the highlands lowlife.

In light of the goings on at the Laurel Highlands Ultra yesterday, I’ve been doing a little research.  I’ve unearthed hard evidence—the written word, people—to confirm that everyone, every living THING even, poops.

That’s certainly a relief, though it appears some ones, some THINGS, do it with a bit more frequency and at more inopportune times than others.

Perhaps I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself.

I’ve been taking part in the festivities at the Laurel Highlands Ultra for the last 3 years, first as the opening leg of the 50K relay, then as a full 50K participant and, finally, signing on for the full 70.5 miler this year.  My first 19.2 miles would also be considered the first leg of Backcountry Edge’s 70.5-mile relay.

The first year, I attacked the course like I thought I should, having only to cover a little more than 11 miles before handing off to the next runner.  I pounded the downhills, shot the quads I really could’ve used on the grind of a climb that lives at miles 6-7.5, puked a bit.  I actually ran a pretty good time, as I recall, only to discover that my fellow team members had been directed to checkpoint #1 instead of aid station #1, meaning that they were 9 miles away by trail and a lot more than that by the roads that eventually got them back to me.  In the meantime, I proceeded to cramp up in seemingly every muscle I possessed.

Last year, I had all kinds of digestive issues that very nearly ended my day and pushed my finish time out to the very brink of acceptable qualifying standards.

Despite all that calamity, it was impossible to not be smitten with the indescribable beauty of this little corner of the world with its sustained high perch above the rolling valleys below, endless acres of deciduous forest, numerous streams, sprawling fern meadows, laurel thickets, rocky outcroppings and mile after mile of siren song singletrack.

Couple that with the fact that I’d been granted privileged acceptance into a tribe of damn fine trail runners (and even better people), the Laurel Highlands Ultra, in spite of its seeming determination to break my body and spirit, had become my absolute favorite of favorite races.

Hence the decision to sign up for the full 70 and coaxed my friends and co-workers to join in the fun.

By early Friday evening, the tribe had reunited in the tiny, picturesque whitewater rafting mecca of Ohiopyle in a collection of small lodges a couple hundred yards from the race start, new introductions had been made and our potluck feast was served.  Food consumed and dishes done, we meandered down to the banks of the Youghiogheny River to snap a group photo before settling into our individual pre-race preparations and attempts at sleeping before the 5:30 AM start.

My feet and legs felt great and together with my mind, bolstered by wise and friendly (for the most part friendly) reminders to calm down and start slow, the whole body settled quickly and easily into a surprisingly good night of sleep.

Waking together, the Backcountry Edge crew talked through race details and got ready to head down  to race packet pickup.  I was just about to leave the lodge when I was pleased to find my body ready for a sit-down bathroom break while I toilet was still ready available.  

Always good to get that out of the way early.

We mingled with the rest of the tribe and a sea of other friendly, anxious (many familiar) faces, snapped a couple of photos and said our “see you laters” to those not about to immediately run.  In what felt like no time at all, the massed crowd pressed forward across the parking lot and made its first steps up into the Highlands.

Temperatures, I’m guessing, were in the mid-to-upper 60’s to start with the sun still slightly below the horizon and little humidity, certainly by prior year’s standards.  The only clouds in the sky were of the big, puffy, completely non-threatening variety.  In other words, conditions couldn’t have been much, if any, better.

Kelly and I ran side by side, chatting a bit, and keeping things well under control.  I’m guessing he was just doing what he does and I was doing my best to try and do what he does too.  He’s way out of my league at long distances and has accumulated experience enough in the last year-and-a-half to outweigh   what I’m likely to amass before my legs or mind finally stop working (let’s hope that’s not next year).  That said, I also knew he’d been under the weather the entire week, a week that his body would otherwise have been fully attending to its recovery from a super strong performance at the Old Dominion 100 the weekend before.

With those factors in play, I thought there was some chance that we’d separate a bit early in the race with me getting out ahead to await his stalking me down and blowing by me a couple of hours later.  This happened somewhere along the line in an early climb but as I was still half awake, I failed to make note of exactly when it happened.  If you’d have asked me then for a prediction, I would probably have placed my bet on Kelly catching up/passing me by somewhere around miles 15-20 and sooner than that if I got impatient and failed to control my pace.

Derek and Kema had gotten out early to hike up the trail and say "good mornings" to the passing runners.  I was locked in some kind of thought as I passed them by and almost missed them entirely.  I'd have kicked myself if I had and hearing Derek's voice was just another unspoken reminder to keep things in check.

By inadvertently getting tucked in behind 3 or 4 conservative runners on some of the early climbs, I held my pace in check, following their lead and power-hiking sections that I would likely have run if left to my own devices.  Eventually, as I found myself pausing for moments to keep from hiking right up and over the next runner, I made polite conversation as I passed them and picked things up just a hair.

At some point, I glanced over to my right and noticed the incredible view that peeked from time to time through keyholes in the heavy foliage.  Somewhere far down below, the Yough snaked through the valley and just above it huddled a blanket of fog that we were climbing higher and higher above.  It was the kind of view that more than justifies stopping to dig a camera out of your pack regardless of what time you're chasing.

Soon thereafter, the trail tumbled back downward into the descent that had cooked my quads a few years back.  A runner just behind me, apparently a member of the good-as-they-come Virginia Happy Trails Club, made reference to this being the "crime" portion of the crime-and-punishment that is the first 8 miles of the LH 70.

Punishment would come soon enough on the long, long, yep-still-going climb up from mile 6. Here's a photo I snapped after looking back over my shoulder during an early section of the climb.  This picture ranks highly on the doesn't-tell-the-story meter, you can appreciate the fact that this is the view, in either direction, for many, many minutes.  In 2010, I can remember thinking I'd sell what little kingdom I possess for just a single switchback.

But, in all honesty, I handled the hill.  I certainly didn't master it and it was plenty hard work, but I emerged at the top surprised that there wasn't more climbing to be done and pleased to not feel nearly as diminished at the top as I'd been in years past.

My stomach was holding up and I was getting down and holding down plenty of fluids.  The next few miles are runnable and beautiful.  I picked up the pace just a tick to offset all of slow climbing that came before.  By the time I reached the first aid station, a little bit beyond the 11-mile point, I was well aware of the work I'd done, but still feeling pretty good and anxious to knock out the next 9 miles and run together with Kalyn as she took over relay duties at the first checkpoint situated at 19.2 miles.

All systems were go and the next couple of miles passed relatively uneventfully.   My legs and stomach felt great and I was soaking up the view that I'd failed to take in during my dehydrated low points the year before.

The trail hooked to the right and traced the shoreline of the little lake that I only vaguely remembered from the year prior.  A blue heron was perched on a far snag and all was right with the world.

And then, no more than 10-20 minutes after snapping that photo, I crapped my pants.

Not really, but it sure felt like I was going to.  Most of this course in under the cover of trees, but the old growth leaves little room for new trees and is, for the most part, wide open beneath the canopy except for lower-to-the-ground growth like laurel, ferns and poison ivy. A quick inspection of the landscape ahead didn't suggest much privacy for the pit stop that was threatening to happen whether voluntarily or involuntarily.

Voluntarily sounded preferable so I clambered off the trail for 20-30 yards where a slight slope allowed me to crouch just barely out of view to any on-trail passerby.  Fourteen or fifteen miles into the day, most runners were likely to be staring at that familiar spot about 5-10 feet out ahead of the next footfall anyway.  Still, it was humbling.

Let's be clear.  Day to day, I'm regular.  Solid, but regular.

You wanted to know, right?

At that moment, I was anything but solid.  Anything butt.

The stop took longer (duh) that I wanted it to and except for pausing to offer silent praise to whomever invented wet wipes, I went ahead and cursed everything else.  I'd been alone on the trail for a mile or two and was greatly disliking the sound of several pairs of feet shuffling past me.  I couldn't care less about my position in the race, but the idea of dropping further off pace was a downer.

Anything butt falling behind.

Back on my feet, I was slightly relieved to find that I didn't have any immediate lingering discomfort from the stop and hoped that maybe, just maybe, that would be the last of it.  As I though of hours on end of gels, shots, sports drinks and copious amounts of sweat, I had my doubts.

No more than a mile later, I was off the trail again, crouching over another Ohiopyle of my own making.  The initial stop took longer than the first and the output was less solid than before.  Holy shit was I regular!

As I rose out of my crouch, determined to get back on the trail and off toward the aid station ASAP, my bowels commanded to get right back into the assumed position I'd just vacated.  That was the moment that I also realized that I was sweating profusely and hot, hot, someone-please-anyone-turn-the-hose-on-me hot.

I cleaned up yet again and kicked through the underbrush back to the trail.  I didn't take more than a step or two before I realized I'd left my pack and two handheld bottles back at the scene of the latest (forget the downhills) crime.  I cursed aloud and cringed at the fact that my mind had chosen to go with "SHIT!".

Pack and bottles retrieved, I set my mind on Checkpoint #1 and actually settled back into a pretty brisk pace.  I was so, so hot even though I could feel that the air around me was still pleasantly cool and, having lived through merciless Pennsylvania summers my entire life, there was no mistaking the absence of humidity.  The wheels, as they (bastards) say, we're coming off.

I began using my handhelds at every creek crossing (thankfully, there were several) to pour water over my head, the back of my neck and across my shoulders.  I'd refill before actually leaving the creek and would resoak myself as soon as I began to dry and again become aware of my temperature.

My strength had noticeably flagged after each of my first two pit stops and after one more scramble into the woods to drop my shorts, I was flatlining pretty hard.  A couple people passed by and offered aid, but I wasn't lucky enough to cross paths with anyone dealing Imodium.  Forget switchbacks, my kingdom for a swig of Pepto!

No such luck.

There's one last kicker of a hill to clamber up before reaching Checkpoint #1 and Bobby caught me from behind right about then.  I'd be curious to know what kind of diarrhea-addled nonsense I spewed at him but maybe it's best I don't remember.  I do know I was having one hell of a time convincing my legs to get me up that hill and it's one I would've gobbled up on a  normal day.  A regular day.

I do think I managed to mumble something about keeping an eye out for Kalyn as I knew full well I was going to have to hope she could run her leg without the company I'd promised.  I was holding out hope that I could get myself put back together at the aid station, but I didn't expect that it was going to happen quickly.

Jefferson suddenly appeared in front of me on the trail and, while I can't imagine I did a good job of expressing it, I was happy to see him.  I couldn't be far now.

As Jefferson reports it, my first words to him were "I need to be somewhere".  As idiotic as that must have sounded, it wasn't far from the truth.

He walked me in (I'm assuming we were walking, I don't actually remember) and Kalyn was off-and-running.  The guilt washed over me as she disappeared up the trail and I tried to embrace the mystical restorative powers that dwell in aid stations.  In my peripheral vision, I could see held looks that confirmed that I must have looked at least as awful as I felt, if not worse.  Drinks were fetched and two packets of Imodium appeared in my hand.  Unfortunately, the shivering kicked in right about then and it seemed to take an eternity for Jefferson to realize that, despite my best efforts, I was failing miserably at prying those godforsaken pills from their foil-encased resting places.  Had he not noticed, I think I might still be sitting there bending and twisting the packets back-and-forth.

I have no idea how long I sat there listening to ludicrous but incredibly entertaining discourses on flavors of Gatorade from one of the young aid station volunteers while Jo and Jefferson brought me cups of the generic soda I kept pointing at and tracking down additional layers of clothing to try and get my shaking to stop.

By then, we'd gotten word that Kelly wasn't progressing very quickly and likely suffering the full impact of a week without much in the way of food or recovery.  I had reached the aid station way ahead of its cutoff time and, at least in theory, still had plenty of day to traverse the full course if I could just get things back under control.  I made up my mind that if Kelly made the cutoff and had any intention of going on, I'd give it a shot too.

I won't deny the selfish relief I felt as he finally walked into the aid station and removed the pack from his back.  There was no mistaking body language that said "I will run some other day."  It spoke for both of us.

So, that was that.  Another day, another DNF.

I prepped myself to deal with the shame and put on a supportive face for my teammates, my friends and all the other runners still on the course.

But, a funny thing happened.  I didn't need to put on any face at all.  In fact, I just needed to get out of the way of the smile that soon crept out and stayed put for the rest of what turned out to be another incredibly joyful day in the Highlands.

It was impossible to not remain completely psyched and engaged by the progress of our relay team.

Kalyn plowed soldiered through miles 19.2-32 like she'd been doing it for years, despite the fact that this was her first real trail run and, being that her leg was a bit over 13 miles, her first half-marathon too!  Concern and guilt sent me backtracking from Checkpoint #2 to be the first to see Kalyn as she approached the handoff, but it was washed away by the pride and elation I felt as she appeared with her beaming trademark smile so I could give her a bearhug before urging her on the aid station.  It's a moment I will truly cherish. 

After being keyed up to run from the moment runners left the start line at 5:30 AM (see evidence below), Jefferson devoured the third leg.

 Tim was chomping at the bit too by the time Jefferson raced up the hill and into Checkpoint #3.  Though he's unlikely to give himself the credit he deserves (as is his way), Tim further padded our time cushion before passing the final baton to Taylor.

Taylor left the last checkpoint with a question mark of a knee and a 3-mile technical and, by the time he'd get there, in-the-dark descent before reaching the end of the trail.  He ran like an animal, blazed into the finish and radiated with the joy of exceeding his own expectations. I got to deliver yet another well deserved hug that I'll remember always.

As a team, we had no idea what to expect in terms of a finishing time and I would surely have been proud of us for just making the 3:30 AM cutoff time.

Taylor crossed the line just minutes ahead of 10:00 PM.

Photo courtesy of Kelly and Jo Agnew

Enos, whom I'd met the night before, had breezed into and blown through the aid station while I was regrouping on his way to an impressive 2nd place finish in the 50K.  Ron and Bobby were clearly locked in and knocked out their first 70-milers in 20 hours.  Ron's wife Jo completed the 50K and made her way to a later checkpoint and caught up with the crew at a later aid station.  Randy missed a cutoff on the 50K and was swept from the course but had himself another great day in the woods and retained the indomitable spirit that makes him so beloved.  He's already made it clear he'll be back next year.

My only regret for those members of the tribe who saw the course through the whole way to the end is that they missed out on hours and hours of laughter with the rest of us.  If I think on it too long, I might just start attending races instead of bothering to race them.  I'd share a story or two or ten, but this post has already reached epic (or, if you prefer, too damn long for anyone to possibly bother reading the whole thing) length.

I will say this, to suggest that one hasn't lived until a next door neighbor has knocked on the door with a plate of shit asking if it belongs to your dog is clearly a ridiculous statement.  I would, however, argue that to say  you haven't lived until you've heard that full story is hardly a stretch.

I am strangely happy that my loose and unhappy bowels were the reason that story got told.

Long, long (how-much-longer?) story short, I had a wonderful day and a wonderful weekend with as wonderful a group of friends as one could ever hope to have.  It's how we do it in the Highlands.  It's how we've done it and it's how we're going to keep on doing it.

Only next time, I'm bring the Imodium and unwrapping them ahead of time.

not quite write.

Writer's block?  I don't think so.

Lily finished up preschool with a flourish, making learning leaps forward at mesmerizing speed.  Piper Bea turned 3 and, during a blink I suppose, unfurled the flag of her burgeoning personality.

Clinicals and classes wound down for Lindsay and the promise of a "summer of fun" began to shine brightly enough to push the dark weight of school stresses into the shadows.  The kickoff event, our first ever true family beach vacation, was just a few weeks away.

In mid-May I learned that I was going to get to run the GORE-TEX TransRockies event (http://transrockies-run.com/) in August with my pal, Sean, and, thanks to "press" credentials, my entry fees were waived.  Needless to say, this news more than made up for the word that the Slickrock 100, my anticipated first 100 miler, wasn't going to be held in 2012.  

By the time the TransRockies plans were firmed up, Bobby had already found an alternative to Slickrock, the Oil Creek 100, and, while he was it, he rounded up a gaggle of other dumbasses for the occasion.  It sounded like so much fun that my only regret was having to wait until October.

All that good stuff and, meanwhile, right on the horizon loomed my favorite of favorite races, the Laurel Highlands Ultra.  I've made my way up the ladder, starting with a leg of the 50K relay in 2010 and then running the full 50K last year.  This year, I signed up for the full 70-mile event and was equal parts excited and terrified.  Last year's Laurel Highlands event continues to stand out as one of the best weekends of my life, running or otherwise.  Friendships were forged and strengthened there that I have no doubt will last a lifetime.

A long, brutal day on the trail that nearly resulted first in a DNF and then in a non-qualifying time morphed into an incredibly satisfying and rewarding just-under-the-wire finish.  With apologies for the gross exaggeration, it was as close to a back-from-the-dead experience as I've ever had.  This year, I am determined to have a different type of rewarding day and am psyched to introduce several other friends to the festivities by having my first 19 miles also count as the first leg of Backcountry Edge's 70-Mile Relay team.

My running, leading up to Laurel, has been good.  Not great, but pretty good.  And pretty frequent.  Which IS great.  Accomplishing that has meant doing a ton of running at night...which I love.

Unfortunately, that is also when I tend to do a good bit of my writing, and something had to give.

Do I have a lot to write about?

Yep.

Can it wait?

With Laurel Highlands happening three days from now, it's gonna have to.

a day's hard night.

Just before walking out the door of the office on Friday afternoon, I received news that a deadline I thought was 3 weeks away was actually just a week out.  That news hit me like a kick in a place (pick a place) that hurts and hurts a lot.  I wasn't happy to hear it.  Angry, in face and my initial and immediate frustration threatened to fester and destroy my entire weekend.

I fumed for a few minutes, recognized that because of the give-and-take required in the project, I wasn't going to make any headway this weekend anyway, and decided that I was going to take advantage of that fact and have a helluva weekend before settling into the sure-to-be-painful grind on Monday morning.

I went home and found the kids at play in the backyard with one of the neighbor kids and a friend of Lil's from her nursery school.  I tagged in on parent duty, freeing up Lindsay to attend to school work of her own, and spent the next couple of hours performing soccer goalie duties, being a "monster" and chasing the screaming kids from one end of the yard to the next.  It was great.

On Saturday, I played endlessly with the kids and, once Lindsay got home from clinicals, went with the entire family to the carnival in Buchanan Park.  It, too, was great or at least the time we had together was.

We had a wonderful little dinner together on the outside patio of a local restaurant at which all of the other patrons decided to eat indoors.  Having the whole place to ourselves, we laughed and enjoyed each other's company without any of the usual concern for the other diners that can make eating out with 3 and 5 year olds less than inviting.

You guessed it...it was great.

Arriving home as the sun was just beginning to set, I knocked out the mowing (don't EVEN get me started on this country's ridiculous obsession with manicured lawns) while the girls got tubbies (yes, we call baths tubbies) and Linds readied them for bed.

I finished up in time to take over bedtime story reading duties and got the girls tucked into their beds.  I doubt that visions of sugar plums danced in either of their little heads, but they drifted off with smiles that left me certain of sweet dreams to come.

And then...it was time run.

Rumor had it, there was a super moon on the prowl and that meant the promise of brightly lit trails to accompany the warm temperatures.  With Lil and Piper in bed and Linds bound for the same soon, all I had to worry about was being home by sunrise when Lindsay would need to again return to rounds at the hospital.

I rendezvoused with Jefferson a short while later and we carpooled 40 minutes north and east to where the Appalachian Trail crosses Route 325 in Clarks Valley.  This is the same trailhead from which I'd started my Horseshoe Trail 37-miler back in July 0f 2010 and Jefferson had seen me off on that run too.  This time we'd be heading west instead of east, climbing up Peters Mountain and running its ridgeline until we decided we'd gone far enough and needed to turn around and come back to the car.

This so called Super Moon was out, and bright to be sure, but there were plenty of clouds to dull the dazzle of its touted performance.  My romantic wishing for a run by moonlight was definitely going to require the sensible reliability of a headlamp.

Jefferson had had stomach issues earlier in the week that had him wondering about the state of his legs and I was curious if I would feel any ill effects from my climbfest on Mole Hill earlier in the week.  I had hoped to sneak in another run or two between then and now but my schedule had not cooperated.

The only real significant uphill of the night came right away, as the southbound Appalachian Trail sign at the low-lying parking lot on Route 325 points to an 800 foot climb over the next mile-and-a-quarter.  A couple of big step-ups near the end of the first mile reminded me that we intended to go a long way and maybe it wasn't the wisest decision to be attempting to run every single inch of the ascent.  Jefferson didn't protest, hinting that it would've been nice to have a warm-up ahead of a run straight up the mountain.

No such luck, but we were up on top soon enough and settled back quickly into a steady pace.  We talked about life in general (as we always do), our families and Jefferson's adolescent memories of visiting a camp in the valley just below us.  We also discussed the the terrain in relation to the Laurel Highlands trail where we'd be running together in just a few weeks.  I remember commenting that Laurel would have more elevation change but wouldn't be quite as rocky even though, at that point, I was finding the footing far less rocky than what had been the case on my recent miles on sections east of where we were.

The moon was growing less and less super as the night wore on and the clouds won over.  It did continue to make infrequent appearances and I tried to take advantage of its light to snap a few photos.  Through the lens of my camera, the moonlight cast ghostly glow through Jefferson's water bottle.

We also took periodic breaks to make sure that we were refueling, an effort worth making in the warm, humid conditions.  Jefferson's legs had come back and I was feeling good too.  Despite this, the initial climb, the rocky footing and the handful of stops had kept us from doing anything even close to our strongest pace and by the time we stopped at around 7.5 miles to assess the run and how much further we should go, it was well past midnight.

A slave to landmarks and wanting to reach points on the AT from which I can start fresh another day, I had hoped to make it all the way out to the pedestrian footbridge that spans the trail's intersection with Route 225.  This was likely another 2 miles from where we stopped to make our assessment.  Knowing that we'd have a 45 minute drive home after we got back to the car, I'd pretty much decided it was time to turn around.

But...I didn't know our exact location and, being certain that that would bother me in the days after, I suggested that we keep going west until we hit the next recognizable landmark and turnaround at that point.

We blew right past the spur trail that leads to the Peters Mountain shelter without seeing the sign that identified it as such.  When we hit a power line, I knew that we were only a half mile from the footbridge and, both feeling good, we barely hesitated in making the decision to push on.

The parking lot just before the bridge burst into sight somewhere after 2:00 in the morning. The view through the fence that ensures hikers don't topple down onto the road below was eerie in the light of the full moon and again I pulled out the camera and tripod to see what I could manage to capture.

We'd come 9.75 miles and, looking at a good long return trip, we made sure to pound some food and drink before getting back on our feet.  Except for minor stiffness, to be expected with the AT underfoot, we were both feeling fairly fresh.

And we continued to for the next mile or two.

When you do an out-and-back and start wondering why the trail seems so much more technical on the return trip, it's a pretty clear sign that you're getting fatigued.  And I was.  So was my partner and his knees weren't just fatigued but angry.  My feet were getting sloppy and, as can happen when this starts to be the case, I banged the front outside of my left foot hard and awkwardly off of a rock with a poorly timed step.  I hadn't broken anything but I'd clearly bruised myself in a fashion that made certain footfalls painful.

The time to shuffle had arrived.  Anyone who's done any ultra racing or significantly long trail running knows exactly what I'm talking about.  The knees stopped lifting and the feet were coming off the ground just high enough to scoot forward just quickly enough to not be mistaken for walking.  Through a couple of relatively smooth sections, we made decent progress but those sections were frequently interrupted by rocky stretches that demanded a picking of spots that slowed us to a determined hiking.

Despite our ever slowing pace, I was psyched because I knew that we'd already well surpassed the length of Jefferson's prior longest run and forward progress was still happening even if not at the pace with which we'd started.  I tried to keep Jefferson encouraged by keeping him abreast of the diminishing distance between us and our waiting vehicle but I believe that backfired as one of those updates informed him that we weren't nearly as far along as he and his body had hoped.  In hindsight and in putting myself in those same shoes, I should have just kept my mouth shut.

Keeping my mouth shut might have also kept me from the hyper awareness of how dry it was.  The heat and humidity, while not overwhelming, had definitely coaxed both of us into consuming more fluids than normal and with several miles left to go, we were metering out the last few drops instead of drinking our fill.  I daydreamed (nightdreamed?) of the Platypus bottle of water that I'd pulled from the freezer right before leaving home.  I'd talked myself out of carrying it in my pack while we ran but knew it would be waiting when we finally arrived back at the lot.

After what seemed like forever, the trail began a noticeable downward progression and it was obvious that we were in our final descent.  With the finishing line looming, fairly forgiving footing and gravity as aid, I picked up the pace but soon discovered, in looking back over my shoulder, that Jefferson was no longer tucked in right behind me.  I crouched down and waited a few moments for him to catch back up and he acknowledged that his knees were not going to let him pound away on the downhill.

Coming up out of my crouch, I realized that my quads and calves had a bit of the just-about-to-cramp feeling and, knowing that the car was close, I was quite content to take the time we needed to get down without pushing the pace or are luck in that last mile.

We made it, of course, and the water was just as cold as I'd imagined it.  We'd knocked out nearly 20 miles beneath the less-than-super moon and, in spite of the fatigue, I'd enjoyed the several hours that Jefferson and I had spent together.

 

I walked through the door of my home at ten of 6:00, just in time for Lindsay to wake up and head to clinicals.  An hour or two later, Lily and Piper roused me from a dead-to-the-world sleep in search of breakfast.  That was all the sleep I was going to get until later that night but I had no interest in cutting into Daddy-time because of my late night.

Thankfully, the girls didn't need to me to do anything more than shuffle as we played our way through the rest of the day.

...everything but the drinks.

I received a ridiculously generous invite from my Osprey sales rep to fly to Cortez, Colorado in April and join Osprey Packs on a trip into the canyons of southeastern Utah.


I and the other invitees would get to test packs and other gear, immerse ourselves in the culture that makes Osprey such a unique, inspiring manufacturer and, well, play.

Since getting back, I've started and stopped writing a recap blog at least a couple of dozen times.  Just like a western sky, free of the ambient light of urban sprawl, this trip was on a scale that's hard to capture on film (film?) or in print.

When my new friend, Sean McCoy, who I'd met on the trip published his review for Gear Junkie, I decided to bag making a full review of my own.  I would, however, definitely encourage you to read Sean's post:  Gear Junkie: Into the Depths

I decided instead, being a gear junkie myself, to snap a few photos of what I carried, wore, ate off of, etc. during the trip.  This type of thing may not be of interest to anybody, but it's exactly what I find myself most curious about when reading running, backpacking, adventuring reviews.

Sean carried the same pack that I did, the Aether 60, and gave it some love in his article, so I'll skip right past that.

With a weather report that promised clear skies and little to no chance of precipitation, all 14 members of the group decided to leave tents behind.  Our guide, Chris Barber, reportedly had a sizable tarp but it never made an appearance as we all slept under stunningly open skies.

My sleep set-up consisted of a borrowed Rab Neutrino Endurance 200 sleeping bag.  This is an 800-fill down mummy-shaped bag that has a pretty solid (in my book...I sleep warm) 32 degree temperature rating, packs down small and weighs less than 2 pounds.  Killer.  And Rab includes one of the sweetest, double-cinch waterproof stuff sacks I've seen.  I was super impressed and the buyer-in-me has me strongly considering adding the Rab line to Backcountry Edge's Spring 2013 assortment.  I'm a huge fan of sleeping bag liners and the life-extending boost that they give sleeping bags and I long ago fell in love with my Cocoon Silk Expedition Liner.  This also packs down to nothing, weighs a couple of ounces and justifies its inclusion on every trip.  I slept on the ultra-lightweight Klymit Inertia X-Frame inflatable sleeping pad and loved it as much as I expected to when I chose it for the trip.  My head rested on Exped's Air Pillow and you can insert every word I wrote about the liner here to know how I feel about it.

Osprey equipped each of us with a trio of SealLine Dry Sacks (2.5L, 10L and 30L) and it was a good thing too, as we hit an extended stretch in slot canyons on the last day that required first waist deep and then sternum deep (if you're as short as I am) wading.  I didn't actually end up dipping my pack, but it was nice to know everything was fully protected.  I'd brought my own SealLine eCase which I've been using for several seasons to protect my point-and-shoot.  I also brought along a couple of waterproof Granite Gear Air ZippDitty sacks which were perfect for keeping headlights, snacks, first aid and other gear organized.  These fit perfectly inside the hipbelt pockets on a couple of the packs I use at home.  The Aether 60 doesn't have hipbelt pockets, my one gripe, but these still came in handy for use inside the Aether's lid pocket.

Ah, my feet.  I hiked primarily in a pair of TrekSta Evolution II trail shoes.  I've been testing them for TrekSta along with a pair of their Edict running shoes and intend to post a far comprehensive review in the near future.  For now, suffice to say that these were hands down the most comfortable, responsive hiking shoes I've ever worn.  The Evolution II is a lower-profile version of TrekSta's award-winning Evolution Mid GTX.  I'm not a big fan of GORE-TEX (as hot as my feet get in standard mesh shoes, I start sweating at the very thought of a waterproof liner) and the Evolution Mid flirts with being a true boot and I just don't do boots.  I also made room in my pack for the New Balance 110's and was glad I did.  At the end of the long second day of crawling over/under rocks, rappelling down cliffs and navigating tilted canyon walls we reached a campsite atop an incredible sandstone shelf that (with a little creativity and a tack-on stretch in the wash below) served up a 3+ mile run.  These shoes absolutely shined on this surface and made me sad all over again at the news that the Slickrock 100 isn't being held this year.  Alas.  Throughout the trip, I wore DryMax socks.  Duh.


Yep, I just laid down a duh.

On the first night that we arrived in Cortez, our group of 14 was split into smaller "cooking groups" and each group had an MSR Reactor Stove System to use for cooking.  I've been a fan of the system since it launched and, if it wasn't so spendy, I may have invested in one of my own somewhere along the way.  Anyway, with the stove (and food!) provided, we only needed to worry about bringing utensils, cups, flatware and whatever else we thought we'd need for mealtimes.  I kept things simple.  I made friends with the Snow Peak 600 Titanium Double-Wall mug a long, long time ago and it waits on the counter for me each morning, accompanies on my drive to work and keeps me company at my desk all day long.  It also tags along on every backpacking trip, including this one.  I also brought the Optimus Folding Spork, a collapsible, lightweight and surprising little durable utensil.  My meal kit was rounded out with my two Guyout Design Squishy Bowls.  Yes, that IS what they are called.  Laugh if you want, but this little malleable silicone bowls are a backpacker's dream come true.  Trust me.  To ward off my addicted tremens, I also packed plenty of Honey Stinger Waffles...if I had any left, I'd have included them in the photo.  Yum. 

As warm as it was, I didn't carry a lot of clothes.  I'm not sure I even needed it, but I did bring along my lightweight Outdoor Research Transcendent Sweater and, I must admit, it was nice to have this low-profile down piece at night while we sat beneath the stars and passed around the wine (yes, we hauled along quite a bit of wine...in Platypus bottles, cause we're backpackers, see).  In the mornings, I slipped into Rab's super lightweight Boreas Pull-On softshell.  There's not much to it, but it's one of those great pieces that adds just enough warmth and separation from cool air.  And, it takes up very little space inside a pack.  I had a breathable, brimmed Mountain Hardwear hat (the name escapes me) that I wore during the day to keep off sun and glare and another of their beanies that I wore at night to ward off the chill.  A pair of Native Silencer sunglasses gave further protection from the sun and the Mammut S-Flex headlamp served as my light source at night.  I'm not a big fan of sunglasses though I fully respect the protection that they give.  The Silencers do their job and are fairly un-obnoxious as performance eyewear goes.  The S-Flex is hardly the brightest or most feature-rich lamp that I own but I appreciate how lightweight it is and how small it is when all I need is a little bit of extra visibility around a campsite.

Osprey gave us one final parting gift and it was a sweet one, a very limited edition embroidered Hornet 32.  This is one wickedly-light (1 lb, 5 oz) day pack that can be used with or without its lid and is ready-made for fast-and-light pursuits, be that running, biking, fast-packing or whatever else you have in mind.  Good stuff.  It didn't accompany us on the trip itself, but deserved a mention nonetheless.

That was pretty much my full rig.  That and the wine.

wantitump.

Give it a rest with the Mole Hill already, right?

NOTE:  Real molehills, not THE Mole Hill.

I hear you, but it put its hooks in me.  Did right from the start and never let go.

Was thinking recently that I'd be curious if there is another name for that hill, trail, ridge, what it might be and who got to name it in the first place.  Doesn't matter, really, as I'll never consider it anything but the mountain I've made of it and have been busy, busy cementing its newly christened name to any and all who will listen.

I've tried on numerous occasions to take photos and/or shoot video there but justice cannot be done.  Frankly, the hill's just not all that pretty and there aren't long enough lines of sight to even provide much visibility of what lies above or below at any given point. It's not very tall and between knowing that and not being able to see the crest above or the bottom below through the trees, Mole Hill just isn't all that visually foreboding.

The actual measurements?

At the base, the hill is a pedestrian 571 feet above sea level and at the tippiest top you aren't likely to find yourself throwing wide your arms and bellowing out any DeCaprion "king of the world" proclamations.  The full height is only 1019 feet.  BUT, you do get there in a hurry.  

Let me modify that.

You don't necessarily GET there in a hurry but the distance between point A and point B is a mere .41 miles.

Meaning what?

Meaning that in well under half a mile, you will have gained 448 feet of elevation and done so with rocks, leaf litter, logs and downed limbs adding further obstacle to the ascent.  That's a healthy grade of over 20% and there aren't any breaks along the way, no "whew, at least that part is behind me" sections to be had.

It took me somewhere in the vicinity of 1.5-2 years to finally run the whole thing from top to bottom and I screamed with joy with what little air I had left in my lungs the first time I topped out on the move.  I've been up and down that trail many, many times since and have only seen 2 other people run the whole thing and only 1 of those 2 convincingly.  I've been stoked for both of those friends and will be for everyone else who gets there too.

That's not meant to pat me on the back, but it is offered as evidence that I'm not making claims of a secret location that no one has ever visited to back my claims.

Mole Hill is real and if it wasn't for my peculiar fixation on it, I don't think I'd have made ascending it on the run such a regular part of my routine.

I honestly don't have many love/hate relationships but whatever is going on between me and that ridge definitely qualifies as such.

I usually like to include an ascent of Mole Hill in longer runs rather than just settling into that one spot.  Like I said, it really isn't all that long and I often want to log more mileage than I possibly can by staying just in that one spot.  The surrounding area is beautiful and offers up prettier trails of varying length, technicality and distance.  The many trails of Camp Mack and Pumping Station are less than a mile away and the climb up Mole Hill connects directly to the Horseshoe Trail.  Throwing Mole Hill in the mix ups the difficulty factor and adds intrigue but there's usually plenty of great running to be had away from the Hill too.

But, a couple of nights ago, I grit my teeth and decided to see how many laps I could churn out, how many miles I could manage at one go.  I didn't have all night, as I'd promised to bring back Benadryl for my wheezing, sniffling allergy-suffering wife sometime well before sunrise so she could at least eke out a few hours of drug-induced sleep before I departed for work in the morning.  As muggy a night as it was, she didn't have to worry...the time I could survive on that hill was unlikely to be measured in hours.

And it wasn't.

The first ascent was ugly.  The heat surprised me and I think I went at the climb too aggressively for wanting to do repeats.  I topped out running but was far more gassed than I wanted/needed to be that early in the effort.  Of course, topping out means getting to turn heels into a balance-challenging/quad-thrashing downhill but does allow for the catching of breath and the overall calming of the cardiovascular system.

At the bottom, I felt good.

I downed a salt tablet and some Gatorade to stay ahead of any unwanted cramping and headed back up the way I'd come.

This second ascent was a little more measured and went far easier than the first.  I remember little of it except an improved confidence after my shaky start.

Before I knew it, I was down again, spun around and into my third ascent.  This proved to be the strongest, steadiest climb I've ever managed on Mole Hill.  My legs felt strong, my heart rate was tempered and I was at the crest of the hill in a time that made me wish I'd put a stopwatch on just that climb.

The subsequent "down", however, proved to be that both figuratively and literally.

I didn't trip, but my quads were quivering and my ankles weeble-wobbled and very much threatened to keel all the way over.  I may have hammered the preceding climb but I not without consequences.

I'm sure I had been perspiring the entire time, but on that descent it felt like every pore was a sweat-faucet and that every contour of my body was a spout aimed right for my eyes.  I was determined to maintain a solid pace on the downhill but my burning eyes and rubbery legs were suddenly clumsy companions in the narrow beam of my headlamp.

But I got down.  All the way down...

...and just couldn't walk away with three lousy laps.  Not after the last climb had been so strong.  Still my resolve was shaky and didn't strengthen fully until I'd downed another salt/Gatorade cocktail.

Up I went.  One last time.

Slowly.

Slowly but in a fashion faster than walking, dammit.

Barely.

I made it the whole way but am glad there were no actual witnesses to my whimpering and gasping.  I tend to be a chatterbox during runs (as opposed to the rest of the time when I'm church mouse quiet) but I couldn't have possibly mustered an audible word and continued to pick up my feet at the same time.

But I made it.  The whole way.

Yes, barely.

And down too.  Though that was equal parts comic farce and act of faith.

Some higher power smiled upon me and I'd like to think it was the pileated woodpecker that rat-a-tat-tats his displeasure at me on Mole Hill during the day.  It doesn't sound like he's pleased to have me invading his privacy, but I like to think he can sense my respect for him, his endeavors and his place in the world.  I'd like to believe that my presence qualifies as one of his few love/hate relationships.

Take it as a testament to Mole Hill or an indication of the elite runner that I am not, but I was ecstatic to have cranked out 4 laps and the short to-and-from the car in under an hour.  I was equally ecstatic to take off the t-shirt that was defying gravity by seemingly containing pounds and pounds of sweat and more ecstatic (Ecstaticier?  I know a band name when I see one) than that to get my legs out from beneath me and into a non-weight-bearing position.

Surely, there are far, far more demanding ascents to be had than Mole Hill.  And the air "down here" is blissfully rich in oxygen compared to the climbs to be had at higher elevation.  

AND Dog knows there are far better runners than me.

But, in a world of mountains (and a world of molehills or wantitumps, as they were once known), this one is mine.

one of those days.

Saturday morning broke beautiful.

The last remnant of chill in the air vanished with each upward inching of the rising sun.

I expected I might see a couple of members of the team that I'd assembled/conned to run the Laurel Highlands Ultra 70-mile relay in June, but the parking lot at Speedwell Forge County Park was mine all mine.

http://www.co.lancaster.pa.us/parks/lib/parks/SpeedwellFinish3color.pdf

The phone rang and Kalyn was somewhere other than there but trying desperately to navigate her way there for what would be one of her first ever trail runs. A trooper, she'd signed on for the second leg at Laurel, a 13.1 mile stretch that would be more than double her longest run to date. She wasn't going to manage even a hundred yards today without some on-the-phone assistance, assistance I was more than happy to provide.

A little while later she arrived with her ever present grin and, as it seemed that no one else was going to join us, we were off on our loop.

The track at Speedwell is nice and forgiving, fairly free of rocks and roots and undulating gently with the exception of a couple of short steep sections.  In other words, it's an ideal "course" for a new trail runner to gain confidence and Kalyn made easy work out of our 2+ miles.

I was impressed.

And hungry.

I've developed an addiction to post-run breakfasts, regardless of the time of day.  Coffee, turkey sausage and scrambled eggs over rice with a dollop of soy sauce is my drug of choice and, yes, I like it served best in/on striped mugs/plates situated on birdie place mats.

Go ahead and laugh.  We all have our vices.

With Lily and Piper's birthday party happening the very next day, the rest of the morning was spent securing snacks, paper plates and other kid party essentials.  After returning home and getting Piper Bea down for a nap, Lily and I settled into building goodie bags for the party attendees to take home.

We talked about how tomorrow might turn out and, for the hundredth time, Lily had me go over the list of who might be coming.  I threw in some surprise attendees like Mickey Mouse and the Easter Bunny, but she always called my bluff.  She knew the list already by heart, but liked to hear me say all the names.  How could I not oblige?

Once we completed our task, Lily decided she wanted to watch a movie and offered no resistance when I hinted that I might go for another run.

"Do it, Dad.  Go run," she commanded and, again, how could I not oblige?

I only get so many twofers, so I pulled on shoes and made up my mind to push the pace a bit and decide, as I went, how far to go.  As I've done on the few road runs I've logged as of late, I made a conscious effort to toe-off and make my woeful arches do their part.  With a little luck and a lot more conscious effort, the day may come when those arches and toes work together without my having to specifically ask them to...that'd be a great day.

http://www.usatf.org/routes/view.asp?rID=477610

I ended up putting in a little more than 5.5 miles at somewhere right around 7 minute mile pace and, most importantly, I felt great. I'd been purposely avoiding the road as of late and hoped I didn't regret heading out the door this time.

I didn't.

I spent the afternoon playing, playing and playing some more with the girls.  We rode bikes, slid down slides, swung on the swings, ran, giggled, picked flowers, visited Piper's make believe ice cream shop where she served us grass, tracked ladybugs and played monsters, monsters, monsters!

At some point during all that play, Jefferson sent a text about running on Sunday morning.  I hinted that I was considering running Saturday night and he sent back an enthusiastic "in".  Knowing Lindsay had every intention of hitting the books after the girls went to bed in preparation for an exam on Monday night, my mind was made up.

This monster had signed on for a threefer.

Mole Hill was calling and the legs were still fresh.

The specifics of that night's run matter not at all.  Jefferson and Steve met me at Pumping Station and we tackled Mole before settling into a solid steady pace that allowed for great conversation and a string of shared minutes beneath starry skies and within the warmth of the April darkness.

I'd managed three separate runs covering something in the vicinity of 16 miles while also spending a full day with friends and family.

There are few, far too few, of these days and I'm thankful for every one of them.  May there be more to come.

whew.

I'd kept my plans to myself all week long, as though not saying them aloud would keep my ailing arches from knowing what I planned to ask of them and, surprised, they would rise to the occasion.  They were going to be up to it or they weren't and that was that.  Besides, you can't keep secrets from your body.  No matter how remotely any given point lies from your brain, it gets the word.

Every word.

So come Saturday morning every inch of me was well aware that I was gonna try and get in a 20+ mile run.  Big deal, right?  I know, but my confidence had grown a bit shaky and I really couldn't afford to start and not finish a moderately long run.

I needed this one.

A mile-and-a-half into the run, I was feeling good.  The sun had crept into the sky and the initially rock-riddled section of the Appalachian Trail between Swatara Gap at Route 72 and Route 443 in northern Lebanon County was beginning to change over to grass and hardpack.  A break in the woods led to a marshy stretch spanned by a cleverly crafted dual-track section of planks. 

This is a view that differs considerably from what I've seen on the AT in Pennsylvania and I found myself growing more a more stoked.

After crossing over a road or two, there was a long sliver of singletrack that snaked through some open meadows.

After reentering the woods on the far side, I began working my way up to the top of Second Mountain on a meandering technical track that was steep but totally runnable.  I couldn't have been much more thrilled.

Running across the ridge line of Second I could see the steep drop into Rausch Gap and a wicked gas line climbing straight up from the gap to the top of Stony Mountain across the valley.  I'm pretty sure this is the backside of the power line that resides in the middle of the Buzzards Marathon course.

Looks like a beast.  A beautiful beast with whom I hope to one day do battle.

After several hundred yards, the AT starts to tumble downward, no switchbacks on this stretch, into St. Anthony's Wilderness and the ruins of the once-upon-a-time mining/railroad town of Rausch Gap.  I was only 5 miles into my wandering but I made special note of the fact that I'd have to trudge back up this section sooner or later if I was ever going to return to the car.

It was lovely down in the Gap with the Rausch Creek tumbling through an old stone arch bridge and the April trees beginning to push new blooms.  I still hadn't seen a soul and decided not to force the issue by taking the spur trail to the Raush Gap Shelter though curiosity sat bedevilingly on my shoulder.

Onward.

From the Gap, the Appalachian Trail begins a gentle sustained climb toward the summit of Stony Mountain.  I'd come in the other direction with Jefferson back in July but this side was strikingly different in that it was in no hurry to get where it was going and didn't offer nearly as much damage underfoot.

In other words, it was just what I needed, as the miles began to pile up.  During the week, I'd considered getting the whole way to the junction with the Horseshoe Trail as that's where I'd departed the AT the year prior.  That was going to require a run totally something close to or slightly longer than 30 miles, however, and I'd given myself a hard 9:00 AM turnaround time to ensure that I could get back to the family for a day of play.

I did make it to a second set of ruins at Yellow Springs.  There's a cool trail registry here and, still not having seen anyone, I decided to check out the most recent entries.

As beautiful as the weather had been, there were only a few entries. Bummer.  I scratched in a sentence or two of my own and slid the journal back in the box and settled into breakfast.

Refueled I jumped back onto the trail, continuing to head west.  At this point I was creeping towards that 9:00 end of the road but decided to get in as much mileage as I could.

I would've made it further than I eventually did except, as happens to me, I found myself having to heed nature's call.  And not for relief of the bladder, if you know what I mean.

I hopped off the trail and found a spot to hunker down behind a rock and a tree.  And, yes, of course, the first human sounds of the morning began approaching from the trail.  Wouldn't you know it, I'd managed to not account for a turn in the trail and the very first hiker of the day had a pretty decent view of me, well, defecating.  Looked me right in the eye, he did, though, based on his squinting, I've got a feeling he didn't see much detail.  But he sure was pointed in the right direction and I soon recognized that I would soon be running him down from behind as I made the return trip eastward.  There isn't much glamour in trail running to begin with, but this scenario is definitely not what I envision when I imagine a great day in the woods.  All part of it, though, I suppose.

You're welcome for their being no pictures to accompany the last paragraph.

Onward.

On the way back I began seeing a few more hikers and passed as quickly as possible by the solo hiker who'd witnessed my bathroom break.  For the most part, though, I continued to have the trail to myself and had myself a blast, moving steadily if not swiftly.

I took one more stop at the bridge over Rausch Gap and dangled my feet in the air while knocking down a Honey Stinger waffle and some Gatorade. 

The day was beginning to get away from me and it was time to get back at it, crawl back up to the top of Second Mountain and cruise back into Swatara Gap.  A sign tacked to the tree gave me pause but I figured my being on two legs was sufficient to allow me passage.

I intentionally hiked most of the next mile as I really did hope to run hard the last several miles and didn't want to lay waste to that plan by trying to hammer out the uphill.  Near the top I couldn't resist and sunk my teeth into a little bit of brisk climbing.  It was a short enough stretch that I was able to keep moving the legs once I reached the top out.

I quick-stepped downhill and pushed hard across the open sections of singletrack.  Once I reached the jumbly stretch just before Swatara Gap, I did slow my pace to pick my spots and make sure that tired legs didn't cause a misstep that I'd regret this close to the end of a good long run.

My new TrekSta Edicts (more on these in a subsequent post) were proving to be the bee's knees and my arches and legs had held up just fine.  I hadn't stopped the clock for any rests, breakfast or that traumatic (not really) pit stop, so I was pretty pleased with the final time.

When I ran, I ran strong and without any pain.  I felt happy.  Maybe not as happy as the kids would the next day after hunting eggs and digging into their Easter baskets, but pretty darn happy.