After the disaster that was Government Canyon last March, I was determined to return to the 50K distance and decided I might as well have some fun with it – and that meant – road trip. My first choice was the Big Horn in northern Wyoming – the proximity to the battlefield and mountains being the attraction. Of course, then I heard something about “the world’s toughest 50K” – and that was that. Old Gabe, the former Jim Bridger, had made the summer’s agenda.

I had arranged for an early flight and touched down in Bozeman, Montana before noon on Friday, the 23rd, leaving an afternoon to steal a look at the trail. The flight was uneventful – but what’s the deal with all of these “regional” jets? Smaller plane, less room, same cost. “Welcome to Boze-Angeles!” was the greeting from the rent car shuttle driver, referring to the influx from California into the one-time cowboy town. From the airport (where you are greeted by a statue of a grizzly bear) I ventured to Wal-mart to stock on provisions – and from there it was off to the trailhead. (Many thanks to Miranda for relaying the directions to me as I hurried through the Denver terminal making my connection).

I found my way to the base of the Bridger Range and a trailhead known as Middle Cottonwood in the Gallatin National Forest. I grabbed the camera and started to hike inward – taking special note of the “No Overnight Camping” signs. I had heard a rumor that Sisson had camped inside the forest before the 2005 race – and then wondered if the two were connected. The trail itself was simple enough – packed dirt with your occasional mounds of rock. It reminded me a lot of the Austin Greenbelt. Only, it wasn’t Austin – there were evergreens and a mountain creek – and I quickly became surrounded by steep hills. The race itself is a “T”. From the start at Middle Cottonwood, you have a mile and a half of trail that crosses and recrosses the creek several times. You immediately start climbing – but at a low grade. At the T-intersection, you turn left, and begin an “in-n-out” to Truman Gultch – the eight mile mark. During the race, you return to the start, turn around, and go back to the intersection. But this time, you turn right and begin an “in-n-out” to Sypes Canyon – the twenty-four mile mark. I went as far as the intersection on my hike, then turned back toward the car. I had not realized how much I had climbed. Although not steep, from the intersection back to the “parking lot” was a pleasant downhill trot. Of more concern was the heat. It was in the high 80’s and Steve had said the southern loop (the second in-n-out) was really exposed. I made a mental note about dehydration.

Dinner was at an Italian place with a Navy friend that I had bumped into at the airport. Talk about small world. I had not seen Kurt since Qatar and we were both shocked to see one another so out of context. He and his fiancée were kind enough to treat me to a great meal. They both kept trying to get me to taste all kinds of things – but my runner’s instinct kicked in – don’t fuck with the digestive system on a race day eve! I called it an early evening and headed toward my quarters at the Best Value Inn. It was neither the best… nor a value.

We had the opportunity to pack three drop bags. I took full advantage of it and divided out my provisions evenly between the bags. Each had a complete change of clothes (with the Middle Cottonwood bag having Hardrock #4 in reserve), baggies of Heed and Perpetuem, Hammer Gel, Shot Bloks, wipes, a replacer baggie with electrolyte pills, a bagel, Goldfish. Expected weather was the full range and I knew it would be cooler as we climbed. I separated out the race day clothing – Texas shorts, my Big Bend technical, my Rogue hat, a USA bandana, my lucky REI socks and Hardrock pair #5. My Bandera 50K long sleeve got the nod for being tied at the waist. My fanny pack had my Sony camera (in its disaster case), Shot Bloks, my Hammer Gel bottle with 4 servings of Caffeine, Hot Tamales, a baggie of Perpetuem, Electrolyte pills. I carried two water bottles. Yeah… a hell of a lot of stuff – maybe too much – but I was expecting to be out 11 hours… sleep was restless and the 2 alarms and a wake up call were a bit much.

Race morning was a bagel and a banana. I dressed, threw the bags in the trunk, and drove the 15 minutes to the trail head, arriving about 45 minutes before start. I picked up my packet and went back to the car to pin up.

“They’ll just let any body sign up for this race!” It was a familiar voice. There stood Alan in his Texas shorts. For the rest of the day we were “those guys from Texas.” I was glad he was there – it is always good to see a familiar face – especially when dealing with so many unknowns.

“When did you sign up?” I boldly asked.
“Thursday,” came his reply.
“Bet ya got a great deal on the plane fare!”

More small talk, the usual pre-start bullshit.

And then we were off. 6:00AM, 24-Jun-2006 - Old Gabe was underway. The weather was beautiful. A light wind, low 50’s. I remembered my hike and how much of the first was a deceitful climb. I didn’t push. I let people by. I motored. It was a great morning – and then I remembered –  mile into the damn thing – I hadn’t taken my blood pressure medicine. Damn it! The mind games began early – I accused myself of sabotage. WTF! The chemistry I had just started getting used to was not going to be the chemistry I was running with on that day. I realized immediately that as the day wore on – the potential for a different “feel” – a different “redline” would increase in probability. The boundaries I had spent weeks in trying to figure out were now questionable. Or, so I thought. And so the mind games began early. I knew I had to just stop trying to think it out. As if the terrain was not challenge enough, I now had to try and block out that fucking inner voice that whispers failure with every footfall. It was too early in the run for that kind of crap.

My race plan was plain and simple. Respect the climbs. Use forced exhales. Find a mantra. Budget my energy. Run the flats and the downs. Budget my energy. Let the 25K runners go. Try not to compare and contrast. Ignore all stereotypes. This was their turf. Watch and learn something. Budget the energy.

The crowd left me in a hurry. Aughh… the excitement of a race… in the beginning, before the pain begins. The voices. The laughter. The pitter patter of a hundred little feet. It all soon faded. I welcomed the solitude – the quiet – the trail. We danced in and around splotches of golden beams broke the shadows of towering trees – their branches back lit by the rising eastern sun. The creek dominated the sounds of the morning – its chilly waters in such a hurry – spilling and splashing on its way to some critical future appointment.

And there I was. In the Gallatin National Forest. A forest named for the Secretary of the Treasury for Jefferson and Madison – Albert Gallatin. His claim to fame was finding the $15million that the youthful US of A scrapped together to pay for the Louisiana Purchase. And now I was running on the very land that the Lewis and Clark expeditions had crossed so many years ago. The land. The passion. The story. Its story. Their story. My story. They all collided. This was the western edge for the Sioux, the home of the Crow and the Blackfoot, the eastern edge for the Nez Perce. Crazy Horse had fought Yellow Hair some hundred miles to the east… Chief Joseph had lead his people and finally swore “to fight no more forever” just a few hundred miles to the north. And both had known the nearby peaks and valleys. And the mountains had seen us all – and would see a million more. How much laughter, how many tears?

And then we hit the switchbacks. Steve had told me to pay attention to the climbs, because I would have to run down them on the return. He told me to pay attention to the downs, because I would have to run up them on the return. And I did. They, the switchbacks, are like the “W”s on Pikes’ Peak – in that they are switchbacks. And yet, they are nothing like them. They were steeper – or maybe not. Maybe it is just the switchback that you are on at any given moment that is the steepest. They were narrower. They were wilder. Or maybe not. One thing was reality – there is no well placed fencing to serve as failsafe. I made mental notes. I would eventually have to come down.

Rhythm. I tried. I tried to set a cadence. By the time we were three miles in, the altitude was building. My breathing got heavier. Sure, everything on the run is between 5K and 9K, but isn’t like the O2 is perfect all the way to 10K. No, it’s a gradual thing. It sneaks up on you all clever like. At first, you don’t notice – and then WHAM – it becomes quite conscious. You’re gasping. The air wasn’t getting thinner – it already was. I forced the exhale and tried to find a mantra that would last throughout it and the resulting inhale. I thought to myself, “Live this moment. Live this moment.” Clean, positive. I built a cadence. But there was always one more switchback, or worse, when the trail required a frontal assault and you would see the next marker – only it would require more vertical climb then horizontal distance. My mood soured. “Screw the moment. Screw the moment.”

Familiar feelings. I found myself having to force drinks and swallowing electrolytes was a chore. The heavy breathing. We had to be nearing the top, but you’d round a corner, and another climb would be waiting. Where was the kid? A high schooler had been sent up with a backpack filled with water jugs. Hmmm. Carrying a couple of gallons up to the Overlook before the Belt had just about done me in. My calves and Achilles were talking smack – bitching at the quads for being so useless for the job at hand.

We leveled out and there he was. He filled one of my hand helds with water and said some encouraging words. I forced down some Shot Bloks and a swig of Hammer Gel. I craved the caffeine. Breakfast had been a long time ago – its calories sacrificed a few thousand feet below. I thanked him and took a moment to enjoy the view. We were still about 200 feet below the ridge line of the Bridger Range, but the view was spectacular.

Food, water. It’s all good. I picked up a little speed, following a runner along the relative flat. Mistake. Follow the trail, not another runner. I was suddenly in the middle of some low brush and saw the trail some two hundred feet down below. Backtrack or bushwhack? Yep, bushwhack. I pushed, trying desperately to stay on my feet, and trying more desperately to avoid a face plant. I went down. I got back up. Made it a little bit farther, then went down again, this time one of my hand helds spewed its contents, and I flipped like a ragdoll… winding up on my ass for the slide down. I stopped – a foot from the trail – stood up – brushed myself off and pushed. Ten feet later the trail turned down some more. It was worse then my bushwhacking. The grade was so steep. Another controlled fall. I didn’t know my legs could turn that fast in their valiant effort to keep feet underneath my center of gravity.

I only thought I had done some downhill running. The Greenbelt. Bandera. What they describe in the race literature as running, I describe as chaos. Of course, then Steve’s words came back to me, “what you run down, you’re going to have to run up!” Great.

Then came the friendly meadow. Or so it seemed. It seemed like something out of the Sound of Music – but without Julie Andrews or the Von Clapp kids. Lots of pretty wildflowers. I’m sure it is the kind of place where Bambi and Flower and Thumper are played in as children. It really was quite pretty… nothing to interrupt it but a narrow, single track trail. I hate them. Single track trails. If they have any depth to them, they kill me. I run like a duck. My toes point out about 45 degrees from the direction I am traveling. Single track trails become the canyons from Star Wars – you remember the ones – Luke has to fly his X-Wing down the middle of it on the Death Star – very perilous. For me I have to rotate the foot inward so I can just fit my feet inside of the trail. Completely unnatural for me – and causing some torque in some weird places. Stupid meadow.

Fortunately, that was over pretty soon – and we were back in the trees and continuing down – at a much tamer slope. And down means a couple of really good things – thick air – and your quads have to start playing. One thing I did notice on those steeper grades (when I was not falling) was that there is no way to avoid the knees and the quads taking the full burden of the descent.

By this time, the leaders had made the turn and were starting to come back down the trail. It was time to practice trail etiquette. The usual “good job” exchanges were held – along with a few, “way to go, Texas!” comments.

At the 2 hrs and 42 min mark I made it into the 8 mile aide station at the end of the northern track. I was a couple of minutes behind Alan (I had passed him while he was screwing with his backpack – and pulling out a hamburger!), but he caught up. I found my drop back and pulled out more electrolytes and mixed up some Perpetuem. Cheers, Marty! The aide workers were awesome and many knew Joe. I knew I could not stay long – I had to get out of there. I only had 3 hrs and 15 minutes to get back to the start line for the next cutoff. It was time to climb again – and I headed out. But before, there was business to take care of… I always enjoy leaving a little DNA on the trail… so I found a spot and did my thing – but my stomach felt like a lead box. No time for that. I pushed.

I love how when your legs get a little tired – climbs always seem to feel higher then they probably are. The grade seemed to have steepened a lot on the way back. Things were uneventful until I reached the friendly meadow. It still was not very friendly. This time I had to not only turn the toes inward to make my feet fit in the trail walls of the Star Wars canyon… but we were climbing as well. The combination made for a pleasant time. And then… I spotted Alan’s head. He was the distance of the meadow away. A new goal – catch him on the climb out.

That idea lasted all the way to the first really steep climb (remember those steep descents?). And these things lasted forever. I have no idea how I made it up some of those ascents. You would climb and slip, climb and slip. And it got really interesting when you would reach a place that recently had snow. The ground would be soggy, spongy, or muddy. All of the above eating up precious energy that you really need to have translated into vertical movement. Oh… and the breathing got really treacherous again. I tried to get my mantra back on track. “Screw the moment… oh, gheese… fuck the moment.” Step. Step. Slide. Step. Step. Slide. Slide. Sigh. (The next flag always seemed to be only about 20 feet in the horizontal, but a 100 feet in the vertical).

Then I discovered a trick. My duck feet actually have a bit of value. They give me more surface area in contact with the hill – more surface area means more push. I also moved about six inches off the trail – where the tiny bits of brush were growing. More traction. Of course, the environmentalist in me screamed. “You’re eroding the trail!” And then the runner took over, “You’ve got to get up this damn thing!” In short, I think I really got to work with Steve on, gulp, bio-mechanics. I have none. I am not sure if we start from scratch… or make the best of my ususal, sleek style.

Somehow, I made it back to the water boy – just as Alan was leaving the point. I told him “Hoka hey”. Water never tasted so good. The day was getting warm. Even on topside. I knew I had to get moving. Nothing but downhill to the 16 mile mark and the next aide station (which was the turnaround at Middle Cottonwood). I set off. It was good to get back on the quads. Soon I was back at the switchbacks. Again, they were narrow. I played them too cautiously – paying way too much attention to what was beyond them. A misstep on these and you could have problems. But that fear was the nail in the coffin. It was the time for speed and I didn’t have much time left. By the time I relaxed I still had too much ground to cover and not enough minutes in the budget. I hit the T-intersection. It was the first time I had checked my watch since the waterstop. It was a little after six hours and I had a mile and a half to go. I had missed cutoff.

That was disappointing. A lot of hard work had gone into getting where I was… I took a minute at the next creek crossing to let my legs soak. The numbing effect was wonderful and it boosted my spirits. I was still in Montana. I could still feel the wonder and the history of the place. It was still a beautiful day. I had met some incredible people. That got me to the turnaround. I am one lucky son of a bitch.

“Congratulations on your 25K.” Hmmm. The race director’s subtle hint that I wasn’t going back out. I was handed a cold bottle of water. It never tasted so good.

Alan and I drove out to pick up our remaining drop bag… then grabbed a sandwich in town at the Subway. I dropped him at his rent car. We went to the post race party party. A good time was had by all. And that was that.

The plane ride out of Bozeman really struck me with philosophics. As we climbed out of the valley – the Tetons on the right, the Bridger Ridge to the left, and the Rockies on our nose – as we climbed and gained that altitude, I realized how fortunate I am to have been able to have had a weekend like that – in that place - pursuing a test of self discovery. What a luxury. What a gift. And, you know, it also struck me, again, with all of those mountains passing below… just how many other trails that remain out there – just waiting to be explored. I guess we best get started…