Hard Rock from the Pacer who lived to tell about it

I got an email from Daniel in Feb, just before he ran the Rock and Ice snowshoe ultra, that he’d gotten into Hardrock. Wow, I thought, that’s the beautiful but maybe-impossible one in Colorado - “lucky” (?) him. As spring went on and we kept in touch and I followed his success at the Rock and Ice, it occurred to me that he’d be a great pacer for me in Western States (I knew he wouldn’t let me quit), so I proposed a deal for him - if he’d come down for States, I’d pace him at Hardrock. I never even looked at the dates to notice how close the two are (3 wks apart) but I was pretty desperate to have his support for States. Once WS was over, he completely freed me from my contract; but by then I felt so much gratitude for his help - and I felt like we were real adventure partners, having survived the 3 Peaks and all those training runs together - that I really wanted to return the favor. Also, on the selfish side, I’ve always wanted to see some of the amazing course of Hardrock, sort of to scout it out for myself as a potential goal.

He was pretty confident about having a fast run at Hardrock, but I read a few more details about how the altitude affects runners, a lot of stories about oxygen deprivation and hurling and other not-very-pretty details. But he’s young and tough - I knew he’d finish. I was actually really worried about my ability to make it that far (I was noticing that pacers are allowed to start at mile 42, which would mean a 58-mile run), with my tendonitis, blisters, and orthotic problems plaguing my recovery from Western States. I was hoping he’d let me start farther in the course, like maybe Telluride… We settled on Ouray as my entry point.

I arrived in Silverton late in the evening before the start sleep-deprived from travel and impressed by the mountains. I had to give Daniel lots of points for bravery - even after hours of prerace briefings warning about risks in the wilderness, altitude, weather, etc., and a not-so-brief tutorial about the course (or how to find your way across 100 miles of high mountain passes, steep canyons and rivers - all rugged terrain that may or may not be marked), he didn’t seem too nervous. He did mention that he was a bit worried about getting winded after walking up 2 flights of stairs to the hotel room…. He travels frighteningly lightly for such a remote course with so many weather potentials - minimal layers, no tights, and only 2 drop bags along the course. He’d made a time schedule that would give him a 38-hour finish (based on being in the top 25% of last years’ finishers) which would mean that we wouldn’t have a second night out on the course - but I had a drop bag of warm clothes and second headlight for the mile 82 checkpoint, just in case.

I blew my first duty as pacer by screwing up his start photos - actually it was his fault for running too close behind a large guy that obscured him as he went past - and then my job for the rest of the day was to get prepared for the night(s) out there. I got a few more hours of sleep, checked out of the hotel, and found rides for my drop bags to their designated aid stations. I bought a new rain jacket at a local sport store - figured that was pretty good insurance that it wouldn’t rain on me - and ate a huge pasta lunch. While eating I tried to memorize the course description/directions from Ouray on, but found the plethora of details overwhelming. So I tried outlining the major points, but only got as far as Telluride. I checked the race board several times, and was happy to see that Daniel was right on his time schedule through the first 3 checkpoints, and spending very little time at each - he must be feeling pretty good! Next it was time to find my way to Grouse Gulch to see him there, predicted at 7 p.m. I missed the lead men by an hour, but saw Emily and Krissy come through, as well as the husbands of my new acquaintances, Martha and Deanna, both wives of last year Grand Slammers. It was fun to see the runners approach down a huge switchback descent, lots of spectators used binoculars to identify them from nearly a ½ mile up. But 7:00 came and went, as did 8:00 and 9:00, and I started to worry about why Daniel had gotten so far behind his schedule. Clearly something was going wrong. Now there were only about 30 people who hadn’t come through and I was really worried. If he’s having such a hard time, maybe he needs me to start running with him here instead of Ouray - after all, there were descriptions of lots of “exposure/acrophobia/drop-offs” for the next section of trail. So I taped my feet, packed my gear, and was ready. Still waiting, now watching headlights come down the long steep grade, so not knowing who it was until they were right at the aid station. Then I noticed a very fast-moving headlight - really cruising down the hill - and I knew that was Daniel. That’s just how he runs downhills, and he always gets pumped coming into a checkpoint. I shouted out as he approached, and yes it was him. He explained that he’d had a lot of altitude trouble with the climb up Handies Peak, the highest point on the course - couldn’t breathe, had to stop and sit down every 50 feet, heart pumping like it was going to explode through his chest - but luckily no headache or nausea. And he felt completely better after descending back down to 9000 feet at Grouse, and was moving strong. Actually he was in pretty good spirits, too, despite having lost over 3 hours on his expected schedule. He said no, he didn’t need me to start there - he’d go on alone and I’d join him at Ouray as planned. I was fine with that, as I was really hoping for a few more hours of sleep before starting to run. I did remind him about the “exposure” areas and asked if he’d had any dizziness or lightheadedness, but he said he was fine. Brave guy, that’s for sure.

He was a completely different presentation 6 hours later when he dragged into Ouray. He looked tired and beaten, and said he felt like he’d just run 100 miles. He didn’t say it, but later admitted that he really wanted to stop there. He didn’t really have any serious issues, hadn’t puked, no serious blisters; but his feet hurt and he was demoralized by being over 4 hours behind his anticipated pace. And still facing 45 miles of trail and climbs that he knew weren’t going to be any easier than the first half. At that point, it really sucked to be him.

We walked out of town. We walked the endless miles of the gravel road up the long climb to Camp Bird. He said he’d feel better once the sun came up, but it was the world’s slowest sunrise in that canyon. Every now and then he’d recount some horrible experience of the previous day, like how the flies would chase him back into action after two minutes of sitting down on the Handies climb. Or the zillions of stream crossings and wet shoes macerating the feet. It was as if he needed to vent some of the pain of the day, to release it like a demon residing inside him. For me, it was an interesting experience to see this canyon at such a relaxed pace - I’ve run Imogene Pass twice before so had seen this section, but I was always very focused on racing it competitively; and while there was a bit of deja-vue, I’d never taken the time to look around and enjoy the beauty of the canyon section, and the river rapids below us. It was nice to take it in in slow motion. We kept walking the long uphill and eventually reached the aid station at the mine. Breakfast burritos! Cinnamon rolls! COFFEE! I was in heaven, and Daniel picked up emotionally, too. By now we’d parted ways with the Imogene course, so it was all new to me, and the scenery really started to get great - grandiose Governor’s Basin, relics of Ruby Trust and Virginius mines, waterfalls, towering peaks and spires of pinnacles. Views downward showing how far up we’ve gained. I think Daniel was less thrilled with the towering ridges above us, probably only able to think about how much climbing was going to be required to get over it. Reached the shortcut between switchbacks of the road, that wasn’t too steep - was that the first of the three steps? Couldn’t remember the details. The next climb was obviously a “step”, a seriously steep snow climb - at an incline resembling sections of Mt. Shasta. The third was even steeper, and ended with the fixed rope climb. I had my camera out most of the way, documenting the feat of making it over Virginius Pass, my first taste of a blip on the Hardrock altitude graph. How many before this had Daniel already struggled over? (eight, I counted later). He was still climbing quite well, but had to take some rests because of the altitude. I think he got a little perturbed with my photo-documentary when I shouted at him to let go of the rope with one hand to wave from just below the top - it would’ve been a great shot, because he was framed perfectly between the pillars of the notch, with the sky silhouetting his outline… We savored the views for only a few moments and greeted the hearty volunteers who’d spent the night in the narrow gouge in the rock wall that was the pass. One last look over the valley we’d conquered, and an incredible view toward the next horizon, with Telluride hidden way out of sight, somewhere at the bottom. You can see the top of the Telluride ski runs, and know you’ve got a long way down to go when you’re looking down on a ski resort… Daniel spotted the top of Bridal Veil waterfall in the Telluride Valley; little did I know that we’d later (much later) cross the upper part of that basin. Given how far that range of mountains looked on the horizon, and the vastness of the valley between us and it, I think I would have freaked had I known that that was on our route.

Yahoo, downhill! Or so I thought at first. Then I got my introduction to the standard Hardrock descent, and realized this is no picnic, either. The downs are just as punishing on the body as the ups, only in a different way. I discovered that Daniel wasn’t able to move downhill very fast - wow, he’s usually such a fast downhill runner, that first half of the course really took a toll on him. “How bad?” I wondered hundreds of times throughout the day and night. Grueling. Worse than that, horrible. But he was still trying, and after a bit of down hobbling loosened up, stretched out and sped up a bit. The next thing I learned about Hardrock descents is that they go on forever. Get used to that fact - after every huge climb there’s going to be an endless, painful downhill that will beat your feet and body so badly that you’ll be looking forward to going up again. Some parts were rocky ankle-twisters, and others were smooth - but in general the pitch was not comfortable - I could only image it on legs that had already been running 30 hours! For me, Telluride was especially long-awaited, because I’d forgotten to take my sunglasses when I left Ouray (well, it was dark…); and as the day had started to heat up, I was anxious to get off my tights and lighten my load by dropping the long-sleeve layers tied to my pack. That’s definitely a down side of being an overly-prepared runner.

Telluride eventually greeted us. There was a nice crowd there, but nothing like the raucous finishline-feel of Robinson Flat or Michigan Bluff of Western States, where you felt like a celebrity arriving. The kids there were especially helpful, rinsing out the grit from my waterbottles (left over from my last altitude trainer on Mt. Shasta, when I’d refilled with glacier melt that was mixed with grit). Daniel quickly changed shoes and fueled up. He’s really fast through the aid stations, and I had time only to get rid of the tights, and grab sunglasses and hat; but didn’t even make it to the food tables (thank-you to the boy who brought me some potato chips and cookies) and forgot sunscreen.

We started the long uphill walk. Daniel was in pretty good spirits - Telluride was definitely a major milestone and he could start thinking of the distance to go as diminishing instead of impossible. We followed a dirt road up a canyon along a river for miles, encountering some day hikers. Most were very encouraging and in awe of the 100-mile runners. We again joined Ray for much of the way, which added some new conversation and helped pass the time. I started photographing the wildflowers, as they were so amazing and so varied. I thought it would be fun to have the girls do a summer science project of researching and naming all the different wildflowers of Colorado.

Eventually we turned off the dirt road onto singletrack, the Wasatch Trail, and followed it more steeply up the valley. We broke out into wide open spaces and the high mountain scenery was incredible! Lots of snow patches, snowmelt creeks, towering peaks, the highest ski lift of Telluride. The sun was intensely hot and we were in full exposure most of this section. Every now and then a cloud gave us brief relief, but mostly we were cooking. We talked about “Event of Extremes” instead of “Tough and Wild” as the motto, since Hardrock seems to offer extremes of everything - cold, heat, climbs, descents, wildflowers, extreme beauty, and most of all, extreme athletes. We’d heard about the winners at Telluride, and we were amazed at the new course records, and Krissy moving up to 3^rd overall; marveled at how they could have moved so quickly across such an impossible course, and be finished already! With us still having the rest of the day and all night to go… Many times we could look back down the valley, and although Telluride was no longer in view we could sense where it was, way far down; and we could see the extremely far-off towering ridge of the Virginius Pass where we’d come from - it was an amazing feeling to see how far we’d come.

Up we went across high alpine meadows, up along and often through creeks, across snow fields, up through the wildflowers, and basically, just up. Hours went by and it still wasn’t obvious where the pass was that we were headed for. Then an experienced Hardrocker enlightened us once it was in view - “That’s it, just where the cloud is over that ridge…” - ah, so it was true, we were heading up into the clouds.

At the pass, another incredible view! Robert pointed out to us the second part of this pass - Oscar’s Pass - over to the right. But I looked down (way down) to the left and saw Ray and another runner, and asked “So where are they going?”. Robert immediately yelled to them, and I gave my loud dog-call whistle to get their attention, and we waved madly indicating they should come back up and go right. I felt awful for them having to backtrack up a steep hill, and Robert summarized it well - “Yeah, it sucks to be them!”

Next came the worst descent of the course (at least of the half that I saw) - down to the Chapman Gulch Aid station, which you could see from the ridge - impossibly far down in the valley, just a speck of white which was the tent. A 3000-foot drop in maybe 2 miles, and huge boulders and rocks strewn on the “road” alternating with a fine dirt surface that lacked traction and made your feet slip and slide with each step.

Chapman checkpoint, our last drop bags to pick up our headlights and dry shoes for Daniel, and “only” 18 miles to go! The potato soup really hit the spot, and Daniel had spaghetti as we walked out. The sun was getting low and the mosquitoes were attacking us so I had to put my long sleeve shirt on even though it wasn’t really cool yet, and of course we were climbing. Daniel didn’t seem to notice them, I guess he was just so tired he didn’t care. On the descent down the north side of Ophir Valley, we’d been discussing where the next pass might be - all the ridges and mountains seemed impenetrable that we thought for a while we’d go either on the Ophir Pass Road that was clearly visible (yuck), or maybe completely around everything to the southwest… No, it was becoming apparent that we were heading up a basin toward a line of peaks/ridges that seemed too steep to be passable. Hmm, maybe we should’ve read the course description for this section…

My worst nightmare came true - after multiple false summit type grassy rises, we could finally see the runners ahead starting up the impossible - a steep chute between some peaks was going to be the pass. My stomach lurched, and thoughts alternated between “can I do this?” and “how can this be on an event course - don’t they get sued when people die here?” The trail didn’t exist very clearly up the steep portion, and most people were picking their own way. The scary part was that the rocks were all so loose, that sometimes they’d get kicked loose and fall down toward us. I was trying to run and dodge them (which isn’t easy on a 40-degree slippery slope!) but Daniel didn’t seem to worry too much - he said come on, they’re just small rocks. Yeah, but they’re moving 80 mph - get hit in the head with that and you’re dead I pointed out. He said well, you can see where they’re going as they approach; but I said no, they take these aberrant bounces - I’m going to try to get as far away as possible! Anyway, I decided that fast would be the best approach to this pitch, and that off to the left side of the loose scree was a column of more stable rocks, at least it looked like some were anchored and stable enough to stand on. So I went up that way - the larger rocks also offered some handholds, which made me feel more comfortable - “In a no-fall zone, always keep three points anchored before moving the fourth limb”, I remembered from Mt. Shasta climbing. At one point I couldn’t find hand- or footholds, and thought I might be stuck. No way up, and down would be scarier than up (Daniel later pointed out that next year it will be in the down direction…) and it was getting darker by the second. I can remember some stronger voice inside saying “Now’s no time to panic - panicking won’t help you. Get up this thing!” and I powered up the rest of the pitch. There was a small flat isthmus of rocky flat ground that was the saddle (it plunged off a similar cliff on the other side), and I laid down on it, face down, hugging it, and then had the emotional breakdown that I’d put off a few moments before. Daniel was still picking his way up the chute, and I shouted to him about the 4-point hold, but the wind was too loud and he couldn’t hear me. But he made his way just fine, didn’t appear to be at all shaken like I’d been. Maybe being so tired numbed his senses enough that he didn’t realize (or care?) about the danger. We solemnly walked past Joel’s memorial and I was glad that I knew he hadn’t died there, but several days after finishing the race. Then I saw the Island Lake - it was nearly dark but I could make out that this was it, for sure. The beautiful photos I’d seen of this lake is really what convinced me to be here - I had to see this beauty. I hadn’t ever suspected - enjoying the photo from the comfort of my chair in front of my computer - that it would require me to brave the scariest moment of my life to see it. And then only be able to barely pick it out in the dark - hardly fair. But that’s right, the Hardrock is neither easy nor fair. Wild and Tough, remember? I tried a time-exposure photo, but it didn’t really turn out; just proves that I was indeed there. OK, let’s hope that the down side of this thing isn’t as bad as the up (a distinct possibility, given that this Hardrock course is showing no mercy)! Not that bad, or maybe it was helpful that the darkness masked the depth of the dropoffs; or maybe I’d toughened up - I made it over Grant-Swamp, whatever else that comes I can handle! The group that had been not far ahead going up the steep pitch were now far off down the valley, and I joked to Daniel that perhaps they’d freefallen the first 200 feet, which saved them a lot of time.

The nighttime section becomes a blur, and of course no more photos to stir my memory. The downhills still seemed endless, 5- and 7-mile sections were taking 3-1/2 to 4-1/2 hours, and there were several river crossings. We had read the description of one of these, the one that’s described as “runners may prefer to cross in groups, linking arms for stability against the current” - and remembered that this came shortly after the KT aid station. So we were surprised to encounter a waist-deep river crossing before making it to KT. But we were primarily focused on how to get across, choosing the best point of attack. We decided to wait for the experienced runner behind us, and he said “Well, it looks different every year, but we usually go just below the waterfall.” It was a bit of a struggle to work our way upstream, but Daniel did, and climbed on through and over the log jam. I retraced steps back downstream, and eventually just plunged in, as Daniel had already crossed and taken off ahead. I remember being mad and frustrated at having wasted a lot of time dwelling on how to cross it rather than just crossing it. Then, even more frustrating, we started talking about how that should’ve been after KT. Could it have been possible that we’d missed the aid station? Could the checkpoint have been down a spur trail that we’d run right past? No, we’d never seen any markers that looked like they were marking a turnoff. But we pulled out the directions, and by headlight and in our fatigued state, it did sound like it could have been a spur trail. At first I thought, oh well, forget the aid station - we’ll just make it right through to the next. Then it suddenly hit me that Daniel would be disqualified if he didn’t check in at every aid point. Oh, bummer, we’ve got to go back. I felt Daniel’s desperation over the lost time as he started running faster than I’d seen him run so far. We backtracked to where Mr. Knowledgeable was, and he assured us that we were OK, hadn’t missed KT, and he described in detail that there was a long traverse, and then the KT checkpoint. That felt good, but in a small way it was hard to trust someone who’s been running for 40 hrs. Did he really remember all the details? He was right about the long traverse, which I now read is only about 1-1/3 miles, but seemed to take us forever. Finally the KT station. I’d been planning to put on my tights here, but luckily a volunteer informed us that the big river crossing is 300 yards away, and then a lot of mucky swamp. OK, I prefer to keep my tights dry and put them on later. So we were pretty quick through that pitstop, just getting more potato soup and changing flashlight batteries. The volunteers were real sweet and put blankets over our legs while we ate, but it turned out that, for me, it just made me feel colder once we set off again. OK, note to self - decline warm blankets while sitting from now on.

The dreaded river crossing turned out to not be bad at all, as there was a good rope, and the river wasn’t all that high. Cold it was, however, which didn’t help my situation. But it’s not a pacer’s job to complain, so we just moved on. Luckily the trail started climbing again, which is always good to warm up again. This climb seemed to be miraculously shorter than all the previous, as we reached a ridge at 12,000 feet and started down again. Wow, what luck - we let our hopes up that we’d be making good time over this section and into the last aid station! Hmm, but are those headlights far up ahead (and I mean literally UP) which means we’re still going to climb? OK, Hardrock, you win again. This was more like the expected climb for every section - on and on, climbing up into the stars. That was actually the most magical part of the run - whenever Daniel had to stop to rest and breathe, we’d turn out our lights to save batteries, and the stars were incredible! No moon whatsoever, no distracting lights from any city below, nothing but the brilliant milky way and zillions of constellations, all looking close enough to reach out and touch them. I even saw a shooting star (which Daniel missed - I think he had his eyes closed - but asked if I’d use my wish to wish that he makes it in 48 hrs… I did.)

We didn’t celebrate much on reaching the top of this ridge - since we hadn’t read this far in the course description we had no idea if it was the last climb (it was), or what else may still lie ahead. It was just another temporary milestone and then on with the chore of moving forward, perhaps enjoying a little the fact that it was downhill. But here the challenge was following the “animal trail” with course markers spaced teasingly far apart. We used my brighter flashlight to shine ahead and scour the hillside for flags. Just when you’d think you had it figured out (as to how far apart to expect another reflective flag) there’d be a large gap in distance, and you’d be sure you’d lost the trail (hmm, that’s used very loosely here, mostly cross country amidst about a hundred sheep trails). We became adept trackers, taking advantage of the fact that about 120 people had already passed this way, and we looked carefully for stomped down grass and broken-off wildflowers. Turns out that many of the markers were turned/blown by the wind to not have their reflective side facing us. Sometimes it helped to be 20 degrees or so off course so that our lights had a different angle to hopefully catch the reflection. I was certain I’d have nightmares about searching for flags in the night in the middle of wilderness… As we continued the descent, there seemed to be a lot of small animal trail intersections, and apparently these were insignificant during daytime therefore not marked; but at night we worried that we might mistake one for the real trail. I ran ahead of Daniel to make sure we were still on course; that way, if I didn’t see a marker for a long ways, I’d be the only one to have to backtrack, and save him some time. So whenever I encountered another flag, I gave a shout back up the canyon to Daniel that we were still OK. I’d try to look down the valley for any sign of light or the anticipated aid station, but of course it’s tough to take your eyes off the trail for more than a moment at a time. We passed a few waterfalls, evidenced only by their sound.

Finally the Putnam Basin aid station - I wouldn’t have ever guessed that everything there was backpacked in, they seemed to have everything all the other aids did - and Mark Emerson was there - we’d met him at our hotel before the race, and had the great news that there really weren’t any more climbs for the last 5.5 miles! We’d been fretting over the time, that if the final 5 miles would take 4 hours like so many of those 5-mile sections, we were hosed. But now, with 3 hours before the cutoff and news that it was mostly runnable, we were finally thinking we’d make it!! Daniel was really excited, and he started picking up the pace - surprisingly fast for such a rocky trail, such that I was having trouble keeping up with him! Now that’s impressive, to still be able to move so well after 95 brutal miles and 45 hours of being awake! He did fall a couple times, and I cautioned him that a broken leg at this point would put him out of the time limit, but he was bent on getting it done with as quickly as possible. I know the feeling. He practically dove into the final river crossing, and I stumbled and fell, bruising my knee and almost getting swept away by the current; and he left me behind at the highway. I had no idea which way to go (man I should’ve read the directions) so I shouted and Daniel’s reply came from far above - go left, cross, and up the trail! I was thinking I’d be finishing alone way behind Daniel, but he slowed on the brief uphill section and I worked hard to catch him. Finally we could see lights of Silverton, and we began catching other runners on the large gravel road. The lights of the statue went out just as we approached, but we found the turnoff to the home stretch, a few blocks to the finish! Daniel’s feet went really bad on the steep downhill pavement, so I was finally able to pass him so I could position myself at the high school for a picture of his finish. He mustered up an impressive sprint for the final block, and finished looking very strong, in 46 hrs 40 mins.

As a pacer, my goal was to help Daniel finish, but in doing this I learned so many things. I learned how tough-to-the-core Daniel is, to have persevered through the low points and rallied at the end, to finish despite having altitude issues that set him so far behind his expected time schedule. I learned that this course is so far beyond other ultras on its level of difficulty and stunning beauty, that if you’re willing to work for it, you’ll be rewarded. I learned a new level of respect for the athletes who participate in it. It’s amazing to think of those who covered it in record times - how can they sustain the speed for so long and over such impossible terrain? Not to mention the older, but clearly still strong, Hardrockers - we’d passed (and been passed by) John Dewalt at many places - what an inspiration to see how fast he still moves at age 71, and finished yet again! What determination! For me it was an incredible experience to cover so many miles of rugged Colorado wilderness - even though I only went 45 miles it felt like much more, and my whole concept of what is possible has been expanded; I’m sure to complete the entire 100 miles is a soul-changing experience.