We’ve been away from computer-enabled living for a few days, which means I’m using the word “week” in a rough sense. Since the last update, we’ve made our way around a large mountain, narrowly avoided sleeping in a homeless encampment, and made our way through some jaw-dropping sections of the Oregon/California coastline. Here’s the day-by-day:
July 7: Timberline Trail Day 1 (detailed at this post)
July 8: Timberline Trail Day 2. post-run, we got an amazing plate of vegetarian chili cheese fries at the ski lodge (and they loaded it up with goodies too, since it was closing time) and recouperated. Decided a shower and laundry would be nice so drove to a massive RV park, replete with all the amenities plus game room, sauna, indoor pool, etc (none of which we utilized, despite our mid-afternoon enthusiasm for them). Showered, napped, and then it started to pour, so we decided to head into town for a meal not cooked in the rain. Ended up at a nice albeit cheesy little restaurant full of eager and warm elderly staff reassuring us how nice their restaurant was. Beer was good, food was good, and it was dry. Slept soundly.
July 9: Headedinto Portland to hit up Goodwill for wedding duds and Starbucks for wifi and power. Skies started to dry out, fortunately, just in time for an incredible wedding. Robin and Erik chose a great venue in Pendarvis Farm, a quirky, folky farm, and we set up camp in the woods behind the barn along with other guests. After a sweet ceremony and some catching up with the wonderful Kate Erickson from my NYC days, we got down to dancing. Every guest we met was charming and the night was just straight fun. Slept soundly and woke up to a misty grey morning.
July 10: The day we almost lived in the Jungle, Oregon Coast edition. Had some bagels and coffee, chatted with Robin’s family and friends in the cook area, then headed out towards the Oregon Coast. It rained and rained and rained on the way out, really draining to drive in, but when we reached our destination, the sun broke out and stayed out. Wanted to camp in the parking lot at Sunset Bay State Park (which was beautiful!), but signs everywhere forbade it, and plenty of rangers about, so we tried for another area we’d seen just north at Bastendorff Beach.
See that gorgeous view? Perfect spot, right? Just as we’d gotten settled, I walked to the nearby bathrooms, and noticed several seemingly abandoned tents. There were also lots of people in old cars full of stuff, sitting inside and watching movies on computers/phones/etc. hmm… I’m used to a little variety in the types of people frequenting parks, but I suddenly felt very out of place. I quickly googled the name of the beach and found out that there was indeed a problem with a drug-using transient encampment, and although conditions had improved, there had been a murder there as recently as March. We packed up in about 2 minutes, and drove back up the road and paid $18 to camp at the nice, secure state park. (I’ve been thinking a lot about the privilege of choosing homelessness, as we have technically done, and will write more about this later, but I felt an immense gratitude at the ability to move to a safer place, knowing that many people don’t have that choice.)
July 11: Awesome trail runs in the state park in the morning, a nice lunch by the sea, and then we were off towards California.
Stopped briefly in Crescent City to taste the beers at Port O’Pints, which were super tasty, then headed out to camp along the Smith River. There was an incredibly clear and deep swimming hole, but it was cool and getting dark, so we saved a swim for later.
July 12: Oh Smith River. I’ve never known a river so perfect. After a quick breakfast, we took our coffee for a stroll through the redwoods in Jebediah Smith State Park. The redwoods were magnificent, but the river really stole the show at first. In the early morning light, the mist rising off the water, we had one of the best swims of my life- water just warm enough to be welcoming but too cool to stay for long. We drove and then ran the redwoods, I had a few tears of amazement, and then we headed towards Humboldt. Drank some beer @ Lost Coast Brewery, camped at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds. It was pretty!
July 13: Lazy morning at fairgrounds, showers and such, then packed up and headed out towards Mattole Beach, the northern trailhead of the Lost Coast Trail. Gorgeous camping spot, beautiful but terrible road to get there. Windy at the campsite, but found a good sheltered spot and ate as much food as possible.
July 15: Lost Coast Day 2 (see trip report above). Post-rescue, had an awesome swim at a little spot off the highway
Followed by a good feed and beer@ Seapal in Fort Bragg and then spent the night at a pullout with this view at sunset.. too good.
We’ve realized the power of asking for suggestions- when we couldn’t find any good burger and a beer restaurants in Fort Bragg, I stopped a guy locking up a surfwear store and he pointed us to the awesomely laid-back, cheap and delicious spot where I had the best fish sandwich ever. The locals know. The Internet doesn’t. The end.
The gray water churned icy around our ankles. “Are you nervous?” Justin asked. “Yeah”, I replied, “but I trust you.” Locked at the elbow, we slowly edged deeper into the current, testing each new territory with our poles, watching them jiggle and hoping our legs held up strong. 15 steps, knee-deep at first then just a little deeper, before we hit the far shore. Cursing and shaking my hands, half from the cold, half from the adrenaline, I took a second to regather and look around. I could see all of 20 feet in any direction. Just as they had been all morning, the clouds were thick around us. Somewhere on this bank we were to find a rope to assist us in scaling back up the scree slopes lining this glacial washout. It would have been fine in good weather, but in the dense mist, it seemed like a big task.
We had no idea what time it was, since I’d killed my phone by accidentally turning on tracking for my fancy new GPS map the day before. That also meant we had no map by which to navigate. It wasn’t actually totally dead- I turned it off with 6% remaining, in case of emergency, but we werent quite at that point yet. We fumbled around the boulders looking for cairns and eventually spotted a pole up high on the moraine. Spaced out to avoid killing each other should we step on a loose rock, we made our way up to it. Attached to the pole was the rope, cut about 2 feet from its start. Well, at least there was one way in which we hadn’t failed on this little adventure.
Two days before, Justin offhandedly suggested we fastpack around Mt. Hood. At 40 miles, it’d be a challenging trip for both of us- longer than he’d ever gone before, and coming only 5 days after the bakery run, it’d put me at 100 miles in 7 days. Still, I was stoked he wanted to try it and we started to make plans. Okay, we didn’t really make plans. We did some minor research, downloaded a GPS track, and watched the weather. Thursday morning we arrived at the Timberline Lodge parking lot, full of young ski racers at camp, and dawdled getting our packs ready. The gray skis had dampened our enthusiasm, and overnight the forecast had gone from meh to ugh: rain and wind in the afternoon and overnight, tapering off the next morning. Our plan was to do slightly more than 20 miles Day 1, leaving ourselves with less mileage Day 2. We packed our bags and set off clockwise towards Ramona Falls.
Lesson 1: fastpacking with normal backpacks kind of sucks. Neither of us had packs designed for running or daypacks, so we ended up carrying our 60L bags cinched as small as they could go. Also, with the weather, we were worried about staying dry and warm, so we brought basically a normal overnight set up. It took a long time to get used to running with a big pack, and it never really got comfortable. We couldn’t make good time on anything except downhills, and lamented not just going for the loop in one hit. Fastpacking with the right gear would probably be awesome – for us, it just seemed uncomfortable.
Most of the first 10 miles or so were runnable and gorgeous trail, though not super scenic. I likened it to the start of the Wonderland- almost all of south and western half of the loop was forest. Some nice overlooks, a nice waterfall, and a lot of forest. When we got further along, the route climbed up higher into open forest, meadows, and then again into soft green lush woods. We passed through what seemed like hours of burned woods, with snow drops carpeting the floor.
The clouds had rolled in by this point, but no rain yet. We hit Dollar Lake area and decided to push on past the Coe Fork crossing before setting up for the night. Almost immediately we hit a long section of blowdowns. Up, around, over, between.. it was relentless. As we finally reached the river, it started to rain. We made it across in a cold, deep ford, then started looking for a spot to camp. The wind picked up. We climbed open hillsides, steep burn areas, up and up and up without seeing anywhere sheltered. We finally found a spot in a stand of trees, quickly set up, and climbed inside.
Lesson 2: Even when you’re cold and wet and hungry, remember the golden rules of safety. In this case, never camp under dead snags. In a hurry to get sheltered, we set up in the first flat looking spot, and later, when the wind started howling, my refreshed and warmed up eyes saw that our tentsite was in the middle of a bunch of dead fall on the fringes of the burn area. Moving it fully assembled was not a fun task.
We spent the night reading and eating cold tortilla wraps (fast and light, except we brought a book) and I ruminated about the rain, hoping it wouldn’t blow out the rivers and force us to backtrack all the way we’d come. Also the wind. I had visions of being pinned under a fallen tree even though I knew we were in a safe spot. Eventually the wind died down and I fell asleep. We woke up to a calm morning, not wet but totally socked in. We packed up quickly and started off down the trail.
We reached the Eliot washout sooner than we expected, and once we’d gotten back up the other side (maybe 45 min?), it felt like we were home free. Our minimal research meant we had no idea how much climbing or snow lay ahead. We reached Cloud Cap and the heavy fog began to break up, giving us close-up glimpses of Mt. Hood and eventually, a few hours of sun. We traversed many long snow fields, most easy enough to navigate. Somewhere towards the end of the alpine section, we followed the wrong boot track and ended up 300 feet above the trail, forcing us to down climb through scrub and pines to get back on track. In every situation like this, Justin was positive, rational, and an incredible leader. At times when I would have freaked out, he knew the safest and fastest way to solve the problem.
See, look at that confidence!
Lesson 3: Know your route, and if you plan to use a cellphone as navigation device, make sure its charged and bring a backup way to charge it. If I hadn’t drained my phone battery, or if I’d brought a cord (we brought a backup battery charger), we could have saved 30-40 minutes of routefinding if we’d had the map and GPS to navigate the tougher stretches. I had some knowledge of how the route was supposed to go, when the climbs were, etc. but not enough to really be helpful. More research = more fun.
A GPS track is only as good as the batteryÂ
Once back on trail, we knew we had only 8.5 miles or so to go. Only a few miles of that were downhill, the rest was a mix of climbs through meadows and across the eastern arms of the mountain. As we reached the final junction with the PCT, we could literally see the end ahead. The last mile was a slog up a sandy trail, but eventually, we hit the parking lot. We cracked a beer, and the skies opened up again. We happily imbibed in the shelter of our dear Lucy, and watched the mountain move in and out of the clouds. We had somehow bumbled our way, 20-lb packs and all, around the whole damn mountain, and we’d done it together.
For those interested in running: do it in one day. Poles will help with the creek crossings. Bring a map and check it whenever you’re unsure. The trail is fairly well marked but there’s lots of junctions as well. Its gorgeous trail and you’ll enjoy the diversity. Its not quite as mind blowing as Wonderland, but it’s still an incredibly scenic loop. Bring a camera. Plenty of water now, some snowmelt creeks might dry up later on.
Essential Gear:
Justin: Salomon Speedcross, Patagonia Houdini jacket
Jordan: Merell AllOut Peaks, OR Helium II jacket, Pettet Endurance Project longsleeve,
Big Agnes Fly Creek UL 2 tent
Black Diamond Z-lite poles
June 29:Â Mt. Rainier! Camped at Ranger Creek and went for an early morning jaunt from White River up to First Burroughs in the Sunrise area- photo taking and trail running splendor. Had an awesome breakfast in the sunshine and came back in time for happy hour in Gig Harbor.
July 1: Canamerican Runcation – camped at Colonial Creek Campground with Alicia, Julien, Tara and Ryan- hiked up to Fourth of July Pass, ate burgers, and no one sang any national anthems.
July 2: Canamerican Runcation – camped again at Colonial Creek Campground with Alicia, Julien, Tara, Ryan, Nate and Meredith. Girls ran to Stehekin and back, the boys caught a few cutthroat up at Blue Lake. Then there was gorging: Indian, cinnamon rolls, beer, and whiskey from both sides of the border.
July 3: Canamerica Runcation- had a lazy morning at camp, made a bomb breakfast, then everyone hiked up to Easy Pass. We said our goodbyes and Justin and I pushed on to Cashmere, where we made friends with a scraggly dog at a tiny park, saw a nice sunset, then cruised to Big Pine Campground and spent the night in the back of Lucy. So cozy! Curtains worked fantastic.
July 4: Bend! – woke up to the sun warming the Yakima Canyon. Justin threw a few lines in the river but the fish were on the far banks out of reach. A long but beautiful drive took us to Bend, where we picnicked by the Deschutes, went for a chilly dip, then enjoyed a nice wine, a delicious fresh meal, some very calm fireworks (and one not-so-calm one), and a BED!
July 5: Bend! – slept in (BED! BED! BED!) and had a more-than-we-deserve breakfast cooked up for us by Nick, surprisingly domesticated. Did some planning and writing, went for a run at Mackenzie Pass, oohed and aahed at the crazy lava flows, then spent the afternoon relaxing by the Metolius River. Hit Crux for beer and evening sunshine, then closed down the night at Sunriver Brewing.
July 6: Off to fastpack the Timberline trail around Mt. Hood before we head to Portland for Robin and Erik’s wedding weekend.
We are really blessed to have this life right now. It’s unreal.
Justin took some nice photos,  I took some crappy ones. His are below. Mine are still stuck on my Samsung below that. (more good photos at jrichardsphoto.net/blog)
The view of Diablo Lake from the overlookHiking up to Easy Pass, with the Sawtooths spread behind.Ryan’s first fly fishing ever, and he caught 4 trout!I can’t believe how spiffy this awesome backdrop makes me lookWe owed Barron a photo of Rainier. Here it is!Â
And here’s my shabby collection of photos:
BEST BED EVER!!! Thanks Katie 🙂
Trail Sisters at the Bakery
Good morning from the aptly named Big Pine Campground
First run in Oregon
Starting our big summer journey crossing the Columbia
The view heading up Thompson. Photo credit: Justin Richards
“Honestly, I just really don’t want to do it.”
“I haven’t felt good in a month.”
“I’m just over running I think. I need a break.”
These were all the things I said leading up to Saturday’s Sun Mountain 50 Mile, the spectacular Rainshadow race held each May. Friends and loved ones were excited for me, but I didn’t really want to run and if I had to, I just wanted to get it done and get to my rest month.  I hadn’t had a solid, happy long run since Grand Canyon- my ankles and calves seemed to have lingering maladies from the thrashing they took at Orcas 100, I’d been slacking on my core and leg strength in favor of playing in the sunshine every day and my lower back was starting to hurt on uphills and after long days on my feet at work, and my thighs seemed to have hardened into tree trunks, unyielding even to the mighty foam roller. I run because running makes me feel good, but for most of late April, early May, every run just left me feeling tired, uncoordinated, and generally blah.
I wanted to write off the race and take it easy, maybe run with some friends who would keep me laughing all day. However, the dark side of the semi-quick sword is the pressure to  ALWAYS finish well whenever you run. As much as I try to ignore it.. the notion is there, and it’s a hard thought to have sitting in the back of your head leading up to a race you know you aren’t in top shape for.
Regardless, with so much support behind me, I couldn’t give up before trying so I toed the line, not sure what would happen, but fully expecting to suffer mightily. I tested a new aggressive start strategy which turned out was way too fast,  and left me feeling nauseous and tapped out at mile 3. I recovered, lowered my heart rate by walking a bit, and started the climb up Thompson. This went okay, but I tried to jog some of the uphill sections I’d normally power hike and that’s when my back started to tighten. There were some beautiful sections along here- balsam root and lupine, views across the Methow valley, open and mossy pine forests. The first time downhill was a good cruise but I didn’t feel like I was gaining much ground on the people in front or behind me. The twists of the mountain bike trail* weren’t doing much for my back either. I got to Homestead and moved out quickly, despite all the friendly and supportive faces. I was looking forward to Black Bear trail, and even in the gray, it was about as fun as single-track can get- rolling, tight, fun, not too technical. Then the climb up to Sun Mountain Lodge. Beautiful, but I spent a lot of time moving on and off trail to let runners pass on their way down. I was disappointed in the switch to the out-and-back, because like I mentioned, Black Bear trail is the best, and having no idea how far the turn-around was mentally challenging. I was hurting, I was losing ground, and even though I was working as hard as I could, it didn’t seem to be getting me what I wanted.
The downhill into Patterson Lake aid station should have revived my spirits, but my ankles started to flare up, and I had flashbacks to their post-Orcas state, when I could hardly put weight on them.  When I saw Justin, I started to cry. Everything was hurting, I was fighting, and I knew from the out-and-back that there were many ladies right behind me. It didn’t seem worth it. Luckily, the aid station volunteers were SO supportive, giving me tips on how to loosen up my back, reminding me how strong I was on mountains, and making me feel semi-powerful again. I got myself out of the aid station, and at some point, something Liz said before the race came back to me: “Just do your best and see what happens.”
So cliche, but so powerful in keeping me from totally breaking down. At some point, on that painful, slow climb up Patterson, trying to unlock my cramping back,  I realized that I WAS doing my best. And with my body behaving the way it was, my best looked different than I wanted it to, but it was still my best in that moment. From then on, I just kept focusing on “what is the best I can race in this moment?” This little mantra was a constant reminder that I could only control my effort, and that let me relax and focus on doing what I could do with what I was being given (good weather, bad back, strong lungs). I enjoyed the downhill on Patterson, although much more gingerly than my normal full tear due to the sore ankles. I was surprised to find some smooth speed for the mile into Chickadee aid station (Mile 31), and was happy to see a few of the ladies who’d gone past me earlier fueling and changing and otherwise using up time.
I dropped my stuff fast, grabbed a sandwich, and figured I’d “get it while I got it” (another running mantra gem, from Rich White @ Angels Staircase 2013). I managed to stay in front of the next-fastest lady for the whole stretch along Patterson Lake, and figured I’d have a pretty hard time on the climb- my back wasn’t any worse, but it wasn’t good, and the gradual, runnable uphills seemed to strain it the worst. My biggest fear pre-race wasn’t so much suffering, but not being tough enough to push through it. Each time I asked “is this my best right now?” I was fighting a little battle, and each time I was winning. All these little victories (plus sun breaks and some friendly 100k folks) got me up to the top in pretty good mental and physical shape. I knew from there it was downhill, and mostly easier downhill. The ankles still hurt, but they were less painful after the initial steep drop off Thompson Ridge. I felt pretty confident that I could hold onto whatever place I was in just due to my downhill speed, but I still kept working the whole way down. I couldn’t go full throttle, but I gave it as much as gas as I had in me. When I hit mile 48 at Homestead aid station for the second time, the rain was softly falling and I was so so happy. There were 2 miles of “downhill” (James Varner downhill, which is to say a lot of flat and a few little climbs), and before I knew it, I was crossing the finish line, in 4th place for ladies** and just 1 minute off my time from 2014. (I didn’t have a watch, or maybe I would have found a minute in me somewhere earlier).
It generally seems that the faster you are, the more modest you have to be. Less celebration, less pride, make some self-deprecating comment about how bad you felt, etc. Since I’ve been “faster”, I’m not sure if I’ve ever finished and said, “I’m so proud of myself!”- the focus is always on how I should have been better. Even at Orcas I don’t remember feeling especially proud- I wanted to be faster than I was. But I was so damned proud of myself yesterday that I cried. I cried because I fought harder for this race than I think I ever have before, and I knew I’d done as well as I could on that day. Faced with C- physical game, I pulled out a strong mental game and managed to scrap together a decent finish.
All that said, I am still really looking forward to not racing again until Cascade Crest. The next 3 months will be focused first on healing, then on fun adventure runs, and lots of rest and relaxation. We’ll be prepping for and then undertaking the biggest travel adventure we’ve ever done, and I’ll get to run in some amazing spots around the US and world. This race, rather than being the crash to accompany my burnout like I expected, rekindled my love and motivation. Running isn’t always easy, but then there are the moments when the sun breaks through the clouds, the mountains are calling, and you can find something inside yourself to be proud of.
Congrats to all my fellow rockstar ladies and Team 7Hills teammates (Katlyn Gerbin, Keith Laverty, Jess Mullen, Jon Lumb and Jodee Adams-Moore all killed it!)
Thanks to Justin Richards for being the best husband ever, and taking great shots, to everyone at Team Rainshadow for organizing and putting on such good races, to Liz for the hugs and amusement and bed, to Mark for the beer, to Jim for the perfect pizza, and to Phil @ Seven Hills Running Shop for keeping me hooked up with such good gear! Also check out Oly Mountain Boys because they are really damn good.
Race Kit:
Scott Kinabalu (Sorry beloved All Out Peaks, I needed light and fast, and your cute brother All Out Crush wasn’t available)
Seven Hills Running Shop Pearl Izumi tshirt
UD Women’s Jenny vest (RIP)
Black Diamond Z-Poles (carried only for Sun Mountain lodge and Patterson climbs)
Fueled by Tailwind (and Snickers and potato chips!)
Footnotes:
*I would change this trail if I could- it seemed to be half built- not actually technical, just lots of debris and twisty.
**Not sure how I ended up in 4th- the girl who passed me climbing Thompson somehow ended up behind me again- I’m guessing maybe bathroom or aid station? Whatever, I’ll take it!
***Jenn Shelton was at Old Schoolhouse on Saturday night-Â very strange….
Can’t believe how close we are to taking off on this trip- Part 1 of The Great Adventure. We’ll start by kicking around Washington and Oregon from July 1 -9, then we leave from Portland on July 10 and take the long way back to Easton for Cascade Crest on August 27. Hoping to see a lot of mountains, climb a lot of peaks, fish, and live the good life.
Test drive before the summer madness began
Would love recommendations on people, places, and trails along the way. We’ll be making a serious effort to chronicle our adventures via Justin’s photography site and this blog here (or maybe a new one if we find the time to make it).
“Why the fuck am I doing this?” I grumbled. Yelling or shouting or some other violent form of expression would have been a more accurate reflection of the volume of my inner dialogue, but I didn’t want to alert the trail crew I had passed a few minutes before. Things echo among tall stone walls.
AÂ nice bridge, where I really started to get grumpy.
I had started down the Bright Angel trail 6 hours earlier, 5:10 am, give or take a few minutes (I forgot to check). The sun was far from rising but there was enough light that I briefly considered turning back and putting my headlamp in the car. (I didn’t). I was in my element: empty trails, runnable but still technical and steep enough to be interesting, soft pre-dawn light bathing a surreal landscape. I reached the 1.5-mile rest house at 5:30 am, trying to reconcile how speedy I felt with the slower pace I was actually running. Conserving I told myself, pacing smart to finish strong. Neither of these was true, but they made me feel better in the moment.
Early morning light.
I coined this “Horse Piss Cirque.” None of those things are accurate. There was lots of mule urine though.
For context, I wasn’t chasing an FKT. I wasn’t even trying to run fast. I just had a time line in my head- 6 hours one-way, 7 hours back, for 13 hours round trip- that I’d framed my day around. I somehow still haven’t internalized the folly of such plans.
I loved every moment of the descent to Phantom Ranch- the surprise of green and leafy Indian Garden, the broad traverse above a valley, the rolling sandy cliffs alongside the Colorado. I reached the bridge at 7:10Â and felt excited to be exactly where I planned to be and enamored with every bit of the experience so far- the trail, the light, the temperature, the lushness of the river.
The Colorado
I was running across the bridge, grinning at every day hiker like a goon, thinking how cool I must look, when WHACK- I managed to trip hard on nothing, grabbed at the bridge siding and slammed my right hand and knees hard into the metal grating. I stood up, shook it out and said, to no one, “I’m okay, just my pride.” When I stopped to take a picture of the trail distance sign at the far side of the ranch (only 13.4 miles until I can turn around…), I couldn’t use my right hand without sharp pains. Crap, I thought, but I just kept running, because you don’t really need hands to run.
The climb out of Phantom Ranch to Cottonwood Camp is a gentle 6.4 miles through a tight, red canyon, aptly named The Box, alongside  Bright Angel creek, and then through open desert meadows (if that’s a thing). I was at first excited for runnable terrain, but my enthusiasm faded when I passed a party at what I assumed was 4 or 5 miles in (because I was killing it, surely) and they informed me I still had 3.8 miles to go to the camp. This mini-blow to my ego wore on me over the next 50 minutes, and by the time I reached Cottonwood at 9 am, I was starting to get a case of the Negatives.
The Box! Probably the neatest section of trail, although longer than I wanted it to be.
I really didn’t want to be grumpy. I had wanted to enjoy every moment of my time in this special place, and perhaps that goal in itself carries too much pride and ego. Who are we to expect running 46 miles in the desert to be easy? Who are we to expect to not suffer just because we are in a nice place?
And by the time I passed Roaring Springs (4.8 miles to the North Rim), I was definitely suffering. Primarily, I was hot. The temperatures were in the 80s as I climbed, despite it being only 9:30 am; the route was beautiful but exposed and unrelenting. I passed a few rangers and trail crews and tried to smile and look like I wasn’t dying inside. I battled with myself in my head. This sucks. But look how beautiful it is. I should just stop now and head back. You aren’t a quitter. Yeah but this is basically the top anyways, and everyone will understand how terrible it was. I took a few pictures to compensate for my shitty attitude. And then, eventually, way after I planned (11:55 am, to be exact), I finally reached the North Rim. To my surprise, there were two guys there, who chatted with me casually about my “jog”. I was in no mood for casual chatting. They let me know water was just a 10-minute walk down a snowy path (oh the irony), but to be careful as I’d likely punch through a few times. I was also in no mood to traipse through snow. I decided 20 oz. was enough to get 5.5 miles downhill. It wasn’t, and I probably knew that, but I really really wanted to get the fuck off that North Rim and start heading home.
A bad spot to trip- looking back up North Kaibab Trail.
Roaring Springs.
The long, dehydrated descent led me back to my WTF question, initially posed somewhere before Supai tunnel. Why was I out here? I was clearly unprepared- post-Orcas, I did one 20 miler (Cottontail day) and one 15 – miler out on the Yakima course. I narcissistically assumed something as popular as R2R2R would be easy for a runner as “experienced” and “strong” as myself. 46 miles and 10,500 ft? That’s easier than half of Orcas! Thats how I settled on 13 hours as planned time- surely that would allow for me to go easy, swim, take pictures, and not suffer, right?
(To be fair, I did do all of those things. I took a little lunch break when I got back to water at Manzanita -Trail Butter on a Honey Stinger waffle, with almonds- yum!!, dipped myself in Bright Angel creek a few times, and stared- breathlessly, due to both exhaustion and awe- Â at the countless scenic vistas and neat plants I encountered.)
It was hot.Â
It wasn’t the fact that I felt bad that brought me down mentally, or the fact that I was moving slowly, it was that I was moving slow and still feeling bad. So why did I even attempt it? Why do any of us endurance athletes do the things we do? In my delusional sun-baked state, I decided it’s to experience the limits of our humanness. We undertake these journeys to test in ourselves whatever it is that we value about being human. It’s the “Am I ________ enough?” question. For you, that ________ might be smart, or fast, or funny, or powerful… for me, yesterday, it was some mix of fit and tough. But in reality, it’s a pretty dumb question. Inherent within it is the assumption that there is some level one has to reach to be a satisfying human. By even posing that question, we set ourselves up for disappointment, even in the midst of incredible things. That idea, that I needed to prove I was in some way “enough” led me to beating myself up on what was an otherwise impeccably gorgeous and perfect day on one of my biggest bucket – list runs.
To be fair, testing limits is human nature (or at least mine) and I think a certain dose is healthy. But the measurement of oneself is a slippery slope, and I’ve too often ended up unhappy because of the high standards I put myself up to.
As I ran down, a hot wind blowing my face, literally  all I could look at was the immense canyon around me. All of this existed way before I came along and will continue to way after I’m gone. My self-imposed struggle did not matter one bit to the canyon or anyone else within it. Maybe a few people outside cared, but in the very grand scheme of things, I was completely insignificant. Who cared how long it took me? Slowly, I found some peace with the tough day I was having. I stopped to swim, and when I started feeling especially tired, I walked (yes, even on the downhills).
No sympathy in these cliffs.
By the time I reached Phantom Ranch again (3:15 pm) I decided I was done with running. Everything hurt, and even my slowest jog made my heart race. So I sat in the creek for a bit, chatted with some Arizona Conservation Corps crew while refulling my bottle, and steeled myself for the 9 miles back up to the South Rim.
I was kinder to myself now. I was determined to not spend any more time being upset about some stupid arbitrary time limit. I wasnt perfect in my forgiveness, but as I made my slow crawl up the canyon, my spirits began to lift. The climb up was almost entirely in the shade, and the light softened as the day approached it’s end. This comfortable state lasted until past Indian Creek. But at some point just before 3-mile rest house, even my lazy hike pace became a struggle. I have never been so physically and mentally worn out that simply moving forward feels like too much. My humility reached a new level. It was the moment I have always hoped to test in 100s, but never reached. I was facing my worst fear- failure- and in knowing I wouldn’t quit, I was “enough.”
Sunset- I thought I’d be having a beer by now.
Just being there was “enough.” Just caring about something sufficiently to travel 8 hours each way was “enough”. And so I put one pole, then one foot in front of the other. A full moon rose. I went up switchback after switchback. I passed dozens of people taking pictures, finishing up their day hikes. I passed the Bright Angel trailhead sign, at 7:19 pm, and the tears started coming. No one noticed, but they didn’t need to. They took their selfie – stick shots, with the vast wonder and all the miles I’d conquered behind them, and I didn’t even have one of those self-righteous ultra runner moments. I just simply sat, and stared out at the cliffs and drank my water. If we’re trying to prove something to anyone besides ourselves, eventually we’ll wind up disappointed. Even if when we’re able to rise above that base urge, sometimes we’ll also disappoint ourselves. But being in a space so large and empty and sublimely uncaring and yes, grand, allowed me to realize that just by existing, by doing what makes us happy, I am, you are, we are enough.
P.S. My hand is working fine now- a nice bruise, but fairly functional 🙂
P.P.S. Technical aspects (gear, food, etc. to come in a later post)
We’re in the process of culling items before packing stuff up to move to Australia, and I’m left in the tough position of deciding whether to say  goodbye to some clothes and gear that I’ve owned for many many years. I realize how much of my running gear I’ve acquired incidentally, that’s then sat in my drawer 363 days of the year. I’ll be happy to be rid of the Race Ready shorts that I’ve owned for 9 years and rarely use due to super skimpiness. I’ll probably hold on to the stained, stinky, and boxy long sleeve from my first marathon, despite the fact I also rarely use it. But amongst the flotsam, there are some definite items that I really can’t imagine being a runner without. Here’s a short list of the things that have carried me through many adventures, .
Pettet Endurance Project long-sleeve: This thing has probably 1,000 miles on it, and it smells and looks (mostly) like new. It’s my go-to top for any day cooler than 50 degrees, and makes a great base layer for any winter adventure. Its snug, long, comfortable, and best of all, has thumbholes. I have managed to put a hole through the fabric while fumbling in the cold for the thumbhole, but that’s a fault of my fingernail sharpness, not poor quality fabric. This shirt (and its short sleeved companion) will definitely be coming on The Grand Adventure.
Black Diamond Z-Poles- I was never a pole person, but watching some bad ass people rock out with poles tempted me, and now I can’t imagine going back. I carry poles pretty much always. I started using them to take some stress off my hamstring while recovering from injury, and now I’m just used to them. I’ve even mastered the running downhill with poles thing, which makes me feel like a flying ninja, but as Justin pointed out, actually makes me look like I’m hiking along like a turtle.
The black mesh storage sack from my sleeping bag-Â On my Monday Funday streak last year, I started to throw my gear into a large mesh sleeping bag sack. It has a handle, closes easy, works well when super stuffed or barely packed, ventilates great so I don’t open a bag of steamy wet socks when I get around to unpacking, and lets me see quickly what I have and what I need to grab. I keep all my running gear (vest, poles, gaiters, nutrition, etc.) in the bag and just take out what I need when I get to the trail. I kept meaning to get a duffle, but this system is free and works so well that I don’t need to change a thing.
Smartwool PhD Run socks-Â Wicking, supportive, and durable. Haven’t had a blister yet. Thinner and thicker versions for different temperatures, so my feet stay just as happy in the summer as winter. Bonus, they shed mud better than most of my other socks- what goes into the shower black comes out purple again.
Pearl Izumi wind shell-Â My mom passed this down to me when I first moved out to Seattle- it was a Christmas gift that didn’t fit. While it’s cut for biking and thus a little shorter in the front than I would have liked, the thing is SUPER light, reflective, and tinier than tiny. I don’t ever think twice about throwing it in. I’ve been eyeing up a Patagonia Houdini, but can’t justify it because this jacket is basically it.
Merrell All Out Peak-Â These shoes. God, these shoes. They’re amazing. I have at least 600 miles in them, and they still want more. My feet are so happy when I put these on (unfortunately less so when I run in them after so many miles) but I can’t wait to get another pair.
A long race is hard to summarize in a few words, so this post will be annoyingly lengthy (both for the reader and the writer). If you want the abridged version, it is:
I came to have fun, I had a lot of fun. Also, there were almost never any women in front of me, and several men got tired or hurt later on. I hate running slow, I didn’t train enough for steep downhills, I wanted it to be over, then it was, and I’m really just in it for the friends.
I actually remember a lot more about after the race than during it, but no one wants to read those stories, so I’ll try to recap the race itself as well as I can (as a disclaimer, if you’re looking for some magic tricks, there aren’t any- save yourself the time and skip to the end).
Before I start the long blah blah blah, a sincerest thanks to everyone at Rainshadow and everyone who volunteered at Orcas 100. It was one of the best weekends of my life, and that was 99% due to the people I was surrounded by. I appreciate every hug, high five, PBJ square, kind word, smile, and snot-covered potato chip. The race was so well run and so much fun to participate in, that it makes me not want to ever leave the Northwest. Okay, done stalling, here’s the longer version:
Pre-race: I headed up to Orcas on Thursday morning, keen to get settled and see friends. No nerves whatsoever, but I was feeling pretty ramped up  because I had the whole week off work and no outlet for my abundance of energy. I wore my gold pants because I wanted to channel my spirit animal, Alicia Woodside (ironically her blog is titled NOT running for gold). That means, I wanted to ENJOY the race. After a long stint of being competitive and then injured, I hadn’t really raced with joy in a year or more. I didn’t care about my placement (although I did, just a little) but I really wanted to prove to myself that I was healthy and could finish.
I got a ride up to Orcas with Ben Perri, a newly discovered awesome person, and chatted bar and running stuff. He introduced me to wedgies*, so we’re now friends for life. The ferry ride over was great, chatting with other runners and volunteers, watching for whales, enjoying the views.
At Camp Moran, I checked in and pitched in on the merchandise table for the afternoon, which meant I not only kept busy and calm but got to meet lots of my fellow runners! After putting together my kit for race day, I had a dinner of sweet potato cakes and baked tofu, some terra chips, and a protein shake. No exact science here, just what sounded good when I was cooking Wednesday night.
I took a few minutes to write down what it would take for me to drop, and all of the reasons I might want to drop but shouldn’t. I also wrote a list of mantras to repeat during the race. The plan was to read these at a low point if I needed to. I never did. I was sleepy by 8 and fell fast asleep.
*wedgie= chocolate covered cheesecake slices
Race Day(s):Â The nerves kicked in. I was excited, but intimidated. I ate some PB oatmeal, but was too jittery to find my honey. I love the time before a race when everyone walks around and scopes each other out, checks out gear, makes last minute adjustments. It’s so much contained energy, usually in a limited amount of space.
I made a last-minute call to switch from my Scott Kinabalus to the Pearl Izumi Trail N3, with the idea that more stability might be better on the slick and steep trails. (Traction is really similar between the two, in my experience). I felt good at the start, happy and excited. I started off with more layers than needed because my biggest fear was getting cold. I dropped the Brooks jacket I had at Mountain Lake and never picked it up again.
On the road climb the first time up, I felt stronger than expected, and just tried to maintain a 60% effort. Ran with Selina Danko for a little while, chatting about her adventures in longer distances, and enjoyed the easy grade. When we hit the downhill, I took off in the front and that’s the last I saw of Selina or another woman. This really surprised me- I expected many of the tough cookie ladies out there to go out faster- I thought my only chances at placement would be coming from behind in the second half.
The first lap flew by, with the climbs easier than I anticipated (yes, even Powerline) and my mood buoyed by being far ahead of schedule (I predicted 7 hours for the first lap, and actual time was around 5:15). Second lap was much the same, although I added a little time on each of the climbs, and teetered on the edge of nausea as I came down from Pickett and climbed up Powerline. I made a point to get ginger ale and solid food at the top. I was happy to get to Constiution again right as darkness fell, but I could tell immediately that the night time would slow me down considerably- I felt much more unsteady on my feet, and my lighting system wasn’t working as well as I’d liked. Nevertheless, hitting 50 felt great, and I had started up the music on the 2nd time up Powerline and my mood was riding high when I came into Camp Moran (doing the whip and nae nae as documented by Elizabeth).
I started Lap 3 at 7:10, and was actually looking forward to the road climb. I had good tunes going, food to eat, and was ahead of schedule almost 3 hours at this point. I passed a few guys going up Olga Rd and didn’t see another runner for the next 30 miles. I don’t remember much of the third lap, only the sense that things were taking longer than I wanted and that even though I felt I was moving the same speed, I was slowing my pace by a minute or more per mile. Just as doing better than expected boosts my mood, doing worse than expected tanks it. I spent the hours between Mountain Lake and Cascade annoyed at my progress (with the small exception of 5 minutes of perogie-induced euphoria after Pickett). Powerline felt much tougher in the dark, but I made it up, and finally up to Constitution. It was snowing!! I ate some broth at the aid station, put on my windbreaker and a warmer hat, and kept on going- Â ready to start that last lap. My excitement at the snow quickly faded as it got heavier and heavier, reflecting in my headlamp like TV static. I had to stop a half mile after Constitution and layer up more when I realized the snow was heavy and wet and not going to stop anytime soon. The heavy snow made it hard to see the trail and I had my slowest descent of the whole race- almost an hour and 45 from the top back to Camp Moran. I came in 40 minutes later than I expected at 1:55 am- a fairly demoralizing way to start the last lap after such a strong start.
this amount of snow was exciting… not so much when it kept falling
Lap 4 was the lap that was never going to end. I knew logically I was on the last road climb, the last time around Mountain Lake, etc. but my body brain was convinced I was going to be running forever and this was bullshit. I thought I was moving fast but I wasn’t. I thought I could run the small hills but everything seemed to be big. Also, when 70 people run over a muddy trail 3 times, it gets ridiculously muddy. I was most worried about hurting myself, so I took it insanely easy on the first two downhills. I cursed out loud at the section between Mountain Lake and Pickett, convinced I’d gone wrong because surely I should almost be at the freaking aid station by now! I put the music back on. I spent 10 minutes at Pickett trying to change my batteries before Matt Barry just loaned me his extra headlamp. I made it Cascade not being able to think about 11 more miles- it sounded really long. I had some Red Bull, tucked a Rice Krispie into my jacket, and headed out into the early morning light. Powerline went surprisingly well the last time, as the sun came up behind me, and I made it up to Constitution in just under 2 hours- still my slowest time, but not too far off previous laps. Miles 75-95 had taken just as long as all of Lap 3, and just as long as miles 0-30, so I was beating myself up a little for not pushing a little harder earlier in  Lap 4.
I had it in my head that I could finish under 26 hours (my original estimate was 29 for a good race, but at one point in lap 2, I thought 24 was possible) so as I left Constitution at 8:40, that was my goal. I had 1:20 to make it 5 miles. I made it .5 miles, and suddenly got a screaming blister.SERIOUSLY??! I tried to run through it but couldn’t- I pulled over to the side, got out my kit, taped it up, it was wet so the tape fell right off, dried, taped, fell over, dried and taped and made it on my way again. My ankles were screaming- the steep downhills had been beating them up all day and they were done. I was saying out loud all of the things I could have when I got done: sitting down, pizza, beer, sitting down, ice, pizza, coffee, beer, sitting down, new socks, etc. I checked my watch incessantly, trying to run as hard as I could without breaking my protesting ankles.
I hit the last bit of trail with a tight time limit, needing to hit 10 minute miles- I ran more than I felt like, I pushed hard, and crossed the line at 25:58:42- 3 hours faster than planned. (also, 2 hours slower than my 2nd lap self thought I could go, but that girl’s crazy).
I sat down, immediately, on the closest thing, which was a big rock. Justin got this very unflattering photo.
Done.
Then I ate everything, drank everything, had a hard time walking, napped, cheered on friends, sold some merchandise, cleaned cabins, collected prizes, drank more, ate more, drank more, hung out with friends, recovered.
The Gear List:
Pearl Izumi Trail N3*- these were amazing! only went down once, and the trails were nasty. drained well enough for the copious lake-puddles on course. Smartwool Socks– changed once Black Diamond Spot Headlamp- love this, but changing batteries is a pain UD Ultra Vesta w/ chest bottles*– comfortable, holds everything. I use chest bottles because that’s the only way I drink enough. Black Diamond Women’s Z-Poles- used on Powerline first two times, carried for whole 4th lap Hind Tights (from Ross, $12, awesome!)- for fun Pettet Endurance Project Longsleeve – I have probably 700+ miles in this shirt. I love it. Pearl Izumi Windbreaker- one of my all-time favorite layers. packs tiny and makes me warm. Pearl Izumi Seven Hills Shortsleeve* Pearl Izumi  Thermal Conductive gloves*- my go-to gloves Mountain Hardwear Outdry Mitt- kept my hands dry and toasty. Had mediums, which were too large but still worked well. UD Cap Pearl Izumi Headband/Ear Warmer* Under Armour Fleece Hat
Special thanks to: Seven Hills Running Shop, Rainshadow Running (James, Matt, Kerri, and Elizabeth), Justin; Ben, Ian , Colton, Joel, Diana, Aspire Adventure Running, every other awesome volunteer this weekend; people who kept me company on the run- Selina, Alex, Caleb, and Brian; my mom for inspiration, and a million other people I can’t remember right now. Also, avocado sushi, Tiger Mt, and beer.
I signed up for Orcas 100 as soon as registration was announced, convinced that like other awesome Rainshadow races, it would sell out in a day or two. This left me very little time to think through what running a 100 in February meant. Plus, who can resist when goaded by race advertising such as “are you tough enough?”? Now, with the training done, and most of the taper too, all that’s left is to stretch and pack and reflect on a few of the lessons I learned in this particularly tough training season.
But first, the saga of my hamstring in 2015
I’ve been battling with hamstring strain since last winter, when the intensity of the pain in my upper hamstring forced me to drop from Orcas 50k after just 7 miles. It was the first race I’ve ever dropped from, and although my physical therapy appointment confirmed that I made the right choice, it was a tough ego blow. So I have a little score to settle with the long climbs and mud of Moran State Park. I was 75% recovered when I tackled White River 50 and Wonderland Trail just 7 days apart, and as anyone with injury experience can predict, that’s a dangerous zone for re-injury. Less than a week after finishing the Wonderland trail, I headed to Alaska with aching legs, hopped into a sea kayak for 3 days, didn’t stretch because I’m dumb, and then tried to bomb the Mt. Marathon course. I woke up the next day with an ache I hadn’t had since March, and despite a few weeks of stretching and a few PT visits, I realized that I’d put my recovery almost back at square one. I dropped myself from IMTUF, scheduled some ART treatments, and started focusing on recovering- again. That was my entire fall. Finally around Novermber, I felt healthy enough to start focusing on training for Orcas. And so began a lot of running in the grossest time of the year in the Pacific Northwest.
A fewlessons learned in hundreds of miles of rainy winter running: 1) You can’t always wait on internal motivation
As much as I would like to be the person who just loves to go run in the rain and mud, I’m not. It’s just not as fun for me. I didn’t keep great track but I’d guess that 60% or more of my long runs were in rain. I was not springing out of bed to go get wet and cold. I’d have a coffee, then another one, and eventually make it to the trail by 10 am, and then spend a long time gearing up inside my cozy Subaru before finally getting started. I never skipped a run, I never cut one short due to rain, but that was due to stubbornness and grit, not necessarily a love of the process.
2) You can only do what you can do.
It was with a great fear of re-injury that I trained for Orcas. I had a general plan for building mileage, but during each run I evaluated how my hamstring felt, and adjusted elevation, pace, and distance to keep out of that dangerous radiating ache zone that I know means injury is at the doorstep. I probably ran 80% of what’d normally do for a 100, and had to continually remind myself that it was okay to cut back. My weekly mileage peaked at 65, and I only had 5 weeks above 50 miles. That being said, I got in several weekend back-to-back combos of 40+ miles, several long rainy runs in the mountains, and some quality loop work at Discovery and Carkeek. Early on, I kept my vertical work mild, as I knew that was the fastest way to re-injury. I added in some good hill repeats at Tiger later on in training but I’m scared my climbing muscles won’t be as strong as they should be, and having not done more than 30 miles in one go since July makes 100 all the more intimidating.
3) But you can do more than you think
Some of my best runs came at times when I felt like there was no way of getting in the miles I needed. From 20 milers in the rain on Friday night after a long work week, to sleep-deprived Discovery sessions, I surprised myself many times in the course of the training. I even ran 24 miles at a blistering 8:45 pace and followed up with a tough mountain 21 the next day. It helped to focus on these good surprises when runs started to go unexpectedly bad.
4) You need the good stuff
In a long slog, having a jacket you really like, your favorite music, gloves that keep you warm, and a fancy latte to look forward to makes a big difference. Sure, you might be able to get it done with the bare minimum, but there’s no sense in further depriving yourself when you’re spending your weekend running in the rain. Treat yourself a little- you earn it.
Orcas Island 100 is only 4 days away. The forecast is for rain and cold. I’m not excited about that part, but I think I’m ready.
Now, for the meat of our Copper Ridge Loop FuKT report:
Alicia is such an awesome and inspiring runner, and although we’ve hung out at races, we’ve never gotten to do a run together due to our geographic separation, so it seemed totally appropriate to scheme up a fun adventure run during the flexible schedules of summer.
Originally we’d planned to do the Cathedral Pass loop in the Pasayten Wilderness but a fire out that way closed off that possibility, and we both stumbled upon Copper Ridge loop, drawn to it for promises of a fairly runnable grade and spectacular views. It’s 34 miles total, with around 9,000 feet of elevation gain.
After a long weekend of work and very little sleep, I met Alicia and Dan Probst in Bellingham at Kulshan Brewery on Sunday night. We stocked up on goodies at Trader Joes, drank some beer and ate some pizza, chatted with Dan about the loop and his Bay to Baker project, and then headed out to the Hannegan Pass trailhead, where we set up Lucy the Subaru camp. It was like a sleepover from middle school, chatting until we started to dose off mid-sentence. We got to sleep sometime after midnight, which was surprising since I’d only slept 4 hours Friday and Saturday night (more on that later). Luckily Alicia likes to sleep in as much as I do, and we stayed nice and cozy until 9:00 Monday morning.
After a breakfast of yogurt, granola, oatmeal, coffee, whatever else we could eat, we packed up and headed out- at this point it was slightly cloudy but not wet. The clouds sat low on the peaks and we hoped it would clear later in the day for some nice views. We headed up to Hannegan Pass, rain starting to fall, then headed out counterclockwise to the Chilliwack River trail. There was a nice, long downhill section through the woods that was dry followed by some wet brushy sections, which started to tear up the thighs pretty good. We were both in pretty good spirits, until we realized we were a few miles further behind than we assumed and still had 20ish miles to go instead of under 18. Dan had predicted it would take us about 10 hours, but we were being a little cocky and assuming 8-9 hours was a better estimate. Battling thick brush in the rain was slow and thinking about doing that for another 6 hours was a little overwhelming, and I started to realize how sleep deprived I was. There were some gorgeous sections of trail through here, with mossy trees, ferns, soft trail, and wildflowers on the open slopes, plus great chats about all things running and life, which provided a nice distraction. We agreed that running with other people is the best way to socialize- you have time to chat, you get to help each other, you tackle projects together (like the cable car- which was AWESOME!)
Then we reached the junction up to Copper Ridge, where we started to climb up. All told the trail climbed about 4000′ in this section, but at times it felt interminable. While Alicia had bounced back from her earlier slump, mine only got worse. My hamstring didn’t feel great, but worse, my legs and lungs felt like lead. I could feel how slow I was moving on the climb, but my heart rate was up and I knew I couldn’t go any faster. Cue the cycle of stupid negative thoughts (“I’m so weak, I can’t do this, why can’t I do this?, everyone else can do this except me, I’m weak, why am I out here”) and then I started just hiking and not talking and wallowing. The trail switchbacked through woods, and I thought I would feel better when we reached the ridge, which I started to, despite the socked in conditions (the trail was still super cool and open!) and then we had to climb some more and I went right back into the blackness. I just wanted to sit down and not ever run again. The whole time, Alicia was exceptionally encouraging, but not obnoxiously positive, and finally, when we reached the Copper Peak lookout, and I was on the verge of tears and suggesting she just go ahead and meet me at the parking lot, she made me sit down and eat and regroup for 5 minutes. This saved me- I wanted nothing more than to stay there and sleep (not a safe option, obviously), but having a few minutes where I had to stop moving and accept that I was just very very tired, probably hadn’t eaten enough and it was normal to feel shitty for my level of training and crazy lack of sleep put me back on the right track. I usually come out of a slump quickly, so the 3 hours of grumpiness was incredibly mental training- something I can look back on and draw strength from. A few cloud breaks provided some warm sun to dry out the damp clothes and we got peek-a-boo views to other peaks.
We continued on the ridge, and my spirits perked up with each mile we covered. We finally hit some runnable terrain, and being able to move with a bit of speed reminded me of why I love running long- nothing feels better than looking back at those tough spots once you’re in a better mood and seeing that you can be so strong mentally. Once we hit Boundary Camp junction again, we had just one small climb to Hannegan Pass left before a long downhill and flat section back to the car. I felt fantastic! We passed some backpackers we chatted with in the parking lot that morning, and I realized we were going to finish right at 10 hours, just as Dan had predicted. I laughed at how silly my earlier mood seemed in light of the fact that we finished right where we needed to be, and I’d had one of the worst days I can remember.
Back at camp, we cracked a few beers, cooked up some food, ate a lot of chips and hummus and cheese and whatever else we could, and talked for a few more hours, before it got dark and we settled back into Lucy for the night.
In the morning, while Alicia stayed snuggled up in the back, I drove up to the Artist Point parking lot at Mt. Baker so we could have breakfast and coffee with some spectacular views. We hung out for an hour, listening to a Native American drumming and chanting somewhere up Table Mountain, watching hikers pour in. Hopefully they all got a FuKT.
Gear:
Merrell AllOut Peak *LOVE THESE SHOES!
Ultimate Direction Jenny Vesta
Outdoor Research Helium II jacket – performed great but condensation kept it damp after a few hours
Zensah compression socks- no blisters even though soaked the whole run
Food:
Trail Butter – 1 pouch
Kind Bar
2 Espresso Gels (1 Clif, 1 Gu)
Potato Chips and Pretzel Bites
(clearly not enough)
Picture Vomit:
A very swingy suspension bridge.Copious berries also slowed us a down a bit.cable car crossing!me above Egg Lakesun through some remaining mist lighting up the sides of the valleylooking back at the Chilliwack valley we just climbed out ofthe trail up to Copper Peak- open meadows and boulders everywhere- beautiful!Alicia at the start- before the rain started inthe junction at Boundary Camp- I wanted to hug it second time aroundcozied up in the back of LucyRefueling- “I like potato chips but I wish they had more calories”Parking lot at Artist Point
Roaring Springs.
The Life and Times of Little Red Running Shorts 