Fading

Sun light cuts across the tree tops throwing broken rays through the open field I'm crossing.  A murder of crows beat the sky.  Over a deafening silence, the sound of the breeze crawls it's way into my ears.  Dry wind pours softly through the meadow.  I raise my arms and run both my hands through the high, dry grass.   My eyes are glazed and weary, squinting from the fading sun.   Bringing a heavy arm in front of my face I read my GPS watch.  It's dead.  My own grasp of time, much like the watch's, has begun to slip away.  The frequent and insidious flow of thoughts that I experience in the everyday has slowed like that of a dwindling faucet.  I've slid into an ubiquitous existence.  At times hours blow by like minutes.  At others a single moment hangs seemingly forever.  This is what I came for I tell myself.  With each step greater pain sweeps up my legs, offset by a subtle and growing elation in spirit.  The wind falls away and the meadow slows it's dance.  Silence and the tree line re-swallow me.

Briarcliff Peekskill FKT: Lost, Dehydrated, and Stoked

Matt cut the engine of his F150.  We got out, stripped off our layers and figured out what bare essentials we needed to bring.  The plan was to yo-yo the Briarcliff Peekskill Trailway, starting at Watch Hill Road. We would run the subscribed 12 miles down to Ryder Road, and then repeat the process in reverse order back to the truck.  The trail wasn’t too tough to find so we synced our watches and set off.  Following green diamond blazes, we quickly realized how poorly marked the trail was, and how the fallen leaves had obscured any semblance of a worn-in footpath.  Tripping on roots and rocks were a necessity we accepted as our heads and eyes were always up and alert, looking for the next blaze. The trail goes through an old rural section of New York east of the Hudson River, and crosses winding back roads many times.  These intersections with dirt and asphalt were where navigation proved difficult.  Few roads were blazed, so many times we had to guess if we were on the right road or not.  Using the small map I brought, we guessed right most of the time, but the brief moments of deliberation and occasional wrong guesses lost us time and momentum.  Perhaps the most scenic section of the trail was the crossing of a large dam.  The reservoir was half-lit by the cloudy sky and provided us some inspiration after some frustrating road crossings.  The rest of the way to Ryder Road went without trouble, expect for a 0.25 section that was extremely overgrown with briar.  Forced to a walk, we slowly navigated through the thorns and popped out at Ryder Road 1hr35min32sec from start time.  To our surprise however, both watches read that we had had covered only 10 miles, rather than the 12 that every website and pamphlet I read had stated.  Our knees and calves were cut up, but physically we felt fine at the halfway point.

The return trip to the truck was mentally exhausting.  Somehow we got off the trail and ended having to take a road back to an intersection we remembered.  Thank God I had signal on my iPhone. Dehydrated and tired we made several wrong turns on the return trip.  Blazes and intersections that were obvious to us on the way South, became vague and blurry in our depleted state heading North.   We reached the truck with a return split of 1hr45min; 10 minutes slower but we added at least of mile of mistakes.  Total running time worked out to be 3hr21min21sec, but mistakes and all we were on our feet for 4hr6min4sec and reached the truck right before it got dark. The last couple miles had taken a lot out of us.  There were no cheers or high fives at the end. We stripped our vests and sat in the bed of Matt’s truck, silent, wondering why we do this to ourselves.  After five minutes of silence Matt asked me, “You ready?”  I said, “Yea.” And that was it. We took the winding road back to school.

Fastest Known Time (FKT) is what it sounds like; a way of keeping track of the quickest times on various trails around the country that do not have races associated with them.  This is mostly due to national park regulations that limit the impact of large groups on their trails.  In a world of paying $120 to run a marathon, Spartan Races, and other hyper-commercialized events, FKT’s distill running to its purest form.  No aid stations, no sponsors, no medals, no stickers to put on your car.  Just you and your watch. 

I found the trail on the FKT ProBoards website. There was no FKT for the trail so I guess we now have it with our Southern split of 1hr35min32sec.  I’ m sure someone with more experience in this area can beat this and I hope they do.  My Strava data is below for anyone interested in planning a run or looking at the mistakes we made. 

http://www.strava.com/activities/208932443 

Recollections from the Ridge

2:43 am.  I'm shivering. The night breeze blows its coldness into my bones.  I take a uneasy step onto the aluminum ladder.  The crevasse is too long to jump.  A deep breathe and silence.  I'm across.  I steal a glance upwards.  First to the sky.  The universe puts on a show for us, thousands upon thousands of stars ignited. Their light with the moon turns the glacier into broken glass.  The faint ghostly ribbon of the Milky Way stands smeared across the horizon.  My eyes travel down to earth and this stubborn ridge.  Above me dance the headlamps of other climbers, strung out, as if on a line, we wind our way steadily up.  The airs thin.  A dull pressure builds behind my eyes.  A step, a breath, and then another.   I kick loose a stone.  It tumbles, haphazardly, oblivious to it's fate off the steeps behind me.  1000ft it tumbles.  I become more conscious of the 9mm rope holding me to my brother and of the crampons grinding and scratching their way into the rocky, icy spine of the Disappointment Cleaver.  Like a skeletons back it cuts up the glacier.  A rocky ladder.  A gravel gauntlet.  Tension builds in the line and in my stomach.  A deep breath, a step, and then another.  Cold air swims down my collar.  The light of my headlamp bounces in front of my eyes, illuminating the others roped to me.  All of us sharing the risk, sharing the experience.  And still we snake our way up.  20 steps I count, another 20 more.  I slip into a hypnotic delusion.  The figure 8 knot in my harness reflects the knot in my gut.  I drink in the air, my lungs always thirsty.  Never quenched.  Another 20 steps another breath.  My head's splitting now.  The silence envelops us.  Red glow spills over the horizon.  A fleeting glance behind me reveals our altitude.  Adams, St. Helens, Hood.  All shadowed on the horizon.  All welcoming morning.  The rope comes taunt.  My axe whines as I pull it from the snow.  I steal a final glance upwards.  A grin on my brother's face.  Heart pounding in my chest, I count my last steps to the summit. 

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.