Climbing Rainier

I enjoy mountains, and especially 14ers. So far, I’ve managed to get my sorry tail up on top of a dozen 14ers in Colorado and California… but none of those were on snow and ice. So when my wife and I were planning an extended family trip in July starting in Colorado, going through Yellowstone, and ending in Seattle, she suggested, "You know, the kids and I could fly home on some cheap Southwest tix, and you could take some time to hike and drive the car home." For some that might seem like I was getting the short end of the stick, but for me, my eyes lit up at the idea... and it was her suggestion. :-)

Of course, the first thought on my mind was Rainier. We had been to Seattle before and seen that massive white giant in the distance. I started surfing the internet for plane tix and guide services. Even though I’ve done a good bit of hiking, I knew enough to know I couldn’t go up the snow and ice of Rainier alone. It turned out that RMI guide services in the town of Ashford at the southwest corner of Rainier had one opening left for a guided climb of Rainier at just the right time when our Seattle trip would be ending. So I bit the bullet and committed. At first, the cost seemed a bit pricey, but I knew I had no other way up the mountain and I had no idea when I’d ever be back in the Rainier area by myself to attempt this. And now in hindsight, I know that the guided services of RMI were worth every penny. They are consummate professionals with thorough training and excellent knowledge of the mountain and its challenges.

So on Thursday, July 23, after having a blast with my wife and kids for three full days in Seattle, they flew home and I found myself alone in the great Northwest and driving towards this intimidating white giant in the distance, unsure what the next several days held in store. That night, I found a great campsite at Big Creek campground between Ashford and the southwest entrance to Mount Rainier National Park. This would be home for the next three nights until the climb began.

Friday morning, I drove up into the park and toured the Paradise Visitor Center, got the kids’ National Park passport books stamped, photographed some wildlife (black-tail deer and marmots), and soaked up some of the natural wonders (waterfalls, creeks, and old-growth forests). That afternoon in Ashford, orientation began at the RMI base. I picked up my rental boots… big, heavy, hard-shell, cold-weather waffle-stompers and an avalanche transceiver... yikes!

At 3:00pm, our group started gathering. There would be nine of us climbers and three guides. Joel would be our main guide. He’s a laid-back, mid-20s guy who pretty much spends most of his time year-round climbing and guiding. He’s kinda quiet and didn’t talk much about his credentials, but I did learn he’s been on such peaks as Denali, Aconcagua (high point of South America), and Rainier (63 times!) among many, many others.

We went over our schedule and route, and Joel did a gear and equipment check with all of us. This step was important since one person’s inadequate equipment could jeopardize the success of the trip for all of us. Since this was my first ice and snow climb, I was using mostly borrowed (thanks, Dan!), new, or rented equipment. I also was unfamiliar with the weather extremes we could face on such a northern, massive, stand-alone peak like Rainier. The mountain literally creates its own weather patterns since it stands so close to the on-shore flow of Pacific moisture.

I discovered during the orientation that my outer coat and gloves were not sufficient for the extremes of Rainier, so I had to rent some from RMI. Three days later on the summit, I was very glad for that decision. It’s not uncommon to encounter 70-80 mph winds and air temps below zero on the summit, even in July. And even though the forecast for our summit day looked good with warm air and calm winds, that can change in an instant in the Cascades and you have to be prepared.

Saturday dawned and we all gathered again in Ashford to head up to the Muir snowfield for climbing school. Basically, we spent about six hours learning how to use crampons and ice axes, how to perform a self-arrest in case of a fall, and how to climb roped up. The self-arrest session was pretty intense. The guides taught us how to hold our ice axes and what to do if we fell feet first or head first, on our front or on our backs, and whether the ice axe was in our left or right hands. We practiced these techniques over and over because this could be critical on such a climb. None of us looked very graceful as we threw ourselves all over the slopes to practice stopping our falls. That night when I talked to Mary Ann, she asked how my day went and I remarked, “Well, I only fell 20 or 30 times.” :-)

Sunday dawned and we gathered again in Ashford for the bus ride up to Paradise (5,400’) to begin our climb. Hands down, I won the award for the largest pack because I decided to wear running shoes for the first couple of miles on trails and packed my big heavy boots in my pack for the snow. But my pack was also stuffed with food, water, sleeping bag, climbing gear (harness, helmet, crampons, ice axe, trekking poles, headlamp, etc.), and layers of clothes, coats, and gloves. I carried absolutely nothing extra and still my pack was bulky and quite weighty. Fortunately, on summit day, most of the gear and clothes we’d be wearing and we could leave other items at Camp Muir for our return.

With full packs, we made slow but steady progress on the lower trails up to Pebble Creek. Our clothes, gear, and packs stood out noticeably from the day-hikers ambling about in that part of the park. The mountain loomed ominously above us and we all marched single-file rather quietly as we wondered what the next two days would hold. Several times on the initial ascent on this cloudless day, we heard thunder in the distance... but it wasn’t thunder. It was the loud rumble of rock and ice falling from the steep glaciated slopes as the ice melted in the afternoon heat. It was a rather somber sight to see the dust and mist in the distance from those unpredictable crashes.

At Pebble Creek, we all changed into our boots. The rest of our day would be making the slow upward ascent across the Muir snowfield. The sun was so intense that I wanted to rename it Muir Beach. :-) I hiked in shorts and still was dripping wet with sweat. Dark sunglasses were mandatory since you could quickly sunburn your retinas from the reflection off the snow. I was lathered in sunscreen and wore a bandana under my baseball hat to cover my neck.

Our three guides were very punctual about everything we did. We would hike for an hour and then break for 15 minutes. Efficiency was the name of the game. At each break, they instructed us to grab food and water, make any clothing adjustments and then sit on our packs (straps up out of the snow) to rest. They would give us a three-minute warning at the end and we would all start up together again. They knew if we were inefficient at these transitions, it would only prolong the climb unnecessarily for everyone.

As we spent four days together, the eight of us got to know each other quite well. We ended up losing one hiker at the first rest stop who was not feeling well. We all felt bad for him because he was more than capable of completing the climb (and had done so previously), except for whatever bug that was ailing him. Of course, a challenge like Rainier brings together a fascinating cadre of people. One guy was an F-15 pilot in the Air Force (every guy’s dream job). Two others were a father and daughter (a senior in HS) from Georgia who had literally traveled the world and done other exciting climbs like Kilimanjaro. Two others were a couple who were computer programmers from Ohio who had hiked with Joel previously. We razzed them all weekend because they had said they really weren’t outdoorsy people... and here they were climbing Rainier of all things. :-) Another lady worked for the Dept of Energy in DC. Another worked in a jewelry store in Florida, and for cross-training she liked to box. I was sure not to mess with her... she could beat me up. And one of our guides was a med student in Boston who was taking a semester off to guide and get married (to another guide).

Around three in the afternoon, we arrived at the primitive settlement known as Camp Muir. It’s a collection of small, odd-shaped buildings perched on the rocks above the Muir snowfield at 10,000’. Half of one building was a bunk house solely used by RMI. We all went inside and grabbed bunks. We felt spoiled because we were the only group using the bunkhouse that night so we got to double-up on mattress pads and had extra space to spread out our gear.

Around four o’clock, the guides came in and provided us all the hot water we wanted for our freeze-dried meals. They also gave us specific instructions for the night and the climb the next day. “Lights out” was six o’clock sharp. Even if you couldn’t sleep at that time, you were expected to be horizontal in your bunk resting. Any conversations were to be done outside or at a whisper. All our packing for the climb was to be completed before going to bed. When they woke us up in the middle of the night, we’d have exactly one hour to eat breakfast and finish getting ready. At 6:00pm, I made one last visit to the solar latrine and I hit my bunk with my ski cap pulled over my eyes since it wouldn’t get dark for another four hours. Even with ear plugs, I could still hear the wind outside howling.

I was surprised that I managed to get a decent amount of sleep. Probably within an hour I was asleep. But suddenly, my sleep was interrupted by the sound of the guides waking us up. It felt like I had only slept a few minutes. I looked at my watch, 11:38pm... Geez, it’s not even midnight yet... I doubt Mary Ann back in Riverside is even in bed! (And she wasn’t when I mentioned this to her later.)

I hopped out of bed. I threw on some warmer clothes and headed for the solar latrine. (I didn’t want to have to wait in a line at this time of the night.) The last thing I wanted to have to do was to use the infamous “blue bag” on the mountain later in the climb. :-) (You have to pack out everything that you bring to the mountain... and I mean everything.) When I stepped outside the bunkhouse, I was amazed by the sight. There was no wind and the sky was pitch dark. There was no moon and few lights in camp and so we were engulfed in utter blackness. I also was amazed that the temperatures did not feel unreasonably cold. Our guides warned us not to overdress. If we were cold standing outside, we were dressed just right because we’d heat up as we made the strenuous climb.

After eating a PB & honey sandwich for breakfast and donning my harness, helmet, boots, and crampons, I was outside and eager to go. We were roped up into three teams of 4, 4, and 3 each. On my rope, Joel was the leader and I was the anchor. In between us were the husband and wife from Ohio. Our rope team headed out first across the snowscape.

Since we were trekking by the light of our headlamps and had to be careful with our steps in these clumsy boots and crampons, we didn’t get to see much of our surroundings. Every now and then we stepped across a crack in the ice and snow which was a subtle reminder that sometimes underneath were deep unseen crevasses. Up ahead in the distance, we saw a few strings of lights created by the headlamps of other climbers ascending the trail ahead of us.

After about an hour, we all stopped for our first break at the Ingraham Flats. What’s kind of funny is that due to the darkness at this time we didn’t even know that there were dozens of tents within a few yards of us. At the break, we were instructed to immediately put on our heavy down jacket to keep our body heat from escaping. And also we needed to make sure we ate well and drank water, even though at higher elevations our bodies craved less and less food.

Our climb to the top would involve four stages, the fourth stop being on the mountain summit itself. In the second stage, we progressed up the tedious Disappointment Cleaver. Since it was now the middle of the summer, the rock was completely exposed with no snow or ice covering it. At this point, we “short-roped” so that the gap between climbers was now only ~5 feet. “The Cleaver,” as it’s called, was a steep and difficult climb. Walking in heavy boots with crampons on uneven and unstable rock is not exactly easy. At times, we were climbing with all fours as our ice-axes clanked against the rock. But eventually, we had ascended the Cleaver and took a break.

After the Cleaver, our guides extended our ropes back out to normal gaps of ~25’. At such lengths, if someone was to fall or break through, we’d have sufficient rope and space to do a team self-arrest. We were about to be traversing through some treacherous areas. Above us hung unstable rock that could break loose without warning and below us were unseen crevasses... although some of these dangers were reduced by climbing in the coldness of the night when the ice was at its strongest. Climbing at night is foremost an effort in safety, not merely serenity.

Our guides reminded us that we would make swift and steady progress across this stretch. We wouldn’t be slowing down for much of anything. None of us were allowed to whip out a camera. We were climbers first and photographers second. The last thing any of us would want is to need to self arrest while a teammate was holding a camera instead of an ice axe. Your ice axe really is your best friend on a climb like this. You always have to have a solid and uphill grasp of this instrument, just in case.

As we crossed this stretch, we could now begin to see some of the gaping crevasses that were in our vicinity. At times, the trail became quite narrow and we had to carefully step over our own boots and grasp fixed ropes to prevent falling. As we progressed through the darkness, we all wondered just how much exposure was below us that we couldn’t see in the darkness. We’d certainly find out later on the descent.

After our second break, a few of us overheard the guides talking quietly among themselves about some big crack in the ice ahead. Sure ‘nough, we had hardly started and Joel had us reverse rope and we were backing out. We didn’t get to see what we were avoiding, but later on the descent we saw the aluminum ladder roped across a massive crack that we would have had to cross in cumbersome boots and crampons. Instead, Joel had us retreat and led us higher up the ice and away from the upper edge of the crack.

About the time of our third break, we began to see the orange glow of the sunrise on the eastern horizon. We were all grateful that we weren’t facing strong winds or bitter cold, or “nuking” weather as the guides called it. One by one we turned off our headlamps as we ascended in the growing light.

The last stage seemed to be the unending climb up the steep snow bank. There were switchbacks on the trail, but they didn’t reduce the steepness much. Instead the trail looked like a large “Z” stretched and distorted as if by a circus mirror. At times, our guides reminded us to “rest step” (where you pause after each step in the thin air of higher elevation) and to make solid footplants. We were supposed to either splay our feet in a V or to use the French cross-over step to maximize crampon contact with the ice. I found the cross-over step to be the most comfortable in the heavy hiking boots.

Sooner than I expected, Joel mentioned that the rocks up ahead were the lower edge of the crater rim. Joel is no jokester so I knew we would be topping out within 15-20 minutes. It was an amazing moment at 6:31am as we climbed over the rim and had the relief of walking downhill into the crater. About 100 yards further, we all circled the wagons in the shelter of the crater and sat on our packs. It was an odd feeling to know we were sitting in the caldera of a dormant volcano. Sure ‘nough, on the north edge of the crater we could see steam rising from a few of the active fumaroles.

Since we had summitted, but technically weren’t at the mountain’s tippy top, Joel asked if anyone wanted to take about 45 minutes to go across the crater and up to Columbia Crest, the official highpoint at 14,411’ (the fifth highest peak in the lower 48). Not doing that never crossed my mind. I wasn’t about to stop anywhere short of the actual peak. So Joel, Patrick (another of our guides), myself and one other headed off across the crater. It sure seemed a whole lot easier without a pack. :-)

At the crest, we could now see in every direction. Joel pointed out Mts. Saint Helens and Adams to the south, Mount Baker to the north, and the Puget Sound to the northwest. We took summit pictures and enjoyed the views. On the way up, Patrick had mentioned the summit challenge among the guides... doing your age in push-ups on the peak. Sure ‘nough, Patrick hit the dirt and started doing push-ups. It sure didn’t seem like he did that many… and he didn’t have to since he’s in his 20s. :-) I thought, Geez, I hate to not at least try, but I doubt I could do my age at sea-level yet alone at 14,000’ where the air pressure is only 56%. So I hit the ground and started doing them… but I could only do 36... five short... oh well, at least I tried. Even though I did more than Patrick, I have no doubt he could have done far more than 36. Dude is a serious rock climber with some solid upper-body strength. And because of my unsuccessful attempt, I can honestly say that on the day after the climb my only muscles that were sore were my pecs, not my legs.

We then headed over to the summit register and logged our names and headed back across the crater. The four of us didn’t end up with much of a rest break on top, but that was okay. It’s not every day you’re on top of Rainier, and in such perfect weather (calm winds, high 20s, and clear skies)... might as well enjoy it.

So after spending an hour on top, we roped up and began the second half of our trek. Summitting is only halfway. :-) The guides surprised me by telling us that we would now reverse rope. The anchors would now be the leaders and the guides would be in the back. I didn’t know we’d do that... and that now meant that I would be the lead on the front rope team.

Joel liked to run a punctual expedition and didn’t like to waste time, so he instructed me, “Go as fast as you want.” I hadn’t mentioned much about my long-distance running to my fellow climbers (it really didn’t matter since we worked as a team, not as individuals), and so I thought, Wow, most people who know me wouldn’t tell me that if they were roped up to me on an icy slope. :-)

And so off we went, me in the front, Joel in the back, and the couple from Ohio in between. I picked up the pace a good bit as we tromped downhill on the snowy trail. I knew Joel would enjoy the quick descent, and I figured my friends from Ohio would tug on the rope if they needed to slow down. So we came flying down the mountain and into our first rest stop. I didn’t realize how far ahead of the other teams we had gotten, but we ended up having to wait ~20 minutes for their arrival at the top of the Cleaver. That gave us an extra long break which no one minded. My friends from Ohio enjoyed razzing me about how fast we were descending, but they also didn’t complain.

Our descent now slowed as we encountered the tedious task of descending the Cleaver. I honestly think climbing up those rocks in crampons is much easier then climbing down them. We short-roped and I was leading the descent. It was quite tricky and at times difficult to determine the true trail. The guide services had placed wands with red flags to help outline the route... something that becomes even more important in a white-out. But we had the benefit of sunlight and clear skies to help us find our route. As my rope team waited at the bottom of the Cleaver for the others, unfortunately we saw one of our friends trip and tumble. He didn’t stumble far but he did end up twisting his ankle pretty good. Not a good thing. A minor injury on a climb is almost worse than a major injury. If you break your leg, you’ll get rescued from the mountain, but if you twist an ankle... well, you just gotta suck it up and suffer with it the rest of the way.

Below the cleaver, we now traversed the upper glaciers and snowfields that we had crossed earlier in the dark. Now we could see the gaping crevasses through which the trail zigged and zagged. At one crack in the trail, Joel had instructed us to make a long stride across but not to jump. We knew what he was thinking, simply the extra pressure from landing a jump could easily break the tenuous ice bridge upon which we were walking.

Even on the gentle snowfields without crevasses, the sight was a little unnerving. We often came across large boulders strewn across the snow. You could look at those and realize those had come down rather recently, and only from one place... the rocky ledges above… like bowling for climbers. Our guide Kate later mentioned that on one of her first ascents, she was climbing through some thick clouds and heard the sound of fast-moving rocks but she couldn’t see anything. Then suddenly, a huge boulder whizzed right in front of her on the trail. There’s good reason why we didn’t delay when crossing these areas and we only stopped to take photos in the “safe zones.”

We made it back to Camp Muir safely and now had an hour to take off our climbing gear, pack up all our stuff and get some rest. An hour hardly seemed long enough to eat, pack, and rest but none of us complained. The sun was intense and the temperatures were rising quickly on the lower slopes. None of us wanted to delay our return to Paradise.

About 1:00pm we met to begin our slipping and sliding down the slushy snow of “Muir Beach.” Our guides had taught us to slide step to save energy and speed our descent. This became quite a balancing act with heavy packs on our backs. And yes, I did make at least one good slide that any baseball manager would have admired… but I wasn’t the only one. :-) Unfortunately, the slope wasn’t steep enough for glissading until the very end of the snowfield. Still, we made quick time down the slope.

We took a break at Pebble Creek, and I had a chance to change out of my boots into my trail shoes. And this is where a major mistake on my part became more than apparent. On the warm descent, I hadn’t worn any gaiters as we slid through the snow. So when I took off my boots, I literally poured water out of my boots from all the snow that had gotten in there. My socks were absolutely drenched and I had no other dry ones into which to change. So the last two miles on the trails in my running shoes, I hiked with soaking wet socks and developed some lovely blisters. But at least this was at the end of the climb, not the beginning.

So at 3:00pm, we were arriving at Paradise and dropping our packs, and the name Paradise never seemed more appropriate. Soon the RMI shuttle bus was picking us up and we rode quietly for an hour through the park, most with eyes shut. :-)

And so we had done it. We had climbed Rainier. I can’t say we conquered it, because Rainier is the kind of mountain that you can climb, but you never truly conquer. You gotta respect the mountain. It is such a massive mountain, one of the largest single land masses in the world. It’s so large that when our family drove west to Seattle a week ago, we first spotted it on the horizon 140 miles away on I-90.

I apologize that this recap is so long. But with RMI and this being my first true ice climb, summiting Rainier was more than an experience, it was an education. I really appreciate the good people at RMI for their detailed and professional approach to every aspect of this climb. I also appreciate all my teammates who were such strong climbers and made things go so smoothly. The guides were outstanding and had their A-game on at every moment. They weren’t hesitant to correct us when necessary because the success and well-being of the entire team depended on our compliance to good mountaineering technique. And in hindsight, it’s amazing how well they knew the route, efficient procedures, and precisely the proper clothing advice at every transition for us to avoid getting chilled or over-heated.

Climbing Rainier was a daunting challenge and an amazing experience. I thoroughly enjoyed each member of our group and every moment of our trip. The only downside is that now I find myself daydreaming about my next mountaineering venture. Alpine climbing can become very addicting. :-) Thanks for reading.

Running Leadville

I enjoy running and I enjoy the mountains... and I’m one of those sadistic folks that enjoys running in the mountains... well, I use the term “run” rather loosely. :-) Some of my favorite marathons have been the tough, scenic courses such as Pikes Peak (’03), Crater Lake (’06), Death Valley (’07... the trail marathon... not that Badwater thingie), and Big Bear (’08). So it’s only naturally that sooner or later I would find myself toeing the line in Leadville. It actually was supposed to be sooner (’07), not later (Saturday) since I was registered two years ago... but I DNS’ed due to injuries (overtraining for Boston)... even though that year I was actually in the town of Leadville the day before the marathon (very heart-breaking to say the least).

When I say that I wanted to run Leadville, I need to clarify what I ran... the trail marathon. Even though that might seem daunting enough in and of itself, it’s actually one of the easier races that Leadville hosts (no exaggeration). For those with courageous hearts (or lacking mental sanity), there’s also the famous Leadville 50- and 100-mile races later in the summer. Some marathoners might be disappointed that the Leadville Trail Marathon is not the toughest race in town, no matter how grueling it is... but I actually like it that way. Those crazy ultra runners make me look reasonably sane. And for those who are truly border-line loco, they can run all three of those races and do the Leadville 50- and 100-mile bike races in a single year (5 events... two of which are on the same weekend!) and became a “Leadman” or “Leadwoman.” Suffice it to say, there’s not many of those intrepid souls. But they do end up with their names and all their race times on a nice plaque in the LT100 race store on Harrison Avenue (main street in Leadville).

If you've never been to Leadville, you've missed out on a fascinating place. It’s a small mining town high in the Rockies, in the heart of “14er country.” Well, it’s small now (not even 3,000 in population), but at one time in the 1800s it was the second largest city in Colorado. It has a fascinating history that includes such interesting things as the Ice Palace of 1896 (google it... pretty amazing) and such colorful characters as Doc Holliday, Oscar Wilde, and the Unsinkable Molly Brown. Today, the town is famous for being the highest incorporated city in the country (10,152’)... and thus a summer recreational mecca for cyclists, runners, hikers, climbers, kayakers, and rafters.

What makes the Leadville Trail Marathon (LTM) so tough is not just that it starts (and finishes) at 10,200’, but that’s actually the lowest point on the course. Every step is above 10,000’ ...and the turn-around point halfway is 13,185’ at Mosquito Pass, the second highest open-road mountain pass in the country (only Argentine Pass at 13,207’ is higher, by 22’). Mosquito Pass is a rough, steep 4WD road that connects the mountain towns of Leadville (west) and Fairplay (east).

But what makes LTM even tougher is that it doesn’t just go uphill to the turn-around and back down... that would be too easy. It actually goes up to 12,100’ and then drops down to 11,250’ and then goes up to the turn-around at 13,185’... and yes, that means on the back half of the course (around miles 16-20), the course does the converse by gaining 850’ in elevation. To go uphill that high and that late in a marathon is just pure evil. It makes Heartbreak Hill in Boston seem like a speed bump. Oh, and there’s also a nasty little climb around mile 24 as well. The only other marathon in the country that is arguably as difficult is the Pikes Peak Marathon (which goes higher, but it starts lower and has no uphills on the back half). So the total elevation gain for LTM is ~5300’ (all of which is above 10,000’).

My training for Leadville

Unfortunately, my training for this race was limited since I’ve been battling plantar fasciitis (inflammation of the tendon in the arch of the foot) much of the winter and spring. As late as June, I had pretty much written off attempting Leadville this year. But in the five weeks prior to marathon day, I managed to run three 20-milers and decided to go for it in Leadville on limited training. I even contacted the race director to see if I could back out of the full and only run the half marathon instead if my foot didn’t cooperate. But I really didn’t want to run the half. I wanted the whole experience.

Even though I was attempting Leadville on limited training, working in my favor was acclimatizing. For the twelve days leading up to the race, I was camping and hiking with my son at high elevations and staying with my in-laws (~9,500’) near Fraser, CO. So for nearly two weeks, I was never below 7,000’ (in such places as Flagstaff, Taos, Great Sand Dunes Natl Pk, and Leadville) and hiked with my son to such heights as 12,633’ (Humphreys Peak in AZ), 13,161’ (Wheeler Peak in NM), 14,036’ (Mt Sherman in CO) and 14,433’ (Mt Elbert in CO). Even though you can never completely “normalize” to such high altitudes, it does help... and I know I would have been considerably slower (not that I was blazing fast) if I hadn’t done this. To put it in perspective, the air pressure at 10,000’ is only 66% of that at sea level and at 13,000’ it’s only 59%... ergo, not much oxygen to suck to keep the body going. Geez, at these elevation, I get winded watching TV.

Me in Leadville

So on Friday, I drove over to Leadville to get my race stuff, camp and be ready for the race at 8:00am sharp on Saturday morning. At the LT100 store on Harrison Avenue, it was really cool to see printouts hanging in the windows with all the Leadville race results from last year. For example, the LT100 bike race was posted that listed Lance Armstrong second (to winner Dave Wiens) in 2008. It gave me goose bumps to know that if I managed to finish this marathon, my name would be listed in the store window for twelve months.

To get just a tad more acclimatization, I decided to camp way up the Iowa Gulch road near the trailhead to Mt Sherman, which my son and I had hiked just last week. I was able to grab the same campsite we had used... right at treeline (~11,500’).

I then drove back down to town to make one last check of weather reports. Things looked great. Zero chance of rain in the morning and the typical (for Colorado in summer) chance of rain in the afternoon. I used the wifi at the Provin’ Grounds Coffee Shop on Harrison Ave... btw, great, great coffee shop... one of my favorites.

As I was drinking my hot chocolate (I was avoiding caffeine to ensure good sleep that night), I happened to hear the barrister mention he was running the marathon the next day. We talked a little bit about the race. He had a wry little smile on his face as we talked. But what I didn’t realize until the next day was that it was none other than Anton Krupicka, the famous trail runner. I didn’t realize he lived in Leadville (although I’m not surprised) and worked in the coffee shop, and I didn’t recognize him with a shirt on (the articles I’d seen about him always showed him running shirtless... and he did so on Saturday). He’s won some of the toughest trail races to be found (such as the LT100 and the Rocky Raccoon 100), and this very marathon in 2006. Surprisingly, Anton didn’t win on Saturday. He ran 3:40 (which is crazy fast on this course) but got beat by some guy who ran 3:32 (which is off-the-charts fast).

Race Day

I broke camp, ate a PB & honey sandwich, drank some flat coke (sugar, caffeine, and no fizz), and parked near the starting line. Fortunately, I parked near a very helpful guy who had run this race before. We talked for 30-45 minutes and he gave me some great advice about such things as what to wear and what to take. I got a chance to thank him later on the course, otherwise I might have been overdressed and dehydrated. He recommended taking a hand-held water bottle (and I did) because the seven aid stations weren’t enough to keep you hydrated for this long race.

Being a trail race, there’s no mile markers on the course. Instead there are aid stations about every 3 miles. Going into the race I didn’t mention to anyone my goal time (mainly because I really wasn’t sure if this goal was remotely possible for me), but I was hoping to run sub-5 (even if it was 4:59:59). That seemed like a Herculean challenge on a course like this and I wasn’t even sure if I could get within 30 or 45 minutes of such a goal. So Friday night, I perused past race results and looked at the aid-station time splits for runners who had run 5:00 (see below). This would give me a good estimate how I was doing while out there on the course.

It’s hard to describe this brutal course unless you see it for yourself. The race goes up East Sixth Street directly into the bright morning sun. Less than a mile into the race, the pavement ends and you’re now running (or power-hiking) on old dirt mining roads. At times, the roads are very rocky and very poor for footing. The course also follows some single-track trails (especially around Ball Mtn). Some of the route is exceptionally steep... so steep that when descending it’s hard to keep running because you’re having to brake your fall so much. You know it's a steep race when you see runners at the start line carrying trekking poles (no kidding, including one runner who finished ahead of me).

The route was well marked with pink tape tied to rocks, branches, and other landmarks to keep us on course since there were so many junctions. I still saw some runners who had to backtrack nearly a half mile because they had ventured off course accidentally. Ouch! Eventually, the last 3.3 miles to the turn-around is the steep climb up a gnarly road with switchbacks to the top of Mosquito Pass. I must admit it was disheartening when I rounded a bend for the first time and saw those steep switchbacks across the treeless tundra way in the distance.

My race

For me to complete this race in a minimal amount of pain, I knew it was absolutely imperative to not burn myself out on the first half of the course. If I overdid it, I actually risked not finishing the race at all... and to me, that would be worse than not even starting. Since it’s hard enough to run on flat ground at such altitudes, I knew I had to be very careful going uphill. That’s when you can spike your heart rate and eventually bonk miserably.

As the race started, I slowly jogged (but still this was exhausting at high elevation) up Sixth Street and on uphill on the dirt roads. I was proceeding very cautiously and slowly, careful to monitor my HR and breathing. When the race hit some of the first steeper hills, I started walking... probably only 2 miles into the race. A few of us joked that we had never walked so early in a marathon before (well, actually I had at Pikes Peak... but for similar reasons). In fact, as the race proceeded I ended up walking (or power-hiking with long strides) up almost all the uphills. Other than the opening couple of miles, I doubt I “ran” more than a half mile of the uphills. It was just too exhausting. But when the course flattened out or briefly went downhill, I picked up the pace and started running again. And FWIW, I talked to several runners afterwards who finished well ahead of me and they took the same conservative strategy of hiking almost all the uphills.

I must admit I doubted this strategy some in the opening ten miles because I seemed to be getting passed by a lot of people. But I’ve been in enough marathons to know that it’s less important how many pass you in the first half, it’s more important how many you pass in the second half. So I stuck with my strategy. But 11 miles into the race (while we were doing the steep climb up the switchbacks to Mosquito Pass), I was never passed again (until the last half mile of the race... I'll explain later)... but instead between miles 11 and 25, I kept reeling people in and passed at least a dozen people.

So as I mentioned, there are no mile markers for this race, only aid stations splits. My goal times below are based on the splits of others from the past four years of people who ran 5 hours even. My splits look disproportionate due to the ups and downs of the course, even though I made a very consistent effort all day long.

Aid Station Mileage Altitude (Goal Time) My Time
#1 at 3.8 miles at 11,600’ (0:47:00) 0:47:27
#2 at 7.1 miles at 11,600’ (1:23:00) 1:24:00
#3 at 9.8 miles at 11,250’ (1:45:00) 1:44:26
#4 at 13.1 miles at 13,185’ (2:40:00) 2:44:02
#5 at 16.4 miles at 11,250’ (3:10:00) 3:12:29
#6 at 19.1 miles at 11,600’ (3:40:00) 3:43:52
#7 at 22.4 miles at 11,600’ (4:25:00) 4:27:10
Finish 26.2 miles at 10,200’ (4:59:59) 5:02:52


Highlights of the run

The steep climb up to Mosquito Pass was grueling, but we were treated to stunning views thousands of feet below to Leadville and across to great mountains like Elbert and Massive. About 2:10 into the race, Anton Krupicka passed me coming down the mountain which is about where I expected to come across the race leaders.

I was never so glad to reach the summit at Mosquito Pass, but the bad part was that it meant I needed to turn-around and start running downhill. In some ways, even though it was hard work, hiking uphill seemed easier than running downhill. And so I ran. I passed quite a few runners on the way down... which I think I can attribute to acclimatizing and being conservative on my uphill pace.

I made good progress towards my 5-hour goal time all day long, but I never was completely on track for it. I knew it was going to be close and that really kept me going. Sometimes when I really didn’t want to pick up the pace, I thought to myself, “What if I miss sub-5 by just a few seconds... let's git ‘er dun.”

The weather was great for me, but I don’t think I can say that for everyone. Until noon, it was mostly sunny and cool (50s). It was pretty windy up near Mosquito Pass, but we weren’t there long enough to get too cold. By 12:30pm, dark clouds had formed and thunder could be heard. By the time I was at mile 24, the thunder seemed quite threatening and I was glad I was finishing soon. I looked back towards Mosquito Pass, knowing that there were quite a few runners still high on the mountain... and it looked like it was getting quite a downpour. That’s not good at all. Rain at altitude can be very cold and quickly cause hypothermia, and most runners don’t carry much extra clothing. I hope all the runners up there were ok. For me, the rain didn’t start falling until a few minutes after I finished.

Since the last six miles were mostly downhill, I was hoping to gain some time back and still finish sub-5. But by this point in the race, my limited number of long training runs was starting to affect me. In the last two miles, my sides and calves were cramping up so much that it was all I could do to keep running, even though it was downhill. Fortunately, there was a large amount of space between me and the runners behind me, but unfortunately two of them still managed to catch me in the last half mile of the race. I absolutely hate it when that happens at that point in a race. But there was nothing else I could do. I had maxxed myself out and couldn’t run one step faster if my life depended on it.

As these two runners slowly separated themselves from me towards the finish, I could see my chance at a sub-5 finish running off with them... but actually, neither of them made sub-5 either but they were a tad closer. And so my finishing time ended up being 5:02:52. Even though I slightly missed my goal time, I am completely satisfied with my effort. As I think back over my race, I can’t think of anything I could have done differently all day long to gain any more time. I honestly left it all on the course and was completely spent at the end... a very satisfying feeling.

So I finished 41st overall out of ~300 marathoners (from what I hear... I haven’t seen the final results posted yet... there was no chip timing). But I ended up 10th in my age-group (M 40-49)... which is not too surprising. There’s a bunch of us old farts in our 40s that focus on the marathon distance so the M40 AG is very competitive. Since we don’t have as much snap in our legs anymore, we go for races where we can outlast some of the youngsters.

So I guess this means I finished in the top 15-20% of the racers overall. I was actually hoping to be in the top 10% (top 25 or 30 overall), but you never know what the field is going to be like. Even though I missed my goal by ~3 minutes, that was pretty close. I talked to very, very few runners who made their goals for the day... even those that had run this race before. Many of them missed their targets by 15, 20, 30 minutes, or even more. This course is just that brutal and relentless.

Even though I wanted to run sub-5, I didn’t obsess about this goal. Basically, all bets are off in a race like this. You just go out there, make a strong effort, hope for the best, and be satisfied with the results. You never really conquer this kind of course, you merely cover it.

And I was determined to have fun out there. At most of the aid stations, I jokingly asked, “So is this halfway?” ...even on the back half of the course. :-) As were going up the steep climb to Mosquito Pass, I mentioned to some runners near me, “You know, it’s just rude when these people come down the mountain towards us with smiles on their faces....” At one aid station, they pointed us toward the route that went uphill, and I replied, “But I don’t wanna to go that way... I wanna go that way,” which was downhill. :-) When the course flattened out and runners near me stopped hiking and picked up the pace, I mentioned, “Now don’t be doing that, ‘cause now I gotta run.” :-)

So overall it was a very satisfying day. I can still walk. I didn’t end up in the hospital. Mary Ann didn’t have to execute my will, publish my obituary, or collect my life insurance (...yet). Sorry for such a lengthy recap... just be thankful I’ll stop at this point. It really was five amazing hours of quad-busting, lung-seering fun. Thanks for reading.

Riding Around the Bear

Well, Saturday was the big bike ride for which I’ve been training... biggest bike ride of my life. Realize that I haven't done a lot of cycling... I've only done one bike century before, and that was three years ago. I'm more of an "occasional cyclist." But in March, I began struggling with plantar fasciitis (inflammation of the arch of my foot) that limited my running, so I started biking a good bit again. I rode some big climbs I've always wanted to do (such as Palomar Mountain and Mount Baldy Road). After biking up Onyx Summit for the first time, I thought, why don't I attempt a biggie... the Ride Around the Bear. I always like a challenge. :-)

The Ride Around the Bear is one of the tougher bike centuries... 100 miles through the San Bernardino mountains, with over 9000' of climbing involved. The last climb is the toughest... topping out on Onyx Summit (8,443'), the highest paved road in SoCal.

I confess I was pretty intimidated by this ride. The event website states that this century was ranked one of the 10 most difficult centuries by Cyclist magazine and then warns in all-cap letters, "THIS IS NOT FOR BEGINNERS." Three years ago, I wanted to do this century but then backed out because I didn’t think I could make it up all the mountain climbs. But I wasn’t going to let that happen this year. The challenge motivated me to get my tail out the door and on my bike. Weekly rides up Hwy 38 became a regular staple of my main training.

In years past, sometimes the weather has been scorching hot for this ride... like in the 90s. Fortunately, we were blessed with thick "June gloom" (the SoCal term for the overcast cloud cover typical of this time of year). The low-hanging stratus clouds made for a moist start, and ten miles into the ride, it actually was raining in Highland at the start of the first big climb up Hwy 330... "It never rains in California..." ha!

On the rolling hills in the opening ten miles, I was taking it easy and got passed by a dude on a recumbent bike. I was going to draft off of him on the downhills, but I couldn't keep up with him without overdoing it. I thought, Yikes, I’m even more undertrained than I thought if I can't tail recumbent guy. But I passed him a little ways into the first climb and he told me he knew I’d pass him on the uphills. Nice guy. I hope it went well for him. I felt a little better for what lay ahead.

I've never biked up Hwy 330 before... and for good reason. It's a rather narrow two- and four-lane highway winding into the mountains with little to no shoulder. It was a little unnerving having traffic so close, but there's comfort in numbers since 400 of us would be biking up the road that day... spread apart with large gaps but all single file. And I will say, I liked the clockwise direction of the route we took. I'd much rather climb slowly up Hwy 330 and come flying down Hwy 38 than vice versa. There's more wiggle room on 38 for a fast descent when you get hit by an unexpected crosswind.

The climb up 330 was a long slow climb. We gained nearly 5000' elevation between miles 12 to 30. It was steeper than I expected, but I maintained a conservative pace and used my gears. I knew if I spiked my heart rate, I'd be toast for the day. The low-hanging clouds made for thick fog as we ascended. I was glad I was wearing my new fluorescent-yellow bike jersey... thanks, Lauren, for the discount!

I was making steady but gradual progress up the relentless slope of Hwy 330, when another disheartening moment occurred. I got passed by a tandem bike, yes, a tandem bike, that went cruising past me and quickly out of sight. I thought, Sheesh, I really must not be doing well. But I found out afterwards that tandem couple actually finished first last year... yes, they finished faster than every cyclist out there on any kind of bike. I was very, very impressed. They finished in 5th and 6th places on Saturday in 5:29. Wowser. I don't know if there is such a thing as competitive tandem bike races, but if there is, I'd bet the farm on that couple.

On the climb through the thick fog, another cyclist mentioned that there was a low ceiling on these clouds and we would probably come out of them about 5000'. I must admit, I doubted that was possible, but I didn't say anything and just hoped he was right. Sure 'nuf, when we got to Running Springs, we had climbed right out of the clouds into bright blue skies. It was really amazing as the skies just opened up and we were bathed in endless sunshine.

We then cruised along on the rolling hills of Hwy 18 from Running Springs, through Arrowbear, and on towards Big Bear. We passed Snow Summit Ski Resort where SAG stop #2 was located, but I skipped this one since I had plenty of liquids and food.

We climbed up to Lakeview Point (elev. 7,112') which is the highpoint on "Rim of the World Highway" (Hwy 18). As the climb tops out, you're suddenly greeted with some of the most amazing views of Big Bear Lake far in the distance... absolutely stunning vistas of unending mountains and forests. Way in the distance to the east, I spotted Sugarloaf Mountain and thought, We've gotta bike around that... even though it's still miles away. A swift steep descent down Hwy 18 (fortunately unaccompanied by vehicles) brought us to Big Bear Dam, the western end of Big Bear Lake.

At the dam, we took Hwy 38 around the northshore of the lake. Highway 38 would now serve as our route for the rest of the day, the last 60 miles. Biking along the lake brought back lots of memories. This was the first time I had been on parts of this pavement since I ran here in the Big Bear Marathon last September. Fortunately, I was logging these miles a whole lot faster by bike on Saturday. Later, I also cruised past dozens of tents in Serrano Campground where my son and I had camped just four weeks ago. Good memories.

I made a quick stop at SAG #3 at Dana Point. I woofed down some PB&J sandwiches and refilled on Gatorade, and then I was off again. But within a mile, I had my first mechanical issue. For some reason, my chain jumped off the big chain ring. But it was a quick fix and I was back on the road.

It was nice to tick off some quicker miles on the flatter roads along the northshore of the lake. My legs enjoyed the change of pace. The weather was absolutely perfect... highs in the low 60s and gorgeous sunny skies. Big Bear is famous as being one of the sunniest spots in the U.S., and it lived up to its reputation on Saturday.

Highway 38 turns right at the far eastern end of the lake, and I thought, And the climb begins.... From the turn, it's roughly 9 miles of distance and 1700' of climbing on up to Onyx Summit, the highlight (and highpoint) of this bike century. Fortunately, the grades are not too terribly steep, but the air gets thin and the climb seems relentless at this point.

I was pleasantly surprised to find my legs were not completely shot. I can't say I was flying up the road, but I was passing rocks and trees like they were standing still. I was counting down the white mile markers carefully because I knew Onyx Summit was precisely at MM 39.36. The 8,000' elevation sign was encouraging to see, and then a short bit later I grinned in huge relief as the summit sign came into view.... I knew I had done it. Memories of Heartbreak Hill in Boston popped unexpectedly in my head... the big obstacle was conquered and the downhills were ahead.

The Orange County Wheelmen (the group who run this great event) strategically positioned SAG stop #4 at the summit. It was well stocked with carbs galore and liquids to spare. I chowed down on some watermelon, and it never tasted so sweet. I must admit I took a bit too much time eating and savoring the moment at this stop, but the hard work was done. Other than one brief climb before Barton Flats, all that was left was forty miles of downhill back to Redlands. I just hoped my back wouldn't seize up on the stiff descent (and it didn't).

I saddled up, pointed my bike downhill, and was quickly hitting 30+ mph with little effort. Within a mile though, I pulled off to don my arm warmers. The wind was rather chilly at these speeds at high elevation.

Since this side of the summit was my main training for this century, I knew this stretch of highway very well... every mile marker, all the sights, and every curve. This really helped as I came upon the last evil climb before Barton Flats. It's a rather steep grade about a mile in length... just pure evil at that point. That would have been a rude awakening and very discouraging if I hadn’t been up it so many times already in training. So I geared down and cranked on up the hill.

Soon I was cruising through the roller-coaster hills and curves towards Angelus Oaks. I waved to the good people at SAG stop #5 but didn't stop. The last long steep descent lay ahead of me for the next 11 miles.

At Angelus Oaks, another cyclist came up on me. We decided to work together for the descent. But geez, I'm a pathetic descender. I don't know if I just have poor form or I'm too scrawny or if I just don't have the nerves of steel it takes to fly down a winding mountain road. I dunno. But in no time, the other cyclist picked up the draft of another cyclist and they were both gone. So I was left to careen down the mountain solo... just not as fast as they did. Now that I think about it, this whole century was pretty much a solo effort on my part. I doubt I biked more than five total miles of this entire thing in the slipstream of another cyclist. The riders were just too spread out and doing too many different speeds.

We cruised on through Mentone and on into Redlands… left on University and there was Sylvan Park, my car, and the finish line. Came rolling in just a few seconds before 1:00pm. Finished in 7:07 which surprised me. Before starting, I really didn't know what kind of time to expect, not even a ballpark figure... I was pretty much going to be satisfied just to finish. But I think the cool weather really helped, and I definitely finished sooner than I expected. According to my bike computer, my actual cycling time was 6:49 (the timer doesn't run when the wheels aren't turning)... so yeah, I guess I did eat and stretch a bit too long at my three SAG stops. I now see that I finished 95th out of 366 finishers (and 400 registered starters). I'm certainly no elite cyclist, but this occasional cyclist is satisfied with that time and place.

Thanks for reading, and my apologies for such a long recap. This was a completely new kind of thing for me so it's hard to describe. Reducing this seven-hour bike ride to an extended blog post doesn't really capture the experience. But I type all this out so at least I won't forget some of the memories. It really was a blast.

Backpacking the Grand Canyon

On virtually everyone's list of Seven Wonders stands the Grand Canyon. It's far more than a place just to view from the rim. Whether by plane, helicopter, raft, mule or foot, to truly experience the enormity and beauty of the place, one must descend down into it... and that's just what my hiking buddy Dan and I did this week... 45 miles in 3 days.

Preparations for the trip:

• Securing permits. We faxed in our permit request four months in advance on June 1. That day, the Grand Canyon backcountry office received 100+ walk-up requests and 800+ faxed in requests for the month of October. We listed 16 different choices for dates and campgrounds for our trek. We got our 7th option and it turned out to be perfect for us.

• Decrease the weight and increase the fun. This time, I got my pack down to 35 lbs including food and water… down 10+ lbs since my last backpacking trip. Dan and I shared some items such as a water filter and a stove. No need for a pocketknife or headlamp... a simple razor blade and LED are sufficient.


• Food. My daily rations consisted of nutri-grain bars, fig newtons, PB & crackers, beef jerky, powdered Gatorade, oranges, and a freeze-dried meal. Good sustenance.

• Water. Unfortunately, since we were hiking after October 15, drinking water was shut off for the winter at most of the main stopping points on the trails, even Cottonwood Campground. So we filtered water from the creeks along the way and had to carry several liters in a Camelbak bladder.

• Weather. We picked October because of its "Goldilocks" weather… not too hot and not too cold. We had lows in the upper 30s and highs in the lower 70s. We mostly had 50s and 60s during the day. Perfect hiking weather… no chills and no sweat. We had clear skies without a slight chance of storms or rain… also perfect for star-gazing at night. The only downside of hiking in October is the limited daylight hours… only eleven hours of sunlight a day since sunrise was supposedly ~6:45am and sunset ~5:45pm... although deep in the canyon we saw far less of ELSO (= the evil life-sucking orb) than that.

Itinerary:

• Tues, Oct 21: Drive 450 miles to the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Camp in Mather campground.


• Wed, Oct 22: Hike 14 miles… 7 miles down the S Kaibab trail from the TH (7,260’), cross the river (2,480’) on the Black Bridge, and 7 miles up the N Kaibab trail to Cottonwood campground (4,080’). We also took a short side trip below our campground to go see Ribbon Falls.

• Thurs, Oct 23: Hike 21 miles… 7 miles up the N Kaibab trail to the N Rim (8,240’), then 7 miles back down to Cottonwood campground (4,080’), and then 7 miles further down the N Kaibab trail to Bright Angel campground (2,480’) near the Colorado River.

• Fri, Oct 24: Hike 10 miles up the Bright Angel trail from the Bright Angel campground (2,480’) to the TH (6,860’) on the S Rim. Camp at Mather campground.

• Sat, Oct 25: Drive 450 miles home.

This three-day hiking itinerary divided out perfectly. None of the days were disproportionately hard or easy. The first leg of our trek not only got us across the river but also partially up towards the N Rim. The second day was the longest, but only 7 miles were uphill and at the start of the day when our legs would be the freshest. Also, we stashed our full packs at the campground and only took water, food, and emergency essentials for the 14 miles up to the N Rim and back. The last day was the shortest, but it involved the most elevation gain with a full pack.

Highlights:

• Seeing the canyon gradually light up as we descended down the S Kaibab trail. We had started while the stars were still out and it was a while before we saw the first rays of sunlight on the higher points of the canyon.

• Sleeping under star-filled skies at night with the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon.

• Coming across deer at Phantom Ranch, Cottonwood campground, the N Kaibab trail, the Bright Angel trail, and Indian Gardens.

• Having a Bighorn Sheep come crashing out of Bright Angel creek as I rounded a bend. The big ram stood in the trail and stared at me and then quickly darted up the steep cliffs above. We saw four more high on the Bright Angel trail the next day.

• The quiet serenity of the North Kaibab trail. I’ve hiked a lot of trails, but it’s hard to top this one. The trail really has three distinct sections to it. The first few miles go through a narrow canyon that receives maybe an hour or two of sunlight each day. The next stretch opens up into a wider valley which includes Ribbon Falls and Cottonwood Campground. The upper five miles are a breathtaking route that edges its way along the steep red cliffs of Roaring Springs Canyon.


The vegetation gradually changes from desert flora to the tall pines and deciduous trees of the North Rim. Since the North Rim is shut down after October 15, we came across few hikers on this stretch. The quietness allowed us to absorb the gentle sounds of distant creeks and cheerful birds. By far, the upper stretches of the North Kaibab trail are some of the greatest parts of this grand park. But since the South Rim is more accessible than its northern counterpart, most people never experience the magnificence of the North Rim.


The quiet serenity of the N Kaibab trail made the upper portions of the Bright Angel trail to the S Rim to be disappointing. After backpacking for three days on our own, it just wasn’t the same to come up a trail crowded with park visitors unprepared for any sort of hiking. The S Rim appeared more like Disneyland… in fact, on the trail, I came across someone eating a chocolate-dipped, rice-crispy treat shaped like Mickey Mouse, and I thought, how appropriate. Near the top of the trail, my friend Dan ended up trapped behind a bus load of tourists dressed in business attire. Ok, hopefully I didn't become too much of a backpacking snob... but it's somewhat culture shock to finish off three days in the wilderness in the most commercialized area of the park.


• The fall colors of the North Rim. Having grown up in Tennessee, I didn’t anticipate a full palette of fall colors on the trees of the North Rim. But we came across reds, oranges, and yellows mixed in with the green of the pines, and even the white bark of an aspen grove.

• Water. It’s easy to think of the Grand Canyon as only being dry, hot, and desolate, but there’s an amazing amount of water in this place… even beyond the swift currents of the Colorado River. Bright Angel creek is a vibrant stream that descends for miles down the north side of the canyon. Roaring Springs is a gushing flow of
water that comes bursting directly out of a canyon wall. From a distance, Ribbon Falls seems like a minor trickle, but on closer examination, it’s a fascinating stream flowing over a hollowed-out, red-rock cliff. At the base, calcium carbonate has built up to form a raised, moss-covered basin to catch the water… essentially a hollowed-out stalagmite without a cave. In other places, it was easy to detect the presence of water by the lush, verdant vegetation that thrives in large places like Indian Gardens or tiny trickles between the rocks.


• Rock formations... a natural arch high above the S Kaibab trail… a tall thin spire on the N Kaibab trail... the precipitous cliffs of Roaring Springs canyon… the angled buttes that dot the horizon… the changing colors of the rock… white near the rims, dark red below the rim, pink sandstone further down, and the dark browns and blacks closer to the river.

• Tunnels. In a rugged environment like the Grand Canyon, water didn’t always carve the canyons in a way that was conducive for building trails. Each of our three trails eventually made its way through a man-made tunnel. The southern entrance to the Black Bridge crossing the Colorado River was through a long tunnel. When we got there, a mule train was coming through. High on the N Kaibab trail is the Supai Tunnel which serves as a shady resting spot three miles from the top. Two short tunnels are found near the top of the Bright Angel trail.

• Bridges. Obviously, there’s no bridge spanning the entire canyon, but the number of bridges within the canyon is surprising. Two major bridges cross the Colorado River (the Black Bridge to the east and the Silver Bridge to the west). The N Kaibab trail alone crosses a half dozen bridges.

Of course, words alone can’t depict what our experience in the Grand Canyon was like. Here’s a small fraction of the pictures I took.

Big Bear was a bear

Big Bear is a mountain lake (elev. 6,750') in the San Bernardino mountains of Southern California. It's a resort area for winter activities such as alpine skiing and summer activities such as boating, fishing, and hiking. For runners, it's famous as being the hometown of Olympic marathoner Ryan Hall.

This is the inaugural running of the Big Bear Marathon. For a first-time race (actually 3 running races and a bike tour all on the same day) in a small town, it seems to have gone pretty smoothly (at least from my meager perspective). Here's the article in the local newspaper about the race.

Friday:
• Drove up to Big Bear.
• Heard Mickey Hall (Ryan's dad) speak at the expo. He's a well-respected pillar of the community... the cross-country and track coach at Big Bear High School. He talked about his experiences doing an Ironman triathlon and how he overcame some serious setbacks in that event (such as breaking his right-pedal clip at the start of the 112-mile bike leg).
• Ate spaghetti at a local Italian restaurant.
• Drove the marathon course to see it for myself... dang, this is gonna be tough... it's like a freakin' roller coaster... much hillier around the lake than I remembered it from a couple of years ago when I was up here.
• Camped on the south shore of the lake… found a great camping site (Yellow Post #26)... no one else around... didn't even use my tent... just slept in my sleeping bag on a ground cloth under the stars. Gorgeous night. Slept like a log.

Saturday:
• Caught the shuttle bus to the starting line in Big Bear Village.
• Temps around 50s... very chilly as I waited, but absolutely perfect weather for running a marathon.
• Start of race was delayed by 15 minutes as a few roads were still being cleared.
• Supposedly ~300+ of us were running the full marathon. (There was also a half and 5K that started later).

Story of my race...

I was running this marathon blind. I had no idea what kind of pace per mile I should be running since it involved hills at altitude. I was going to have to run this one purely on feel, and not worry about what my watch said. I also knew that all my acclimatization to high altitude from Colorado at the beginning of August had long worn off before the start of Big Bear.

Opening mile. Running with four guys with four others that are ahead of us a ways. The race director, Josh, who is a friend of mine, spotted me at a street corner and cheered me on.

We go up and down on the hills of Hwy 18 along the south shore of Big Bear Lake. I'm taking it easy on both the uphills (to not spike my heart rate) and the downhills (to not destroy my quads). This is one gorgeous place to run a marathon... and it's nice that the most scenic miles were in the opening half before we marathoners get tunnel vision.

We cross the dam and we've all spread out and I won't see many more marathoners until the closing miles.
I'm out there by myself. I think I'm in 7th or 8th place overall, but I'm not for sure. I'm so separated from those running ahead of and behind me that I don't even hear aid stations cheering on anyone other than me.

The aid stations have different themes. Around mile 7, I come through the tiny community of Fawnskin on the north shore. The theme at their aid station is Christmas. They have Christmas decorations and festive music playing and I'm greeted by Santa Claus. Nice touch.

I'm amazed by the number of local people who are out on the road to cheer on us runners.
Seems like everyone has come out to see the runners. Great community support. This is the community that had a huge campaign, "Move a million miles for Ryan (Hall)" (by running, walking, and biking). There are signs saying, "Run Ryan Run" still all over town.

At mile 12, Ryan Hall's dad has his High School Cross Country team manning the aid station. He offers me a gel pack, I politely mention, "That's ok, Mr. Hall." It was kinda cool being greated by the dad of an Olympian at an aid station.

The thin air at 6,750' doesn't seem to be affecting me too much. My legs are wanting to run faster, but I don't think I could keep my HR and breathing in check if I went any faster. I hope I'm not overdoing it, but so far so good.

I know the first half of the race is much easier than the second half so I had planned for a slight positive split. I come through halfway faster than I anticipated (1:33:57), but so far so good. I know I'm gonna have to back off the pace on the long four-mile climb going up to mile 20.


Around mile 14, we start running through the last of the half marathoners. The half marathon course followed most of the second half of the full marathon course. By the time we get to the finish line, us marathoners are outnumbered 20:1 in the midst of the half marathoners (at least at that point in the races).

Around mile 15, I can start to feel my old nemesis Mr. Sidestich starting to make his presence known. I haven't felt one of these in a long, long time. I back off the pace some and hope it won't be a problem.

We're now going uphill towards the ski resorts. I'm thinking: "Note to self: Any time a marathon course runs directly by two ski resorts that's not a good thing… they build those things high in the mountains for a reason." Exhausted self takes note.

Even though I had slowed considerably on the long uphill in thin air, around mile 19 I have to take a walking break.
This was really, really disappointing to me. I wanted to run every step of this marathon, even if it was a slow pace on the grueling uphills. But I had no choice. I was now battling side cramps on both sides (I'm not sure I've ever felt that before) and my HR was sky high (in more ways than one).

In miles 19 and 20, I end up getting passed by two marathoners. One was the eventual women's winner. She's from Idyllwild (elev. 5300') so she's more acclimated to thin air than I am... but she also paced herself much better than I did to conquer this course. She ran a great race.

At mile 20, we finally reach the highest point on the course at the base of one of the ski resorts. There's lots of downhill ahead, but my side stiches hurt so bad I can't take advantage of those downhills. I even have to walk and stretch out the cramps on a few downhills of all things.

I'm struggling just to hang on in those closing miles. Around mile 22, I still manage to pass a marathoner who's been ahead of me since the opening couple of miles. So in the closing miles, I was passed by four marathoners and I passed one. Losing 3 spots was not the way I wanted to finish this race.

Finally, I hit the last stretch down Hwy 18 and run up to Big Bear Village and the finish line in 3:21:31... yep, a 14:37 positive split (1:33:57/1:48:34)... way bigger than I wanted. Never been more glad to finish a marathon in my life. It's been a long time since I cramped up that bad and felt such pain in a race. Those last 7 miles were agonizing. It would have been a great 30K race (18.6 miles)... but there was still 7.6 miles to go at that point!

Here's my splits (based on my watch):
..........|...........|.......|.....Avg
Mile.....|..Overall.|..Mile.|.Overall
Marker.|....Time.|.Split.|....Pace
-------+---------+-------+--------
1...........7:29....7:29......7:29
2..........14:20....6:51......7:10
3..........21:29....7:09......7:10
4..........28:44....7:15......7:11
5..........35:42....6:58......7:08
6..........43:07....7:25......7:11
7..........50:29....7:22......7:13
8..........57:24....6:55......7:10
9........1:04:18....6:54......7:09
10.......1:11:42....7:24......7:10
11.......1:18:47....7:05......7:10
12.......1:25:53....7:06......7:09
13.......1:33:20....7:27......7:11
14.......1:40:16....6:56......7:10
15.......1:47:27....7:11......7:10
16.......1:54:53....7:26......7:11
17.......2:02:30....7:37......7:12
18.......2:10:58....8:28......7:19
19.......2:19:26....8:28......7:20
20.......2:29:19....9:53......7:28
21.......2:38:17....8:58......7:32
22.......2:47:15....8:58......7:36
23.......2:55:09....7:54......7:37
24.......3:03:29....8:20......7:39
25.......3:12:37....9:08......7:42
26.2.....3:21:31....7:32pace..7:42

Notes about my splits:
• Mile marker #8 was way too early which made mile 8 too short and mile 9 too long. So I divided miles 8 and 9 equally.
• Mile marker #18 was way too late which made mile 18 too long and mile 19 too short. So I divided miles 18 and 19 equally.
• I missed the mile marker at mile 21 so I divided miles 21 and 22 equally.
• I ran what felt like a very even-paced effort for the opening 15 miles. The differences in splits has to do with uphills and downhills.
• Miles 17, 18, 19, and 20 were almost all uphill.
• Miles 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, and finish were a grueling struggle, even though much of those were downhill.

Aftermath:
I didn't publicize any goal of mine ahead of time because I honestly wasn't sure how my body would respond to this tough course in thin air. My goal was sub-3:20. I thought that would be a challenging goal. I had run 3:27 at the Crater Lake Marathon a couple of years ago which had a similar altitude (but with more downhill miles). I thought if I was having a really good day, I might get as low as 3:15. My consolation goal would be 3:29.

Since the race offered a good bit of prize money, some fast runners from Los Angeles showed up. I had to leave before they posted the full marathon results but I did see that the top 2 times were 2:41 and 2:48 (but those two guys normally run marathons in the low 2:30s). 2:40s is just crazy fast on this course. I ended up finishing 10th overall.

I had to rush off from Big Bear without waiting around for results or the awards ceremony (even though I now see that I finished 3rd in my age-group, M40-44). I drove back to Riverside and got there just in time for my son's basketball game (which they won). And I returned home to a very happy wife... not because of my marathon, but because she had finally received word through the mail that she passed her comps... the very last hurdle for her masters. I was very, very glad to hear that.

Big Bear was a tough marathon in one of the most beautiful places of Southern California. I'm so happy I ran this one... my first marathon in 17 months (since my debacle in Boston '07). I just wished I had paced myself a little better on that opening half so I wouldn't cramp up so bad on the last half. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.