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| Mile 61 to 99 |
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| Mile 0 to 60 |
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| Mile 0 to 60 |
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| Mile 61 to 99 |
TONY GROVE (51.8) to FRANKLIN BASIN (61.5)
I slowly marched up the sparse and meadow-like hill. The loose train that left before me was
out of sight. Every so often I’d
hear people behind me, but could not see them despite the openness of the trail. I was on my own through the rest of the
climb through the trees to a long clearing on the other side of the ridge. The sun was setting behind the
clouds. I was not pushing the pace
while picking through all the rocks.
It was not a steep descent, but I wanted to save my headlamp battery
until truly needed. Amie and pacer
jogged past again, chatty. A
handful more guys appeared. Some
passed me. The clearing became a
meadow spread along the base between two mountains, the trail skirting the
right side while popping in/out of the woods. In the blue dusk it was comforting to have a handful of
bodies in the distance ahead as well as behind. Headlamps would go on under tree cover, off in the open
meadow.
At a small crest in the meadow another guy caught up to
me. We had accordioned much
earlier in the day but had not spent time at the same pace in order to chat, so
I never learned his name. We each
stepped over the downed tree. He
was chatting lightly with the other guy he passed. I was just about to say hello when I heard THWOMP.
I know that sound. Usually that’s me falling. I passed
to look back, and sure enough he was working his way back onto his feet. “Okay, okay. I’ll use the headlamp now.” He said he was okay.
We both turned on our lights for good.
Here the trail started developing odd splits. Was this only in my head because of the
waning light? Or were some of the
trails actually creek beds? I
paused at one split with the guy who fell. We each took a side to look for a marker, only to find they
rejoined on the other side of a ground swell. Small lightning flashes were visible on the horizon.
The trails became more technical and rocky the farther we
descended through the trees for a handful more miles toward the next aid
station. Guy Who Fell slowly
pulled away. Some are much more
confident with going at techy stuff and unconcerned if they fall. I’d stumbled a good dozen times, once
bashing my left big toe, but worked hard to stay on my feet. Not sure why, but I really, REALLY did NOT want to fall. I
did not want to bash my knee(s) in the same place(s) that always break my
fall. But I think mentally the
race had been enough of a trial without the added insult of a fall.
Once at the aid station it was decidedly dark. I felt better than at Tony Grove, but
in the back of my mind I was worried by how long it took to descend. Nathan had my change of clothes laid
out behind a parked trailer so that I was out of view of the aid station
itself, though runners coming up the trail could possibly see. I really didn’t care. Nathan kept trying to help me not shine
my headlamp on myself, but swapping out sport bras means you have to duck your
head, especially when wearing a ball cap and headlamp. I had another protein shake and asked
for my ipod and extra headlamp batteries.
Sam offered the second headlamp I planned to use around my waist, but I
cannot fathom anything across my abdomen at this point so decline. Nathan unwound the ipod ear buds. I didn’t want to wear them now; they
were just back up in case I later needed a human voice. He wound it back up into its ziplock
and I tucked it into a pocket of my pack.
We also swapped Suuntos, since mine didn’t save my setting and lost
power. It shut off a mere one mile
shy of the aid station.
Time check – only a 10 minute stop. Last year my clothing change took a good
30-40 minutes. This is good. At least I was not wasting lots of time at the stations.
I was just about to check out. “I’ll see you in two and a half hours,” said Nathan.
I cringed. “Yea
right.” The boys had me write down
estimated times for each section.
I had aired on the side of slightly generous times, and even those
weren’t holding up now.
“You will. I
will see you in two and a half hours.”
“Not if the rain starts.”
Sam looked upward.
“It’s not all cloudy. I see
some stars. Maybe it’ll hold off.”
I mentally sighed, knowing how much I bring the weather with
me to races. Time to check out.
FRANKLING BASIN (61.5) to LOGAN RIVER (69.5)
A half mile flat jog on open forest road led to a steep
climb. It took for-e-ver. Random pink flags and reflective
markers would appear every so often in a proximity that felt less
leading-the-way and more along the lines of stumbled-upon confirmation
markers. The trees were dense, and
the path made small zig-zags around boulders, large trunks and fallen
logs. Occasional grumble moos and
wide set eyes would startle me from the nearby trees – cows out munching in the
dark.
I kept finding myself paused, trail marker glowing in my
headlamp beam some 30 feet directly ahead but with a seeming split in the trail. Many rejoined on the other side of an
obstacle. A couple times what
seemed logical turned out to be a creek bed. Second guessing myself had become the norm. Why
am I not seeing this well?
Another light caught up to me just as I was becoming truly
confused. I also had no idea how
long the climb lasted, or what to expect at all this section.
Another reason P2P was so much easier: we had just shy of a
full moon, not needing headlamps for whole sections at a time. With the tree cover and clouds there
was nothing. Cresting the climb I looked at my watch
– those three miles took 1h 20m, and that includes the “speedy” half mile jog
from Franklin. I shook it off and
kept walking. I still felt okay,
considering. Is my headlamp dimming?
Maybe it’ll last to the next aid station.
I caught a middle-aged guy who was also walking. After passing he stayed on my tail for
a bit. I asked how he was
doing.
“Not good.”
Slight accent. “I cannot
eat or drink, so I am eating my muscles.” My heart sank for him. He was still moving, which was good.
After a good ten minutes I finally felt ready to get on with
it so started to jog. A guy slowly
caught up to me but then stayed in my wake. The trail took a 140 degree turn to go slightly uphill, make
a wide U, and curve back to a trail descending into the trees. Before heading down I realized my
battery was very much dying, and I didn’t trust myself to go downhill without
my own light. The guy offered to
let me stay on his tail, but I still didn’t trust it. He bounced down the trail.
I glanced all around.
No other lights anywhere in sight, and still no moon. Okay,
Laura, do this right the first time.
New batteries in hand. Open the case. Fumbling. Flipped the light over to try the other side. Fumbling, worse. Flipped it back. Swear words. Pause. Big breath. Start over.
Concentrated. Finally
opens. Note battery arrangement when removing. Put in correctly the first time. Middle battery kept landing in the
third slot. Removed, retried. Third slot. Swear words, sounding desperate. Finally in place.
Close lid tight. The light worked. Hot
f*cking spit. Only lost an
entire five minutes with that bumbling routine. Removed my shoulders from my ears and began the descent.
The wheels were coming off.
A quarter mile into the trees I realized I had seen numerous
potentials for the trail. Is this right? No confirmation marker. Turned around, went back to last seen marker, started again,
same path. Still no confirmation marker. Turned around.
Mental meltdown.
Everything changes.
Don’t get lost. I was crying and speaking out
loud. To no one. Where
the f*ck is the trail? Where the
f*ck is the trail marker?!? Head
starting to hurt from squeezing fluid out of my face so quickly. I’m
alone. I DON’T WANT TO GET LOST.
Two guys descend into the trees. I choke it all back, stifle my heaving pitiful self, and
turn forward on the trail. I let
them pass and jog behind.
Had I gone another fifty feet then I’d have found the marker
without issue. Tears involuntarily
flow. I’m furious with myself for
being so unreasonable. Nothing said to turn, so why would you have
changed trails? I had no logic
at this point. This was not my
usual behavior. I don’t get
emotional like this during runs or races.
I maintain my self-pity-jog, trying to opt for stoic. It’s not working.
I have no recollection if I caught Mark and his pacer or if
they caught me, but suddenly I had people going my speed. I had voices and the presence of
others. Mark’s pacer is very
chatty and very supportive, telling stories about running Bear in the snow the
previous year as well as what to expect for this section, dictating mile by
mile. Turns out Mark and I were
both having a rough time.
“When you get to the lodge do NOT go inside and do NOT
sit. Everyone who sits ends up
dropping. It’s a grave site
there.” Oookay. Point taken.
We hit the small creek crossings and the road to the aid
station. Slight downhill. I jog. Mark apparently lost his descending legs so I pull ahead,
though not by much. When I get to
the aid station, which is without crew, I somehow hold things together.
The volunteers offer grilled cheese and innumerable other
solid foods. I silently shake my
head no. All I want is broth. A canopy covers the sitting area. Mark arrives, makes a joke out of
breaking his friend’s rule, sits in a chair and smiles. Trying to make humor out of his
discomfort.
I glance at my watch.
Astronomically way off from Nathan’s comment of two and a half
hours.
I mention to a volunteer about the middle aged runner who
couldn’t eat or drink, hoping he’d arrive sooner than later. After my second cup of broth I leave. I know I’m not in a good place, and I
don’t want to extend my time any more than necessary.
LOGAN RIVER (69.5) to BEAVER MOUNTAIN/LODGE (75.8)
This time I ask what to expect. “Six miles.
Three up and three down, but nothing as bad as what you just did.”
I kept repeating his phrase in my head. Three
up and three down. Three up and
three down until you see Nathan and Sam.
Just out of the aid station came the small river that was
more like a creek. A half dozen
logs were piled up so runners didn’t have to wade unless they desired. I cross with a chatty guy and his pacer
Charity behind me, though once on the other side starting the uphill they march
past and keep on going. Mark and
his pacer also catch up and pass.
“We’re pushing it since we’re not down-hilling very well.” They power hike to some hundred feet
ahead as I slam my left big toe into a rock for the second time. Twelve or so stumbles but still no
falls.
Still eating on schedule, but mental acuity slides away
again. My greatest need is a
physical presence, not just a voice.
Doesn’t matter if I know them.
Doesn’t matter if they are interesting. I need to offset the deep, unsettling feeling of being
alone. The rest of the uphill and
the entirety of the downhill remains absent in my mind. All I know is that the involuntary
crying continued. I do not miss any
one person specifically; I do not feel sorry for myself; I am not overwhelmed
or worried about finishing, because I know I have ample time to march myself to
the finish no matter how slow. I
have no idea why my mind gives out.
It just does.
At the bottom of the descent a train of four happily trots
by, moving well. Two men and two
woman. Normal verbal
exchange. I try to minimize the
terseness of my reply. One woman
yells out, “You’re doing great!” I
choke up. She means well, and I
spend the next few minutes futilely convincing myself of such. It felt like adding insult to
injury.
Cars up ahead.
We turn alongside the road, small incline. Watch check.
The two and a half hour section was turning into five hours. It was pouring. A passing truck didn’t move over,
didn’t slow down. The
uncontrollable crying started again.
I walk the climb, watching the Happy Train of Four’s lights disappear in
the distance. How long is this climb?
Where the hell is the aid station??
Buildings appear in what was probably a mile later. I am standing, heavy, at the entrance
to the parking lot next to a reflective marker. Unable to find the next. Headlamp slowly scans back and forth.
Woman calls out, “Keep going. All the way down.”
Mustered a thanks. Slow
trudge through more parking, find a second building. Again I stop, unclear of where to go. Standing in the rain, scanning. Feeling awfully alone despite cars
parked all around and the occasional oblivious person walking around.
“Laura!”
I look over.
Sam and Nathan are standing to the side in the dark, waving their
hands. I can tell they are
worried.
Nathan. “How
are you feeling?”
I shake my head and drop my gaze, trudging past toward the
light at the back of the building.
This is apparently the lodge.
Someone called it a yurt.
The tears are trying to push through; I’m fighting them back with every
ounce of potential pride I might somehow retain.
At the lodge/yurt entrance everyone is huddled under the
small porch awning or packed inside, including the communications guys. I hate that I have to enter a lit area to
check in, wanting to avoid confrontation about my condition. I go in, call out my number from afar,
and immediately turn around to head outside. It is boiling in
there.
Everyone on the stoop can hear my sniffles, the shaking in
my voice. They keep their heads
down, avoiding eye contact. The
guys I sit next to moves over to give me more room. With very few words I pull off my shoes, remove a safety pin
from my bib, and pop the three quarters of an inch long blister on the lateral
side of my left big toe. There are
at least six blisters on each foot, but this was the only one obstructing toe
movement. Someone I don’t know
shines a weak light when they see what I’m doing. It stings. He
offers a bandaid. I decline. It won’t stay in place anyways. Remembering last year, I retie my shoes
snug so they don’t move and I can pretend the blisters don’t exist.
I stand, cringing but ignoring my feet. My gloves are soaked so I take them
of. Change into a long sleeve
shirt and put my rain jacket back on.
Ask for extra caffeinated gels.
Sip some broth.
Still with eyes to the ground. “What is the next section?” Sam scrounges quickly for the reference sheet. The silent guy sitting next to me pulls
out a small laminated card with the elevation profile. He gently points and describes our
current location and what is to come.
A little down, lots of up, and some more down to the next crew
station. One non-crew aid on a
flat spot mid-climb.
Nathan. “Do you
want me to run with you to the end?”
He’s referring to the last fifteen. I nod multiple times, still not looking up, the biggest
communication I’ve managed during the whole pathetic exchange.
Another point of pride maintenance to check myself out. Stepped in just far enough, called it
out, gave a weak wave goodbye to Sam and Nathan.
BEAR MOUNTAIN/LODGE (75.8) to GIBSON BASIN (81.1)
Starting the next section was no less rocky. I step away from the yurt but with no idea
where to go. The light rain picks
up again. Perfect. People are standing around. I have to ask where to go, and they
point to the reflectors to the left where the tall grass starts. I pull my hands into the cuffs of my
sleeves.
Once away from the yurt there are a ton of reflectors, which
is good because this is a fabricated non-trail through knee high willows. My calf sleeves are already soaked from
the runoff from the brush.
The markers turn onto a gravel road, and then I see another
left turn marker without anything afterward to confirm. I
hate this game. Standing
flat-footed, I look back to see two others coming up soon. I am content to wait. The nearly passed it until I called
out.
“Do you know if this is actually a turn?” They agree to how it appears, and we go
back and forth four times only to be confused by two branches placed as though
directing traffic but without anything logical following. Two others are parallel on the road and
did not turn off. They say to
continue on the road until a turn farther ahead.
So starts the forest road ascent, which is super muddy with
a deep V cut into the middle from runoff.
We slide with every step. I
kick off the clumps of mud every so often, but it collects just as fast.
These two seem really nice. His name is Ben, and he was the guy taking a “planned
walking break” much earlier in the hot section. Apparently he went out much too fast and blew up, so spent
the rest of the time since “digging my way out.” They are marching fast. I’m not keeping up well, but when they
get about two hundred feet away I realize that I need them. Desperately. I clench my jaw and hike as fast as I can, quelling the
nerves that tell me I’m going to fall on my ass in the mud. I also down two caffeineated gels. Closing the distance. Ben stops to tie his shoe and I pass
through, marching at some four mph uphill, knowing I need accrue a buffer to
stay with them. Ben and his pacer
are chatting the whole time. They
catch up and pass. I stub my left big toenail again, make myself keep
climbing.
Nearing the top of the four mile climb I thanked them for
unknowingly helping me out. We
slip and slide our way along toward the open meadow atop the ridge. I am only so capable though feel
decidedly more alert than any time the last twenty miles. The rain has eased off.
The aid station is a random couple of tables and two tents
randomly in the middle of openness.
No stars, but the tree line set back at the edge of the meadow is
faintly visible. I down two cups
of broth and head out. I don’t
want to stop long.
GIBSON BASIN (81.8) to BEAVER CREEK (85.75)
One mile courses a muddy flat road. I get fooled by four turn markers,
meant more to prevent anyone from missing the actual turn once it appears. We turn again into the woods for a
moderate climb for a mile before descending for the rest of the section. I only remember it as slow and appeared steeper than it
probably was because of the amount of mud between the rocks. I am granny-descending because I still
don’t want to fall. The three mile
descent takes for.e.ver.
At the aid station I am feeling mentally numb. Sam was wearing my gloves to warm and
dry them for me. I put on a second
long sleeve, considering my real rain shell instead of my running shell (which,
thankfully, is heavily water resistant and has helped astronomically – having
learned my lesson the hard way during Jemez) but sticking with what had got me
through so far. Add an ear wrap on
top of my ball cap. New batteries
in my headlamp, switched out by Sam because I’m a helpless toddler at this
point. Nathan gets ready. I ask for however many caffeinated gels
may be left over. There’s only one
extra left, but I still have two in my pocket. I down two of them, hoping to perk up so Nathan does not
kill me.
BEAVER CREEK (85.75) to RANGER DIP (92.2)
We leave the station around 5:00am. Almost immediately I fumble with my
headlamp because it was unintentionally switched to the red light setting
during the battery change. My
gloved finger slips off the button and I cannot get it to change back. Nathan sees that I’m a half second from
a major frustration freak out, grabs the light to whip it off my head, but it
gets stuck under my jacket hood and around my tiny paintbrush pigtails. There’s a lot of sputtering and
swearing to get the hood and then headlamp off. Nathan hasn’t used this feature before and cannot get it to
switch over. I take it back and
managed to hold the button long enough for it to convert. Big sigh. I wonder if any aid station folks were entertained by that
exchange, since we are only thirty feet away.
I have someone to talk to me as we start the four mile
climb. I’m trying to move
consistently, which is nowhere near as fast as chasing Ben. Nathan is being positive, even with my
darkly sarcastic replies. We
wonder about Sam, who is navigating our Toyota Prius down muddy roads that were
okay to ascend three hours ago but since then have been significantly chewed up
through he rain and the other crews.
He’s crafty and young, and at least he’s going downhill. He offered to try to get to Ranger Dip,
but at this point I just need to finish and no extra gear is going to
help. Plus with the rain we doubt
he’d make it. He will meet us at
the end.
My GI system realizes it is morning, and regular routine or
not I pull over to empty out. I
take it as a good sign that my body has not shut down.
Back on the forest road I’m able to make jokes about my slow
progress, and describing my meltdown out loud helps my outlook and takes the
pressure off the remaining miles.
Nathan hikes to 50 feet in front, pauses, waits for me to catch up. This repeats over and over again.
We are but one mile in when the rain starts, something like
5:30am. We are eager for the
sunrise, but doubt it will be present until closer to seven o’clock if not
later. Lightning strikes behind
us, thunder echoes with a two-second delay. Climbing still, slowly. We are between 8000 and 9000 feet, winding our way over the
top of High Top. Rain becomes a
true thunderstorm with horizontal winds and what resembles pre-freezing
rain. Temperatures are probably in
the mid to low thirties. I am not
freezing cold, but I’m not comfortable.
Every five seconds is a groan, as though this might help.
Nathan remarks that if you look the right direction you can
see a faint amount of light differentiating from the tree tops. It takes another half hour before the
blue dawn arrives. We are still
climbing.
“I don’t want to stop at the next aid station. I want to keep moving to stay
warm.” Nathan looks doubtful but
nods his head. A few minutes later
my left foot slips into a puddle and is soaked. The rain somehow strengthens again. I do not say it out loud, but I know we
won’t keep warm on our own if the rain continues. I’m still groaning with every fifth step.
Miraculously the summit exists, and the rain stops. We have daylight, albeit with a thick
layer of gray clouds that continue to look ominous. On the other side is a liquid mud forest/ATV road with
multiple trenches cut out by the rain.
No shoe can handle these circumstances with any decency, but the Hokas
make matters worse with the enlarged footprint – the volume of mud they take
on, the amount of hydroplaning that this creates. A couple pairs of guys pass us. They are willing to jog, willing to accept their feet
sliding out from beneath them. I
look like I’ve never seen mud before in my life, but my quads are completely
shot and I don’t care. I cannot
run downhill even if I wanted to.
We can see the aid station tents in the distance, but for me the descent
is slower than the preceding ascent even as the declination levels out.
At the aid station are two or three groups huddled around
heaters. I choose the heater under
the tent. We sit. A volunteer asks if we are cold, and I
tell her it’s just my hands. My
attitude is improving. Little
things like having planned clothes better than Jemez so that I’m in a fairly
good state aside from my inability to run. I hold my gloved hands up to the heater, every so often pull
them back to let steam blow off.
Trying to dry them a big without removing them, because once off they’ll
lose all heat and become useless icicles.
At least this way they are still benefitting my hands. I realize Mark and his pacer are in
this group as well, blankets wrapped around their shoulders and legs, their
shirts across their lap. They
didn’t have rain gear and got soaked.
Mark does not look happy.
Nathan and I ponder whether to stay a while or whether to
take off. Mark’s pacer encourages
for them to leave, but when they assess their clothes it is like donning a cold
wet swimsuit in winter. I’m glad I
didn’t remove anything. I ask if
anyone knows what is coming up.
Mark’s pacer describes a steep climb followed by mostly downhill on what
is likely to be messy muddy access roads.
I look at Nathan, we nod, and decide that we just want to get it
done.
RANGER DIP (92.2) to FINISH (99.7)
The climb out of Ranger Dip is steep, muddy, technical. My mind knows we are soon to finish so
I am in a good mood and laughing at the goofiness of the climb.
“Try going up like you’re on skis,” suggests Nathan, feet
and knees winged open. It works a
fraction better. A couple guys
with trekking poles pass us.
Nathan sees a large stick and hands it to me to try. It helps another fraction. At least we are moving. It is not that long of a climb, just
super steep. I wonder what it was
like for the race leaders who undoubtedly made it through before the major
rain. They probably ran this
hill. Lucky bastards.
Some two or three more miles are only modestly angled over
the ridge. I have three speed
options remaining: walking, walking slightly faster, and a crouched granny
shuffle on peg legs. I have to ask
Nathan if the granny shuffle is actually any faster than walking. Apparently it is enough faster that it
is worthwhile. I am grateful that
no one is around with a video camera.
The trail winds down out of the woods, and we see the hills
leading down to the edge of Bear Lake.
Don’t know how many miles are left, but we are close. The mud and clay stick horribly to the
Hokas, creating four-inch wings off each side of my shoes. Knocking them off makes no
difference. If this were snow we
could mock-ski our way down, but this mud is too cakey. Mark and his pacer pass again. A couple other guys pass. The muddy descent is a couple of miles
of cautiously picking my way. We
are flanking a few houses, which is encouraging. (Super duper expensive looking houses, mind you.) A light rain starts. Short uphill climb, then more descent
to the gravel road. Only two miles
or so to go.
Between the flat road and knowing the finish is near I am
able to jog, immensely impressed at my ten-minute mile pace. Nathan’s watch, in perfect comedic
timing, dies with a mile to go. A
quarter mile to go and we see a T intersection ahead. Someone is standing, waiting. Sam! He points
us to the left and notes where we cross the street to get to the finishing
park. I get to the crossing point
and have to wait for a couple cars to pass. One takes their sweet time, turns onto the road that is blocked off for runners. I have a mere 100 feet remaining and I have to wait for this guy. Over it. Cross the street, use my best penguin jog as I make my way down
the line.
28:34:29. Good enough for a
Grizzly Bear buckle (sub-30 hours), 9th female (out of 41 who
finished), and 56th overall (out of 167).
--------
Having covered 27 miles of Hardrock while helping clear the
course last summer, I plainly see the HR board’s reasoning behind the
specificity of qualifying races.
Someone could run Pine to Palm and be entirely unprepared. Now that Bear threw everything that
could go wrong at me, at the very least I know I can complete the course. Lessons learned: use pacers, be
selective as to choice of hills during training, be more protective of getting
in the miles I need (difficult to do with a car commute!), continue refining
shoe choice, and practice running with music.
On that last point, Sam and Nathan said retrospectively they
should have shoved my headphone in my ears at mile 75 when I arrived completely
deflated. I have not run with
music for some ten years, only twice now (each hundred mile race) carried it as
a back up that I never thought to use.
I don’t know if it would make a difference, but worthwhile to try.
Photos forthcoming.
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