Cut a Broad Swath

Robbie Mason takes over the blog again with his recent (mis)adventure on a very technical section of the Appalachia Trail in PA...

Immediately I knew it was going to be a rough day when I stepped out of my car. I was attempting to do a solo 18 mile out-and-back on a rocky section of the AT near Hamburg, PA and realized I left my Salomon vest with water and gels at home. Already drove an hour. Not turning back now. Like always, I let the excitement of time in the mountains get the best of me and set off way too fast. Forgot there was a 1000ft ascent in the first 0.75 miles. Headphones broke like mile 1 as well which was a nice touch. Once I started to catch my breath at the top of the mountain I began to feel the full effects of the wind. The trail followed a fairly exposed ridgeline for the next two miles as I got punished by the wind, unprepared in only shorts and a long sleeve half-zip. Only 5 miles in and I was not in a good spot mentally. The elevation change was taking a lot of energy out of me and I knew I would bonk eventually without food or water. Then it started to rain. Fuck me, I thought. If lightning comes I do not want to be the tallest thing on this ridgeline. My next two miles were close to 8 min pace. Funny how great a motivator fear is. About 8 miles in I stopped at the turnaround point. Took 10min to take in the view, but I knew the more I'm not moving the colder I'll get. 14 in I was bonking hard. I was thinking about bumming some water off of someone, but I didn't see another soul the entire day. Half way up the big ascent on the way back I put my face in the white water of a spring. Knowing it was mostly snow runoff I figured it was safe to drink. Who knows if it actually was. I was thankful to see my car. The rocky trail had punish my feet and knees. I immediately drove the the WaWa half a mile away and bought a gallon of water. 

I usually go on adventures and run trails with others. Running alone is different. No music. No conversation. I only heard the wind and tress for more than 3 hours. It heightens your fear, running alone. You have no one to distribute this fear or share the fear with either. Are you still on the trail? How much water do you have left? Don't turn an ankle or you're dragging it out yourself. It is a visceral and pure 1-on-1 confrontation with the mountains. When its done, you take all the credit. There is no one to share in you're happiness. Perhaps we need this once in a while. It is a test of how we measure up against ourselves. 

The Colonial Trail

Matt and I took to the splintered trails of Wissahickon Valley Park yesterday.  Around 11am the clouds broke ushering in an early spring day.  We decided to run for time today shooting for 2 hours which we hoped would translate to about 25k (15m) or half the distance of our ultra.  At 11am we hit the trail head.  As the miles fell away so did the trappings of modern society.  The first steps start on a winding paved bike path, straddled on both sides by manic freeways.  Soon this black top artery cuts its way into the forest, the grumble of automobiles are traded for the gush of rushing water, the smell of exhaust for mud and melting snow.  At mile 3 the asphalt deteriorates into gravel.  At mile 8 the trail funnels to a single track.

The Lenape Tribe called these woods their home.  Years later, Edgar Allen Poe walked these trails in search of solitude and inspiration.   And running them yesterday felt like a trip into the 19th century.   Bridges, barns, and old colonial architecture lay scattered about oblivious to the spinning hands of time.  A heavy blanket of history subtly assert itself here, creeping into and dominating your imagination.

At mile 11 we cram our last gels into our mouths.  We polish off the last of the water.  The river continues to rush on, pushed forward by the hand of spring as the melting snows swell its mass.  We blaze through shallow streams, grind our way up steep staircases of stone, slide over massive boulders.  Matt takes a tumble.  We're both bleeding and our legs are heavy.  But this is what we love.

Slowly the single track reopens to gravel.  Then gravel becomes asphalt and rushing water turns to rushing traffic.  Finally, the past becomes present.  Breathing deeply, we find ourselves on tired legs, out of the 19th century and into the 21st.

Unfortunately didn't carry my camera this time.. so photo courtesy contexttravel.com

No Fall Zone

I'm back in that familiar, lung shredding thin air.  A year ago in Colorado's Rockies,  I had been in a similar situation.  Now as I kick steps into a steep ridge line at 10,000ft, the memories of that Colorado spring ski season flood my senses.  Sweat pools in my helmet, my base layer turns to a sodden blanket.  My shoulder aches as the skis dig in.  Both my ski poles are in my left palm, I plunge them into the heavy, broken snow and lean on them precariously for support.  Take a fall now and I'm in some serious trouble.  I can feel sweat running down the bridge of my nose, splashing at my feet.  Is it the nerves or the unseasonably warm air or just the shear exertion of the climb?  I clumsily tug at the zippers of my shell and mid layer, desperate for ventilation. 

Despite the altitude and narrow margin, I feel pretty strong.  All the cumulative miles spent at sea-level have fortunately provided me enough fitness for this climb to the summit.  I steal a glance away from my feet.  CJ and Pat Doyle are within an arms reach advancing into the fog.  The sun continues its dance through the clouds above me.  Spin drift blows snow down my collar.  We are close, 50 more steps I tell myself.  But 50 steps later I have still not topped out.  My mistake is uncomfortably clear... a false summit.  The true peak lays another 150ft in a meandering line above me.

The winds are strong this high and have violently ripped away the snow revealing the true jagged spine of the mountain.  My own heavy breathing stifles the whine of the gust.  We are close.  From the valley, the three of us are indiscernible.  At best we appear as a black smear against the sky.  My legs are thrashed and heavy. And yet, the last few steps come easy.  The steepness wanes.  It's 11:47am.  We have made the summit.