Date: Tue, 22 Sep 1998 13:47:01 -0600 From: "Joe Prusaitis" Subject: 98 Wasatch Front 100 Under a canopy of trees, the darkness seems even more stark, changing some two hundred plus friends and family into one large gray shadow of unrecognizable shape and hue. The mass starts to move and sounds turn to words, and only one word makes sense, the word ‘Go!’ Slowly, the front of the shadow starts moving forward. In the early morning darkness of the Wasatch Mountains, Paul and I slip into the moving shadow and become part of it, the start of The Wasatch Front 100 Mile Trail Run. Just like that, we’re off. Paul and I settle in for the long walk uphill on a narrow single track trail that is both winding and steep, rugged with rocks and roots, and overgrown with brush. We’re repeatedly passed on this early climb by more than a few runners in a far bigger hurry than we are. Our goal, less aggressive, just to finish! With flashlight in hand, we scale 4000 feet over five miles. As the dark stays with us for more than an hour, we can’t see how far or how high we’re climbing. We’re also fresh and full of energy. For either reason or both, it seems rather easy. We have occasional peeks at the city lights below. Inspiring glimpses providing more reasons for being here, now, in the mountains above Salt Lake City. Paul points out Chinscraper (5.5mi) as we approach, dotted with tiny specs of color... climbers clinging to her face. We come at it through a small bowl and then we are on it as well, becoming part of the mosaic, climbing slowly. It is not much of a climb, but we do end up on all fours as we near the summit. Quickly on top, we revel in the scenery and a chance to finally run. The summit yields a few miles of lazy trails around high peaks that treat us with even more spectacular views of Salt Lake City and the great Salt Lake. We reach John Grobben's pickup truck (10mi) and top off our water from his tailgate. Paul’s buddy ‘Mike’ connects with us at the truck, so does Kevin Sayers. Shortly after, we pass the large radar domes, fondly known as Paul Bunyon's Golf Balls. We roll from a jeep road onto a wide well groomed dirt road that circles the mountain, beginning a long descent down to the first major aid station at Francis Peak (15mi). Joyce and Mitch both swarm me like a pair of excited buzzing bees. (I learned later that I was a real grump here! I don’t remember being grumpy but defer to the ones not having run yet) They load me up, feed, water, and shove me out in less than six minutes. A swarm of us buzz on down the dirt road together, and in no time at all, we’re back on a single-track trail with a long climb up to Bountiful "B" aid station (20mi). Rough dirt roads soon became trails completely hidden by overgrowth that can’t even be seen while running on them. The brush scrapes and scratches our legs and knees while unseen rocks and roots attract our unseeing toes. We run recklessly through this maze of toe thumpers and knee scratchers. Our caravan is merrily rolling along when I unexpectedly feel a big dip in my energy level. This does not bode well. My energy level rises and falls, I live and die, so many times in a long run, but I’m surprised that it’s happening already. I hop off the back of the train as I begin to lag behind. I take a break at Sessions Lift Off (24mi) and soon after, I’m waddling up Lung Sucker Hill. I had been working a decent power walk up the hills to this point, but find it more difficult right now. The power walk becomes a dying crawl. Once on top after Lung Sucker, I sit down in the shade of a tree and suck down two GU packs and slowly drink a lot of water before continuing. Alone, I enter a barren wilderness of bald ridges, unprotected from the sun. A moonscape of naked beauty. I watch the tiny lines of runners on the next ridge, like army ants marching in formation to disappear into the top of the next mound. I begin to hum the Jungle Book tune where the British elephants march in formation: ‘hup, two, three, four - To a Military Drill’. Up, down, and round we go, tiny ants marching to different drummers. I’m moving so very slowly as the sun roasts my brain, that a few folks going by, ask if I’m ok. “It’s just a lull”, I say, although a large one. There is actually quite a bit of cloud cover, but they must be thin clouds, because I’m being cooked alright. Yessir, I’m way too hot! Descending down a long set of switchbacks, I land in a field of weeds tall enough for the buds to whack me in the face as I pass through. I’m too tired to put my hands up for some odd reason, and I think of Toto in the Wizard of Oz running through a field of poppies. Next thing you know, I’ll be seeing winged monkeys! I’m way past stupid already. My mind is everywhere but here. I’m beginning to dread the downhills, knowing another climb starts at the bottom of each descent. Sure enough, another big climb starts at the bottom and it leads me to more terrain just like the one I had just left. Neil Hewitt passes me with a badly swollen ankle and knee, fighting his own dragons. I limp into Swallow Rocks (32mi) and I’m treated to a Popsicle. What a wonderful treat! I enjoy it for as long as I can while I slowly walk on down the road. I hadn’t noticed until I heard the crack of thunder, but some nasty looking black rain clouds are building up and sneaking towards us very quickly. The change came so suddenly that I didn’t catch the shift until it was on me. Back home in the flatlands of Texas, you can smell the change long before it happens. Up here in the mountains, it sneaks up on you. I can almost reach up and touch the clouds as they whiz by just above my head. I want to study it more, being one of those hopeless dreamers that spends way too much time looking for interesting shapes in the clouds, but I will surely trip and bust my buns if I keep looking up. Now, I need to hurry up and get to the next station before the rain hits. Within a short distance I’m on another single-track trail passing through aspen groves leading to an overhang where I can see the next station. It’s still a good ways down and just off a paved road, but I can see it and know I’m close… I think! I’m right and it is close, but later, I would make the same guess and be very very wrong at Lambs Canyon. The trail did wander about a bit before it became a series of switchbacks falling off the side of the mountain in the correct direction. I’m quickly transported down into the Big Mountain aid station (36mi) just minutes ahead of the rain. Joyce and Mitch both jump into action, trying to get me ready before the rain hits. Too late! I had just pulled off my shoes to treat my feet when the rain pounced. I have to finish the repair job and recharge behind the protection of two port-o-lets as the wind whips the rain into us sideways. Mitch pulls two rain ponchos over my head as I eat and replace my shoes. The rain is freezing cold. I’m going to have a problem unless I get out of here quickly. Mitch walks with me up the trail while I eat, and he hands me more food as we split ways. Thanks Mitch. U da man! Thanks Joyce. You’re the best! I walk uphill in the pouring rain eating a turkey sandwich and a piece of baked potato while the wind whips the plastic poncho around my face and body... and then it begins to hail! It’s little tiny pea sized pellets. I continue to walk with my head down to protect my face, and consider my options should it begin to hurt. But, it never becomes more than a tickle. I feel a smile creep over my face and warm my whole body. I’m actually enjoying this storm. Why do I enjoy this so much? I had been hot when I came into Big Mountain and the rain has cooled me down. I’m invigorated and once again pushing the pace, power walking the uphills and charging the downhills. The rain only lasts thirty minutes or so, it seems, but the overcast sky and cooler temperature serves me well. I’m back... from the dead again! I pass through all sorts of terrain: woods, bald peaks, and lush valleys. By Baugh Bearing Hill, the sky has cleared and the storm is gone. All sense of rain is gone and it’s getting hot again, but my energy level remains high. Alexander Ridge (46mi) sits in a field of waist high grass on a low ridge with I-80 in the background. I surge on in, take a short break and push on, up a five mile long strait-as-an-arrow jeep trail between the hills and away from the highway. It seems to go forever and the mundane sameness of it begins to wear on me. My power walk slows some, yet I manage to hold on and stay the course, wanting desperately to reach Lambs Canyon before dark. It was a mistake not taking a flashlight with me from the last station, and it worries me. I’m passed by a gaggle of local college kids running their first ultra. One of them is talking on a cell phone. It seems so out of place. About the same time, we all turn off the road onto a trail and I pick up my pace, surging past them and charging down the trail, winding round and round the trees, dumping onto a dirt road and turning right. Within minutes, I can see the Lambs Canyon intersection off in the distance. I run towards and then past it, seeing it way below and to the left. The trail circles a hilltop only to come back at it and pass by it again, this time on the right, I can look directly down on top of it. This is getting old. The trail seems to go for about a mile or two directly away and then turns back at it one more time. This time we’re really close, when we turn down a short hill to cross over a bubbling brook. It takes me a moment to figure out how to cross and then I find the flat stones partially submerged in the water. After the beaver dam, I turn left, cross a tiny bridge, and climb a short steep hill into Lambs Canyon aid station (51mi)... at last! As I come in, the sky is misting with rain while the sun shines through it. Joyce comes up to me and gives me a light kiss and a large smile. This moment, I will remember for a long time. The entire sequence of events seemed more dreamlike than real. It was 7pm and I had beat the night. My first major battle was won. There would be more... many more. Joyce is going to pace me the rest of the way, through forty-nine miles of mountains and valleys. I’m sorry she has missed what I have already seen and would miss so much more because of darkness. The raw beauty of the Wasatch Mountains was worth seeing. She has paced me in a few hundreds already and I could not have a better companion. She knows me so well and would coax and push and talk me through the long night on into the next day. It will be dark soon and I ready myself for the night. Long tights, long-sleeved capilene shirts, gloves, hat, and flashlights. I fix my feet and change shoes again. Joyce is ready and we walk uphill out of the Lambs Canyon aid station ready for the second half. I think I’m in pretty good shape as we walk under I-80 and up the paved road through Lambs Canyon. In this narrow valley, darkness comes quickly, while we walk along with Jan from California up to the turnoff, across the stream and onto a trail. Jan disappears ahead of us as we begin the long climb up to Bear Ass Pass in the dark. I die so many times on this climb, sitting over and over again as my head gets dizzy. The dark, the altitude, the exertion, the exhaustion all gang up and beat me down. I know Joyce begins to question my ability to continue. My sanity! My desire. The trail is soft and easy, but I’m done in and loosing it badly. Joyce is getting pretty cold just waiting for me. We eventually top out, and after a short break to repair my senses, begin to roll down the backside... and I mean roll! We pick up speed as my big butt follows the natural law of big butts rolling downhill. I get faster and faster, and everyone moves aside as we came at them. We pass Kevin Sayers on this downhill romp and exchange best wishes like two ships passing in the night - bleating at each other with “Joe, you’re back!” and “I’ll see you on the next hill, Kevin!”. We hit the street with a thump and turn up the paved road past the police truck with flashing lights. The road is just a slight uphill tilt for awhile. I quickly go from running to a power walk and hold to it for a bit, but this too soon falls to a slow walk as the road seems to last forever. The roadside stream rumbles loudly on our left as we continue... endlessly. Cars pass on the road in both directions and are pretty considerate to our presence, many even switch driving lights to parking lights as they pass. But the road seems to last and last and then it grows even steeper. It’s getting really cold and we bundle up to stay warm. I stop to sit down on the road for a moment, and later find a concrete embankment over the creek to rest on. As will happen, we eventually find the Big Water aid station (59mi). Man, am I dog tired. I have some soup, ramen, hot chocolate, oranges... and then give it all back. I toss the whole load. I should stay for a few more minutes to rest and reload... but being rather stupid at this point, I walk out of the station back onto the trail to climb some more. Up and up and up, to Dog Lake and Blunder Fork. How fitting for a blundering fool like me to be there at that moment. On I go, to land at Desolation Lake aid station (65mi) after 1am in the morning. Like a beacon in the night, their campfire pulls us in, this friendly and giving group of people with hot chocolate and laughter. They brighten our night. As comfortable as it is here, it’s cold. They tell me it’s thirty-five degrees. We need to move on and quickly too. It’s even colder as we cross the basin, pass the lake, and climb a short switchback to Red Lovers Ridge. We lose the trail for a few minutes, and drift across the ridge to see the lights from a small town off in the distance. It’s a gorgeous site and we wait until another runner comes along to help us find the trail. It’s not long and we’re redirected over some rocks and upwards to the right. The trail is more of a hard scrabble rock climb. It’s getting to the wee hours of the morning, both Joyce and I are beginning to nod off and we’re fortunate to stay on course while our brains nap. We roll along the ridge for awhile as a big ol fat crescent moon tops out and shines it’s moon light on the trail for us. If not for the occasional dips into darkness, we could douse our lights and run with the moon. She peeks between the trees and ridges as we run on towards Scotts Peak aid station (69mi). We stop to change batteries and Joyce steps into the tent to unexpectantly find Paul and Jan both sacked out on cots. Pam Reed is resting here as well. After a cup of hot chocolate, the entire herd decides to move out and we all slowly walk and roll down off the mountain into the Brighton Lodge aid station (73mi) Our merry band of travelers slides into the Brighton Lodge just prior to 5am and are greeted with a MASH unit atmosphere, with bodies everywhere. People are coming and going, while others are just lying about. Coming from the intense quiet of the dark mountain night, the chaos within this room is startling. Like stepping through a looking glass with Alice. I find a seat at a picnic table while Joyce collects my drop bag. We take our time repacking gear, getting down some hot soup, hot chocolate, and soda. I re-grease my essentials with Vaseline, check my feet, and relax for the first time in twenty-four hours. I’m beat and I feel great. Kevin comes in while we ready to leave. His wife is crewing for him. Paul’s wife is crewing for him. My wife is crewing and pacing for me. Our many different friends and their families have become one large friendly and supportive family. We take longer than we should, but it’s well worth it. I leave here only thirty minutes after arriving, much stronger than I had come in. I needed it for the next climb up to Catherine’s Pass and Point Supreme at 10400 feet. Our entourage of Paul, Jan, Joyce, Pam and I climb together, while twilight chases the darkness, and sunrise catches us on top at Point Supreme. Timing is everything! Pam pushes on ahead on the climb and is gone. I see her once more as the moves steadily away from us. Paul, Jan, and I follow Joyce as she leads us to the top and then back down off the very steep and rocky back side. We walk the ascent and we continue to walk down the descent. Joyce attempts to push us, but Paul’s legs are shot and he refuses to be pushed along. We hang together, content at the moment with each other’s company and the forward progress as it is. We find the Ant Knolls aid station (78mi) in good spirits with a wonderful view of the ridges above and valley below. We only stay long enough for a hot chocolate and quickly push out. We can see the next climb from the fireside and soon find out why it’s called ‘The Grunt’. It’s steep and tough, but really doesn’t last that long. Cresting the ridge, we’re blinded by the sun’s morning light, and we run blind to the next copse of trees and it’s shade. We round the hills as we stay under tree cover for the next mile or so on our way down and into Pole Line Pass aid station (81mi). We pass a fellow on horseback followed by a few lambs as we approach the station and smell breakfast in the air. These folks cook us a breakfast of scrambled eggs, potatoes, and sausage, while Paul shares his orange juice with me. A new day, fully fed, changed into lighter and cleaner clothes, T-shirt and shorts again, and unloaded of the thicker and heavier nighttime running gear, I feel like a new man! Jan’s busy when we’re ready to pull out and says he’ll follow shortly, so Joyce and I leave with Paul. We had walked most of the last section and now begin to run, and run fast. Paul says he will continue to walk, but can’t stand it as Joyce and I surge ahead. Each time we slow to power walk an uphill, we find Paul coming up behind us running. We climb a few very steep but short sections of trail, but mostly it’s fast and easy running, and Paul stays with us through Sandy Baker Pass and Point of Contention. We’re still pretty high up and can see a ways off, riding a trail that hugs the edge, when we suddenly hear a shotgun blast and feel the air move around us. Just above and out of site, some hunters had shot at something and the pellets from their shell had hit the grass and trees around us. Paul and Joyce both hit the ground, while I stand there like an idiot looking in the direction the shot had come from. Paul yells “Hey, there are people down here”, but we push onward and away from this idiocy. Paul falls behind on this ridge, as the trail turns more steeply downhill, and Joyce and I apply my big butt theory to roll it down the hill. We’re cookin’ and rockin’ and rollin’ and churnin’ and burnin’ as we scream all the way down to a sliding stop at Mill Canyon aid station (87mi). I suck down a slice of cantaloupe and then we march slowly down the rolling dirt road. As the road makes a big U-turn, we slide off the side of it back onto a trail. Not just any trail, but a smooth, slightly rolling, and tilted downhill trail of smooth dirt and a few rocks that a trail runner dreams about. Joyce picks up the pace and I follow close behind. She goes faster and I stay with her. She goes even faster and I hold on still. Ever since Lambs Canyon, she has been urging me to go faster and coaxing me to keep the faith, but now for the first time, she decides she best get out of the way. She moves over and I surge past her, legs flying, arms pumping, smoothly, easily, letting gravity and my momentum push me even faster and faster as I speed down the trail… over humps and bumps, picking up more speed as I fall forward, attempting to keep my feet and legs under me. Joyce holds on for awhile, but eventually loses ground, and then falls completely off the back of the bus as I hit full tilt boogie. This feels good. I feel great. This was one of those feelings that comes over a runner only once in while… that wild abandon, freedom from distraction, no cares, no fears, no pain… I only feel the wind and my feet as they lightly touch the ground. This feeling is ‘to die for’. All the deaths I had died to get here was worth it. All that matters was right now! I was a kid again. Runners and walkers step out of my way, while others have no time and I simply go around them. Joyce yells at me “what the hell is the matter with you?” and I can barely hear her when I stop to check to see where she is. I wait a few moments for her to catch up and then we continue again, only a little less rapid. Still too fast for the rocks and roots we’re dancing with, and Joyce tells me to pick up my feet or I’ll trip. I always seem to run with more of a shuffle, barely clearing the ground, and this was not too bright at this pace on this kind of trail. So, yes… I ignore her and continue as always… and do finally trip and apply my face to the trail in a most wonderful face plant. It rates an eight as far as good falls go and leaves a lovely imprint of my face for the runners who follow. At the bottom, we find and ford a stream of icy cold water. I stop and stand in it for a moment. It feels so good! Climbing out of the creek bed, we push on down a dirt road to the last aid station, a short hill leading us into Cascade Springs aid station (93mi). I stop to change my wet shoes and socks, check and fix my feet. I have avoided blisters to this point and want to keep it that way. I drop everything and borrow a single hand-held water bottle, filled with ice, for my final plunge. One last climb and it’s all downhill after that. ‘The Wall’ is just around the corner and not far up a slightly uphill tilted road that eventually becomes a steep climb for about 500 feet. We power walk all the way to the top, hugging the shady side of the street. Afterwards, the wide dirt road is five miles long and full of rocks and washboard ripples. No shade, no wind, no clouds, and no let-up. We run most of it, cutting the tangents, running corner to corner as we rush down off the top towards Midway. We have to make a few detours to avoid cars, but otherwise, we make good time. Coming off the hill we have about three hundred yards of flat dirt road prior to our left turn onto pavement. Up this road on the shoulder for more than a mile, then a right. We walk and run now, my energy spent. I surge for a hundred yards and then walk for a few steps, and repeat. The road bends to the left and then another half mile, followed by a right, and a quick left. One hundred yards up a short hill. I can see the church from here and want to finish with one last surge. A small crowd alongside the road is cheering for me to go, so I do. I’m so easy! I churn up the hill, make a sharp right, cross the street, jump the curb onto the sidewalk, and push up to the last turn. I make the left in a quick burn and go all out from there towards the finish line banner just fifty yards away. My legs were already warmed up to this kind of running from just a few miles ago and it comes back easily for this one last charge. I pass two runners just before flying under the finish banner with both feet well off the ground. Joyce would have been proud.