Wasatch Front 2002
by Kirk Boisseree

I should have read the race information package more carefully:  "Wasatch is not just 
distance and speed; it is adversity, adaptation, and perseverance."  An analytical 
approach to Wasatch, though comforting to my engineering background, would be doomed 
to failure with the arrival of the Big Kahuna:  Mother Nature.  Pleasant vistas would 
become fast tracks to hypothermia, picturesque wooded trails would transform into 
quagmires of slippery goo, my sharp focus would be dulled by a purple haze of 
sleepiness – but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Cowboy Jim dropped me off at the start, where a strong wind blew from the southwest, 
a remnant of a Mexican hurricane that had pushed into Utah just in time for the race.  
I listened to some LOUD Nirvana as I focused on the adventure that lay ahead of me.  
"…Here we are now, entertain us… I feel stupid and contagious… Here we are now, 
entertain us" - Cobain never sounded quite so good.  The race briefing on Friday 
warned of showers accompanied by 25 – 30 mile per hour winds – an accurate forecast 
if I had listened to it.  Buoyed by my memories of fine weather during my 1993 run, 
combined with pacing duties in 5 subsequent races, I started the race "overloaded" 
with clothing:  short sleeve Coolmax shirt covered by a long sleeve polypro shirt, 
polypro gloves tucked in my waistband, and a Tyvek coat and garbage bag (they did 
mention rain, didn't they?) were tied to my pack.  Plenty of insurance, I thought.  
Ha!

The climb to Chinscraper went uneventfully.  Rain in the previous days had knocked 
down the dust and left the air clear and vistas sharp.  Dark clouds loomed overhead, 
but seemed thin in the direction of the wind.  I chatted with Robert "Fly" Kronkhyte, 
Paul Schmidt, Tom Knudsen, and others as we settled into our Happy Places. The 
temperature dropped considerably by the time we crawled up Chinscraper.  Cresting the 
top, we stepped directly into the teeth of a bitter 25-30 mile per hour headwind.

Runners pulled out coats as they started the sheep trails – I looked back at one 
point and thought that the whole scene was reminiscent of a crowd popping open 
umbrellas when rain showers strike.  The headwind was cold and stiff, but the trail 
meandered behind ridgelines, giving us brief shelter and occasional relief.  
Grobben's Corner and the Golf Balls came quickly – soon we were coasting down the 
road into the Big White Shed.

Cowboy Jim and Tropical John crewed me for the race.  I ran with a 2-way radio, 
hoping to call ahead and speed up crewing stops.  I had prepared a tidy set of notes 
for their duties and they followed the directions faithfully.  Leaving the Big White 
Shed, I forgot to take my third bottle from Jim.  I quickly got on the radio and he 
was able to catch me in a few minutes, covering my mistake.  This would not be the 
last time that Jim would save me.   

The wind continued to blow, but was blunted by the ridgeline to the West.  I ran with 
Lorraine Sorensen and Fly through Bountiful B station.    Now the course was more 
open, and the steady wind was more apparent.  As we approached Sessions Liftoff, a 
cold rain began to fall.  Fly recommended pulling out my garbage bag – I quickly 
agreed and found myself dressed clumsily, but comfortably.  The course moved into an 
open saddle and the rain went horizontal.  Muddy patches quickly began to appear, as 
the ground was still saturated from rainstorms over the previous few days.

The volunteers at Sessions did not have the luxury of any kind of shelter as the 
steady rain drove down.  I left quickly – too quickly in hindsight.  The climb up to 
Sessions Pass was slippery as I climbed carefully and steadily.  The rain continued 
almost the entire distance to Swallow Rocks.  In my mental preparations for the race, 
I had expected to be wearing a sleeveless shirt and be challenged by a cruel sun on 
these exposed ridgelines.  Now, regularly being blown sideways by the wind and 
getting drenched by the rain, I suspected that my mental preparations might have been 
insufficient.

The rain ended just before Swallow Rocks.  I grabbed a cup of hot soup, convinced 
that it would quickly warm me up and deliver me from the icy grip of the previous 
miles.  I finished the soup just in time for the return of the rain.  I slipped on my 
garbage bag again and focused on meeting my crew at Big Mountain Pass for a welcome 
change of clothes.  This time, the rain was brief and I was able to stow the garbage 
bag again.  I radioed ahead to Tropical John and Cowboy Jim – somehow, my initial 
words came out nearly as sobs.

I zoomed into Big Mountain Pass, weighed in, and ran across the station to an anxious 
crew.  Without warning, I melted down into a pathetic, blubbering mess.  Something 
was clearly wrong – how did I slip out of my game face so easily?  The Rocket, always 
a helpful friend, turned on the Toughlove and helped me refocus on the race.  I 
babbled, as Jim and John pushed dry clothes my way and I re-gathered my composure.  I 
headed out of the station, cozy in warm clothes, wrapped in heavy duty raingear, 
stocked with a sandwich and full bottles, ready to rock and roll.

The rain came back as I rolled down the trail to Alexander Springs.  The ceiling had 
lifted enough to allow a super view of the reservoir and mountains looming to the 
south and west.  After a quick stop at Alexander Springs station, I trudged up the 
long muddy pipeline right of way.  The mud was slick, so I made my way through the 
grass along the trail.  My energy level returned and I began to reel in a few folks 
that I had left behind earlier.  I rolled over the ridge and was soon in view of 
Lamb's Canyon station.

Jim was in radio contact from over a mile away.  We traded bad jokes as I made my way 
down the muddy road.  The creek drainage next to I-80 was a complete mess, decorated 
with slimy, steep muddy tracks.  To avoid the mud in the usual station location, the 
aid station was located up in the parking lot.  Jim and John met me at the edge of 
solid ground and led me to the truck.

I felt great.  Halfway through the race and I was within 1 hour of my time goal, 
despite the effects of the rain, wind, and mud.  John got Trish on the cell phone and 
I had the delightful pleasure of telling my wife that I had survived some tough 
conditions and had recovered.  Or so I thought.

Fly, Tom, and Paul left the station just in front of me.  I figured that I would 
catch them somewhere on the road into Upper Big Water, as each of them could climb 
Bear Ass Pass quicker than me.  John and I took off and slipped quickly into the 
comfortable relationship of pacer and runner.  The climb up to Bear Ass Pass started 
off easily, but I became more and more drained as the summit approached.  We turned 
on our lights and our world became dancing beams of light.   I had to pause at the 
top of climb, winded from the effort.  This did not bode well.

I ran slowly down to Elbow Fork as several runners passed me.  Usually I run downhill 
well – what the hell was going on?  At Elbow Fork, John and I asked waiting crews if 
they had a Coke for me – no dice.  Undaunted, we began the hike up the road.  The 
darkness penetrated my consciousness as a horrible drowsiness overtook me.  My strong 
walk slowed.  Trying to get restarted, I put my hand on John's shoulder and walked 
next to him with my eyes closed for several minutes.  No improvement to my 
wakefulness.  I tried this several more times without success.

I plodded into Upper Big Water.  "You need some food in you, bud," remarked Tropical 
John.  I changed clothes, drank a Coke, ate spaghetti, and sucked down some Ramen.  
Jim, always amazed at my cast iron stomach, realized that I was in trouble.  He and 
John shared notes on my condition and soon John and I found ourselves hiking up the 
slow climb to Desolation Lake.

It didn't take long for the drowsiness to return.  I found myself weaving down the 
trail, unable to sustain anything more than a slow walk.  Numerous runners passed me 
as I struggled upward.  Water, Gatorade, Gu – nothing seemed to help.  I needed a 
serious change in tactics to shake this off.  I convinced John to let me sleep at 
Desolation Lake – he reluctantly agreed.  I laid my coat on the edge of the station 
and lay down for 3 minutes of bliss.  "No blanket – he knows what he's doing" John 
said to a surprised volunteer after they offered a blanket to him for me.  Seven 
minutes later, I was awake, up, and out of the station.

I was awake again!  The climb to Red Lover Ridge went well – my strong walk had 
returned, but not for long.  The thick, frustrating purple haze of sleepiness quickly 
returned as I struggled along the easy trails heading into Scott Pass.  I sat down 
there and tried to ram down more Ramen and hot chocolate.   The wind continued to 
blow, cold and steady, as we headed down the descent into Brighton.  More easy miles, 
but I could I could sustain only short, slow periods of running.  This wasn't my game 
plan – this was a complete nightmare.

As we approached the Brighton station, I was weaving walking down the road, barely 
able to keep my eyes open.  John's pacing duties were over – he had done an excellent 
job of keeping me moving along.  It had taken me 6 ½ hours to "run" from Upper Big 
Water to Brighton – I should have been able to do it in under 5 hours.  I slowly 
climbed the steps into the lodge, walked in, waved to Jim, and lay down on the floor.  
Jim and John compared notes again as Jim got ready for his pacing duties.  I slept 
for 10 minutes – bliss!  I chowed down on Coke, Ramen, and a cheese sandwich – it all 
stayed down.  "Bud, you're really going to find out what you're made of" Tropical 
John shared with me.  Buoyed by Cowboy Jim's energy and the rhetorical boot from 
Tropical John, Jim and I started the climb to Catherine's Pass.

Jim's sharp discipline and steady banter, combined with steady doses of Gu, and the 
affects of the nap stripped away the drowsiness.  Fully awake, the climb to 
Catherine's went quickly, though Kristina Irvin, a good friend from San Jose, passed 
me like I was a rock.  We met the dawn at the top and headed down the backside.  I 
was able to run this piece really well, as my energy levels had returned and my love 
for tricky downhills emerged.  Jim pushed Gu and Clif bars down me to keep me moving. 
The Ant Knolls station quickly appeared and we were on our way up the Grunt.  My 
climbing gears were still missing, but I made the top in short order.

As we neared the top, the sky opened up in a torrent of rain.  Lightening began to 
shoot through the clouds directly overhead – the thunder was loud, loud, loud.  
Kristina was standing in the trees with her pacer at the top as we ran by.  "You're 
going out there?"  she yelled.  "I'm not staying on this ridge to get my butt fried!" 
I replied.  We all ran like mad people down the ridgeline, rain pouring down and 
lightening shooting overhead.  Hail began to fall and the trail was quickly covered, 
turning into a brown, slushy mess.  The ridge continued, offering us no shelter, as 
we pressed on.  Finally, the trail rolled off the top a bit into a grove of aspens as 
the hail stopped.

The rain continued steadily into Poleline Pass.  Jim and I dumped our lights in the 
dropbag.  I rammed down more hot chocolate and cookies – I was happy to have brief 
shelter.  Kristina left quickly as I enjoyed the break from the rain.  As we left, 
Jim was warming his hands next to a stove.  I followed his example, but couldn't feel 
any of the heat – he couldn't believe that my hands were that cold. The footing soon 
became muddy and slippery as we moved past Sandy Baker Pass into the amphitheaters 
approaching Point of Contention.

The rain slowed down and became sporadic.  The morning was cold and the wind 
continued.  The ceiling lifted, offering a fine view of the mountains to the north.  
Jim and I stopped a few times to sightsee, one of our favorite activities when we 
spend time in the mountains.  "This is really neat – I didn't know that Utah had 
mountains like this!"  Jim remarked, a kind comment from a Colorado native.  This had 
been my motive for having Jim pace me the last 25 miles – I knew that he would 
appreciate the Wasatch mountains as much as I do.

Jim kept pushing me to eat Gu – I complied.  At Rock Springs, two rattled aid station 
people and a drenched and shaken dog met us.  They shared their story of surviving 
the morning thunderstorm – I found out later from faster runners that the meager 
lean-to at the station was blown own during the storm.  We headed down the trail as 
the sun (glory, could it be?) threatened to emerge.  It didn't. I was moving fairly 
well now as we entered Irv's Torture Chamber.  This purported 6 mile stretch of trail 
features two nasty descents, the Dive and the Plunge, each a 600-foot descent spread 
over ½ mile, filled with loose rocks and uneven footing.  Jim and I trotted down each 
of them, our experience at Hardrock showed.  The trail entered a mind-numbing stretch 
of short descents and climbs, filled with more tricky footing, and few views due to a 
thick fog in the drainage below us.  This trail was a real slap in the face, 
considering the rain, mud, and hail that we had already survived.  I continued to be 
passed, impressed by the people able to keep a strong pace on this stretch.

We turned at the trail up to Sandy Baker Pass and headed into the Pot Bottom 
drainage.  The rain returned, but the trail was now a pleasant downhill, winding 
through Aspens in a tight canyon.  At Pot Bottom, Paul helped us through, ecstatic 
that I had survived the storms.  As we left the station, I laughed out loud.  "I'm 
going to finish this piece of shit," I told Jim, as we both laughed at my journey 
through Heaven and Hell.  "If you do your job, we should be able to break 34 hours" I 
told him.  Encouraged by an opportunity to "go to the whip", Jim prepared to push me 
the last 5 miles.  We passed a truck on the final climb – they had slid out on the 
muddy, steep track.  Another truck, outfitted with chains on it front tires, was 
parked at the top of the climb.  We chatted with the owners – they weren't interested 
in getting stuck in the mud below.

The road turned onto the Lime Canyon ATV trail, a rocky, narrow road that was muddy 
and slick from the rain.  I started a steady run and picked up the pace as I passed a 
couple of runners.  My legs felt great, so I pushed the pace some more.  Jim squawked 
a bit, reminding me that I still had a bit to go and to not crash and burn here.  A 
short climb and we could see the finish line, a mile or so below.  The forest was 
ablaze with fall colors as we dropped into the last piece of single track.

The trail was covered with 2 inches of gooey mud, but I was able to keep a nice pace 
going.  Several other runners were not having much fun on this piece as Jim and I 
passed by, shouting words of encouragement.  We dropped onto the road as I zeroed in 
on the finish line, a mile away.  I picked up the pace, pushing to get the whole 
thing done and find some dry clothes.  A light rain continued to fall, as I turned 
onto the finish line grass and hammered across the finish line.  33:44, 85th, and 
happy to make it to Midway.

Tropical John greeted us at the finish line, as amazed at my recovery as I was.  The 
Prince of Rocks asked me about the conditions – I noted that the single track Slip 
and Slide in the last few miles was particularly sadistic.  "Hey, Irv – your course 
is short," I said.  He looked at me with a confused look on his face.  "Yeah, for a 
120 mile course, this thing can only be 118 miles or so.  You should check into 
that!"  A sly smile emerged on his face as he laughed and walked away.

I had come prepared for heat, dehydration, and a 30-hour finish.  I never expected 
rain, mud, sleepwalking, and cold.   Adversity, adaptation, perseverance – I had 
tasted it all and it left a savory memory.  100 miles of Heaven and Hell – ah, truth 
in advertising is still around.

Kap'n Kirk's Big Adventure - Wasatch 2002