BrickFeet

ReCyclocross

2012-01-04T11:08:00.001-06:00

So there is a wood-recycling company here in Bloomington with a decent sized amount of property. There are wooded parts and plenty of dirt, mud, and wood to create obstacles for a cyclocross race. There were actually some very twisty-turny parts that required decent handling skills to do quickly, and not that many big-open parts where you would be able to pass people, so some people said it seems more like a mountain bike race course.

Anyway, I did it on the old Klein Palamino. I got out there early enough to ride the course once on my own, though it isn't extremely well marked, and a lot of my time was spent just trying to stay on the route. Before the race started, there was an official course preview during which I realized why it had been so hard to stay on track, because I wasn't going over the enormous piles of mulch that were the obstacles for the race.

When the race started, I fell into an appropriate group; me and these two other guys leapfrogged the entire race, mostly because of their wipe-outs and mechanicals. If they hadn't fallen off their bikes, or kicked chains, they might have been way ahead of me, but then again, I guess that's all part of the race. After just the second lap, I was really feeling spent. My heart was pounding, I was panting, I kind of had tunnel vision; it was rough.

In the fifth time around the course I got lapped by the guys who eventually took first, second, and third. At that point I was just kept going so I could finish. When I began I naively thought I might actually do well because of triathlon training, but since this race was well into the off season, I was clearly out of shape. Either way, I ended up finishing in the top eight of maybe twenty total, had a bit of fun, enjoyed this new-to-me type of racing, and particularly liked the chili and beer at the finish line.

The Evergreen Lake Triathlon part 3

2011-07-19T21:42:00.001-05:00

Left with my thoughts and the spectators on the side of the road, I tried my best to muster the energy needed to get through the next six miles. I've always felt tired at the end of the bike leg, so I figured I'd be fine eventually though I was exhausted at the moment. Looking at the cyclists coming in I was surprised to see Nick just a few minutes behind me. I knew I needed to kick it into gear, and loosen up quickly. I wanted to finish ahead of him if possible, or at least stick to my goal pace and maybe pull of a PR since I did so well on the bike.

For the first mile, I did exactly that. I kept looking down at my Garmin and I was right on pace. Unlike my last few races where I started out way too fast and eventually slowed down, I was running the speed I had hoped for. My breathing hadn't gotten under control, but I eventually evened it out on the bike so I didn't think about it too hard right then and there. I even figured I could maybe even push a little faster since I knew I'd slow down eventually. Form and speed were my only concerns.

As I turned the first big corner, the worst started to happen. I began getting a cramp in my side, and I could feel the pain slowing my pace down. I did my best to push through it, landing on my forefoot, kicking hard, even pumping the arms. The pain got worse, and the cramp spread across my entire abdomen. I wanted to blame the gel pack, so I briefly cursed myself and tried to suffer through it. I thought of the times I'd been in pain before. The ankle problems on the AT, the GI problems while mountain climbing in Colorado... I couldn't tell if this was worse, but it felt like the most incredible pain I had ever been in. Clenching my teeth I tried to keep moving forward and make it past the marker for mile 2, but I couldn't.

I started walking but the pain didn't go away. I tried to walk fast to keep my pace from slowing any further than it had to. I wasn't going to drop out, but I wanted to, I really, really wanted to.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!?"

I'm dyin. Nick had caught up to me, and he screamed what I was thinking. I started to jog, and tried to speed back up to a run but the pain was too much. Instead of stopping I just started yelling, moaning, struggling to keep moving and chase Nick down. I stopped to walk. Plenty of runners passed me by, and I lost count of how many. All hope of staying ahead of them was lost.

"Breathe man," one guy said as he passed. As if a switch had been flicked, I took a huge gasp of air and felt marginally better. The pain wasn't gone, but it stopped getting worse. I kept walking, now ignoring the feet and spandex that passed me by, focusing only on each deep inhale and exhale. The pain lessened and I managed to jog. Slowly making my way past mile three, the full abdomen pain turned back into a side cramp. Approaching an aid station I heard Nick yelling at me again, "Come on Kurt!" A guy in a pink wig with a cup of water held out for me chimed in, "come on Kurt, drink some water, you can do this."

Selfishly, I ignored him. Who did he think he was telling me what I needed? I didn't need water, I needed air. I kept my focus on that as I made to the last u-turn at mile 4. Finally hitting that mark the cramp was gone, this is where it was time to turn on the speed, relatively of course. I had managed to eek out 9:30 miles with the walking, and I had to take as much off of that as possible. At the next aid station, I was willing to take some water, it wasn't refreshingly delicious or as glorious as I'd hoped, but it helped keep me going.

With a mile and a half left, I started getting angry. I wasn't hurting enough, I wasn't pushing hard, I wasn't in the race. Pushing too hard on the bike, kept me from keeping myself together on the run. I stopped working efficiently, fell to pieces, and now I was pissed. My legs should have felt like lead, but they taunted me with a mild twinge of fatigue. I redirected the anger into motivation and tried my best to keep going a little faster here and there.

Heading into the finish the anger started creeping back. I knew I had more, that I could have done more, and so I decided to do more. I picked out a guy ahead of me and that hunger from the bike returned. I had to pass him. I found a way to spend everything I had left, and it was a sprint for the finish. Those last few yards ended up hurting exactly as much as I wanted them to.

Despite seeing friends and family around the finish line, I stormed off not wanting to talk right away. I headed for the food tent and took armfuls of bananas and cookies. By the time I found my parents and brother, I had cooled off a bit, and they thankfully tolerated my fuming about the race. I was loud, I was brash, and I was lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love me enough to put up with it.

***

Having completely cooled off since the race, I'm actually rather pleased by my performance. All things considered, the swim went relatively well, the bike was ridiculously fun albeit stupidly fast, and I was able to learn some valuable lessons from the run. It was a great race and I'm thankful for every part of it, and I'm thrilled that I got to share my passion for triathlon with the people that really matter the most to me.

The Evergreen Lake Triathlon part 2

2011-07-18T21:12:00.000-05:00

My vision was still blurry even with the goggles off of my face. I could hear friends and family cheering me on, and I wanted to thank them, but I already felt spent. My field of vision was limited to the few feet in front of me, and my focus was on breathing and finding my bike. Having an obnoxiously green helmet always makes finding my gear easy, so I was soon stumbling to put on my bike shoes then running out of the transition area next to some guy in a purplish tri suit. Still breathing fast and shallow, I crossed the mount line and jumped into the saddle.

After struggling into the clipless pedals, I shifted up to gain some speed; my legs shouted in revolt. But they're not in charge. Finally all set on the bike, it was my time, my race, and I was ready to go fast. The first order of business was to catch they guy in purple; they seem to be the bane of my racing career. Cranking hard, I passed a guy, and soon another, but those damn purple shorts kept pulling away down the road. Eventually the pace was too much, I shifted into a lower gear, relaxed my muscles.

Out of sight, the guy was out of mind. "C'mon," I told myself. This was my hometown course. These cornfields were mine. I'd ridden the race route and I was ready for every inch of it. Each corner, each hill, and each rider were all mine for the taking, so pushing hard was the only order of business. I reminded myself about proper form and technique, staying relaxed and shifting the right way at the right time, full pedal rotations and breathing deep. Each time I passed someone, I only wanted to move faster, to catch the next neon blur a few hundred meters further up the road.

Having flown through the first few turns in the road, I approached the first major corner and slowed down. I arced wide. Too wide, and too slow. "C'mon!" I stood up and charged back to race speed, up and over a short incline, but most importantly past a guy on a fancy triathlon bike. But that speed couldn't last long and I knew it. The next corner was quickly approaching. I was surprised when I saw a cyclist standing at that corner, his bike lying on the ground. Maybe a mile later I saw an ambulance approaching. I hoped for a moment that the downed cyclist would be ok, but only briefly. Quickly, I turned my attention back to the road, the elevation, my form; the race.

The conditions were so perfect, the wind turbines weren't even moving. They stood tall and ominous throughout the vast cornfields like soldiers awaiting command. From above we probably looked like we were slowly inching along the 42 kilometer course, but far below everyone was giving the race their all. I had a goal pace in mind, but the changes in speed going up and down inclines and around corners make it impossible to calculate. My only indicator was effort, and I was pushing hard. Each moment called for the maximum exertion I could allow.

The course was lonely and I was pleased. Going into the race I knew cycling was my strength, and I had pushed hard enough to be isolated on the course. Eventually I found what I was looking for, some rider's ahead of me. I recognized one as the girl who won the collegiate women's division of the last race. I slipped past her knowing full well that she'd do the same when we got to the run. Ahead was another, and another, it was as if I had a hunger that couldn't be satiated.

With only a few miles left, the effort was beginning to get the best of me. I ate a second energy gel, assuming that I'd need the boost in the near future, when I typically tire out in the run. As I reached for my water bottle to wash down the honey, I was passed by another rider. I quickly sucked the last bit of water out of the bottle and I set in to catch up with my new nemesis. The pursuit lasted a while, I tried to hang on and hoped to take him on a down hill or flat, but the energy was no longer there. With a mile and a half to go and the lake stretching out next to me, I conceded, and began to think about the run.

My mouth was parched, and my throat was sticky with the remnants of the Honey Stinger gel. I wished I had brought more water, and my thoughts focused on my full water bottle sitting next to my running shoes in the transition area. Maybe I'd carry it on the run, at the very least I'd take a glorious full swig on my way out to the run.

Approaching the dismount, I slipped my feet out of my bike shoes. My legs were shaking and I struggled to balance on top of them and pedal towards the transition. I slipped off of one shoe and it dragged for a few hundred feet until I could manage to flip it upright. Feeling more like an idiot than anything else, I rolled towards the dismount line, then hopped of the bike at a run. At my bike rack I quickly prepped for the run, only managing a quick sip of water before I took off for the run-out.

My first thoughts were optimistic. My family and friends had shouted full support as I had gotten off the bike. Craig yelled that I had killed it, that I had sped through the bike faster than anyone had expected. For that I was thrilled. As I settled into the run, I made my way onto the road, and back past my brother.
"How do you feel?"
"I'm dyin," I managed to huff out between some heavy breaths.

The Evergreen Lake Triathlon part 1

2011-07-17T13:50:00.004-05:00

Inspired by family and because of a string of injuries while running, about a year ago I decided my exercise goal would be to start training for triathlons. I trained on and off for a while, still dealing with injuries and the various problems that we deal with in life, but eventually everything seemed to happen in just the right way for me.

I found out about collegiate triathlon racing, I got a job as a spin instructor, and seeing my growing passion for the sport, my family made the incredibly generous gesture of giving me a bike. I had everything I would need to dedicate myself to the new sport. Ever since then it has been game-on.

Ten weeks ago, a new training cycle started. The goal: qualify for Nationals. With a mindset more focused and determined than ever before, I started pushing my body through some of the most strenuous activities possible in the name of getting faster and stronger. Tuesday morning swim workouts make my whole body ache. Wednesday speed work make my lungs burn. Every weekend I go for long rides and runs that challenge my determination and endurance. At the end of every workout, when I think to myself, "that was fun," I know that I'm on to something.

***

Despite all of the physical training and mental preparation, the week before Evergreen just didn't happen as planned. Despite abbreviated workouts, I still felt exhausted. Despite feeling exhausted, sleep was restless. I tried out advice, but nothing seemed to work, and the night before the race I just lay in bed wondering why I still had not fallen sleep. Too little too late, I got my wish at 2:30 in the morning.

Four hours later, I was jogging down the run route to warm up for the race. After a few easy minutes I turned around and did some sprints to make sure the fast-twitch muscles were awake and the blood was flowing. Lying in the grass by the transition area I stretched out my legs and my mind was blank. Calm, finally, ten minutes before the race started and I was right where I needed to be. Standing next to my bike in the transition area, I slipped of my shoes and lined them up next to bike's front tire, pointing away, now ready to shoved on when I finished the bike.

Breathing deeply I walked down to the boat launch through the sea of neon swim caps. I waved to my teammates, but pushed on and into the crowd of spectators. From a distance I could see the furrowed brow of my mom, looking off for something. With a smile I walked over, hugged my parents and brother, and was now ready to line up for the start of the race.

The air was still and the surface of the lake reflected the overcast morning sky. Far from peaceful, loudspeakers were blasting fast paced music, and the race directer was shouting last minute reminders through a bull-horn. With a minute until the start, the Elite/Collegiate wave pushed forward into the water, as far as we could until the referee started hailing us back. I was right where I needed to be. The far side would keep me from having to fight through too many other swimmers or be toppled by others; I'd be able to slip into the group right where my pace was appropriate. With a few more reassuring thoughts, I moved forward a the alarm that started the race.

Feet got in my face and I brushed shoulders with countless others but my stroke was strong, my breathing was thorough. Even though I try to start races slow, I felt fast, and it felt great. Heading to the first corner of the diamond-shape swim route, I could have been first or last and it wouldn't have mattered. All systems were go. Content seems like an inappropriate way to describe how I felt at that moment, but all things considered, everything was going phenomenally.

A few hundred meters later I approached the next buoy, and though I was starting to fatigue, knowing I was about half-way through the swim was all I needed to keep pulling myself forward. Reach, breathe, reach, breathe, don't forget to rotate, keep those legs up; my goggles started to fog at the corner and I put my trust into fellow racers to hold the line to the next buoy and the final turn. The meters began to drag on. With the competition sufficiently spaced out, the view varied little between murky green, and the distant lake shore.

Getting tired, my thoughts began to turn. "Swimming is stupid." Breathe, reach, breathe, reach... "The only point of this is to make you too tired to perform well in the rest of the race."

There was some contact with other racers. The strongest swimmers of the next wave of athletes had caught up. Dark swim caps moved efficiently through the ever persistent neon-yellow caps of the Elite and College racers. If my patterned breathing wasn't necessary I may have sighed with frustration. Not because I was being passed, I know where I stand in terms of ability, but because the swim seemed to stretch on forever.

Eventually I made the final turn, but I did not have much left in my arms. My goggles were completely fogged over. I could barely see the shoreline, and had no hope of figuring out where the swim-out was. With my head down, I focused on getting through it, rehearsing my transition, and focusing on swimming form. I reached, and rotated, and kept my feet up when a lifeguard splashed in front of me. I had veered off course.

With thoughts of thanks I turned in the right direction and kept on going. They say the swim is the shortest part, and makes the least difference in finishing time, but they definitely got it right in terms of equal effort. I could finally see the docks that bordered the boat launch. Using everything I had to get between them as fast as possible, I pulled my way to the swim out. The crowds were cheering, and I could see others standing up around me. I tried to do the same, but slipped. A layer of algae coated the concrete boat-ramp and a steady footing was impossible to gain. I inched forward, not at all fast or strong, and hardly feeling like a competitor. But I got through that too. Finding a grip I slowly gained speed and jogged up to the transition.

My first TT

2011-05-04T10:13:00.001-05:00

I've been planning on doing this for ages. Well, for as long as since I knew they existed. On my long rides, I've been riding out to the TT course, riding it, thinking about how I'd approach each part of the course (hills, turns, flats, etc) in order to speed through it as fast as possible.

After my 110 mile weekend, and an overall lack of motivation in terms of working out (so I can get through finals), I finally had a Tuesday night free to go for the TT that a local bike shop hosts.

I had two goals.
1.) To beat our club moderator. Not a "mine is bigger" thing, I just needed some sort of goal, and knowing her ability, trying to beat her would really be pushing myself.
2.) To not get passed up. They start everyone 15 seconds apart, with the slowest person going first. I knew that everyone behind me may be faster, so this goal was a more physical and immediately measurable way for me to get my ass in gear.

In order to get the times right as we cross the finish line, we had to shout out our number in the starting order. I was "24," nice, my age, a solid TV show, something I can remember. But it was out of 30 something, so that meant I had about a dozen or so faster people behind me. Now that's motivation.

When it was my turn to start, I was freezing. It was below 45 degrees, windy, and I was just in bike shorts and a short sleeve jersey. I kept telling myself it was extra motivation to go fast, warm up, get the ride over with, and get back into my car. The timer said go, and I fumbled to get my feet into the pedals, but when I did, I cranked hard, out of the saddle to get up to speed. My heart rate skyrocketed and I was afraid of going out too fast like I still tend to do.

I past the person who started 15 seconds ahead of me. And soon after that the next few people too. By the fourth mile, I didn't have anyone else to catch. From then until the end, my only motivation was my speedometer and the amount of pain I was in. As far as I was concerned, if I didn't feel like crap, I wasn't doing it right. My throat and lungs burned in the cold. My saliva turned to syrup, and the best part was that my legs were too numb for me to realize that they were aching. Looking back on it, I feel like I took the first half too slow, but then again, if I had gone faster there, I might have not had enough energy at the end...

Looking behind myself near mile 10 I saw that there were a couple of riders within a quarter mile. And going up a steep hill, I panicked, thinking I heard someone coming up behind me. I was just psyching myself out, but it helped speed things up. At this point my legs were starting to hurt despite the cold. With my mouth gaping open, gasping for air, spit had started to ooze out my mouth and fly off in the wind. I was in a high gear, cranking hard, reminding myself about the best form possible, trying to maintain a high speed. Then about two miles later, just before the final valley and finish line, it actually happened. Some guy on a top of the line Specialized tri bike crept up behind me. For a second I matched him in speed, but he slowly pulled away as we started heading down hill.

On the way back up, in the last 400 yards to the finish line, I needed to take revenge. No one was allowed to pass me. I at least had to catch him in order to get back. Not caring about an aero position, I grabbed my drops and got out of the saddle. I lunged forward and gave the pedals everything I had. I dropped that freakin hammer that race commentators are always talking about. I shouted to myself "explative this!!!" I started inching up towards the guy's back wheel. When I had it, my calves seized up. But they weren't allowed too. I pushed harder, abusing the bike for everything it would give me. Anyone stronger than I may have bent the frame with the amount of torque I was trying to get out of it. I eventually matched the guy in purple shorts, but you and I both know that wasn't enough. Just a few yards in front of the finish line, I got my wheel a solid foot in front of his and shouted "24!" as I crossed the finish line.

I've never felt so wasted after a race. It was incredible, and I can't wait for the next time I get to do it.

Overdue: Jingle Bell 5k

2011-04-16T20:31:00.005-05:00

I didn't want to do homework on a Saturday night, so I thought finally getting this up would be a productive way to kill some time, revive this blog, and get my writing back on track for a USAT recap...
The first half was written a day or so after the race. The part about the running I wrote a few minutes ago. Hopefully it all fits together.

I’ve been plagued with injuries ever since I got back from the Appalachian Trail. First it was Sinus Tarsi syndrome and every run of more than five miles would end with me limping up the driveway. I ran with an ankle brace for a while, but eventually quit running all together. The summer kept me busy enough with a job and a night class. Then, one day at work, while a kindergartener was climbing over me, I felt like my back had been snapped in two. A few days of barely moving helped that one, and by the time the fall semester started I felt good enough to go for short runs a few days out of the week. Once the semester really got going, and I started taking a fitness instructor training course, stress and resistance training brought the back and shoulder pain right back. It hasn’t gone away even after cutting way back. When a dozen or so people I know were anxiously awaiting the start of the Chicago Marathon, I knew I had to get back into running myself. I picked a winter race and jumped right into a training schedule. Seven weeks late, advanced mileage and workouts felt great during the first few weeks, until I got shin splints. After another week of limping, I decided to focus on school and wait until the next semester and triathlon training before I started running again.

The Chicago Marathon came and went. It was a huge disappointment to a lot of people looking to set personal records. Knowing the feeling, I didn’t envy those who ran the race too much anymore. A month later, my brother ran another marathon, to put the conditioning to use one more time, and hope that cooler weather would get him closer to the goal pace. When he crossed the finish line, pride far outweighed the jealousy. His splits were nearly dead even. He ran a near perfect race.

Congrats Craig, I know I’ve said it already, but that was incredible, I’m really glad I got to be there to see it.

But jealousy crept back. It practically tapped me on the shoulder and slapped me in the face. I buried myself in work for the triathlon team. I built a website. I designed logos and fliers for our spring 5k. I researched races and put together a schedule of events for the spring season. It helped, but I wanted to be running again. I wanted a race on the calendar with my Sunday morning long runs laid out like runway lights guiding me in to the end. Craig suggested the Illinois Marathon, April of 2011.

I was beyond skeptic. The National Collegiate Championships for triathlon will be in April. This winter I wanted to be training for that. Relaxing one Saturday, I checked the spring race schedule and saw the first sign. The marathon is three weeks after the triathlon. I could do both, but I’m not going to take either lightly. I looked into Hal Higdon’s PR training schedule. I mapped it out and I was already six weeks late. That I was fine with, the mileage was still low. I looked at the workout for the next day and saw I was supposed to race in a 5k. Just for grins, I looked up races in the area, to see if I could find one at least an hour away.

The was a 5k less than two miles away from my doorstep. Done. My shin hadn’t bothered me for a couple weeks, so this seemed like the perfect way to get back into training. The next morning I had my pre-race oatmeal and called up my brother.
“Have any advice?” I’ve never raced a 5k before.

I had to walk the two miles to the race. I had sent messages to friends, hoping that they’d want to run as well and be able to give me a ride to the race. Without either of these, I used the trip there to call Craig and plan out how I would run this race. We talked about warming up, stretching, and what sort of pace I should aim for. Everything seemed to be under control.

The race was held at Heartland Community College. I was amazed by the amount of cars in the parking lot. Since I hadn’t heard about the race until I found it online, I just assumed it would be a small affair. After jogging around, slightly panicked, looking for the “day of registration,” I walked into a small building packed with people. I’ve been to bars that were at capacity and less cramped. People were practically on top of each other, barely moving, just staying away from the cold weather outside. As much as I can appreciate the shelter and warmth of the indoors, I was getting irritated. I had just three minutes until walk-in registration closed. I squeezed my way over to the side of the room with signs directing runners toward packet pick up. There was a huge line.

I cut ahead of a lot of tired looking people, likely adding to their frustration, but they were blocking the table that I needed to be at. I handed my cash to the man in charge and was told that my race packet was in the next room. I turned around and was face to face with the enormous line. I sighed. There were just thirty minutes to go before the race started. Briefly wondering how all of these people were going to get their bibs and timing chips before the gun went off, I cut through the line and went right up to the line-less table in the middle of the next room. Late registration clearly has its perks. While everyone who took the time to register days before the race had to wait in line, the few of us who had just decided to run got to sign in and get our race materials without a single delay.

Outside I looked around for the start. I asked a few people where it was, but no one seemed to know. Noticing a small crowd heading around a building, I followed in hopes that they were heading to the start.

Having looked up the course map online before I left, I had a general idea of where I ought to go. Everyone else seemed to have a different idea. They were lined up at the start line, but in the wrong direction. Just minutes before the scheduled start, someone decided to fix the situation, and we all moved to the other side of the line.

Getting a bit of a pre-race panic, I started asking the people around me about their pace. I still had Craig’s advice in mind, but I felt like an actual running partner would be a good thing. I found a couple guys who’d run the Chicago Marathon, and decided I would do my best to stick with them. I was settled and ready. But when the gun was fired, my mind was blank all over again.

Unlike the marathons that I’d read up on, and spent months preparing for, this time, I didn’t have the self control I needed to start the race properly. Instead of taking Craig’s advice, or hanging with the guys I met at the start, race blinders were on. I saw the front of the pack pulling away and decided that I had to stick with them. The down hill start helped out a bunch, and my first mile was completely ridiculous. 6:23. No way in hell was I going to be able to keep that up for the next 2.1 miles. Especially since a u-turn threw us straight into the wind, and back up-hill.

I could feel my legs getting tired and heavy after the first mile. What I’d convinced myself was a short, painless distance now felt like mile 15 of a long run. Instead of being passed by people that were just plain faster than me, I was now being passed by those I’d passed earlier on. The two marathoners I'd met at the start passed me too, waving behind themselves. I did my best to remain positive, giving them a shout as they passed, and hoping I wouldn't slow down too much more.

When I made it to mile 2 I wasn’t shocked to hear that my split was a minute and ten seconds slower. My only goal at that point was to not get any slower. Though the hills were small, and there were as many downs as there were ups, the last mile felt like it was all up hill. Someone may as well have tied weights above my knees, because that’s how it felt. At this point, I wasn’t even just being passed by people with more common sense, middle school cross country runners goofing around with their friends seemed to glide by me effortlessly.

Up one last hill and around one last building, the finish line was in sight. I couldn’t have even sprinted to the finish if I had tried. My last mile’s split was over 8 minutes and I was spent.

Across the finish line, I wobbled over to a tree to support my weight. A gratefully took a water from a volunteer, and snagged another from a stack of cases when the first was empty. Using a little energy to stretch, and relieve the tightness, I finally began to feel a little better. I wandered back inside to take advantage of the buffet that was provided for runners. Without exaggeration, it was more abundant than the Melbourne Marathon. Granted at that marathon I was near the end of finishers, and well after the hugely crowded half-marathon finished, but still, the amount of food here was ridiculous. Stacks of pizza, cases of sandwiches, and tray after tray of pasta covered four tables. I took a fair share and found a wall to lean against while I scarfed it down. Stale garlic bread, my favorite.

Deciding I’d had enough, I walked back to my car to give Craig a call. My shin hadn’t hurt at all during the race, but I remember in the days that followed, it came back again. Nothing like some injuries to inspire you to race. Still, I was pleased with my over all time despite the ridiculous decrease in pace. Better yet, seeing the results online a few days later, I managed to make top ten of my age group. In a college town, I’d say that aint bad.

Marathon Weekend part 8

2010-02-26T09:52:00.000-06:00

The Launch

Eventually we cleaned up and headed out to dinner. I had originally fantasized about gorging on hot wings and passing out in front of the Super Bowl that night after the race. But after some thought I decided that I’d settle for a pint of ice cream. Because even twelve ounces of Chunky Monkey isn’t enough to satiate a marathoner, we found a well-reviewed pizza place on the other side of town.

On the way to dinner, we drove around town to find a place where we could watch the shuttle launch early the following morning. More importantly, I scouted out a place to buy my ice cream when we drove back to the hotel. At the restaurant, getting up and out of the car took an extreme effort. My legs were stiff and I cringed with paint at the slightest twist in my knee. It seemed like another marathon within itself, but we eventually made it inside.

Our waiter was an extremely helpful Marine-to-be. It didn’t take much effort to devour an order of calamari and an entire large, New York style pizza. We watched the beginning of the Super Bowl while we ate, though I found it hard to pay attention, when more delicious things were there to distract me.

Even though my stomach was at capacity after the meal, we spent some time hobbling around Wal-Mart. I groaned when I saw the dairy section at the back of the store and it took a few minutes to limp back there. Once there, I walked past all of the glass cooler doors before I realized that there wasn’t any ice cream near by. For a moment I thought there might not be any, but I knew that idea was ridiculous. I looked back towards the front of the store and saw a sign pointing the way to frozen foods. With my teeth gritted, I hobbled back to the front of the store.

Sitting in the hotel bed, blankets wrapped around me, I made quick work of downing the entire pint of coffee and toffee ice cream. Craig had barely eaten the top quarter of his ice-cream, and that was with help from me and Ameena. I tried to watch the game, but beyond noticing that the Colts were ahead, I didn’t care too much. At the conclusion of a practically perfect day, I allowed myself to be overtaken by the food coma and fell asleep.

At 2:30 the alarm went off and we were up again. Even after the length of the previous day, being awake at such an early hour felt pretty normal. I didn’t make much effort to change my clothes before we got back into the car and headed towards the Indian River for the shuttle launch. Because of the casual nature of watching the shuttle launch, we didn’t worry about finding a parking lot or having a place staked out where we’d watch. Ameena simply pulled the car to the side of the road a few hundred yards from the river.

Thankfully, I could walk at a comfortable pace since we had plenty of time before the shuttle was due to launch. We eventually found a picture perfect spot at the water’s edge. The only reason it seemed to go vacant was because a tall group of cattails that would block a seated person’s view. Without chairs or the desire to sit all the way on the ground we gladly stood and waited.

For a while we waited, taking turns looking at the pre-launch shuttle through binoculars and guessing what it would be like. Moments before blast off we were able to notice sparks flying around the base of the rockets, burning away any excess fuel. Suddenly a bright light exploded beyond the horizon. There was no accompanying burst of sound from the launch except for the cheering of the massive crowds around us. They more than made up for the silence as the light grew in size, lighting up the entire coast. Though the shuttle’s rockets illuminated our surroundings, the nighttime sky remained black in stark contrast to the spectacle before us.

It seemed to take forever, yet in no time at all, the shuttle arched up into the sky. As it passed into the sky, a thin layer of clouds caught its light like an enormous lamp. Like hearing a police siren while in traffic, the white noise of the burning rockets slowly crept up on us. As it washed over us we stood, dumbstruck taking in the entire spectacle. Flying away from us, the light of the rockets grew smaller though they maintained their blinding whiteness. We suspected that the two smaller engines may have dropped from the shuttle, but it was only the point where the pilots pulled back the throttle while breaking through the atmosphere. Through the binoculars, we were eventually able to see two tiny sparks of light, falling away from the larger one. The shuttle’s light was barely larger than a star for a few moments, before it vanished entirely into the blackness.

Though there was nothing more to be seen, it took a moment to bring ourselves back to our senses. With the crowds, we walked away from the water’s edge. The police had strung up a line of yellow tape to prevent people from parking and walking where they shouldn’t. To make the walk easier, I picked up a fallen stake that still had a bit of tape on the end. Using it like a crutch, Craig and I made the stiff legged trip back to the car.

Once we were at the hotel, going back to sleep seemed like a good idea. Like the marathon, however, the excitement of the morning had gotten us all riled up. Instead, we packed our things and went to the more than meager continental breakfast. We were the first ones there, but as if they had been summoned by a meal tracking sixth sense, a crowd of snowbirds flocked in behind us.

On the way out of Florida we made plans to take our time on the drive to Chicago. Thinking that our parents might like a souvenir from the trip, we stopped at an orange stand on the side of the highway. Craig got out of the car to fill it with gas, and I went straight to the free samples. It was like biting into a slice of orange soda the fruit was so sweet. Each of the different varies were like candy and I even tried a piece of grapefruit, which wasn’t as horribly bitter as I expected. With a couple pounds of citrus now in the car, we got back on the highway to meet a friend for dinner in Nashville.

Marathon Weekend part 7

2010-02-25T13:18:00.002-06:00

Just One More, After This

We split off down the same route the faster half-marathoners took hours earlier. Even though this stretch of the race wasn’t on the main loop, Craig and I had driven it too the day before. None of the hills or turns bothered me because I knew they were supposed to be there. As we started up one of the last inclines, Bernadette began to swear under her breath, apologizing each time for the harsh language. I assured her, each time, that I completely understood. Not only didn’t I mind the swearing, but there were other things at hand. Another aid station came into view on the side of the road.

I ran from the middle to the side of the road so I could grab something to drink. Instead of the normal line of volunteers with cups, there was only a single woman standing by the table. I asked for water and made a motion as if I were already drinking it. She shook her head and told me that they were out of cups. Though it may have been wasteful or rude, I grabbed a gallon jug that was nearly empty and began to drain it. After a satisfying amount, I crouched to the ground and set the jug down for someone else to pick up later. Again it took a moment to regroup, but eventually Bernadette and I continued on together.

It was at this point that I wasn’t sure about where the course was supposed to go. My map hadn’t shown the exact street we’d turn on so Craig and I just guessed while we drove the day before. Up ahead I saw a few barriers in the road, though there were people beyond it. I sighed in frustration figuring that we had a 180 degree turn while jogging down the next side street and back. As Bernadette and I rounded the sharp corner I reminded myself, “its going to hurt.”

Though we had barely run a quarter mile since passing the twenty-five mile mark, it felt like ages ago and I was looking desperately for the next one. The throbbing, heavy knees were worse than lead weights beneath me, and my motivation was beginning to falter. We finally made the turn that Craig and I hadn’t found, and then one more onto the final straight away. There were just a few blocks to go, but I couldn’t help slowing down. This non-stop run seemed to be insurmountable and I began to fall behind Bernadette.
“Come on!” she shouted, “I can see the finish line.”

I had no desire to look at the banner that was strung across the street, or at the cheering crowds up ahead. I stared at my feet and urged her to go on and finish ahead of me. Bernadette’s insisted that I could do it. Though she could have, she didn’t run on ahead. I tried my best to pick up speed and finish strong, like Bernadette kept telling herself to. More than a half minute faster than the mile before it, we finished the last of the marathon at a strong pace. We gave each other a high-five after crossing the finish line then went our separate ways. Grabbing finisher’s medals and water, I stumbled around in a daze. Though I was proud to have finished the race, it was the lightheadedness that almost knocked me to the ground.

Craig soon found me and he supported my weight as we hugged and congratulated each other. He came in three minutes under four hours and I knew that him splitting off was the best thing to do. I found out I’d come in at 4:14 but didn’t care that it was so much slower than I’d hoped. I’d finished without stopping, though not without the help of countless others. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I know that without the help from Craig, Ameena, Barbara, and Bernadette, I may not have finished strong.

After taking some pictures together, and getting one with Bernadette, we hobbled out of the finisher’s area. Ameena pointed out where some other food was but I only half listened. My legs were killing me, I was exhausted, and there was but one thought on my mind.
“Where’s the free beer?”

We got something to drink, and then took our snacks over to a table. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky and the trees waved gently around us. We sat for a while enjoying everything about our surroundings. We spoke to other runners about the race, and running. Now that we were done, the topic no longer seemed painful. My legs soon began to cramp so I found some room on the sidewalk to stretch out.

Craig and Ameena went to see if times were posted as I slowly tried to relieve the pain in my calves. As I was curled up on the ground I heard someone announce Craig’s name over a PA. I got up and limped over to group of people surrounding an empty stage. In front of everyone was a table with awards and an announcer reading from a piece of paper. Finding my brother I learned he’d gotten second place in his age group and that I’d gotten fifth in mine.

Eventually we left the festivities and drove to the beach. Now that the race was over, our only goal was to relax. Even this seemed ambitious when I groaned climbing out of the car. A few hours later, we checked into the Titusville Best Western and cleaned up. On the hotel bed, I knew I was too tired to fall asleep so I just lay there, wearing my finisher’s medal and staring at the ceiling.

Marathon Weekend part 6

2010-02-24T19:52:00.000-06:00

A Different Race

During the first half of the marathon, I had greeted spectators with enthusiasm. I’d high-five children, clap for those who cheered for us, and try to thank everyone for coming out to support the race. On my second time around the loop, I staggered past some of the same people barely lifting my arm to wave and allowing my head to bobble in hopes that they would recognizes this as the same heartfelt gratitude. When it came to running past Ameena, it was always a little different. Her encouragement wasn’t that of a stranger, she knew what my goals were, and more importantly she’d done this before. I hadn’t thought much about the four hour goal in the past few miles, but when Ameena shouted, “You’re still ahead of pace!” I was hopeful that even at this grueling trot, I might be able to come in on time.

Among ultramarathoners there’s a saying about running up mountains, “If you can’t see the top, walk.” When I got to the first causeway for the second time, I looked briefly at its highest point. Wishing that I couldn’t see the top, I gritted my teeth and again focused on nothing but the few feet in front of me. I knew I’d already psyched myself out and I figured that looking at the problem would only make it worse. I tried to forget about the hill completely and sooner than I’d thought, I was on top. Appreciating the view wasn’t even close to pertinent this time. With my head down I kept on going.

Just before the aid station at the bottom of the hill, Ameena was there again cheering me on. I asked her to give me as many extra energy gels as possible. The aid station had run out, so I was glad to have my own supply as she handed them over and falling in step along side me. We didn’t talk much, though I did ask about how Craig was doing. Her mere presence helped almost as much as the caffeinated GU that she had given me.

The heat of the day was rising along with the sun, which was now well overhead. Though there were more than enough aid stations, my mouth felt dry long before I reached each stop. I had begun to walk through them to be able to drink the entire cup of water and sometimes grab two instead of choking on the few gulps that made it into my mouth while still running. Before Ameena left to move up the course one more time, I asked her to bring a water bottle for me to carry. She agreed and wished me luck as I turned the corner onto the horribly banked roads.

With fatigue firmly set in, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to withstand another pair of painful twists in my knees. Hoping to avoid the extra pain, I ran in the grass along side the curved roads. Like the cause way, I was past the worst before I knew it and merely finishing the race became my only foreseeable problem.

At mile nineteen, a hopeful fact helped wake up my brain. The last time I ran an official marathon, I didn’t even make it this far before I had to stop and walk. Though my pace was much slower than I’d hoped for, I was actually doing well. I thought about how my knees had felt during that first race, and about how they felt know. They both hurt, a lot.
“Its supposed to hurt,” I thought, “its going to hurt.” Everything I’d ever read about professional runners described how they learned to ignore, push past, or even use the pain in order to get through the race. Every time my attention fell from my surroundings or distance to the next aid station and onto my knees, that thought kept me moving, “its going to hurt.”

Somewhere in that same mile, a woman jogged past me and I found it odd that she moved into the grass. I had moved back to the road after it leveled out past the knee twisting turns. I supposed running on grass was easier on the joints, though I decided to remain on the road anyway. At the mile marker for twenty, the woman stopped and began to stretch her legs. The same idea had crossed my mind before the race, but now stopping for anything felt like it would end the race. I continued past her thinking, “twenty miles, the furthest I’ve ever run continuously.”

The same woman passed me again a short while later. Again I continued on as she stopped to stretch when we reached the next half-mile. At the next aid station, we both walked through. I grabbed a banana in addition to the water, figuring that anything I could put into my stomach would help me through the race.

A cop on a motorcycle drove past announcing that we should keep to the right side of the road to allow the wheel chair racers to pass. As they whizzed by, the woman jumped to the side to avoid being run down. I laughed a little and commented on the close call. Finding it equally funny, she laughed too. We began to talk about the run and our pace, learning that we’d both given up on our goal pace.
“I’ll just be happy to finish,” she said, as we ran down the road. She was no longer stopping to stretch every half mile or so, and I turned down my music a little to enjoy the company. Noticing that she too was listening to music, we briefly spoke about it, then where we were from, and anything else that did not have anything to do with the race.

Though I walked through, I passed quickly through the next aid station, not wanting to linger. Running alone, I looked behind to see that the woman had taken her time. We were about to take on the final causeway so I slowed down so she could catch up. The conversation was resumed, and I finally learned that my running partner’s name was Bernadette. Perhaps my pace would have been a little faster if I had kept going, but having company was a much more appealing idea.

On the other side of the causeway, we passed mile twenty-four. I took my time at the aid station, drinking three full glasses of water and scraping the meat from an orange slice with my teeth.
“That’s the last aid station,” I said thinking about the map of the course that I had spent hours studying. I wasn’t happy that this would be the last spot for refreshment, but as Craig had said the day before, we shouldn’t need anything for just two miles.

Marathon Weekend part 5

2010-02-23T19:49:00.001-06:00

Getting Through the Half

“I’m gonna have to use the bathroom,” Craig said, “I’ll run ahead and find it and meet up with you when I’m done.”
I told him about my knees, and that I might slow down a bit to see if relaxing would help. We wished each other luck then he took off down the road. When he was still just a few dozen yards ahead of me, I remembered that the next bathroom wasn’t for several miles. I began to shout this at him, but held back. I didn’t want to break the concentration of the runners around me so I kept my mouth shut for the time being.

Not long after, I had almost forgotten about my knees; the pain had subsided to a throbbing that was familiar to my long runs. Nearby, I heard a couple of runners talking about the small number of people running the marathon versus the half-marathon. I joined in the conversation and learned that I was running with a Boston hopeful who’s pace goal was much more ambitions than mine. Regardless of speed, I was glad to have company and decided to run with Barbara.

At the next aid station I chugged some Gatorade and took off with a pack of Cliff blocks in hand. Biting them off one by one, I began to feel better in all respects. I thanked the spectators for being there and told them that I’d be back in two hours on my second loop of the course. The next two miles passed well with occasional chit-chat and an increase in speed. As I’d done with Criag, I mentioned our splits to Barbara at each mile. Since the first were slower than her goal we picked things up a bit. Having forgotten about my knees, I told myself to remember how good I was feeling at these mile markers. Two hours in the future I’d need to summon that strength to keep moving towards the finish.

I made every effort to keep up with her but had to drop back at the second causeway. Again we trudged up the steep bridge, but this time the pace did not slow by much. By the time I reached the top, a stabbing cramp had developed in my side. Instead of using the down-hill to increase my speed, I relaxed and tried to regain some comfort. In the slower pace, I soon found that Craig was again running beside me. He had taken a longer break then planned and spent the last half-mile or so catching up to me. Now that he was back, I actually began to feel like I could use a bathroom stop myself. Luckily, there was a port-o-john on the side of the road just a few hundred feet ahead.

I broke away, though not too quickly and was thrilled to see that the space was standing unoccupied. Even though I was out the door in what seemed like a very short while, Craig was already well ahead of me. With heavy legs I picked up the pace to meet up with him. The past twelve miles had passed quickly, each split being less than nine minutes. As I passed the intersection where the half-marathoners split off towards their finish, I thought about how I’d wanted to call it quits at this point. I realized how weak the idea sounded and I pushed it away entirely. Instead, I stared at the back of Craig’s head and made every effort to catch up with him.

When I turned north, rejoining the main loop, I was met with a fierce head wind. I tried to see it as refreshing, but it only held me back. Even moving at what felt like my fastest possible pace, I gained no ground on Craig. A few runners were between us. To make the trip easier I forced myself to catch up to them first. The effort was beyond intense and I was beginning to develop another cramp in my side. Directly behind the runners that marked my halfway point to Craig, I shouted his name into the wind. He looked back and made eye contact with me. I waved for him to slow down, and he did so gradually. I apologized for and explained my shout to the other runners, before I left them and met up with Craig.

We talked about the wind only for a little bit. I had reached a point where I would direct all energy towards running and nothing else. The same miles that we breezed past in the first minutes of the race now seemed as if they were stretched further apart. I knew I was reaching the point where my pace would become a painful trudge. Needing something to block out the pain, I reached down and turned on my mp3 player. The music in my ears was little consolation as Craig was inching ahead of me. He turned back to say something that I couldn’t hear. I apologized for the music.

“I think I’m going to go on ahead, the pace is dropping.” Without looking at my watch, I knew he was right so I urged him on. As he left all of the pain in my legs concentrated into bitterness and resentment. He had skipped running the Detroit marathon because I was unable to and he wanted to run his first one together; I wondered where that sentiment was now. Other snide ideas came to mind, but I soon became as tired of them as I was of running. I realized that we’d always discussed the fact that he’d drop me at some point. In one final effort to clear my mind of the issue, I wished him the best of luck and turned up the music’s volume.

As if it would make me more aerodynamic, I put my head down as I continued to run. I envisioned my scalp breaking through invisible lines of wind that tried to hold me back. It also helped that the only point I had to reach was the next few feet in my now narrowed field of vision. Occasionally I’d look up to get an idea of the next aid station’s location or see if Ameena was anywhere nearby, but my main focus was my feet and the few yards of pavement in front of them.

Marathon Weekend part 4

2010-02-22T16:34:00.001-06:00

Running

We moved slowly, almost jogging in place, until Craig and I crossed the starting line. I started the timer on my watch and was officially running my second marathon. Wanting to pick up the pace right away, we spent the first mile dodging other runners. As we weaved in and out of those around us, the decked out Hummer drove slowly past, blasting techno music.
“Where are those marathon runners?” a voice shouted over the music, “let me see some hands in the air!”
I gave up a loud woop and raised the proverbial roof as the Hummer continued to the front of the pack. As the music faded away, Craig and I found what we’d been looking for, a small group of runners who’s pace seemed similar to ours.

Not having to focus intensely on those around me, I finally calmed down and the fact that I was running a marathon began to sink in. It was an awkward feeling. Knowing that about four hours from now I’d be crossing the finish line as a marathoner was like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. I knew that my life was different, it just didn’t feel any different. I thought about mentioning this to Craig, but was only able to vocalize, “So, uh, happy birthday weekend.”

It seemed I had pulled him away from equally distant thoughts into the conversation. We spoke about pace, the weather, and surroundings, all helping to bring me out of the pensive mood. With occasional comments to Criag, I paid more attention to my stride and over all effort, not wanting to push too hard. I commented on a dead bird in the gutter, the sunrise hidden by the line of buildings on the horizon, the bands and aid stations we ran through; anything that felt relevant to the race.

Our pace for the first mile had been slower than planned though still faster than needed for a four-hour marathon. As the first few miles ticked away, I shouted out our pace at each half mile. From past experience in running, I knew that at some point I’d begin to run as if a strong head wind came from no where, or as if I’d instantly put on cinderblock shoes. In all of my training, a pattern arose in the pace where I’d slowly drop from a solid run to a jog, never being able to get back the original speed. Craig and I had planned on running together at a faster than needed pace until I reached this point. All through the first miles of the marathon, the plan was working well.

After leaving the highway, our route took us through some neighborhoods, then on to the causeway, which we would take over the Indian River estuary. Knowing that we’d be faster on the down side, Craig and I allowed our pace to slow as we headed up the steep bridge. What started as a morning breeze was turning into a forceful wind, and blowing across our path, it almost helped to push us to the causeway’s summit. Reaching the top became as visually rewarding as it already was physically. Before us lay the oceanic coast, an endless line of hotels, and one of the greatest sunrises I’d ever seen.

At the bottom of the causeway, we jogged through an aid station, each making sure to grab a cliff shot gel. I was already carrying one in each pocket, in case I felt in need of energy that I didn’t have the mental strength to summon. I gladly took one from the volunteers and washed it down with a cup of water I had grabbed with my other free hand.

The pocket of my shorts bounced with the weight of the energy gels and the bit of Cliff bar I had placed there. Not having finished it as the race started, I held onto the bar with hopes that I’d eat it on the run. Turning the corner onto the back-stretch of our loop, we spotted Ameena on the side of the road. We waved, excited to see her and she asked us if there was anything we needed. It finally dawned on me that I wouldn’t be eating the Cliff bar and that I should get rid of it. I lobbed it near Ameena with a large arcing hook shot, “Hold on to this for me!” I shouted behind me, still running down the street. I added on a “Thanks!” so I wouldn’t seem ungrateful for her help.

The road twisted a bit and banked at a steep angle as it wound into neighborhoods along the river. Craig cut the corners saying that we should do so in order to run the shortest distance possible. For the same reason I ran the wide arc because it was the inside of the course. I looked at my watch, noticing we were still running a solid pace under nine minutes per mile. Physically speaking I felt great. I wasn’t breathing too hard, and there was not any tightness in the IT-bands that had been bothering me in the weeks before the race. It all was going great until an intense twisting in my knee almost knocked me to the ground.

I shouted out in pain, but the worst was gone leaving a familiar ache. This had not happened ever before, and I began to panic. Members in my family have given up running because of bad knees, and I had no desire to do the same. I continued on, and just a short while later it happened again. With another scream, I slowed down a little. I began to consider dropping out, thinking that I’d reached the limit of my running career. Perhaps they’d give me a finisher medal if I just did the half-marathon, I thought to myself. My knees began to throb, but I pounded on down the road. Despite swaying palm trees and the road bathed in golden light, everything seemed rather dim.

Marathon Weekend part 3

2010-02-19T17:02:00.000-06:00

The Race Begins

In Melbourne, we found a parking spot a few dozen feet from the starting line. It was still early, just after five o’clock, and hardly anyone was there. I got out of the car, relieved to be well ahead of schedule. Craig was already in a hurry to use the bathroom so we set off down the street at an almost jog. Not seeing any restrooms, we asked a pair of runners if they knew where any were. They pointed behind us. Second to not finishing, my greatest marathon fear is spending a lot of time in port-o-johns. I’d already been focusing a lot of energy on passing as much as possible before the start and with this in mind, Craig and I headed for the horseshoe of portable bathrooms.

Craig jogged ahead and when I stood in between the three walls of bathrooms I realized he found the only one not locked with a zip-tie. In the pre-sunrise parking lot, I walked up to the first port-o-john in the row and carefully examined its door. Doing the same to each in turn, I eventually found another one with an unlocked door. Inside I made sure to relax and take my time, so much time in fact, that when I exited, I wasn’t sure if Craig had left without me. My first thought was to call his name to see if he was still around. Not wanting to seem like I had lost my mind by shouting at portable bathrooms, I headed back to the car instead. Once there, I found that he hadn’t returned. I walked all the way back to the restrooms when my phone rang; he was at the car and wondering where I was.

We took a few minutes and changed into race clothes and organized our things. Bent over with his head inside the car, Craig found that his watch battery was nearly dead. We scrambled to find the set of wires that would allow it to charge. Hoping it would get a sufficient charge in the hour before the race, we headed back to the bathroom. The pre-race lines had formed in front of the port-o-johns, but were moving quickly. As always a few people cut in front out of rudeness or confusion sparked by the sea of people. Almost to the head of the line, I noticed that a port-o-john was standing unoccupied. I mentioned this to the man in front of me, but he didn’t seem to notice my remark or the green tag on the door. As I sat for the second time that morning, I looked to my left, and realized why the space had gone vacant. There was no toilet paper.

Having been in similar situations before, I knew that I should always pack some of my own toilet paper. With a sigh I reached into my pocket, and pulled out the small roll that I had stuffed there.

“Jog a little?” I asked Craig as we later made our way from the crowds. He agreed and we took off down some railroad tracks. We turned away from the starting line at the first road we came too. Music played loudly from a Hummer decked out in fancy audio gear. Energy was already bubbling up inside me. Like a shaken can of soda I had to burst and did so by singing along. I looked at Craig and became frustrated with his calmness. He explained that he’d learn to do so before endurance races on the bike or in cross-country. I thought about becoming a sprinter when he mentioned that energy was essential right before a 400-meter dash.

As we continued down the street, I breathed deeply and tried to clear my mind and achieve some state of relaxation.
“Isn’t that Bill Rodgers?” Craig said.
All hope of calming down was lost. I was completely giddy again as we stepped into stride with the marathon legend. We struck some idle chit-chat as we jogged down the street, talking about his celebrity, running, and the course we were about to race. He wished us good luck as we headed to a barrier in the road. Craig and I decided to turn around and Bill Rodgers kept on going. Heading back to the car I couldn’t stop grinning; the idea of relaxing no longer a thought on my mind.

“We just warmed up with Bill Rodgers!” I exclaimed when we were back. We retold the story to Ameena as we stretched out. In between stretches, I pulled a Cliff bar out of my bag for some extra fuel that would hit my muscles after the race had started. An average bite took forever to chew; just ten minutes before the race and my energy been concentrated into an intense nervousness. I could barely swallow and hoped that taking smaller and smaller bites from the bar might help. Almost time to go, we took a couple “before” pictures then threw everything in the car. Craig looked at his GPS, the battery was still too low to work for the four hour duration of the race.
“I’ve got an extra watch in my bag,” I said, “it’s just a Timex but it’ll keep track of your splits.” Since he was the more pace obsessed runner out of the two of us, I gladly let him use the spare.

I still took nibbling bites of the Cliff bar as we walked to the starting line. A huge crowd of half and full marathoners was already in place. We found a small gap on the edge of the pack and right next to the four-hour pace group. Intimidated by the other runners, I looked only at race bibs to find other marathoners near by. When the National Anthem started, I finally met people at eye level as I searched for an American Flag. With the singer and starting line behind me, I put my hand over my heart and stared up at the waving flag. Those around me did the same, and soon we were cheering out of that odd, obligatory patriotism that arises in such situations.

“Oh crap!” I said, looking at my watch. I’d forgotten to turn the GPS on so it would track my progress over the twenty-six-point-two miles. Worrying that it wouldn’t be able to find satellites in the seconds before the race I quickly programmed it. It beeped cheerfully a moment later, letting me know everything was in working order. I looked ahead to the start and heard the countdown begin from ten. Chanting along to one, I looked to Craig after the announcer shouted “Go!”

“What!?! No gun?” As I thought about this peculiarity, I failed to realize that the marathon and the Master’s Half-Marathon Championship were beginning around me.

Marathon Weekend part 2

2010-02-15T17:38:00.000-06:00

Delays

Though the day before a marathon should probably be spent doing as little as possible, Craig, Ameena, and I had a list of things to do. We walked back to the beach for a light two-mile run. Since she hadn’t run in a long time and wanted to take it slow, we let Ameena set the pace. Much like running in Colorado, the scenery was unbelievable. With the vast ocean and crashing waves on one side, and an endless row of hotels in various states of decline on the other, we jogged past other tourists appreciating the beauty of a warmer climate.

We cleaned up then checked out of the hotel after the run, though not until we had spent plenty of time enjoying the beach. On our way out of town we hoped to make a quick stop to find some breakfast. At a random local bakery we found bagels so fresh they were still warm from baking. About an hour south of Daytona Beach, we visited in Titusville where we attempted to find a vantage point for the upcoming shuttle launch. Already along the pier at Space View Park were a handful of people eager to secure the best spot to see the last night-time launch of the space shuttle. We didn’t linger too long, as we hoped to spend the majority of the afternoon at the Kennedy Space Center.

Several hours were spent marveling at the advances in space-flight technology before rumbling stomachs reminded us that we’d barely eaten that day. With hopes to find something to eat along the way, we traveled even further down the coast towards Melbourne to pick up our race packets. We stared hungrily at every restaurant we passed, dismissing each in hopes of finding something better. Though it was early for dinner, we wanted to find a high-carb meal that would hold us over until breakfast at three A.M. the next morning when we’d be camped out for the shuttle launch and getting ready for the marathon.

At the Italian Courtyard, we devoured a bottomless basket of fresh garlic bread, then our entrees and left feeling perfectly full. Some miles later, we got out of the car once more. The excitement of the next day’s race was beginning to sneak under my skin as we entered the hotel for the expo. Walking around, I was overcome with giddiness when I saw that Bill Rodgers was still signing copies of his book. The e-mails that I’d read about his appearance stated that he’d only be there until two. Being after five o’clock, my hopes to meet him had long passed. In hushed voices I spoke with Craig about what I should have him sign. Shyness took over and I decided that I’d be ok with just having seen him in person.

Back at the car, I remembered that I had brought my cousin’s copy of Spirit of the Marathon. Since he appeared in the movie, I thought it would be brilliant to have Bill Rodgers sign the jacket. I ran back inside, and as I reached his booth I found it empty. A few boxes remained behind a table, but no Boston Marathon winners were in sight. A woman stepped behind the table and confirmed my disappointment; he had left for the day. “He’ll be running the half tomorrow,” she said as I turned away. In the crowds and chaos before a race, there was no way I’d have a chance at an autograph the next day.

We spent the next few hours in the car. First we drove around the marathon course so we’d be familiar with every turn, and the location of every aid station. The causeways over the Indian River were much higher than I’d anticipated. The hills in Madison had aided my demise, and once again I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle the intense inclines. We went back up the coast after crossing the finish to check out some more viewing spots for the shuttle launch. After giving up hope on finding the perfect spot, we drove over a causeway where we found a marvelous view of the launch pad. Though binoculars were needed to see the shuttle in detail, the smoke trail would look great reflected in the waters of the river.

The last stop before settling down at the hotel was a grocery store. I picked up some oatmeal for breakfast and Cliff bars for a pre-race snack. Ameena bought a cake and some candle’s which we brought back to the hotel to celebrate Craig’s birthday. With a belly full of milk and chocolate bunt-cake, we shut our eyes to get as much sleep as possible before the race.

Two-thirty in the morning was beginning to feel normal as we packed up and headed out. In the back of the car, I thought about getting some more sleep, but the better idea seemed to be having my entire body awake well before the race started. Almost an hour after leaving the hotel, we pulled the car to the causeway’s shoulder. I remained inside to try and stay warm while the other two checked out the view. When they came back, we all had a bit of breakfast and discussed the merits of standing right by the car, or on the other side of the causeway, about fifty feet closer to the launch. With fifteen minutes left before the launch window, we all crossed the bridge. Cars were packed into every foot of parkable space and I worried that we’d be stuck in a traffic jam after the launch and late to the race. Craig assured me that we’d run to the car while others lingered, and so I stood contently and waited for the launch to start.

An overcast sky seemed like less than perfect weather to see a rocket blasting off into the sky. We were slightly disappointed that we’d miss the part of the launch that occurred above the clouds. Beyond the multi language chatter of the audience around us, Craig was able to hear a radio. We went over and found a man sitting in his truck with a camera, listening to a NASA broadcast. Moments later we heard that, due to the weather, the launch would be postponed. Without a second thought, we went straight for the car and got going to Melbourne.

Other tourists had warned us that traffic jams would prevent us from getting to the start of the race. We carefully navigated around cars and people trying to escape the congestion. Ahead of us, a car began to back into to road, and all traffic came to a halt. Seconds felt like minutes as I sat there. After spending almost twenty-four full hours in the car, it only then began to be irritating. Starts and stops inched us over the bridges. Soon we were moving at a crawling pace which eventually became a comfortable roll. I relaxed a little as we picked up speed and cruised along the beach to the start.

Marathon Weekend part 1

2010-02-11T21:01:00.002-06:00

Getting There

On a January morning, I stretched a wool scarf across my face because a weather report describing sub-zero temperatures got me to convince myself that it would be a good idea. I jogged down the street in front of my parent’s house thinking about my body parts in turn. No complaints from my knee so far, the new post run routine was definitely helping to ease the constantly growing tension in my IT-Band. Carefully trying to step only in the clear space left by tires, I made sure not to slip and fall again.

Even before my first mile was over, I knew that this run was going to be more painful than it should. It was only three miles, but I was having trouble breathing due to the scarf. I wondered if allowing my face to freeze would be worth it. In the end I opted to slow down my pace and try and suck even meager amounts of air through the woolen asphyxiator. It was less than two weeks until the marathon, I was supposed to be tapering, so a relaxed run seemed like a good idea. At the very least, it was a much better idea than running the Melbourne & Beaches Music Marathon often presented itself to be.

When I began training in early November, I knew I was behind schedule having just finished recovering from surgery. As I sat on the couch and healed, reading books about ultrarunning and historic races, the hole that a lack of running had created in my life grew wider. By the time I could run again, a February marathon seemed like a brilliant idea. Two months later after the winter had taken a frozen grip around the Mid-West, after slipping on ice and nursing swollen knees, after being covered in sweat and snow every day, my mind was almost completely changed. On that sub-zero run, my scarf saved my face from the cold and almost killed my lungs. There was only one thought that got me through the three miles and from calling it quits right then and there. Just nine more days.

The beginning of that week passed quickly with a few more icy jogs. Three days before the race I pulled all of my race gear together. Running this race without a music player did not seem like an option, even though there were going to be bands scattered around the course. Blasting across my eardrums, the music allowed my to forget the pain during my longest training runs. If this race turned out at all like the Madison Marathon when the pain was more than I could handle, perhaps I’d give up trying to be a marathoner all together.

After putting my GPS watch into my bag along with its charger, I also tossed in my old Timex. If something went wrong with the Garmin I still wanted to have a way to keep track of my pace. For clothing, my superstitions about shirts made the decision too difficult to make right then and there, so I snatched three from the back of my closet and put the issue in the back of my mind.

That night, Craig and Ameena arrived from Madison and we discussed the next day’s departure. Originally we had agreed on four A.M. but wanting to miss traffic in “Indy,” Craig was trying to push the start to three A.M. We compromised by deciding on a time right in the middle, and calling the city “Indianapolis” in the future.

I had woken up early that morning, so I’d be ready to go to bed early as well. Even though sitting in a car doesn’t require too much energy, I knew that any quality rest before the marathon would help with energy during the race. We said goodnight around ten, after having thoroughly allowed our brains to rot in front of the TV. I woke up a few hours later and was practically ready to go. I looked at the clock that read, 12:15. I was early. I dozed back into sleep, but only briefly. An hour later I was up again and desperate to be rid of the restlessness. The race was the last thing on my mind as I tried every comfortable position my twin bed would allow. At the close of the next hour, I gave up. I could hear that Craig’s luck with sleep was only a little better than mine, so I asked him if he’d be ok with waking Ameena and leaving well ahead of schedule.

Not knowing how to feel having woken up at that hour, we drove silently around Chicago and into Indiana. When we needed a new tank of gas, I was thankful to give up my seat behind the steering wheel. Shaking my head violently only kept sleepiness back for a few minutes. In the back row, sleep again eluded my hopes, at least at first. As the sun began to rise I drifted off for a while.

The eighteen hour drive to Daytona Beach turned out to be one of the most exhausting bouts of inactivity I’ve ever experienced. Meals were taken from the stockpile of food that Craig brought with. Entertainment was found in books, music, and any silly thing we could think of. Eventually we found our hotel, perfectly placed on the Atlantic coast. Craig couldn’t wait for daylight to see the ocean so, barely awake, we managed our way to the beach. The calming ocean waves were completely overpowered out by the hollowness of a black sky and waters. Yet, the setting was still welcoming. With another long day ahead, we went back to the hotel room and again attempted to fall asleep.

Wrong Turns

2009-09-28T20:45:00.004-05:00

Karl was in Golden for the week so I threw my marathon training schedule out the window and lead him around Colorado on a mountain bike. After an exhausting ride up Chimney Gulch then down Apex Trail, Karl decided we should climb a fourteener. We spent the evening planning to climb Mt. Bierstadt and Mt. Evans, and went to bed about as early as the last time my parents were in charge of my sleep schedule.

With eight hours of restless sleep behind me, I was up at 4:30 and changing into the clothes I had set out the night before. We were soon on the road and driving across a near pitch-black highway. After the exit for Georgetown I turned left, following signs for a wildlife lookout. Five minutes down the road I realized that our route away from the mountains was not about to take us to the Bierstadt Trailhead. Pulling into the wildlife lookout, we did an about-face and found the correct route up Guanella Pass. Signs on the highway and even along the road advertised that it was closed at Clear Lake, but having forgotten the exact location of the trailhead, I figured we'd try and get there anyway.

Eventually we did come to an impassible barrier. I decided to find out if our trail head was at clear creek, even though it was nothing like I remembrance from 14ers.com. The maps were extremely unhelpful which I assumed meant that this was not the trailhead. Driving back to the barrier I headed down a road lined with fences and an open gate. The thought that this was an alternate route crossed my mind, but after driving through what looked like a hydroelectric plant I turned around.

Pulling up to a parked car with friendly headlights, I asked the other driver if there was any way to get to the Bierstadt trailhead.
"Nope, this is private property," he said, "why don't you climb Greys and Torreys?"

I shrugged off the idea at first, having climbed them already, but when I suggested an alternate route to Karl, he agreed to it and we headed back towards the highway.

The last time I went up Grizzly Gulch to the Greys Peak trailhead, the road was washed out, full of ruts and rocks. Karl already appreciated that I drove in order to save his Saab from the dirt, so he said he was fine with me driving up the road as possible. Expecting to pull off after a few hundred feet, I drove, and drove, and drove. I guess in the last month the government added a new top layer to the road, and my car sped all the way up to the trailhead.

We chatted with some guys who had camped at the trailhead who said they were also planning on heading up the trail along the East ridge of Torreys. The last time I had climbed in the area, others took this route, and my climbing partner mentioned that it was more difficult that the standard. Since the standard route up this mountain is more of a high hike than a climb, I didn't think it could be too bad.

Making great time, we passed several other hikers who joked that we'd be on the way down the next time we saw them. When we were off the main trail and headed up Kelso Ridge, we could still see them behind us, but we should have been thinking more about the extremely technical and treacherous route that lay ahead.

Kelso Ridge, as the trail is known, began rather easily. The trail became steep and was loose with rocks and dirt, but experience made it a simple task. Beyond a few intense elevation gains the trail was covered with snow. Boot prints from previous hikers lead a way further up the mountain, but there were no others signs to confirm the trail’s existence beneath. Hoping that the past hikers had known where they were going I decided that this path was better than no path and we trudged on.

When the snow-covered rocks became too steep for the white substance to cling to, the boot tracks and path disappeared. I maintained the lead to try and find the best route across the jagged ridge though there were times where I looked back and advised Karl to take different routes. We made very slow progress; each little stretch of intense climbing caused us to breathe heavily and made breaks extremely desirable. With a look at my watch I noted that our current pace would barely get us to the top with enough time to traverse over to Greys Peak and be safely below tree line, all by two o’clock.

“Let’s push all the way up to where that bird is sitting before we take another break,” I said, pointing out a ridge several hundred feet ahead of us.
“That damn bird better not move!” replied Karl.

I reached up with my hands and found a good ledge for them to cling to. Then I stepped up with my right leg as high as I could to push myself further up the rocky face. Time and physical energy faded away as we pursued the ridge. After responding to questions similar to a toddler on an endless road trip. We sat together on the ridge and split a Pop-Tart. Though my stomach felt painfully empty and my legs were groaning with malnourishment, the gorgeous views and meager snack were more than enough to sustain me for a while longer.

“Dude look at my boots! The sole is peeling away!”
Without even looking I already began to try and decide if going down this jagged ridge would be easier than reaching the top and moseying along the class one route all the way back to the car. We both searched our bags for anything that could secure the failing rubber to no avail. In the end we decided to tie his laces around the bottom of the boot so the little bit of rubber at the toe was not the only thing holding the sole in place. We moved on more slowly after this, always making sure that each footing would not result in Karl slipping and severely injuring himself.

After several miles and rests and an intense number of vertical feet climbed, Karl and I were seated in front of the “Knife Edge” of Kelso ridge. A long pointed ridge shot up in front of our noses and stretched a dozen or so yards up the mountain where it dropped off to a much easier climb just before the summit. To the left just above a large drop was a ledge, no wider than a hiking boot, that skirted the “Knife Edge” and disappeared around it’s back side. On the right was a much less exposed route at a steep angle that looked as if it had fewer places to cling to. I told Karl that he should stay while I check out the route on the right, and see if the area beyond it looks any easier than the sheer pitch that the ledge on the left emptied to. Trying no to think about the danger in falling, I scrambled across the steep face and was soon on the other side.

“Oh yeah, this looks great over here Karl. Though looking back on my route, I’d try and stay higher up since it seems to have better hand and foot holds.”

For the next fifteen minutes I felt like a Twister caller without any colors to help. Karl was growing tired and his lack of climbing experience made the task much more mentally daunting. I guided him into foot and handholds until he felt comfortable enough with the exposure that he could lead himself the rest of the way. Before he was by my side, I was looking up the last hundred vertical feet to the summit.

“See we’re just about there!”

We agreed to take one final break before the summit. Looking into the valley Karl commented on the intense silence. Without conversation the only thing to be heard was the wind, and the occasional call from the other hikers far below. Though the greens had begun to turn to brown, the purity of the snow made the area enormously peaceful, and the intense physical labor of the last four hours was merely a memory.

Heading on, we were soon at the top, chatting with other climbers about how surprisingly intense our route was. We met up with the pair from the parking lot who said that they must have missed the turn off to Kelso Ridge. Learning that this was their first summit of a fourteener, I was secretly glad they had not seen where to go. With Karl’s boots in shambles we decided to skip the summit of Greys and head back to the car. I was more than alright with the decision as my stomach was giving another reason to head down the mountain side.

San Luis Peak: (Mis)Adventure part 3

2009-09-19T12:15:00.001-05:00

I fantasized about the effect of the Powerbar Gel being immediate as I began to trudge up the mountain again. The meager portion, wouldn’t hit my muscles right away, if at all but I pushed on anyway. Then I stopped, hands on my hips I was breathing hard. Just push on until that rock up there, then you can stop again. I got to the rock. Alright, now that tuft of grass, right next to where that bird landed, you can get there. My feet landed where the bird’s had been.

Looking up towards the saddle, I could see dark clouds moving quickly over the mountains that seemed to be guarding San Luis, keeping me and other ambitious hikers away from the summit. I began to worry about the weather. Looking at my watch I decided that if I wasn’t within spitting distance of the top by noon, I would turn around. I can turn around now. I can count this with an asterisk like Ed Viesturs. Heck, I could tell people that I summited. It’s not like there’s anyone around to witness that I didn’t. No, I want the summit. If your dad knew you were doing this… I’m an idiot.

In the past, when climbing out of valleys or up to ridges in general, I would grit my teeth, put my head down and push on to the top without stopping. I wanted to do it again. Without the energy of any of my previous hikes I slowly made my way up and eventually came across the saddle. The San Juan mountains stretched out in front of me across Colorado. San Luis loomed next to me, seeming to be miles away from where I stood. According to my watch, it had to be less than a mile. I can do this. I want to stand on top of this bastard today. I looked out again, thinking about Dan who was somewhere down there, on his mountain bike, hopefully enjoying himself much more than I was.

The trail lead me around the side of one mountain, to the saddle between it and San Luis. At one of my stops, I took a handful of snow and crammed it into the water bottle, which was only a quarter full. I shook it, hoping to melt the snow as quickly as possible, then tucked it under my arm to finish the job. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the remaining Gel. I unfolded the tiny pouch and felt how much remained. Since there was more than half, I treated it as two thirds and decided that the time was ripe for another third. I washed it down with the frigid water and forced my legs back into motion.

The snow on the trail was now deeper than before. Perhaps an inch in places, it now covered half the path in a continuous line all the way up the mountain. Having abandoned the little goals that got me out of the Stewart Creek valley, I simply walked until I couldn’t. Then yelled at myself in the solitude of my mind and kept going. Each time I looked back towards Stewart Creek, I hoped to see another hiker coming up behind me. I wanted someone to share my misery with. More importantly I wanted some extra food. The hour was too late for any sane hiker to be coming up behind me, but that didn’t stop me from hoping.

The next time my legs stopped, I sat down. I had only been at this for two hours but it felt like an eternity. I didn’t want to cry, or scream, or vent my frustration in any manner; I just wanted it to be over. I couldn’t even count the summit as the end since I had to find strength from somewhere to get back to the car. But I knew where some of that strength was. I reached into my pocket and conceded to take the rest of the gel. I chased it with a long swig from my water bottle, then opened it up to shove in some more snow.

“Alright,” I said aloud to myself. “This goes here,” I twisted the cap back on the bottle, “this goes here,” I crammed the gel wrapper back in my pocket then stood up, “and I go there. Come on, you can do this. Its just another fourteener.”

With a solid rest and a boost of confidence I headed up the side of Baldy Alto to its saddle with San Luis. With a few short breaks, I was there and standing in several inches of snow. I looked down at my legs which had stopped feeling anything a long time ago, they were covered in goose bumps. My steps no longer caused aches or cramping, they merely served to warm me. The sun was dodging in and out of the dark clouds. Each time it wasn’t hidden, I savored the warmth. In its absence the song “Mr. Golden Sun” looped over and over in my mind.

From the saddle, there seemed to be several routes up the mountain though it was just the snow that settled in the smallest of couloirs. I picked a route that appeared to be the most direct, even though it included steeper climbs. At this point, my breathing was no longer a bother the same as my legs. The only problem was that I had not reached the summit yet and it was now so close it barely seemed like a challenge. Without stopping I pushed to the top, paying close attention to each step so I wouldn’t fall down the mountain. Eventually I looked up to see how much further I had to go and I was just a few dozen feet from the summit! My only reaction was to run there as quick as I could.

Completely out of breath, but standing at 14,014 feet, I took out my camera and snapped several pictures of my self so I could see how exhausted I looked. Even though it was rated an easy trail, it was possibly the hardest climb I’ve ever done. There were a few more pictures to be taken, then with a look south at the dark clouds, I decided to head back down. They were not as bad as before, most of them had been blown apart, yet I had no desire to make this trip take longer than it had to.

Excited to have the harder half done, I set off down the mountain with a skip in my step. That’s no joke, I literally hopped down and jogged the steep decline. Seeing exactly where I had to go, I didn’t bother with a path as the rocks around the mountain weren’t big enough to do any damage should I fall. Even being exhausted and dehydrated, I was able to get down the mountain in less than half the time it took me to get up there. I was soon back among the trees, still jogging here and there, but eventually I slowed to a walk. With my water bottle nearly empty, I saw no reason to attempt running back.

I rather enjoyed walking through the valley now. Knowing that each step was getting me closer to Dan’s car, five liters of water, and a bunch of salty-sweet snacks. I kept a brisk pace but took time to notice the beautiful scenery that had taunted me only hours before. I stopped and took several pictures of sheer cliffs, beaver dams, and a multitude of snakes.

Back at the trailhead, I slapped the sign indicating the trail length since it was a solid mile off.
“Hell yeah Colorado!” I screamed with my arms in the air triumphantly.

I left the parking lot and began jogging down the road to the place I had left the car. It seemed like a good idea to at least jog to the finish of what was supposed to be a full thirteen-mile run. When I got to the car, I cranked down the windows and had a wonderful sit while slurping water out of my Camel Back as fast as I could. Since Dan hadn’t arrived yet from his trip, I took the opportunity to air out my gear from the night before. After changing my clothes and cleaning up a bit, I laid out my sleeping pad in the grass and fell into a wonderful sleep.

San Luis Peak: (Mis)Adventure part 2

2009-09-18T09:08:00.003-05:00

I began running along a trail that ran along Stewart Creek. Grass grew over the path and when my shoes brushed it, they became soaked with morning dew. The bushes that crowded the trail dampened my clothes and I began to imagine myself practically taking a shower with all of the moisture in the atmosphere. Even though the hike had just begun, my heart already began to thump loud and fast in my throat, I was breathing at an equal volume and speed. To make the situation even worse, the trail became narrower and the grass grew thicker. Then, all of a sudden I was no longer on a trail, but just in tall grass along a creek.

This isn't exactly the easy trail Dan described. I had no desire to run through such a soggy area, or even go back, put on my typical climbing boots and pants, then head back out. Looking up to my right, a ridge about twelve feet high looked as if it my be home to the road I drove in on. I'll just walk the road until I can find a better path.

After a short, steep climb I was indeed on the road, and fewer moments later I saw the turn off for the true Stewart Creek trailhead and the path leading up San Luis Peak. The trail began as double track clear enough that my shoes wouldn't continue to soak up water. At this point, however, my socks were soaked through and I worried about the damage I could do to my feet by attempting to run the five-and-a-half miles that sign at the trailhead indicated.

As I ran down the trail, through the valley, I felt like I was a little ambitions with my speed so I slowed things down to more of a jog. Even with the decrease in speed, my breathing continued to be heavy and my heartrate fast. Looking at my GPS watch, I saw that I had already run three-quarters of a mile, though I had done it in the time I can comfortably run a mile at normal elevation and pace. I stopped to take a picture of the valley, and while standing, noticed that my heart rate was already well above 160 beats per minute. Since I was running at an elevation twice that of Golden, I did not feel bad about slowing to a walk until my heartrate decreased.

The path was gently rolling and gradualy gaining altitude, but there no terribly steep climbs yet. According to Dan and 14ers.com, the first four-and-a-half or five miles were all like this untill the steep climb to the summit at the end. I guess I can do a sort of Fartlek run from now on. I figured as long as I kept my heartrate at or above 160 I'd still be getting a good work out. So once my heartrate settled to the mid 150s I began jogging again. The next time I slowed was well into my second mile. I took a very small sip of water to wet my increasingly dry mouth but wanted to save the bulk of my only liter for the steepest parts of the trail.

After a bit more running and walking according to my heartrate, I came up with a new plan. I'll run the downhills and flats, and walk up the steep inclines. having been jogging through forest, I got goosebumps, and I could even see my breath every so often. It was suprising to think about how cold the surface of my body was even though my muscles and organs were all working phenominaly hard to maintain this pace. Though at this point, the walking was now taking up more time than the running. I reasoned that it was ok since I had to cross over the creek via make-shift bridges of large rocks and fallen trees. Yet, at mile four I decided to take an extended break.

Conveniently, I found a log that served nicely as a bench in a small clearing that was flooded with the sun's warth. I noted that it took me an hour to cover the four miles, a distance that would usually take hikers twice that. With a few more sips of water, I jogged a little more and found it truely depressing when I slowed to a walk less than a tenth of a mile later. My muscles were begining to feel heavy with lactic acid. Normally I'd have enough water to cure this when climbing a fourteener. Normally when I run four miles, my legs feel nothing like this. The combination was prooving to be a challenge that I wasn't physically prepared for.

When the trees began to thin I recognized San Luis, just barely visible over the ridge of a closer mountain. Knowing that the steepest part of the climb was just ahead my goals changed. I'll just treat the rest of this hike like a normal climb. From now on its just get to the top and back, screw the running. I stopped looking at my watch, the high saddle that I needed to surmount to escape this valley was the only measurement I needed. The path became steep with switchbacks and my pace turned to walk/rest. With the heavyness of my legs, I was only able to make it a dozen yards or so, before I had to stop and recover.

The initial run had turned me into the type of climber I typically pass and relish doing so. With a swig of water, I felt the Powerbar Gel in my pocket. My stomach was empty enough that I could feel the water coating it. Breakfast seemed ages ago and without the typical granola bars for sustinance I knew that I'd be burning up all the fuel in my muscles soon, if I hadn't already. The sattle loomed above me, gray from the rocks that covered it. Getting there would take a lot of energy, and I longed to slurp down the choclatey goodnes of the gel. But I needed to save it. Getting out of the valley was only half of it. I still had an equally steep and high climb to the summit from there. I turned around and looked at the valley I had come through. Plus, I still have to get across that to the car. This may be the dumbest thing I've ever done. You're an idiot.

All through the forest I had imagined running into other people and bumming some extra water off of them, but I knew this was a flase hope. The parking lot at both my, and the actual trailheads had been completely empty. Other than the diminishing liter in my hand, the only water out there was in a creek that I wasn't about to drink from. Though, as I climbed, what was dew in the valley, was frost on the mountain side. Higher still I could see plenty of snow on the trail and sides of the mountain. There was the possibility of filling my bottle with snow, warming it against my body, and having extra water.

Yet, I had no desire to climb higher and make myself more thirsty. I wanted to quench my thirst even if it meant draining my water bottle. I wanted to walk back through that gorgeous valley right then. But then I turned back towards San Luis. I want that saddle! I ripped open the gel and took half of it, saving the rest for the summit since I needed the energy for the way back.

San Luis Peak: (Mis)Adventure part 1

2009-09-16T12:16:00.003-05:00

It was quite possibly the most grueling physical task I've ever been faced with. Even when compared to running the Madison Marathon, I think I tried talking myself out of pushing on more times than ever before. Each step was monumental as my legs screamed with pain and felt like they weighed 100 pounds each. San Luis peak is rated as "Easy" on 14ers.com but I had decided that I wasn't going to make it easy on myself. I paid for it in exhaustion, dehydration, and pain.

For some time now, my roommate Dan and I have been trying to get to southwest Colorado. He's trying to finish the Colorado Trail, and I am always looking to get out and do more climbing. The idea was that while Dan rode his trail, I would climb San Luis Peak, a fourteener that stands between the beginning and end of Dan's route. I looked into the route and found that it was rather easy, although a thirteen mile round trip. Since he hiked it before and reported the same, Dan suggested that I could try a trail run up the mountain and back. The thought had already crossed my mind and now I was set to try my first running ascent of a fourteener.

We finally found free time in both our schedules, and we headed towards Lake City and the San Juan range on Monday night. Soon in the mountains, we left the plains and good weather behind. We drove beneath rainclouds, and always in the distance we could see lightning on high ridges of the Rocky Mountains. The weather report that Dan checked called for rain that night and the next day, at least a sixty percent chance thereof.

In order to get better acquainted with the area, we drove on some back-country roads to get to our destination. Night fell while we crossed mountains and valleys on dirt roads and after some worry about being lost, we eventually came out on highway 149 near Spring Creek Pass, where Dan would begin climbing. I was in shorts and a t-shirt since it was in the seventies when we left Golden. When I stepped out of the car at 10,900 feet, I was tackled by a gust of cold air. I rushed to put on a fleece then set up my tent at the end of the parking lot. While scarfing down a quick dinner, we could still see flashes of lightning over the mountains to the north. Dan originally intended on sleeping outside but changed his mind as soon as he found out I brought a tent.

For hours I lay in my sleeping bag, trying to get some rest for the next day's climb. I was slightly cold but kept thinking I'll warm up eventually, I just need to get comfortable. It became more than I could bear so I put on pants and socks while still in my sleeping bag. Within minutes I was in a heavy sleep and then Dan's alarm went off. It was five-fifteen in the morning and we had to get ready. After stowing gear, I climbed out of my tent into a fog. Even with a headlamp I could barely see the ten feet to the car. It had rained in the night and I shoved the tent in it's stuff sack while it was still soaked. After a sugary breakfast each and waiting for daybreak, Dan set off down the trail and I hopped in his car to drive to the Stewart Creek trailhead for San Luis Peak.

Things began to clear up as I drove back across the forest roads. The whole area was brilliantly illuminated, bodies of water and golden Aspens reflecting the colors of the rising sun. I climbed out of my car to take a picture, and decided that since I could use a bathroom break too, I would take the most scenic one possible. It was beyond spectacular. In fact, the entire drive was. Even though it would have meant forfiting the climb, I wished I had hiked the sixty miles from Dan's trailhead to mine. Being able to soak up the beauty of the area while slowly walking through it would have been all the more worthwhile, yet I had a goal in mind.

I got to the trailhead at eight-thirty, well past the typical fourteener start time. I felt no concern for the time or weather as I put on the remainder of my running gear, headphones, GPS watch, and shoved a Powerbar Gel in my pocket. The skies were clear, and the weather report seemed to have been a failure yet again. In accordance with Dan's wishes, I hid some beers in a creek to keep cold while we were both hiking. I snapped a picture of a sign that indicated Stewart Creek then turned around facing the trail up the valley. At least thats what I thought I was looking at.

Apex Trail

2009-09-07T17:11:00.001-05:00

So now that I have a mountain bike out in Colorado, I'll try to ride more often. For now I'll probably stick to cross training days, but during recovery weeks maybe I'll trade a few runs for rides.

I was planning on going out on South Table Mountain, right behind our house, but my roommate didn't have any plans for today, so his enthusiasm took us out to some other trails in town. He knows the extent of my experience so the goal was to not take too technical of a route. He suggested Chimney Gulch, which I hiked, so he vetoed that ride and we did Apex instead.

I tried to do a little research on what to expect during the ride and came across a website that made it seem like more than I should attempt on my third mountain biking venture ever. Dan assured me it'd be fine so we went out.

Just a few minutes up the trail we came across a damsel in distress, she was having a lot of trouble getting her tire back on after fixing a leaking tube. After a long struggle that required all three of our efforts, the tire eventually sat in place. Inflating the thing was equally challenging as her CO2 ran out, and bike pumps weren't working terribly well. She thanked us and we set off up a trail. A ways down Dan stopped and told me he wasn't feeling too well. After talking it out, it was probably his meager coffee and biscotti breakfast that lead to the nausea and lead like muscles. Never the less, he decided that he'd hammer it out and we kept on going.

By this point I had already gotten off my bike at least six or seven times to walk up some steeper and very technical parts. Dan even climbed of a time or two, but he was certainly proving to be the experienced rider he is, even while feeling sick.

The whole way up not much happened other than burning tons of calories in an effort like I've never put forth before. The way down was a whole different story. Not only was it more steep than I would have imagined, but there were also rocks jutting out of every part of the trail. The switchbacks were particularly brutal, I had to put a foot down on all but three to avoid falling off the bike, or even worse, off the side of the mountain.

Once we were back down, we headed back up another route so we could ride through the ever popular, Enchanted Forest. The website's reviews claim that this is the most gorgeous route some people have ever ridden, but to be completely honest, I was more amazed by the beauty and scenery of the Trek trails in Madison. Going up was fine, but the way saw me flying over my handle bars a couple of times. One was particularly rough and my whole side impacted with a loud thud, covering my clothes in a layer of dirt and dust.

Following Dan on the downhills was reminiscent of hiking behind Jean when I did the Maroon Bells. He took off at incredible speeds, how he handled some of the rocks and roots that I had to walk over, is beyond my comprehension. Yet, like my hiking friend, he was kind enough to wait up for me several times along the trail.

The whole time, we had to pass hikers, runners, and other bikers, so the going wasn't extremely steady. The heart rate and pace graphs from my Garmin look like fireworks, exploding up and falling down and rates more extreme than our trails. A few hikers said that we were brave to be doing what we were doing.
"Brave. Insane. In this case, they seem pretty similar," I responded.

Even now, my ankles and wrists are quite stiff from the falls, and I think that my next few mountain biking adventures will have to be much more tame before I feel comfortable enough to take on Apex again.

The Madison Mini part 3

2009-09-03T21:36:00.003-05:00

Runner's World magazine recently ran an article about ways to run through physical pains that aren't serious injuries. It listed things to think about, ways to distract yourself so minor physicall stress becomes less of a factor. With this is mind, I tried to forget about the knives that were piercing my lungs. Eventually, I did catch up to "1:49" and I asked him how he was feeling. When he said that he was hanging in there, I echoed the statement and told him about my cramps in efforts to catch up. We were coming to a point in the course that was a very long and gradual down hill. Thanks to driving it the day before, I was able to tell the other runners around me, that we were headed for a nice break, from the uphills of the arboretum. I also mentioned that with the exception of one other long uphill afterwards, it was almost all downhill from there.
"You better be right!" I was told.

When I hit the down hill, I was feeling as confident in my running as I was in my knowledge of the course. With a brisk step, I left "1:49" behind and found a group of ladies with green shorts and a faster pace. In fact, I was so comfortable with the 8:04 minute miles, that I took a little more time to encourage the crowds some more. Back in the city, large crowds were gathered on the sidewalks at the intersection of Monroe and Commonwealth. I cheered loudly for them and ran along the side with my hand streatched out calling for high-fives. I most of the spectators recieved my invitation enthusiasticaly, though others gave me nothing more than a look of shock. I was worried that other runners would find me annoying. I know that while I'm in pain during a long run, the slightest bit of obnoxious behavior is enough to throw me into anger, but I was having too much fun to care.

We wound through the city, and soon I could see some smoke-stacks from the University of Wisconsin campus above the other buildings. At mile ten, a spectator held a sign stating that we were three miles from the finish.
"Please!" I shouted "Don't forget the last point one!"
They laughed as I ran by, but I shuttered with the memory of the pain and exhaustion of the last tenth of a mile from my first half-marathon.

On campus there were under two-point one miles to go before the finish line. I was excited to soon be finished, but even more thrilled about how good I was feeling.
"If i P.R. in this race, I owe it to you ladies!" one of the women I had been following said.
They laughed in response, and agian when I said, "I'll second that."

From training, I know I don't like to look at my watch too much, but I don't mind chasing down other runners. Without even thinking about it, following this group had helped me keep a strong pace for the last three miles. When the race route turned left off of Walnut Street, it headed north along the lake, and also along the south-bound race route. Heading towards a u-turn I soon began scanning the faster runners for Craig. The two trails were side-by-side for about a third of a mile, and I thought there was a chance I could see Craig one more time before the finish. When I saw his grey, sleevless shirt, I cheered loudly for him and asked how his pace was. When he said he was feeling great I responded with a "hell yeah!" and kept going.

I told the ladies I was running with how he and I have been 'training together' for the Detroit marathon even though we were half a country apart. The talking caused me to breathe a little heavier, and looking down at my GPS, I noticed that the ladies had picked up their pace. Eager to keep up with them until the end, I shut up for the rest of the race and focused on finishing well.

At mile twelve, I thought I might be able to speed up during the last mile and completely distroy my Illinois time. I left the ladies behind, but soon after found myself hurting and slowed back down. I tried to lock in behind a runner to follow him in to the finish. When Craig and I ran mile repeats, I found it helped to just focus on the back of his legs, and forget about anything but finishing. For a little bit, I stared at the man's shoes, but soon found that his strides were shortening and his pace slowing. I moved around him and found some new shoes to follow. When the same thing happened again, I decided to put faith in myself and make it to the finish on my own.

The forested path along the lake began to give way to the campus buildings. Ever since mile seven, I had expected to see my parents along the course who were driving up to catch the end of the race. It wasn't untill the last half mile that I saw my dad and my brother, standing on the side of the path. My dad was staring into a camera but I was able to get a high-five from Karl before heading down the last bit of race-route. When my watch beeped to indicate the completeion of thirteen miles, I looked around expecting to see the official mile marker and race timer. Without one in sight, I turned away from the lake, following the course up a short hill. The crowds along the sides began getting thicker, leaning way over the barriers that lined the streets. At the turn to the home streatch, I waved to Ameena's mom, then bombed down hill to the finish line. The crowds were loud. I high-fived the emcee, and crossing the finish line, made a goofy face at the photographers while waving my hands in the air.

I hugged my mom who was just a short way away from the finish line then headed through the recovery lane. Craig was standing in the lane, and with arms full of snacks, I congratulated him on an incredible finish. The barriers keeping the spectators away from the exhausted runers streatched for quite a ways, so I stepped between them so I could escape.
"Don't you want your free beer?" Craig asked.
I nearly dropped my muffin in suprise and then I hurried back. With free Miller Lite in hand, I headed back towards the finish line to cheer Ameena across and watch others finish the Madison Mini-Marathon.

The Madison Mini part 2

2009-09-03T15:27:00.004-05:00

Out of the gate we began to run uphill. I was definitely expecting a lot of this, and thought I had done a good job training for it. That's not say I sought out hills to run during my workouts, but since they're so unavoidable in Colorado, I felt prepared. Another helpful addition to the preparation for this race was the fact that Craig and I drove the majority of the course the day before. When I ran the half at the Illinois Marathon, I had trained on the course and I loved knowing it turn by turn. At the Madison Marathon, not knowing where I was just added to the pain and remaining distance. Since I knew we were headed up to the capital building right off the back, I prepared for a long, shallow incline.

Towards the top of the hill, I didn't even need to look at my watch to know that our pace was fast. Just by feel I could tell that people were excited to be running a race through the streets of Madison. Since this is typical with race starts, I didn't mind at first, I figured we'd all slow down sooner or later. When we got to one-and-a-half, then eventually two miles without any signs of slowing, I mentioned to Craig that I didn't like how this was looking.

The fact that I never had a solid goal time or plan for this race was again haunting me. I didn't want to go to fast at the start and crash somewhere around mile ten. Craig didn't seem to mind the eagerness of those around him. But it was only the runners that seemed to be eager. Running past crowd after crowd on the street, the only sounds I could hear were the footfalls and rapid breaths around me. Some had arms crossed and others kept their hands in pockets, but the silence from the spectators was astounding.

"Yeah Madison! Way to spectate! Woo spectators!" I shouted here and there, clapping my hands together. I seemed to be faced with two challenges, and encouraging the crowds was much more difficult than the running was proving to be. A few people joined in, but for the most part, I think I only succeeded in shocking the watchers into a more intense silence.

I mentioned to Craig how this was the lamest crowd I'd run through in three races. He didn't seem concerned with anything but his running. Judging by those around me, as silent as the spectators, as social as a pack of Trappist monks, I wasn't going to be making any new friends at this race. Since the pace wasn't showing any sign of slowing I again voiced my concerns to Craig. With a short conversation we agreed that he'd run by feel, just going at the fastest pace comfortable, and that I'd run by the quickly decided upon 8:10 pace. I began to drop back in the pack, being passed by runner after runner. I began to ask people what their goal pace was, hoping to join a few people that were at my level. Unfortunately, since no one seemed up to expending extra breaths with talking I wasn't having much luck.

Behind me I could hear a pair of guys talking about their meals the night before, how one had a little bit of whiskey with dinner. I chimed in cheerily, joking about alcohol consumption and running being an excellent combination. I chatted with them for a bit, but when I found out their pace was much more ambitious than anything I was going to try, I let them drop me and continued searching for slower runners. Eventually I found a guy who was planning on a 1:49 so I asked if I could run with him.
"It doesn't mean I'm going to make it," he said.
I offered some encouragement and decided to take my chances running with my improvised pace group.

I chatted a little bit with the guy who I called "1:49," I never learned his real name. However, he was wearing headphones so I felt bad for talking too much. Some runners have told me that they like their headphones as a distraction, as do I, and others use it because they train with it and get into a mental zone and state of concentration they prefer not to have broken. Running beside "1:49" for a little bit as we eventually made our way around lake Wingra. I took in the scenery and the beauty of Madison while cruising along, and eventually found that I was no longer beside "1:49." I looked at my Garmin and saw that my pace was just about right, and figured that I ought to be comfortable instead of beside a stranger.

Entering the UW Arboretum, I began to feel like a rest stop was in order. For breakfast I had a double layer PB&J, which I could still taste in burps right before the race started. I was worried that the queasiness of my stomach may lead to problems during the run, but it were the organs on my lower end that were now making their presence known. At mile five I considered stopping, but was feeling good and kept going. Unfortunately, that was the last aid station for a while, so I was forced to deal with the building pressures. At mile six, the combination of the speedy start and indigestion were adding up to some side cramps, so I slowed down my pace just a little so I could feel more comfortable.

At the sides of the road was a thick forest of trees that blocked the city and the sun from view. While coming around one bend, I was suprised to see a mile marker and race timer indicating mile seven. My GPS indicated that there was a substantail fraction of a mile until the mile actually condluded. I didn't terribly mind the incorrect placement, because it meant that the next aid station was possibly closer than I thought it would be. My hopes were not false and I was eventually relieved of all things ailing my running up to that point.

Though during my training runs, I often stop my timer when taking a water or bathroom break, I knew that this stop was going to hurt my pace. Race data from the GPS watch shows that this lap was almost fifty seconds slower than my typical mile. That may seem like a quick pit-stop, it may have been longer because of other evidence. I ran hard out of the port-a-john trying hard to make up for lost time, and at the very least, catch up to "1:49." With the increased speed, I soon developed side cramps more painful than I've dealt with in any training run for this race. Walking was not an option if I wanted to at least tie my time. With teeth grinding, I attempted to run through the pain.

The Madison Mini part 1

2009-08-30T12:43:00.003-05:00

I was nervous, but only because I wasn't nervous about the race.

All through my fourteen hour drive from Golden, CO to Madison, WI my mind was pretty void of any thoughts about the race I was going to run the next day. While I drove I listened to what ever radio stations I could find and tolerate. Occasionally my mind would wander through thoughts about my family, where my life is headed, and other serious topics, but the half-marathon was never a topic of consideration.

When talking with Craig, weeks and even days before the race, I was never set on a goal time. My only goal was to beat Madison. After my performance in the Madison Marathon just month's before, I wanted to at least do as well in that hilly town, as I had in the flatland of Champaign, IL where I ran my first distance race. I figured that if I could match or beat that half-marathon time of 1:47:59, then I could say that the hills of Madison were no longer a factor in my ability to run well.

Around nine o'clock the night before the race, I was showering just before going to bed. I started to think about what I was going to wear while running, and stopped myself. No, I thought, if I start to think about it now, I'll get nervous and be up all night instead of sleeping like I need to be. And I definitely needed to be. Before leaving Golden at three A.M. mountain time, I had only gotten a few hours of sleep since I had been at work until midnight. While I realize this is in no way the best schedule to have before a race, like I said before, I had not spent much time thinking about the race.

The plans I had made were to wake up at four A.M. on race day so I could eat and get my body awake well before the gun. I awoke from a very heavy sleep, when my alarm went off, but had no problem getting going since I knew what I had to do. In the kitchen I found that Craig had already been awake for a half hour, his nerves probably getting the best of him. I made myself a double layer PB&J with some of Ameena's homemade raspberry jam then sat down in front of the television to have breakfast. The food went down easy though I chewed slowly and thoroughly in order to make sure that no chucks of food were stuck in my stomach during the race. After some mindless sitcoms and a liter of water, I began to get ready.

The first dry-fit shirt I ever bought for running had been my race shirt for my first half-marathon as well as the Madison Marathon. However, in training for the Detroit Marathon, I've had a couple of mediocre long runs while wearing that shirt. I know its silly and superstitious to believe that a shirt will hold me back, but regardless, I wore a Livestrong shirt that Craig and Ameena gave me when I graduated from college. I decided against the heart rate monitor since I didn't wear it for the Madison Marathon and since I wanted to be able to run easily, without any distractions. With my running clothes on, and a fleece to keep warm, we headed out the door.

Since we were definitely behind schedule when we left for my race back in May, Ameena and I agreed that leaving at quarter-to-six for a seven o'clock start would be a good idea. We parked and jogged to the start line for a last chance bathroom break. We streatched in line and I jumped around to stay warm. All weather reports had come true, and it was windy and cool, a brisk morning. After walking back to the car, Craig and I downed an FRS each and got down to race clothes.
"We probably should start our watches looking for satellites now," I suggested as we left the car. There was no way I was going to start this race without the GPS to keep me on pace, whatever that pace would be. As we walked down the streat to the start line, my arms were covered in goose bumps.

Since Ameena, Craig, and I had all run half-marathons before, and had respectable times, we were able to get priority standing near the starting line. Really fast runners were in rows 'B' and 'A' ahead of us, and we stood in row C, behind which were pace areas for people planning on running a 1:30 then 1:35 then 1:40 and so on. Craig and I looked at eachother, there was no way we should be in front of those people with a goal of somthing around 1:45. We started to scootch to the side, when the emcee took the microphone to introduce the national anthem. With my heand over my heart, I could feel it beating faster and faster. I was finally feeling those nerves that I had worked so hard to subdue.

I began to panic a little. I needed a goal time, so I could have a goal pace. How else was I supposed to know how fast to run?
"Craig! What's the pace for a 1:50? A 1:45?"

With the idea of 8:10s in my head, the race began. I don't even remember if it was a gun or just some random loud noise. Either way, people started moving forward. I wished those around me a good run, said good-bye to Ameena, and started my watch as I crossed the mat at the start line.

Huron Peak

2009-08-22T20:39:00.002-05:00

The day after summiting Mt. Massive, Peter and I spent our time relaxing near Turquoise Lake. There we found a couple of short day hikes out to alpine lakes. We decided on one that wasn't supposed to be terribly long, and after sleeping in, headed out towards at a rather relaxed pace. Even when I try and hike slow, I have a tendancy to forget and speed up the hills, so Peter took the lead after we stopped for a break. About an hour into the hike towards Native Lake, we came over a ridge onto a large open field at 12,400 feet. Now I realize that one reason I left Illinois was to get away from fields and parks, but there's just something fascinating about a barren area that is surrounded by sky scraping peaks and luscious pine forests.

After descending into another valley, we weren't able to find the turn off for Rainbow lake, so we just took the beaten path to Native Lake. It was certainly a gorgeous area. Though the trail existed as a reminder of past hikers, the area was relatively untouched, another beatiful place where no sign of civilization is visible or needed.

That afternoon we did a complete 180 and went to Leadville's public library. From there we planned to hike Huron Peak simply becaues the pictures online looked beautiful, and we thought we'd like to see it all in person. We drove out towards the trailhead that afternoon. Once we were off the highway, we passed a large lake that was fed by Clear Creek, which winds through a forest and some swampy lands. Every so often we saw a naturally dammed lake, and a bever dam as well. Also along the road were the Ghost Towns of Vicksburg and Winfield. Because fading daylight was a factor, I decided that we'd check out the towns after the summit.

Per usual, when the road to the trailhead turned rocky, I forced my car further than it ought to have gone. This time, the sun was still decently high in the sky so I wouldn't be tricked by shadows or moonlight. We were able to get the car just under a mile down the road, which meant that Peter and I would have an extra mile and a half hike to the trailhead in the morning. After pulling off at a campsite, we set up tents and built a fire. I continued whittling a face that I had begun the day before while relaxing at Native Lake, and Peter spent his time staring into and tending the fire. Since Peter's father had called earlier to suggest we watch the meteor shower that night, we stayed up a little bit late, though tiredness eventaully got the best of us. Reasoning that the surrounding trees would hide a truely great view of the sky we turned in.

Since I had read several trip reports on 14ers.com that described Huron as a rather quick climb, Peter and I slept in a little, and didn't actually start hiking until six A.M. which seemed almost too late compared to my hikes with Jean. Nevertheless we hiked down the road using it as a bit of a warm up before we started the actual climb. When we heard a car coming down the road behind us, we both became optimistic that the driver may offer us a ride to the trailhead. We waved as he passed, but he did not stop to offer a ride. I understand why the man didn't the only time you think to offer a ride is when you've needed one yourself, so my guess is that he's always had a car that could go over any four wheel drive road.

Peter and I passed the man when we got to the trailhead, he was just getting his and his son's gear out of the car when we arrived. No words were exchanged other than a cheerful "morning" from both the driver and myself. On the other side of the parking lot, there were two trails, and for a brief moment I was worried we would take the wrong one. Yet a few feet down the one we chose, there was a sign, then eventually a register to sign in for day hikes. Peter and I clocked in at 6:25 and saw that the day's first group began at 4:30. The two hour gap pushed the idea of a first summit out of my mind, though it looked like there were a couple other groups we may be able to catch up to.

I led the first bit of the hike, and sure enough, just fifteen minutes from the start we passed a father and his two sons. We pushed hard, and so did the family because we leapfrogged up the mountain side for quite a while. It was nice to see the beginning of the hike under ample sunlight instead of the usual pre-dawn darkness. Once Peter and I broke treeline, it was just a short climb until we came to a ridge where we saw the summit. Looking up the mountain I was able to see everyone else that had signed in that day. The idea of a first summit was a possibility agian as they were not terribly far up the mountain. At the same time, Peter was a little worn out from our quick ascent to this point, so with him in the lead, we crept up the side of the mountian.

We passed the father and son team for the last time on the way up, and eventually caught up to the back three of the 4:30 group. An older couple and a younger woman told us that the other three in the group pushed on ahead. They were amazed that we had started so late, and were already where they were. They whished us well and insisted that we'd be on our way down before they made the summit.
"No way," I replied, "its far to nice a day to race up then back down right away. We'll be on the top for a good long time, so we'll see you there."

Moving on it didn't seem like we were gaining much ground on the other three climbers ahead of us. When we were about 200 vertical feet from the summit, Peter and I took what I had decided would be the last break before the top. He insisted that I go on ahead and that he felt more pressure to go fast when I was behind him. With his permission, I sped up the mountain. I could only see two of the three ahead, but I was gaining on them quickly. Just a few dozen yards above Peter, I was already breathing hard, and my heart thumped as loudly and rapidly in my chest.
"I immediately regret this decision!" I shouted at Peter.
He laughed and I pushed on. I figured the cardiovascular stress would be a good work out so I slowed my pace by a very small fraction. I almost jumped from rock to rock as I nearly jogged to the top. I paid no attention to the rough edges and jagged points of the mountainside; I had to get there before they did. The grade of the incline was steep enough that I lost sight of the climbers ahead of me, so when I finally saw the summit, I also saw the two guys ahead of my taking off their packs.

Between gasps I said hello, and found out that they were pushing equally hard so as to beat me to the top. They had seen Peter and I cross the grassy ridge up to the rocky peak side. It was our quick pace that pushed them up as fast as they could comfortably go. Behind the two guys stood a girl who had beaten them to the top by quite a few minutes. We talked for a while, as Peter came up behind me, and I was suprised to find out that they were on vacation from DePaul! Once Peter joined us at the top, my fellow Illinoisians and took pictures for eachother. Next up were the father and sons, though it was quite a bit later. Their accents were as thick as their pride for their home state of Tennessee: nice to have a bunch of tourists at the top! About an hour after we had gotten to the summit, the elderly pair made it to the top. After taking pictures with four different cameras for the six (all family members from different parts of the country, making it a tradition to climb a fourteener every year) it was time to leave the summit.

On the way down from Huron Peak, Peter and I crossed paths with a group of hikers. On asked us what time we started and when we replied he said, "Wow! I was sitting in a bakery drinking coffee at seven A.M." I asked him about the place and found out that it is supposed to have delicious pastries and baristas that are equally as satiating for the visual appetite. Now I have to admit that I love hanging out in coffee shops, not only for the products but because I have yet to find one without at least one cute employee as well. So when Peter and I were off the mountain, we stopped by Provin' Grounds in Leadville. The hiker had been right on both accounts, and it was a most enjoyable way to load up on caffein before the two hour drive back to Golden.

Mt. Massive

2009-08-19T13:29:00.004-05:00

Back in March, I was talking to a friend at U of I about mountaineering and I mentioned that Craig and I were planning on climbing Longs Peak this summer.

"That's so cool! If you do go out to Colorado, you have to let me know."

I didn't tell him right away that I was heading west, but I eventually Emailed him and shortly there after, he had a round trip ticket from Chicago to Denver. He got a ride from the airport to the Den on a Sunday afternoon and we quickly decided that we'd try climbing Mt. Massive the very next day. I was slightly concerned about his physical well being and the altitude, but he said that it has never really bothered him.

Peter has a lot more technical climbing experience than I do, even though I've reached more summits than he has at this point. He spent a few weeks one summer in Washington learning about glacial climbing, rock climbing, and all of the techniques and skills necessary to climb safely. Because of these skills, I didn't hesitate to head out right away.

For some reason, we settled on Massive, I can't really recall why, but I was excited to return to the town, and to get to know the area better for Craig's visit now just a week away. Our first stop was the grocery store so we'd have enough supplies for a few days. Our plans were not even made, let alone roughly outlined, but we both bought enough food for three days and two nights of camping. With gear thrown about my car, we spent two hours driving towards the trailhead. Just as mysterious as our choice of mountain, we cose the non-standard hiking route, which required a two mile drive up a very rhough road. Again, I pushed my car up a four-wheel drive road even with the low clearance, though we only made it about a mile.

It was getting dark and I was willing to go on, but Peter preferred to stop driving before we couldn't see the possible dangers ahead. Luckilly, there was a pull off and camping spot where we quickly set up our tents and went to bed. We wanted as much sleep as possible since the plan was to wake up at 4:30 AM. I beyond restless in my sleeping bag though I'm not sure why. It could have been the creepy hitch-hiker we'd passed on the road that looked like he'd stepped out of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, it could have been the excitement of the hike coming up, but I'm not sure. I had run twenty one miles in last thirty six hours so I was hoping for some quality rest. Like I said, though, I didn't get it.

We were hiking down the road just after 5:00 and soon saw plenty of rocks and ruts that made me glad I didn't push my car further. We saw a few turn offs that the 14ers.com route description mentioned and soon came to a trailhead for Halfmoon lake. Using our pace as a gauge of distance, we assumed this was the correct trailhead, especially since the website didn't mention any others. We filled out a camping permit, even though we had already spent the night, then headed up the trail.

A while into the hike, I can't recall the time or distance, we caught up to an elderly couple.
"Is this the trail that'll lead up to Massive?" I asked.
"Yes it is, just make sure you don't miss the turn, we did last time we were up this way."
They went on to describe what it looked like, and we thanked them even though I had seen pictures and already knew exactly what to expect. When we came across it, Peter and I agreed it was hard to miss, you'd have to be daydreaming not to see it.

From that split in the trail, we began some serious elevation gain. We switch-backed our way up a ridge and even climbed a short rock face. There were quite a few steps in the trail when it went through a boulder field, and Peter and I agreed that these are always harder than walking up a steep dirt trial.

Since we were headed up the western side of the mountian, we didn't have the advantage of sunlight to keep us warm. Even the wind seemed to be against us, and we both left our fleeces on for the entire hike up. We were soon beyond the tree line and walking through the tundra-esq mountain side. Up ahead, we saw what appeared to be the summit though its always hard to be sure. I had read the route description only taking note of turn offs and intersections so we wouldn't get lost. If I had been more dilligent with the details I would have read that there is an enormous false summit at the top.

Despite flying into Denver the day before, Peter was holding up remarkably well at the high altitiude. He drank several liters of water the day before and that morning so hydration would not be the limiting factor. I pushed ahead of him a little bit, but always hung back when I couldn't see him. We took only one long break when we were sheltered from the wind by a large boulder on the side of the trail. Otherwise there were maybe a half-dozen short stops where he caught up, then rested a second before pushing on in hopes of staying warm.

When we get high enough to recieve some radiant warmth from the sun, the wind seemed determined to keep us cold. It picked up in speed and frequency of gusts, sometimes helping push us along the trial, but mostly just hindering perfect enjoyment of the hike. I had forgotten my altimiter, so we were never sure about how close we were to the top, though the summit seemed to be near. When we rounded a ridge to what we thought was the top, we were sorely disappointed. It was the most enormous false summit I had yet come upon. Shouting this misery back to Peter, I kept going down the trial.

It wasn't much further to the next high point, though when I got there, I could not find a geological marker, or a register of other climbers that reached the summit. Looking down along the ridge, a large wooden pole stuck out of a pile of rocks about 100 yards away. I screamed loudly in agrivation at having been tricked yet again. I wasn't tired, I wasn't even that cold any more, I was merely more eager to be at the top that I was willing to keep hiking there.

With Peter finally coming around the first false summit, I ran towards the final summit. The views weren't any different than the other high points on the mountian, but it was nice to know that I was finally standing on top of the second tallest mountain in Color

Sunrise on the Summit

2009-08-08T16:55:00.000-05:00

When I got up at 3:00 AM to drive out to the Kite Lake trailhead, I thought that was the earliest I’d ever have to wake up to climb a fourteener. I was right until I decided to join John on a climb of Grays Peak and Torreys Peak. He posted on 14ers.com that he wanted to be able to catch the sunrise from the top of Grays and figured that we should leave around three. In order to give myself the best chance at a having a decent night of sleep, I drove out to the lower parking lot the night before. I had my sleeping bag and a little extra food for ‘breakfast,’ though it seems strange to eat at that hour just because you’re awake.

Nevertheless, the sleep was restless at best. I lost count of how many times I woke up after six, probably because of the cramps I was developing in my neck. Even though I was sleeping the same way that had yielded positive results in previous nights spent sleeping in my car, I couldn’t seem to get comfortable. At one point a truck drove up and I checked my watch to see if I had incorrectly set my alarm. I hadn’t it was just 12:30. No matter what reason that person drove in that hour I was mostly disturbed by the fact that I had to try and sleep for another three hours.

Around 2:00 AM, another truck pulled into the lot, this time it appeared to be a sheriff’s vehicle with a county seal on the side and lights on the top. It circled around a few times, shined its light on a few of the vehicles, then left. Just a few moments later, the truck that had pulled in near midnight revved its engine and left. The whole situation was strange, but I was supposed to be sleeping so I tried to get back to that.

Though John wouldn’t arrive until near three, I had set my alarm for two so I could get all of my gear stowed away. Before the bells even went off, I was mostly ready. I didn’t have to wait long though, and I soon found out after meeting John, that he hadn’t even slept that night. His shift at work ended at 10:00 PM and his two hour drive up from the Springs prevent any decent amount of sleep. A couple of energy drinks later he and I were driving up a very rough road to the upper lot and the trailhead for Grays and Torreys Peaks.

Since we just met, it was a little odd that we were both silent while driving, but I didn’t mind as we were both intensely focused on every rock and pothole in the road. I had learned that the 4x4 was out on his car, so I want to allow him to commit every bit of his concentration to the task at hand.

There were a few other trucks and vans in the upper lot, even some people in sleeping bags in the parking space next to a large white van. The groaned when we shut our car doors, and we apologized even though they had probably fallen back to sleep already. At the end of the lot there were a few blank signs that looked as if park rangers had not yet plastered them with trail and mountain information. Beyond them was a bridge that stretched over a ravine that had to be at least fifty feet down.

For the first mile or so, the trail was very well maintained, even lined with lumber and void of rocks or divots of any sort. When it did become a bit rockier, it was only because rocks were used to create steps in the path and to direct runoff away from the trail. The next couple of miles were all very similar, nearly pitch black around us, with only stars and John’s headlamp to illuminate the trail. I had forgotten my flashlight so I yielded the lead to him. We stopped a few times to let our heart rates slow, though there was hardly anything worth seeing other than the rough outline of the mountains around us. Everything else in the valley seemed to be asleep as we should have been.

A lot of hiking like this is rather discouraging. Its very hard to notice any progress because all views are the same dark, indistinguishable landscape. Even though I love hiking, and our conversation was pretty good, John brews his own beer, which I find to be fascinating, I definitely didn’t love this portion of the hike. Even when we were making the summit push, climbing through talus and avoiding snow, I was not loving the trip. Another factor was probably the weather. We were a short distance away from the continental divide, where I climbed Sniktau and Baker, so the wind was powerful to say the least. That combined with a complete lack of radiant heat from the sun turned runoff from the snow into ice, creating a slippery path and causing numb fingers.

A few hundred feet from the top, it was just after 5:00 AM. I was a little more tired of having to walk so close behind John in order to see than I was from physical exhaustion. Nevertheless, I decided to go ahead in a hard final push to the summit using the meager twilight to show me the way. At the top, I looked east towards Denver and the sunrise. It was remarkable to say the least. Beyond the front range and foot hills, Denver sat in shadow, though the plains beyond gave way to a never ending strip of orange light. This stretched across the entire horizon and faded into light, then darker blue as it reached upwards. Using every manly combination of words possible John and I agreed that the views we were now soaking up made the entire three hour hike of darkness worth it.

Around 6:00, the scene changed dramatically. I borrowed a pair of winter gloves from John as my fingers were so stiff, I couldn’t even grab trail mix out of the zip-lock bag I had packed. Instead, I shoved the whole thing against my mouth, eating like a horse who’s master attached a feed bag for convenient eating. Denver was no longer visible. Instead a sliver of intense light blurred out the city and cast an orange glow across the entire landscape. In a very short period of time, no more than ten minutes, the sliver expanded into an entire sphere of light, to bright to stare at any longer. With the sunrise complete, John and I put our packs on and headed down the ridge that connects Grays Peak to Torreys. A short hour later, we were standing at the top of another fourteener, and finally able to appreciate the landscape that we had spent the morning hiking through.

Below us the majority of the route back to the cars were visible, and a long it an endless “conga line” of hikers. It was John’s idea to name them as such, and my laughter at the expression was more than enough to show that I liked it. At the saddle between the two peaks, we ran into another pair of hikers that had left early. Their only goal was to avoid the crowds, a benefit of climbing at asinine hours. Our trail cut across the west face of Grays and eventually joined the main trail that we had taken up earlier. From there, and all the way back to the car, we stopped more frequently than up hikers to allow the masses to pass. Even though we were going down hill, and shortness of breath was never an issue, our pace stayed rather slow because of the constant breaks and conversations.

Needless to say, everyone who asked when we started was amazed by the idea, and most let out a sigh or “aww” when we attempted to describe the sunrise. While it was slightly annoying to keep stopping, I enjoyed being the first down hikers of the day, like when Jean and I had sprinted up and down Capitol. Also, because the sun was up and the skies were clear, I was finally able to appreciate the rocky green landscape that we had trudged through hours before.

My favorite stop was for two women who looked as if they were dressed to go grocery shopping. Cotton leggings, a sweater around the waist, and a cotton tank-top to match. They weren’t carrying any water, though they were at least wearing very large brimmed visors to keep the sun out of their eyes. Their jaws literally dropped when we answered their question about how long we had been hiking. If she had been animated, I sweat one of the women would have popped her eyes out as well.
“I can’t believe that! I’m supposed to go home and clean my house!”

We wished them luck and kept going. Neither John or myself has ever missed a summit that we set out for. It isn’t hard to learn your pace, so you know when you should start hiking to avoid the weather, that, like clockwork, rolls in around 2:00 EVERY day. Even if it doesn’t rain, there’s an extremely good chance that clouds will appear over head in the early afternoon. I can’t imagine that I would love the idea of turning back from the summit because of time and not because of my own ability. I wonder if I could. So far it hasn’t been an issue, and I hope it never is.

Pikes Peak

2009-08-07T17:24:00.001-05:00

I sat in the Whole Foods parking lot at 3:45 AM, listening to the radio. My boots were on, my bag was packed, and I was waiting for Nick to pull up so we could head the two and a half hours south, through Colorado Springs towards Pikes peak. Street lights illuminated empty sidewalks, parked cars, and houses void of all activity. A car passed every now and then but until one actually joined me in the parking lot, I was content with letting the radio keep me company.

Eventually Nick came, and he climbed out to introduce himself and open the back of his SUV so I could toss my gear in. We small talked all of the way to the Springs, I found out he, like myself, had spent the summer after senior year of college jobless, but having adventures none the less. Following the directions that he had printed off of the internet we were a little unsure of where we were going. At one point we doubled back to make sure we had gone the right direction, there were very few highway signs along the road. Driving through the pre dawn hours always makes trips seem longer. Either that, or my impatience about getting where I’m going gets the best of me.

After a longer-than-it-should-have-been drive through Colorado Springs we did make it to the dirt road through Pikes National Forest. We followed it past a religious retreat center, then a series of parked cars and campsites. Keeping our eyes peeled for signs indicating Crags Campground, we eventually threw down the directions in order to focus on the road. The road eventually came to an end. Looking at each other, we decided that it must be the place, so we got out and geared up. Nick had printed out the route description from 14ers.com and looking at this information, we didn’t appear to be in the correct spot to find the trail up to Pikes Peak. However, the description was written several years ago, so I was willing to walk around and look for some more permanent landmarks that trees, since many of those in the area had recently been cut down.

A few hundred feet up the trail, we began to see signs indicating private property. This was enough to convince us we were in the wrong spot so we got back in the car and headed back down the road, to see if we had missed a turn off. We had. Another sign indicated Crags Campground, so we turned in there and parked in the first available spot. Nick took the lead first, as if fueled by gallons of coffee we practically jogged up the trail. Since we were well past the 6:00 start time we had hoped for, making up for lost time on these shallower hills made sense, though we were soon out of breath.

We slowed down a bit when we saw a trio heading towards us. A girl had her arms around the necks of two boys, all three looking tired though she was the worst.
“Heading down already?”
“Altitude sickness,” the boy on the right said, as if knowing that my question was hoping for an answer beyond yes or no. “She started feeling it a ways up the trail so we’re calling it a day.”
I offered an apology as we passed, then agreed with Nick that it was good that they didn’t try to push too far. All of the mountains in the Front Range see a lot of traffic because of their easy routes and proximity to the major cities. That is, they’re no different than walking through a forest preserve, it just happens to be at a very high elevation. I’ve heard that altitude sickness affects young people more because of the pressure that the expanding brain feels against the skull in the thinner air. Apparently, when one ages, the brain shrinks, so its expansion at altitude is of lesser consequence. No matter what the case may be, this group turned out to be the first of five different ones we saw heading down before reaching the summit.

Of all the fourteeners I’ve been on so far, Pikes had one of the most enjoyable tree line hikes. The path was well established and shallow enough that we didn’t have to stop too often. At the same time, we were able to keep a pace that was slow enough to enjoy our surroundings. The deciduous trees turned to pine and those to bushes as we slowly climbed higher and higher. We passed a father and his sons sitting on a log. They must have started a while before we had, again the elevation proved be taxing on the tourist hikers who were no nearer to being acclimated as they were to winning the lottery.

When we finally broke tree line, we saw our route that zigzagged up and then went straight up between two high points. Looking behind us, the trees stretched for miles, being occasionally dotted with houses and eventually turning into the foothills of the Rockies. Barren would be too pessimistic of a description, the land below merely maintains a frontier like appearance with ranches and fences spread amiably apart.

From then on we were hiking a narrow trail that cut through the green hillside like a muddy river. At the top of this ridge, we were able to see the summit and the rectangular shapes that were the buildings on top.
“There’s a gift shop and restaurant on top of the mountain?” I asked?
“Yep,” Nick replied, “I’ve been there a few times, it’s definitely toursisty which is why I usually take family and friends up there.” I had always known that there was a road and rail way that went to the top, I figured there has to be at least one fourteener that anyone can make it to the top of, but my initial reaction to this news was certainly shock.

With a new view of the mountain, we headed around some massive rock formations that jutted out of the ground at various points. The trail lead right along side one where we stepped over a thick metal cable that protruded from the base of the rock. I would later find out, and see exactly why this so obviously foreign object had been placed here. We were now walking side by side, in the wheel tracks of an infrequently used road. With a small bit of grass separating our paths it was as if we were walking along a boulevard, scenic only to the marmots that inhabited the mountainside. Like the unavoidable tourist trap it is, we soon found ourselves walking towards a lot of construction equipment and the road to the top of the mountain.

We crossed both and came to a sign that read, “Devil’s Playground so named because of the way lightning jumps from rock to rock during a thunderstorm.” The cables in the rock finally made sense. A hand full of cars passed us as we walked, a few old hot rods, but mostly the SUVs and mini vans of families on vacation, all kicking up dust adding another layer of cloudiness to the late morning. We eventually left the roadside cutting behind a high point on Pikes’s ridge and in doing so we lost the trail. There were cairns here and there, but since the rocky ground was relatively flat and had large patches of grass here and there, it appeared as though there were no correct way to the next stretch of trail.

The road bent around and we joined it a bit more, though this time a stone wall separated the two routes. We repeated this separation and rejoining once more then eventually came to the base of a large boulder field, the last 500 vertical feet of the route. We passed a father and his young son who was complaining about having to go on.
“Just think about going a little further at a time,” the father encouraged, “then we’ll eventually make it to the top. Besides, we have to catch up to your brother, he’s probably eating a doughnut already!”
The trail was supposed to switch back and forth all the way to the top, but we lost it a few times despite the massive cairns that marked the route. So we had some short bits of scrambling, and with our attentions focused on the rocks in front, it was almost as if we were climbing the backcountry routes. Yet once we were high enough, the buildings came back into view.

At the top we took a few pictures, well away from the typical spots so we could avoid having strangers in the pictures. After these we decided to take advantage of the bathrooms and heating that the shop could provide. I stood in line at the cashier to buy a snack, but said “no thanks” when I found out the bag of M&Ms was going to cost two-fifty. So I went and sat in the booth that Nick was using to rest and make a few phone calls. In turn he got up to buy a snack and ended up getting a doughnut from the cafeteria. I don’t know why these doughnuts are a big deal, but they are. They’re kind of mealy, as if made from a corn base, and taste like the French fries that they share a hot oil bath with.

When we were getting up to leave, we saw the father and son sitting down to a burger and fries.
“French fries never tasted so good, eh?”
The father laughed in agreement, the boy just looked at me while shoving the food into his mouth.

The way back down was largely uneventful, though we passed several new faces. Warning each about the weather, we always heard some overly hopeful response. The clouds we had seen from the top did not look friendly, or picturesque unless you were scouting a location for a new horror movie.

When we got back to the car, there was a large group of people, at least thirty who were getting ready for a hike. We didn’t bother to ask if they were attempting the summit, hoping they were just going to wander for a while. They were currently trying to unlock a mini van with a stick since their key’s were still inside the car. Cracking open our extra water bottles we laughed slightly at the scene they were making. A few minutes down the road, rain started to spatter against the windshield. Nick and I exchanged comments about the hikers caught in the weather because of negligence. Our laughter soon turned to genuine pity and worry as hail thundered against the roof of the car like an avalanche of marbles. It was then that we truly saw why Devil’s Playground was named so. The lightening was as terrifying as it was brilliant, cutting through the now darkened sky. My thoughts remained on the hikers while we discussed finding somewhere for lunch and drove out of the national park.

A Capitol Summit

2009-08-03T16:24:00.001-05:00

On 14ers.com, Capitol Peak is rated as the most difficult fourteener in Colorado. In fact, just over a week before Jean and I attempted a summit, a man fell off a high ridge and died on his way to the top. I conveniently left this out of all discussions I had with my parents before going on the climb. But as they constantly prove the fact that they were not born yesterday, they did find out on their own. Its probably due to the fact that I lost my camera and they began looking closer at 14ers.com and other websites for information on the routes I’d be climbing. Either way, the subject of the recent death on Capitol never came up until I had finished the climb myself. And what a climb it was.

The exceptionally high difficulty rating for this peak is largely due to the extreme exposure and technical difficulty of a segment of the trail known as “the knife edge.” Everything before this point is very similar to other fourteeners. The first half-mile consists of several switchbacks up a steep, but grassy slope that is most challenging because of the physical toll it takes. Jean and I left camp at 4:30 AM because we wanted to commit every hour of daylight to the technical parts of the climb. We made it up to the saddle and traded headlamps for helmets.

The next stretch of climb went well below the ridge that would have lead us all the way up to Capitol. This route is much safer because of less exposure and easier trails. We hopped over rocks and walked along above an extremely steep, though not vertical, drop to a valley that couldn’t be less than 1,500 feet below. The rocky route soon came to a bit of snow. Since it was still very early, the lack of radiant heat in addition to chilling winds kept the snow very stiff. Yet, it was easy enough to cross without slipping too much. The short snow traverse soon turned to talus, and even sooner turned back to snow. At this point Jean and I stopped to make an important decision.

The route description on line suggests taking the talus diagonally up the side of the ridge to a high point that is referred to as K2 even though it bears absolutely no resemblance to the Himalayan peak. Instead, Jean thought it would be best to follow a set of tracks that goes well below the enormous stretch of proportional boulders. Once on the other side of them, we would take the snow straight up the side and gain the ridge where the guide suggests.

Sitting down, Jean strapped his micro-spikes to his boots, and I did the same with my Yak-Trax (thanks again for that Cabella’s gift card uncle Tom!). We took our time crossing the snow but still managed to maintain a rather brisk pace. We both slipped here and there, but the added traction to our boots prevented the need to self arrest. My Yak-Trax slipped off a couple times, and after readjusting them I noticed my hand started bleeding. The metal of the Yak-Trax cut a bit of skin off my thumb during the adjustment, though it wasn’t painful or really anything worth fussing about. I sucked the blood off my hand a few times and decided paying attention to my footing was a more valuable use of my concentration.

When we made it up to K2, we both took off the added traction as the ridge had no snow to speak of, and the metal would only cause us to slip off of rocks. One at a time, we slowly made our way towards the peak. We dipped a few feet below the ridge while holding onto the top for extra stability. Looking down here was similar to the initial views from beyond the saddle, yet the valley and lakes below were now a much more daunting 2,500 feet away. At one point, while traversing the ridge, we were forced to walk at the very top, bending over completely to make use of our hands. I immediately flashed back to the high-ropes course I completed while at summer camp with the boyscouts. The C.O.P.E. course, at one point, was extremely similar to this ridge, though it was made with high-test cable instead of jagged rock.

Beyond this bit of climbing, Jean said, “I think we should be coming up on the knife edge soon.”
“Really?” I replied, “Wasn’t that just it?”
Whether or not it was the knife edge was never really decided, as there were several moments where we were stepping in cracks no wider than a few inches while literally holding on to the top of the mountain for balance. After this extremely exposed climbing, we were on more familiar type of footing, having many rocks above and around us for support.

The summit was equally jagged as our previous bit of climbing. There weren’t many places to sit, any we couldn’t go far when backing up to take pictures of each other. The weather was cool, and the skies slightly gray in the still early morning. It was just after seven in the morning while we were signing the register at the top. Because this was only my eleventh fourteener, supposedly the most difficult, and we made such a quick ascent, I was definitely excited to write this down to share with future hikers. Jean was excited too, but for another reason. Looking at his watch he was savoring the fact that our pace was so swift, and that he knew everyone would be surprised by it. Later on, telling others about this ascent was much like describing a marathon. Non athletes are impressed my the mere feet of completion, while those who are experienced raise their eyebrows upon hearing about the short time in which we accomplished it.

But as all good climbers know, we weren’t finished just yet. In fact, today’s summit wasn’t even a halfway point. We still had to pack up camp and head the six miles back to the car that we had done the day before going for the summit. The way back across the ridge was all the same as the way up, except now our pace was even faster. The confidence of having already crossed it, and the down hill direction were all contributing to our speed. When we got to the snow, Jean sat down to put on his spikes, and I decided to skip that if possible. I saw cairns leading across the large boulders that we had bypassed on the way up. In order to avoid slipping and accidentally glissading as I had on Pyramid I thought I’d try to follow the “standard” route. For the first stretch I made excellent time, staying even in elevation with Jean, while simultaneously heading across the mountain.

I came to a stop when I could no longer see the path ahead. I spent a while looking, but eventually decided to just forge my own and make my way towards the snow crossing that was unavoidable. Soon enough I came to the snow and still skipped the added traction that the Yak-Trax could provide. To be safe, I did pull out my borrowed ice-axe to use as a hiking stick. A few steps across the snow and I slipped, and jabbed the pick into the snow to keep from sliding all the way down to the boulders some fifty feet below. Back on both feet , I made it a few more steps before falling again. This time I wasn’t lucky enough to stop immediately and I ended up driving the blade of the axe into the snow a few feet above my rocky destination. Standing up I brushed off some snow and started crossing the talus. This whole experience happened a few more times, and I was soon loosing ground on Jean.

I practically jogged in attempts to catch up, jumping from boulder to boulder and nearly skating over patches of snow. Eventually he stopped to remove his micro-spikes, but kept going at such a pace that I was struggling just to maintain a constant distance between us.

Back at the saddle we ran into a group of hikers that we had passed the day before on our way out to the trailhead. As Jean was describing his mission of 58 mountains in 58 days, I managed to catch up. I wasn’t sure if they were more impressed by all of his ascents, or the fact that we were only a half-mile away from camp, and still under five hours of climbing. Jean was anxious to keep going and we soon left the group. With another look at his watch he was more than excited to see that it was only nine o’clock. At steeper parts of the switchbacks, on our grassy descent he widened his stride and jogged until the path became more manageable. Eventually, these short bursts turned into a constant pace and we were soon running down the mountainside. There were a few instances where I came close to eating dirt after but those only served to quicken our pace. We came back to a flat stretch back into camp at quarter after. With only a few hundred feet to go, we didn’t walk into camp, we strutted. There wasn’t anyone to see it, but both Jean and I knew that a sub-five hour trip was no small feat.

Technical Mountaineering

2009-07-29T10:57:00.001-05:00

I realize that the description of these climbs are all starting to sound very similar, but think of it this way: If I asked you to summarize the last five romantic comedies that you’ve seen at the movies, they’d all start to sound the same after a while.
1) Boy and girl are introduced.
2) Boy/girl (dis)likes girl/boy. Either way, they are involved and eventually start to like one another.
3) Some magic event happens and the like turns to love.
4) Some tragic event happens and they can’t be in love.
5) Boy/girl professes true love to girl/boy and they end up together, but who knows for how long.

In the same light, here’s how these technical 14ers all shape up.
1) Walk to trail
2) Trail begins easily, but soon becomes steep
3) Steep turns to rocky and rocky turns to loose footing
4) Reach a saddle and follow along, or beneath the ridge towards the summit.
5) Complete technical climbing and get to the top.

So I invite you to stop reading now, because no amount or combinations of words can do justice to the true beauty and exhilaration experienced through mountaineering. But if there is even a slight chance, I will try.

I’m not really a fan of stopping on the way up. I always move my head around to look for the proper trail, and it is smart to also look back occasionally. This serves the purpose of being able to remember exactly where you should be going on the way down, but also forces you to pause and appreciate the surrounding beauty. In the case of the Maroon Bells, this beauty often comes from a vibrant sun that ever so gradually peaks out above the Elk range to the East. It casts a glow onto the mountains that cause them to appear as if polluted with some fantastic red-orange radio-active substance. The mountains come as close to glowing as possible on every western face while those in other directions cast sharp shadows for a beautifully violent, always intimidating and humbling image.

So I stop to take a few pictures when I do look back, otherwise I like to push on until I have to stop. Granted, I really only have to stop when I’m struck with a near-death-like exhaustion, but getting to that point would be down right foolish. My usual stopping point is when my quads begin to ache as if I have been doing endless sets of squats. My breathing becomes loud and harsh like a dog suffering through ninety-nine degree heat. I take sips of water rather frequently to squelch the dryness in my throat. The thudding of my heart jumps into my head and my ears pound as if a marching band’s bass drummer were using them for practice. This is when I stop, to look around, and to be honest, the views don’t help one to catch their breath.

After the long steep climb comes my favorite part of every climb. Just before you reach the saddle or come to a high ridge for the first climb, I look up when I’m about five or so feet away. This is when the music starts to play. If you’ve seen Lord of the Rings, think about the moment when the fellowship comes over a ridge and the brass is blaring a triumphant, BUM! BUM BUM! BumBumBUM! BaDahDAaaaaah, Dah dah dah, dah dah dah, Dah well I’m sorry if you can’t hear the music, but I do every time. When I slowly creep up the last few feet of the ridge the view is mainly of the rocks with a small bit of blue above it. Then the ratios change and soon you are looking across the ridge, as if at an ocean into an endless blue backdrop with splashes of white. Then a bit higher up and you can see the mountains stretching endlessly into the distance. At the top, you turn around, a slow 360-degree turn, to see the same in every direction. It isn’t a dwarfing image; I’ve never felt small an powerless when reaching this point. I often take a seat to wait for my fellow hikers and soak up the beauty as if I was at a museum, looking at a favorite painting.

After a solid rest, and often readjusting some gear, we’ll head out to the next leg of the journey. The technical climbing truly is not that intimidating. I’m sure you’ve heard that you shouldn’t look down if you’re afraid of heights, but the truth is, the down views are the best. Looking forward is similar to sitting in a corner, if you can remember being punished this way when you were younger. All you see is a wall, and it’s not terribly interesting. Looking up and you see, probably a false summit, or even the real summit, but in either case, this only serves to disappoint because it is still a seemingly unreachable distance away. So feel free to look down and see a steep drop or a gorge of loose rocks that often give way to a luscious green valley that slopes up into a forest of Aspens then Pines before turning into another jagged adversary. The view from the top is only better because there is no steep ridge blocking any part of the panoramic view, because you know the hardest part of the journey is over, and because you’re no longer racing the clock to see if you’ll even have a shot at the summit.

So, those things being said, I’ll dive into the climb of North Maroon.

Maroon Bells TH part 4

2009-07-29T10:52:00.002-05:00

Jean and I woke up in our respective tents then quickly put them away. Four AM is always early, no matter how excited you are to be hiking or climbing. I was ready much sooner than Jean as I had not taken the time to completely set up my tent. I left out a couple poles that would have only given a little bit more room, and didn’t bother staking it into the ground either. With my near 200 pounds of bodyweight holding it down, I didn’t think there would be much of a chance for my tent to blow away during the night.

After shoving a bagel with peanut butter, crunchy of course, down my throat for the third morning in a row, I got into my car and once again drove to the day use lot. Though only a few miles separated our camping area with the parking lot, the drive seemed to take for ever in the pre-dawn hours.

Once parked, I pulled the necessary gear out of the car then met the two new hikers for the day. Victor was from Massachusetts, and this would be the last day of climbing on his two week vacation. The other was Amy, currently enrolled at some university and using her summer to enjoy herself as much as possible. That sounds familiar. Even though it was rather chilly at nearly 10,000 feet and without the radiant warmth of the sun, I wore a short sleeve shirt because I knew our pace to the trailhead would be as warming as any fleece.

We soon set off, and with one of the newbies to our group in the lead, made a wrong turn down by North Crater Lake. Backtracking did not take long, though with three days of hiking already under my belt, I did not like the idea of using up any energy in unnecessary ways. Again, the pace that Jean and I set was slowed, by the requests of our fellow hikers.

Jean had explained to me the night before, that in a case such as this, he was fine with taking the rear of the group so the person at the back would not feel like he/she was weighing down the group. I agreed that this was a considerate technique though I decided to remain at the front and encourage others along by walking at a distance ahead.

The sun rose just after we split off the main trail towards Crested Butte and North Maroon. The trail lead about a half a mile before splitting again where we would find our route up North Maroon’s north slopes. Eventually we were walking back and forth through switchbacks where at one point I stopped because of a fork. Even though a tent clearly indicated that it was a campsite and not our summit path, I used the opportunity to let the others catch up and confirm that we should continue on the main path. We did indeed move on for another fifteen minutes until a cairn was seen indicating our proper junction.

We stepped quickly down a steep slope leading to a small creek. There was not a perfect path of stones on which we could step across, so my boots became slightly wet when I slipped off the side of a loose branch. Yet the waterproofing held up so my feet stayed comfortably dry. On the other side, I internally questioned the route as we began to walk through heavy overgrowth. The trial was obvious on the ground, but the proximity of bushes to the trail made walking on it rather unpleasant. There were times that were easier, and the trail led through a clearing, and others that were more difficult where I was pushing branches away from my face and ducking over very low hanging tree limbs.

Soon we came to our first bit of technical climbing, a vertical wall of no more than eight feet. It had plenty of hand and foot holds so it was not terribly difficult to climb. Beyond the wall, after a bit more climbing around and through bushes, we eventually came to a large boulder field, much like the one on Pyramid. A small cairn sat on each ridge to keep us in the correct general direction, as path’s are not easily forged through large rocks. Beyond this stretch we stopped to put on helmets as we came to the first of two very steep and very exposed gorges.

All we had to do was cross the first gorge which involved maintaining balance while traversing a ledge wide enough to walk across normally. Around a ridge and into the next gorge, we began to zigzag our way up and over to its deepest point where we headed straight up.

When we began our technical climb, and I was at the lead, looking up I saw a pair of shedding mountain goats. Their nearly black eyes stare ghostly from the all white head and body. At the same time, this slightly demonic animal is more of a friendly poltergeist that hovers above almost leading the way towards the summit. In the moments that I was unsure of where to go next, I would head towards the goats or look for their tracks, softly imprinted on the dust covered rocks.

Once all climbed out of the gorge we were faced with another tricky bit of climbing unlike anything I had yet attempted. Instead of basketball sized and colored rocks, giving way beneath our feet, we had to find our way across human sized boulders. This combined with the chance of falling onto something jagged or down something equally steep, was truly a slow moving task. Yet as slowly as I went, and as careful as I was about each hand hold, and every foot hold, the rest of the group continued to lag. While waiting for them to catch up, again, a thought crossed my mind. Perhaps they were so used to climbing at a distance, they decided to slow down even more than I was just to keep things similar. To test the theory, I invited them to climb in front of me.

At one point we came to another vertical climb. The instructions said to look for a chimney to climb but this was not as outwardly apparent as the one on Maroon. With a slower climber taking the lead, and constantly commenting on the difficulty and lack of places to step, my nerves soon shrank to microscopic levels. I offered to find another way around and was soon standing well above the others.
“Definitely don’t go that way,” I warned, “it certainly is possible to climb, but there’s a quite large step that you have to climb up and the wall is completely sheer, it drops beneath you at least a couple hundred feet.”

They were convinced to wait for their turn up the other route, but looking over my shoulder towards the summit I had other plans. I went on a short distance ahead, before loosing the path for what seemed like the millionth time that trip. Waiting for the others, we came to a consensus on which way to go. In invited Jean to lead, so we could continue quickly to the top and because I had made the first summit of the group the two days before.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I only care that I make it to top.”

I shrugged and pushed on, again being able to enjoy views without any people interrupting the natural beauty of the Elk Range. When we had all gathered and taken a break, we found that we were also joined by the goats who were now circling us as if we were dying animals and they starved vultures.
"They want your pee," Jean blurted. I looked at him and he understood my confused glance. He explained, "for the salt."

On the way down, I somehow got stuck behind that day’s new climbers. They were deep in discussion about politics and religion, so I just kept my mouth shut and watched where I was going. At the first chance I had, I skirted around them and jetted down the mountain side towards Jean. Eventually we were so far away that the others had to shout loudly to request our patience.
“Maybe if they stopped talking and started thinking about the hike they’d go faster,” I muttered.
“I’ve always found never to speak about religion or politics,” Jean replied.
I’ve heard the same said about parties, and since mountaineering should be more fun than a party, I think it certainly applies in that case as well.

So Jean and I meandered down building cairns every once in a while to help mark the best route through the gorge. Eventually the others caught up to our snail’s pace and we headed over into the next gorge then across the rocks. In his fashion, Jean sped away while I attempted to keep up, and the others continued their conversation at a distance behind us. Once across the boulder field, we waited then headed out around and through the bushes. Walking back through them proved to be even more difficult especially after we hopped down that short vertical wall. One member of the group began to swear and put because of legs that were getting scratched by the underbrush. We tried to avoid the bushes by walking down a steep bit of talus, but this proved to be just as harmful as they were sharp and loose from a lack of travel.

Eventually we found a sort-of path, not the one from the morning, that lead to the stream which we followed all the way up to our crossing. From there it was my last two mile hike around the lakes and back to the lot. I would have preferred Jean’s near jog, to get it over with, but to appease the group, we traveled together, rather slowly but eventually made it back.

From the car, one glance at the mountains yielded a view of all summits from the past three days. One person said how its nice for me to have those fourteeners under my belt, but, honestly, I don’t see it that way at all. The exhaustion and views, the technical climbing and route finding, almost everything about these mountains was exciting, and I would go back to climb them any time.

Maroon Bells TH part 3

2009-07-27T19:05:00.000-05:00

The night before we climbed Pyramid, around midnight, a park employee in a golf cart drove by our group of cars in the day-use lot. Upon seeing Nolan and his girlfriend camped out next to the car, he began to yell about how they were breaking the rules. With veins popping and spit flying he screamed about animals attacking them in their sleep and police officers coming to ticket them. Once Nolan determined that the man had no authority of his own, he agreed to move into his car. As soon as the employee left, he and his girlfriend climbed back out and set up a tent to help keep the bugs away.

In order to bypass this whole sort of disaster, Jean and I slept in our cars while parked in the over-night lot, usually reserved for people hiking out to campsites. This time we were to be meeting up with Chris and Mike, two other hikers that saw Jean’s post on 14ers.com. We left our camp at 4:30 AM to cover a quick two miles, and meet the pair by quarter after five.

They were waiting for us where the Crater Lake trail split off towards North Maroon Peak and Crested Butte. Jean and I tried to maintain our near-jogging pace, but were soon asked to slow by the others. Like a marathon, climbing can be a very long activity that tests one’s endurance, so it was probably for the best that we took our time while we could. When the sun’s light became visible, we were still about a quarter mile from the trail that leads up Maroon Peak. Since we were no longer in any rush, and I could see my surroundings, I decided to make a pit stop under the cover of the trees that surrounded us.

Soon enough, we were out of the forests surrounding Crater Lake, and ascending the steep slopes of Maroon Peak. I began at the back of the group, because of my bathroom break. Yet each time the person ahead of me stopped for a breather, I was allowed to pass and was eventually leading the group. There were not many switchbacks on the trail and the climb was more anaerobic than anything else. My marathon training runs up and down hills certainly proved useful as the distance between myself and the nearest group member became larger.

With a shout from behind, I was asked to wait for the rest of the group. While the terrain was steep, it was not terribly rocky or unsafe, so I did not think there would be any problem with skipping ahead. In either case, I did wait up and soon we were walking in a more tightly knit group. As luck would have it, the terrain became much rockier, and the path was increasingly difficult to find. We endured several hundred feet of loose footings but eventually made it to the saddle at 13,250 feet. From here all of the climbing was much more technical. We all put on climbing helmets, though we probably should have earlier with the slipping rocks and dirt.

It was rather slow moving, climbing across tight ledges and over loose gullies, and once again, we found ourselves searching for the trail. We climbed as far as it would go then soon retraced our steps. Chris pulled out the pictures of the route from 14ers, and Jean grabbed his route description. They spent almost a dozen minutes arguing about which gully we were supposed to climb up to the next series of ledges. Rather than debate about it, I decided that the best route would be the one that got us to the summit and I began to climb over boulders and ledges, with no particular direction besides up in mind.

Eventually Jean’s and Chris’s debate ended and they decided I had gone up the wrong way. They began to climb the next gully over, and instead of climbing down, I just traversed over a series of ledges to meet them.
“Way to mountain goat it Kurt!” Mike said as the whole group finally reunited.
They may or may not have been right, because it took a little extra climbing to find the cairns that would lead us to the top. Once we did find them, it was much smoother sailing towards the summit. The cairns didn’t perfectly show the easiest way up, and on the way down we saw places that definitley would have been easier up climbs. But, as climbing goes, sometimes you just don’t know what is going to be easiest.

Like the day before, when we were just a few hundred vertical feet from the summit, I pushed ahead of the group, paying no attention to pain or separation until I reached the summit. For a few minutes I had the whole place to myself and I gazed in the direction of Pyramid, then in the opposite direction towards Snowmass and Capitol. The views were truly stunning, being able to see so many other fourteeners so close. Seeing past objectives and future challenges all at once put the entire trip into perspective. I questioned whether or not I’d be able to make it through another three full days of hiking and climbing. If, physically I could persist without becoming too exhausted, or even mentally I wouldn’t drive myself crazy. Regardless of what tomorrow and the next day held, I reminded myself, that there was a more pertinent issue at hand, I had to get down off of Maroon.

On the way down I yielded the lead to Jean, who loves to speed down the side of the mountains. I hung back with Chris and Mike and we made sure to find the path of least resistance. On any mountain, the speed of down climbing is remarkable, yet never fast enough. You expect to see landmarks much sooner than is realistic and its hard to stop thinking about taking off your boots and airing out your stinky and sweaty feet.

The group was pretty much together until we got to the saddle and rested before heading down the east face. We decided to leave our helmets on just in case, and began the final descent. As with Pyramid, I attempted to stay on Jean’s boot heels, but he proved to be much too fast. With his thirty pound pack pushing him down the hill, and his trekking poles for balance, he was soon out of sight so I slowed my pace to something much easier on the knees. Eventually I made it past a pair of couples who were hiking down as well. They hadn’t made it to the saddle until just after noon and wisely decided to call it a day. I asked how long ago they had seen Jean, and they said it had been a while.
When I made a comment about his speed they said, “Yeah, we decided to call him the billy-goat.” Probably a called for name. His descents aren’t so fast that their unsafe, he’s just always very sure of his footing.

Once at the bottom and again on the Crater Lake trail, I found Jean who had changed into shorts and was sipping his re-filled water bottles. The others came a few minutes behind me and we were soon headed back to the parking lot. Mike, then Chris, eventually split off to finish packing up at their campsites while Jean and I went ahead all the way to the cars.

Once the boots were off and I was sufficiently relaxed, Jean and began talking about sleeping arrangements for the upcoming night. He decided that he’d be more comfortable in a tent so we drove around looking for an available site down the road from the trailhead. Eventually we found one and he was generous enough to pay for the whole thing, since I was fine with another night in the cars. After setting up camp he and I headed into town, this time separately because we had different destinations in mind. Jean needed to restock his food supply, and since I had no need to do the same, I went for a cheap meal at the Aspen McDonalds.

Maroon Bells TH part 2

2009-07-23T18:04:00.000-05:00

Jean, Nolan, Larry, and myself were all up and ready to climb Pyramid Peak at five. I had shoved a couple tablespoons of crunchy peanut butter between the halves of a bagel for breakfast and washed it down with a liter of water. As usual I carried a bag of trail mix and a granola bar just in case I began to feel hungry on the hike. After Nolan said goodbye to his girlfriend, who would not be joining us because of her sensitivity to altitude we set off down the trail to Crater Lake.

At first it we walked over a nicely maintained trail of gravel, but soon we were using our flashlights to carefully step over rocks and horse poop that littered the route. While I realize that climbing mountains is not supposed to be easy, I still fail to see why the park service could not have made it a nicer trail to the lakes. All the fourteeners I’d climbed so far were either dirt paths or all rock, not a terrible, ankle twisting mixture of the two. After a mile and a half of this annoying terrain, we made it to the turn of that lead up Pyramid via the standard route. The sun was just barely peaking over the mountains by now so all flashlights and headlamps were put away.

A series of switchbacks led us up the beginning portion of the trail, but soon enough we found ourselves walking across a series of large boulders in a field of talus. On one side of Pyramid Peak is a large area known as the Amphitheater where the ridges that descend from the peak almost completely encircle the scree field we were now walking across. Because he had not brought any water with, Larry soon needed to stop to fill up his water bottle. He began to chip away a layer of dirty snow in order to fill up the bottle with the clean stuff beneath. Eventually he shoved in as much as he could, then tucked the bottle underneath his shirt to melt the snow. He made a point about not having to carry the two pounds per liter of water as the rest of us were, though I think my filtered, and easy access supply is a much better idea.

We had seen some cairns to lead our way at the base of the amphitheater, yet the four of us eventually spread out through the area choosing whatever route we each thought was best. There were some tracks clearly visible in the snow, but since I had the option, I chose to scramble across the rocks instead. After climbing over one particularly high ridge, our path out of the amphitheater was eventually revealed. In front of us stood an extremely high, and equally steep part of the mountain. From the bottom it was possible to see a path that zigzagged all 1000 feet up to the saddle where we would gain the ridge up towards the peak.

Before attempting the steep pitch, we all put on climbing helmets to avoid getting hit in the head by a kicked rock. A group of climbers, some hundred feet above us yelled “Rock!” to warn us of one that had come loose and was now tumbling violently towards us. It stopped before coming anywhere near us.
“We’ve got plenty down here, thanks!” shouted Larry in reply.

I opted to take the back of the group for several reasons. First, with my inexperience, I thought it would be good to see where the others were stepping and putting their hands. Also, I thought if I’m going to knock any rocks loose, I’d prefer that no one would be below me to suffer the consequences. For the first hundred feet or so, I followed closely behind Nolan and Larry, while Jean had taken a route off to the side. My patience grew conversely to the altitude, and when they stopped for one break, I decided to bypass the others, no longer caring about the rocks. It had also become apparent that, like the talus in the amphitheater, there was no one right way up. As I climbed I swiveled my head to all around to find the way that looked easiest. I stopped every now and then, but not nearly as frequently as the others. Additionally, my strides were greater as was my over all pace. About two hundred feet below the saddle, I decided to make one big push, not stopping until I was there. With my heart pounding like a techno beat in my chest, I eventually made it to the top, found a sheltered place to sit, and took a good long rest.

A few minutes later, Nolan climbed up just a bit to the side from where I had. I set down my snack of pretzels, almonds, and dried cranberries to welcome him to the ridge. We looked down at our route up and saw that Jean and Larry a ways below, both had decided to take very different routes. They made it up respectively in separate times and locations, then we all gathered for a break before the next leg of the climb. Nolan and Larry stashed their trekking poles so their hands would be free to grab rock and to leave behind the extra weight as well.

The final 1000 feet of the climb began with a couple short stretches of snow and some narrow ledges. Though it wasn’t completely needed, Nolan borrowed my borrowed ice-axe to balance himself across one stretch. Once he had established that the foot prints were stable, the rest of us crossed quickly without any tools or additional foot gear. Jean mentioned that he had both micro-spikes and crampons, just in case the conditions called for it, though it turned out to be only excess weight by the end of the trip. With all of the snow behind us until the return trip, the remainder of the climb was across and up some steeper faces of rock, though nothing amounted to class four climbing, because most of it was avoidable by shallower or less exposed class three routes. Again there were cairns though they were easily lost or did not appear to reveal the easiest route.

As before I pushed ahead of my group and was the first of us to summit though there were already a handful of people there. We took an extended break to eat some lunch and take some photos. After the standard scenic shots, I had a climber take a shot of the four of us since I have had a summit shot with all of my partners up until now. Though the weather was nice, we didn’t stay long on top; the journey was only half over.

The way down was mostly the same as the way up. We separated at times, lost the trail for moments, but always found where we were supposed to be. At the top of the steep face into the amphitheater, we consciously separated in order to avoid kicking scree onto one another. Jean seemed to have grown wings during the descent as he almost flew all the way to the amphitheater. Eventually catching up with him, he seemed to be well rested from his almost twenty minute break. I decided I would try to keep up with him all the way out of the amphitheater, and let Nolan and Larry remain together. I stayed just a few feet behind him all the way across the first bit of talus, though when we got to the snow, there was no keeping up with him. As if skiing in the Nordic style, he bent his knees and took large lunges down the slopes of filthy snow. I pulled out my ice axe to balance myself should I slip, and eventually used it to glissade when I fell on my but and began to tumble dozens of feet at a time. I was able to self arrest, stopping myself before the snow stopped and the boulder fields began. In a zigzag pattern, I walked across the snow, then slid down, again just until it became rocky, then repeated the process.

It wasn’t perfect snow for glissading, rocks jutted out here and there, and though I avoided those edges, my butt felt those hidden by the snow. At the bottom, Jean again sat while waiting for us. I was able to dry off while waiting for Nolan and Larry, who also glissaded down. I reached towards my back pocket to grab my camera and take a shot of their progress, only to find an empty pocket. Looking up the dismal snow field I was too tired to hike back and look for my camera. With encouraging words from my fellows, who insisted some one else would find it, we once again set off down the mountain. Somehow, I was now at the rear of the group, and when Jean took off, I was stuck behind the others who were deep in conversation about medical practice and procedures. Eventually we made it back to the lot, where the others said goodbye since it was their last climb of the weekend. Jean and I headed into Aspen for a quick bite at Bently’s and check e-mail on my laptop. So as to not be hassled by park employees, we moved our cars to the over night lot and again slept in our cars, resting up for an ascent of Maroon the next day.

Maroon Bells TH part 1

2009-07-22T21:24:00.002-05:00

After my false summit, I drove to Aspen to kill some time. I figured that Jean would not make it to the Maroon Bells trailhead until much later since he was still going to climb Snowmass that morning. My first stop was the visitor’s center where I hoped to learn of the location of a gear shop and somewhere cheap to eat. Fortunately, both places were right across the street from one another. I found Bently’s, the cheap but good bar and grill, without a problem. The sign out front had specials for about nine dollars a plate, not terrible; definitely cheap for Aspen. On my way to Ute Mountaineer, the sporting goods store, I walked past several restaurants and cafes that offered entrees starting at twenty-five dollars. Bently’s was looking better and better with every glance I stole at posted menus.

Inside the shop, I asked a clerk straightaway where I could find what I was looking for. After selecting the cheapest three-liter hydration pack, I lingered by the energy bars for a while then made my purchase. After getting so dehydrated from the Garden of the Gods and Humboldt combination, I certainly needed to be able to carry more water. On my brother’s suggestion I bought the hydration pack. Later that day, I also found some old water bottles in my car, and I could now carry six liters of water with me, never again to go thirsty. At least I hope so.

There was a brief fiasco when it came to paying for my overnight parking pass for the Maroon Bells Wilderness Area, but after several phone calls and a cash advance on my credit card, I was sitting in the parking lot waiting for an orange Honda Element to drive by. Through 14ers.com I had managed to get in touch with Jean. To my relief, I wouldn’t have to ask every stranger if he or she was Jean. At the time I still wasn’t sure if it was a guy or girl I’d be meeting.

The first thing I did when I reached the lot, was begin to organize my gear. After the mishap on Snowmass and the visit to Aspen, things had become a bit cluttered. I ended up chatting with another climber who was also packing up. His eyebrows arched when I mentioned I was planning on climbing Pyramid, then Maroon, North Maroon, and eventually Capitol over the next four days. Perhaps I should stop telling people that I’ve only climbed a handful of mountains, and that my time in Colorado, now barely reaches over three weeks. Because of my obvious inexperience, and the difficulty of the planned climbs, he offered all sorts of advice, handed me extra maps, and even suggested some easier day hikes. Refusing to seem wounded by his last remark, I thanked him for all of his help and wished him a good climb as he and his brother set off.

With my gear quickly packed, I soon found myself sitting on the asphalt next to my car, staring at the parking lot entrance. Plenty of cars came whizzing in, yet not a single one was a Honda Element. There were not even any orange cars. I pulled out the Ed Viesturs book and did some more reading. The hiking stick I had picked up the day before even became victim to some whittling while I tried to kill the time. Finally, two hours after I had gotten there myself, the prodigal car pulled into the lot just a space away from mine. Out climbed a short and curly haired man sporting a goatee.
“Jean?” I asked with a Frenchey accent.
“Oui?” he replied.
No, I’m just kidding, he said “yes” and we soon realized who each other were from our correspondence online.

I learned a bit about Jean, that he’s from Quebec and that was on a trip where his plan and goal was to climb all fifty-eight of Colorado’s fourteeners in fifty-eight days. As planned, he had climbed Snowmass that morning making number forty-three, and his partner’s name was Nolan, who pulled up a moment later in a Jeep Wrangler. I now new how he had made it to the Snowmass trailhead without suffering an endless hike up the 4x4 road. It was quickly decided that we would spend the night in our cars in order to avoid hiking to and setting up camp in the dark. On the other hand, we’d have to wake up quite early so as to begin at five AM. Because we were not going to camp by Crater Lake, the early start would allow us to cover the extra mile-and-a-half to the Pyramid Peak trailhead.

That night before going to sleep, we talked to other climbers that had just gotten off the trail themselves. All trip reports were good so far, and it seemed that we weren’t heading into anything terribly difficult. Some people said that Pyramid was much easier than it’s made out to be, others were exhausted and wished us the best of luck with our endeavor. My favorite encounter occurred just before bed, when a kid who couldn’t be much older than myself, swaggered into the lot wearing tattered cotton shorts, and the most filthy T-shirt I’d ever seen. He too had climbed Pyramid that day, though he took an unusual route, ascending from the south then traversing to a north slope descent. One of my first questions was why he was getting back so late.
“I started early enough, I just took a nap up there after reaching the summit, then I kinda wandered down and took my time.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, “I like your style.”
Larry, a bespectacled and mustachioed climber that had decided to join us the next day and who is well into his sixties, gave me an odd look. He’d later tell me that my comment worried him, and that it suggested I was a careless climber myself.

I admit, that I care a little less about using set routes than other climbers. Getting to the top is getting to the top, some ways are just a little easier and less exposed than others. But there is absolutely no way I would take a nap, or even be above tree line past two in the afternoon. I may be easygoing, and perhaps too carefree, but I’m not stupid.

We said goodnights, and each climbed into our cars except for Nolan. He and his girlfriend were not able to make room in his Jeep to spend the night, so they rolled a tarp out next to the car and slept just above te asphalt. I crammed myself into the back seat of my Mercury Sable in the fetal position with both my head and feet resting on opposite doors. It took me a while to get to sleep. In his book, Ed Viesturs always describes the restless night before a summit. Personally, I think my own lack of sleep was due to the makeshift bed. Eventually I fell asleep, and would wake just a few hours later to begin the climb up Pyramid Peak.

A False Summit

2009-07-17T11:47:00.003-05:00

While "false summit" generally refers to the occasion where a high ridge appears to be the highest point and destination of one's climb, while it actually is hiding the true top of the mountain, I'm using it a little differently.

Again finding a hiker looking for a partner on 14ers.com, I headed out to the White-River/ Maroon Bells-Snowmass wilderness area for some climbing. Jean's plan was to hike all seven summits in the Elk range over an extended weekend. I had missed the first day of climbing due to marathon training, but was eager to catch up for the remaining five climbs. After calling around for opinions on whether or not I should try and meet up with this complete stranger, I bought some supplies, gassed up the car, and headed out to western Colorado.

The drive was a fun four hours with plenty of tunnels and steep grades to hold my attention. I wandered across radio waves in search of a signal that wasn't scratchy or fading but to no avail. Eventually I made it past Glenwood springs and headed south towards Aspen and Snowmass.

For the first climb that I would be on, we would be climbing up Snowmass Mountain, which required driving through the sleepy town of Marble. With the exception of a winding paved road through town, gravel side streets and run down buildings composed the small mountain community. On the west end of town, even the main street turned to dirt and I soon expected to find the trailhead. 14ers.com describes the route as rough and for four-wheel-drive vehicles only. Shrugging of this suggestion, and those of city signs stating the same, I headed up rough terrain in my low-clearance sedan.

My speed was slow, and the car rocked back and forth over potholes and boulders. On three occasions I drove over a high point in the road and cringed when a loud scraping sound erupted from beneath me. An unknown distance up this road and I soon came to a stream crossing that appeared to be at least twelve feet across. Not wanting to get stuck, as I was by myself, I decided to head out on foot from there. I quickly downed the dinner I had packed and changed my clothes between bites. A little rearranging was required of my gear before I headed out, and with that quickly done I was headed across the stream and up a steep slope.

"There's no way my car could handle that," I said to myself as I stepped carefully over a road as sharply changing as the mountains I was hiking through. My hike had begun somewhere around seven-thirty, though I'm not exactly sure because I had my watch set to the altimeter mode. I watched as I soon climbed 1,500 vertical feet and thought that I had to be getting close to the trailhead. The road had split a while back, and after consulting my map I took a route I believed to be correct. However, the clear evening sky soon turned to dusk and I struggled to see beyond the road ahead of me.

Eventually I came to a small parking lot where a foot trail lead off the road and up into the mountains. Again looking at my map I attempted to determine exactly where I was. Doubt crossed my mind concerning the fact that this was the correct trailhead. There were no cars parked and the common popularity of fourteeners had me convinced that this could not be my departure from the road. Nevertheless, I folded up the map, then headed up a steep trail. I soon came to a set of signs that indicated that I was right about being wrong. Though I felt as though I had hiked a good five miles, I must have been wrong as the proper trailhead was apparently quite a ways away.

I switched my watch to the time and saw it was just after nine-o'clock. With my eyes on the sky I was hoping to see a moon that could lead me through the night. Luck clearly was not on my side that night, I only had a few bright stars for guidance. I decided I would hike until ten and hopefully find the trailhead by then. If not, my plan was to camp and hike out in the morning. With half of my water supply drained, there was no way I was going to be able to make any sort of summit after another few miles down the road without becoming dangerously dehydrated.

Forty-five minutes later I was setting up my tent in some weeds just off the road. I climbed into the tent, then sleeping bag, and pulled out my book hoping to read my self to sleep. With my nerves already bent out of shape, I tossed Hal Higdon's "Marathon: The Ultimate Training Guide" aside and shut my eyes. In seven hours, the dawn would give me enough light to head back to my car, from there, who knows.

I had crazy dreams about reading maps and driving through town after town, unable to find the trailhead. I awoke abruptly around two and struggled to relax. After an hour of shifting restlessly I eventually fell back to sleep, this time soundly enough that I did not wake until dawn.

I ate a Cliff bar in bites while packing up my tent, and finished the second third of my water supply. Though I couldn't see it clearly, I knew I was dehydrated by the way certain things smelled that morning.

Retracing my steps on the road, I found that the morning was not a total loss. The sunrise behind me cast a vibrant orange glow on some peaks in the distance. When the sky was clear, I saw that my path wound through a brilliantly flowered meadow. Flowers of yellow, red, blue, and white stood out among a sea of green, truly one of the most gorgeous landscapes I have yet beheld while in Colorado.

After just two hours of hiking, I was back in to my car. I ate a banana, then threw my gear in the trunk. With the car in first gear, I slowly descended the rocky road, without hearing another worrisome scrape from the bottom of my car. I stopped in Carbondale at a fun looking diner called the Village Smithy with hopes that a good breakfast would lift my spirits.

Upon the recommendation from a cheerful and conversational host, I ordered the Juevos Rancheros. Better than the ones I had in Mexico last summer. With a few cups of coffee, I began to read the first chapter of Ed Viesturs's "No Shortcuts to the Top." With in the first ten pages I had already burst out laughing and gasped with concern. Though I didn't even make it close to climbing a mountain, it turned out to be one of my best mornings yet in Colorado. Now with detailed plans, and a little more optimism, I hope to meet up with Jean for a summit of Pyramid Peak during tomorrow's early hours.

From Garden of the Gods to Humboldt Peak

2009-07-15T18:02:00.006-05:00

"We met online. What? There's no more stigma!"
"Ted there is too, thats why people say there isn't."

TV quotes aside, I met a guy online and we ended up hiking up Humboldt Peak together. On 14ers.com he posted a thread on the discussion board saying "I don't know how to say this without it sounding like a personal ad." He was looking for someone to hike with during the week so he could knock out as many of the fifty-eight fourteeners as possible. Regardless of the current status of meeting people online, within twenty-four hours, Dan and I had planned and committed to climbing Humboldt Peak.

Since the trailhead was easily three hours from where he lives in Colordao Springs, and I live over an hour north of there, Dan thought that heading out the night before and camping near the trailhead would be the best idea. I was also excited that it would allow extra time to acclimate to the altitude and could lend to a better hike.

After we made plans to leave his place around eight that night, I decided to head down early and spend my afternoon in the Garden of the Gods. I learned from locals that that this is an extremely typical and touristy thing to do, but because it was my first time in "the Springs" I felt that it was the perfect thing to do. I drove down from Golden through a rainstorm. Looking west while driving, I saw that the mountains were looking clear, and even my rear view mirror showed blue skies. Because the rain never let up throughout the entirety of my drive, the image of a black cloud hovering above my car as I drove down the highway became etched in my mind.

As luck would have it, when I made it to the Springs, that storm pushed further south, and I had perfect weather to spend in the Garden of the Gods. I stopped first at the Visitor's Center to get a map of the park and to refill my water bottle before heading into the park itself. Since I had over four hours to kill, I parked at the first lot and decided to hike trails one at a time until it was time to meet up with Dan. My afternoon began with hiking the one mile, tourist jammed path around the most scenic parts of the park. Wasting a bit of space on my camera's memory card, I took a bunch of spectacular pictures that I'm sure every other visitor also has.

At the south end of the paved loop, I saw a sign for a dirt trail. Looking at my map, I had trouble finding this route due to the fact that wasn't drawn in. With plenty of time on my side, I shrugged my shoulders and was soon hiking by myself. I took this trail right up to the rocks and was able to climb in one of the few places where there weren't prohibitive signs. Then, back around this loop, I soon came to another junction and was soon walking on more, vacant paths. The scenery was absolutely gorgeous but the smell was putrid. Every few paces down the trail I cam close to stepping in piles of horse poop. I was busy looking to the west over the mountains, where the sun burned in a clear blue sky. Its light was well reflected on the jutting red rocks and made for a stunning image despite the still gray horizon in the east.

I eventually wound my way through the park, taking even more unmapped trails and doing some free climbing in remote places. While litter was visible in places as evidence of previous, careless visitors, it was still neat to think that I was hiking in very infrequently traveled places.

When I reached the trading post at the south end of the park, I checked my watch and saw that my time had nearly been cut in half already so I decided to head back. After a quick chicken-salad dinner in my car, I headed over to Dan's. I met his dog and his wife, and we didn't hesitate to get right on the road. As with Lynn and Tyler on my Kite Lake trip, Dan and I were soon talking like old friends. We agreed that the persona of the average Coloradan is pretty easy to get along with, and my online-met hiking partner truly was.

The sun set quickly and we drove through the mountains and plains in a night as black as Dan's truck. Off the road we saw a few coyotes and such scurrying into the underbrush, we even had to slow to an almost stop at one point to avoid running down a mule deer. Since my dinner was small, and Dan hadn't eaten, we stopped for some fast food when we were still about half way from the trailhead. In the typical fashion, we asked for a second to browse the menu before ordering. After Dan ordered his food, he also asked for mine, with a note of finality in his voice. I gave him some cash to cover the cost and we were ready to pull up to the window, yet we were sitting in silence. The drive through screen displayed our order, but there had been no response from the cashier in over a minute.

"So should we pull up to the window?" Dan asked the black-box in a loud voice.
Silence persisted.
"Oh. Huh? Was that it? Yeah, go on ahead."
We both laughed and figured that the cashier was just stoned out of his mind, and forgot that we were even there. Pulling up to the window, we didn't see any visible signs of this being the case, but we still agreed it was likely.

While munching on french fries we drove on through the unlit country roads. At one point, with a mouthful of burger, Dan jerked his truck to the left, and said something that resembled, "oh shit!" I looked at him for an explanation, and saw his hand pointing to the side of the road. Just ahead of us on the shoulder, a spread of tiny circles reflected the headlights back in our direction. An entire heard of elk stood proudly at the side of the road, not visibly concerned about the truck heading across its path at sixty miles per hour.

The darkness proved to be a disadvantage to our travels as we had to double back after missing our turn off. Despite the setback the night drive was interesting at least and we eventually made it off the state highways and onto the dirt road that would lead us to the trail head. A few miles on we came to a parking lot nearly filled with sedans and other low-clearance cars. Instead of joining them, Dan switched his truck into 4x4 and we pushed up through the roughest road I have yet been on. The entire truck shook side to side as we traversed potholes and large rocks.

The rough road stretches five and half miles from the lower parking to the upper lot at the end of the 4x4 road. Since we had backtracked after the the missed turn, our idea of miles traveled was a little ways off and the odometer had not been reset recently. The trip up the road was slow. Dan wanted to be careful with his truck and especially because our visibility was minimal with only the moon and headlights for guidance. We both fell silent, paying close attention to every turn and steep incline. We passed a small group of cars, and could see one tent illuminated by a flashlight within. Soon after, we crossed a creek and continued on up a particularly steep bit of road. The grade only increased and our speed slowed to a crawling pace. Without knowing exactly how far we were from the trailhead, we agreed that with the road getting so steep, and the light being terrible it would be safest to park off the road and spent the night where we were.

We considered the amount of time spent driving on the 4x4 road, and our guess was that we weren't terribly far from the end. So we each quickly set up our tents and got ready for bed. It was already well past eleven when we had all of our gear set and Dan pulled out a few beers to help put us to sleep. All flashlights and car lights were now out, and with necks bent, we both stared up at the sky. Bright and dim stars alike were everywhere above us, not a patch of sky was bare. It was like looking at a spilled box of cereal, bits and pieces were scattered everywhere to compose a mesmerizing view.

After finishing the beer, we climbed into our tents for a quick six hours of sleep. Despite day of hiking, the late hour, and the comfort that the beer provided, I lay restless in my sleeping bag, eager to see what the next day's climb had in store.

Mt. Sniktau & Mt. Baker

2009-07-11T18:28:00.003-05:00

It was pretty much common opinion that one of the best ways I could meet people would be to join some sort of club while I'm in Colorado. I looked into a few running clubs and climbing clubs but have stopped short of joining every time the phrase "membership fee" is mentioned. Living on a fixed budget keeps me from wanting to spend money in large amounts, no matter how great the result may be. So until further notice, no new camera, no rock-climbing shoes, no joining the Colorado Mountain Club, and so on.

But the Colorado Mountain Club does have one great feature that I can take advantage of. Up to two times I can hike as a guest on their trips. Taking them up on the offer, I signed up for the hardest hike I could find in the near future. Hardest here actually isn't that hard as one needs to complete specific training classes for the truly "hard" climbs. I don't want to sound boisterous or over confident, but I have already completed some of their hard climbs with others, and without their training.

Regardless, the trip was planned to be a point to point from Loveland Pass to the Gray's Peak trailhead. After I arrived far to early to the meeting point and waited around for the other hikers, we left for the hiking destination. Dropping of one car and packing all six of us into a five seater, we finally set off for Loveland pass where we would begin our journey. On the way there, I learned that we would be doing some "bushwacking" during our trip. Thinking this was a sort of joke, I just imagined walking a trail that went through some rather dense forest.

When we all had climbed out of the car, each hiker began to pull his or her day pack out of the back. I carried my regular Eddie Bauer backpack that is hydration compatible, though I just use the water bottle holders on the outside for my Nalgenes. The other hikers each had a pack bigger that twice the size of mine. Some were also equipped with ice-axes and most with trekking poles, though the latter is even rather common. I began to wonder exactly what they taught at the Wilderness Trekking School, and even more importantly, what we would encounter today that would require a bag that holds that much gear.

We all made it about half way up Mt. Sniktau, a short 600 vertical feet from our start, before needing to stop to pull out shells and windbreakers. The skies were clear but the wind was sharp. Stan, our guide, reasoned that or position on the continental divide ends up serving as a wind tunnel. There were some parts of the day where I thought I was in a wind tunnel, having to step well off the trail just to keep my balance.

The top was typically gorgeous. A marriage of the mountain views of the Mosquito range and the clear and sunny skies from Mt. Zion. At this point, I didn't know that the best views were yet to come. Unless we wanted to drop down several thousand feet into a valley before ascending Mt. Baker, we had to double back towards our start, which we did. Past this point and off towards Baker, the trail became much smaller, obviously being less traveled. Since it tops off at just over 12,450 feet, Mt. Baker is not a common hiking destination. We made it to the top, again no problem, to receive astounding views.

Continuing in the same north-eastern direction, we were now walking over grass and flowers. There is absolutely a chance that people have walked there before, but during our hike we saw no evidence. Just a few hundred feet beyond the summit, we came to a very steep drop in our "path." It was not the most dangerous cliff I had seen, but my only related experience involved harnesses and ropes. So we took it very slowly. The other guys on the hike all had ice-axes, and instead of climbing slowly down the rocky face, they headed towards a long patch of snow. Each in his turn pulled the axe off of his pack. Sat down in the snow and began to slide as if sledding. By the time each gained enough speed, he slammed the axe into the snow and came to a quick halt. Once regaining balance, they walked off the snow and joined the group at the bottom. Apparently this is called glacading, and I can't wait to try it.

We walked to the the bottom of the saddle we were nearest too and our leader decided it was close enough to lunch time. Looking around, there was no sign of human activity that we could possibly see. No run down mining buildings, no trails or roads, just plain, unspoiled beauty. Across one valley a creek ran down a gulch in a series of small waterfalls. The other side was home to a spread of pine trees and the steep sides of Grays Peak. Phe-nom-i-nal. I both love and hate that no picture can truly capture the beauty of such places.

After our break we skirted around the higher points of Mt. Baker's ridge before descending to our destination. When we reached the end of the ridge, we all stopped up looking down another steep face. We were not unsafe, but wearing a climbing harness would have made the process faster and much mores secure. We merely took our time checking our footing and shouting "rock!" every time some stones came loose. Eventually we made it among the trees. With a man, not our leader, at the front of the group, our direction was down as fast as possible. He knew that the Continental Divide trail lay at the bottom of the ridge and thought it be best to get there fast. When I had a chance, I lead the group across the ridge, even switching back at times, walking wherever the forest was most clear. Much to my dismay, Herb and Stan both felt the quick decent was that better method.

At times I got whipped in the face by branches that others used for balance. At one point I fell which resulted in a cut in one palm and long scratches down my other forearm. The forest itself was peaceful. Not a sound could be heard other than snapping deadfall, heavy breathing, and the occasional bird. The sun beamed brightly in areas not occupied by trees and I found myself taking my sunglasses on and off more frequently than was comfortable.

Eventually we came to another steep rockfall. Again I thought over and slowly down would be best, but Herb took it upon himself to lead the group down before the idea of a consensus was even proposed. Once we all joined him, I took the lead through the underbrush once more, yet the power lines that we could now see a few dozen feet away gave Stan a different idea. He pushed right through the thickest of weeds and bushes we had yet seen to an unpaved road. Several of us stepped into soggy terrain on the way over and ended up with wet socks. But on the bright side, we could see well down the path that we were only a hundred yards from the car.

Looking back on the trip, I did enjoy every part. Even though I'm at least twenty-five years younger than the other hikers, even though I'm still scraped up, and even though I became rather irritated by my leaders, I would sign up for another trip with the Colorado Mountain Club again. In fact, I may do that right now.

Mosquito Range 14ers part 2

2009-07-05T10:49:00.002-05:00

When we got back to the saddle we stopped for a short break. Looking down into the valley that is home to Kite Lake, we liked the way the weather looked. The clouds were breaking up, and sightings of sunlight were becoming more and more frequent. Feeling strong we decided we would at least climb Mt. Cameron, the next fourteener on our route.

Some people do not consider Cameron and actual fourteener because it is so close to the others. Since I'm still a rookie of sorts, I will call anything over 14,000 feet a fourteener. Hiking to the top was much the same as our trek up Democrat though we managed to avoid patches of snow. Just a short way from our previous stop, I was already beginning to loose my breath. Again, the pace that Tyler and Lynn were setting proved to be perfect as we stopped for a second or two before continuing on.

At the top of Cameron, the fog and ugly weather had returned. Trying to take pictures was proving to be a difficult task, but thankfully it had not rained for a while, and the air temperature was no longer turning my fingers into icicles. There were some instances where it cleared up enough for a few quick pictures, but none of them were the majestic shots I had hoped for. Another factor in the difficulty of pictures at the top was the fact that it was hard to find Cameron's exact summit. The top of the mountain is a field of rocks stretching in all directions and when the fog rolled through, it was hard to tell that we were even on top of a mountain.

Still feeling energetic we decided to keep heading along the path towards Mt. Lincoln. On our way, the wind started to pick up again. It carried in some of the most dense clouds we had been through yet, and it definitely took extra effort to maintain balance during certain gusts. My wind and waterproof shell proved to be as resilient as ever and I stayed toasty warm in my layers of clothing.

We came to the base of a steep climb that disappeared into the clouds. Thinking it was the final push up to Lincoln, we to a break before climbing on. At the top we found that the trail kept on going beyond us. We were not terribly surprised by the false summit, but our legs were becoming stiff. The thin air, cold weather, and physical task were starting to take a toll on our bodies.

We finally came to to the top of Lincoln and found it to be a relatively small summit. I've heard that the top of Mt. Everest is no bigger than a small dinner table with room for only four or five people. With the weather and size of our current summit, I felt like it was my own little taste of what Everest could be like. Granted the hike was probably over a thousand times easier, but my anxiousness to climb the world's highest peak has me constantly wondering what it will be like to stand at the top of the world.

Down from Lincoln we cut in front of Cameron, skipping a second summit, as we crossed to Mt. Bross, our final goal. It was getting near ten o'clock and the weather was finally starting to clear. On our way over to Bross, we were able to look back at our three previous summits and savor the visual rewards of our hard work. Since we wanted to be off the mountains by noon, when the temperature rises and the weather can turn nasty in a heart beat, we pushed hard to the top of Bross. This proved to be an unusually simple task as it is rather a shallow ascent to the top. Like Cameron, Bross is a very broad peak; a rocky plain at 14,172 feet.

With four summits behind us and a stunning blue sky ahead, we started down the side of the mountain. A few other hikers pointed out a trail that kept us from having to retrace all of our steps from that morning. It began as any other descent, large rocks and several switchbacks, but the trail soon became steep and each step resulted in the path giving way beneath our feet. It was never enough to cause a rock-slide, but it certainly didn't make me feel completely safe. To prevent any nasty spills, we spread out along the trail and took it slow. If anyone fell we wanted the man ahead to have time to react before getting toppled.

The unstable footing soon turned back into a safer setting, and eventually we were back in the valley crossing fields of wild flowers back towards the parking lot. We followed a creek that turned from running water to stretches of snow, both reflecting the now stunning sun. Though the morning's weather was the sort to turn any hiker around, having kept our spirits up and our ambitions higher made the now gorgeous view a perfect reward.

Mosquito Range 14ers part 1

2009-07-04T08:47:00.004-05:00

Since I've moved out to Colorado and I don't know tons of people yet, I kind of just whinged my first day of climbing. I saw on 14ers.com that some people were planning on climbing a loop in the Mosquito Range that included Mt. Democrat, Mt. Cameron, Mt. Lincoln, and Mt. Bross, so I decided to drive up there nice and early and join up with a random group.

I laid out all of my gear the night before so I would not forget anything, like I had forgotten my food on the day hike up Mt. Zion. I woke up a few minutes before my thee A.M. alarm, changed, ate a bowl of cereal with a banana, and headed out the door. Since I don't have a printer, I wrote the directions down by hand on a scrap of paper. These worked totally fine until I was supposed to turn off of the highway onto County Road 8, or Buckskin Road depending on who you ask. I actually made the right turn, but it was so dark that I could not tell where I was supposed to be going. I got lost in some neighborhoods for a while and eventually found the road I needed to be on.

I felt bad for my car, and worse for my bladder while driving up to the trail head. Rough does not begin to describe the state of the road. It was like driving through a minefield, potholes and rocks were scattered about everywhere. All of the shaking was not helping the fact that I really needed to use the bathroom too. I finally started to see cars and tents at the end of a very long six mile drive, and thankfully there was an out-house too.

Stepping out of my car quickly relieved me of any sleepiness I still felt. It was just five A.M. but the cold winds cut right through my fleece waking me as thoroughly as a tornado siren. I tossed on my wind and waterproof shell to stay warm and got all of the rest of my gear ready as well. When I was all set to head up the trail, two guys were standing there, ready to depart as well.
"So you guys going to try for all four today?" I asked.
"We'll see, depends on of these rain clouds blow over."
"Sounds good. I'm actually out here by myself, do you mind if I hike with you for a while?"
They said it would be fine and we set off. We each asked typical introductory questions and soon were talking as if we had known each other for a while. Perhaps it was common personalities, or maybe it was just the fact that talking while climbing always makes it seem easier.

As we headed up the trail we started to get a little concerned about our direction. No one else seemed to be following our route. Looking to our left we saw how there was an additional path that lead up the side of Mt. Democrat. Abandoning our trail, we cut across a field to the actual path. At this point I had taken the lead and actually departed from my newly formed group. I headed up what I thought was the right trail, and soon found I had again gotten off track. This time cutting across was not as easy as walking through some grass. We had gotten a little ways up and I now crossed over rocks and boulders, some that gave way under my feet, to get to the path. The misty morning left this terrain wet and I slipped frequently. With one particularly bad spill, my shin slammed against a rock. I winced with the pain, but kept on going so I could make it to the trail.

Once I finally made it, I stopped to catch my breath and have some water. Tyler and Lynn, the two other hikers were coming up the trail behind me with a few others.
"I think I'll walk behind you the rest of the way up."
Since I've only been in Colorado three days, and have not acclimated completely to the altitude, I thought walking with a pace conscious group would be the best idea. Plus, they had a map and I did not foresee them making the same mistake I had.

A little further on and the rain started to pick up. I pulled my hood over my head and soon heard little but the wind rushing past my ears and rain pattering on my coat. We stopped for a second to take a quick break. My partners also lived near Denver and since this was their first ascent of the year, they wanted to take things easy. I could not have been happier with that decision. The rain came on and off, each time I did the same with my hood so I would not get over heated. After a few steep climbs and more breaks to slow down our heart-rates, we eventually made it to the saddle between Mt. Democrat and Mt. Cameron. They took of their day packs and pulled out the map to be sure of where they were going. Again I was lucky to be with them as my idea of the loop was different from what it actually was.

With the weather looking as gloomy as every we turned to climb up Democrat. Every time I hike, I vow to buy trekking poles and here they truly would have been useful. We were soon walking on snow while heading directly up hill. The winds were strong and I struggled to maintain my balance. Looking ahead, Lynn and Tyler were not far away, but the fog made them barely visible even a few yards ahead. Just as quickly as it blew in, the fog was soon gone, and the only clouds were a few hundred feet above us. We pushed on and eventually through the clouds to the top of Democrat. We were all relieved to be at the top, and rather surprised about how quickly we had made it. I took out my camera to take some pictures despite the hazy view. There were a few moments that it was clear enough for a decent shot, but the wind chill soon numbed my fingers to a point where I could barely feel them.

After a quick phone call, I ate a snack bar then plunged my icy fingers into my coat pockets.
"So what do you think, should we try for another?" I asked.
"Lets see how the weather is when we get back to the saddle. I don't want to hike through this cold rain all day," said Tyler. Lynn and I agreed.
With wind rushing up the side of the mountain, we headed back down hoping that the weather would soon clear.

Mt. Zion - A Short 1,500 feet

2009-07-03T16:25:00.002-05:00

In an attempt to get better acquainted with the town, I went for a completely unplanned three mile run around Golden. I had a vague idea about going down by Clear Creek and hoped I would be able to complete my entire run there. Yet I made it as far as the Coors Brewery and was forced to turn around by a lack of sidewalks.

So I took a path that went up another creek. Here, "up" is no reference towards north, or a genaral direction, I literally ran up a hill for nearly an entire mile. Of course there were a few flats and dips in the trail, but by the end it was a 200 foot vertical gain.

After the slow and rough run that morning, I thought I should relax that afternoon by climbing nearby Mt. Zion. Its peak only reaches about 7,000 feet above sea level, so I had about 1,500 to go from my residence to the top.

On my way out the door I stopped my roommate who was mowing the lawn and asked if he know of a trail that would take me up there. Luckily he knew of one and I no longer had to follow the scenic drive to the top as I had planned.
"Just cross the bridge over the creek and turn right as soon as you can. The trailhead is across a parking lot," he said with a cheerful air, despite his laborious task.
I thanked him for the info and set off. I snapped a few pictures of the mountain while I was in town for a good show of where I was going, and where I had been.

I made the turn, where I thought he meant, crossed a dirt lot which I took to be what he described, and ducked among some trees along an abandoned road. The trail soon narrowed and took me through high weeds and puddles. The bottoms of my running shoes were soon caked in mud, giving my height an unneeded boost. Eventually I made my way past the sports complex for the School of Mines and crossed under a highway. Not since I lived in Minnesota had I crossed through one of these shady underground tunnels. Instead of finding graffiti in the tunnel I unexpectedly found the edges of the ceiling covered with upside down bird's nests.

They birds all flew out of the tunnel as I made my way through, and soon I was outside staring at a sign reading "Chimney Gulch Trail." I looked up the mountain trying to trace the trail as far as I could. To my surprise I saw paragliders circling the mountain. Perhaps someday I'll get around to trying that myself.

I started the hike, it was nothing terribly difficult. The elevation gain resembled parts of the Smokey Mountains, easy enough to jog or mountain bike through. Along the hike I came across a few runners and several mountain bikers, making me feel like I was taking the easy way out with a backpack full of water and food.

The path eventually crossed a residential drive, then the road that also went to the top a short wile later. There were a few rocky parts and even some steep switchbacks, but that was the worst of the trail. Near the top, I glanced down the gulch to my left, noticing something shiny. At the bottom lay a chrome fender and some rusted out car parts. I should not let this surprise me any more, but it does every time.

At the end of the trail, I had not actually reached the top yet. It stopped at a scenic overlook that several people were parked at. To the left of this spot a trail had been fenced off, so I hopped it easily and kept on going. A little ways up the trail forked. Hoping to end up by the enormous 'M' on the side of the mountain that lights up for the School of Mines, I took the path that does not lead up the spine of the mountain. A little ways on the trail faded into shrubbery which I stepped through to make my way back to the main trail. With my socks and shoes now covered in prickly seeds of some sort I made my way up to a high point that turned out to be a false peak then eventually over to the actual summit.

After a brief break that I used to pinch each seed off of my socks and shoes, I headed back down the trail. I had not gotten to eat at all, I had forgotten my lunch so I decided to take it slow and not wear myself out. Unfortunately for this plan. To the west, some ominous clouds were quickly moving in my direction. My hike back down was a race against the rain. I had a rain coat in my bag, but preferred to make it back before I was sloshing through more mud. A little bit of drizzle dampened my shirt, but otherwise, the hike down was rather uneventful.

On the other side of the tunnel and highway, I took a different turn, hoping to avoid the weeds and puddles from the start of my hike. A little ways down the new path I stopped abruptly in my tracks. Right behind me I heard a quick rattling sound that I have only heard on TV before. Turning around I jumped back to see a snake, no more than a foot and a half long to the side of the path where I had just been. After a quick snapshot, I continued home, much more wary of where I was placing my feet.

Smokey Mountains Spring Break part 4

2009-07-02T16:18:00.002-05:00

When our hour of decision time was up, we had not moved from our sleeping bags. The new plan involved more of the same.

The weather had not cleared up at all. Rain pounded against the corrugated plastic roof and wind shook the tarp that held the precious warmth in the shelter. In the hour we had gotten to know Lefty and Grandpa Joe. Apparently experienced hikers on the Appalachian Trail prefer to use pseudonyms. They told us about their experiences on the trail, and plans for the rest of it; about different sorts of hikes and the sort of people they've met.

A little while later a couple and a guy named Growler joined us in the shelter. Growler's name was given to him after he shared a shelter with some people who didn't like being kept up all night by his snoring. The father and son team came in as well, and by the end of the afternoon we had been joined by another pair of hikers.The shelter was cramped and damp. Gear hung from every hook and rock that could hold a little bit of weight. If nothing else, Craig and I certainly learned a lot about different sorts of gear and the unusual types of people that hike the AT.

Just before sundown, not that we had even seen it that day, the rain started to ease up though the wind was as relentless as ever. Craig stepped outside to try and call someone who could give us a weather forecast. When he got back, I grabbed the roll of toilet paper and headed out myself. I ran down a trail that was headed with a sign that read "toilet." Just a little way down it split in two without another sign for guidance. I ran a little bit down the right fork and eventually came to nothing. With time against me, I stepped of the trail then kicked my boot heel into the ground to make a deep enough cat-hole.

Back in the shelter I climbed back into my sleeping bag and didn't get back out until the next morning. We spent about fifteen hours in our sleeping bags, most of the time actually sleeping, and recovering from the three days of hiking. It was all for the best too though we did not know it at the time.

The next day we set off just behind Lefty. He left around six-thirty and was hoping to make it twelve miles through the storm to a shelter on the other side of the park's highest peak. Our own plan was a little different. Originally I had wanted to do the same as Lefty, though go a little further still to a campsite off the AT. After that we'd have another fifteen mile day then be back in the car. However, that fourth day was as ugly as the third, and we had made some changes to the itinerary. We'd give the weather a chance to clear up, but if it didn't by the time we made it the first five miles, we would turn of the AT and push another fifteen back to the car. I had no desire to cut the trip short, but that was demolished by the idea of putting up a tent in the rain.

When we got to our juncture at Welch Ridge Trail nothing had improved since the day before. With one last look at the haze covering the Smokey Mountains, we started our down hill trudge back to the car.

Had the weather and our spirits been brighter, I'm sure the trail would have been a pleasant hike, but there is little to recall from that part of our trip. Even though my gloves were soaked through, they were keeping my hands warm. The rain hand matted my hair into a fairly effective hat that held the body heat in as well. We hiked and hiked, barely even in the mood to talk. Because it helped pass the time, I tried my best to come up with something to say.

"You know, I saw this rain on the weather report before we left, but I figured we should go anyway."
Craig did not say a word, and I knew that he probably hated hearing that even more than the fact that his shoes and socks were all soaked through to his skin.

Welch Ridge took us to Jonas Creek then the Forney Creek Trail. The map showed that there would be a few stream crossings. At this point we both didn't care at all. There was no way we could get any more wet, and we had done enough before that they shouldn't be a problem. And the first few weren't, but there was one that trumped all that we had done before it. The creek was nearly fifty feet wide at the crossing, and when we crossed the water came halfway up our thighs. The river rushed so fast with all of the rain water that Craig's hiking sticks snapped under the combined pressure and weight.

Down the trail we came to a campsite that was populated by some horseback riders. Though we had seen evidence of them along the Lake View Trail, this was the first time we actually saw them. There were several heavy set men that had more horses than they could ride. We decided to get whatever information we could from them so would could plan out the rest of our day. Walking up and saying 'hi' to them resulted only in disinterest. They mumbled something about the trail that they had come up on. Deciding that we were too tired to pry further, we ended up leaving.

Apparently they had mumbled about one more stream crossing because shortly after we departed I was sitting down to take off my boots. The rest of the creek's trail was relatively flat and made for a slight ease in our journey. We pushed on, every step seemingly pointless. We were wet, we were tired, we were hungry, and above all we were just plain sick of walking. The best decision we made that day was to stop.

Halfway up one ridge, just a few miles from the car, we collapsed to the side of the trail, not even bothering to take off our packs. I reached into Craig's pack and pulled out a bag of fried plantains. The salty and fried chips were unbelievably delicious, and I know there is no way that I could buy them and enjoy them that much ever again. When the bag was nearly gone, we lurched back to our feet and kept going.

Coming back to the Lake View Trail was only a slight relief, it meant we had another two miles to go, though the familiarity of the trail was comforting. Closer and closer we were even making jokes again, proposing taking the more scenic route back to the car and adding another two and a half miles to our already twenty mile journey. Back in sight of the gloomy tunnel, I would have yelled if I could. The only thing I could manage was thinking about a hamburger topped with bacon and smothered with cheese. On the other side of the tunnel my car was in site. We didn't resist dropping our packs to the ground with no concern for their contents. Before changing our clothes, we snapped one last picture at the trailhead, so we could have a before and after shot. Shortly thereafter we were both in dry clothes, in the car with the heater on, driving towards an artery clogging yet guilt free feast.

Smokey Mountains Spring Break part 3

2009-07-01T15:43:00.002-05:00

A familiar sound woke me up in the middle of the night. A little bit of drizzle was coming down, a soft tapping on the tent's canvas made it known to us. Craig was awake as well and soon we agreed that safety hazard or no, we should bring our food bags off of the bear line and into the tent. It seemed logical to chance an animal burrowing into the tent, during a storm, rather than end up with completely soaked foodstuffs. With generosity and courage, Craig opened the flap and ran out to get the food.

When we woke up in the morning, it was still drizzling slightly and our tent and food lay completely unharmed. I climbed out of the tent and stretched as I stood up. Walking over to the entirely smothered fire I noticed something strange. Our water filter was gone. The night before after filling up every one of our bottles I set it near the fire to dry. This morning, the only part that still sat where I put it was the small hose that would be attached to a water bottle. Everything else was gone.

After spending a panicked few minutes looking around for it, we gave up. We had iodine tablets as a back-up plan, just in case some unforeseen occurrence left us without the use of the filter. With spots of rain dripping around us, we packed everything up, even the stove and pot. The weather was too miserable for doing something as joyous as cooking breakfast. Both Craig and myself snacked on a Cliff bar on our way out of camp. However, not even 100 feet down the trail, we stopped.

Right in front of us, crossing our path was the same creek that we crossed some eighteen times the day before. Now it rushed faster and deeper than before, having a night's worth of rain to encourage its pace. Again taking off boots and socks we had to cross the now frigid stream. Yesterday's sun was nowhere in sight and all indicators were leading us to believe this was going to be a miserable day.

The maps we were following did not give a clear indication of just how far along the Eagle Creek trail our campsite was, but using rough measurements, we assumed that we had about five miles until we reached our next intersection. Compared to the adventure the day before, today was the closest thing to work that mountain climbing can resemble. Our path lead us nearly straight up the side of Smokies to the ridge that is home to the Appalachian Trail. The rocks were wet from the rain and even with expensive hiking boots, we were soon slipping frequently, making slow progress.

We began to get rather tired. The meager breakfast and even more depressing weather were making us want to stop. Telling ourselves that it could not be much further we pushed on. In reality, what we told ourselves without any way to know if it was correct turned out to be true! A bright spot in the otherwise dreary day. We soon came to a sign pointing us towards the Appalachian Trail and the Spence Field shelter.

We made our way into the shelter and dropped our bags in relief. The space gave the impression of a construction project that ran short on funding. Despite a roof that ran perhaps twenty feet, the walls only made it half that distance and large beams held up the roof at the open end. A man and his son were there getting ready for a day of hiking. We swapped stories about our hikes thus far. As Craig and I pulled out a snack, the pair left, taking the same path we intended to follow later on.

The Spence Field shelter is named after its location, on the edge of a field. This may not seem particularly interesting, but keep in mind that this field is on the top of a mountain. Had the weather been different, I suppose I would have wondered how this area managed to stay barren when trees topped the surrounding mountains. Immeasurable winds slapped us in the face and pushed water into every possible opening. It truly rained sideways, and our ponchos did little to fend off the moisture.

Craig led the way, staying fairly silent, though I though I just was not hearing him over the noise of the storm.
"This sucks!" I soon heard him shout.
It did suck, and what made it worse was the fact that we could hardly see twenty feet around us, there was no chance to appreciate the majesty of the mountains, let alone the tiring hikes to get there.

We eventually passed the man an his son, taking their picture in the gloom as we did. We had been told that this would be the most crowded part of the journey as many people attempt to hike the entire Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. However, we did not see another person until about three o'clock that afternoon. We made it to the shelter Derrik Knob and found two men and two girls there. The girls were actually heading out, hoping to make it to the next shelter, supposedly just under six miles away. Craig and I debated following them. At our normal pace, we could make it, but the conditions were a little too rough.

We spoke to the other guys in the shelter and the consensus was that even leaving in an hour would give someone enough time to make the hike. Soaked to the bone, I peeled off my clothes and threw them into plastic bags, taking the driest, yet still damp clothes out of my pack to wear. Craig and I unpacked and got into our respective sleeping bags to warm up, and try to decide what to do next.

Smokey Mountains Spring Break part 2

2009-06-20T15:59:00.001-05:00

I got the fire going without a match the next morning. Despite what I learned in the Boy Scouts, we just the fire die out the night before. Breakfast was going to be oatmeal and hot chocolate. I got the stove going to boil the water while Craig pumped more water. In the mean time I took down the tent, and despite the cooking gear still being out, we were packed and ready to go. The water never came to a boil, though our anxiousness to get on the trail was probably the only reason why.

We started hiking around the same time as the day before, giving ourselves plenty of time to reach campsite ninety-seven which lay some fifteen miles away. At the start of the hike, our GPS watch crapped out; the battery had not been fully charged when we left the day before.

The morning’s hike took us away from the lake, cutting between a pair of ridges. Clear skies let the sun’s heat warm us quickly, and again we were soon out of outer layers. There were about six miles left on this trail, and then our itinerary took us along Eagle Creek to the foot of the highest mountains. If energy allowed, we’d try to push an additional five-or-so miles up to the Appalachian Trail.

The hills weren’t terribly strenuous, but yesterday’s aches soon returned. The hiking sticks I had picked up certainly helped take the weight off my knees. Little did I know how much they would help later on.

We came to the intersection of trails at about lunch time. Since we were right near Eagle Creek and needed a refill on water, taking an extended break seemed like a good idea. With packs off, we sat on a large boulder at the edge of the creek. Despite driving through the mountains just two days ago, this was the best scenery so far. The crystal clear water churned around us and reflected the suns rays, warming us in the still-cool weather.

A Cliff bar and a few handfuls of GORP later, we were back on our feet, ready to take on the next ten miles. We walked down the trail, and no more than a half-mile later, our path led right to Eagle Creek. Across the water the trail picked up and kept on going. Craig pulled out the map to make sure this was not some sort of mistake. Eagle Creek Trail has fifteen stream crossings that are worse in the early spring because of runoff from the mountains. Awesome.

Our first thought was to hop from rock to rock and try to not get wet. Then we even spent about fifteen minutes trying to hike through trees and bushes along the river, figuring that we could rough it until we picked up the trail again. After much struggling and thought, we sat down, took off our boots and socks, tied them together, and threw them around our necks. Neither of us had sandals or water shoes, so we waded through the water using hiking sticks for balance and trying to find foot holds that weren’t sharp or slippery underneath our bare feet.

As soon as we sat down on the other bank to put our shoes back on, another hiker charged through the water that we had just come through.
“Are you guys headed up to the A.T.?”
“Yeah, we had no idea stream crossings meant exactly this.”
“Hah, yeah, that’s why I’ve got these trail runners. Did you guys see that bear back there?”
“What?”
“Just a few hundred feet before the crossing, a big black bear was standing on the side of the path, growled at me as I went by.”
We talked a little more to the stranger about bears and gear, then he head out ahead of us, hoping to make it up to the Appalachian Trail before nightfall. Despite the warnings and possible danger I was excited to maybe see a bear, but we kept on going none the less.

Without an official system to count the stream crossings, I just tried to keep track in my head. After the fifteenth one, I was excited to not have to dry my feet off anymore. Then, again, we came to a crossing. By the end of the day we had done it seventeen times. I had gotten pretty good at sitting down and standing up without taking my pack off. By the last few, Craig had tried crossing without taking off his shoes and gotten them wet enough that he didn’t even bother with taking them off. At the same crossings, my waterproofed boots held up even though I was ankle deep.

Setting up camp and eating that night was more of a pleasure than a chore. Our elevation hand not changed much that day, but it was almost as difficult as the day before, because of all of the crossings. We decided not to try and push up to the A.T. so we could rest up and push hard tomorrow.

All day we had seen signs of a railway and/or mining gear that had once followed the creek. Some sections of track jutted out of the water, and used-to-be bridges were still standing on either side of some crossings. At our campsite was an enormous circular saw blade, easily a yard in diameter. We had no view of the sunset or of the moon either that evening. The skies were getting rather cloudy as we climbed into the tent for bed.

Smokey Mountains Spring Break part 1

2009-06-18T15:56:00.000-05:00

The continental breakfast was not of, or of the nature of, a cotenant by any means. It was filling though. I had a bowl of oatmeal, an orange and a blueberry muffin, stuffing a second in my pocket on the way out. We checked out of the Days Inn and drove about thirty minutes to the start of our hike at the Lakeview Trail trailhead in Great Smokey Mountains National Park.

Craig and I hitched on our packs and took a quick picture at the start of our journey. The trail didn’t officially begin right off of the parking lot, but instead was at the end of a blocked off road that takes you through a very long and dark graphitized tunnel. Just a few steps down this road and I was already having problems trying to walk comfortably. Something was poking me in the butt.

I reached into the back of my pants and found that I had forgotten to take the tags off of my pants. After struggling to rip them off without letting my twenty-five pound pack sway me off balance, I tossed the tags in the back of my car and we were finally on our way.

Our goal for the day was to at least make it to campsite seventy-seven, which is about fifteen miles from the trailhead. Depending on how we were feeling by then, we thought we might even push four extra miles to the next campsite. A few people that we spoke to thought that this was an over-ambitious goal, and that we’d want to stop early to set up camp, or that we would only be able to cover about ten miles each day.

So we pushed hard, not stopping often, and switching the lead about every hour so neither one of us got to annoyed with the other’s pace. The sun shone brightly through the budding trees, and its reflection off of Fontana Lake was particularly stunning. Bushes and shrubbery were already green and blooming in the early spring air, and in some of the lowland areas closer to the lake, they gave the trail a rainforest like atmosphere (not that I have ever been there, but it was what I would imagine it to be like). Despite the low-fifties temperature, we had both already stripped off our gloves, hats, and fleeces.

Our trail followed the fingers of the man-made lake all day, and we occasionally hopped over small creeks that crossed the path. A few times we even had to climb over entire logs that had fallen in the way of the trail and had not yet been cleared by the rangers. The route was repetitive but never boring; down hill along a bay, then uphill to get over the next ridge, over and over again. Despite my slowly numbing back muscles, it really was just a long beautiful hike.

Rounding one high point in the trail, coming over a sprawling spine of the Smokies, my brother halted abruptly in front of me. A long low growling and a shaking bush off the trail left our colon’s empty and our pants sagging.
“Did you hear that?”
“Yeah, you think it was a bear?”

We had stopped at several different stores for gear while prepping for the trip, and at every one of them, the cashier kindly warned us of the explosive black bear population in the Smokies that spring.

After a few more moments of standing there silently and without seeing anything, we set off again. We stayed silent for a while down the trail in hopes that we would be able to hear any sable furred stalkers. We stopped around noon, but not for a lunch break, rather just to get our lunch out of our packs. We figured we could just as easily eat while walking and thought it would increase our chances of making it to campsite eighty-one as well.

By the time we reached campsite seventy-seven, the afternoon was still young, and at our current pace, we could definitely reach our goal before dinnertime. It’s far too easy to predict energy levels when you’re standing still. Even just a mile down the trail I was already beginning to regret our decision. My feet were throbbing and my knees sounded like someone in a blue-grass band was following me with a pair of spoons, clicking with every step.

Just to keep our minds off of the pain, Craig and I began planning what we would do when we got to camp. We were certainly hungry, but didn’t want nightfall to sneak up on us too soon. We decided that I’d set up a fire while he refilled the water bottles. Then the tent. Then food. Figuring that out did not take nearly as long as we’d hoped and soon we were fighting to climb the next ridge. Then one more ridge. Then one more. And one more. We finally made it, and dropping my pack off after nineteen miles of hard hiking was one of the greatest feelings of relief I’ve ever had.

We had only met one other person on the trail that day. Although he was hiking alone he had said that he spent most nights sharing a campsite and whiskey with other hikers. Craig and I, however, were completely alone. In perfect seclusion, we were about as far away from school and work that we could possibly be.

My Madison Marathon part 4

2009-06-07T12:29:00.001-05:00

I crossed the half-way point and was only semi-relieved. During all of my training runs I never felt that sore at thirteen miles. But then again, the largest elevation gain I ever dealt with was about 150ft over a quarter mile, not even close. That would be like Sir Edmund Hillary getting ready for Everest by climbing to the top of mount Vernon.

Despite the lead like trunks that were now groaning with every stride I kept on going. My pace dropped considerably, almost by en entire minute. In my head I kept telling myself that I could finish slow as long as I finished.

At the mile 15.5 aid station I decided to give me legs a bit of a break. During all of my really long runs of training, I had stopped back at my apartment for a bathroom break and a glass of water. Since I didn’t feel like clenching my lower cheeks any more, and I had never run this far with out stopping at all, I felt ok about the decision.

I felt ok about stopping until I actually stopped. Whenever I decide I’m going to use the bathroom, its like my bladder gets a signal and puts everything on express delivery to the toilet. That is fine when its my apartment, but the aid station only had one port-a-john, and it was occupied, and had another person waiting outside.

After prancing around for three or four minutes while two others used the bathroom, I finally got my chance, then was on my way. But, my excitement for the race outweighed my desire to sit for too long, because at the next aid-station a mile and a half later I had to stop again. Again it was already occupied, but there was no line this time.

After taking care of business, I jumped onto the course again. I tried telling myself, “There’s only nine miles left, the same as your first big run, you can do this, no biggie.” With luck on my side I started running, up hill, and I ran up hill for the next three quarters of a mile. Looking back on my data it was the largest elevation gain on the course, perfect timing for right after a small break.

From there I ran on, I didn’t feel great, but I kept telling people that I did, including myself. This is about where the fans became the biggest help. Throughout the race there were people along the route cheering the runners on, but when I was feeling my worst their support was amazing. Same with the water, Gatorade, and GU stations, the volunteers and organization were fantastic.

Somewhere in mile nineteen I decided to slow things down a bit. I walked for a while to give my knees and legs a little break. I wasn’t cramping at all, cardio-wise I did feel fine, but the toll that the hills took was getting to be more than I could handle.

With the walking, the event organization again proved to be very strong. While it was slightly annoying that a handful of people asked me if I was ok or feeling alright, it truly was great that they had medics on the course that were concerned enough to ask.

My family too was great for support. My parents and sister drove up that morning to catch the second half of the race. It was the first time my mom had been to a running race since my brother ran high school track. Lucky for me they had an extra water bottle. My brother was fantastic too. Not only did he go and get me the water, but he also ran along side me the last five miles of the race.

Miles twenty through twenty-four were kind of a blur. I ran, I walked, I drank water. People cheered. My dad took pictures. Most importantly, I decided I wanted to finish sub 4:30 if I could.

The last few miles were unforgettable. The course took us along the Monona Terrace. Some people found it disheartening to be able to see the Alliant Energy Center that whole time, but I was too busy enjoying the view and dodging pedestrians to think about it. I was actually extremely surprised that the sidewalk wasn’t barricaded for race use only. It was annoying to have to look out for walkers and cyclists while putting my body through excruciating pain.

The last mile through the AEC grounds were equally scenic as the arboretum; the whole race was really. Madison continues to prove to be a beautiful city every time I visit.

Mile twenty-six ended at the top of a hill, the last hill, and the final point-two miles were perfect. My watch showed that 4:30 had already passed, but I could still come in under 4:40, but I didn’t have much time. I used that down hill as best I could. I pushed as hard as I could. With tons of spectators cheering along either side of the course I crossed the finish line. 4:39 And, just like Hal Higdon’s training guide suggests, I smiled.

The end of the race support was solid. I was handed a metal and a bottle of water right away, but I was most eager to get to the chocolate milk recovery lane. At first I saw a giant sign for it laying on the ground, I thought they had run out of chocolate milk and was worried. After all, the half marathon and the 5k had the same finish line even though their starts were different. Much to my relief, further down the race lane were people handing out the milk. Delicious.

After slurping the whole thing down I started looking around for my family. Mom and sister met up with me and were willing to get a hug despite the fact that I was soaked in sweat and Gatorade. My family rocks.

Since Michelob Ultra was the headlining sponsor of the event, they too had a tent set up in the athlete’s village. I didn’t know it before the race, but all of the runners got two free beers. I didn’t think it would be such a great idea, but I still went to get one anyway. Plus, the guy who told me about the beer tent had said he’d take mine if I didn’t.

Looking back on it now, yes I’m disappointed in myself for not training properly for the hills. It would have been great to finish under four hours, but, at the same time, that just gives me a reason to run another one. So come October 18th, hopefully I’ll be crossing Detroit’s finish line with something like 3:59 on the timer.

My Madison Marathon part 3

2009-06-04T20:15:00.000-05:00

Well, I was almost on my own. As I split off, a couple that I had been running with and talking to earlier cheered me on as I went. They asked how we were doing in terms of pace. When I told them that the group was slowing down, they said that I would be their official pacer from now on.
“I don’t know if I can handle that kind of pressure in my first marathon!”
They laughed. We made small talk for a while, they asked me where I was from and when I, in turn, asked them, they replied, “we actually just passed our house!”

Eventually I did break away from them in effort to obey the pace that was displayed on my GPS watch. I’d only owned the thing for a week, but was already willing to put all of my faith in it. After all, it cost way too much not to. I made my way through the UW Arboretum, passing some people, getting passed by others, but mainly enjoying the cool breeze and beautiful scenery to be running through.

Every now and then, and always to my surprise, someone would burst through the forest and onto the road. While my first thought was that they were cheating and cutting their route short, I remembered how long the line for the bathrooms had been at the beginning of the race. It also seemed like it was only men going in and out of the forest. I suppose when you’re running a race, behind a tree is just as good a place as any to relieve yourself.

On the other side of the arboretum, I was running along Lake Wingra and noticed a lot of foot patter behind me. With a glance over my shoulder I saw the four-hour pace group gaining ground. A look at my watch showed that my pace had slowed a few seconds behind my goal, so I somewhat reluctantly joined the group again. Deciding I would run next to the pacer for the rest of the race if possible, I looked for some more people around him to talk with.

I talked for a while to a girl in red shorts. It was both our first marathon, and we joked around about training mishaps. Turns out we both used the same training programs (thank you Hal Higdon!). When our group made its way back to the neighborhoods around UW-Madison, and eventually on to campus, our pacer said, “these are some of the biggest hills, so we’re gonna take ‘em slow.”

During all of my training, there were few if any hills. Champaign, Illinois doesn’t lend itself too well to rough workouts. There was the week I spent in the Smokey Mountains walking up and down very steep hills with a huge pack on my back, but that was not really enough to prepare me for this.

Up and down the first few I was feeling relatively fine. My feet were getting a little scrunched into my shoes as we ran down the hills, but that was soon relieved as the terrain evened out. Then up and down one particularly large hill, my knees began to bother me too. Attributing it to the amount of hills I was doing, I figured I’d be fine as soon as I had a chance to relax along the flatter portions of the course.

At mile twelve, I looked down at my watch and saw that the pace group was a half-a-minute ahead again. With the pain in my knees I felt like a bit of a break was necessary if I was going to finish the race, I wasn’t even half way done yet. Keeping the pace group in view ahead of me while I slowed didn’t seem like that bad of an idea. But as we came down yet another hill to the edge of Lake Mendota, I knew that even this much slower was too much pain. I conceded that I wasn’t going to be able to maintain a pace for a four-hour time.

My Madison Marathon part 2

2009-06-03T16:46:00.001-05:00

I started jogging in place as the crowd around me began to bustle with excitement.
“Good luck,” a guy to my right said while he nodded.
“Yeah,” I replied, “have a good run!”
Since actors are superstitious about luck, ever since hiking the Appalachian Trail, I’ve just wished others well on their run or hike or whatever.

Eventually there was room to begin to jog and we headed out. Crossing the timing mats I started my watch’s timer, joining the chorus of beeps around me. Just a few paces down the road we were already in view of the finish line.
“That was fast!” One person joked to a reception of chuckles.
“I wish we were done already!” said another.
To this a stern voice replied, “Don’t even think thoughts like that.”

We all turned to the right before getting to the finish gate. I looked over my shoulder at it thinking it will just be that much sweeter when I cross it, hopefully, four hours later.

We eventually left the Alliant Energy Center grounds and headed out to some neighborhoods along Monona Bay. The view across towards the city was gorgeous despite the overcast sky. Looking down at my watch, our pace was 8:36, more than a half minute faster than the 9:09 that a four-hour finish requires. I mentioned this to some runners around me and they agreed.
“I was hoping I wasn’t the only one who thought so,” said a woman in pink. We ended up chatting a bit about the pace and races otherwise. She congratulated me on my first marathon.
“We’ll see whether or not I’ll need that in about twenty-five miles,” I replied with a smile.

A little later on, the woman in pink and myself had found others that were a little upset with our leader’s excited pace. Sure it could be the eagerness at the beginning of the race, but we agreed that his job was to keep that under control. Either way, we decided to keep Bob in our sights while we went slightly slower, closer to accurate pace.

After about two miles, I remembered that my brother and Ameena had promised to be out on the course cheering me on, taking pictures, and such. I eventually saw them, my brother with his camera out. He asked me how I was feeling. I was great, despite the fact that we were still running much faster than our goal pace required.

At three miles, Bob’s pace finally changed. Much slower. I was glad to say the least. I didn’t want a fast start to kill me towards the end. All of the training guides I had red said to start slow, no one contended that going fast out of the gate was a good idea. I decided that, pacer or not, I was going to run 9:09s for the rest of the race. I would use the near two minutes that we were ahead as a security blanket for bathroom breaks or other wise. So leaving the pace group behind I was on my own.

My Madison Marathon part 1

2009-06-02T12:19:00.002-05:00

After a bit of research and debate about when to wake up and eat a meal, I went to bed at about ten with my alarm set for four-thirty. After just a few hours of restless sleep I was up and eating my two bowls of Cheerios, with a banana sliced over each.

Once my brother woke up a few minutes later, I was crashing at his apartment for the weekend, we talked a little bit about when we would leave and decided to watch Casino Royale (on Blue Ray!). The race started at seven-thirty, and since I had spent a very long hour in the corral of the Illinois Marathon where I ran a half the month before, we decided getting to the start line by seven would be plenty of time.

After several trips to the bathroom and bouncing around the apartment gathering all of my gear, we finally headed out the door. On the highway to the race I felt calm, but I could feel my heart beating way too fast already. I had decided to forgo wearing a heart-rate monitor since I’d only owned it for a week, and didn’t want any discomfort or worry to pile up on top of my first marathon. Regardless, I knew my heart was beating needlessly fast.

We came to the road sign indicating our exit from the highway, and had to abruptly turn into an extremely long exit line. There had to be at least three-quarters of a mile before the exit and we were already stopped. Since he knows the area, my brother decided taking the next exit would be smartest. Driving past our original gate we saw people stepping out of cars and jogging to the start line.

Inside the parking lot of the Alliant Energy Center I grabbed my GPS watch from my gear bag and started looking for my MP3 player. I was not even sure if I wanted to use it the whole time; talking to other runners, meeting new people, the whole experience is not really worth missing just so I can here Eve 6’s “Amphetamines” blasting into my ears for the hundredth time. Either way, it was not in my bag, but likely sitting on the coffee table at my brother’s apartment, so the choice was no longer mine.

My brother and his girlfriend dropped me off as close as they could to the start though it meant fighting through extra crowds and parking officials for them. With my bib already pinned, I joined the general flow of foot traffic. I already knew I’d have to use the bathroom again before the race started. I knew it when I was in the car, I even knew it when we were walking out of the apartment, but there was no way I was going to be late for this race. Once I was in view of the start line I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes until start, plenty of time to jump into a port-a-john. Above the rows of cars, a line of bathrooms was visible a ways away so I jogged on over. Surprisingly there wasn’t really a crowd gathered around them, and I figured I’d soon be relieved, but I was wrong.

Stretching back through four rows of a parking lot were two lines of runners and spectators waiting to use the thirteen bathrooms that were supposed to accommodate everyone. I found the back of the line and checked my watch again; seventeen minutes. I decided if I couldn’t make it half way through this line in seven minutes I was going to have to wait for the first water station. I discussed this with the ladies in front of me and they figured that it would be crowded with others thinking the same thing, so I bided my time in line.

With five minutes until the start of the race, I knew I wasn’t going to use an actual bathroom in the very near future. The ladies in line before me were laughing, several men were sprinting towards a grove of pines behind the port-a-johns. They gave me a look knowing I would too. I did. Urinating rarely feels so good.

Finally in the corral, there were just three minutes left. I got as close as I could to my pace group. Pacer Bob held up a 4:00 sign just a few yards in front of me. My heart still had not settled. With two fingers on my wrist I counted fourteen beats as my watch counted ten seconds. Its not too bad, but eighty-four beats per minute is pretty high for a standing heart rate. With my heart already racing, the band started playing and the Mad City Marathon began.

Coming Soon

2009-06-01T16:09:00.004-05:00

Howdy!

Since I graduated college with a minor in English and took way too many writing classes to let that go to waste, I decided I'm going to write something and hope you feel like reading it.

My mom always compared my feet to bricks. They're square, pretty much completely flat, and hold up a 190+ lb frame, so I guess her comparison is rather astute. Since my feet are responsible for carrying my through my (mis)adventures, I feel like BrickFeet is an appropriate title for this blog.

So here's what you can look forward to. I recently ran the Mad City Marathon in Madison, Wi, and really feel like writing a full length recap of it, I'll probably post it in installments so it doesn't seem too long. This past Mach I spent 5 days in Smokey Mountain National park in TN/NC and it was a trying experience to say the least, it'll come soon enough in a similar format. Plus, since I'm training for the Detroit Marathon, The Madison Mini, and an ascent of Longs Peak all by the end of this year, there should be plenty of intermittant quips and posts. Plus I watch too many movies; rants and reviews could show up too.

If I end up slacking, or lagging, check my twitter for more frequent posts
Looking forward to this!