snow daze.

Nearly a foot of snow had fallen and my own two feet were restless to explore.  A lull in the weather, a predicted gap between the first round of the storm and its second appearance as a separate front pushed it back our way, left the roads surprisingly navigable.

Few motorists expected that to be the case or they were simply too busy digging out to venture onto the roadways.  Whatever the reason, traffic was sparse for the 10 mile commute from my driveway to the Horseshoe Trail at the intersection of Pumping Station Road and Route 322.

As expected, the parking lot at Pumping Station was unplowed except for a few vanishing tracks left by a vehicle or two that had apparently earlier used the lot to turn around and head the other direction.  I followed one of those paths, backing my car into a position I prayed could be escaped from a few hours later.

Most of this winter has been spent in Kahtoola MICROspikes, but they seemed in over their heads for the conditions lurking in the woods.  Besides, there are too few opportunities to dust off the snowshoes and this one wouldn't be missed.

My Crescent Moon Gold 9's are built specifically for running, but, to be fair, they also anticipate packed snow, not the deep powder to which they were about to be exposed.  Oh well.  It's been a year of resistance training thus far and this would just be more of the same.

The Horseshoe was buried, absolutely buried, and there wasn't any sign to suggest that anyone had been out on the trail since the snow had begun falling the night before.  Trail breaking would be required the entire way and the going would likely be slow.

Bearing left off the Horseshoe allowed me to gain high ground more quickly and I was immediately glad to have my Black Diamond Z-Poles as the depth of the snow stacked along the edge of the ridge the trail skirts made for some false footing that kicked powder down into the ravine below.

Reaching the top of the ridge, crossing the power line and ducking back into the trees, I began to establish a pace a bit more recognizable as running though the degree of difficulty had my heart pounding and my temperature rising beneath the warm layers donned to ward off the cold.  Throttling down just a bit to keep from sweating out, I pondered which way to turn as a number of trail intersections approached.

Following the Big Timber trail kept me off of some of the wider paths and had me ducking under limbs bent low from their cargo loads of white.  Other than my own breathing, the crunching of snowshoes and the occasional trekking pole clack, there were few sounds to be heard.  Exceptions were the melodic whew-whew-hews of titmice and the namesake chirping of chickadees.

There were few tracks to be seen, confirming that most animals had the sensibility to hole up and ride out the storm.  One rogue set of tracks in a tight one-hoof-directly-in-place-of-the-last stride seemed to indicate that a deer had been out for a rather casual mid-storm stroll.  Stray appear-disappear-reappear squirrel tracks were there to be found but even they seemed more scarce than usual.

I did also happen upon the work site of a hearty woodpecker that had clearly been rat-a-tat-tapping away recently enough to have left its wood scraps strewn about atop the snow.

In spite of not having seen any human visitors, the trails made themselves known by a dimpled, undulating surface that resembled the cartoon tunneling of Bugs Bunny on his way from that wrong turn in Albuquerque.  I have seen this phenomenon before and it has bailed me out a time or two out in the forest without a headlamp after the light has failed (unless provided by a man-made appliance, can light really "fail"?).

Here and there, fallen leaves skittered lightly across the snow or rested stoicly in the shallow berths that their last inherent warmth had carved, a defiant final proof of having ever really been alive.  If you look close, the leaves have often oozed the slightest stain of their brown and yellow hues into the snow itself, a natural farewell tagging that strikes me as both a sad and beautiful plea for remembrance.

Fatigue snuck up on me until all at once I was gassed.  The sign indicating the broad, smooth Explorer Lodge Road offered an escape route temptation but I was determined to take in the view atop Eagle Rock.

It may not be more than a half mile from there to Eagle Rock but my tired legs felt as though it was a three mile stretch.  A mix of sleet, freezing rain and actual rain was adding weight to what had been deep, but feathery powder.

Earlier in the week, on the ridge line just to the south and west of the one I was then traversing, I had noted quite a bit of damage from the ice storm that had swept the area several days prior.  Broken limbs, downed trees and brush that had collapsed beneath its own weight had cluttered the trails and in some cases made them nearly impassable.  I worried that similar debris was likely on the final approach to Eagle Rock but, other than a lot of snow, it was clear.

Even though visibility was a fraction of what it normally is, the view from Eagle Rock was really stunning.  The blanket of white triggered contrasts and highlights in the forest that otherwise often blend into a uniform sea of browns and greens.  Clouds socked in the next ridge and further muffled any audible evidence of a world beyond these woods.

Brisk winds took advantage of the exposure to whip swirling moisture into my eyes and sent cold air seeking any vulnerabilities in the clothes I was wearing.  Exhausted and concerned I might not be able to stave off the cold as easily as I normally do, I clambered down off the rock and moved on.

As soon as I turned away from the vista and stepped back into the trees, the wind fell away and with it any chill that had crept in.  It was, quite literally, all downhill from there to the car and I took advantage of that trajectory to settle back into an actual run.  Snow took some of the physical punishment out of this stretch of trail by padding the usually rocky footing and allowing me to move along briskly, sometimes running, sometimes glissading.

I paused just long enough to snap one last intersection photo and then barreled the rest of the way down the Horseshoe Trail toward Hammer Creek and the final approach to where the car awaited my return.

I can't say how far I traveled, as my GPS was still sitting at home wondering why it hadn't made the trip.  Suffice to say, the mileage wasn't as far as my body was suggesting.

There's no device known to me that can measure how much ground the mind covers. I don't ever set out with a specific distance goal for my thoughts, but I can tell when a given workout has been a good one for my body AND my mind.

The legs are done in, the quads quiver.  The brain?  It's smiling.

I settled into the driver's seat, turned the key and, as the car freed itself from the lot and powered back onto 322, my body ached and the smile in my mind  grew wide.

out of the darkness and all the secrets still exist.

Wanna know what I love most about ultra marathons?

The people, the places and the time spent with remarkable people in those spectacular places.  And those people and places combine to make every race worth looking back on in celebration whether you ran a PR, didn't run as fast as you thought you would, got injured or just plain didn't finish.

I love trail running.  Period.

I relish running alone and also love sharing the trail with a couple of close friends, but participating in organized events ensures that you cross paths instead of just follow paths.  You revisit friendships, establish new ones and share worthwhile fellowship even with those folks you never officially meet.

What do I like the least about ultra marathons?

I greatly dislike the fact that the pressure we apply on ourselves or that we allow to have applied upon us by others leads us to dissect our performances, feel the need to answer for our "failures" and potentially lose sight of what brought us out in the first place.  So wrapped up in push-on-through sloganeering is long-distance running that accomplishing anything less leaves us disappointed, defeated and defensive.

For several days following my decision to NOT go back out for another 50 miles after completing the first of two loops at the Antelope Island Buffalo Run, I tried to determine why I let fatigue and cold drown out my resolve to keep going.  I pondered the factors that made elusive a finish line that seemed on paper to be one, relatively speaking, easily reached.

Thankfully, what I like best came back to me.

I'll start with the place before moving on to the people.

Admit it, you've never heard of Antelope Island.  Until very recently, I hadn't or, if I had, it was a random assemblage of letters, just words, not a fixed position that I could identify on a map.

But it does exist, a 28,000-acre land mass, roughly 15 miles long and 7 miles wide resting out in the Great Salt Lake just west of Layton, Utah.  If you fly into the Salt Lake airport, you will see the island beneath your wings but you'll need to drive 40+ miles north to reach the narrow causeway that leads from the mainland onto Antelope Island.

It is a strikingly barren land, nearly devoid of vegetation higher than a couple of feet off of the ground.  There are rocks aplenty and a couple of peaks that climb a few thousand feet from the 4,200 feet of elevation at the shoreline.  Those peaks are dwarfed, however, by the stunning views of the snow-capped Wasatch Front standing guard to the East.  I marveled at the isolated pockets of weather that alternately dumped snow, hid the tops of peaks entirely and then rolled back to again reveal the jagged teeth that gate the far slopes that draw skiers from all over the world.

Seemingly endless swaths of hardy grasses are inhabited by 500 head of introduced bison and their neighbors include big horn sheep, pronghorn antelope and mule deer.  Fat rabbits are chased by equally well-fed coyotes.  Eagles, falcons, meadowlarks, chukars, ducks and other shore birds abound.  With few places to hide, all of this magnificent fauna is readily on display.

The wildlife, in its understated way, seems to appreciate the beauty of Antelope Island and I certainly did too.  I have never taken as many photographs during a race as I did at this one.  I'd shuffle along, stunned for minutes on end by the sweeping views before remembering that I had a camera and could make vain attempts to capture some of what I was seeing.  After snapping a few pics, I'd remind myself that I was "racing" and would zip the camera into its waterproof pouch and tuck it back into a vest pocket only to want to pull it immediately out again upon topping the crest of a rise or rounding another bend.

The wind pummeled the island all day (and all night) long, constantly reaffirming that it along with its ally, water, had shaped the landscape at which I gaped.   Nothing had ever nor would ever stand in its way, certainly not my outclassed jacket, and I never questioned that it reigned superior on the island regardless of what bureaucratic body claimed ownership.

If I were handed a piece of paper and told to draw the singletrack trails of my daydreams (AND if I possessed any ability to draw), those on Antelope Island may well have been what I'd have produced. While not carved naturally by the wind, the trails looked as though they'd always been there, that the land couldn't exist without them.  It could, of course, but the illusion was convincing.  There were rocks, here and there, to be wary of, but mostly it was rolling, forgiving terrain that felt so good underfoot you wished it would go on forever.

On the east side of the island where the land flattened out and hugged the shoreline, the long lines of sight made it feel as though the trails would, in fact, go on forever.  Even there, though, where it was mentally and physically challenging to endlessly turn the legs over and keep the mind from believing that no progress was being made, the land was still beautiful.  The lake rose with the wind and small swells lapped the edges of the island.  Here the Wasatch loomed most closely and their many contours revealed countless canyons across the water, silently emitting invitations for backcountry exploration.  The skies were boundless.

All was lovely.

As were the people spending the day on the island with me.

My dear friend Kelly Agnew had remained in sight during the initial miles of the day but had settled into the dogged pursuit and eventual successful securing of another 100-mile buckle and an impressive 9th place finish despite being far from full health.  I saw and even heard little of him after those first few hours but felt his presence throughout and cherished the opportunity to venture out the next morning to see him into the finish.

Shortly after the race began, I'd overheard a fellow runner, Jeremy Suwinski, dare to credit a nearby buffalo as having a better beard than mine.  He, sadly, was right, so, after a half-hearted defense, I settled into conversation that lasted for a few miles.  Discussing work situations provided reminder again of how blessed I am to have stumbled, blindly, into my position at Backcountry Edge, a position that had played no small role in my even being on the Antelope Island course in the first place.

On a switchback a few miles later, I came upon a woman and, just ahead of her, an older gentleman.  That man turned out to be 81-year old Grant Holdaway, the woman his daughter.  Grant was attempting to become the oldest individual to ever complete a 100-mile race.  He'd "retired" five years earlier, having finished a 100 at 76, but boredom, I suppose, had called his number and lured him from the sidelines back out onto the trail.  He, like me, only made it around the island once but if you dare say he ONLY went 50 miles, you need to learn a thing or two about perspective.

Another "old man", 45-year old Karl Meltzer did go 100 miles and he did so quickly.  His 14:34 finish shaved an hour off of the course record he already held and earned him his 35th 100-mile win.  Thirty five 100-mile wins?  Yep.  In case you're wondering, that is more wins, far more wins, than anyone else has ever notched at that distance.  It was a treat to get to see him do work and the memory of him completing the race at 2:30 AM to the muted applause of the then 5 or so fully-conscious people in the start/finish tent while I drowsed in the corner of the room is foggy but revered.

All day long, my beautiful wife, Lindsay, and her partner in crime, Jo Agnew, seemed to appear whenever I most needed someone to lift my spirits.  Despite the unshakable fatigue, I really didn't hit any desperate low points but their appearances were always a boost.  Possessing as big a heart as any I've ever known, nurse Lindsay was, not surprisingly, thrust into work at the start/finish line aid station, especially after I'd formally dropped down to the 50-mile distance and taken off my shoes.  Despite not ever having attended a long-distance race and being without knowledge of the running vocabulary that most event participants assume everyone "speaks", Lindsay toiled throughout the night and was still caring for runners and their family members long after the sun came up on Saturday.  The sleepless hours of the night took their toll and Lindsay is sick as the proverbial dog at the moment but I sincerely doubt that she'd have approached her duties any differently if she'd have known how she'd end up.  Dynamo Jo juggled the job of crewing for Kelly with helping out at the aid station all night too.  Those two women were amazing and the fact that neither of them were originally slated to "man" that aid station makes me wonder what runners would've experienced there without them.  I'm glad no one found out.

I also got to spend some time catching up with Missy Berkel who I'd met at TransRockies last August and though she was having a tough day herself, slowed by a troublesome knee that was giving her fits in the cold, she soldiered on and scored a 50-mile finish for which she should hold her head up high.

The venerable Roch Horton masterfully ran the show at the Black Diamond-hosted Lower Frary aid station, serving up pierogies, hot chocolate and broth (bROCHth) that pulled me out of an initial bout of wicked chills and was almost alluring enough to coax me back out into the night for another visit.  Adam Cox, a Black Diamond employee volunteering at the aid station, even parted with a pair of tights to better equip me for the wind and cold that settled in after nightfall.  Even though I did finally succumb to the elements, I certainly wouldn't have made it 50 miles without all the help and encouragement I received at Lower Frary.

There were so many other great encounters and I'm sure I am forgetting many of them, but  I would be remiss if I failed to mention the dry humor and quiet everything-is-under-control demeanor of race director Jim Skaggs.  It was a treat to be able to meet him the day before the race and help unload provisions for a weekend of racing (there are also 50-mile, 50K and 25K versions of the race that kick off the day after the 100-mile race's Friday start).  His manner is the perfect balance of no-nonsense organization and empathetic runner himself.

The most amazing personal experience of the race came as I rounded the last turn to trudge up the short hill leading to the start/finish tent at which I already knew my night would end. Quintin Barney, a man I'd met earlier in the day and with whom I'd leapfrogged back and forth all day long, had just caught up with me again and had someone special waiting to escort him into the aid station.  His precious daughter, Kara, was beaming in the dark with a smile that I instantly recognized as the one her father had offered up to me repeatedly during the preceding hours, just as he did to every other person that he met along the way.  Having staggered in out of the night and more or less collapsed in one corner of the tent, I needed a moment or two to realize that Kara had come over to ask how I was doing and, turning my head to glance across the room, I saw Quintin looking my direction with genuine concern for my answer to Kara's question.  I was touched by the gesture and had no doubt of its sincerity.  The love the two of them had for each other was so apparent and my heart ached for my sleeping daughters back home in Pennsylvania. Oh, how I hope to have similar moments on the trail with Lily and Piper some day, but, most of all, I hope that we're as close with one another and comfortable with our love as Quintin and Kara obviously are whether our shared moments do or do not include trail running.

Trail runners are at their best, undoubtedly, while they're actually running trails.  Away from those trails, it's easy to digress to the holding up of trophies and baubles, telling tales of accomplishments, making proclamations of what we're running next, all of which starts to sound an awful lot like the posturing and positioning reminiscent of high school locker rooms, locker rooms populated by self-conscious boys sorely lacking the confidence they are trying desperately to convince you they possess.

Completing a course, I don't care how long and challenging it may be, is not coping with true tragedy.  Crossing the line is not salvaging a damaged but worth-fighting-for relationship.  Making the cutoff is by no means overcoming life-threatening illness.

And not continuing on to the end of the race is, frankly, just not as big a deal as we make it out to be.  Not in comparison to remembering the gift of a healthy body, the privilege of recreation, of movement and the pure joy of shared experience.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who shared those gifts, privileges and joy with me this past weekend.

I'm short a buckle, but it'll barely be missed among the memories.