Hardrock 100
Silverton, CO
8 July 2005
Joe Prusaitis
jprusaitis@austin.rr.com

Any relationship with Hardrock is masochistic. There is little I can do here that does 
not hurt. Yes, its beautiful beyond compare, but how much am I willing to pay? My passion 
must remain strong to run the entire 100 miles. I feel like a kid at times but the pain 
is full-grown adult size. Each summit brings another pain and another joy, and each 
finish is as glorious as the first. The mountains have beguiled me, using my passion to 
overlook the hardship, remembering only the warm fuzzies. It has become a child's game to 
clear all the obstacles, an adult's game to deal with all the issues. I will be back yet 
again next year and the year after too. Mentally, I have signed up for the Hardrock 
Summer Camp 10year plan.

Silverton (0mi/6:00am) to Cunningham (9.2mi/8:53am) over Little Giant (7.0mi/13000ft)

	The race has run ahead of me, leaving me alone for a moment to sit and watch. A fat 
marmot chirps at me, looking for food. A falcon glides well below yet far above the 
valley floor. A mountain meadow sprouts a multicolored wildflower garden, and a mountain 
stream thunders with overflowing snowmelt. What a glorious setting. Another and another 
waits behind each mountain pass, each more glorious than the last. I can't wait to see it 
all, realizing full well that my cognitive senses will undoubtedly fail and darkness will 
hide even more. Still, I'll keep what I can long after I've gone back home. Finishing my 
break, I wander over the first of many high passes and begin to run.

Cunningham (9.2mi/8:59am) to Maggie (15.3mi/12:10pm) over Green (12.2mi/12980ft) and 
Buffalo Boy (13.9mi/13060ft)

	I was lost last year in this place. Joyce and I had one small light between the two 
of us, and the sheep had filled the valley, knocking down all the markers. Hanging 
desperately to a coattail, I blindly followed another. Tripping just about every step, I 
stumbled along mile after mile in the dark and was as anxious and nervous as I had ever 
been. In the daylight, it seems so clean and simple. Now that I can see what my 
imagination cannot invent under the sun's bright eye, Green Mountain seems so tame.
Nevertheless, it is still a long climb to the summit, where a bit of snow allows me to 
glissade down to the Stoney Pass Road. The tundra ascent up Canby proves less difficult 
than I imagined and the springy marsh leading into Maggie, even less so. I must be 
dawdling as I find myself well behind the masses when I stroll in.

Maggie (15.3mi/12:15pm) to Sherman (28.7mi/4:19pm), over Maggie-Pole Creek 
(16.3mi/12530ft) and Cataract-Pole Creek (23.5mi/12200ft)

	I hadn't realized it until now, but I'm feeling pretty poor. Is it the heat, the 
altitude, or my nutrition? For hours, people have been passing by. Can't be many left 
behind. It's after noon and well past the 48 hour pace prediction. I take some watermelon 
while they fill my camelback and start to climb again. I'm such a slow climber and my 
downhills so fast that I must be spending 90% of my time going uphill. It seems so 
unbalanced. I must be the last unbalanced idiot over the summit into Pole Creek. Feeling 
sorry for myself usually gets me mad enough to start running again and it does. Splashing 
through elk wallows, swamps, and creeks, I actually pass a few people before landing in 
the Pole Creek station along with Ulli. We ask for potato soup and they say 10minutes, 
but 10minutes are way too valuable to give away, so we get up and leave. I hold to Ulli's 
rapid walking pace for miles, along with Deb and Tom. He leads us directly along a route 
where I find very few flags. Just when I begin to question his selection, we pass another 
one. I know most of the course pretty well but there are a few places that are always 
confusing to me, so I'm very happy to once again have Ulli leading the way. The high 
mountain meadows of Pole Creek are an elk's paradise and a runner's conundrum. I can't 
seem to run because I can't seem to breathe. Ulli is only walking, yet he remains 
constant, so that even with my mixed run-walk, we remain close until the trail turns 
decidedly down into the rocks of Cataract Gulch. It's only then when running starts to 
make a difference. A yellow shirt has remained a phantom in the distance for many miles, 
and it is on this descent that I finally reel in Roger, and then a group of boys who 
decide to race me down the mountain. This galvanizes my forgetful muscles into a full 
tilt sprint that lasts 10 minutes and ends at the footbridge. 

Sherman (28.7mi/4:34pm) to Grouse (42.1mi/10:15pm), over Handies (14048ft/36.8mi) and 
American-Grouse (39.6mi/13020ft)

I sit with my feet in the water at the Burrows Park footbridge and eat my avocado and 
tomato sandwich. The chocolate shake and Bratwurst that Lyle & Jo brought me are long 
gone. Roger goes on without me, but when Ulli comes by, I try desperately to hang on. I 
hook up and lock into his stride, his pace, and his endless constant energy. It seems so 
easy at first, but as we ascend higher onto Handies, this becomes progressively more 
difficult. There's no apparent change from Ulli, but my breathing becomes more labored 
and my muscles begin to cry. A dark cloud sneaks up Grizzly Gulch behind us and drops 
some rain, cooling us down enough for jacket and gloves. We're above 13000 feet when I 
finally stagger and fall off, but Ulli doesn't miss a beat. I manage to maintain a tiny 
bit of forward slow motion. Even at half Ulli's speed, I pass a few others who sit on the 
rocky trail as I climb past them to summit at 8:30pm. In all its glory, the sun sets 
while I stand on the summit. A single brush stroke paints a thin line with all the color 
combinations I can imagine, lighting a 360degree band around the horizon. A kaleidoscope 
of reds, yellows, and blues compressed by the dark hues of the earth and sky.

Handies personality is changing. The wind hits me hard, pushing me over the summit and 
down, stormy at first, some rain, followed by some rumbling, then back to calm. Matching 
her mood, I run with the wind, drafting, dropping, and screaming with energy into the 
coming darkness of American Basin. A few specs far below pull me faster, chasing the 
darkness. Snow masses cover the rocks in places, making the trail more rugged and 
difficult for me to remain upright. I keep surging up and over each obstacle until I 
again find Ulli at the cairn by the lake. We hook up again and keep moving down and 
across the American Basin. Dark now, we stumble through fields of mud, tundra, rocks, and 
snow. Tripping, stumbling, sinking into mud, snow, and water, we waltz across the basin 
and start up and out. A field of frozen snow covers the next summit and the moon perches 
on top of the ice, a beautiful ice sculpture, thin and bright, standing upright and 
graceful. Not until I slip down the other side does she lift off the snow and drift into 
the sky. I have seldom seen a sight more beautiful or serene. Again, I bid adieu to Ulli 
and start to run. 

Grouse (42.1mi/10:35pm) to Ouray (56.5mi/4:10am), over Engineer (12910ft/47.2mi)

	Engineer Pass? Sorry Joe! I must have missed the turn. Oh shut up already, Paul. I 
missed the damn thing too. Lets just hurry back so we can forget about it. Damn! All 
these turns look the same in the dark. Hugging the right side of the jeep road, we went 
right past the flag that was on the left side. Our turn was supposed to roll left and 
fall off the ledge into the basin. I need to hurry back there and onto the course again. 
What a drag! Error realized, my adrenaline spikes and I begin to run. Uphill I surge, 
angry with myself, ignoring the energy I burn to get back quickly. Once there, I simply 
roll off the ledge and start down, back in the fold again. I quickly pass a few others 
who may have done the same thing. Paul leads for a bit, and then I do. I know this 
section well and mean to air it out a bit. The trail is washed out and thin in places, 
with hanging cliffs, and sheer drops. Given the time to think about it, or the light to 
see it, we might have been more cautious. But, I can't see or think, so we eat up Bear 
Creek pretty fast. We sprint round the hanging trail of blasted granite and crash down 
the breaking glass trail of thin flat rocks, sounding I am certain, as if we are falling 
all the way down. Only occasionally do we slow at the turns for fear of flying. Over the 
tunnel and then through it, we arrive at the catwalk over the Uncompagre River, just 
below the dam. 

Ouray (56.5mi/4:41am) to Telluride (72.6mi/11:15am), over Virginius (13100ft/67.6mi)

	The road to Virginias is a constantly uphill jeep road that accompanies a glorious 
cascading creek. A beautiful sight and a real pain in the butt, it's as boring as it is 
beautiful. It seems that we are alone for hours until we reach a long uphill, and then 
everybody bunches up. Few are very communicative though. We're now in our 2nd day and the 
joy is gone. Fortunately, Paul and I match strides with John DeWalt for a bit. Above 
Governors, we finally escape the road and the terrain becomes more interesting. Frozen 
snowfields block the road, with a trail of footprints leading through each. Towering 
above it all, Virginius waits and watches. We consider the first pitch. A bit of rock, 
but mostly snow and ice, with a set of steps kicked up one side. It is the best possible 
route and the least dangerous. Slowly, methodically, we begin to climb. Concentrating on 
my breathing, I exhale deeply, hold a rhythm, and never look up or down, until we reach 
the first level, which is anything but level. The 2nd pitch, while covered in snow, is 
the easy one, but at 13000 feet, nothing is simple. The third and final pitch has steps 
leading up from the right side but only butt tracks slide worthlessly down the middle 
under the rope. The face is iced over, so we're trapped on the side path of footsteps. 
Nobody's going up the butt slide. Again, it's a very slow but steady ascent that gets 
steeper near the summit.
	DeWalt and Andrea must be both running well because we run the downhill hard from 
Mendota to Telluride and don't see John until just before the station and never do see 
Andrea. On the edge of Telluride is a small house with a kids playground slide. A fellow 
from the house chases us down to present a wonderfully cold ice pop. What a treat! He's 
as excited to give it, as we are to have it.

Telluride (72.6mi/11:41am) to Ophir (81.9mi/4:49pm), over Oscars (13140ft/79.1mi)

	Its difficult to lift my head, let alone my feet. Our ascent switches up the face 
on a beautiful single track into the upper basin of the Wasatch Mountain. Paul scoops up 
a handful of snow and shoves it under his hat. I do the same. Then he hands me another 
scoop of snow to eat. The heat continues to beat upon us, but the snow head-pack and ice 
cone seems to help just a bit. This is a very long slow grind that seems to take forever. 
An hour later, above treeline in the upper valley, we're both cold, refrigerated by the 
wind blowing across the snowfields. It's time for jackets and gloves again. From Wasatch 
Saddle we glissade down a large ice covered flow of snow into Bridal Veil Basin only as 
far as the traverse. From here we follow the tracks leading up to Oscar's Pass on one 
large snow mass. Near the summit, rocks have been set in the snow to provide steps up to 
and over the top. Into the rocks we roll. Our running stumble takes us through a gauntlet 
of rocks. Lots of rocks!

Joe! Look at me! Listen up! I'm putting your hat, flashlights, gloves, rain pants, and a 
fresh med-kit into your pack. I'm taking out the used socks, hammer flask, & bandana. 
Anything else? Take your jacket too. You need to talk to me. Tell me now or suffer later! 
Ok, keep eating! Drink this. Now get up and go. Take this sandwich with you. Get out now. 
Joyce has been waiting here for hours to spend precious little time to take care of us. 
From one station to the next, it is repeated. I smile and take whatever she gives me. I 
have learned to never argue with her during a run. She chases Letha off who is trying to 
visit with me. She's the best and I am damned lucky to have her here. I get up and go.

Ophir (81.9mi/5:15pm) to Kamm Traverse (88.9mi/8:51pm), over Grant-Swamp (12920ft/85.5mi)

Paul isn't ready yet, so I walk out with Joyce. She turns back at the creek and then Paul 
catches up a few minutes later. My energy level is strong. We pass a few others and then 
catch a big group near the top at the edge of the snowfields. We're now at the base of 
the toughest part of Grant-Swamp. The traditional route on the left is bare. A new route 
of steps kicked into the snow is frozen in place on the right. It appears much faster and 
easier than the abandoned scree route. A half dozen of us begin a slow desperate dance up 
the ice ladder. With crampons and YakTracs, tent pegs and sharp rocks, anything to avoid 
a misstep which will send us into the rocks. There's not much for conversation on the 
ascent. All I can hear is heavy breathing. From base to summit, not a word, and each of 
us roll onto the summit to lie on our backs for a moment. 

The light is fading fast and I'd like to be at KT before nightfall, so I get up and 
sprint off the other side. Heels sunk into loose rock, arms out for balance, sliding, 
stepping, and running, I surf the scree off Grant-Swamp Pass. In minutes, I drop a couple 
hundred feet to reach a convenient point to wait for Paul. I need the time to put on a 
jacket for the night and also to extract my flashlight. Running as fast as I can on the 
thin mountain trail, adrenaline sprinting through my veins, I speed down into the Lower 
Ice Lake Basin. At the far edge of the skunk cabbage field, I stop and begin to retch. 
We've been forgetting our salt, Paul says. He hands me one, I slug it down, and barf 
again. He hands me another and this one stays down. I get up and start running again. We 
cross the avalanche snow pack between waterfalls, then up into the muddy mess on the 
other side. Kamm Traverse is no more than a skinny goat track, but I feel the urge to go 
fast. I pass a few groups, but my goal no more than to get as far as possible before we 
lose last light.

Kamm Traverse (88.9mi/9:04pm) to Silverton (100.4mi/3:27am), over Porcupine 
(12230ft/91.8mi) and Putnam (93.2mi/12600ft)

	The tiny creek is swollen with snowmelt and running fast and deeper than usual. 
Hard to tell how bad it is, but in the dark, the water looks dangerous! Hans and Roger 
stand at the edge, looking for safe passage and finding none. I go past them without 
stopping and drop into the cold water. Somebody yells for us to link arms and then the 
others are in the water also, hooking elbows. Holding desperately to one another, the 
five of us push and pull each other out into the freezing cold torrent: Roger, Hans, 
Roger's kid, Paul, and me. The force of the water slams into us, forcing our angle a 
little downstream. As we near the other side, I turn back towards our desired slot in the 
muddy bank. Across, we climb quickly into the frozen mud. The slot, no more than another 
inlet of snowmelt pouring in between the brush. We wade up the side flow, our feet 
sinking into the slush, ankle deep, high stepping, and the mud attempting to suck the 
shoes from our feet. I continue up the narrow chute until I escape the water trap for dry 
land and wait for Paul. The climb is steep at first, full of mud traps and water seepage, 
hidden in the dark. In and out of snow and water, my feet should be freezing, but none of 
this seems to be bothering them very much. Actually my entire body is numb, but for my 
stomach. My tummy is hypersensitive to anything and everything right now. Even water 
tastes bad. Aimlessly following Paul in the dark, I lose track of the streams, snow, 
tundra, and rocks, until we are on the face of the next big climb. 

The big mountain cries, tears streaming down her face. The tundra captures the snowmelt 
in thousands of tiny pools, water cascading from one to the next, the stars reflecting 
and sparkling a million times in each. I know there's a trail here, but we can't find it. 
The muddy trail and the muddy tundra all look the same. We struggle uphill into the teeth 
of the soggy mountain stream, the swamp massaging my ankles on every step. Each reflector 
draws us in a strait line from one to the next, likely taking the most difficult route. 
Some are easy to find while others are not. We split up now and then to search different 
possible routes. Seems to take a long time and are eventually surprised to find ourselves 
on top of Porcupine. The summit is iced over and slippery as snot. The edge rolls over 
and into the darkness, butt tracks leading out and gone. I have no trust left! It is the 
right way but I fear what I cannot see and the ice keeps me from stopping when I want. I 
nervously stare into the void while Aaron walks past me and down, heel kicking as he 
goes. I try the same, slip, and then slide down on my butt, past the snow and into the 
muddy muck at the bottom. We run from ice to swamp, then back again, the ice more 
comfortable than the swamp. Others arrive, all of us drawn to one another, yet moving 
forward, splitting up and rejoining on our quest for the next flag, splashing through the 
mud, and the swamp, and the snow!

	Putnam rises up out of the darkness, black as a void. Stars dot her face, 
flashlights of those ahead. The last ascent fills our view, urging us on. Ice steps at 
first and then tundra. This climb is dry suggesting no snow on top. Paul surges ahead and 
I try to hang on. Depleted, I senselessly climb on all fours ever upward. The others seem 
to fall behind. We stop to take a break, lie back, and look up at a sky full of stars. 
Both of us struggle for air, struggle to keep from vomiting. Paul offers me more salt and 
I offer to puke on him. He keeps the salt and we start again. We climb some more and 
eventually find the lateral trail on top. A pacer is sitting there waiting on his runner, 
so we sit next to him for a short break. This time when we start to run, we don't stop 
for a long time. Our steady downhill roll ends abruptly at Mineral Creek in a line 
waiting to cross over. DeWalt's a bit nervous about crossing, thick with trepidation. 
Nobody is doing anything; so I quickly drop down to get after it. Hell, I need to get 
this done. Half asleep, tired, and senseless, I realize the others are yelling at me. 
It's not your turn! Wait in line! You gotta be kidding? I climb back up and then sit 
down. John's really shook up about the water. I offer to go with him but again they say 
no. He must go alone. It's too dangerous with two people on the rope. John finally gets 
in the water and begins to cross slowly. After he's across, then his pacer starts across 
and takes just as long. Jan Gnass sends his runner across next, and then Jan. Finally, I 
can go. I take DeWalt's abandoned trekking pole and rush across. When Paul starts across, 
he gets half way then stops. He seems to be having a problem. His calf cramps up and he 
can't lift his foot. He turns his foot sideways and begins to drag one leg across the 
swollen creek. We're both freezing by the time Paul gets across. He was in the water way 
too long and I've been standing still way too long after crossing. Paul picked up quite a 
bit of rock dragging his foot and has to pull his shoes to dump out the rocks. We both 
seem to be coming undone all of a sudden. My legs are cold, my lips chapped, face burnt, 
my stomach's inside out, my eyes keep closing, and my lower back and leg muscles have a 
constant twitch. I sure am glad we're almost done. I need a shower, a toothbrush, and a 
bed. 

This is my 5th running of Hardrock and Paul Schmidt has helped guide me four times now. 
There is little my good friend wouldn't do for me. He tells me to go on ahead, but there 
is no way I could finish without him. DeWalt and I talked about finishing together 
because we are usually pretty close, but these things don't always go as planned. I let 
it go, choosing instead to enjoy a slow victory stroll into the finish with Paul. My wife 
Joyce has crewed me every year and paced me a fair bit as well, but mishap just days 
before the race kept her off the trails this time. She stayed awake the entire time, 
thinking for me, and making certain I had what I needed the entire race. Her care and 
understanding are a big part in my success. Barbara & George Hitzfeld came up from Texas 
to do what they could to get George into the race and learn as much as possible. George 
paced the last finisher for 58 miles, while Barbara crewed them both and me too. They got 
one heck of an education and I got another great support person. And then there was Lyle 
and Jo Clugg of Montrose, who drove many miles to Sherman just to bring me a chocolate 
shake and some Bratwurst. I am amazed what they all did just to do what they could. I 
appreciate very deeply what all of them did to help. It is after all, in my case at 
least, a team effort. 

Joe Prusaitis
July 22, 2005