Nothing like a timely report for the list. But if you're a newly hooked Hardrock junky like me or even a long-time user this might be a welcome fix. Shoot up, er, read it and get high.
Renne Gardner Fountain Valley, California RenneGard@aol.com
The waitress in Silverton was distressed. She'd been serving up hot coffee and good eats for 25 years. Seen side burns come and go and come back again. Seen a lot of tourists and rugged mountain types come and go. Some returning to become regulars, some never to be seen again. In her time she had hiked much of the San Juan Mountains and knew some of the trails on the Hardrock course. She was afraid that she would never see us again.
She held her hands a couple of fried eggs-width apart. "The trails," she insisted, "are only this wide." She swung one arm down as if she were wielding a hammer. "And if you trip?!!
Her meaning was obvious. You would fall until you resembled a raw egg dropped from the Empire State Building.
At the top of Grant Swamp Pass I didn't want to be fixin's for no Denver omelette. So, I made an effort to stay behind a four-time finisher to see exactly how to negotiate the 200 foot ice chute on the downhill side. Of course, he slid down the steepest section with hardly a pause. I went to a less steep section and attempted to emulate Mr. Kamm.
With hiking pole at the ready for self-arrest I proceeded to do the butt slide. Unlike Mr. Kamm, however, I careened wildly out of control. I dug my hiking pole into the snow with little effect. Then I dug my heels into the snow; my momentum slowed, but not enough. Nothing I did helped until I crashed into a snow bank. A soft snow bank, courtesy of the Mountain Gods. Humpty Dumpty remained intact to climb another pass.
But first he would have to learn how to glissade.
One of the questions asked at the 3 hour ultra-detailed trail briefing Wednesday before the run was, "What is glissading?" The answer was very much in evidence on the north side of Swamp Grant. Skiing without skis. Slipping, sliding, schussing in running shoes, hiking boots and occasionally on one's fanny pack. The experienced glissaders actually made good time on this section. All the rest of us felt like beginners forced to stare down at a triple black diamond ski run.
Glissading was out of the question, however, on the downhill side of Virginius Pass between Telluride and Ouray. Actually Virginius isn't much of a pass. At least most reasonable people wouldn't call it a pass. In fact, it's not even listed on topo maps of the area. But leave it to the race directors to not only find it, but also to make it a part of the course.
After topping out on Mendota Ridge - which is on the maps and which I initially thought was Virginius - we had to inch along a narrow bench on the east side of the ridge. We tiptoed over scree, rocks and ice patches where one misstep would have catapulted you half way down to Ouray. With much sweat and heart palpitations I managed to traverse the ice only to find myself 100 feet below the actual pass. I scrambled up to a rather small break in the crags. Virginius, at last. Amazing to me was the fact that a group of backpackers had actually stationed themselves on this narrow shelf as an aid station. Did they enjoy the smell of fear?
As several runners were here at the same time, there was little extra room. Just enough space to slide on some Gore-tex pants, sip some bullion and peer over the edge. 300 foot ice chute with a 200 foot fixed rope. I had learned much about sliding at Grant Swamp. I wasn't about to start using a rope now. So with the hiking pole dug in for self arrest once again I sat down and weeeeeee... Fortunately a loud weeeeee, not a wet weeeeeee. Not a more fun or scarier moment on the course.
The loud weeeeeee was replaced by the silence of suffering between miles 45 and 55. Climbing out of Ouray on the Bear Creek National Recreation Trail I felt good. Then the Big Bad Altitude Bonk. Big Bad Steep Climbs. Big Bad Engineer's Pass. Big Bad Nighttime freezing cold. Big Bad period.
I thought I was done for after cresting Engineer's Pass. I could barely walk the 6-7 mile downhill to the Grouse Gulch Aid Station (mile 60). It was certainly a rough and rocky downhill, but it was DOWN hill for Pete's sake and I used every excuse in the book to keep my pace at a slower than slug's pace. "Well, I'm going to drop anyway. Man, no one can run on these rocks. Well, if I'm going to continue I need to conserve energy. It's OK, I'm still on 48 hour pace." After an endless internal dialogue, at first trying to convince myself that I should drop, then trying to convince myself that I should continue, I actually reached the aid station.
Another runner had told me that Handie's Peak wasn't too bad. Just a brief 20 minute detour. But I think she was remembering it from the opposite direction with little snow. This year we had to negotiate the American Basin chock full o' snow then climb out of the Basin - and I do mean climb - to reach the base of Handie's, then climb some more. Did I mention climb? Then once we struggled to the top of one of Colorado's most scenic 14ers, we couldn't savor it. After a ten-second glance, a quick punch of the run number, it was time to turn around and head back down. At least we got our 10 second look, unlike the front runners who climbed Handie's at night.
After slowing down considerably beyond Sherman (mile 70) I ran out of time and oxygen at Maggie's Gulch (mile 85). Nearing the absolute cutoff time I still had 16.5 miles over two 13,000 foot passes covered with snow and ice in the dark, in the cold and in a sleep deprived state. I opted for the Jeep ride back to Silverton and sleep.
But as others who've attempted or completed this event will attest, it gets under your skin. I did the Hardrock 85 this year and fully intend to return for the 100 mile version. Yes, I've become a Hardrock junky. You know the story: you start with the easy-to-finish recreational stuff, then eventually graduate to the harder stuff. Thoughts of Hardrock consume each waking moment. There is no better high...
The nose-studded, skin-headed and fashionably goateed 20-something in the lobby of the Flagstaff motel asked me where I had come from. "Silverton," I said. And Telluride and Ouray... "Did a race called the Hardrock 100." I told him a little bit about it - the altitude, the passes. My few words doing very little justice to the event.
His eyes widened nonetheless. "Any climbing?" he asked.
"And falling," I replied.
"Map and compass?"
"And getting lost."
I mentioned the snow slides, the ice patches, the scree fields.
"Do they have something like that at the X-Games?" he asked.
"Too extreme for the X-Games," I told him.
Nose Stud seemed to be impressed. "Cool," he said.
Way cool, I thought. And more addictive than nicotine.
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