Date: Mon, 20 Jul 1998 11:55:50 -0700 From: Eric Robinson Subject: Hardrock Report (Long) More than a week after Hardrock, I am still amazed by the beauty and severity of the course. And I'm still amazed in another respect: that I did so well given my even lower than normal levels of training. Normal for me would be 30 miles per week (15 running, 15 walking), but ever since a series of hip injuries that started last year at Angeles Crest, I have only been able to average about 12 miles per week (6 running, 6 walking), not counting gentle walks to work (about two miles each way). I fully expected to finish, but to do so nine and a half hours ahead of schedule was totally beyond anything I had envisioned. My training wasn't very voluminous, but it evidently was of the right type: infrequent but long runs with big climbs, on the order of 3000-4000' per ascent. I found repeats on the steep side of Mt. Diablo here in northern california to be perfect (a round trip of 11 miles includes 3800' of climb). It was also helpful to field-test my heavier clothing at the Silver State 50K, which was run in near-white-out conditions in the Sierra Nevada. At Hardrock, altitude acclimitization is at least as important as training, probably more. I arrived in Silverton on the night of June 30th, or the morning of July 1st, depending on how you look at it (nine full days before the start). After basically resting for a day, I spent the next six days hiking the last half of the course with various people. On July 3rd, Andrea Feucht and I were accompanied by Joel Zucker on a section from Ophir Pass to Chapman Gulch to Kamm Traverse. Just one short note on Joel: as far as dog biscuits are concerned, what I'll remember is how much he enjoyed giving them not just to dogs, but to people to give to dogs. He didn't just spread love TO individual animals; he also spread his love OF them. About 36 hours before the start, my crew arrived, one temporarily in a wheelchair (groin injury after western states), and the other soon puking and miserable (altitude sickness). Ah, parents :-) They did a great job though, and I was really glad to have them there, even if was a bit of an ordeal for them. But I have to say, there is something incongruous and disconcerting about watching an ultrarunner in a wheelchair absorbed in the Hardrock manual, and ever so slowly getting "that look" in his eye. On race day we started with about two hours of light rain as we made our way across the beaver ponds, arrastra gulch, and then up the first climb. I just went with a comfortable, sustainable pace and didn't think about the time. Near the top of Dives-Little Giant Pass (13000'), the weather cleared a bit, and I pulled out the disposable camera for a few shots. Then we crossed the ridge and dropped down on a semi-runnable trail to a postage stamp that turned out to be Cunningham Checkpoint. The time was a bit early but of no concern; more important was to continue eating and drinking. I got a bag of nilla wafers from Andrea, jogged down the road, and started the climb to Buffalo Boy. I was pleased that I was doing well on the climbs, and not deteriorating on them like I was last year. Last year I was stopping to snap photos of all the people passing me on the climbs, but I had fewer of those opportunities this time. There was a miniature glissade on Buffalo Boy Ridge that dropped about 50 feet, then the markers veered into Maggie Gulch, which like the first descent was also semi-runnable. In drier weather, it might have been easier, but the tundra was pretty much saturated, meaning you had to be careful on the cross-country sections. The climb to Maggie-Pole Creek Pass was relatively gentle and short. In fact I found the entire section from Maggie to Sherman to be fairly easy, on reasonably good trails. The descent from Cataract Lake to Sherman was probably the most runnable downhill on the course. It would have been fun to run it aggressively, but I just relaxed and let gravity bring me on down. At the checkpoint I picked up some extra clothes and extra lights and made a small mistake. I asked for a sandwich, but forgot to take it with me when I left the station. The climb from Sherman to Handies was brutally hard, and I really could have used the calories when I started running out of fuel near the top. The first couple miles climbing out of Sherman are on easy, gentle road. A couple thundershowers came barreling down the canyon towards Hans von Willigan and I, but this part of the course is protected from lightning, if not from rain. Then we made the right turn to climb to Boulder Gulch. This is a VERY steep climb through trees, next to an immense cascade of water. Once above treeline, the slope is somewhat gentler meadow, crossing various streams and aiming for the east ridge of Handies. The markers skirt a bit south of the ridge for a while, then suddenly veer straight up tundra and scree to a notch on the ridgetop, about 500 vertical feet higher. This pitch looked nearly as difficult as the worst part of Swamp Pass. It was then that I noticed the lightning on Handies itself, blowing east towards the completely exposed feeder ridge. I reasoned that it would take me at least 20 minutes to get to the ridgetop, and that the storm, or what I could see of it, would be blown over in less time than that. This turned out to be correct, and even better, as I got to the ridgetop, the storm was ushered away alongside a fantastic rainbow, which I got a very spooky photo of. There was still quite a climb to the summit itself, on a very faint and rugged trail, and I was running out of energy, so I sat down and had a snack before pushing over the final 1000 vertical feet. After a photo of the incredible peaks heading American Basin, I descended to Sloan Lake, and imprinted my bib number with the punch. Somehow I hadn't really considered that there was a full blown 13000' pass still between me and Grouse Gulch (on the elevation profile, the 14000' Handies commands all the attention), so halfway up the "lesser" climb I paused for another snack before continuing. The descent to Grouse Gulch was mostly runnable. I spent a fair amount of time eating and drinking before departing at nightfall with Andrea as a pacer. Let me tell you about a couple of things that a pacer can do. First of all, the presence of a pacer can help check bad judgment, like running full speed at night along the cliffs of the Bear Creek Trail (without her there, I might have been tempted to try it). Second (pretty much the same thing but for a different reason), a pacer can subtly cause you to run a smarter and more conservative race, in order to minimize the chance you might have to disappoint them by dropping out. Third, a pacer can be smart, interesting, and generally good company. (I've been passing around the photos at the office, and everyone wants to know who the "cute" one is). Finally, with just a few well chosen words, a good pacer can help you take an hour or two off your time (see below). Thank you, Andrea. Andrea already described the slow climb over Engineer and the rapid descent to Ouray. I’ll just just clarify the part where she says I ended up with my upper body on the trail and legs dangling over the side. That’s true enough, but not quite as scary as it sounds. This was not on the cliff section, but on the severe slope. I planted my left foot on a piece of sod that looked like solid turf, but in fact had very little underneath. As it crumbled away, my right foot, two arms, and upper body remained on/above the trail, but left foot slid about two feet down the slope. That position really hurt my right knee, so I immediately sat down and flipped that leg over the side to take the weight off of it. I just sat there a while until the pain went away. I brought out a brighter light and we started descending a lot more carefully. >From Ouray I did the next 25 miles alone, while Andrea rested for the final pacing section. The steady climb up the Camp Bird Road was quite pretty in the moonlight, and I had no need for a flashlight. Since footing and navigation were not an issue, I just put the legs on autopilot, concentrated on keeping up a decent cadence, and consumed food. At some point in the middle of the night I encountered a runner and pacer returning to Ouray; after the race I learned that the runner was John Demorest after having turned back at Governor Basin with dizziness/vertigo. I stopped just a few minutes at Governor before the real climbing began, up to Virginius Pass. This section climbs a mine road for a mile and a half before ascending three major snow-covered pitches. I was originally planning to reach the snow in mid-morning when conditions would be easy. Instead, I reached the snowpack at dawn, and it was frozen solid. (If I had suspected I might get there that early I might have brought my instep crampons). It was difficult climbing, and on several occasions I nearly did some "involuntary repeats". But two other runners and I found some faint waffle prints, made perhaps an hour earlier when the snow was soft enough for tread to make an actual indentation (of about two mm), and we followed these quite a ways. On other softer sections, the earlier runners had formed usuable steps, and of course the 50m rope at the very top made things a lot easier. I stopped at the top (13000’) just long enough (one minute) for a cup of cocoa. That was the first caffeine I’d had in several months, so once past the rough stuff at Mendota saddle, it felt pretty good to run down to Telluride (8750’). I was surprised to see Blake Wood at the bottom, because even on a bad day, Blake normally runs quite a bit faster than I do. I think that’s when I started to realize that I might just be having an exceptionally good run, that I really was hours ahead of schedule. However, with three huge climbs remaining (Oscar’s, Swamp Pass, and Putnam Saddle), I wasn’t ready to think any further ahead than the next encounter with 13000’. At Hardrock, I found that after a while, the climbs dominated all other forms of thinking. As usual the climb started out easily enough on a road. I encountered some hikers, audibly tired but hopeful, who asked, "how much farther to the waterfall". I pointed to the cliffs ahead and said, "to the right side of those". They appeared crushed, but I was preoccupied with the thought that I still had to climb not just to but above those cliffs, and four more pitches besides, through four interlinked basins in all, just to reach Oscar’s Pass. Oscar’s was the last real monster climb, on a par with Handies and Virginius. Once above treeline, I and the other runners nearby were able to see the hangliders swarm above Telluride, almost like a school of fish. Finally, I reached the pass and started the treacherous, boulder-strewn descent down Oscar’s Road. The upper half is misnamed, considering that the only obvious way to get a vehicle up there is by helicopter. At least the lower half turned out to be runnable, though I was starting to blister on both heels. I arrived at Chapman Gulch somewhat overheated, so the wind pants came off, but Andrea sensibly persuaded me to at least carry them with me for the rest of the run. Andrea and I climbed Grant-Swamp Pass, most of which I found somewhat easier than Oscar’s, except for the final pitch (which probably took about half an hour to cover 500 feet). My blisters were starting to be a factor on the descents, but I decided I could pretty much tolerate them for the rest of the run. Just past KT at the stream crossing, I had one of those weird setbacks. I had crossed the creek, then literally got stuck in the mud, with both legs sinking in almost to the knee. Then I lost my balance and, after a remarkably lucid moment of recognizing the need to yield to the inevitable, sat straight down on my butt. I think I kept my sense of humor about the incident, at least until the stuff started hardening like cement on the climb to Porcupine Creek. Fortunately, I had drank a can of coke back at KT, and that seemed to power me about halfway up the climb. >From there to the Putnam-Lime Creek Divide was still a tough climb. On the final cross-country section to the high point, it seemed much steeper than it did a few days before when I walked the same section for my last hike before the run. In fact I was beginning to believe quite seriously that someone had come out a remarked a more difficult route (of course no one had). I had these thoughts in daylight with good visibility, so I can easily understand how people can get lost on the last cross-country section at night. When Andrea mentioned the possibility of breaking 40 hours, and even of finishing before dark, that’s when I fully allowed myself to recognize what a remarkably good run I’d had. As she said, it kind of lit my fire. Blisters or not, I suddenly wanted to run the downhill aggressively as possible... not an easy task across the unending series of talus fields below Putnam Basin. My mind must have been pretty fatigued, because I somehow started imagining that I was spontaneously discovering a new technique of gliding past rocks: that I was stepping on the tops, sides, and somehow even the undersides and insides of the stones in some sort of mutated, magical version of running. I'm not even sure whether these irrational thoughts were an advantage or a hindrance, but one way or another we did get down to the mineral creek crossing pretty quickly, and without falling. The growing pull of the finish was so strong a force that my perception of the final climb on the Shrine of the Mines Road kept shifting randomly from uphill reality to flat and downhill unreality. A few quick blocks through town, and I finished just moments before nightfall, in far better time than I might have believed just a day or two earlier. Over a week later, I am still amazed. # Eric Robinson # ------------------------------------ # ejr@uclink4.berkeley.edu # ------------------------------------ # University of California at Berkeley # Fleet Services