From owner-ultra@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU Wed Jul 16 12:41:06 1997 Date: Wed, 16 Jul 1997 15:37:28 -0400 (EDT) From: Joel Subject: Joel / 1997 Hardrock Hundred Mile Mountain Run [cross-posted] To: ultra@caligari.dartmouth.edu, ius-l@american.edu ---------------------------------- The Hardrock Hundred Mountain Run 101.4 miles Silverton, Colorado Friday, July 11, 1997, 6:00 a.m. ---------------------------------- Hardrock is an intense and demanding trail run through what are often referred to as "the American Alps": the San Juan mountains of southwest Colorado. The average elevation is 11,200 feet, an altitude high enough to humble even the most fit and confident runners from around the world who come to Silverton to test their mettle against the mountains. The 66,000 feet of elevation change over the 101 miles is equivalent to going up and then back down Mt. Everest starting at sea level. With a low point of 7,680 feet (the town of Ouray) and a high of 14,048 (Handies Peak), several distinct biological and ecological zones are passed through. The course itself includes hiking trails covered with scree, jeep roads, climbing pitches below jagged peaks, cross-country jaunts through alpine meadows, stream crossings through deep water, and major amounts of snow. This year, because of the snow, we had one truly incredible ride: coming down from Virginius Pass (13,100 feet) you grabbed a fixed rope, sat down on your butt in the compacted snow, pushed off from the ledge of ther pass, and slid 1,500 feet down the slope. We would glissade many times during Hardrock, but Virginius was far and away the best ride of the weekend. In many other places, we had to traverse ridgelines that were totally covered with snow and ice, kicking in our hands and feet to establish holds. It was demanding and often frightening, especially at night, when the snow would be hard and slick and one mis-step could send you tumbling down a slope or flying off a ledge to a basin floor littered with scree, hundreds of feet below. The first day, marked by overcast skies and moderate temperatures, went well for me. I ran mnay sections with people, often handing them the camera I carried in my backpack and asking them to take a picture of me, and just like last year I ran with my friend Dana Roueche for hours, both of us joking how we swore in 1996 that we would never come back again. The snow as soft during the heat of the afternoon, and we squealed with delight, like children, as we rode down the steep hills on our butts. Whenever we got tired, it seemed, there would be a cold stream to cross, and that would invigorate us. As I met new people and encountered old friends, I kept babbling about the beauty of the course; the runs logo reads "Wild and Tough" under the mountain goat, but most of us thought more about the wildflowers and waterfalls than about the danger. I hit all the early aid stations, Kamm Traverse and Chapman and Telluride, right on schedule, stopping for a few minutes at each one to eat and drink and joke with the volunteers and kiss their dogs. I drank voluminously at almost all of the mountain streams we came to, savoring the sweet and life-giving water. On top of Virginius, just before the wild sleigh ride down, I chugged a cup of hot chocolate too quickly and, in an instaneous gag reflex, blew the entire eight ounces of cocoa out my nose. As night fell and the fatigue from an entire day or running and climbing became more pronounced, I found forward motion more difficult, but I was eager to get to the aid station at Ouray (43.8 miles) and meet my pacer, Brian Scott. Brian is a talented runner, experienced rock climber, and very patient guy; he knew the San Juans well, and I hoped that once he was out there with me I could just cruise the rest of the way, now that I wouldn't have to worry about getting lost anymore. I entered Ouray at 10:30 p.m., and felt my chances to finish under the 48 hour limit were good as Brian and I switched on our headlights and headed away from town, into the darkness. Entering Bear Creek Trail, an ethereal stretch where I hallucinated madly last year, my body was quitting on me, a one-two punch type of assault from the depletion and the sleep deprivation. But it wasn't until we began the climb up Engineer that I bottomed out, with my eyes closing on almost every step. The danger from falling while asleep didn't seem as important to me as the need to get back on pace, and it was a tough night for me, emotionally as well as physically. I was glad to see the darkness finally end as Brian and I entered the Grouse Gulch aid station after daybreak and re-fueled ourselves with turkey sandwiches and mashed potatoes. Entering American Basin, a georgeous ring of snow-covered peaks, we began the ascent to Handies, and the struggle to reach the summit above fourteen thousand feet seemed much harder than a year ago. Descending and entering the Sherman aid station later that afternoon, I was fading fast, and when I could barely force myself to eat or drink there I knew it might already be over for me. Brian did too, but said nothing, only telling me "good job, buddy" when we were climbing or attempting to distract me from the pain with conversation. At the next aid station, Pole Creek (79.2 miles), I scarfed down four blueberry muffins, and I knew from experience that the renewed hunger was a great sign. We left hopeful; I was right on 48 hour pace now, and as we headed out on the spectacular Continental Divide Trail I knew that I could finish if my body stayed stable and I maintained my focus. Leaving the Maggie Gulch aid station (84.8 miles) just before dark. we left the switchbacks and began the steep ascent to the Buffalo Boy Ridge as night fell. Climbing with hands and feet, swinging our heads to locate the reflective trail markers in the beam of our lights, I felt confident even as we began the descent on the snow covered side. I was hallucintaing again, seeing faces painted on every rock and strange people standing beside every boulder, but I trusted Brian to keep us on course. All I had to do was keep moving with him. But I couldn't move fast enough. Entering the last aid station, Cunningham, at 92.2 miles, I had lost a lot of time, and Brian and I both knew that finishing under 48 hours would be very difficult now. I told Brian's wife Sara, who was there to meet us, that we'd be at the finish line about 5:15, but everyone in the aid station knew from experience that it was unlikely to happen. I found out later that the aid station captain, Aaron Goldman, took Brian aside and told him that if we couldn't make the long climb to the waterfall in under an hour, I had no chance, and that Brian had to push me. Even without hearing that, I knew that this stretch, with the long ascent followed by icy traverses, was going to take everyting I had to give, and even then probably not let me finish, no matter how bad I wanted it. We hit the waterfall in 50 minutes; Sara told me later she followed the beams from our headlights as we climbed, her attention riveted on the two points of light as we climbed the three thousand feet. Coming off the ascent onto Little Giant Pass, the ridge was solid ice, and I could feel the fear in my gut as we began the descent. I was disorinted, with everything in front of me moving and shifting, and worst of all, in my confused state, I was sure that we had gone off course. But Brian remain steady and focused and calmed me down, and we began running on the ice, down the passes and traverses onto Astra Gulch Road. We lost a little time when we mis-read the course description, and by the time we had figured out the correct way to go I was distraught that it was too late. I could see dawn breaking, and by the time we got on the correct trail it was 5:33, twenty seven minutes away from the 6:00 cutoff to finish. I had a brief, fleeting, horrible urge to sit down then, that I couldn't do it and that it was over for me. But Brian said he knew that I could do it, and in one of those compressed time intervals when you somehow change deapair into hope, I took a few strides and knew that I could go fast again and that he was right. We took off, running into tree branches that broke away and through beaver ponds and over willow bushes and mud holes, all at a frentic pace. I was screaming at Brian that I thought we were off course again, but he just kept running, ignoring me and pulling me along in his wake. We veered right onto the bench that parallels the Animas River, high above Silverton, and even as our pace dropped from eight to seven to six minutes a mile, faster than I had run in a dozen years, I kept screaming that we had somwhow missed the final trail down to the finish area. I could see the sun now, and I thought that it was already past 6:00 now as we ran in oxygen debt high above the town. Then, suddenly, Brian stopped and pointed down the hill, and there was the final trail segment, and the finish area at the Kendall Mountain Ski Hut. Tenuously, I asked him the time, and when he said "5:48", a billion thoughts went off in my brain, and I knew that some powerful magic had put me in this place at this time. I choked back a flood of tears, gave Brian one quick hug, and tore down that hill like I had a rocket strapped to my ass. When the people at the finish line started screaming my name, I started screaming back, all the war cries I shout every morning when I run with my two dogs. When I crossed the finish line, after I hugged Sara and all the other people who had been standing there in the cold praying for me, I asked race director Dale Garland my time, still neurotically afraid that Brian's watch might have been off. But when he said "47:50", I finally relaxed, and I bent down and kissed the big boulder marked "Hardrock", and then Dale's puppy, and then Brian, and as people came out of the Ski Hut to hug me or shake my hand it was almost too much. Exactly like 1996, when I had finished in the same time, 47:50, ten minutes under the limit, I had somehow made an impossibly fast final push to the end to complete Hardrock. I went from a horrible low to an incredible high in a matter of minutes, and I knew that this was meant to be, that I had been given two gifts: Brian's strength during the final hours, and the gentle breath of the gods behind me, blowing me to the finish line. Hours before finishing, at some indeterminate time in the darkness, in the middle of a high meadow whose location I couldn't recall, Brian and I had seen a deer skull on a cairn. When the wind chose that moment to kick in, I felt a chill go up and down my spine, that it was a sign of unseen forces right beside me. The day after finishing, I woke up in Silverton before the morning light, feeling a compelling urge to walk over to the final section of the course near the finish line. Getting there just before dawn, I saw right away what had called me there; sitting on the trail itself was a deer skull, speaking volumes to me about the incredible personal miracle I had been allowed to experience. As I reverently lifted it and stared into the hollow eye sockets, my only regret was that I couldn't personally thank the spirits that were speaking to me through the skull after they had let me draw on their powers during the most incredible experience of my life. Holding the skull, looking over in the direction of the final icy pass that Brian and I had traversed in the dark early Sunday morning, I knew nothing, not even anything I could dream or imagine, would ever to compare to this. As I allowed a few final Hardrock tears to roll down my face, the orange sun finally poked it's way over the peaks, and the reflected glow on my face an hour before I departed Silverton helped me bask in the aura of the mountains for a few more precious moments. Joel zuckerj@cortland.edu