A Snapshot and The Scoop: An Indulgence

Is it really a trip to the Buena Vista area in Colorado without a stop at the St. Elmo ghost town and a visit with a bunch of adorable furry friends? (The answer is no, btw.) Torrey and I had cut our mountain climbing short by a day and found ourselves with free time to indulge. We began with a visit to St. Elmo, a ghost town on the slopes of Mount Princeton where mining operations once created a booming industry. When the railroad moved away from the area and the mining dried up, the town was abandoned by all but a dedicated few, who have worked hard over the years to preserve their little corner of Colorado history. The town has few permanent residents, aside from the three species of squirrels that live near a pile of old railroad ties at the town center. I've written about these cuties before, and I'll continue to write about them every time we visit. #sorrynotsorry

A Snapshot and The Scoop: A Few of My Least Favorite Things

Let's talk about how much I dislike makeshift log "bridges" over rushing mountain streams. And let's also talk about how much I dislike crossing said bridges during the day when I can see, let alone having to cross them in the pre-dawn pitch black darkness of a mountain forest illuminated only by the beam of two headlamps while also being dive-bombed by bats who are attracted to the insects flitting around in the light of said headlamps. While I acknowledge that many of our summit bids in our goal to climb all 14'ers in Colorado will require us to continue beginning our hikes before dawn, that doesn't mean I have to like it. There is nothing creepier than a forest at night, and having to cross a bridge where one false move will send you plunging into icy water that promises to ruin your hike for the rest of the day while it is still dark, well, those are a few of my least favorite things. But we did it, despite my hesitation and grumpiness, and our summit bid was successful. I guess I'll just have to get over it, because I know there's more yet to come.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Pick Your Line

When you have no trail to follow, and it's really more about just taking the next step on your way up, you follow whatever route you can find in your bid for the summit of a mountain. Torrey and I were busy climbing 14,000 foot mountains again last summer, taking on Class 2 mountains that required some scrambling and boulder-hopping to get to the top. On this particular mountain, Yale, we reached the shoulder of the mountain and the end of the trail; we had to find our own way across a steep boulder field, haphazardly marked with carins from previous hikers, all of whom had their own skill levels and comforts with exposure (meaning how close they were willing to get to falling off the top of a mountain). Torrey and I each found our own way, with me sticking as close as possible to the middle of the boulder field, but not so center as to be quite at the top. I wanted to be able to hold on to boulders on both sides of my body, not just on the left or right. Boulder-hopping is a slow process (for me at least) due to the desire to make sure the rock I'm about to put my foot on won't roll away under my weight. Twisting an ankle on a remote mountain would be dangerous, and if the rock rolls off the side and takes me with it, the fall would be lethal. We carefully picked our way across the boulders, passing carins every now and then but mostly ignoring them as we found stable footing on our own. Reaching the summit has never felt so good.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Altitude Sickness

This right here is what altitude sickness looks like for us. When we're so close to being on top of the world, and have to all but curl up into ourselves to breathe through the nausea and headache. Altitude sickness can actually be very dangerous, even lethal, and though neither Torrey nor I have ever had it get to the point where we were in danger it has certainly been rather uncomfortable. It's also not something I'd want to go through alone - if I'd been hiking on my own I would have turned around and headed back to camp long before we got to this point, but we had each other and it kept me at least going forward, albeit with lots of breaks every 10 steps or so. It seems every year we climb mountains my altitude sickness gets worse; I never had a problem when I was younger, and only since moving to Texas have I noticed an issue with mountain climbing. I'm still looking for a treatment/cure that works for me, but until then I'll keep climbing mountains anyway!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Alluvial Fans

Turkey Flats, located in Joshua Tree National Park, is a prime example of the formation of alluvial fans that occur down slopes of mountains. Comprised of sediments such as gravel, sand, rock, alluvial fans form when those sediments are washed down mountainsides then spread out once they hit the base of the mountain, filling the basin with soil that once covered summits and slopes. Broad and fan shaped, alluvium is typically deposited at the mouth of canyons. The finer-grained particles spread out farther from the mountain and can hold water better than the coarser sediment, supporting plant life such as creosote bush and bunch grass, while cacti cling to the bare slopes above.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: A Desert Shrub

Swollen with water from winter storms, the ocotillo sprouts its waxy little leaves all over the many arms of its branches and attracts insects to its engorged, cracked, woody stems. Resembling a bunch of thorny dead sticks reaching toward the baking desert sun for most of the year, the ocotillo bursts into leaf and flower during the rainy season in the Sonoran Desert. Technically considered a shrub, the ocotillo can easily be mistaken for a cactus when it doesn't have its leaves or flowers thanks to the sharp spines that cover every inch of its multiple arms. It's during the wettest seasons of the year that its true colors shine, and what an incredible sight it is!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Silver Bell Mine

The Silver Bell Mine, pictured above, is one of a few old prospecting locations scattered throughout Joshua Tree National Park. Once used to extract gold, lead, and copper from the surrounding desert mountains, the mine reached its peak in 1917 and was eventually abandoned in the 1960's. Reports from the height of gold fever showed the mine had low gold value, but rather high copper value - worth about $90 a ton.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Organ Pipe Cactus

The Sonoran Desert might just be one of the most biologically rich deserts in the world. I mean, where else can you find both Saguaro cacti and Organ Pipe Cacti in the same place, not to mention the innumerable other cacti, shrub, and grass species that thrive in this green desert. While yes, technically the Sonoran is a desert, the cacti here get absolutely huge - take the Organ Pipe cactus in the picture above as an example. While not quite as tall as a saguaro, the organ pipe cacti certainly earns its cred as a huge cactus strictly from how wide it gets. Its many arms sprout from one base, focus more on taking up space than growing up high. It's still the second tallest plant for miles, and I was giddy every time I saw a new fantastically-shaped cactus. If I could grow them where I live you bet your bottom dollar I'd have a yard full of these babies!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Palm Tree Oasis

Palm trees and cottonwoods are not exactly what you might expect to see in one of the driest deserts in the country, but it's no mirage. Surrounding a natural spring, a dozen palm trees and a few hardy cottonwoods populated a small, sheltered depression located in the lower elevations of Joshua Tree National Park. Walking among the palm trees, allowed to grow wild and therefore unmaintained with their palm fronds still attached, was like walking into a jungle. Even in the winter the topmost fronds were vibrant green, and the soft bubbling of the hidden spring echoed through the small pocket of stone and wood. One of few natural springs in the area, the oasis attracts plants and animals alike who need the water to survive the harsh desert climate.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: The Ohio & Erie Canal, An East Coast Epic Story

No longer in use, the remnants of the Ohio & Erie Canal preserved in Cuyahoga Valley National Park, is an overgrown yet potent reminder of America's past. Once the main mode of the transportation of goods, livestock, and sometimes even people, canals throughout the upper Midwest and Great Lakes regions served their purpose in providing safe, accessible ways to move supplies in controllable fashion, without having to worry about the pitfalls or meandering direction of the local rivers. Locks strategically placed in intervals helped keep the canal levels steady, and special boats built to fit exactly within the confines of the narrow canal were towed along by mule teams on dry ground. It's rather startling to see how ingenious people can be if given enough time and motivation, and the canal system still around today stands in as proof of human tenacity.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Wrong Side of the Barrier

You know that sinking feeling in your stomach when you realize things are just not going your way? Yeah, that's how I felt when I realized I was on the wrong side of this road block when trying to leave Chiricahua National Monument as I fled a brewing blizzard in the higher elevations of the park. Fleeing snow storms seemed to be the theme of this year's winter trip, despite the fact that I was in the desert for crying out loud, and aren't deserts supposed to get little to no precipitation??? I had been exploring the scenic monument road which took me to elevations above 9000 feet within the park, but I didn't even get out of my car at the top - I took one look at the inches of snow already on the ground and one glance up to the tops of the towering pine trees that I couldn't even see, and hightailed it (safely) back down. I passed a ranger going up while I was all but crawling down the slick mountain roads, and although I didn't know it at the time they were checking for guests and presumably kicking us out due to the storm. I was the only one stupid enough to be up there in the snow, though I was on my way down, so they followed some ways behind me. I thought for sure they'd locked this gate and I would have to wait for them before I could leave, but closer inspection showed me it wasn't chained and I could push it open to get through. I closed it behind me, of course, though I doubt anyone else would try to go up the mountain in a blizzard. Ah well, you live and you learn.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: A Spot of Light, An East Coast Epic Story

Imagine going into a cave with a small, flickering source of light that may or may not burn out and leave you to scramble in the dark, hoping to find the way out . . . or else. Prehistoric Indians did just that as they explored Mammoth Cave, located in central Kentucky in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. They used the cave for shelter and as a source for minerals, gathering reeds from the nearby river, bundling them together, and hoping to have light for an hour or so. Of course, they brought multiple torches with them, but still! I love visiting caves, but I can't imagine going through one without a guaranteed source of light. Props to them!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Cholla Garden

Imagine my delight when, while driving the park road at Joshua Tree National Park as I was heading to lower (warmer) elevations, I rounded a curve in the road and was faced with a wide swath of cholla (choy-a) cacti! Labeled a Cholla Garden on the map, I'd noticed it when I first looked over the park information upon arrival, but I hadn't paid attention to where exactly this garden was, nor did I realize I was approaching it as I fled the higher elevation snow storms. I absolutely had to stop and wander the lined nature trail through the natural garden, full to bursting with cholla after cholla packed into a relatively large area. I definitely spent more time among the cacti here than I had spent outside my car in the entire rest of the park, but I was hardly complaining. I love cacti, and I'm always thrilled to see cacti gardens wherever I go. I even have a little cacti collection at home, started way back when my family and I first traveled to the desert southwest in 2001.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Lakeside Beach, An East Coast Epic Story

The final Great Lake I visited last summer was Lake Ontario, and I'm honestly a little disappointed I didn't get to touch it. I made a point to walk a bit in both Lake Michigan and Lake Erie, but the little state park I stopped at in New York, Lakeside Beach State Park, was situated on some cliffs above the lake, and it was impractical (at least from where I was standing) to try to get down to touch the water. Instead, I meandered along the edge of the cliffs, accidentally interrupting a group playing disc golf (which I thought was rather brave - what if you threw the disc off the cliff by accident??) as I wandered. I could see where the lake deepened, where the waves turned from murky brown to the deepest of blues, and watched a few boaters take on the choppy, windy waters. Next time I'm in the area I'll be visiting the remaining two Great Lakes, Superior and Huron, and I'll be sure to step foot in Lake Ontario, just to say I did.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Blown Away

Before this winter I had never experienced the sensation of almost being blown off my feet, but I certainly experienced it during my visit to Joshua Tree National Park. I really honestly thought I might be blown off the mountain top with the force of the winds whipped up by the winter storm lashing the park, to the point where I was bent almost double trying to make myself as small as possible and brace against the wind. I had driven to the park's highest elevation reachable by vehicle out of curiosity and the desire to at least see where the park roads took me, even though I wouldn't be hiking. The winds were blocked by a pile of boulders in the parking lot, but once I'd cleared the boulders I had to stop to regain my footing as I almost got blown over. Needless to say, I only stayed on the mountain top long enough to note that I really couldn't see shit due to the snow storm, snapped a few pictures anyway, then hurried back down to my car as I was pushed along by the gale howling at my back. I couldn't get back to the warmth and stillness of my car fast enough.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Presque Isle, An East Coast Epic Story

My solo East Coast adventure last year took me to three of the five Great Lakes - Lake Michigan, Lake Erie, and Lake Ontario. My stop on Lake Erie was at Presque Isle State Park, a little spit of land featuring a gorgeous drive, bays and beaches, and an old lighthouse with its own courtyard. I arrived after closing time so was unable to tour the lighthouse, but greatly enjoyed my drive around the peninsula, making sure to get out a couple times to wet my toes in the lake and enjoy the breeze. I saw people boating, paddle boarding, kayaking, and swimming, which of course made me wish I'd brought my swimsuit along so I could go for a dip without ruining one of the few changes of clothes I had with me. There's always next time!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Contact Zone

In the photo above we have the evidence of volcanic activity, earth upheaval, stream action, and erosion all in one place. The lighter rock was once magma buried deep within the earth. It pushed its way into the surrounding rock - the darker gneiss (pronounced nice) - where it solidified and crystallized into the granite we see today. Upheavals deep within the earth's crust forced the gneiss and granite to the surface, where a far wetter climate than what's present today cut the rock into a valley with a stream that carried sediment away. All of this occurring over millions of years, today showing us the contact zone where molten rock once met solid stone.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Disconnect

There are very few things while travelling that make me as happy as I get when I see a Wilderness sign. Signs like this mean I'm leaving the real world behind, leaving cell service and internet and roads and cars and, for the most part, people, behind. I get to disconnect, get away, ignore reality for a little while and instead focus on myself, my hiking partner, and the world immediately around us. Because really, this IS reality, being in the moment and aware and self-reliant. If something happens out there, its up to you to figure it out, with no guarantee someone can come to help you. For some people, I dare say even most people, that can be a scary realization: that you're completely alone. But not to me. I thrive in Wilderness, I find my center, my mind calms and I don't have worries or anxieties over anything other than setting up camp before a storm pops up, and making sure I place the bear canister far enough away from the tent. Out there, I can get up with the sun and go to bed with it too, I can eat enough to fuel me through my day, I can sit and watch the world turn around me. I really can't wait to be out there again.

A Snapshot and the Scoop: "Action!"

This may look like an ancient ruin, but it was actually part of a movie set built in 1965 for "The Professionals." Recognized for it's incredibly geologic formations, many movies and commercials are filmed within the Valley of Fire State Park boundaries, which has caused park rangers to have to carefully manage who gets permits to film so that no lasting environmental impacts are made. I won't lie here, I rarely watch movies and have not seen any of the ones filmed in the park, but just the physical reminder that things like this exist is pretty neat!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: My Spot

Last year's mountain climbing adventures actually left us with quite a bit of time on our hands, and we spent one afternoon just driving around, exploring Colorado by car. It was getting towards evening and we were on our way back to camp when I realized where we were - near the town of Salida, and not too far away from a favorite childhood haunt. I began looking for the turn off, going completely by landmark memory from I don't even know how many years ago. We drove past the road and I knew it immediately; I flipped a u-turn and, with mounting excitement, took the turn. Not far up the road, just inside the national forest, I found it: one of my family's favorite places to camp in Colorado, revisited year after year, affectionately named "Natasha's Spot." I'd had My Spot marked on nearly every map of Colorado I owned up until we all grew up and stopped being able to go together on week+ family trips and lost track of it after that. I hadn't even realized Torrey and I were driving close by until something about the drive jogged my memory, and at that point I knew I'd have to find it just for memory's sake. It was almost exactly how I remembered it, with the little creek rushing by and a wide empty space that perfectly fit a large tent, or a small camper. There was an additional fire ring now, two instead of just one, but the little gravel beach with the boulder overhanging the creek was still there, and I could all but see my younger self along with my sister sitting there for hours pretending we were surviving in the wilderness all on our own. I could smell the smoke from an early evening pine-wood campfire and taste the grilled potatoes my mom was so fond of making on every camping trip. I could hear my dad shuffling outside of the camper at night on us kids' side, pretending to be Big Foot and scaring my sister so bad she made me sleep against the outer wall (because what else are big sisters for but to protect you - and be eaten first?). It was way past berry season in late August, but I wondered if the strawberry patch was still there, a short (sketchy) walk across the swift stream. I don't know exactly how long I stood there among the trees reminiscing, but Torrey left me to dwell in my memories for a little while with a content smile on my face as I walked around and around, touching everything and taking way too many pictures of a few compact yards. If we hadn't had plans the next day with an already established base camp I probably would have asked if we could set up there that night, but there's always next year.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Reminders of the Past

Built by the CCC during the Great Depression, three cabins sit against a stone cliff overlooking the part of Valley of Fire State Park. The cabins are made from the same sandstone that's found in the rest of the park, and at first glance it's easy to miss them, which is sort of the point. Used by campers and travelers for years, the cabins now stand as empty reminders of what the CCC accomplished throughout the park, the state of Nevada, and the rest of the country as citizens struggled during the depression.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Something A Little Different

Things were a little different for last year's Pikes Peak Ascent and Marathon due to construction on the mountain road, so while we were able to get to the summit on Ascent day to greet Torrey's dad at the top, I wasn't able to get to the top on Marathon day to play spectator. Instead I spent my day in Manitou Springs along with every other race spectator, watching the top via big screen TVs set up along the town roadways. I spent a lot of my time people-watching the crowd and cheering on the runners as they began to trickle in to their finish, which is what I supposed I'd have done at the summit anyway. Manitou is a cute little town, and I didn't at all mind being there for the day.

TROT Virtual Race #1: Brazos Bend 50K

Self-sufficient. I hadn't exactly intended to run this particular race. I hadn't been planning on running it even before COVID-19 and quarantine and social distancing hit us all. I had been signed up to volunteer at an aid station for the race at Brazo's Bend State Park down by Houston, my preferred place to see gators, but when the race directors cancelled every race from late February through May my volunteering was cancelled as well. Then they rolled out the virtual options for the cancelled races, offering the same distances, bibs, shirts, and medals a participant would receive during the in-person race, with the slight adjustment of letting each person run when they can, where they can. I was sold.

Running a virtual race versus an in-person race is pretty much the same thing: you put one foot in front of the other and run the distance you signed up for in what is hopefully a decent amount of time. There are a few significant differences though, as I discovered during my first TROT (Trail Racing Over Texas) Virtual Run. First and foremost, you don't have the social aspect of the race when you're doing it on your own. In this case that's the whole point, but I found myself missing the other runners and race volunteers, all of whom would normally be ready with an encouraging word and a heap of snacks at the aid stations. The aid stations were another thing I sorely missed; instead of having a table full of a variety of foods, electrolytes, and water refills, I was responsible for my own fuel during my run, carried my own water, and otherwise had to take care of myself. Sure, I could have planned my course so that I did loops or laps that took me back to my car every 5-10 miles so that I could refuel there and not carry so much, but I don't yet have the will-power to keep going when I could easily call it quits, get in my car, and go home. During a virtual race, you are also responsible for planning your own route. While there are advantages to that (hello flat trails and no elevation gain!) there are also disadvantages in the form of poor planning or just plain boring routes. Again, I could have planned my route to take me past my car somewhat frequently, but I didn't want to risk giving up. Instead, I planned a route that would take me 13+ miles away from my car, essentially forcing me to complete the distance so long as I didn't turn around before I hit the end of the trail.

While I would have preferred to run the race on the originally intended course at Brazo's Bend, I think I did rather well for myself considering I changed plans about half a dozen times. When I signed up for this race I had hoped to run it at my local state park, so that I could be close to home and because I already know the trails there. That idea was dashed when Texas closed all the state parks in response to the virus, because apparently people here (and everywhere, really) can't follow instructions to social distance. I toyed with the idea of running on the roads around my house, but I get horrible shin splints when I run on concrete and really didn't want to suffer that much. Then I hoped to run the race on a national recreation trail about an hour south of my house, in the heart of one of four national forests here in Texas, but further digging the night before I wanted to run led to the discovery that most of the 20 mile trail is closed for one reason or another. Finally, I decided to run a trail I've hiked a few times in the past, when breaking my own personal distance records in previous years: Turkey Creek Trail at Big Thicket National Preserve.

I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting myself into for this run. I'd hiked Turkey Creek Trail before, knew it was flat, if somewhat boggy in places, and it was roughly 20 miles from end to end. Hurricane Harvey wrecked havoc on the preserve and surrounding area, though, and did enough damage to the south end of the trail that they had to close it until repairs can be made. This left me with just about 14 miles to work with, running out and back, plus adding another four miles somewhere to hit that 50k mark, or 31.1 miles. I could do it. And I was bringing Ghost, too.

Ghost has found his purpose in life ever since I started running with him. He's a giant baby and hates water and heights, but if I take him out for a run he forgets everything except keeping pace with (or leading) me. We arrived at the northern trailhead for Turkey Creek just before 8am on a cloudy, cool April morning, and set out right after loading up with food and water. Ghost has his own backpack, which allows him to carry his own snacks, water, and bowl, and gives me a break from carrying extra weight. I have my own hydration vest - a gift from Torrey - that is more than sufficient to carry water, sweet and salty snacks, a rain jacket, and other little things that I would otherwise find at an aid station table. I'm generally adamant about being self-sufficient (probably a trait from backpacking and my Type A personality) and while I would have liked to ditch the weight of so many bottles of water and instead filled up at aid stations, I had no issue in relying on myself to provide what I needed. Covered in bug spray and satisfied we had everything we needed, we began.

I am not, and never will be, a fast runner. I am much more invested in distance, in pushing myself as far as I can go, in the mental battle that takes place between the logical part of me that screams what the fuck do you think you're doing, you can't go that far, and the tiny but much louder part of me that crosses her arms, raises her eyebrows, and snaps back yes, I can. I am perfectly happy with a 12, 13, or 14 minute mile. Hell, 12 minute miles are fast for me. I am just fine with power hiking when I need a break. And so I am okay with the fact that Ghost and I started out great with 12 minute miles, then eventually slowed to 16 minute miles, with a few 20 minute miles sprinkled in when I slowed down to eat a bag of M&Ms and a handful of pretzles at miles 5, 15, and 25. And those two 10-minute breaks I took at miles 10 and 20 to change my socks, eat half a Kind bar and a pickle spear, and dig out another water bottle from the bottom of my pack? No big deal.

I took the social distancing orders to heart on this race, and only saw three other human beings during the entire 31 miles, and all of them were at the trailhead as I was finishing up. On the trail itself, other than a plethora of bugs, I saw two other living creatures: a young coyote who we surprised as we rounded a bend in the trail, whom I locked eyes with before it turned tail and fled up the path before disappearing in the brush, and a copperhead snake (yes, one of the venomous ones here in Texas) whom Ghost stepped right over before I even saw it stretched across the trail, whom didn't even move as I gave a dramatic gasp and jump away from it, yanking Ghost by the leash. Neither the coyote nor the snake bothered us, and we went on our way though I was decidedly more vigilant after seeing the copperhead. I had been in a headspace that's almost a trance, the meditation state that I fall into during long runs where I'm just aware enough to keep to the trail but also removed enough to not notice how my muscles ache, how my toes are sore, how my heartbeat throbs in my fingers. After the little reminder that there are things in the woods that could send my day into a downward spiral of awfulness I was a little more aware of my surroundings, and definitely kept my eyes on the trail both in front of myself and in front of Ghost.

We reached the beginning of the trail and my car at mile 27, right around seven hours after setting out. After a quick refill of water bottles and a purging of empty ones, reapplying bug spray because the mosquitoes were swarming after the repellent wore off after twenty miles and Ghost and I were being eaten alive, plus ditching Ghost's pack, we ran back to the trail. I needed to hit 31.1 miles to reach a 50k distance, and so needed to run out and back just a couple of miles. I was in no danger of quitting, despite being near my car; I was only four miles from finishing this, I felt great, and Ghost was happy to be without his pack. We were good! It's almost stupid to admit, but the only concern I had was my phone battery dying. I used my phone to track my distance and time, and if it died on me before I finished I wasn't sure if it would record my run or if it would be lost. I ran my fastest four miles at the very end of the race, desperate for my phone battery to last. I had 10% charge, and watched that number drop at an alarming rate during the last mile. I all but sprinted it, huffing and puffing through a stitch in my side and burning calf muscles, Ghost loping alongside me with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic as I ran circles around the tiny trailhead parking lot, trying to hit the last two tenths of a mile that would push me firmly over to my 50k distance. When I saw my distance numbers roll over I practically sobbed with relief, sprinting over to my car to plug my phone in while also hitting "finish" and "save workout" on the running app.

Only once I was sure that my phone was charging and my run was saved did I allow myself a little happy dance for completing my second 50K ever, my fourth race total. I showered Ghost with love and treats, so incredibly proud of him for not only finishing his first 50K distance but leading me for the entire way. He never once dragged behind, never once showed any sort of wish to slow down or stop. There were even times when he would pull insistently on the leash, clearly wanting to go faster, and it is probably because of him that I managed to shave 12 minutes off my time for that distance, finishing this 50K race in 7 hours 46 minutes. We will definitely be running a 50K together again, and it just so happens that I'm signed up for two more virtual races of that distance, with plans to sign up for four more once registration opens next month. While I might not have originally intended to run the Brazos Bend 50, and although I missed some of the things that come with a supported in-person race, virtual racing has definitely grown on me, and I'm absolutely sure Ghost enjoys it too.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Shooting Wildife

I had so much fun spotting and following this herd of Desert Bighorn Sheep during my visit to Valley of Fire State Park. Myself and another pair of guys followed the herd by car at first, then when they got closer we pulled over and pulled out our cameras, planting ourselves on the side of the road and watching them graze, wander, and head-butt for a good twenty or so minutes. Although it was bright and sunny out, the wind was blustery and by the time the herd moved off down the valley I was shivering, teeth chattering as I bid the other photographers goodbye. It's always fun to get good shots of animals doing what they naturally do - from the safety of a proper distance and a zoom lens.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Pikes Peak Year Six

Once again, last August found Torrey and I at Pikes Peak, participating in and cheering on from the sidelines the runners of the Pikes Peak Ascent and Marathon. Torrey and I spent Ascent day at the top of the mountain, cheering her dad as he made it to the top. It was colder and windier on Pikes than it had been on any of the other 14'ers we'd climbed that week, and I was a little bit glad we had a warm giftshop/cafe to get into and warm up. Torrey keeps trying to talk me into running the ascent and up until now I've been adamantly against doing so . . . Now though, I might consider it. Just not this year; I'd like a little more running experience before I go for something like the elevation gain I'll have to suffer through in order to complete that particular race. We'll see though!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Mouse's Tank

In the desert, little shaded pockets of sandstone, usually located in the bottom of canyons, that are filled with perennial water are called "tanks". These tanks are life-saving resources for desert animals and humans alike, such as the Southern Paiute Indian this particular tank located in Valley of Fire State Park in Nevada is named after. "Little Mouse" was a fugitive accused of killing two prospectors, and used this water source while hiding from the law in the late 1800s. Though he was eventually caught and killed, Little Mouse survived for far longer than anyone would have thought in this dry desert, all because he found this tank of water. Today, desert-dwelling animals such as lizards, snakes, mice, and big horn sheep use this water source and others like it to survive where there are no rivers or lakes, and where rain is scarce.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Relief from Mountain Climbing

Even before Torrey and I decided to cut our mountain climbing short by one day last summer, we'd been planning on pampering ourselves at one of the many hot springs resorts in the Buena Vista area. Choosing to not climb Mount Princeton ended up being absolutely the right call to make, as we watched thunderstorms roll over the summit from mid-morning on, knowing there was no way we'd have reached the top safely that day. Instead, we were busy relaxing in one of the modernized hot springs pools at the Mount Princeton Resort at the base of the mountain, soothing our muscles sore from climbing and backpacking during the few days previous. We spent hours there, alternating between lounging in a pool chair and soaking in the steaming waters, until the staff eventually kicked guests out due to the incoming storms. We fully utilized the free showers at the pool (thank you for the free shampoo and soap!) and, feeling relaxed and clean, went on our way.

A Bit of a Letdown: Joshua Tree National Park

Disillusioned. Perhaps it was because it was cloudy, or maybe because it was snowing (in southern California!), or maybe because I was sleep-deprived, but regardless, my first impression of Joshua Tree National Park was lackluster. Maybe I had over hyped the park I've heard so much about as a premier place for rock climbing and camping and backcountry hiking, but when I actually got there I really didn't see what all the fuss was about. I mean sure, the miles and miles of paved and dirt roads were great to drive, the Joshua Trees were otherworldly, and you can never go wrong with dropping me into the middle of a desert, and while I can absolutely see why it deserves national park designation I just wasn't all that impressed. Is it possible to get travel burnout? Have I really been to so many places that one of the most visited national parks rates as just an "eh" on my list of natural wonders in the country?

I'm probably not being completely fair. I really was sleep-deprived, coming off of two days of manning aid stations at this year's Grandmasters Ultra race, both nights of which were spent shivering in blisteringly cold, windy conditions despite our best efforts to provide warmth for the runners and ourselves. I was also (still sort of am) struggling with my depression, and dealing with the letdown of my expectations for my February desert trip not being met. I had been so looking forward to the desert sun, for brilliant red rock canyons and towering mountains bathed in light and shadow. While I did get that (during the day) for the two days I was on the Arizona/Nevada/Utah border (a post for another time) both the drive to the area and the rest of the week afterward before I got home were plagued with winter storms, traffic-snarling blizzards, and overcast skies. I went out there for the sun, damn it!

It snowed the entire time I explored the upper elevations of Joshua Tree. Sometimes the snow was light and I took short walks through the desert plants, sometimes the snow was heavy and I sat in my car on the side of the road, pouting. I did make sure to drive the scenic dirt roads marked on the park map, and those ended up being my favorite parts of the visit. You all know how much I love to drive, and if I couldn't hike among the cracked granite boulders famous for their rock-climbing routes then at least I could see them from the warmth and comfort of my car. I mean, technically I could have hiked, but why would I purposely subject myself to being cold and wet and miserable when I was already grumpy with how my visit was going? If I'd done that I probably would have wound up with hypothermia and absolutely no desire to return to the park someday in the future when there's better weather.

As it was, I spent nearly the whole day in the park determined to see everything I could from my car because I had driven all the way out there and I am way more stubborn than what's probably good for me. The clouds cleared off a bit once I descended into the lower elevations, from the Mojave Desert into the Colorado Desert, though by the time I got there it was later in the afternoon and not much left to drive of the main park road. Don't get me wrong, the scenery was exactly what I'd been hoping for when planning my visit; rugged mountains lined with Joshua Tree forests, wide valleys filled with all sorts of my favorite cacti, sand-colored granite blocks as tall as skyscrapers, and a general lack of other people in the area because I purposely visited in the middle of the week (and also apparently during a winter snowstorm). Joshua Tree was beautiful and packed with the activities that would normally make me giddy and itching to get my hiking shoes on to explore, but I just wasn't feeling it this time around.

Someday, whenever I make my way into southern California again, I'll revisit Joshua Tree and give it a second chance. Someday I'll go back and there won't be a cloud in the sky and I'll soak up as much of that desert sun as I can handle (spoiler: it's a lot). Someday I'll hike as many miles of cacti-choked trails as I want, and maybe even do a bit of climbing while I'm at it. I'll keep dreaming until that someday comes.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: The Three Corners

Reachable only via (really awesome) four-wheel drive roads, the corners of Arizona, Nevada, and Utah converge out in the middle of the Mojave Desert, not far from the tiny town of Littlefield, Arizona. While not as famous as it's Four Corners counterpart (Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah), the three corners is still a bustling place during good-weather days. It was also the most remote aid station at this year's Grandmasters Ultra race, and I spent a day here with Torrey, Tyler, and Chris while we served runners completing their race. I would probably never have visited this little concrete and metal monument if not for the race, so props to the race directors for giving me a chance to see something new!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: The Vanishing Creek

There is a place, deep in the heart of Colorado where towering sand dunes are surrounded by rugged mountain ranges, where water flows above ground only during certain times of the year. Medano Creek borders the dune field at Great Sand Dunes National Park, flowing only when the snow is melting from the slopes of the mountains upstream. Once the snow is gone the creek stops flowing above ground, instead sinking the moisture into the sand while still travelling downstream, surfacing beyond the park in lush wetlands that play host to migrating birds, elk, deer, moose, and bears. Sometimes, during spring and early summer, the creek is cold and deep and fast-moving, stretching all the way from the dunes parking lot to the dunes themselves. During our visit last year Torrey and I followed all that was left of the stream, a little trickle of water, all they way to its end, when it gives up on the surface and soaks into the sand below. In all my visits to the park I've never actually seen the end of the creek - I've only ever seen it full and flowing or completely dry - so this was a fun little sight to see, there at the end of summer.

Chiricahua

Curiosity and ambition are the two main motivating factors that drive my travels. I have a huge goal to visit every unit of the national park system, and that combined with a general lack of tight schedules while traveling leave me with ample opportunity to stop at roadside attractions on a whim. These same factors compel me to drive every scenic byway marked on a map (because I still use paper maps, especially due to my tendency to visit places with little to no cell service), which is why I found myself heading to Chiricahua National Monument in southeastern Arizona on my way home from a week in the desert.

I hadn't been quite ready to return home, though I wasn't actively looking for ways to stall, and once the little green square on the map caught my attention I knew I'd be checking it out. I'd never heard of Chiricauhua, though I suppose that's not too difficult to believe considering it's a ways away from basically every major transportation corridor in the area. I didn't mind the distraction, and turned off at the appropriate exit to make my way across rolling plains deep in a valley between rugged desert mountain ranges. This little national monument lies nestled at the foot of one of these mountain ranges, and my approach was overshadowed by a looming storm. At lower elevations the precipitation was rain, though as I climbed up into the mountains by way of the two-lane monument drive the rain turned to sleet. It was a mixture of sleet and snow by the time I reached the visitors center, and full on snowing when I left the building a few minutes later.

Chiricahua is a place where five of the seven "life zones" in the northern hemisphere are stacked on top of each other in the space of a few miles, defined by differences in elevation, moisture, soil, and sun exposure. Starting at the lowest elevations we see the Lower Sonoran Zone characterized by bare patches of earth sprinkled with thorny desert plants, followed by the Upper Sonoran, Transition, Canadian, and finally the Hudsonian Zone above 9000 feet, where spruce, fir, and aspens thrive. Microhabitats are everywhere, catering to a multitude of species that otherwise would never converge here. Mountain-dwelling bears share the area with desert tortoises, deer are everywhere, and there are more birds in this location than nearly anywhere else in the Sonoran Desert.

One species I didn't see as I made my way up the scenic drive was humans. I didn't see a single other person as I drove, winding through canyons and along mountainside cliffs to the road's end at the summit, though hindsight shows that was probably due to the storm that was intensifying in the higher elevations of the park. The snow was heavier at the top, several inches already laying in dripping sheets over the parking lot and picnic tables that supposedly showcased unrivaled views of the valley below. During my visit I could barely see the tops of the ponderosas next to me, let alone the valley bottom, and I didn't linger at the top for long. I had no desire to take a tumble down the mountainside on my way back down along the increasingly slick road, and threw my car into the lowest gear possible in order to keep it under control. I left none too soon - they closed the park road just after I left.

Natural Bridge Caverns Trail Run: Race #2

Jaunty. Months ago, right after I had recommitted to running a half-marathon trail race, a conversation with my long-distance running buddy led to the discovery of a race that began in a cave right here in Texas. For the adventurous spirit inside me it was a siren call too enchanting to resist, and I had signed up for it almost before I knew it. Of course, the fact that it was one week after my 54k (which happened to be my first race ever) was something that slipped by me in my enthusiasm. Would I still have signed up for both anyway? Yeah, probably. Would I have at least stopped to consider if that was a good idea? Meh, maybe. The thing is, I had been toying with the idea of running one race per month in 2020, and the 54k was in January, and the half-marathon cave run was in February, and we all know those are two different months. Realizing they were a week apart didn't dampen my excitement; if anything, attempting two races basically back to back was a challenge I was determined to overcome.

It was with no small amount of anticipation that Julia and I found ourselves in the wild country north of San Antonio at the beginning of February as we followed our fellow runners, descending single-file into a hole in the earth. We trailed along, strung out on the path as we turned our heads this way and that, trying to take in as many cave formations as possible. They began runners one at a time due to the cramped quarters, and we had a few minutes stopped in a small tunnel to chat and take in the fact that we were about to run a race through a cave. Julia and I made sure to take a picture together as we waited for our turn to begin, our excitement at this novel experience palpable.

Then it was our turn! Julia went first, for the sole purpose of me getting a picture of her beginning the race. I hadn't carried my phone for my last race, and I ended up regretting it because I would have loved more pictures. I learned this time around, and although it wasn't ideal to hold my phone in my hand the whole time I absolutely had easy access to take any picture I wanted! And yeah, I took a ton (it's me, come on). Most of my pictures I took while on the move, but there were several places where the formations or the scenery prompted me to stop in my tracks as I drank in everything around me. I absolutely squeaked with overwhelming excitement and joy after I was allowed to begin, running to catch up with Julia so we could experience this together. We ran past stalactites and stalagmites, past smooth flow-stone and fragile straws, along deep pits, and finally up steep switchbacks as we neared ground-level.

The transition from cave to sunrise air was shocking enough to prompt exclamations out of both of us; the caves in south Texas generally stay a consistent 70 degrees Fahrenheit, but a late winter Texan morning hovers right around 40. The difference was enough to see the condensation forming in the air in front of us through the doors at the surface, and as we passed through it we felt the drop in our bones. It didn't take long to forget about it, though, as we turned a corner and ran into the sunrise.

From the cave, the course looped through a great example of south-central Texas hill country, known for its rolling hills, little canyons, rocky trails, and (in the springtime) its wildflowers. We were a few weeks too early for flowers, unfortunately, but the crooked oak trees and little pastures more than made up for it. We ran up and down hills, along a dry creek bed, through tunnels of trees just waiting to burst into bloom, and across pastures that were already a green spring carpet beneath our feet. We had one major descent (not counting the cave) and I was able to let go and allow gravity to take the wheel. I've found I absolutely adore downhill running; I somehow know exactly how to place my feet to keep my legs under me, how to angle my body so I don't face-plant and skid in the dirt, and when I give it my all I feel like I'm flying. Of course, we went down so eventually had to go up, and I am significantly less adept at that. I power walk to the best of my ability, but holy cow do I suffer for it.

Even with a bit of walking, stopping to take pictures, and a near-constant flow of conversation, Julia and I managed to keep a steady pace throughout the 13.1 miles. As soon as we hit the pavement that signaled we were close to the finish line Julia asked how far I thought we had left to go, and I knew that was her way of asking if we could have it all out in the last few steps of the race. We saved it until we could see the bright red finish line arch at the bottom of a hill, next to the cave entrance where we had begun our race. Once we did, we sprinted, a giant grin on my face as I reflected that this was my first official half-marathon, that I had finished, that I had done it a week after an ultra-marathon, and that I felt like a million bucks even at the end of the run. Julia crossed the finish line less than four seconds before I did, and after catching our breath we set out to grab our finisher medals and snag some food as we came down from the exhilaration of finishing.

I absolutely did not take this race seriously. I was still somewhat recovering from my ultra-marathon (stupid knee) and I had plenty of time to complete the run, the course began in a cave then looped around a bit of privately-owned Texas hill country which meant there was plenty of scenery to gawk at, and I was running with one of my best friends whom I was determined to chat with the whole time. Despite my irreverence I somehow pulled off my best pace yet for that distance (asphalt and trail running combined!), finishing the half-marathon in under two and a half hours. Far from punishing my body with a bad race, running two races a week apart seemed to work out perfectly well for me, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious (or ambitious, or perhaps crazy) enough to try it again. I've got a bit of a break before my next race - I'm signed up for two more at the time of publishing - but I have every intention of hitting the trails between now and then just for fun, as well as a couple of non-running adventures planned. I have to say, it is certainly good to be back.

Running The Rose: My First Race

Able. This all began with a stupid deal, made in a fit of irritability and pique directed at the low-hanging clouds and the drizzling white mist swirling around us, soaking through our clothes and shoes as we traversed the final miles of the Buffalo River Trail in northern Arkansas. I don't even remember most of the conversation - or lack thereof - other than at one point I burst out that if we managed to finish the trail by noon I would run a race. Torrey, one of those crazy people who run ultra-marathons for fun, immediately shot back that it would have to be at least a half-marathon, and it would have to be on a trail, not a road. Still wet, cold, and irritable, I agreed. When we finished that trail with four minutes to spare I wasn't thinking anything beyond being grateful that we'd reached the warm, dry interior of our car, and as the months went on I hoped Torrey had forgotten about our deal. I wasn't that lucky, however, and during our Colorado adventures last summer Torrey had the grace to remind me of our bargain in as tactful of a way as possible. Not being one to go back on my word, I began training when I got home at the end of August.

Five months later, what the fuck was I thinking played on repeat in my head as I walked from my car to the starting line for my first ever race. I definitely still would have been thinking those words regardless of what distance I was running, but they were especially poignant because for some stupid reason I had decided to go for broke and sign up for an ultra-marathon distance of 54K, or 33.55 miles. Did I mention it was my first race? The small handful of 5ks I did years ago where I walked the vast majority of the distance don't count, because I certainly wasn't timed for them, and I'm not even sure I received a race bib or finisher medal. I'd never ran a timed 5k, a 10k, a half-marathon, or a full marathon, but I'd spent the past five months working hard on my own to improve my distance endurance, and when I found a race close to home I jumped at the chance to go for it. I spent every weekend for a month training on the course trails at my local state park, learning the route and pushing my own limits up to 22 miles (or two of the three loops of the race course), because I'll be damned if I was going to give up.

The minute I walked up to the starting area I heard my named called over the PA system by the race director, asking me to come see him as soon as possible. Dread hit my chest and lodged in my throat, because I'm an extreme introvert and had absolutely hoped to avoid any sort of attention during this race. It would be just my luck that a hundred or so people would get to watch me walk over to the race director while I internally freaked out over what could possibly be wrong. When I reached him he smiled at me and reached out to touch my shoulder in what could only be a described as a bracing way as he explained to me as apologetically as possible what had happened. I burst out into full body laughter, the kind that hurts your stomach and makes your shoulders shake, the kind laced with just a little edge of hysteria, because raccoons decimating my drop bags overnight would happen only to me. I had carefully planned what I was going to put in my bags, which would go to each of the three aid stations on the course where I could grab a snack, some electrolyte tablets for my water, address any blisters that might have popped up, and otherwise support myself during the race. I had gone overkill, which I tend to do regardless, because the aid stations were all well-equipped for any needs a runner might have, but I had wanted to be prepared with my own stuff just in case. After learning my bags were next to useless, I knew I was going to be relying on the aid stations for most of my needs. The only thing I really cared about were the change of socks I knew I absolutely needed to have, and it was with no small amount of relief that we found my socks were spared from the raccoons' rampage.

So here's the thing: in previous posts I've discussed how good I am at avoiding things, of ignoring problems, of pushing it all down into the back of my mind and pretending it doesn't exist. I seem to be learning there is no end to the amount of shit I willingly ignore about myself, because it is only recently that I learned I've been having panic attacks for months and have been doing my utmost to ignore what my brain is putting my body through. I probably still wouldn't know if I hadn't had one in a therapy session, where it became difficult to breath and my hands were shaking and my throat was dry and I couldn't string words together and my shoulders and whole legs were tense, where I began sweating and alternating between rubbing my face and pinching my arms. All of which I had literally no idea I was doing until my counselor made me stop and breath, walked me through grounding exercises, then had me describe the physical symptoms of what I had just endured. I. Had. No. Idea. I still don't know all of my triggers, though now that I'm (mostly) aware I can pinpoint the thoughts or words that might induce one of my attacks. And being called to the front of a large crowd of people where I don't know a single person to be told my carefully prepared bags are worthless due to a freak occurrence should have sent me into a panic attack, but it didn't. For reasons I'm not sure I understand, the circumstances made me truly laugh instead, accepting it for what it was and moving on. Maybe it was because I was focused on the monumental task of finishing a 33 mile race instead of the little side details, or maybe it was because I expected a panic attack and was therefore prepared for one, but I surprised myself and stayed calm. I had my socks, the aid stations could provide the rest, now all I had to do was run.

I had this. I knew I did. I was well prepared, knew my body and, at least in this case, my mind. The first 11 mile loop all but flew by with my best pace yet, and it was with a certain amount of fondness that I looked forward to my favorite parts of the trail. Isn't that something, for me to realize I had favorite spots on a running trail, and when I reached them a tiny little smile crossed my face, even on my third and final loop. Not once did it cross my mind that I couldn't do it. Not once did that doubt leach into my head, even when I was tired and walking up the steepest hills. I knew I could do it, that no matter what, even if I had to crawl, I could finish that race. I had plenty of time, hours well into the night, but I knew I could finish before sunset. I wasn't overly concerned about my pace, just going at what I knew I could handle while always moving forward. I found a few people to run with here and there, before eventually either they or I would run on ahead, each of us determined to finish at our own pace. I was pleasantly surprised to see a few familiar faces, people who I'd seen and talked to and even ran with on training runs on that very course, and with just a passing fist bump or a "hey, you got this!" I felt my resolve grow. The hiking community in general, which I've been a part of for years, is usually very polite, exchanging hellos and little bits about the trail in passing; the running community, at least for this race, was so incredibly encouraging it kind of blew me away. Nearly every time I passed someone or someone passed me it was always accompanied by "way to go," "good job," "keep it up," or some other little phrase designed to keep the other person's spirits up. I can't speak for everyone, but I genuinely wanted everyone out there to do well, to be their best, and wanted them to finish their race. Very few people go out there looking to actually compete; most of us just want to go out and run for the sake of running, or for ourselves, or maybe to beat a personal record, or to run with friends.

Trail running wasn't a hard stretch for me, for someone who loves to hike and explore as much as I do, trail running is just a faster way of seeing more. It's the "faster" part that held me back from trying it, and it took an incentive in the form of my best friend making a dumb deal with me to get me to go for it. And there I was, at top form during the first two loops, feeling good and showing that with my pace. I slowed down on my third loop, which I expected, but I still felt good despite being tired. I kept pushing, though not as hard as I could have, content just to have begun the final loop knowing that I would finish it no matter what. Somehow I managed to keep my feet the entire race, and despite the few times I tripped over a rock or root I never went down, which is way more than I can say than during any of my training runs, where my shins and knees and hands still bear the scars of one too many falls. At one point or another during my passes through the aid stations, while scarfing down a cookie or pretzels or pickles or whatever else caught my eye, I had mentioned it was my first race to the volunteers. On my final loop they all remembered, and their encouragement to keep going and finish strong gave me that little extra boost I needed to do exactly that. While I didn't care how long it took me, or whether I would be dead last across the finish line, I had hoped and hoped that I might finish in under eight hours. I wouldn't even call it a goal, because I wasn't actively striving for it when I began; it was just something that would be nice if it happened. When my watch died just before the final aid station, with a little over three miles left to go, I let that hope go, not knowing if I could pace myself without some way of telling time. I did, however, ask the volunteers the time when I left on the last leg of the course; I had 45 minutes to make it to the finish line if I wanted to make it under eight hours. And I honestly wasn't sure that I could, but hot damn did I give it my best shot.

Crossing that final line with a grin on my face, with absolute relief that I had done it, that I had accomplished a task I had repeatedly told myself I was crazy for even considering, was one of the best feelings I've ever felt; it was the same feeling of overwhelming gratitude and relief and triumph that I feel when I summit a mountain, or when I crested the rim of the Grand Canyon after hiking across it, or when I see my car at the trail head after days of backpacking in the desert or the mountains. I didn't even look at the time when I crossed, too overwhelmed to make sense of anything more than the finisher medal in my hand and the applause and cheers from those at the finish line who didn't even know me but were happy for and proud of me for completing the race. It wasn't until later that night when I remembered to look up results online that I discovered I had finished my race in 7 hours, 58 minutes, and 37 seconds. Goal: met. With one minute twenty-three seconds to spare.