Race day dawns clear and brisk. Surely the day will be hot, as the last few days in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado have been. Unseasonably hot, barely a cloud appearing in the monotonous blue, nor a hint of the typical afternoon thunderstorms. For the 112 runners assembled at the Silverton High School gym at 6 AM on this beautiful Friday morning, the heat will not be the biggest obstacle they will face. No, that would be the circuitous route through these beautiful mountains, 100.3 miles of ups and downs, thirty-three thousand feet of up, thirty-three thousand feet of down. Average elevation over eleven thousand feet, high point over fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Some would get altitude sickness, unable to breathe, uncontrollable vomiting, nausea, muscle cramps and spasms, inability to process food or water. Some would give up, realizing that the mountains were not to be beaten that day. For others, though, they would fight through the pain, fight through the rational thought telling them to stop, that they do not need to do this, that there is no reason to do this. They would fight up the mountain, then bound down to the next valley. Then they would repeat that feat, at least ten more times. These sixty-nine people would be victorious, reaching Silverton between 28 hours and 48 hours later. I was fortunate to be one of those lucky sixty-nine.
For five weeks I had been sick. I caught a cold within hours of finishing the Squaw Peak 50 in early June, and had been unable to kick it. Nothing major, sometimes a sore throat, sometimes a runny nose, but never feeling one hundred percent. Since Squaw Peak I did very little running, just some long hikes and some mountain climbing. The illness didn't seem to bother me, so I didn't worry too much about it before the race. Too much time and effort had gone into preparations for a silly little cold to hamper my adventure. I drove down to Silverton on Tuesday, camping high above town at 12,100 feet Tuesday night. Slept for 11 hours, the longest sleep I'd had by far since becoming a father in February. Wednesday also camped high, closer to 13000 feet. I felt pretty well acclimated, as I felt no altitude nor cold related issues. Thursday I stayed in town at the Avon Hotel, mentally preparing myself for the journey ahead. My wife Carly, son Miles, and mother-in-law Kathy showed up at the hotel late Thursday night. I welcomed them, gave them some last minute instructions and finally about midnight we were off to bed.
At 4:38 I jumped up. My alarm (set for 4) had failed to go off, but I had plenty of time to get ready for the 6 AM start. Threw on some clothes and got some eggs, sausage, potatoes, and toast. Went back to the Avon and assembled my gear. Two bottles to start, one water, one Clip 2. Hammergel, my camera, some miscellaneous foodstuffs. I wore shorts, a short sleeve shirt with a long sleeve over top, and Salomon XAPro shoes. Headed off to the school with Carly in tow; Miles and Kathy are sleeping this one out. At the gym I am pleasantly surprised to see my Aunt and Uncle from Durango. Also, my pacer Marc and his girlfriend Mary. Soon, the countdown begins. Last minute 'Good Luck's' all around, some final words from race director Dale Garland, and we are off.
The first mile or two are gently rolling, first through town, then paralleling the Animas River (originally, El Rio de Las Animas Perdidas, or the River of Lost Souls). These are some of the easiest miles of the course. Quickly this changes as the ascent up to the Dives/Little Giant saddle begins. I am hanging with some heady company; Tom Hayes and Liz McGoff from Montana, John Robinson from Oregon, Charlie Thorn from Silverton and New Mexico. As the climb progresses from rough jeep road to steep single track, my pace slows at a faster rate than those around me. I am being dropped quicker than the panties on a porn star. (I used to think I was a strong climber, at least until two years prior at this race. On that day, I was continually humbled on the climbs as competitors zoomed out of sight. The people in this race are amazing.) The vistas distract me enough that my lack of speed doesn't bother me too much. My philosophy of Relentless Forward Motion soon enough gets me to the top. Then, a steep descent down to the Cunningham Aid, mile 8.9. I pass Charlie on the way down. This will be a recurrent theme. I grab a turkey sandwich, put some duct tape on some hot spots (already!), refuel, and grab a third bottle from Carly. It is 8:29 AM. I kiss Miles and Carly good-bye as I won't see them again until some 12 hours later, at mile 42.
I pass Charlie again on the short downhill section (he had leapfrogged me in the AS), and he jumps past me as we turn up. The climb up to Buffalo Boy Ridge is long and hard. I don't remember it being this long. This is another common theme for the day. (Sometimes I think these races are a little like giving birth, not in the level of difficulty but more when it comes to the selective memory loss.) But once again, RFM gets me to the summit. It is on this uphill that I first doubt my ability to finish this race. Only 12 or so miles in, and the mental fatigue is already appearing. I am not feeling too well on the climbs, but seem fine on the descents, so by the time I get to the Maggie Gulch Aid, mile 15.4, the doubt has passed. I grab some salty food as I am beginning to bloat. I am taking an S-cap every hour, and have already had 100 ounces of fluids (a combo of Succeed, Clip2, and water), but have only urinated once. This is a concern, but I figure I must be sweating all the liquid out. It is now 10:45 AM.
The climb to Maggie/Pole Pass begins immediately. The heat is beginning to take its toll on me. I grab some snow on the way up and stuff it into my hat. I am also dunking my hat into every stream I cross, of which there are many. Emily Loman floats by on the climb, showing no effort while I am working as hard as the men who used to mine this high country. This climb is fairly easy (for this race), and within a half hour I have claimed my third high point of the day. I begin the rolling descent along Pole Creek just behind Sherry Mahieu and Jim Baker. The miles pass quickly as Sherry leads us along. At Pole Creek Aid Station, mile 19.8, I sit and drink a lot to try to catch up on hydration. It seems to help as I feel great when I leave, the best I have felt so far today.
I start out with Dick Curtis, Sherry, and Jim, but soon am on my own. The trail is fantastic, mostly soft dirt through this section. I try to make time wherever I can. The rolling hills are beautiful; not as striking and magnificent as the mountains just passed and those to come, but beautiful in their own right. The course meanders from trail to trail, requiring bushwhacking and good orienteering skills in sections. My mind stays occupied following the course markings, but wanders just enough to allow me to daydream. Fortunately Mike Ehrlich is just far ahead of me so that I can find my way back on course when I miss a marking. I am feeling really strong, and even though I am not peeing regularly, with the regular stream dunkings the heat is not bothering me too much.
And then we go down. I forget how far down it is to the Sherman Aid Station and have to start rationing my water intake. This lack of drinking begins to irritate my throat, and when I enter the trees the course gets dusty which further compounds the problem. As I begin to contemplate drinking from a stream, a hiker tells me I am but a half mile from Sherman. I roll into the AS (mile 29.2) and begin drinking a ton, which satisfies my thirst but aggravates my sore throat. A kind volunteer puts sunscreen on my face, ears and shoulders, I eat some pudding and some turkey jerky, change my socks and my shirt, grab some more Hammergel, some throat lozenges and another turkey sandwich and am on my way. I notice Charlie Thorn preparing to leave soon after me and figure he will be passing me before too long.
I run the next 1.2 miles as they are flat before I begin hiking up the steep Shelf Road with Emily Loman. We talk about the race and our lives and pass some time, but eventually I run on, knowing she will catch me on the steep climb up Handies Peak. Luckily not too many cars pass me on the dry dusty road. Offering little shade, this road could break a runner, as it did in Kevin Taverner. Within an hour I make it to Burrows Park, where the course leaves the road and I first see the highest point on the course, 14,048' Handies Peak. I quickly refill my bottles and begin the interminable, tortoise like climb to tree line, at which point I slow down some more as the air thins and more effort confoundingly produces less momentum. Emily and Charlie pass as if on an escalator. I am left wheezing on their dust, but only for seconds as fortunately they move quickly. Soon I can no longer see them. I am by myself for a long time. I see no other runners, except for the lucky ones already on the summit more than two hours ahead of me. Then, they, too, disappear. It is at this point that I begin to notice the wildflowers. I take off my sunglasses and the colors jump out at me. The only one I can identify are the Columbine and the Indian Paintbrush, but there must be 50 different types of flowers as the trail meanders uphill. This provides some momentary relief until the lack of oxygen slams a dull stake into my sinus cavity. I am constantly reminded of the task at hand as the massive hulking summit looms directly ahead. Minutes pass and my progress is a hundred feet. Others must be having as much trouble as I, for no one passes me by. Then I can see a runner behind me, and another and another. I am not alone in this struggle. I catch up to Murray Schart, we talk for awhile, then Sherry catches up to me again. She beats me to the summit, it is 6 PM, then I catch her on the descent. I would not see her again.
As we lose elevation, I fantasize about the Grouse Gulch Aid Station. I want some real food, and a lot of it, and I want it now. But instead of a continuous drop to the Aid, someone decided to put in a pass between Handies and Grouse. I am demoralized. It is on this climb up the pass that I finalize my decision, arrived at before the race started, that if I finished this race, I would not run it again, at least not for a few years. Before my morale can get too low, I crest the pass and once again begin the drop to Grouse. I pass Liz just before the AS; she is unfortunately dropping out. As I enter the Aid, Emily is driving off. She, too, has dropped, as has Kevin Taverner, standing now on the side of the road, back at Burrows Park. Tough day, tough course. It is now after 8 PM.
I see a friend, Steve McClung. He was set to pace Kevin but now is looking for a runner. We work it out so that Steve will pace me to Telluride, then Marc will take me from Telluride to the finish. Perfect. I am getting awesome attention from my handlers. Marc is forcing fluids into me, Carly is getting me out of my shorts and into tights for the night that is rapidly approaching. Miles is fussing but then he sees me and gives me a big smile. This gives me a tremendous lift. I change out of the Salomons and into Leona Divides. My feet are swelling and the larger toe box will alleviate some of the pain. I grab a sandwich and some chips and Steve and I head out on the long jeep road to Engineer Pass.
I had driven this just the day before, so I knew that there were very few runnable sections, but I also knew just where the top was so we made some good time going up. Steve had never been to this part of Colorado, so all this was new to him. I passed the time telling him what to expect, and he told me about his recent Massanutten finish. About a mile from the top, the sun has set, but the moon is bright, so we leave our lights off and try to catch the flickering ahead of us. As we crest the pass and begin to bushwhack downhill, we are forced to abandon the natural light and use our flashlights to follow the markers. We pass 4 runners right quick and now are on our own. We quickly press on down as I am feeling good. As we enter the trees we come to the Engineer Aid Station, mile 51. I am more than halfway done. I have been on the course for some 16 hours. We quickly refuel with some soup and potatoes and are back on the trail. I have started peeing regularly and some of my bloating has dissipated. The next 6 miles are downhill to Ouray. The trail parallels Bear Creek most of the way, winding along the side of the canyon. Towards the end Bear Creek drops rapidly away and we find the trail hugging the side of a cliff, with a several hundred foot drop looming just a few feet to our left. We walk for a while to stay sure-footed. Once again, I pass Charlie Thorn on the descent. Then we start the quick drop down to the river, switchbacking on a shale covered trail. It sounds like running on broken plates. The river crossing looms ahead. Steve and I both fix our feet before crossing, him by dumping rocks, me by adding more duct tape to my toes and under my foot. I take off my tights and cross in my skivvies to keep the tights dry. Fortunately there are no cameras present. The night is warm enough that I wish I hadn't put the tights on at Grouse; I would've been plenty comfortable in shorts. Soon after we enter the Ouray Aid Station, mile 58. It is sometime around midnight.
We hang around the Aid for some 10 minutes. I want to make sure that I am good and fueled for the long climb up to Governor Basin, then on to Virginius Pass. I eat two cups of soup, some sandwich, chips, M&M's, and anything else that I can stuff down. I drink some Coke for the caffeine and sugar, then we are off. Charlie is entering Ouray as we are leaving. I am still digesting everything that I just ate so the going is slow. The moon is bright and the Campbird road is wide, so we progress without lights. The moonlight on the canyon walls is breathtaking. I am sweating a fair amount now, and begin to chafe. This has been my downfall in prior hundred milers, but I found a temporary solution so it does not hold us up too long. As we pass the Camp Bird Mine, the road gradually worsens, but we continue on without lights. In hindsight, I think this helped my eyes from getting too tired of looking at the same spot. Soon we hear the generator of the Governor Basin Aid Station, mile 65. We climbed 2900 feet in 7 miles. The next section climbs 2300 feet in 3 miles. We eat some more warm food, caffeine up, and are off. After a hundred feet I realize that I forgot my flashlight. Steve runs back to grab it and we press on.
The climb gets difficult. We move straight uphill at times, going from one road to a highter one. Then we climb a scree field. Move up two feet, slide down one. Move up two more feet, slide back down three. A demoralizing, strenuous climb. We crest the first hill only to see Virginius Pass a few hundred feet higher and a half mile off. The trail becomes difficult to find, going through big rocks, then scree, then snowfields. Fortunately steps have been cut in the snow, for the fall could be disastrous. At 5 AM we enter Kroger's Canteen at Virginius Pass. These are some hardy volunteers. They hang out in a hundred square foot area with drop offs on two sides and walls heading straight up on the other two for more than a day. Without people like this the race couldn't happen. A kind volunteer here makes me some mashed potatoes and hot chocolate, and then Steve and I begin to drop to Telluride, some 4400 feet and 5 miles below us. The sun is just starting to lighten the sky to the east.
Within 20 minutes we can once again lose the lights. We must've used moonlight for at least half the night. The drop is rocky and technical at first. My feet have swelled and my quads are shot. I am getting frustrated at our slow pace and doubt creeps into my head. I need some sleep and decide that once I get to Telluride I will sleep for 15 minutes. By 7 AM we make the last descent into town and jog across Main Street to find the Aid Station, mile 73. My crew meet us there and grab a sleeping bag for me. I am out.
Marc is shaking me awake. I have been asleep for 15 minutes. I can already feel the heat of the day and it is only 7. I change all my clothes and drink an Ensure and eat a bunch. Kathy brings Miles to bid me good luck. Once again he lifts my spirits. Carly is constantly running back to the car for some necessity I can't live without. What a great crew I have. I thank Steve for the wonderful evening and Marc and I are off on the climb I have been most dreading, up the Wasatch Saddle to Oscar's Pass. 4500 feet up in 6 miles. It starts out gentle and for the most part stays gentle, it is just relentless. Charlie passes me in the early going. He looks tired but is still climbing strong. We climb toward a waterfall and then are past it. Marc is constantly reminding me to drink. I do, but every sip is getting more difficult. My throat is really starting to flare up. I begin to get congested and am blowing my nose every 5 minutes, with large amounts of phlegm being expunged. I stop swallowing except when drinking; it is just too painful. Then my sinuses start acting up. They are really dry, but keep sending large amounts of mucous to my throat, where I cough it up, hurting my throat even more. It begins a vicious cycle. Finally, my sinuses start to bleed. Soon I am coughing blood and am really beginning to worry. Yet still we make upward progress, but I am slowing. If my situation doesn't improve I may not go past the next Aid. We are passed by another guy and then he is gone. Later we catch him sitting on the side of the trail. He says he is done. After 4 hours we can finally see the top. Only Charlie has passed us and stayed ahead, even with my pulmonary issues. The view from the top is stunning. Too much for words. Across the valley we can see Grant Swamp Pass, the next climb. Once again, down, down I go. Some 3000 feet to the Chapman Aid Station, over the rockiest steepest jeep road around. By the time Marc and I get there I am feeling rejuvenated. We are able to go down at a fairly decent pace, all things considered. It is now after 12 PM, mile 82.
Only 18 miles to the finish, but one big climb still to go. We refuel, I have a Frappucino and Marc eats some potatoes. We move out, feeling much stronger than on the previous climb. Once out of the trees we can see the pass looming ahead. The trail gets steeper as we get close to the summit. Then, with 500 vertical feet left, there is no trail. Just a steep scree field. It has to be between 100 and 120 degrees. Marc is dumbfounded. I have been warning him about this, but until you see it, it doesn't register. He picks a line and starts his way up. I resort to using my hands, literally crawling my way up through the rocks, trying to limit the number sent crashing down below us. After what seems like an hour, but is likely half that, we crest the top. Another tremendous view ahead and behind us. We look back to see runners coming down Oscar's Pass, well over 3 hours behind. I am glad to be where we are. We place a couple rocks on Joel Zucker's memorial. I say a quick thanks, and we are gone. The descent is not any easier then the ascent, so we have to stop numerous times to mend my feet and to remove rocks from our shoes. Eventually the trail gets more mellow and after an hour or so we can see Kamm Traverse AS, mile 89. It is 4 PM.
Marc and I remain here for awhile. I am eating a lot, trying to gear up for the last climb. The heat today has been bad, but I have been drinking in large gulps to try to lessen the pain on my throat and thus seem to be getting larger quantities into my system. Still dunking my hat with regularity, I have been able to stave off any semblance of dehydration, other than some bloating of my hands. As we prepare to leave, Brett Gosney and one other runner enter KT. Marc and I take off, hoping to be able to hold them off to the end. No runner has passed us since Charlie at the beginning of the climb up Oscar's 8 hours ago, and I want to keep it that way. Also I would like to finish before dark, but am unsure whether that will be possible.
The climb begins right outside the Aid Station. We build up a few minute lead, but it is not enough to relax. Marc sets a mean pace and it is everything I can do to hang close to him. When I think we are getting close to the top, he crests a ridge and tells me we are halfway there. I am crestfallen, but what can I do. I shrug, and press onward and upward. This section, Putnam Basin, does not look much like Colorado to me. More like what I imagine Scotland or Ireland looking like. We run on some sheep trails for a bit, then start the final big climb to the top of Putnam Ridge. We spy Charlie up ahead. Maybe I can catch him. Brett is gaining on us. I only hope to be able to run downhill. When Marc and I finally make the summit, I give Charlie my light. He will not make it down before dark. Marc and I start out slowly running, and I have no pain. We pick it up a little and still I feel good. We start moving at a pretty good clip; I feel like I have run maybe 30 miles, not 95. We stop quickly at the Putnam Basin Aid Station, just for some Mountain Dew to sustain me to the finish, some 2500 feet and five miles below us. I cannot see Brett behind us. The volunteers say we might be able to catch a couple ahead of us. This inspires me to push it a little harder. Then Marc crashes into some rocks behind me. I slow it down; we still catch a couple of guys, Randy Isler and Kristen Kern, walking in the last couple miles. Two years prior I had finished in 36:36:33. Maybe I could get 38:38:38 this year? This keeps me puttering downhill, across Mineral Creek, along the Nute Chute and up the last hill to Silverton. I underestimate the last little bit and end up with a time of 38:40:50. I do a handstand at the finish and kiss the rock upside down to stop the clock on my adventure. 100.3 miles. It is 8:40 PM.
I am congratulated by my family and all the folks waiting for their runners to come in. My aunt and uncle have come up again to see me finish with some friends. I am grateful. Upon resting, all the mucus wants out of my system. Soon I am expunging decent amounts of blood. I had the EMT's check me out. I told them what had been going on and they agreed with my assessment that it was from my sinuses, and not pulmonary edema or something horrific like that. I just need some humidity to get the sinuses healed up. I am wasted. Though my lungs barely made it, they were just tough enough to get me to the finish of the 2003 Hardrock 100.
Todd Salzer
P.S. Many thanks to Dale Garland, John Cappis, Charlie Thorn, Lisa Richardson, all the rest of the head honchos, all the volunteers, crews, families, runners, pacers, radio personnel, etc. Without you there would be no race. And a special thanks to Uncle Bob and Aunt Billie for supporting me at the start and the finish, my two pacers, Marc Kirsch and Steve McClung, and my crew, Carly, Kathy, Miles and Mary, you all rule!
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