The 2013 Bighorn Mountain Run 50 Mile

Having ran 46 miles through the mountains, a guy can be left feeling a bit emotionally vulnerable. I suppose that's my excuse for my sudden welling-up with tears as I coasted down the Tongue River Canyon trail. It wasn't because I was in pain. It wasn't because I was having a tough day of ultramarathoning... it was because I was doing waaaay better than I had ever imagined I would ever do that day. Crying because something is going really well?! Men don't do that. What had caused me to get so weird?

The day began as usual, waking up at 3:30am and driving to the starting line at the top of the Bighorn Mountains. I was scared. I was sleepy. And I was drinking some chia seed concoction know as a “Synergy” drink (available in the hippie drinks aisle at your local grocery store). Having run an ultramarathon before, I knew what was coming for me. Even worse, I knew that I had forgotten a lot of what was coming for me, and that I would soon remember why I swore off ultrarunning for three days after the last one.

We arrived at the starting area and saw the scene... a bunch of people with fantastic calf muscles and running attire trying to stay warm. We pulled into a parking spot, and I initiated warmup-for-an-ultra routine... apply sunscreen, go tinkle a few times because I was cold and scared, then sit in the car and stay warm. You'll be pleased to know I executed a perfect warmup.

Then the call came for us to report to the start line. Two hundred or so of us crowded in behind an RV, myself gravitating toward the back of the pack because I intended on taking this one slowly and I didn't want to get in anyone's way. A bundled-up, middle aged man grabbed a microphone that was attached to a single speaker and belted out the national anthem. The field of runners counted down from 10 (well, except for us in the back who didn't know what was happening), and then the entire field began moving forward like a heard of cattle. Feeling equal parts excitement for the great trail running ahead, and dread because there was about 30 miles too much of it, I was now on my way to the mighty struggle that awaited me mere hours away. The key for the first part of the race was to attempt to keep the “mighty struggle” section of the day from coming to visit me too soon.

Hanging in the very back seconds after the start.

The first few miles of the course involved a number of bottlenecks that left me walking and waiting as the runners ahead of me cleared out. Having to stop and walk was not of real concern to me, as I welcomed the opportunity to keep it slow.

We proceeded from the starting line over a small ridge, and then down the Little Horn Canyon, splashing through mud holes and swamps, hopping streams, and generally having a lovely time in the mountains. I made sure to walk any uphills, and occasionally I even stopped and walked for a minute just for the heck of it. No need to get in any hurries this early in the game. I found that, even though I was walking at times, my overall pace was causing me to pass quite a number of people. I was moving up from the back of the pack, and I barely felt like I was exerting myself. The day seemed to already be going better than expected.

The first 18 miles of the the run go quite quickly. In a flash, we had gone from the top of the Bighorn Mountains (9000ft), down to the Footbridge Aid Station at the base of them(4200ft). Other than my expected flare-up of runner's knee, I felt great. In fact, even though I had been running like a slacker, I had covered the first section of the run in the same time as I had achieved last year... a somewhat puzzling finding.

At the Footbridge Aid Station, I popped some electrolyte tablets, restocked my pockets with gels, slapped a strap around my knee to keep the runner's knee at bay, and I set off to begin “The Wall”. “The Wall” was so named because it causes many runners to hit “the wall”. It is a section of trail the gains 2000 vertical feet over about 3 miles. During last year's run I was a victim of “The Wall's” uh... “walliness”. Last year, I tore into the climb lacking patience. I nearly puked as I approached the top of it. This year, I relaxed, pretended I was out for a hike, and set my burly mountaineer's thighs to work eating up the hill. This time, I felt great! The variation of getting to power hike for a while made me feel almost entirely fresh.

Over the course of my hike up “The Wall,” I had managed to pass a multitude of people. I saw others getting the life sucked out of them as had happened to me last year, so I encouraged them along and joked about the situation. Cheering on other competitors is a trait that makes ultramarathons the best type of runs out there, and through helping the morale of others through quips and encouraging words, I found that I began to enjoy the day that much more.

I arrived at the Bear Camp Aid Station and was met by a friendly volunteer who filled my water bottles. As I gathered a few handfuls of food, I noticed a woman who was doing the 100-miler doubled over in tears at the table. The 100-milers had begun the previous day and had been going all night. She was on about mile 70 of her journey. A man had his arm around her and was pep-talking her and helping her break down the remaining section of the course. I couldn't help but think about how bizarre of a sport ultramarathon running is. She had put herself into that “pain cave”. It was her choice to be there, at the end of herself, wanting nothing more than to be out. But given her position on the course, I knew that she had committed to at least another 13 miles that she would have to complete before she could get out. Even in her condition, she wasn't stopping anytime soon.

I had a great deal of respect for her. I knew well that I may end up in her same position in an ultramarathon someday... maybe even later that day. In fact, at about mile 40 last year, I was in a similar position in my own little way... tears welling-up in my “man eyes,” wanting nothing more than to be out of there. But stopping wasn't happening. I had to keep going... at least to the next aid station. I wasn't in great physical danger, but my mind had thrown-in the towel, and it wanted me to be done.

So why on earth would I come back for another round, even though last year ranked as one of the top 5 most horrifying (but strangely wonderful) things I had been through in my life?

Well, I really don't know. After wasting approximately 5 hours of my life attempting to write an adequate explanation this afternoon, I carefully crafted a pie chart and a thought map in hopes of expressing why I returned. Enjoy!

I made my way out of Bear Camp Aid Station and finished my snack on the move. My knee was twinging a bit more, so I tried to keep my right leg as relaxed as possible. I continued the process of walking the uphills and running the downhills and flats. The section of the course between Bear Camp and Dryfork aid stations measures about 13 miles. It is a beautiful section of course that crosses in and out of meadows, but it's uniformity makes it somewhat if an unmemorable place. What I do recall is that I continued to pass people. I started feeling a bit fatigued, but compared to the aching pains that I had around my chest, back, and the nausea from last year, I felt like a new man on this go around. I couldn't believe that I had already traveled 30 miles! My only developing concern (aside from my knee) was that I was moving too fast. I'd told my family that I would be at the Dryfork Aid Station at 1:00 at the absolute earliest. It was looking like I was going to get there at about that exact time. I hoped they weren't late, or they would miss the show.

As I hiked up the steep hill into the Dryfork Aid Station at about 7700ft in elevation, I spotted my dad on the road above. Whew! They had made it... barely. And if it wasn't for my dad's conservative “let's plan ahead” approach that caused him to walk ahead of the others to keep an eye on things, they may have missed me entirely.

The trail coming up to Dry Fork Aid Station.  The first 18 miles goes down a the valley cutting across the picture just below the horizon.  Then it's 16.5 more miles to get here.  

As I got my bottles refilled and had a snack, my wife, mom, and Grandma Mary showed up on the scene. I feel kind of odd when I suggest that people come see me at an aid station. I mean, it's not exactly like going to a football game. After driving an hour to a remote corner of the mountains, all they get to do is watch me eat, drink, and pop mysterious white pills containing electrolytes. Then after about five minutes, I'm off. At least we had a chance to snap a picture with me and a couple of my favorite ladies... my mom and grandma. Unfortunately, my wife was the photographer, so she wasn't able to sneak into the picture... darn.

Me, Grandma Mary, and Mom just as I was leaving Dryfork Aid Station.

As I rushed out of the aid station, I began to ponder something: There was a real chance that I would finish this thing in under 11 hours. “What's special about 11 hours?” You might ask.

Well, 11 hours just happens to be the fastest possible time in which I figured I could conceivably finish. In fact, I was actually a little embarrassed to admit my idea of crossing the line within 11 hours, because odds were that I would finish a lot slower than that, leaving me looking really silly. Beyond being the far reach of my own personal goal, 11 hours also happens to be a qualifying time that allows you to enter into the Western States 100, a legendary race that is the ultramarathon equivalent of the Boston Marathon. It's not that I actually want to enter into Western States at this moment in my career, but it would be fun to know that I could if I wanted to. To run a qualifying time on a course like Bighorn, which is more difficult than many 50 milers... well that would be one of my greatest personal achievements!

But it was too early to dream of 11 hours. I still had 16 miles and 3000 vertical feet of downhill awaiting me. It was during the last 16 miles that I blew my transmission last year. Would it happen again this year?

I continued to walk out of the aid station while I finish my cookies and my slice of pizza. Even though I could feel the time press, I knew I couldn't hurry and risk making my body fall apart on me. As I finished my pizza and cleared the ridge above Dryfork Aid Station at about 8100ft, I began running again. I had a nasty side ache springing up, and my knee hurt, but I generally felt pretty solid. I alternated running with a few stretches of walking to prolong my strength, and before long the side ache was gone and I was settling into a rhythm. I sailed down to the Upper Sheep Creek Aid Station, making quick work of the 5 mile stretch from Dryfork that seemingly lasted an eternity last year.

I didn't linger at the aid station, only stopping for a quick hit of Sprite before being on my way. I ran down the hill along Sheep Creek, and that is when I encountered the obstacle that was my undoing last year... the steep climb to the top of Horse Creek Ridge. I tied into the climb up the ridge and passed a man who was attempting to cut the size of the hill down through the use of some well-placed expletives. I gathered that it wasn't working for him, and gave him some space and let him know it was the last major climb as I went around him.

Everything felt so much smaller this year. I cleared Horse Creek Ridge with little exertion, and couldn't figure out why it was such a big deal last year. Perhaps it was because I was drinking more water. Perhaps it was my trail-heavy, mountain-loving training. Perhaps it was the sheer quantity of avocados I had consumed that spring (they're a super-food, you know).

Coming down off of Horse Creek Ridge involves dropping about 3000 vertical feet in four miles. This descent was the site of my breakdown last year, where I was reduced to a pouting little schoolgirl. This year my mindset was considerably different... I was on track for 11 hours, and I needed to finish strong. “Time to get 'er done, Nate.” I thought.

Horse Creek Ridge is the grassy one in the distance.  At mile 40, we cleared the ridge and proceeded down the canyon cutting across the picture just in front of it.  

As I chopped my way down the steep grade, my runners knee was loudly expressing its displeasure. I tried sideways, I tried little steps, I tried everything to make it happy. I was beginning to pass the back-of-the-pack 30k runners by the multitudes, and I could tell that most of them were in their own world of pain. To lighten the mood, I made it a point to speak for my knee as I passed them. “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!” I would report with each step. Most of them seemed pleased to hear that the guy passing was in considerable pain as well. Just doing what I could for the good of humanity, I guess.

Eventually the descent ended, and I was left cruising down the familiar stretch of trail in the lower reach of Tongue River Canyon, a place where I regularly go for rock climbs and training runs when I am visiting my wife's family in Dayton. With about 6 miles of relatively flat land to travel to the finish, the reality of the moment was upon me: I was actually going to finish in under 11 hours!

And that's when I suddenly found my eyes welling-up with tears in a way that shouldn't happen when you're a man. I'm sure it had a little to do with the heat and the 46 miles I had covered, but I suddenly was overcome with a deep respect for what the man in me was capable of accomplishing. We spend so much time watching reality shows and sports on TV, secretly wishing that we were those people, not our boring, normal selves. Being raised with the mountains central to my life, ultramarathon runners have become, in my mind, among the most elite of mountain people. They take week-long backpacking trips and multi-day mountain summits and turn them into single-day, or even just afternoon, jaunts. To become one of them is to change my entire outlook on myself. For whatever reason, my performance last year failed to allow me to see myself as a true ultramarathon runner. But this year, be it the speed or the style in which I was finishing, I found my view of myself to have changed. I didn't want to be someone else, someone famous and interesting on TV. I wanted nothing more than to be me. I was now a real life ultramarathon runner!

With renewed vigor in my step, I naturally stopped to tinkle for a minute. Moments later, as I finished the trail portion of the run, I found myself on the Tongue River Canyon Road... the home stretch for the finish line. With open road before me, I set to work eating it up as quickly as I could. Now that I had accepted myself as an ultramarathon runner, I was no longer merely going to survive the last five miles, I was going to attack them and log the best time I could!

Cruising down the Tongue River Canyon Road to the finish.

I took off town the road, mostly running, with the occasional walking break to mix it up. After a few miles, I met my escort to the finish... comprised of my wife, my mother-in-law, and my mom, all riding their bikes out to meet me. The last miles of gravel road can be a bit monotonous, so it was nice to have the entertainment and company. I passed a multitude of 30 and 50k runners, and maintained my place in the 50 mile race. My mom was engaged in her own race with my mother-in-law, Monique... only she never explained to Monique that the reason she was repeatedly speeding past her on her bike was because she was “beating” her. I guess now we know where my competitive side comes from.

Mom taking a break from her bike "races" with Monique to cheer me on with her little, plastic hand clapper.  

Passing some of the 30k or 50k runners on the final stretch.

I cruised into Dayton feeling good, and to commemorate my previous life as a hurdler, I sprinted the last 50 feet and leaned into the finish as if breaking the tape in the 110-meter hurdles. It was a perfect way to end, and it redeemed my finish last year, when I could do nothing but walk slowly across the line to prevent fainting. My finishing time was far beyond my wildest expectations: 10 hours, 35 minutes, 59 seconds (good thing I leaned!). I placed 26^th out of a field that I'm told was over 200 runners when the day began. Not bad for my second ultramarathon.

Coming into Dayton feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

About to start my sprint to the finish.

Why one uses electrolyte tablets.

Gaiters off, burly dirt lines.  Go Altra Zero Drop Shoes!

The whole crew who turned up.  Monique's bike made the photo, but not Monique.  

Me, my wife, and the finishers shirt.  Sarah had the pleasure of waking up at 3:30 am to drive me to the starting line so I didn't have to ride the bus.  She also regularly makes heaps of great post-run food that greet me after long training runs.

The Secret Passion That Keeps Me Active... It's Not What You'd Expect

There I was in Tensleep Canyon of Wyoming, half way up a route, all handholds small and sideways, and a tiny foothold just above knee height that was just asking for my use.  I lifted my leg and touched it with my toe.  I gave my foot a wiggle to see what the hold could do.  Then, I proceeded to weight it.  The world stood still... it was last Tuesday, 4/2, at about 3:47, just in case you wonder why you suddenly paused and took a deep breath.  Alas, my foot held onto the tiny nubbin, and I moved upward. Of course I fell off about three seconds later, but that's not the point.

That moment, my friends, is one of the reasons why I love climbing so very much.  It is the relationship between a man and his climbing shoes and the mysterious capabilities of the material known commonly as rubber.  I find I am deeply fascinated by the way the soles of my climbing shoes mold around tiny features in such a way that it is "squeaky sticky", yet firm enough that the very thought of chewing on the end of my climbing shoe makes me drool.  Folks, for the first time in my life, on a blog that has been viewed across the world, I am coming out with a dark secret about myself.  I love rubber... I mean I really love it... a lot.

My affections for the remarkable substance don't stop at my climbing shoes.  My love of rubber doesn't discriminate.  A couple of months ago, we bought new tires for our car.  This meant we got to visit the tire shop at Costco.  Though my wife is sickened by the smell of tires, when I walked into that store I paused to snort-in a giant whiff of the glorious smell of tire.  I wanted to run around feeling every tire in the store, perhaps chewing on a few.  I particularly love the truck tires with the very deep tread.  I love the squeakiness.  I love the "sort of firm but not really" feel.  I love tires.



Have you ever noticed that, while you are riding your bicycle, you have a front row seat to the wonders presented by your front tire.  So the saying goes, "the wheels on the bike go round and round", and the whole time I'm riding, I'm watching (and drooling) with fascination over the show that unfolds before me.  I love how road bike tires are so smooth, yet very sticky, and how they develop a flat side after many miles.  I love the way mountain bike tires change colors based on the terrain they face.  I love how they mold around the rocks in the path, and how they gain little gouges as they wear down.  Mmmmm.  I suppose my deep love of tires was one of the contributing factors in our recent sale of our second car to buy my fat-bike.  Of course, I have to ride my bike to school every day, in wind and rain and snow, but it is a small price to pay for the privilege of getting to ride on those giant, squishy tires.



Let us now make one last stop on our exploration of the wonders of rubber.  It would seem that I'm becoming a bit of a trail runner.  In amassing piles of miles training for my 50-miler this summer, I've derived great pleasure in gazing at the soles of my shoes.  As the tread wears, it becomes rough, pliable, gooey, squeaky, ... Oh, is there enough adjectives in the world to describe its wonders?!  Like bike tires, as the soles of my shoes grip the dirt, mud, rocks, logs, and sand, they develop small scars and sometimes donate chunks of tread to the trail.  The bottom of my shoes tell the story of my improving running form as well.  They used to wear out at the heel, now they wear all across the bottom of my shoe, more so on the outside edge of my foot where I first make contact with each stride.

Like the famous fable of the tortoise and the hare, this tale of my secret love of rubber has a powerful moral as well.  There are a million reasons to stay active and healthy... not dying of congestive heart failure being one of them.  More often than not, though, it takes a lot more than fear of heart disease to get you outside and moving on those tough days.  Most of the time I get out because of my love of what I do and my desire to get stronger.  But on those days when getting stronger feels pointless, and not having heart disease sounds too far away, getting out takes a little something special.  That special thing, for me, comes down to enjoying a bit of drooling over a working bike tire or a climbing shoe edging on a small nubbin of rock.  Mmmmm, makes me want to get out there right now... or perhaps at least chew on my shoe.

Perhaps it's a vitamin deficiency???

Multiple Sports; Why Being Worse Is Better

Folks, I'm going to level with you... there's a wonderful, under-appreciated side effect of being a multi-sport athlete.  When I devote time to climbing, running, and biking, I find I'm much more capable at being worse at all of them.

It's true, if I were a full-time climber, I would be dang good.  You'd be amazed, I promise.  But I don't climb full-time, partly because I get bored with being scared all the time, and partly because I can't help hurting my girly fingers (which, unfortunately, happen to be paired with a set of quite manly thighs).

So when I'm injured from climbing, or I just can't handle the adrenaline anymore, I run... preferably on trails, but also through the dreary, nighttime streets of Livingston if time is limited.  If I ran full-time, logging the 70-100 mile weeks like a proper ultramarathon runner should, I'd be dang good at that too... I just know it.  But there's a problem:  as soon as the outside temperatures are mellow, and my fingers are healthy, I can't help but caress the beautiful face of any vertical surface I come near (even the odd bathroom wall).  Climbing becomes my mistress as I cheat on my ultramarathon training.  I'm a terrible person.

Of course, there's another complication.  All would be fine if I just climbed and ran... I'm certain I'd still be pretty awesome at both.  But I have really sweaty, greasy fingers when I climb on hot days, and I feel like my head is going to explode when I run in the heat.  My wife often explains that I could eliminate a great deal of my suffering if I went shirtless, but as my brilliant, white chest clearly demonstrates, apparently I'm still a bit bashful.

So what does a busy-body like me do when it gets really hot?  Well, I begin dreaming of sailing down trails and roads on my bikes while bearing a giant, bug-eating grin.   Naturally, I am aware that I'd be pretty formidable on a bike if I was a full-time cyclist; but I have a problem with the concept of riding wheel-to-wheel in a pelaton of 100 bikes all traveling at 25mph.  Also, as part of my religious belief, I don't subscribe to bike trainers... It is a must unnatural use of a wheel to make it spin in place.  Therefore, I refuse to train in the winter for races that terrify me in the summer.  I certainly enjoy my recreational rides on summer days, but it would seem that as soon as the temperatures plummet, I find myself forsaking my hard-earned, summertime butt calluses as I take to climbing and running once again.

Okay, so now that we've covered in detail why I'm incapable of being a single sport athlete, and why that makes me sub-par at a number of things.  Lets take a moment to address the main idea here... why being worse is indeed better.

Well, it's quite simple really.  If a guy does three different sports, his act of perpetually cheating on one sport with another sport leaves him fully aware that he'll never be remarkable at any of them.  That's when he gets to just shrug his shoulders, say, "meh," and forget about the pressures associated with constantly feeling the need to train and perform.  He is now free to aimlessly walk through the woods, caressing and fantasizing about beautiful boulders and cliffs.  He is now free to stop for a sandwich on a mountain top without the need for a better round-trip time.  His sports become his escape, his counselor, and his personal trainer.  He is a lucky dude.

Injuries Are Our Friends!

There I was, exactly 100 feet from the summit of Baldy Mountain.  My shoes were loose, my legs and feet were numb from post-holing through a couple of miles of snow, and then the inevitable happened:  my ankle rolled sideways, I felt a pop, and the dull pain and swelling began.  I immediately stopped, cinched up my shoes (as I should have done five minutes earlier), and kept moving.  I was looking at a snowy five miles and 4000-feet of downhill to the trailhead, and there was no time to stop and let the ankle begin stiffening any more than necessary.

The view of the ridge ahead from the site of the ankle sprain.
Still had to run to the furthest visible point on the ridge,
then begin the descent to the "M" trailhead.
I got some mental training in that day.  :  )

After a significant amount of whimpering, an incidental sunglasses-snapping while flailing through the snow, and a really tired right leg from compensating, I arrived back at the trailhead.  Having extensive experience with ankle sprains, I knew by that point that it was a fairly mild grade 2 sprain... not enough to threaten proper training for the Bighorn Mountain Run, but enough to cause about a month of mileage cut-back.

Ironically, my ankle sprain was well-timed with the return to full strength of my left middle finger from a ligament injury while climbing back in December.  Though my nightly runs are presently on hold, I feel like a model in a makeup store every time I get to go climb on my wall.  Two months of grabbing big holds and not being able to climb hard are done, and now I get to climb on whatever I want.  To make things even better, we are a mere few weeks away from the spring climbing season.  What timing!

It would seem there is something downloaded into us humans that causes us to desperately want exactly what we can't have.  As such, one of the best ways to curb our apathy and indifference that tends to grow toward a sport we love is to end up with an injury and have it taken away for a period of time.

It was just under a year ago when my training for my first ultra came grinding to a creep.  I'd had it with running through the dark, windy streets of Livingston.  I'd had it with the aching and nausea of the long training runs.  Aside from a medium to long run every weekend, which was largely motivated by fear, I'd nearly quit training during the months of April and May.  Boy, did I feel the effects during the ultra in June!

This ankle sprain comes at an opportune time.  I had really high motivation the two weeks before the injury, and now I can't help but sit here reading running blogs and watching videos of my ultramarathon heroes, all while thinking through my post-injury plan of attack.  I feel a bit like a caged beast, and I can't wait for spring break when, following a month of rehab and rebuilding my mileage, I lace up my running shoes for my first multiple-hour training run since the month of February.  By then the trails will be melting off, my motivation will be renewed, and I'll be ready for two great months of training leading up to my second ultramarathon.  It could very well be that this year will be a breakout performance compared to last, and it may have a lot to do with the renewal of motivation supplied by my fateful ankle sprain atop Baldy Mountain.

Efficiency Rules All

Early in my college career, I made several attempts to run the medium-steepness route up the "M", the great symbol of Montana State which is plastered to the mountainside just outside of Bozeman.  Attempt one was met with 3/4 mile of running, followed by my legs going numb, my lungs searing, and my brain shutting off from lack of oxygen.  I had to stop and hike just over halfway up.  On my next attempt, I attempted to conserve as much energy as possible by milking the flats for all they were worth, and not picking up my feet any more than necessary.  Again, I was met with numb legs, searing lungs, and a cloudy head.  That time, however, I was actually able to run the entire way.

As my years as a student at MSU went by, I kept going back to the "M" a few times per year.  It hurt like a bugger every time.  But ever so slowly, it got a bit easier.  I learned to relax every unneeded muscle in my body and to shorten and quicken my stride.  I learned that on really steep sections it is helpful to turn sideways to not burn-out my calves.  I learned to engage my inner abs to allow my hips to move more freely.  I learned that it is helpful to imagine myself floating up the hill.  

Coming down off the Bridger Ridge between the "M" and Baldy Mountain.  Beating an old time record from college by 7 minutes!  

Now don't get me wrong, running the "M" is not easy, and at it's best it does hurt a bit, but what once used to be a monumental accomplishment for me to run has now become a rather short and simple workout.  It's not that I'm necessarily in twice as good of shape, it's just that over the years I've learned how to run trails.  I've learned something that in the world of outdoor sports should never be underestimated- EFFICIENCY.

Now out of college and having spent the better part of the last nine years obsessing over various mountain sports, the reach of my goals has extended well beyond running the "M".  In the sport of trail running, I'm now putting my thoughts toward running ultramarathons and peaks.  This summer, assuming I survive my June ultramarathon without injury, I plan to begin running the highest points in Montana.    

Unlike my understanding of the term back in college, "trail running" encompasses much more than simply "running" up and down trails.  Rather, it refers to moving over mountain terrain with high speed and efficiency.  Even when the best runners in the world "run mountains", they often spend time power-hiking large sections of steep trail.  "Running" is not always the fastest way to cover terrain... especially the really steep stuff.  

My exploration for maximum efficiency and speed has become an incredibly engaging endeavor.  The tactics of a mountain run are far beyond those of attempting to "run" the "M" in terms of its considerations regarding efficiency.  On a mountain run, not only are you focusing on efficiency in stride, you are also constantly assessing which sections of trail you should be running and which sections you should be power-hiking.  Much like riding a bike, you also have to learn to let go on downhills and carry your momentum into uphills.  

I've run Baldy Mountain in the Bridger Mountains many times, and it seems that every time I do it I use a different combination of hiking and running, and I improve in my ability to brake less on downhills and carry my momentum into uphills.  I've watched my round-trip times on Baldy Mountain fall from just under three hours down to about exactly 2 hours.  I can assure you that fitness improvement can only account for a small percentage of my time improvement.  Mostly, my improvement is a consequence of better efficiency.

Much like trail running, efficiency is also paramount in rock climbing.  I remember working my first 5.12-graded route at the natural bridge by Big Timber.  It was slightly overhanging, and it was one tiny edge after another.  I fell off five or six times on my first go, and my forearms were rock hard from desperately trying to hang on.  By my fourth try, I was able to climb to the top of the route without falling.  Obviously, my success had nothing to do with getting stronger.  I had simply learned the movement on the route, relaxed my fear (and along with it my grip), and I was able to focus on using my feet to their maximum potential.  Most people who start climbing feel their arms burning and think they are just out of shape.  In reality, they are just moving inefficiently and using their arms too much.

On a route such as this one near Dayton, WY, your only prayer in making the top is to be efficient and use your feet and relax your grip.  Only pull hard when you absolutely must!  

I can't help but think about how many other things in my life could do well to be treated with the care toward efficiency that I demonstrate in my running and climbing.  Perhaps at work meetings I could do my part toward keeping them unemotional and focused on the goal of the meeting.  Perhaps I could find other ways to grade student homework so more of my time could be spent on lesson-planning, an often more efficient application of time when it comes to student learning.  Perhaps I could get rid of some possessions so I don't spend so dang much time looking through and sorting so much junk.  Perhaps I should realize that sometimes being the most efficient comes down to being okay with taking a day off from working, or running, or climbing, and just lying on the couch watching movies instead.  

Dear Mr. Skunk... Thank You for the Excitement.

Its brilliant white tail was rigidly extended, glowing in the light of the moon.  I slowed my run as I squinted and focused my eyes to make-out the tail's owner.  "Ah hah!" I thought to myself.

"Ah hah!" was the last conscious thought that needed to go through my mind.  From there, it was all primal flight instinct... beautiful, primal flight instinct.  My body new exactly what to do when it spotted the skunk setting up to spray, and my conscious mind was nothing more than a passenger and an observer as the magic unfolded.

In no more than two steps, I had executed a complete 180-degree rotation and was liberated from the odoriferous keester cannon of the skunk in question.  I felt an icy chill trickle down my spine, alerting me to the fact that my sympathetic nervous system was fired up and ready for action.

And action it got.  I had the privilege of repeating this similar encounter several other times... all within the next ten minutes.  There were a lot of skunks out there that fine Wednesday night.

When I walked into school the next morning, I stepped in front of my classes with a renewed confidence.  I guess there's just something about taking a close look at an armed skunk nozzle that brings new clarity to one's life.  Expensive car problems, mean students, too much "extra-curricular stress"... their hold on my psyche wains.  It's kind of inexplicable really: I can sit and try to counsel myself, watch a movie, eat copious amounts of cereal, and my everyday problems still leave just as big of a knot in my stomach.  But then I nearly get sprayed by a few skunks while out running, and I'm suddenly excited about life and exploration and I release the worries that the world tends to guilt me into carrying.  I find I like myself a lot more.  

I feel that in our culture we've taken to carrying large loads of mental engagement and responsibility while our physical bodies are left to coast alongside.  Think about how much of your day is an almost entirely mental activity, and how much of your day is a physical activity!  Alarming, isn't it?

We have the ability to move, to react without thought to a skunk, to change direction in an instant when we nearly step on a rattlesnake (another story for later).  We can run for an entire day, climb cliffs, boulders, and trees.  We can achieve amazing physical feats that are right up there with all of the other wild animals in the world.  Yet we sit at desks and get stressed.

I believe that those good feelings I get from being physically active... the "runners high" as they call it in running, are very important indicators that we are made with a need to move.  By paying attention to my reactions to my days spent running and climbing, even the ones that don't involve nearly getting sprayed or bitten, I've noticed that my life feels so much more balanced when I am allowed to move.  Just as our physical bodies are forced to sit idly by as we work or watch TV, it's important to give our minds a rest and allow physical motion to take control.

The Great Work-Play Balance

I was at about 9,000 feet in elevation, around switchback #15 en route to the Froze-to-Death Plateau in the Beartooth Mountains.  This trail, which begins in the West Rosebud Canyon at about 6500 feet is one of the most popular approaches to Granite Peak.  I personally had traveled the trail many times, but this time was different; this time I was running.  I passed two climbers, each loaded with 40 lb packs as they slogged their way to Montana's highest peak.  Under the misery of their large loads, they silently stared as I ran past, bearing looks that suggested that they had just seen an alien.

Though my time as a mountain-lover has been life-long, my career as a trail runner has truly only been a few years.   Every year, my love and understanding of the sport increases.  One of the most interesting, and at times embarrassing, components of trail running is my encounters with others.  Like the two climbers that day near the Froze-to-Death Plateau, some people just stare... at times with pained looks on their faces.  Others simply think something is psychologically wrong with me:  On a separate run in the Beartooth Mountains, a middle-aged man once asked me if I was on amphetamines.  How does one respond to a question like that?

Thankfully, aside from the awkward stares and remarks of a few, most people cordially say hi and look at me with a sparkle in their eyes, as if my choice to run mountain trails is something of note, perhaps even a bit inspiring.

You feel a bit bizarre as a Montana trail runner, especially one who goes deep into the mountains.  Aside from the ultramarathon I ran last summer, I'm the only trail runner I've ever personally seen more than 5 miles into the mountains; and when it comes to ultramarathons, it's been estimated that probably less than 0.1% of Americans have completed one.

More than any other activity in which I have been involved, trail running clearly demonstrates to me just how different we all are.  Running in the mountains is becoming a part of who I am, a necessary component of "me."  Though it is often painful, it has a way of inspiring me with the simplicity of its motion and the speed of its exploration.  It's a place of restoration and happiness for me.  Though the masses may look to those who enjoy hours of running up mountains as pillars of discipline and fitness, most non-runners lack an understanding of just how simple it is; In my life, staying fit just happens... it's just what I do.

To no surprise, there is always a trade off.  Though I'm gifted with a love of movement and exploration, I'm not gifted with a tolerance for long work days and massive "to do" lists.  Not unlike those climbers who stared at me as if they'd seen an alien, I find myself doing the same with some of the teachers with whom I work.  Somehow, they are able to teach all day, organize region-wide competitions, serve on committees, contact piles of parents a week, and then coach a club or sport for good measure.  And they keep at it week after week!  I try to pretend to keep up with them once or twice a year, but then I usually experience something resembling a nervous breakdown.

During one of my little breakdowns in the month of December, I had some discussions with myself that involved some heavy consideration on whether or not I would be able to continue as a teacher.  I simply couldn't keep up with everything that I "should" be doing.  I racked my brain for a couple of months, and right about the time I was signing-up for my next 50 miler, I had a little reality check.

I really enjoy quite a lot about teaching.  I love entertaining the students, I love writing interesting and applicable activities, I love thinking about how to outsmart misconceptions, and I enjoy working in an environment with intelligent coworkers who care about what they do.  To top it all off, I've had quite a lot of success.  Why on earth would I not be teaching?  Like mountain running, it's part of me as well!

It is so easy to fall into ruts of guilt and inadequacy as we struggle to keep up with all of the tasks and the other people around us.  The teachers that can juggle all that stuff are beasts to me, plain and simple.  However, just as a 5K runner shouldn't feel guilty for not having the necessary desire to train for a 50-mile run, I realize that I shouldn't feel guilty for being unable to juggle the tasks of a "super-teacher."  I have a strong desire to teach math well, to help out a little extra in the school, and to run a climbing club.  For some reason, I am also drawn to climb and to run in the mountains, and I can't allow myself to become so over-stressed from too much work that the mountains lose their meaning.  All of it, from the teaching to the running, comprises "me".  It's a shame for any of us to lose a meaningful part of ourselves to the overabundance of tasks which are constantly vying for our attention.