The Long Way up the Mountain

“Damn it.  Did I seriously just go in a circle?” I asked myself out loud.  After a few seconds of assessing the situation it occurred to me that the answer to my question was “yes, I definitely had”.  Great.  I was less than a mile up the trail and I was already getting lost.  To add to the complexity, it was 3:45 in the morning and this trail was notoriously difficult to navigate in the dark.  The path was rugged, and the scattered rocks and boulders created a setting that loosely resembled a maze, making it difficult to stay on course.  But I had been here before.  I had first visited this trail three and a half years earlier during which my friend advised us that if we followed the white dots painted on the rocks, we’d stay on course.  This area wasn’t maintained by any government organization, but over the years, fellow hikers and volunteers have generously marked the route by painting large white dots on the rocks that lay strewn along the path.  Remembering my friend’s words, I plodded along from the trailhead following the dots until I took a wrong turn, banking left instead of right, following the terrain as it curved, and taking a right instead of going straight, effectively ending up exactly where I had been a few minutes prior.  After gathering my thoughts, I decided to back track, heading back the way I came to determine where I had gotten off track.  After a few short minutes, I realized my blunder and once again began seeing big white dots on the rocks every hundred feet or so as I resumed forward progress.  The moon was only casting off a sparse amount of light so I mainly moving forward with the power of my flashlight.  What was I doing out here all alone at 3:45 in the morning?  Great question.  Most people are at home sound asleep during this time on a Saturday morning.  Not roaming around on a trail in Palm Springs up the side of Mount San Jacinto trying to find their friends.

 

A week prior, my friend Edith had organized a group event in which a small handful of us would be attempting one of the most challenging hikes in the United States.  The route begins at a trailhead behind the Palm Springs Art Museum and climbs 10,300 feet over sixteen miles to the summit of Mount San Jacinto.  This route is respectively referred to as Cactus to Clouds, the name deriving from the route beginning at the desert floor and climbing up above the clouds at 10,834 feet.  Mount San Jacinto is a popular attraction for tourists visiting Palm Springs.  In late 1963 the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway was created as a means of transporting people through Chino Canyon up to Long Valley and Mount San Jacinto State Park, which lies 8,300 feet up the mountain.  Long Valley offers a variety of outdoor activities and there are gift shops and two restaurants near the tram station.  Many hikers ride the tram to the station in Long Valley and hike to the summit, which is an eleven-mile roundtrip trek with about 2,500 feet of elevation gain.  Rather than taking the tram, those who hike Cactus to Clouds climb up to Long Valley, where the Skyline trail ends.  From there, they proceed up another trail from the tramway station to the summit.  When Edith created the event, I jumped at the opportunity.  However, due to my work schedule, I was going to be starting three hours later than the rest of the group.  Many Cactus to Clouds hikers begin their trek well before sunrise not only to avoid the intense heat, but due to the length and difficulty of the route, an early start is needed to finish at a decent hour later that day.  The group was planning to start around midnight on Saturday morning.  Meanwhile, I would leave work, get some sleep, drive out to Palm Springs in the middle of the night, and begin around 3:30 AM.  The plan was for me to haul ass up the trail and catch up with my friends somewhere along the path before we reached Long Valley.  It was quiet and still as I sat in my car in the vacant parking structure outside of the museum with my driver’s side door open.  I was making my final preparations when I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.  A white F-250 pickup truck pulled into the structure slowed down considerably as it approached my car.  The windows on the truck were dark and I couldn’t see inside.  I then remembered that my friend Dave, who was attending this hike, drove a white F-250, but the group had started hours ago.  The truck stopped behind my car and cut the engine.  What was going on? There was a split second where I wondered if some psycho was going to jump out and come at me with a shotgun, but just then, the door opened, and Dave and Christina hopped out.  “Hey guys!” I said with great relief.  They had started hiking with the group but promptly turned back due to a nagging Plantar Fasciitis injury that Christina had been battling.  She was an accomplished hiker having tackled many challenging climbs over the years, but in the last few months her injury had temporarily sidelined her.   They advised me that the group had started around 12:45, a little later than planned, which was a good thing because that meant I’d likely catch them more quickly than anticipated.  They bade me farewell and drove off to park the truck and get some sleep for a little while.

As I continued onward, the trail cut further into the mountain range and became easier to follow.  The path was initially composed of rock and loose stone but had now softened into smooth dirt with occasional rocks littering the path.  Even though the sun hadn’t risen, it was very warm outside, and perspiration began dampening my shirt and bandana.  I gulped water from my camelback to stay hydrated.  The good news was the ranger station at Long Valley offered access to potable water, so we could fill up once we arrived and have enough water for the remainder of the hike.  I marveled in the surroundings as I ran along.  The sky was filled with stars as I followed the trail east with the towering mountain range sitting above me to the right and the city lights of Palm Springs to my left far below.  Rocks and desert plants continued to line the path and there were no trees as far as I could see.  Periodically I’d see lights from other hikers well off in the distance and wondered if it was the rest of the group.  As the trail weaved and turned westward, the crack of dawn began lighting up the sky behind the San Bernardino Mountains above the city lights of the Coachella Valley.  There were several points along the way where there were “short cuts” which would cut uphill through the rocks past the switchbacks but for the most part, I stayed to the designated path.  As the sun began lighting up the sky, I was enjoying the tranquility of the quiet trail and making pretty good time, running and speed hiking.  By the time I passed the second water stash box along the trail it had been about three hours since I began moving and there was still no sign of the group.  I was listening to music and in between songs it was dead quiet with no hikers were in sight.  Was I still on the right path?  I kept moving forward hoping that I wasn’t traveling in a huge circle as the trail rolled along.  Finally, I looked up to my left and saw a line of hikers moving up the switchback.  I instantly recognized my friends and was ecstatic that I had finally caught up with them.  “Morning guys!” I shouted out.  Finding them was a big relief that I was on the right path all along and having the camaraderie of other hikers, especially my friends, brought me comfort.  We all said hello once I caught up to the end of the pack.  “Why are you so happy?” they jokingly asked me.  I had my hands on my knees and when I looked up I could see that the heat and challenging terrain was getting to them as well.  The sun had now made its way into the sky and my clothes were wet from perspiration.  “Because I found you guys!” I exclaimed.  “It was getting pretty lonely out here”.  Among the group was Juan Carlos (JC), Janet, and Felipe, who were all attempting this hike for the first time, Jose, our hike leader, Tuyet, who had attempted Cactus to Clouds once prior, and Edith, the organizer of the event.    After a few brief minutes, we pressed on with about three miles ahead of us before we reached Long Valley.  The trail had rolled for a while along the ridge and was now beginning an increasingly steep ascent that would lead to a series of switchbacks during the final push.  Along this challenging section of the trail the group grew quiet and we took frequent breaks to sip water, delayer, and eat.  Most of the group was going on very little sleep and Tuyet was struggling to stay awake.  There was a lot of discussion about how much more distance we had left and how long it would take.  Some people said it was two miles, some said a mile and a half.  Some people said we’d be at Long Valley in an hour and a half, others said it would be an hour.  There were a lot of conflicting responses.  “We have about two more miles until Long Valley, right?” Jose inquired as he looked at me.  I had been quiet in the discussions about mileage and time up until this moment.  “I think we should not worry about how much distance we have left and how long it’s going to take” I said.  “No one knows for sure how much further it is or long it’s going to take so we might as well just enjoy it and not worry.  We’ll be there before you know it”.  I’ve never questioned the mileage or used a GPS tracker during hikes and ultramarathons.  Psychologically, a GPS is my biggest enemy on the trails.  When I’m hiking with a group and other hikers use audio GPS, I just tune it out because I’d rather not know how much longer it is until we get to our destination.  If the distance is on my mind the whole time it distracts me from why I’m there in the first place; to enjoy nature and spend quality time with my friends.  There as a brief pause but then the group seemed to understand where I was coming from.  More miles were covered, and we were soon making our way up the final push along the switchbacks.  Over the last few miles the mountain terrain had shifted from rocks and desert plants to pine trees and granite rocks.  Occasionally we’d look up and see that the horizon where the ground met the sky was getting closer.  Finally, the trail leveled out and Long Valley came into view.  The entire group crested the climb and we embraced each other, congratulating one another on our arrival.  We had climbed 7,900 feet from Palm Springs and the most difficult part of the trek was now behind us.  As far as natural beauty goes, it doesn’t get much better than Long Valley.  The mountain air was fresh, laced with the scent of pine, and considerably cooler than Palm Springs.  All around us were dirt trails leading to campgrounds, tall pine trees, pine cones, granite rocks, and sawed up tree logs.  The group seemed to come back to life as we walked along the trail.  From the end of the Skyline trail it was about a half a mile walk to the ranger station in Long Valley where we would pick up another trail that would take us an additional five and a half miles to the summit of Mount San Jacinto.  After refilling our water and taking a quick break at the ranger station, we began our push to the summit.  Compared to the Skyline trail, this section was much more maintained and orderly.  The topography had completely transformed from an exposed, rocky trail to a dirt path surrounded by alpine forest.  Even on this more modest terrain, the sleep deprivation was catching up with us and we took frequent breaks.  When we reached the saddle, it was clear that the mounting drowsiness was having an adverse effect on some of the group.  Hiking through extreme sleep deprivation can be dangerous especially on trails with long, steep drop offs.  Judgment is impaired and one wrong step could end in disaster.  I advised the group that if anyone felt that they were too tired to continue to speak up.  The mountain will always be there, and no summit is worth dying trying to reach.  Making our way out of the saddle, the views were remarkable.  A field of pine trees rested below us to the side of the trail with the tram station visible in the distance below.  As we reached the last quarter mile to the summit, Janet and Felipe began falling behind from the group.  As Janet sat on a rock, she calmly announced that she was feeling the effects of altitude sickness, specifically dizziness.  We advised her to take deep breaths and drink some water, and eventually she was able to stand and move forward.  We moved together as a group as the trail gave way to a pile of boulders.  We proceeded very slowly, scrambling over the boulders for about a hundred feet, until the summit came into view.  The whole group was together and after sixteen miles and 10,300 feet of elevation gain, we had finally made it.  We were overcome with joy and accomplishment and Janet immediately came back to life once we reached the summit.  We sat at 10,834 feet of elevation on the highest peak in the surrounding area, admiring the panoramic view.

The trek down from the summit back to Long Valley was about as close to a celebration hike as we could have gotten at that time.  We were exhausted and hurting, but that was all irrelevant.  We had displayed mental and physical strength along the way, helped each other as a team, and accomplished what we set out to do; another successful Cactus to Clouds summit was in the books.  By the time we arrived at the tram station the challenging terrain had gotten the better of me and my legs were on fire.  As we approached the station I took off my backpack and flopped onto a bench, stretching my legs.  Relief was instantaneous.  After riding the tram down to Palm Springs and arriving at our cars we rendezvoused at a Mexican restaurant in town for a hot meal.  The restaurant was crowded, and it took forever for our meals to arrive, but when the waitress finally set our plates down on the table we were in comfort food paradise.  Dinner was full of laughs and stories, and shortly after, I was on the 10 freeway back to Los Angeles.  The hike was fun, but the company was better.  The whole group was connected by a common goal of reaching the summit.  We had broken through mental walls, fought sleep deprivation, given each other support, and accomplished our goal, all while having fun along the way.  These are the factors that create deep bonds and friendships within the hiking community.  You could leave us stranded in the middle of the frozen tundra and we would still make the best of it.  As long-distance hikers and ultrarunners, that’s how we’re wired to think.     

            

Below the Surface

“I used to be a musician.  I was in a band that was making a little noise in our local area but after a while it seemed like we were going nowhere, my bandmates and I started to fight, and every night we were at bars smoking cigarettes and drinking until the bar closed.  The whole musician lifestyle really started taking a toll on me mentally and physically, and one night I saw a video on Youtube about a one hundred-mile race in the Appalachian Mountains.  After seeing that video, I was hooked.  I began running on trails and eventually started running ultras.  That was four years ago, and I definitely like my new life a lot more than my former one”.  I sat and listened as Nathan continued to tell me his story about how he got into ultrarunning.  He was a young guy from North Carolina who looked to be in his mid-twenties with long blonde hair covered by a runner’s hat.  We shared a seat and traded stories as the school bus we were riding drove along the twisting mountain road towards Robinson Flat, the starting area of the Western States training run we were participating in that day.

I enjoyed hearing Nathan’s story.  It was much different than my journey into ultrarunning, but that was precisely why I was so engaged.  In fact, hearing other runners’ stories about their journey into this sport has become one of my favorite parts of running ultramarathons.  Every ultramarathon runner has a story to tell.  No one just wakes up one morning and says “I’m going to run fifty miles today” with no rhyme or reason to it.  Anyone who runs fifty miles has a unique story about what led them to that point, whether they realize it or not.  While running ultras, I engage in conversation with others, as most runners often do.  Some runners like to converse about their favorite races or races they’ve done, but I like to look deeper than that.  I want to know why they’re out here doing this.  This question often remains unanswered, but if it seems like the other runners are open to engaging in a deeper discussion, I’ll ask the one question that always allows me to get into their heads; “So, how did you get into ultrarunning in the first place?”  I’ve gotten a variety of different responses to this question over the years.  Some have been short and simple, others have been more in depth and personal.  Regardless of the response, I love hearing these stories.  Some runners prefer to keep to themselves during a race with little interest in interacting with others, but I’m the sheer opposite.  Why am I so intrigued by other people’s backgrounds?  Why do I always want to hear other people’s stories instead of keeping to myself?  Why do I live for this kind of human interaction during ultramarathons?  All valid questions.  The answer, in short, traces back to my childhood and my upbringing in the suburbs of Detroit.  Allow me to explain why.

Growing up in Michigan was an awesome experience.  We snowboarded and went sledding during the winter and sailed on the lake and swam at the community pool during the summer.  The Detroit area is a very interesting and unique place.  You will find every type of person imaginable.  All kinds of people from extremely wealthy to dirt poor.  Caucasian, African American, Middle Eastern, Hispanic, Asian, you name it.  Unfortunately, when I was growing up, there was a lot of tension between the different races and social-economic classes in the Detroit area.  This tension stemmed from the conservative views of the wealthy people clashing with the more liberal views of the minorities, along with the segregation of these different types of people within the neighborhoods and cities.  Compared to other major cities like Chicago, the Detroit metropolitan area is fairly small, which meant that although these different types of people were mainly segregated, they lived within close proximity of each other.  Sadly, the city of Detroit has been in a state of despair for many years.  There is no shortage of abandoned buildings and partially burned down houses with shattered windows and roofs caving in.  In addition to the urban decay that plagues the city, extreme poverty, unemployment, and high crime have been a major issue for decades.  As the 2002 movie “8 Mile” staring Eminem implies, eight-mile road is the dividing line between Detroit and the northern suburbs.  South of eight-mile road lies the struggling city of Detroit, while just across the road lies the northern suburbs of Hazel Park, Warren, and Eastpointe, which are in far better economic shape than Detroit.  As you travel north of Detroit, the mile roads increase in numerical value.  For instance, as you drive north, you’ll hit nine-mile road, then ten-mile road, etc.  Cities like Warren and Eastpointe extend as far north as twelve-mile road and along fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen-mile road lie the wealthy and affluent cities of Birmingham, Bloomfield Hills, and Bloomfield Township.  Warren, Hazel Park, Eastpointe, and other cities in close proximity to the Detroit border are largely working-class neighborhoods and are better off than Detroit but are considerably less wealthy than Bloomfield Hills and Birmingham.  In fact, Bloomfield Hills is one of the most affluent cities in the State of Michigan and possibly the United States.  The fact that Bloomfield Hills is located less than a half-marathon’s distance from the Detroit city limits gives you a perspective of how close in proximity these different socio-economic classes are located within one another.  When I was a kid my Mom, sister, and I would occasionally volunteer at the Salvation Army, and one time we even visited a poor family in Detroit through a volunteer program during Christmas to donate some gifts.  During my high school years, I once volunteered at a homeless shelter and worked an overnight shift.  I sat and listened as people told me about their struggles, how they grew up, and how they ended up in their current situation.  I worked in a Greek restaurant for three years in high school.  Among the employees were adults as well as kids my age from more working-class neighborhoods.  They used to tell me stories about girls at their school getting pregnant, about their friends’ parents getting into physical altercations, and even kids getting arrested in their schools.  Growing up in Beverly Hills, Michigan, halfway between thirteen and fourteen-mile road, I hadn’t experienced anything like this, and I was intrigued by hearing about what these other kids had been through because it was drastically different than how I grew up.  Despite our different backgrounds, I formed friendships with these co-workers overtime and we even occasionally hung out together.  And all the people at the homeless shelter, the Salvation Army, and the poor family we visited at Christmas were so kind and appreciative of what we were doing.  They loved us, and I loved getting to know them and hearing their stories. 

Unfortunately, not everyone within the community shared this attitude.  There were some exceptions, but the general consensus was if you grew up north of thirteen-mile road in cities like Birmingham or Bloomfield Hills, you were basically viewed as a candy ass richie boy.  Growing up in Beverly Hills right near Birmingham, I fell into this category and I hated it.  The working-class community had a justifiable reason to adopt this mentality though.  Other kids at my school were not accepting of new kids who transferred to our school from poorer neighborhoods hoping for a better education.  Instead of talking to them, getting to know them, and looking below the surface, they would make snide comments about how these kids probably lived in trailers, about how they were dirty, poor, and even made inappropriate racial comments at times.  I remember being up at the Fireside Inn (The Fireside Inn is an awesome summer resort in Northern Michigan that deserves its own blog post, which will come at some point) and sitting around the bonfire by the lake one night with a group of kids around my age that I didn’t know.  “Where are you guys from?” I asked.  “Warren” they said.  “Nice, I’m from Beverly Hills” I said, not thinking anything of it.  One of the girls raised her eyebrows at me.  “Oh, you’re a rich kid” she sneered.  “Well, no.  Not really” I answered back.  She just nodded, looked me up and down and said “yeah, sure”.  There was also a time when a co-worker from the restaurant dropped me off at home after work one night.  When he stopped in front of my parents’ house, he said “oh wow, you’re one of these rich bastards, huh?” He was busting my chops, as he often did, so I just laughed it off.  I hated falling into this “richie boy” category.  I absolutely hated it.  Okay, I may have said “no, not really” to the girl at the bonfire when she called me a rich kid, but the truth was although not extremely wealthy, my family was pretty well off and my sister and I had the privilege of being raised in a stable, middle-upper class environment.  I hated being called a rich kid because I wasn’t the typical Oakland County kid who looked down on others.  I wasn’t like the other kids at school who ridiculed students who were not as fortunate as my sister and I.  I can say confidently that I never, not once in my life, viewed or treated anyone differently because of their social-economic class.  That’s not how my parents raised me.  I was brought up with the mentality that no matter how different people are than you, you should always be kind and treat them with respect.  You don’t know what they’re going through.  One time I was at a gathering a family friend’s house and I met this kid around my age with scars on his wrist.  I had never seen anything like that and, frankly, I was a little terrified.  Why had this kid done this to himself?  What led him to that point?  I had to get into this guy’s head and find out.  We talked and got to know each other, and he was actually a really cool guy.  We bonded over our shared interest in music and the Red Wings.  I didn’t have the guts to ask him about the scars on his wrist though.  These experiences as a kid really opened my eyes, and I realized how naive I had been growing up in Beverly Hills.  I felt as if the more I got to know people, especially people who were of different races and grew up differently than I did, the more I was learning about the world around me and the more open minded I was becoming. 

My point here is that growing up in an environment like Metro Detroit had bred into me a lifelong interest in other people’s backgrounds, stories, where they came from, what led them to where they are today, etc.  Running ultramarathons presents a great opportunity to get to know others because let’s face it, you’re on the trail for hours on end and what else is there to do besides talk and run, or just keep to yourself.  Ultramarathon running will probably never be a mainstream sport, and personally, I like that.  It has however, attracted a larger following in recent years and I hope it continues to do so.  During an ultramarathon we all share a goal of reaching the finish line and we all love to run, but under the surface, we’re all very different people with very different backgrounds.  That being said, I will continue to read as may books by ultramarathon runners as I can, and I hope that the sport keeps attracting a diverse group of people, so we can all keep telling our unique stories for everyone to hear and enjoy.