogs, but I still ran every day. When it comes to streaking, I tend to agree with Matt on this: streaking for streaking's sake is pretty dumb, especially when confronted with a serious overuse injury. But as a mind-game for promoting consistency, it does pretty well.

I leave you today with this epic little gem from freak-folk artist Devendra Banhart:

Barr Camp

I made it up to Barr Camp again this morning. I'm currently living a 10 minute or so bike ride from Memorial Park (where the Pikes Peak Marathon and Ascent starts), so I might spend more time on the Manitou trails than I have in the past. Down in the streets of Manitou the wind was enough to knock you over, but once I climbed up into Ruxton Canyon, the world went gloriously calm and balmy.

As I ran past the Cog, I said hello to Freddie or Eddie Baxter (they're twins) who was no doubt just finishing up his daily circuit of the Incline. Speaking of which, hiking the Incline may very soon become legal, as a result of a little quid pro quo betwixt the Colorado Springs Utilities and the Cog Railway. Read about it here.

I've never done the Incline as part of my training (maybe if I ever do Hardrock, I'll start), but I do recognize it as an incredible means of inspiring more people (all kinds of people, not just hard-core types; just check out the crowd on there some weekends) to get outside and use their bodies. I think it's that kind of activity that can hopefully help someone gain an appreciation for the land and the mountains that maybe they didn't have before.

Anyways, the conditions on the trail this morning were already vastly improved from Sunday morning. It was mostly dry on the Ws with only a few patches of dirty ice, and from there to No Name the trail was virtually completely dry. Of course, above No Name, things went south quickly with the "trail" becoming a rock-hard cowpath of ridiculously uneven frozen slush and snow. Screw shoes would've been prudent. Despite this, the jaunt to Barr was idyllic with the peak itself enshrouded in a cloud of swirling snow whipped up by the hurricane-force winds up there.

The run down was a nail-biting affair above No Name Creek with all of the ice, but below there the sunshine and my much improved purchase on the trail allowed my mind to wander to the lyrics of a Yeasayer song all the way back down to Manitou.

In what may become a regular method of spicing up this blog a little, below is an incredible spontaneous version of the song(s) in my head this morning out on the trail (feel free to skip ahead to the 1:30ish mark):


"Yeah, yeah, we can all grab at the chance to be handsome farmers!!" That's often exactly the sentiment I feel when I'm running in the mountains.

100

Pikes Peak, EIGHT THOUSAND feet of vertical.

This past week is the first one of the year in which I have logged 100 miles or more. Of course, there's nothing magical about rolling over into the triple-digits, but it does represent, to me, a level of healthiness and consistency in my running that usually indicates I'm on my way to engaging in some significant race preparation. Additionally, since I've only been running once a day, it means that my average daily run has eclipsed (ever-so-slightly) the 2 hour mark; again, this is just another rather arbitrary quantification, but it gets me excited about the upcoming season.

The past three months have been atypical for me in that I haven't launched head-long into maximal-level training at the first hint of complete health. Although I've been slightly dinged up over the past couple months, I've mostly just been--for maybe the first time ever--practicing an exceedingly gradual build-up in mileage/time in my training starting from (nearly) zero around the first of the year. Hopefully, such a prudent (rational? non-boneheaded?) approach will result in more consistent training/fitness for the year.

Not surprisingly, this new level of training has conincided with my return to what I'm increasingly beginning to think of as my "home state". Although my experience growing up in Nebraska will always remain the source of my most core values and life habits (and, hopefully, a permanent place to take refuge in relative isolation), I've spent most of the last 7 1/2 years in Colorado.

This past week I moved back to the Front Range once again for at least the next couple of years as I've accepted a place in the CU-Boulder Geography Department's Masters program, starting this Fall. I am extremely excited to begin the work of becoming a scientist once again, this time working on the acid mine contamination of the watershed at a Superfund site near Creede, CO. And clearly, living, working, and studying in Boulder will be a convenient place to continue with copious amounts of mountain running in the coming years.

The CU campus with Green Mountain looming in the background.

The past week has provided me with a fantastic refamiliarization with all of my beloved trails here in Colorado Springs. Yesterday I had a beautiful run with the Team CRUD folks up Crystal Park Road and down the Section 16 and Intemann trails. This run involved a 3000' climb, shindeep post-holing, downhill powder-floating, and brilliant Colorado sunshine.

Standing around at the top of the climb, ~9000'. Tara, Paul DeWitt, myself, Scott Jaime, and Rick Hessek. (Photo courtesy of Larry DeWitt)

I almost felt lucky to get to experience some real snow still this winter. Today was more of the same (but even warmer, with temps in the 50s) in a super-classic run up the Barr Trail to Barr Camp at 10,200' and back. I'll take dealing with a little snow any day to be treated with the alpine views and impossibly bright sun that Colorado has to offer.

There was a little more snow up there today than this picture shows!

Ostrich Peak

I ran up Ostrich Peak this morning, for the second time this week. Ostrich is a perfect example of the fantastic trail/mountain running opportunities that Ashland provides. I live literally 1 1/2 blocks from Ashland's downtown Plaza (yes, Ashland has a plaza; after spending time in the Southwest, I love it when a town has a pedestrian-ish area at its center a la Santa Fe), and the uphill begins less than 100 yards from my front doorstep. After 5 minutes of running, the route takes a right turn onto Strawberry Lane and this is where life gets strenuous. Strawberry climbs at a 20+% grade for a good quarter mile or so, and there's really not another stretch of truly flat trail until the summit of Ostrich at 4700', five miles and nearly 3000 vertical feet later.

The run up this morning was classic Ashland. In the pre-dawn darkness, town was enveloped in a cloud of thick fog, but within 300 vertical feet I was out of the fog and the temperature rose significantly, to 50+ degrees F. The route up Ostrich involves Hitt Road (really a single track trail) and then a turn onto the even steeper Mystical Trail. Here's shot of some typical tread up there (Photo Credit: drjeff).

The top of Ostrich--as with any climb--is the real treat. Now, in the middle of January, there were just a couple small patches of snow, and the view to the east is phenomenal. One can see past Grizzly Peak (6000', on the other side of Bear Creek) to the stunning conical profile of the snow-covered 9500' Mt. McLoughlin (it's much more imposing in real life than it appears in this photo). Additionally, some of the snow-covered pointy Cascades near the Crater Lake area are visible. (Photo Credit: drjeff)

Having a run like this right out my front doorstep (one of many possibilities, but the most imposing peak as seen from Main Street) makes me think of Scott Elliott and his "every day, lots of vertical" approach. I'm not going to be going for 100 summits in 100 days any time soon, but I do plan on getting up there 3-5 days every week.

2009

Prompted by an internet blogging "tag" to divulge my 2009 racing plans, I return to posting. Although I haven't done any recent racing, I did finish out the year with a couple of crewing roles for friends at races in the Bay Area. These events gave me a newfound appreciation that I hope to carry forward when people are crewing for me in the future. Furthermore, both Erik's and Kyle's performances were inspiring for the kind of racing I hope to be doing in the coming year.

I'm heading into 2009 with a thought to learning some lessons from my (lack of a real) 2008 racing season. Basically, I hope to focus on a few key races where I have a good, long, gradual build-up in training for each one instead of constantly always cramming trying to get in shape. Hopefully, with a few less miles and some smarter decisions on my part, I will be more consistently healthy. In 2008 I ran 5162 miles, which was only about a dozen miles less than the year before, but I was, yet again, almost completely out of running for four of the 12 months of the year. That has to change.

Because of the possibilities of injuries and other life circumstances, I've only 100% committed financially and mentally to one race so far this year: the Western States 100. Barring any natural disasters (and injury) that should be one heckuva fun day of racing. Plenty of prognostication has already occurred elsewhere on the Internets regarding that event, so I won't go much further than to say I will be completely focused on running as well as possible there this year.

Other semi-focus races I am considering are either the Leona Divide 50 or the Zane Grey 50 in April. The main determining factor there will be whether I will have moved back to Colorado by April or not. Running and working in Ashland is pretty hard to beat, especially this time of year when most of Colorado is suffering through snow and cold temperatures. Right now there is more than 3000' of snow-free, singletrack vertical out my front door (woodchip paths within about 2 minutes of jogging) and the daily highs are typically in the 40s or even 50s. However, I love Colorado and once the weather mellows out a bit there, I know I'll be itching to get back to the higher altitudes.

I would also love to return to the Leadville 100 again this year. I still feel that faster times are still waiting to be had there, and hopefully a return to Colorado for graduate school in the fall will make Leadville a logical race choice (assuming post-WS recovery goes well).

Other than that, I'm really just going to play it by ear. In the meantime, I'm going to keep enjoying all that southern Oregon has to offer.

GC R2R2R--The Full Story

First, sorry about being so late with this post--it's been a busy couple of weeks. This run was typically haphazard of me. The Grand Canyon really deserves more respect than I gave it. With a Double Crossing covering 42ish miles (South Kaibab-North Kaibab-South Kaibab) and somewhere between 11,000' and 12,000' of vertical, it shouldn't be taken lightly. I had completed it for the first time last spring--casually--while Kyle, Scott J, and I were spending a few weeks in Northern Arizona. During that run I had only taken six gels with me and had bonked pretty badly coming back up the Bright Angel trail at the end of the day. To the point that I begged a Clif Bar off of a hiker somewhere above Indian Gardens because I didn't feel like I was going to make it otherwise. One thinks I would've learned something from that. Apparently not.

This time around, I spent the week before the run getting very little sleep in the final Get-Out-The-Vote effort leading up to the election, but still ran enough to log 180 miles in the 7 days before my GC effort. Also, I elected to make the drive from Colorado Springs to the South Rim all in one day instead of breaking it up over two days. Driving 12 hours solo is mentally and physically draining (for me, at least), which is weird considering that I'm just sitting the entire time. Anyways, after pulling into Tusayan on the South Rim sometime well after 10pm, finding a nice spot on a forest service road and finally crawling into the Roost, I'd resolved to make my Double Crossing another casual effort; I just didn't want the added mental stress of trying to crank it out solo on little sleep.

I woke up at 6am Saturday morning, and--as anyone who knows me--took my typical dawdling time getting ready to the point that I actually didn't hit the trail until 7:43am. I had a Clif Bar for breakfast, filled my water bottles, packed what I thought would be a sufficient eight gels into my shorts pockets and bottle straps and slipped a couple Endurolytes in there too in case it got hot. The ~6 minute jog over to the Rim from the picnic area/parking lot was frigid. The sun wasn't high in the sky yet, I was wearing only a pair of shorts and a singlet, and my paws were both gripping two bottles of downright icy water. I couldn't feel my hands at the rim.

A funny thing happened when I hit the Start button on my watch, though; my legs just immediately took off. This is typically how it goes on test-piece runs for me: I can't help but give a little extra effort just to see how I measure up. Despite all of my mental waffling the night before, I knew within two strides that I would go for it today for as long as the legs would let me.

The run down South Kaibab was the usual dichotomy of ecstasy over the rising of the morning sun on the spectacular stratigraphy and frustration with the pure shit nature of that trail. Water bars suck. My legs felt decent enough--I never felt smooth really on that first downhill--and I was only slowed up by a minute or so from a couple of ascending mule trains. Also, the trail was maybe the most deserted I've seen it ever. It couldn't have been because of the weather, though. The temperature was perfect with crystal clear skies. I continually marvelled at the grandiosity and scale of the immense landscape. The Grand Canyon is a necessary annual pilgrimage for me--what a fantastic place.

I hit the bridge at the Colorado River just under 54 minutes. I felt good about that time. It was a couple minutes quicker than I expected, so I just hoped that I hadn't already trashed my quads; it didn't feel like it. I took the short cruise over to Phantom Ranch to get my running legs back under me (after all the downhill), and I ran right past the Canteen in 1:01.

The run from Phantom up Bright Angel Creek to Roaring Springs is my favorite section of trail on the entire Double Crossing. The Box is a very narrow canyon with perfect singletrack right next to the creek, and the grade of the trail is such that it climbs almost imperceptibly. On this portion of the trail I focused on getting into a very comfortable but quick rhythm, maintaining a high cadence, and conserving energy in everything I did. And also just enjoying the beauty of the morning. My effort was such that I felt like I was cruising right up and over all of the little rises in the trail. I hit my first gel somewhere a long in this stretch and ended up taking one every 30 minutes or so from there on, until I ran out of gels.

My confidence was bolstered when I hit Cottonwood Campground in 2:03. This meant I had run from Phantom in 1:02--a full six minutes faster for that section than when I did this run last spring. I was a bit worried that I was running too fast--last spring Kyle and I had decided that the pace we had run that day through that section would be sufficient for a record attempt, and I was six minutes faster than that. I decided not to worry and just make sure things felt comfortable.

The run over to the Pumphouse only took 15 minutes from Cottonwood. I completely drained one of my water bottles and stashed a full bottle beside the trail just before the bridge at the Pumphouse. I then took another 20 seconds are so to fill my empty bottle and began the real climb to the North Rim at 2:18.

I felt good on the climb. I was now running in the sun but it wasn't hot. The start of this climb always feels so much more effortless than I expect it to...what a great trail. However, after a couple of flatter sections, the trail really climbs steeply--with a lot of water bars again--until it finally descends a couple of switchbacks down to another bridge. I hit this bridge in 2:49 feeling good after consciously taking this first half of the climb easy.

However, above the bridge, things started to feel a bit rough. The switchbacks there are as steep as anything on the whole climb and I was getting a bit tired. Finally, the Supai Tunnel came into view (reached in 3:03) and I realized that I was probably going to have a serious cushion on my plans of reaching the turn-around in 3:30.

But, the next section sucked. I tried to keep the effort mellow and easy, but the trail had turned to deep dust/sand (as a result of a summer of mule trains pulverizing it) and I was feeling super inefficient. I even walked a few yards while sucking down a gel, and reaching the top of the climb seemed as interminable as ever. Finally, right at 3:30 I tagged the North Rim kiosk, turned around, and immediately began the long descent.

Within a couple minutes of descending I essentially mentally gave up on any sort of record attempt. I just felt cashed. My legs didn't have any real pep on the descent and I was having to force myself to push the downhill at anything other than casual cruise. Eventually, I just gave in and tried to stop caring, and, of course, this is when things started to feel a bit better and I decided I would just keep running and see what kind of time I hit. I really did not feel good on basically the whole descent back down to the Pumphouse, though.

When I did get to the Pumphouse (in 4:15), I quickly refilled my (drained) water bottle, skipped across the bridge, picked up my other water bottle (nice and cool from resting in the shade) and continued on my way down the trail. The now gradual downhill nature of the trail did a lot to make my legs feel better and I took another Endurolyte to stave off any cramps from the downhill.

I guess I pushed pretty hard on the rest of the run back down to Phantom Ranch. I passed Cottonwood in 4:25 and then felt moderately good after that; there was definitely a sense of "Ok, let's just try to hold this together for as long as possible" combined with a knowing reality of impending doom. I knew that last climb was going to be a monster no matter how I rationalized it. About 20-30 minutes out from Phantom, the whole exercise became a real chore.

However, I reached the canteen at Phantom in a still-not-bad 5:17, quickly refilled both bottles (and chugged a full bottle), and was back on my way. I wanted nothing more than to sit down and regroup for 10 minutes or so, but I was hoping I would find something miraculous on the climb and could still pull this thing out.

Of course, it was not to be. I hit my 8th and final gel right before crossing the bridge back to the south side of the Colorado River (5:26), gamely ran the first few yards of the climb, and then just settled into a hard hike. There wasn't much else to the rest of the "run". That is, I alternated between hiking and jogging the rest of the way, and even that was punctuated with a lot of really slow hiking and a couple episodes of hands-on-knees, staring-at-my-toes dizziness that I can only attribute to low calories and electrolytes. It was frustrating. I was surprised at how I was still able to run a fair amount of the flatter stuff, but my actual climbing ability at that point was just laughable.

One notable occurrence was a couple of enormous condors that seemed to dive-bomb me during one of my more delirious moments of uphill hiking--what magnificent creatures.

Finally, I drained both of my bottles, and out of pride I began running for good on the longish flat section before the final climb up "Jacob's Ladder" (damn those final switchbacks) and tagged the South Rim kiosk at 7:16:54. After a few minutes slumped against the kiosk itself, I got up and jogged the 3/4 of a mile back to the Roost, peeled off my dusty 790s, and was done.

Upon reflection, there are a few things for me to take away from this run:
1) Endurolytes are not S! Caps. They each only have 40mg of sodium, and that is not enough.
2) A true, race-type effort of the Double Crossing takes some serious calories. I need to use a small waist-pack next time (Nathan 5K or some such) and pack 15 gels or so. And 8-10 S! Caps. Speaking of race-type efforts, an R2R2R record attempt probably deserves an actual taper, too.
3) The Grand Canyon is absolutely astounding. A majestic landscape that never fails to enthrall, amaze, humble, and inspire me. It essentially makes me find my religion. And for that, a run there is never a waste.

The rest of the trip was a blast. The next day I did a great 100% singletrack 4 hour loop in the San Francisco Peaks of Flagstaff from 8000' to 12,000' (Weatherford Trail to Humphrey's to Kachina trail back to Schultz Pass) and on Monday I had a splendid run on the PCT/AC100 course from Inspiration Point to the top of Mt. Baden-Powell (9400') and back, just outside of Wrightwood, CA.

Grand Canyon Double Crossing

Just a quick note from here in Flagstaff. I did the classic R2R2R route (Kaibab Trail on both Rims) today completely solo in 7:16:54. I'd been bandying about the idea of going after Dave's year-old FKT of 6:59:56 for the past week, but with 180 miles in the 7 days before today and with 12 hours of solo driving yesterday I clearly wasn't thinking about it that seriously.

In any case, I gave it a solid effort today, but a lack of calories and electrolytes (not to mention long runs and just consistent running in general, having only been truly healthy for the past 5 weeks or so) did me in and I bonked in a big way coming back up South Kaibab. This is not unusual when one attempts this run. I'll post a more in-depth report of the run later.