Solitary Journeys

I am walking through a narrow crowded alley a block and a half off De Wallen, the red light district in the heart of Amsterdam.  A few euros clang in my pockets.  I pass coffee shop after coffee shop, their guests lighting twisted joints. The smell of pot hangs heavy in the November air.  Shop signs hang hodgepodge over the road advertising their variety of magic mushrooms, endorsing their nude shows, exhibiting their collection of bizarre pipes.  The wind is stiff and damp and grey.  My pack is heavy.  I fumble for my passport and train ticket.  Am I going the right way?  Turning a corner the ancient architecture of the station comes into view.  I throw myself onto a bench and wait for the coming train.  Cigarette smoke blows in with the breeze.  I am alone with my thoughts, happy to be on the road, content to be in a new strange place.  This was my first real experience traveling alone, the novelty of it I'll never forget.  

A few weeks ago, waiting to board a connecting flight I sat on the floor in Phoenix Sky Harbor eating a handful of combos.   Looking out on the runway I watched planes land and takeoff.  The rhythm of it all placed me in hypnotic glaze.  That familiar feeling of being alone on the road took me back in.  The awareness is freeing and authentic.  When traveling alone your constantly navigating a stream of fresh experience.  The facade of familiar social interaction crumbles leaving you truly exposed to yourself.  In days spent traveling alone I've learned much about myself, that I can handle thousands of miles of lonely transit.  That a pack and an airport floor are a comfortable bed if your tired enough.  That middle seats suck and a pocket full of Euros goes a short way.  I'll always love traveling with friends and family but a part of me will long for those lessons learned on solitary journeys.  Whether on a walk down Gran Via or on a plane to the Pacific Coast.

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.

More than Running

My brother Matt takes over the blog with this post on the fiber of trail running and living in general:

“Were fucked.” The usual trail is obstructed by three feet of ice and snow; a natural road block stands between us and wilderness. Two weeks with no time on the trail has transformed our usual desire for wilderness into a constant, anxious craving. Deep within a training schedule for an upcoming ultra, we both understand the importance of putting miles on our legs. I want to run; I need to run. “Were fucked.” We relocate to another trailhead, 100 meters from our original location. This track offers a bit more hope, as the snow appears to be packed down by hikers and wildlife. Our first few steps are uneasy. The snow is deep— at least a foot and a half—but the first few inches are baked solid. We continue to walk on the trail, making it a few steps on the crisp crust before sliding waist deep in the powdery subsurface. “Were fucked.” Neither of us our willing to call it day. No words are exchanged but it’s understood: we are not leaving until we reach the top of this mountain.

We’d come to find that this would require an interesting amalgamation of walking, climbing, running, and shuffling. We take the first ascent at a fast hike. I begin to breathe heavily. Any section of trail that offers stability is taken at pace, until one of us takes a dive into the thick white blanket that covers the trail. Even when we are running, it appears to be more of a delicate tip-toe through already sculpted tracks. With each step, my original frustration and disappointment fades. My concern with miles and numbers and races slips away. I find myself smiling with every foot-fall. There is no thought, just me and the wilderness that surrounds me. There is snow, rock, trees, the occasional deer…and me. We trudge through a stretch of icy sludge and rip through another half-mile of single track. The trail opens and we have reached the top. I don’t think of my pace or the number of miles flashing on the screen of my fancy GPS watch. In fact, I have a feeling that I am probably the closest one can get to not thinking at all.

I take a seat on a snow covered rock and take in the view. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and think— this is why I am out here. Sure, I am here to run, but I am here for much more than that. This week’s time on the trail served as a reminder that trail running is about much more than just running. It’s about excitement. It’s about seeing what’s out there. It’s about discovery. It’s about adventure. Perhaps, most importantly, it’s about learning.

Fresh Tracks

My heart is hammering in my chest.  The sound of my exhausted inhalations nearly drown out the music in my ears.  My legs are heavy, so heavy.  I plunge forward, at places the snow line grasps at my knees.  That familiar primal feeling, almost indescribable, pools in my stomach.  It is only here, on a trail run, absorbed into the landscape that I feel it..  I am swallowed by a sea of dry, dead grass.   I am half digested in the shadow of the approaching wood.  Miles lay behind me and before me.  I am tired and on edge.  Watching the rhythmic clobber of my feet in a hypnotized gaze, it's as if my consciousness has taken a seat deeper behind my eyes.  In my wake I leave the only tracks.  Not the only tracks, the only human tracks.  Under foot, through my glazed panoramic vision weave the fragile foot falls of the birds.  The shifting prints of rabbits lay enmeshed with the memory of frantic stabbing deer hoofs.  In places wind cuts scars in the snow.  In others, it builds drifts that spill over like white-watered shore-break.  I am alone and exhausted.  Electrically alive.

B&B > Hotel

Andy & I decided to take a leap of faith and test the waters of the Bed & Breakfast world.  It paid off. We had been meaning to get away for the better part of a year, so when I had finally found myself with a bit of money, I didn't hesitate and booked a two night stay at the Frog & Hollow.  The small B&B was quaint and remote by North Eastern standards.  The hour and a half drive to it sweeps through Pennsylvania's rolling hills. The unmistakable deep red of country barns litter the landscape.
On our journey we buzzed passed squat hedge rows and clustered gray woods blazing through what felt like the setting of a Natalie Babbitt novel.

I felt oddly nervous as the the minutes spun away.  Making the last turn onto Frog Hollow Drive, I envisioned us cramped into an upper bedroom, furniture piled against the door, "Red Rum" splashed across the wall, waiting for our axe murderer of a host to commit the inevitable.

But I was wrong.  Thank God.  Upon arriving, we were genially welcomed by an older, kindhearted couple and given a tour of the house.  The building was old and as I ducked under the doorways and skirted up staircases I could tell it had been built in a different era.  Our room was simple but perfect in its own way.  We were comfortable and warm and happy to be away.

In the morning we met the other guests, and were quite presently surprised to find both other couples to be in their 20s.  We had been expecting, for some reason or another, to be greeted by an elderly couple! or at least I had...  As the latter half of our bed and breakfast experience was cooking, we all shared good, strong coffee around the fire and told some stories and our thoughts on bed and breakfasts.

It was then (perhaps an effect of the caffeinated ecstasy coursing through my veins) that I was sold on them (B&Bs).  There is something ancient to a bed and breakfast and although you do pay for the experience, while you are there you feel to embody the word guest more fully, more meaningfully.  Staying at a bed and breakfast is more akin to xenia then to the comfortable clientele vibe of a hotel.  And for that reason I plan to weather many more nights in bed and breakfasts.  Hopefully spending the evenings sharing stories with a bunch of equally odd strangers and the mornings drinking great coffee.  Even if that means I must occasionally be burdened with the thoughts of the Zodiac hammering at my door.