We Beat the Storm! (Well, Sort Of)

Having spent the last six years living in California, I wouldn’t go as far to say that I take the nice weather for granted, but it has come to a point where if I have a running event, hike, camping trip, etc. coming up, the weather is generally not of grave concern for me.  I just assume the weather will be nice because after all, it is California, right?  This is not always the case.

 

This past weekend my friend Edith organized a hiking trip with a bunch of our friends to the summit of Mount Langley in the Sierra Nevada mountains to celebrate her birthday.  The original plan was to make it an overnight backpacking trip but when we were unable to secure a permit for camping in the John Muir Wilderness, Edith reserved a couple of campsites at a nearby campground just south of Lone Pine, California.  The new plan was to hike on Saturday and spend Saturday night at the campground.  I never questioned the weather until some of our friends began posting the weather forecast on the Facebook event page during the days leading up to the hike.  The forecast changed throughout the week and even improved slightly, but as of Friday we were still looking at a forty percent chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon and early evening.  Some of our friends were concerned about attempting the hike in such conditions.  When hiking in the rain it’s important to be cautious, but it is generally safe if proper gear is used and is even enjoyable for some people.  On the other hand, hiking at high altitude in thunderstorms is not safe.  Being at high elevation in the wilderness during a storm puts you at a higher risk of being injured by falling trees or rocks, or worse, being cooked by lightning.  After talking with the group, it was decided that we would still attempt the hike but if the weather got ugly, we would turn around immediately and get back to safety as quickly as we could.  So, on Friday night I walked in the door after work, ate a quick dinner, and promptly laid down for a nap.  Three hours later I woke up at 10:30 PM, gathered all my gear, and began the three-and-a-half-hour trip to the trailhead around 11:30 PM.  Nestled in the Eastern Sierras of California, Mount Langley has an elevation of 14,032 feet, one of the tallest peaks in the state.  The hike to the summit is about twenty-two miles roundtrip with breathtaking scenery, including alpine forest, blue mountain lakes, grassy meadows, and granite mountain peaks.  Due to the elevation, there are also patches of snow along the route all year around.  If you’re a nature junkie, it doesn’t get much better than here.

 

Once I was out of the late-night traffic of the Los Angeles area, I made a right turn in the town of Mojave and my route became a dark and desolate road that passed by the mountains through Owens Valley.  When I arrived in the small town of Lone Pine at 2:15 AM I stopped at Lee’s Frontier to grab some food and water for the hike.  As I waited in line at the register, the guy in front of me was eyeing the sausage snack display and asked the clerk if they had a snack called “little dudes”.  The clerk looked at him quizzically and said the store did not carry them.  “Oh man, we had those in jail, they were really good”.  You encounter some interesting characters when you inhabit convenience stores in the middle of nowhere at 2:15 in the morning.  After the food and water purchase, I hit the road once again.  From Lone Pine it’s two left hand turns and twenty-three miles to the trailhead.  An easy drive, but the only minor detail is that over those twenty-three-miles, you drive the equivalent of a vertical mile and a quarter into the sky up a twisting mountain road.  The factor that poses the greatest challenge to hiking Mount Langley is the altitude.  About ninety percent of the trail is above 10,000 feet and it tops out at the summit at 14,032 feet.  Oxygen levels are noticeably lower at this altitude and hikers often become susceptible to altitude sickness which is the result of being exposed to low oxygen levels at high altitude during strenuous activity.  As I drove up the pitch-black road, the terrain shifted from desert rocks and plants to alpine forest with tall pine trees.  The road eventually emptied into the parking lot of the Cottonwood Lakes trailhead.  Several tents were set up at the nearby campground and early morning hikers were making their preparations outside of their cars and tents.  There was no cell phone reception in this remote area of the mountain wilderness, so I drove around the parking lot in search of my friends.  I quickly spotted Edith and Christina getting ready near their SUV.  We said hello and after parking my car and making my final preparations, I walked over to the trailhead.  Our group of ten consisted of Edith, Tuyet, John, Christina, Meredith, Iris, Iris’ boyfriend Dave, myself, Alfredo, who was an old friend of ours that met up with us at the last minute, and his friend, Patenco (I’m sure I spelled that one wrong, sorry buddy).  I had hiked with Edith, Christina, Tuyet, and Alfredo before and was meeting Dave, Patenco, John, and Meredith for the first time.  I had not seen Alfredo in three or four years, so It was great to have him there.  We all greeted each other and began our trek just before 3:30 AM, making our way through the midnight wilderness over the river crossings and along the switchbacks, talking casually.  Just after the sunrise a couple of hours later, the trail gave way to a grassy meadow with granite rocks strewn about.  The summit of Mount Langley rose directly in front of us in the distance.  There are two ways to access the summit; via Old Army Pass or New Army Pass.  Old Army pass is shorter, but more technical and New Army Pass is slightly longer but less technical.  Both routes lead to the final section of the trail to the summit which is a steep two-mile climb through rocks, following a series of large cairns.  We decided to take the shorter more technical route and followed the trail to Old Army Pass.  The sun had now made its way into the sky and the sunlight sparkled off the Cottonwood lakes as we passed.  After passing through some gorgeous mountain scenery, we climbed up the switchbacks to Old Army Pass and began the two-mile push up the boulder littered winding path to the summit, using the cairns as our guides.  The weather was holding up perfectly so far and we hoped it would stay that way, although we knew it could change in an instant.  The weather at high altitude can change abruptly, and we knew that we’d better be ready to turn around and get back to the trailhead very quickly if things were to get ugly.  Along the ascent we met up with Rochelle, Delores, and Shirleen, all of whom were part of the LA hiking scene and were friends with Alfredo.  During the final climb our group had spread out considerably.  Tuyet had began to feel the effects of altitude sickness so John and Meredith stayed with her along the way.  Despite the group spreading apart, we all kept each other in sight, and we all made it to the summit within about forty-five minutes of each other.  We all displayed strength and resolve along the way; Edith was contending with sleep deprivation, Christina was hiking with a Plantar Fasciitis injury, other people were dealing with slight altitude sickness, and I myself was feeling sleep deprived as well.  Once we made it to the summit we all came back to life and when Tuyet arrived, her eyes filled with tears of joy.  As long-distance hikers, these are the kind of moments we live for; pushing our minds and bodies to the limit, contending with the pain and misery, and reveling in the accomplishment of completing the task at hand.  Like life, hiking twenty-two miles almost entirely above 10,000 feet has euphoric moments of joy and elation as well as demoralizing moments of pain and despair.  “This hike is amazing, but I wanted to quit a million times” Christina joked at the summit.  After taking some pictures, we quickly began making our way back down the trail to beat the storm.  The forecast called for a forty percent chance of storms in the afternoon and by the time we left the summit it was approaching 12:30 PM. 

The weather remained nice throughout most of the descent, however with two miles left, it began to rain hard and we heard the crackling of thunder.  We put our rain jackets on and hustled down the last two miles of the trail in an effort to stay safe from the storm.  By the time we arrived back at the trailhead at 5:30 PM the thunder had stopped but the rain was still coming down.  Our group embraced in a hug and congratulated each other on our successful summit.  Despite the heavy rain during the last two miles, we were very fortunate that the weather had played out the way it did.  We expected at any moment that we would need to turn back, but we beat the storm and were able to summit and make it back safely.  We were proud of our accomplishment and decided to go celebrate with some hot pizzas and beer at the Lone Pine Pizza Factory before heading to the campground.  My plan was to hang out at the campground for a while then drive home.  As we drove down the winding mountain road from the trailhead into Lone Pine all seemed right with the world.  Until we came around a bend in the road and saw a line of about six cars stopped.  In front of the first car in the line was a massive slew of mud and water on the road with two cars stuck side by side in the mud and unable to move.  Shortly after stopping I saw Iris walking up the road.  I rolled down my window as she approached.  “Hey Iris, what happened?” I asked.  The heavy rainfall had created a mudslide on the mountain road and two cars had gotten stuck, blocking the road, and making it impossible to continue down to the base of the mountain.  We decided to turn around and head back up to the trailhead, get some sleep, and try again in an hour.  An hour later, we approached the site again.  The two cars were still stuck but this time a police car was there.  We learned that they needed to pull the cars out of the mud and then clear the road, which would take at least a few hours.  It was becoming increasing apparent that we would not be able to get down from the mountain anytime soon, maybe not even until the next morning.  Back at the trailhead we shared food with each other and Alfredo made sure that I was okay since I wasn’t prepared to stay overnight.  We mostly stayed in our cars to keep warm.  Even though it was the middle of July, the temperature dropped into the low fifties as the sun began to set.  All I had left to eat was a half a bag of trial mix, so Meredith, Tuyet, and John gave me some potato chips and Iris, Edith, and Christina each had an extra blanket that they lent me.  I felt foolish that I hadn’t been more prepared but none of us were expecting a mudslide to keep us from leaving the trailhead.  As I sat in my car, I wondered how long we were going to be stranded here.  I had almost no food and water and I was already hungry.  Besides, how would we know when the road was clear?  There were no rangers in this area so who would notify us?  I decided that we’d better take matters into our own hands.  I got out of my car and told the group that I was going to drive down and check on the road.  If it was still being cleared, I would wait on the roadside and when it was clear, I would drive back up to the trailhead and let everyone know.  There was no cell phone reception, so we would have to settle for this method of communication.  The others were hunkering down in their cars to sleep for the night as I left and drove down the road.  As I approached the site of the mudslide, I could see in the darkness up ahead that the cars were still stuck, but there was a bulldozer in front of them clearing mud off the road and a tow truck had just arrived.  The road was still impassable, but progress was being made.  I turned my car around and parked on the shoulder, about a tenth of a mile up the road from the chaos.  For the next hour I sat in my car on the roadside listening to music, flipping through pictures on my phone, and staring into my rearview mirror.  All I could see were flashing white and yellow lights from utility vehicles in the darkness.  I was unable to tell if the cars had been removed from the mud.  I sat there hoping that it wouldn’t be too long before the lights disappeared, the road was clear, and I could go deliver the good news to my friends that we could be on our way.  Two cars came driving down the road past me, towards the carnage.  “Yeah, good luck guys” I said to myself, fully expecting that they would turn right around.  But strangely, after pausing for about thirty seconds, the cars passed through the mudslide.  “No way” I said.  Was the road clear?  I immediately started my car and headed down towards the mudslide to see if I could pass.  As I approached, I realized that there was much more mud on the road than I initially thought.  The pavement disappeared and was covered in mud as far as the beams of my headlights could reach.  I was immediately waived down by two guys in reflective vests, signaling for me to stop.  When I rolled down my window, they greeted me, and the first guy said “so, you want to make an attempt at passing through this?”  I thought he was being sarcastic but wasn’t entirely sure.  “Eh, probably not a great idea, right?” I replied.  He explained that the two cars I had seen minutes earlier barely made it through the mud and if I was going to try to pass, I would be doing it at my own risk.  I don’t even have a four-wheel drive vehicle and if I got my car stuck in this mess, I’d be screwed.  I turned around and parked my car in the same spot up the road to continue waiting…and promptly nodded off.  I awoke thirty minutes later, confused of my whereabouts for a moment.  When I gathered my senses, I saw in my rearview mirror that not only were the lights from the tow truck and bulldozer still flashing, but I saw three lights approaching my car from about a hundred feet behind.  They looked like headlamps and were getting closer by the second.  Who were these guys?  Were they the tow truck guys walking up to tell me to beat it?  As they approached, they walked along the driver’s side of my car.  I prepared to roll down my window, but they turned out to be hikers and kept walking up the road.  It was now 11:30 PM.  Even if the road were to be cleared tonight, none of us were going to make the three-and-a-half-hour drive back to Los Angeles at this hour of the night.  There was nothing else to do but drive back to the trailhead.  When I arrived I parked my car, adjusted my seat into a lying down position, covered myself with the blankets that were lent to me, and rolled up my sleeveless vest to use as a pillow.  Everyone else had gone to sleep long ago and the parking lot was quiet and still.  It took me a little while to fall asleep as I turned over in the front seat trying to get comfortable.  I ran the heater during the drive back to the trailhead but the heat was slowly escaping through the car and the temperature outside had dropped into the high forties.  I was tired, hungry, and cold, and I still wasn’t exactly sure when we were going to be able to get down from the mountain.  How much worse could it get?  The answer was “much”.  Despite the grim situation, I was thankful that our group was safe, and everyone kept a positive attitude.  It could have easily been one of us stuck in that mudslide.  It had turned into a beautiful night.  The sky had cleared, and the moon shined brightly above the pine trees.  As I finally fell asleep, I took a moment to think about where I was; up on a mountain in a parking lot in the wilderness at 10,000 feet above sea level after hiking twenty-two miles through the Sierra Nevada mountains.  Not too shabby.  In fact, it was pretty cool.   

When I awoke the next morning at 5:45 AM, I felt rested, despite only getting about five hours of sleep.  A few minutes later I saw Christina approaching my car.  We greeted each other when I rolled the window down and I told her I was going to check the road again.  When I arrived at the mudslide area, the vehicles were gone, and the road had been cleared.  Thank goodness!  We were finally able to pass and head back home.  I told everyone the good news when I arrived back at the parking lot.  It turned out Tuyet, Meredith, and John had left at 2:00 in the morning and were probably already home by now.  The rest of us packed our stuff up and laughed and joked with each other about how crazy this trip had become.  Who would have thought that we would be able to beat the rough weather during our hike, but a mudslide would keep us trapped in the parking lot over night?  A few minutes later we were all on the road heading home.  It was an unforgettable experience and another great trip with great company.  Not only was it a lot of fun, but some very important lessons were learned; It probably wouldn’t hurt to have some extra food and water when going on adventures like this.  You never know what could happen.  A mudslide in one of the driest states in the country could trap you at a trailhead.  Never take a successful summit for granted, it’s all about the team work, and even if the weather forecast looks rough for a planned hike, go for it anyway.  But if you hear thunder or see lightning, you’d better be ready to turn around and get your ass back to the trailhead quickly!            

Mount Shasta, Round 2 - Rocks and Wind

The state of California has numerous landmarks.  Some notable ones include the Hollywood sign, the Golden Gate bridge, Half Dome, etc.  One of the many, and perhaps one of the more secret landmarks of California, is Mount Shasta, a potentially active volcano just off the 5 Freeway near the Oregon/California border.  Standing at 14,157 feet, Mount Shasta is a free-standing mountain and dominates the Northern California skyline.  It is completely blanketed by snow during the winter months and even into the spring and summer, the slopes above 10,000 feet are largely covered year-round.  In June of 2017 I found myself with my friends at the Bunny Flat trailhead preparing to climb this beast of a mountain.  There are several routes that lead to the summit but the most popular route, and the route we were going to take, is through Avalanche Gulch.  Our plan was to climb up to Lake Helen Campground, camp for the night, and push for the summit early the next morning.  We arrived that night at Lake Helen as planned, however when morning came, we were awakened by 50 mile-per-hour winds blowing snow, ice and camping equipment down the mountain.  We waited at the campground for a couple of hours, hoping the winds would dissipate, but they did not let up one bit.  There was no other option except to hike back down to the trailhead.

This past weekend, a year later, another opportunity came to attempt Mount Shasta.  We had been monitoring the weather forecast closely, but unfortunately it looked like the winds were going to be fierce on the day that we were planning to summit.  Due to its prominence and altitude, Mount Shasta is notorious for drawing in extreme and volatile weather, making it difficult for meteorologists to accurately forecast mountain conditions.  These forecasted wind speeds were merely an educated guess and we hoped they wouldn’t be as severe as they were anticipating.  The original plan was for me to drive to my friend Tony’s house after work on Thursday night.  My friends Nemo, Cisko, and I would all pile into Tony’s Jeep Rubicon, hit the road at 8:00 PM, drive through the night, meet up with the rest of the group at the trailhead, climb to Lake Helen Campground on Friday, camp for the night, and push for the summit very early on Saturday morning.  I had planned to leave with them on Thursday night, however due to unforeseen technology issues at work, I needed to come into the office for a few hours on Friday, rather than take the whole day off like I had originally planned.  My new plan was to leave Los Angeles after those few hours of work on Friday, drive myself up to Mount Shasta, hustle up Avalanche Gulch, and catch up to the group at some point along the way.  It certainly wasn’t ideal, but the situation didn’t weaken my spirit, and I was looking forward to attempting this climb again with my friends.

Getting up to Mount Shasta is an endurance event in its own right.  The drive from Los Angeles is between nine and nine and a half hours depending on traffic.  I rolled into town shortly before 11:00 PM on Friday night.  The drive up to the small town at the base of the mountain had been fairly uneventful until I was driving up a pitch black, twisting road through the Shasta-Trinity National Forest to the trailhead.  As I came around a bend, I saw three dead deer lying in the middle of the road.  Startled by the bodies, I slowed to a stop.  Then, to my relief and delight, the three deer were not dead or even injured.  They stood up as I approached.  It was a mother and two fawns.  They stood still and stared at me for a few seconds before casually walking off the road and disappearing into the wilderness.  After that brief delay, I resumed forward progress.  It was very dark, so I drove cautiously, looking for more animals that may be crossing the road.  Several minutes later, a cluster of parked cars emerged in the darkness, indicating that I had arrived.  I took an empty parking space near the sign marking the beginning of the trail.  When I opened my car door, the cold mountain air came pouring in, crisp and refreshing.  I stepped out of my car, admiring the surroundings as I stretched.  It was an absolutely stellar night.  The sky was filled with thousands of shining stars and the tall pine trees that surrounded the parking lot were engulfed in bright moonlight.  In front of my car, the mountain stood prominently in the darkness above the tree line.  I walked over the restroom, brushed my teeth, took out my contacts, retrieved my blanket and pillow from my trunk and spread them out in my backseat.  My plan was to start climbing at around 4:00 in the morning, about the same time that my friends would start pushing for the summit from Lake Helen.  I would hustle up the mountain and hopefully catch them along the way or at the summit.  Before going to sleep, I took one last look at the mountain.  In the darkness, the Lake Helen camping area was visible on the snowy mountain side, well off in the distance.  Somewhere up there my friends had set up camp and were probably already hunkered down for the night.

 

The rooster alarm went off on my cell phone at 3:45 AM the next morning, and I slowly awoke and began preparing for the trek.  The trail from Bunny Flat would lead through the wilderness to the mountain, which looked to be about a half a mile in the distance.  The trail would climb to Horse Camp and would end at Lake Helen.  From there, it’s a more technical climb up the snowy mountain face to the summit, which requires the use of crampons and an ice axe.  I made my final preparations, threw on my pack, and began hiking up the trail towards the mountain.  2017 had been an enormous winter for California, and last year the whole trail was covered in snow all the way to the parking lot.  This year, however, all the snow had melted, and the trail was much easier to navigate.  I hiked through the wilderness, passed by Horse Camp, and by the time I arrived at Lake Helen two hours later, snow had taken over, and the sun had risen.  There were about a half a dozen tents scattered throughout the campground and I set my pack down to drink some water and put on warmer clothing.  Just then, I saw my friend Monica standing outside of her tent looking up at the mountain.  I ran over to her and after saying hi, she explained that Tony, Cisko, and Nemo were the only three out of the group that decided to try to climb to the summit.  Monica, Mariel, Carisa, Linda, Edgar, Ronald, and Ronald’s teenage son Leo had decided that the winds were too severe to attempt the climb, and they stayed at the campground.  The wind had let up a little by the time I arrived, but apparently throughout the night, it had been fiercely strong and howled ruthlessly through the campground.  Carisa, Mariel, and Edgar emerged from their tent and said good morning.  Carisa had been suffering from migraines during the climb up to Lake Helen, but was now feeling better thanks to the magic of medicine.  “You should be able to catch up to those guys” Monica said.  “They’re taking it pretty easy”.  “Cool! I’ll see how far I get” I said.  I bade the group farewell and began the long climb from Lake Helen up to the Red Banks, where I would make a left and climb up Misery Hill to the summit.  Up ahead of me on the slope, several climbers were struggling up the steep, snowy terrain.  To my right up ahead, I could see a man sitting on the mountain side with the rest of his group standing over him.  It looked like something was wrong, but I wasn’t entirely sure.  A strong gust of wind blew down the mountain, causing me to almost lose my balance.  Immediately after it dissolved, I heard voices shouting from above: “Rocks! Rocks!”.  A couple of seconds later, three melon sized rocks came bouncing down the mountain right past me.  The spring snowmelt had dragged rocks and chunks of earth down the mountain and the strong winds dislodged them from the snow near the Red Banks, which were about two thousand feet up the slope in front of me.  By the time the rocks flew past me they had gained enough speed to do serious physical harm if they were to strike a climber.  A bit rattled, I sluggishly continued climbing up the steep incline.  I caught up with a couple from San Francisco.  “Is that guy okay down there?” I inquired.  I pointed to the man sitting on the mountain below.  It now looked like his friends were attempting to carry him back to the campground.  “He was hit by a falling rock.  I think they said his leg may be broken” The guy answered.  Just then, the wind howled and almost blew me over again.  I was growing concerned for my safety and questioned whether I should keep going.  I decided to keep moving forward while being overly cautious to avoid getting injured.  The climb to the Red Banks was steep and tough.  I moved at a snail’s pace in the snow up the 40-degree incline, using my ice axe to help push myself up.  Strong gusts of wind howled down the mountain and pellets of ice bounced off my helmet and snow goggles.  The Red Banks were getting closer and closer with each step, but they still looked to be well off in the distance.  During the last few hundred feet, I was on all fours, using my ice axe to pull myself up the mountain side.  Shortly after reaching the Banks, I saw two men in front of me as I crawled up the mountain.  They were making their way back down, and when I said hello as they passed, I realized it was Tony and Cisko.  Their faces had been disguised by their goggles, helmets, and face warmers.  We embraced in a hug and they explained that they did not summit due to the strong winds and falling rocks.  I learned from Tony that the man sitting on the mountain below had his ankle broken by a falling rock.  Still not good, but less severe than a broken leg.  Upon witnessing the incident earlier that morning, Tony dispatched a rescue team to bring in a helicopter to airlift the man to safety.  I began having doubts about whether I would be able reach the peak.  After a quick break, I slowly moved forward as Tony and Cisko continued back to Lake Helen.  I kept moving and found Nemo a short time later.  He had been climbing at an aggressive pace and was able to summit but advised me to be very careful if I chose to continue.  As he continued his descent, I stood there, unsure of what to do.  Just then a gust of wind blew a few more rocks right past me from Misery Hill and a small stone struck my arm.  I had about three quarters of a mile to cover before I reached the summit, but the strong winds and flying rocks were scaring the hell out of me.  A skilled climber could have trekked to the summit in high winds, and even could have powered through the flying ice pellets, but melon sized rocks being blown at dangerous speeds down the mountain created a major safety hazard.  The Mercy Medical Center in the town at the base of the mountain was not where I wanted my journey to end.  So, demoralizing as it was, I turned around and began making my way back down towards Lake Helen.  There would be no summit today.

 

Descending the slope was just as vexing as the trek up, and I struggled to find an effective way of moving down the steep mountain face.  I tried numerous methods, including side stepping, going down backwards, and the spider crawl method, which involved sitting on my butt, and moving down the mountain with my arms and legs.  Several other climbers were glissading down the slope along the shallow troughs in the snow.  I inched down the mountain from the Red Banks in one of the troughs when suddenly I heard shouting behind me.  “Look out! Look out!”.  A glissading climber was coming down towards me at full speed and I dove out of the way and rolled a good ten feet down the slope, narrowly avoiding collision.  It was a long slog to get back to Lake Helen.  Glissading would have been the fastest way to get down, but the slope was extremely steep, and I refrained from using this method out of fear of hitting a rock and colliding with other climbers.  After an hour and a half of spider crawling, side stepping, and going down backwards, I finally arrived at Lake Helen.  Tony, Cisko, and Nemo had just packed their camping gear and were getting ready to head back down to the trailhead.  Monica and the rest of the team had gone down a while ago and were most likely sightseeing around town.  During the descent from Lake Helen, I saw that there was another glissading shoot carved into the snow.  This descent was less steep, so I decided to give it a shot.  I took off my crampons, sat down, and let gravity take me down the mountain.  I soon discovered that glissading down a snowy mountain takes practice.  The idea is to slide down the mountain and use your ice axe to stay in control, digging it into the snow to slow yourself down.  Like snowboarding, it takes practice to develop the skill and move at a decent speed while still maintaining control.  “Woohoo!” I shouted as I slid down the trough.  By no means was I an expert in glissading.  My butt was numb, and my pants were soaked, but it was a fast, effective, and fun way to get to the bottom of the slope where the snow ended.  Once the snow ended, Cisko, Tony, Nemo, and I made the quick descent back to the trailhead.  As we made our way down to Horse Camp, I was in awe of the beautiful setting.  Colorful rocks lay strewn along the path, tall green pine trees dominated the landscape, and snow-capped mountain peaks jabbed at the sky in the distance in front of us.  Once back at the trailhead, we caught up with Ronald and his son, Leo.  Tony had heard that Monica, Mariel, Linda, Carisa, and Edgar were having lunch at Black Bear Diner, so we drove over there to meet up with them.  When we arrived I met Linda, who had been sleeping when I hiked up to Lake Helen.  She had driven down from Portland, Oregon to join us on this adventure.  After enjoying a hot meal, sharing stories, and lots of laughs, we said our goodbyes, congratulated each other on our attempt, and began the long drive back home.  The traffic was lighter coming home than driving up, and I finally arrived back home shortly after 1:00 in the morning after nine hours of driving.  I dropped my bag, changed my clothes, brushed my teeth, and promptly fell asleep shortly after lying down.

After two attempts and no summit at Mount Shasta, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little frustrated.  Even though I was annoyed that I had failed to reach the summit again, I was thankful that I had gotten back safely and that I was still able to enjoy the natural beauty of this mountain.  No mountain is worth injuring yourself or dying for.  Summit or no summit, Mount Shasta is one of the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen.  There truly is no place quite like it.  I may not have summited this time, but I know that somehow, some way, we’ll be back next summer for round three.  Third time’s a charm!       

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.   

Can't Get Enough

At 5:30 PM on Friday I walked up to my car, which was parked in the hills above my office on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, and hopped in.  Only I wasn’t going to be making the 25-minute drive back home today to my apartment in Palms, Los Angeles.  My car was packed with running gear, a few toiletries, a pillow, and a couple of blankets.  The week was over, and I was ready for the seven-hour drive up to Auburn, California and tomorrow’s thirty-two mile run on the Western States trail.  I had been up in Auburn just a month earlier when I ran The Canyons 100K which also took place on the Western States trail.  The experience of running this race twice (but finishing it once) combined with the books I had read and the videos I had seen showcasing the Western States 100 had me hooked and I couldn’t get enough.  To me, the attraction of the Western States trail is not only it’s natural beauty and challenging terrain, but also its history.  Ultramarathon running was first conceived on this very trail when the Western States Endurance Run went from being a horse race to a foot race in the summer of 1977.  Since then, the Western States Endurance Run, commonly known as the Western States 100, or simply Western States, has become one of the most prestigious and compelling ultramarathons in the world.  Runners from all over the globe make the trip to Auburn every June to toe the start line at the Squaw Valley Ski Resort in hopes of reaching the finish line in Auburn within the thirty-hour cutoff.  Several ultramarathon greats including Ann Trason, Scott Jurek, Dean Karnazes, Rob Krar, etc. built their careers off competing in Western States and they tell mind blowing stories about the race and the Western States trail in their interviews and memoirs.

         

After fighting some Friday night L.A. traffic for a couple of hours I finally made it over the grapevine.  The freeway was now less crowded, and I could sit back and enjoy the ride.  The drive to Auburn was long but it was easy; a straight shot up the 5 freeway all the way to Sacramento where I would merge onto the 80 freeway which would take me right to my destination.  The sunset that I was treated to while driving north through the farmlands was absolutely breathtaking.  It was mostly cloudy, and the sun fired orange, yellow, and red light across the entire sky lighting up the clouds above the highway as the mountains surrounding the grapevine rested on the horizon.  After several hours I finally rolled into Auburn.  The meeting spot for the run was actually in the elementary school parking lot in Foresthill, about twenty minutes northeast of town.  The run that I was participating in the next day was one of three training runs for Western States.  They were not timed races.  Just organized running events limited to one hundred or so participants with three aid stations along the way.  Tomorrow’s run would be thirty-two miles from Robinson Flat to Foresthill, Sunday would be nineteen miles from Foresthill to Diver’s flat, and Monday would be Green Gate to the finish line of Western States, twenty miles.  After parking my car at the elementary school, changing my clothes in a porta potty, and brushing my teeth, I spread out my blankets and pillow in the backseat.  I was going dirtbag style, sleeping in my car.  It was approaching 1:00 AM and there were about a half a dozen other cars in the parking lot where other runners lay sound asleep inside.  Although it was cramped, I slept pretty decently, only being woken up once during the night by the sound of light rain falling on my car.  I woke up the next morning at 6:00 AM to people gathering in the parking lot and setting up check-in booths and tents.  Luckily the rain had quit for good.  I checked in, made my final preparations, and after a quick briefing by the run organizers we were on a school bus bound for Robinson Flat.  One of my favorite things about running ultramarathons is the people I meet and hearing their stories and backgrounds.  I often meet people from all over the country and sometimes the world.  During the bus ride I talked with Nathan, a former musician, now Jimmy Johns delivery guy from North Carolina who looked to be in his twenties, as well as Jay, a man in his sixties from the Bay area. 

Stepping off the bus at Robinson Flat was like arriving at summer camp.  The mountain air was crisp and fresh, and the campground was dissected by a series of winding gravel roads with towering pine trees all around.  There was no actual start line or even a start time.  I got off the bus, relieved myself in the outhouse near the campground, and began running down the trail, following the other runners.  The section that we were running was widely considered to be the most difficult part of the Western States 100.  About thirteen miles into the run I would encounter the notorious “canyons” section of the trail.  When people are talking about the Western States 100 and they mention the “canyons”, they’re referring to the 18.7-mile section of the race from Last Chance to Foresthill during which runners descend into and climb out of three deep canyons back to back.  The first canyon to contend with is Deadwood Canyon, where the trail drops about 2,000 feet from Last Chance and climbs 1,800 feet up to Devil’s Thumb from the Swinging Bridge at the bottom of the gorge.  The second is El Dorado Canyon which includes a 2,500-foot drop followed by an 1,800-foot climb up to Michigan Bluff, and the third is Volcano Canyon, where the trail drops 1,000 feet to a creek crossing and climbs about 800 feet up to Foresthill.

 

The first few miles were traveled along a wide trail and stretches of fire road.  Some areas were cluttered with rocks and stones.  I run with Vibram 5 fingers which are a perfect match for my running style however, our feet contain more nerve endings than any other part of our bodies, so if I’m not careful I could step on a sharp rock and be delivered a life altering jolt of pain in my foot without warning.  My heightened attention detail to avoid the rocks along with my light stepping running style made me feel like I was running hurdles at times as I hopped from one side of the trail to the other.  Once we reached Miller’s Defeat the trail banked right and narrowed considerably.  The switchbacks continued, but we were now on a single-track trail rolling along the side of the Sierra Nevada mountains through thick green brush and pine trees.  It was all very exciting to me.  I marveled in the beautiful green surroundings and talked with the other runners as we shared running stories and talked about our favorite trail races.  I soon pulled into Dusty Corners where the first aid station of the course was set up.  I paused there for a few minutes to refill my water bottle, have a couple of pieces of peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and thanked the volunteers before continuing down the trail.  From Dusty Corners it was about five miles until the trail would drop into Deadwood Canyon.  Running along the rolling trail I chatted with more runners, including Julianne who was from San Diego and was running Western States in June and Sean, who was an Organizational Development consultant also from L.A.  We talked for a while about running and a variety of other things as he ran behind me.  I love meeting and talking to people along the trail, but I was starting to feel winded from all the talking I was doing and it got to the point where there was a couple of seconds of pause when I was responding to Sean.  Just before we got to Last Chance, he pushed ahead.  A couple of minutes later I came up behind a young guy, also from L.A.  He introduced himself as Gabe and he was fairly new to ultrarunning, having only taken up the sport a few months prior.  We told stories about how we got into running and once we passed through Last Chance I picked up the pace.  Gabe was taking a more reserved approach to the run, so he held back.  As I made the steep, twisting descent into Deadwood Canyon, I was relieved that I was finally alone, so I could try to regain some of the energy I had lost from all the talking I was doing.  I finally arrived at the bottom of the canyon, where I crossed over the Swinging Bridge and began the 1,800-foot climb up to Devil’s Thumb.  This climb is brutally steep, and I was forced to hike at a modest pace, which I was fine with because I could now regroup from the fast plunge into the canyon.  When we finally made it to Devil’s Thumb at the top of the climb, the small group of runners I was with jokingly referred to the milestone as “Devil’s Middle Finger” and we turned and flipped our middle fingers to the steep trail behind us with a few laughs.  After pausing for a few minutes at the Pump aid station, the trail began a 4-mile descent into El Dorado Canyon.  I was coming back to life as I flew down the narrow trail and tight switchbacks.  There were lots of roots and rocks along the trail to watch out for, so I was trying to move as fast as I could without stumbling.  I had a strong pace going until suddenly I heard a strange sound in the brush.  I couldn’t quite make it out the first time, so I listened again.  This time I knew exactly what it was.  It was a bear growl.  Not an angry “I’m going to claw your face off” type of growl, just a lumbering through the woods “matter of fact” growl.  The fact that I could only hear and couldn’t see the bear or detect its exact location was all the more disturbing to me.  Then I heard a small crash through the brush awfully close to the trail.  “Uh oh” I thought.  There were no other runners around which added to the scariness of the situation.  I did the only thing I could and picked up the pace.  I kept moving forward and after about a half a minute it was silent again.  Phew.  I had a nice rhythm going down the trail, but as I approached the bridge that crossed El Dorado Creek at the pit of the canyon, wham!  I wacked my pinky toe on a rock sticking up out of the trail in a flash of distraction.  “Shit!” I yelled out loud after nearly stumbling.  The pain was intense, but I knew that things could have been much worse.  I could have went flying and taken a dive face first into the rocks and dirt, which would have made finishing this run much more difficult.  After crossing the bridge, I was again forced to hike at a modest pace up the 3-mile climb to Michigan Bluff.  I eventually caught up with a runner named Anna from San Francisco.  We talked for a few minutes before she abruptly said “I think we should be running.  Let’s go!”.  Before I could respond, she began a moderate jog up the trail.  I followed behind her for about a mile as we passed by other runners struggling up the climb.  When I arrived at the Michigan Bluff aid station I saw a lady clad in a colorful squid costume holding a water pitcher.  It was the one and only Ann Trason.  She had helped me a lot at The Canyons 100K and I was glad to see her again.  I greeted her with a hug and wolfed down some watermelon and salty snacks.  The volunteers offered me soup, but I politely declined.  I had 6.2 miles left until the finish line and there was only one more canyon to contend with.  A mile or so down the trail after departing Michigan Bluff, another runner caught up with me.  “Man, did you have some of that soup at Michigan Bluff?” he asked.  “Nope, I’ve never tried soup during an ultra” I answered as he glided by.  “It really put some life back into me!  I feel great”.  Maybe I should have had some soup after all.  A cup of hot soup doesn’t sound too appealing after running twenty-eight miles but maybe next time I’ll give it a try.  It sure seemed to work wonders for a lot of other runners.  I was now running on a dirt road with a valley of forest covered mountains to my left, and a mountain side of full of forest and natural earth to my right.  I heard the rumble of a truck engine behind me in the distance which was getting louder and closer by the second.  When it approached, I ran to the side of the dirt road to let the truck pass.  It was an old model rusted up F-350 pick up truck with a loud diesel engine.  In the truck bed up against the rear window was a rack with three big chainsaws resting on the shelves.  I was on a dirt road in the mountain wilderness in the middle of nowhere, so it seemed to blend perfectly with the setting.  After all, I wasn’t expecting to see a brand-new BMW driving along this rugged terrain.  I soon began the twisting descent into Volcano Canyon.  The cold water on my feet felt rejuvenating as I crossed the creek at the bottom.  As I climbed up the final ascent towards Foresthill, I began to deteriorate during the final quarter mile stretch before the course left the trail for the paved road into Foresthill.  The trail was steep and littered with natural debris, making every footstep uncomfortable.  When I finally reached the road I walked along, trying to regroup.  I was exhausted and winded as I walked up a gradual inline along Bath road.  Another runner from Southern Indiana caught up with me.  We chatted and walked together for about a mile which helped mitigate some of the fatigue in my body.  When we reached the intersection with Foresthill Road, I said “only a half a mile left, let’s pick it up!”  We ran along the road and soon the tents at the elementary school came into view.  The make shift finish line was a stop sign attached to one of the tent poles.  I ran in, clapping my hands in excitement.  Thirty-two miles in six hours and fifty-three minutes.  Not bad.  I often take a reserved approach when running downhill on trails for fear of stumbling on a rock or root, but during the weeks that followed the 100K, I began practicing the technique of running downhill on trails more swiftly while still maintaining control and found myself at the track a few times doing speedwork since then.  It’s a work in progress, but I know that if I want to run Western States one day, I will need to be able to run faster.  Runners need to average an eighteen minute per mile pace over the entire distance just to beat the thirty-hour cutoff.  Going for thirty hours without sleep in of itself seems brutal, but when you layer a one hundred-mile run on top of it, it sounds like pure torture.  During the downhill sections of today’s race, I had improved on my speed since the 100K, but I still had work to do.  That’s the great thing about ultrarunning; you’re always learning and improving.  And I still had a lot to learn before I was going to attempt Western States.           

  

My Scene

As much as I love running, I have never been a fan of “running movies”, per se.  I never jumped on the Forrest Gump train like so many people have over the years, especially runners.  I saw Forrest Gump a couple of times, but I was never able to get into it.  I saw Prefontaine and loved the story.  Pre was an exceptional runner but after watching the film, I quickly dismissed it as a one-time watch.  I have never seen, and frankly, I have no interest in seeing movies like Chariots of Fire, Without Limits, Personal Best, On the Edge, etc.  If one of my friends were to come over with one of these movies I’d be willing to give it a watch, but I would not go out of my way to rent or purchase it.  The reason for my lack of interest in such movies is because more often than not, movies that revolve around running are dramatic and intense.  I generally enjoy these types of movies, such as the Rocky series, however, drama movies about running don’t entertain me.  From the day I decided to start running in December of 2008 in Michigan, I have always possessed a light-hearted attitude towards the sport.  Yes, I wanted to be able to run long distances and yes, I wanted to be fast, but I have never been one of those intense runners who dreams about winning races, counts their teeth every morning, and trains so hard that they’re not enjoying the sport.  Of course, running is my primary method of staying fit and healthy, but I view running as a relaxing, therapeutic, lose yourself in the moment type of activity, especially when running in the wilderness and on mountain trails.  Even if I’m flying down a trail or hauling ass during a road race, I ensure that I have fun and enjoy the experience.  When I feel like I’m getting too serious during a run I’ll smile to remind myself to loosen up.

 

Most people who become runners in their adult life possess inspiration that can be traced way back to when they were a young child seeing something that involves running on TV, such as the Olympics or a running movie.  Children’s minds absorb like sponges and sometimes just one movie or one scene can inspire people to become runners.  I am one of the people whose first jolt of inspiration derived from a movie.  It wasn’t a running movie, although running did play a significant role in the storyline.  The movie that got me into running is none other than “Meatballs”, a late 1970’s comedy film.  My parents liked the movie a lot and showed it to me for the first time when I was eight years old.  Released in 1979, Meatballs stars a very young Bill Murray as Tripper Harrison, the head counselor of Camp North Star, a summer camp for kids.  The camp is packed full of bratty kids and a coed group of college students working as counselors in training or CITs.  The CITs engage in romance with one another and are often seen losing their tempers on account of the actions of the ill-behaved children, which serves as one of comedic elements of the movie.  Among the campers is a socially awkward misfit named Rudy Gerner.  Upon witnessing Rudy being bullied due to his lack of athleticism and sensing his loneliness, Tripper takes him under his wing.  Tripper is seen throughout the film running on the trails around camp early in the morning.  Inspired, Rudy begins waking up early and running with him every morning, which leads to the two of them bonding with each other and becoming good friends.  A sub plot of the movie is Camp North Star’s rivalry with Camp Mohawk, which is located across the lake and is chock full of snobby, wealthy, more athletically gifted kids.  At the end of the film, the two camps participate in a two-day series of sporting events known as the Olympiad.  Camp North Star gets their butts kicked on the first day, but thanks to an inspiring (and laugh out loud hilarious) motivational speech by Tripper that night in the lodge, the campers are infused with hope and beat Camp Mohawk in every event on day two, including a hot dog eating contest.  The final event is a one on one four-mile trail race, in which the winner is the crowned champion of the whole Olympiad.  No one from Camp North Star is willing to participate so Tripper volunteers Rudy to compete.  He reluctantly agrees to run after Tripper gives him a pep talk.  All the running he did throughout the film with Tripper pays off, and Rudy beats the runner from Camp Mohawk by merely seconds, thus resulting in Camp North Star winning the Olympiad and Rudy becoming a hero among the campers and counselors.

Watching Rudy dash through the finish tape for the first time made my jaw drop.  The part of the movie in which the four-mile race takes place is only about seven minutes long, but my mind was fully engaged the whole time.  In my eight-year-old mind, running four miles was an impossible feat.  I saw the movie several times throughout my childhood and the part at the end where Rudy wins the race became my sole focus.  Watching this kid go from zero to hero by winning a four-mile trail race would have a tremendous impact on my life, though I didn’t know it at the time.  Sensing my fixation on the movie, my dad told me that distance running is a competitive sport and many people run the Marathon.  “They run twenty-six miles.  Some of these guys run eight or nine miles even before they go to work in the morning” my dad explained.  My mind was blown.  After my Meatballs revelation and listening to my dad talk about the Marathon, I went running two or maybe three times around my neighborhood before my young mind became distracted and focused on something else.  Even though I didn’t get serious about running until my early twenties, I ran occasionally during my youth and often placed in the top ten in my physical education class when we ran the mile.

 

Years later, I stood at the start line of the 2009 Turkey Trot 10K on Thanksgiving Day in Downtown Detroit.  It was about five minutes before start time and I stood among the crowd trying to keep warm in the chilly morning early winter air.  Out of nowhere, I heard a voice behind me say “Liam! Hey man”.  I turned to see the familiar face of a guy from my high school who was part of my graduating class.  Over five years had passed since graduation, but I remembered this guy very well.  He was fiercely competitive and consistently ranked among the top five best lacrosse players in the state throughout our high school years.  He also played football and was exceptionally gifted at virtually every sport we played in our physical education classes.  If that wasn’t enough, he was also a straight A student.  I had never seen anyone with so much talent.  The one thing that always irked me about him though, was his arrogance.  He used to mock me for my light-hearted attitude towards sports and found it necessary to constantly remind me that he was a much better athlete than I was.  Despite this, things were generally good between the two of us off the field and in the classroom and hallways.  We didn’t part ways on bad terms, but we hadn’t spoken since graduation.  We exchanged small talk and began running once the gun went off.  Just after the five-mile mark, I came up behind him.  My alter ego wanted to blow right by him without a word as if to say “Now I’m kicking your ass.  How does it feel?”, but I’m not a spiteful person so instead, I slowed down along side him.  “Good job dude!” I said with a smile before continuing.  I finished the race about three minutes ahead of him.  At the finish line we congratulated each other with a knuckle pound.  Beating him didn’t matter to me, but what did matter to me was the look in his eyes when we saw each other at the finish line.  It was my Rudy Gerner moment.  This guy may not have thought much of me in high school but that day, for the first time, he looked impressed by me.  I felt like I had finally earned his respect, much like Rudy did among the campers and counselors in Meatballs.

        

To this day, Meatballs is still one of my favorite movies.  It’s funny and inspirational and contains all the elements that I could want in a running movie; lots of laughs, a few heartfelt moments, a little romance, and a character who is unanimously viewed as the outcast and ends up becoming a hero by winning a running event.  Who knows what kind of running flicks Hollywood will conceive in the future.  There will hopefully be some good ones, but Meatballs will always be my running movie.  Rudy Gerner is the man!     

The Canyons 100K 2018 Part 3: You're Better Than You Think You Are (The Aftermath)

My whole body radiated pain when I awoke the next morning at 6:30 AM.  Lying in bed, my legs hurt all the way up and down, my neck hurt, my shoulders hurt, my back hurt, and my feet, which miraculously remained free of blisters, ached immensely.  Although I was physically pulverized, I felt like a new man.  I sat up in bed reminiscing on the adventure from yesterday.  What an incredible journey it had been!  63.6 miles, 100-ish kilometers along the Western States trail.  It felt surreal following the footsteps of Dean Karnazes, Scott Jurek, Rob Krar, Ann Trason, and so many other ultra-marathon rock stars.  I will forever be grateful for the encouragement that Ann gave me throughout the race, particularly at the Cal2 aid station on the way to the finish line.  All the training had paid off, I kept myself mentally stable (for the most part) and was more capable than I imagined.  It’s like I always say.  You’re better than you think you are.  A whole year’s worth of frustration finally ceased to exist.  I was now a 100K finisher.

After responding to some text messages, I managed to drag myself out of bed.  When I stood up for the first time that morning, my legs felt as if they were made of marshmallows.  After a good ten seconds, I made my way, step by painful step to the bathroom.  I took my time packing up and checked out of the hotel around 8:00 AM.  By this time, extreme hunger had set in.  Throughout the race I had only consumed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fruit, and nuts, with the occasional cheese quesadilla, and I hadn’t eaten anything following the race the night prior.  I drove to Black Bear Diner and stuffed myself before hitting the road.  I couldn’t remember the last time a hot breakfast tasted so delicious.  It was like heaven on a skillet.  I was also still mildly dehydrated and threw down three big glasses of water in that one sitting.  I was the happiest man alive as I made the long drive back to Los Angeles.  I called family members and listened to music, having a blast in the middle of nowhere.  It was a long rally to get home.  I found myself dozing off about halfway through the ride and pulled over to sleep in my car for an hour and a half before continuing, finally making it home around 6:30 PM. 

Finishing felt great, but I was still wrapping my head around the fact that I had qualified for Western States.  Among the text messages I received, some people joked asking me if I was going to attempt 100 miles, unaware of my dream to run Western States.  They may have been kidding, but I was serious.  Earning my qualifier at the Canyons 100K, I would definitely be entering the lottery for the 2019 Western States.  It’s rare that entrants get drawn their first time applying, but we would see what happens.  How would I react if I got drawn?  I’d probably be overjoyed and a little terrified, but I would cross that bridge when I got to it.  I knew one thing for sure; I was just getting warmed up!