My Mission

I've been asked a few times what my goal is for the Meetup group I started last year (Middlebury Trail Enthusiasts, MTE for short), so I decided to take a page from Jerry Maguire's playbook and write up a mission/vision statement.  The group is quickly closing in on 100 members, and what was once a vague idea is becoming real right before my eyes.

From my very first run on the Trail Around Middlebury, I knew I had found something worth sharing; the question was how to do it.  I searched the web and community bulletin boards for any sign of an organized group, and came up empty.  I was surprised to find that a town with a 17-mile "Emerald Necklace" didn't have an organized running group making use of it.  I quietly went about my way for a while, assuming that there had to be something out there and I just hadn't found it yet.  But after a few months, I realized I had to take matters into my own hands, and MTE was born.

The group has gained interest and members over the winter, and now we're waiting impatiently for the trail running season to get underway - or at least I am!  It's a growing network of folks from all walks (and runs) of life who want to come together to share adventures and stories, to train for upcoming races or just unwind out in nature.   With six additional event coordinators, MTE will be offering gatherings from casual hikes to long-distance runs.  While we will likely continue to focus on trail running, I hope to have something to offer to every group member.  As an exercise in community building, my intent is to have members craft the direction of MTE to suit their own goals, needs and interests.

***
The Mission:
Middlebury Trail Enthusiasts' primary mission is to connect outdoor enthusiasts with similar activity levels and goals while expanding awareness and responsible use of local trail resources.  MTE will strive to provide a supportive, social atmosphere where Enthusiasts of all ages and abilities are encouraged to explore local trails.

The Vision:
Middlebury is well-situated geographically to become an epicenter for trail-based activities in Vermont.  A thriving downtown and resources such as the Trail Around Middlebury and easy access to the Green Mountain National Forest, Long Trail, Breadloaf and Moosalamoo regions, as well as the wilderness areas of New York, make Middlebury an obvious destination for outdoor enthusiasts.  MTE seeks to expand awareness of and participation in outdoor pursuits while supporting local businesses and conservation initiatives to enhance the health and well-being of all residents and visitors.

***

Want to be a part of it?  Click your way over to the Middlebury Trail Enthusiasts site on Meetup and join the party.  If you're not in the area, but love trail running in Vermont and want to be in the loop, join my Vermont Trail and Ultra Runners group on FaceBook.

Comments are always welcome!

My Running Life - Revisited

I've been saying for months now that "this weekend, I'm going to dust off my blog and commit to writing regularly."  And in true-life fashion, "this weekend" always seems to be too full of distractions for me to ever get around to it.  Between long runs, family visits and dusting under the treadmill (seriously, how does dirt even get under there?), I've managed to consistently put off the last thing on my to-do list for the year.

Until tonight, anyway, when I apparently felt the need to disgorge a year's worth of life.

Since my last blog post, nearly everything in my life has changed. I've moved twice, started a new job, burned through two relationships, changed my diet at least three times, and changed my hairstyle... well, a few times at least.  But one thing remains the same: my love of running.

This was actually the year that I nearly gave up running altogether.  In a bout of broken-hearted depression, it seemed there was nothing good in my life.  I'd started the year with high hopes to train hard and maybe hit a BQ at the Key Bank City Marathon in May, and then see where my running journey would take me for the rest of the year.  But even early in the year, my training flagged and nearly stopped.  Instead of a BQ, my poor training and emotional state handed me GI problems and a finish time barely under five hours.  At the Moosalamoo Ultra in Goshen, where I'd earlier hoped to finish in the top 5 for the 36-miler, I instead dropped to the 14 mid-race and went home utterly defeated.

I'd made up my mind that I wouldn't do any more events, and might not even run anymore.  It wasn't my legs that couldn't do the mileage, though; it was my mind.  Every time I thought about running, I'd think, "it's all that I have.  It's the only thing that works." But instead of invigorating me, it made me resentful.  There are many runners out there who find happiness in running, but I'm not one of them.  I can't seem to find the energy to run when my heart is too heavy, and breathing is hard when I'm one heartbeat away from a bout of sloppy sobbing.  The solitude of running, instead of being restorative, was the very thing that caused me pain.  I was longing for friends to run with, to find connection through the activity that I love most, and instead it continued to isolate me from most of the people in my very limited social circle.

It was during a therapy session that I came to the realization that I had the ability to solve my own problem.  I knew that other runners exist in the world, that what I needed to feel fulfilled and energized was a community of people who value the same things I do, and realized that if I wanted to build community around running, I would need to take active steps to make it happen.  So I did.

First, I created the Middlebury Trail Enthusiasts (MTE), a Meetup group focused on exploring the trails in and around my new hometown.  The response was fantastic, and I almost immediately found myself immersed in a group of warm, supportive and adventurous runners.  No longer did I feel like a freak when I talked passionately about running.  I discovered people around me who know what "heel drop" is and understand the difference between pace and speed.  I found runners who push my limits, and others even less experienced than myself who seem open to my advice.  I found people who love being outdoors and value an active lifestyle.  In short, I found the community that I'd been longing for.

While MTE was spinning up, I also found - or more properly, rediscovered - another reminder of what running means to me.  Near the end of August, my chief instigator messaged me to say, "There are only 7 spots left for the VT50. You'd better get on it if you're going to! I'll pace you!"  I almost tripped over myself trying to get to the computer to register.  What happened to "not doing events anymore" you ask?  I have no idea.  It had simply evaporated.  So with only a few weeks left to actually train, having nearly DNF'd a marathon and technically having DNF'd the only other race I'd started ...  I signed up.

How did it go?

It was the most glorious, beautiful, painful and affirming run of my life.  I can hardly wait to do it again next year.

More recently, I created the Facebook group Vermont Trail and Ultrarunners, hoping to expand this amazing sense of community all across Vermont.  The response on FB has also been amazing, and I hope it will continue to grow as time goes on.  We live in an amazing place with abundant opportunities to explore and share adventures from the TAM to the Long Trail, and so much more besides.  With the support and encouragement of all my newfound friends, I hope to make 2015 a year worth blogging.

The finish time shown is from the start of the MTB race. My final time was 10:52.

Spicy Tofu Sausage: Not as disappointing as you might expect.

Dear Heather,

If you are bored with your diet because you cook the same thing over and over with minimal variation, try cooking something different.  Just for a change.

For fuck’s sake,

The Internet

I half-heartedly apologize for using the f-word.  And whole-heartedly encourage you to try this recipe.  I started with a recipe I found online, then went a little sideways with it because I was missing some ingredients and just don’t care for others.  So I guess this might be an original.

The secret to cooking tofu that doesn’t taste like congealed cardboard with some herbs sprinkled over it is to marinate it for at least a half hour.  The tofu has time to soak in the flavor all the way through, increasing its palatability by about a thousand percent, especially if you cut it into small cubes.

Marinades require an acidic liquid to blend the flavors together, and there’s an infinite variety of changes you can make to a basic recipe so that it suits your tastes.  Don’t like cayenne pepper? Don’t use it.  Not a fan of lime juice? Try apple cider vinegar or rice vinegar instead.  Orange juice would also work - just try to consider how flavors will come together before you start throwing things into bowls.

When all else fails, do a sniff test.  Put your face right into the bowl and breathe deep (Warning: If you haven’t added liquid to your spice mix yet, move fast so you sneeze outside the bowl.  Unless you want to dry-rub your face.)  If it doesn’t smell good, try adding something else or toss it and start over before adding the tofu. Unlike wine, subtle humor and high-interest investments, It’s not likely to get better with time.  

Tofausage Saufu Soyage …

Spicy Tofu “Sausage”

In a bowl that has a tight-fitting lid, combine:

½ tsp salt

½ tsp ground black pepper

½ tsp ground sage

¼ tsp garlic powder

¼ tsp celery seed

½ tsp rosemary

¼ tsp ground nutmeg

¼ tsp cayenne pepper

3 Dashes caraway seed

1 Dash ground cloves

Mix the above well, then add:

½ Tbsp blackstrap mollasses

1 egg replacement (1 Tbsp ground flax + 3 Tbsp warm water. Mix and let sit until it congeals and looks gross)

2 Tbsp lime juice

Mix all ingredients well.

Cut ½ package firm or extra firm tofu into small cubes.  Add to the marinade mixture, put on the lid and shake gently to coat the tofu thoroughly.  Set it aside for about 30 minutes or longer.  

Fry up the tofu until it’s cooked as much as you want.  If you use a non-stick pan, you won’t need much oil at all to accomplish this.  Turn tofu frequently by shaking the pan rather than flipping with a spatula, unless you want it to come out more like ground sausage bits than firm cubes.

Add to homefries, breakfast burritos or whatever strikes your fancy.  I like to make homefries with coconut oil instead of olive oil, and add a few slices of avocado.

Facing the Bears

I’ve been reading a lot about fear lately, trying to understand it and its power over me.  When I was a child, I was terrified of the dark.  I’d throw obnoxious tantrums when my parents tried to break my need of a nightlight, certain beyond doubt that there was something that was going to crawl out of my closet and tear me limb from limb.  I wasn't afraid that it would kill me, but that it would maim me and leave me in horrible, bloody agony.  I’m sure that says something about how my mind works.  But the fear of the dark and something coming out of the unknown to attack me and render me helpless has stayed with me my whole life.

I’ve learned to face it.  I've gone on backpacking trips by myself, sleeping in the woods miles away from anything and forcing myself to listen and identify sounds so that they stop being fodder for my overactive imagination.  I’ve made myself get up to investigate strange noises, and found that facing fear really is the key to dealing with it.  It doesn't stop me being scared the next time a mouse (rabid zombie-bear) is rampaging through my campsite, but it gives me the strength to know that keeping my eyes squeezed shut and letting my imagination run wild is more scary than seeing a mouse crawl into my backpack.

I haven’t changed much from the child who would rather throw a tantrum than quietly get up and turn on the nightlight, but I know now that the demons are inside my own mind, and they are more treacherous, subtle and destructive than anything my childhood mind could have conceived.

I have always wanted to be a runner, but it was a long time before I had the courage to start. I was afraid of looking stupid, afraid of being bad at it. When I’d tried to join the track team in high school, my brother told me that the coach had suggested I try one of the field sports like throwing because I clearly wasn’t a runner.  I’m sure there are many people out there who would have proven them both wrong, but that wasn’t me.  I stopped even trying to do sports altogether.

A lifetime later, after my divorce, I just started running.  Yup, just like Forrest Gump.

And when I first started started, I was terrified of injury.  I never really pushed myself because I didn’t want to go “too far.”  I have flat feet and I’d been a smoker for years, so my lungs were weak. I couldn’t comprehend those folks I read about who went from couch potato to marathon in just a few months.  I felt like I needed to spend a few years building a base before I’d ever be able to tackle something like that.  I walked at least three times during my first 5K, and didn’t enter another race for over a year, consoling myself with the fact that I’m just not a competitive runner.

And for a few more years, I kept telling myself that marathons and such were just simply beyond me.  Even with my sorry excuse for “training,” I had managed to end up with a case of ITB strain, sometimes my knees were a bit wonky, and once I almost twisted an ankle.  Almost, my friends. It was a near thing.

I managed an outward appearance of blase disinterest.  I didn’t want to run marathons. They’re always too crowded, and I’m the epitome of an introvert: I don’t play well with others.  Because I have hips, thighs and flat feet, my body clearly isn’t made for speed, so it’s understandable that I can’t hit an 8-minute-mile, let alone string a bunch of them together to the point that I might be considered “competitive.”  I don’t need a medal or certificate or t-shirt to prove myself. I don’t need to be measured against others in order to feel validated as a runner.

On and on and on.  I did another 5K, then a 10K.  I even worked my way up to a half-marathon,  all the while carefully holding back to ensure that I never “over-did” anything.  I read books and blogs and magazine articles about people who ran ultras, telling people how crazy that was and secretly wondering what it might be like to be one of them.

So I did a couple of low-key races, hardly telling anyone about them before hand, not really sticking to any solid training plan even though “scheduled” runs make very convenient excuses for getting out of awkward social invites.

But those races all lacked something I was searching for.  They weren’t driving me. I felt no passion about finishing a 5K or a 10K.  It was just something I felt like I ought, as a runner, to want to do.  There was never any fear that I might not finish or that I might have taken on more than I could handle.  

And secretly, in a quiet back corner of my mind where I’ve stowed away all those unrealistic childhood fantasies and expired adulthood dreams that I’ve learned to give up on, there was a little idea growing.

Maybe I do want to run long distances.

Maybe I do want to run fast.

Maybe I do want to run races and have people cheer me on and have tokens to collect my memories on.

Maybe I even want to make friends with other runners and share our experiences and tips and techniques and get lost on crazy trail runs and have stories that all start with, “Hey, you remember that time when…”

***

When I stood in the starting corral at the Vermont City Marathon (aka “Burlington Marathon” to us locals), I listened to the nervous chatter of the hundreds of runners around me.  A lot of it involved people confirming their expected finish times, last-minute pieces of advice, and a lot of nerves.  There seemed to be a lot of people around me who weren’t sure if they could finish.  I felt odd, an island in the midst of a river of like-minded runners.  I had no doubt I could finish, and the only question was how fast I’d do it.  I wasn’t expecting anything Olympic, but I hadn’t trained for time and didn’t know what to expect from myself.  I wondered if I’d missed the point of it.

I didn’t even have goals set for my splits.  In fact, I barely understood the value of splits.  It seemed like a lot more math than I wanted to do while running.

I barely squeaked in under 4 hours with a 3:56.  And here’s the clincher: I wasn’t pleased with the race, but not for the reasons you might think.

I had wanted to fail.  

I wanted to push so hard that I puked when I got done.  I wanted to cross the finish and feel like I couldn’t take another step. I wanted my legs to be jell-o and my lungs to be fire.  I wanted to feel like I’d poured my very soul out on that course and couldn’t have run another step even if angry zombie-bears were chasing me.  I wanted to feel like I was in critical need of resurrection.

But I didn’t.  I had held back, set it on cruise control at a 9-minute mile and drifted on along.  I walked through several aid stations and even took time to admire the scenery. I felt good at the end.  I even said to a friend, “that was kind of easy.”  

I hadn’t even hit “the wall” that runners talk about so much.  Why?  Because I am afraid to.

I fear finding my limits.  I fear going all-out, giving every last ounce of myself to something, and finding that I fall just shy of the mark.  I fear hitting the mark without reaching my limit.  I fear committing myself to something enormous and then finding out part way through that I can’t finish.  

And yet I desperately want to.

It wasn’t until running my first ultra that I finally encountered the wall.  But I only grazed it, pulled back and found a way to keep going.  I finished the race feeling like I’d come close to failing, but not close enough.  I crossed the finish line. I could still walk afterwards.  A few days later, I realized I wasn’t even sore.  Lots of runners talk about the depression that can follow a big event, similar to postpartum depression.  Having finished the event that they’ve trained for and focused on for months, they suddenly find that their motivation is gone and they have no desire to run at all.

And for a few weeks, I lost the drive to run.  If my ultimate goal is to find my limits, I’ve failed miserably so far.  But my imagination can still run wild with me.  I imagine training for long hours only to pull a muscle, twist an ankle or fall off a mountain and end my so-called running career just as I’m getting going.  I see myself finishing a tough race too easily, being catastrophically injured, losing my way running at night and getting eaten by zombie-bears.  Failing to fail, or managing to fail and then not being able to overcome it. My imagination can come up with a million fears in the time it takes to lace up my shoes, and every one of them tells me to give up now.

And then one day last week, I remembered something.  Zombie-bears have a habit of turning out to be mice.  And mice are pretty cute and harmless when they’re not carrying Hantavirus.

So I signed up for a 100 mile race.

It’s time to face the bears.

Photo credit: barnorama.com

Northern Presidential Traverse, Presidential Range (White Mountains), NH

So.... you remember how two days ago, I died at the very end of a Great Range Traverse? And you know how you got done reading about it and thought, "good gracious, I hope she took a few weeks off from hiking after that mess!"

That's what a normal person would do, sure.

But at nine o'clock Sunday morning, Scott and I were at the Appalachia trailhead off Route 2 in Randolph, NH.  After the torturous end to Friday's GRT, we simplified the original plan for this hike, shaving off a whopping three miles by making it an out-and-back instead of having to either spot a car or manage to finish in time to catch the AMC's shuttle bus back to Appalachia.  After all, we didn't want to do too much in a single weekend.

The Skyline trail lures you in...

The hike starts with a three-mile ascent up the Skyline Trail from 1,318' to about 4783' at the top of King's Ravine.  Where hiking in the Great Range was constant plyometrics, this was so far more like a stair-stepper, and Scott and I were both feeling pretty darned chipper as we powered up the slope, eager to get above treeline.











 Wispy clouds created by adiabatic cooling as air is pushed up the ravine give King's Ravine a mystical quality.

Just before reaching the top of the ravine, we shoot off toward Madison Hut, where they're celebrating the Hut's 125th anniversary.

Mt. Madison looking like a pile of broken rubble, looming over his namesake hut.












From the top of King's Ravine, I took a moment to pause and look back at the last 3 miles.  There is definitely something to be said for being above tree line, though I wouldn't want to be up here in severe weather.

Mt. Madison, 5367'

The view from Madison.  There is a rarely clear day in the Presidentials, but even with a bit of haze, the view is truly impressive. This hike sure didn't start with some baby mountain like the Great Range did.









Onward and upward!  After rock-hopping down Madison and back past the Hut, Scott and I continue the scramble up the slope of Adams.  It is truly remarkable that this unconsolidated mess of boulders remains stable enough to clamber over.

Mt. Adams, 5794'

The summit of Mt Adams is a tiny cluster of boulders and both times I've been there has felt rather crowded with 6-8 hikers taking breaks.  At this point, Scott asked if I wanted to stop for lunch or press on.  I opted to head over to the much less crowded Jefferson before pausing for lunch.

Viewing Mt Washington from just above Thunderstorm Jct

Thunderstorm Junction

Alpine tundra

Mt Jefferson Summit, 5,716'

"Why doesn't it look closer?"

Scott is fond of mentioning how much this area looks like Scotland.  I'd agree if there were more sheep grazing around.

Seriously, someone needs to import some mountain goats and sheep to the area.








The cog railway was extremely noisy, though I don't know why that fact surprised me so much. I should have realized just how "touristy" the top of Mt Washington would feel, but it somehow didn't sink in till I was actually there.








This was the first time I ever had to wait in line for a summit picture. Also the first time I had to wait in line behind girls with flip-flops and people with... shall we say physiques not commonly encountered at the top of a mountain?

I think it's great that there are buses and the cog railway and the auto road to bring people to the top of such an amazing peak. If it weren't somehow made easy for the average American to reach the summit of an impressive mountain, I fear there would be no appreciation for mountains in general, and it would be even harder than it already is to conserve these amazing areas.

At the same time, I was disturbed by the whole situation.






The view down Tuckerman's Ravine.

Tip-Top House, restored from the version that burned down. I didn't really look at it very closely because it was mobbed with tourists.







 On the way back down, we nabbed Mt Clay for one last solid view of where we'd just been.

Mt. Clay, 5,533'

The sun was now setting, and the wind was picking up as we wound our way back down between the peaks.  The angle of light revealed the mountains in high relief, and cast the shadow of the entire range across the backdrop of the valley.

Looking down the Great Gulf, Mt Adams in the background

Sunset across the aptly named Castle Ravine

One last look from the top of King's Ravine before it got too dark for my camera to take decent photos.









There was considerably less to actually say about this Traverse than there was about the last one.  There were fewer summits, and the terrain was much more consistent, so I was able to leave most of the talking to the photos.

I will say that when the time came to switch on the headlamps, there were two magical things that happened: First, I discovered that the rocks above King's Ravine and down a good portion of the Skyline Trail are peppered with mica flakes that reflect the light of headlamps in direct competition with the blanket of stars overhead.  Diamonds have nothing on the mica flakes above treeline.

Second, the fear I'd felt just two days before when hiking by headlamp was almost completely gone. I won't try to claim there weren't times when I had to take a firm grasp on my imagination, but it was at least manageable this time.  I even managed to do a little jogging in the last couple of miles, which is saying something.

Oh, and I guess there was a third minor miracle: I didn't reach Death-Con 2 (I know it's a misappropriation of the Military DEFCON state of alert, but it's so fitting I don't want to correct it).

Great Range Traverse - Adirondacks, NY

Since I moved to Vermont five years ago, I'd read about hiking in the Great Range, and I'd been intimidated by those accounts.  Fixed cables, ladders, iron rungs, gut-wrenching descents over slippery rocks... I've climbed Hurricane Mountain just north of Keene Valley at least once a year to drool over its sweeping panoramic view of the Great Range, always swearing that this would be the year I'd finally get out there and do it.  But the dire warnings about the difficulty of these hills always managed to keep me at bay.

In its May 2005 edition, Backpacker Magazine rated the Great Range Traverse as the third toughest day hike in North America, behind only the Timberline Trail on Mt Hood in Oregon (#1) and the Pemi Loop in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Considering that this year has seen me train for and finish both my first Marathon (Burlington) and Ultra-Marathon (Moosalamoo 36-miler), I felt it was finally time to raise the bar on hiking, and this was definitely the toughest hike I've ever undertaken.

My intrepid mountain-running/adventure/training partner Scott and I opted to follow the same route as Fastest-Known-Timer Jan Wellford, who set a record on this course of 6h40m44s on September 21, 2009.  That record has since been beaten twice, but Jan's post had the nicest map and descriptions, so we went with that.  We knew we weren't going to come anywhere close to an FKT, but were hoping to grind out a respectable time somewhere in the 10 to 12-hour range.  We can be kind of silly like that sometimes.

We started the adventure at 7AM sharp, and it started with a pleasant steady uphill through primarily coniferous forest.  The trail was singletrack and not too technical - the rocks and roots typical to hiking in the northeast were present, but not excessive.  This is apparently the trek's way of luring in unwary hikers who might be thinking the hike won't be as tough as promised.  We even managed to run quite a bit of this early trail, and made it to Rooster Comb in good time.  I dutifully pulled out the bottle of Woodchuck Cider that I planned to take a shot of on every peak throughout the adventure.

Rooster Comb, 2762'

The trek up Lower Wolfjaw is where things started to get a little more technical.  The grade increased dramatically, and the terrain went from Northeast Singletrack to Northeast Plyometrics.  If you're not familiar with plyometrics, it's also referred to as "jump training" and is generally considered the toughest way to do body-weight exercises. The rocks in the path were too big and spaced to far apart to feel like steps, so we basically felt like we were doing lunges and single-leg squats all the way up the mountain.  And down the mountain. And around the mountain.

Lower Wolfjaw, 4175'

Upper Wolfjaw, 4185'

 Most of the peaks along this traverse are spaced about a mile apart, and we'd occasionally be surprised by a summit, saying, "We're here already? Wow!"

The summits of Rooster Comb, Hedgehog and the Wolfjaws were fairly unimpressive.  We actually didn't even realize we'd summited Hedgehog (3389') until we saw a sign pointing to it 0.5 miles back the way we'd come through.  This traverse marked the first time I've ever agreed with hikers who post about "disappointing summits."  Reaching each one was a battle of burning muscles, and I found myself wanting a view as a reward.  

Armstrong (4400') from Upper Wolfjaw

As we delved deeper into the range, the difficulty level steadily increased, but so did the rewards.  After nearly 7 miles of plyometric slogging through scrubby semi-alpine conifers,we caught our first solid views of what was to come.  

Scott, kickin' it after kicking ass.

Heading up Gothics is where the going started to get really challenging.  Scott, being an experienced rock climber who's led multi-pitch climbs on some of the Northeast's more remote rock faces, wasn't fazed at all.  But I've got very little rock climbing under my belt, so several stretches of the trail were more mentally challenging for me than I'd expected them to be.

Every so often in the cols between summits, we'd come across these beautiful stretches of trail that were like little snatches of heaven.  Bordered by plush moss, the path was smooth, level and forgiving to my ever-more-aching knees.




But it was always a brief respite of only a few dozen yards before we'd begin the plyometrics again.  Onward and upward!

Gothics, 4736'

The summit of Gothics marked the first truly open view of the Range, and this is where we opted to take lunch.  After 9 miles of constant movement with only the briefest pauses to catch our breath or for me to regain my equilibrium after a tough climb, we were ready to sit down and take in some food along with the amazing vistas.  Behind the Woodchuck, you can see (left to right) Saddleback, Basin, Little Haystack, Haystack and Marcy.  From this point, we still have a lot of hiking to do!

We couldn't resist the little side trek to Sawteeth, and it was absolutely worth it.  

Sawteeth (4100')

Interesting tidbits on the side of trails is one reason I've never found myself disappointed when summits are socked in by clouds or vistas are tree-choked.  The contrast of the bright blue flowers with the deep red leaves caught my eye.  These flowers only seemed to grow between 3500' and 4100' or so, but were plentiful in their comfort zone.

The descent down the back side of Saddleback was my first real taste of what I'd been so nervous about.  But it wasn't until the descent down Basin that things got really hairy.

The section with cables actually wasn't as bad as I'd worried it would be.  In fact, it seemed more hazardous to hold onto the cable than it was to take my time shuffle-stepping down the rock face.  But Scott and I agreed that climbing up with a heavy pack or going in either direction during inclement weather, these cables might quite literally be a life-saver.

Next time, I'd like to do this Traverse in the opposite direction of this trek.  It would be fun to climb up all these knee-creaking descents.

There are many false summits within the Great Range, but there are also some amazing true summits.  In order to be considered a true summit, a peak must have a prominence of at least 200 feet, and there were many times we weren't certain whether we'd actually hit a summit.

Basin, 4827'

Trail marking in New York is far superior to that of Vermont and Maine, thanks primarily to the use of plastic discs instead of paint blazes. The one thing trails in Maine do unquestionably better than any of the other states mentioned is summit marking.  We were often left guessing as to whether we could check off a peak and haul out the cider to mark the occasion.

"See, it's not so bad!" 

Looking back at one of the more challenging section

Much of the descent down Basin was more like rock-climbing than hiking.  This is the section of trail that took the longest for me to descend, and required quite a bit of patience and coaxing on Scott's behalf.  There were many times I had to grit my teeth and really force myself to move forward, and the biggest reason I didn't give up was knowing that it was now a longer hike back to the car than forging on ahead.


Following the blazes here reminded me very much of my few trips to indoor climbing gyms.  I was grateful for the little bouldering I'd managed to learn, as it gave me a lot of confidence moving over the rocks.  I wouldn't say that climbing experience is necessary for this hike, but it definitely doesn't hurt.

  As we were coming down Basin, we encountered another hiker from Vermont, who was going the same direction as us and had his dog along for the hike.  We were going a little faster than him most of the time, though he caught up to us when we stopped for a water refill between Basin and Haystack.  I asked him how his brown lab, Willow, had negotiated this ladder.  "She just ran down the side of the rock face," he said.

I need a dog like Willow!

Some of the trail signs are more weather-worn than others, but for the most part I've found that trail signs in NY are in good condition and can be relied upon to appear at every trail junction.  This is direct contrast to Vermont's approach to trail marking, which seems designed to encourage hikers to learn map-and-compass navigation.

















The view from Haystack, looking back from whence we came.  It's been a tough day already, and we've only completed about half our mileage!

View of Marcy from Haystack, 4960'

Looking at it from this angle, Marcy doesn't look like it's going to be that tough of a hike from here.  What you can't see is that the trail goes off to the right, descending some 1,000 feet so that the ascent up Marcy is one of the longest climbs of the day.

It's one hell of a hill.

This sign was greeted with relief and a brief refreshing of spirits and energy.  The ascent from this point is a little over 1200 feet, a far cry from the view at the top of Haystack, where the difference in summit elevations is only 384 feet.










By the time we got to the alpine bog on the slopes of Marcy, my mental reserves had reached their limit.  The climbing, descending and general mental strain had taken their toll and even though my legs were strong enough to keep going, I'd have given a lot to just lie down on those beautifully smooth, level planks and just take a nap.







But Scott would have none of that! The Mountain Slayer had one more conquest to reach, and we were now racing the sun, hoping to be through the majority of the descent and out of the rock zone (and hence done with the plyometrics for the day) before full dark.



 The summit plaque on Marcy, commemorating its Native American name (Tahawus, meaning "cloud-splitter) and the first recorded ascent in 1837.  Something tells me it may have been climbed a few times before that because the views were worth every minute of hiking we'd done to get there.

Mt. Marcy, 5344'

And that's where most blog entries about a hike would end.  The final summit, the money shot vista, glorious panoramas of a sweeping mountain range graced by fluffy cumulus clouds and two happy but tired hikers who accomplished a difficult task and can bask in the glorious feeling of contented success.

But it's not where my story ends. Oh, no.  The contentment on top of Marcy was decidedly short-lived.  We reached the summit around 6 pm, and the wind had picked up, chilling my sweaty clothes and sending me digging in my pack for my windshirt.  I was nearly out of water and had gone through most of my food due to my vast under-estimation of this hike.

We still had over 9 miles of trail plus a 2-mile road walk back to the car.  

"No problem," I thought.  "The trail is going to level out, it's all downhill from here, and these boulders can't go on forever."  I think the mountain is still laughing at me.

The boulders didn't end until we were nearly at Bushnell Falls, four miles off the summit of Marcy.  By then it was full dark and we were navigating by headlamp.  I've made a few mentions of how mentally taxing the rock-climbing bits had been for me, but they were nothing compared to the anxiety I felt hiking under headlamp in bear country.  I opted to hold my lamp in my hand so that I could shine it into the bushes whenever I heard an alarming sound, which was every few steps.  In the dark in bear country, every mouse becomes a bear and what sounds like a crickets is almost definitely a chupacabra.  My breathing became progressively more shallow and rapid, and I began stumbling due to paying more attention to my imagination than the rocks still choking the path.

Scott's wrist-top computer, also known as a Suunto Ambit 2 GPS watch, had lost battery life sometime after the 12-hour mark, so I had less and less confidence of how much ground we had left to cover.  Bears, monsters, rocks, an unending trail, no food and increasing thirst all conspired to end me.  I started feeling light-headed, then outright dizzy, but I kept plodding on, following the pool of light cast by Scott's headlamp ahead, ruthlessly quashing the panic that threatened me whenever that pool disappeared around a bend or down a slope.  I have a simple mantra I use on long runs and difficult hikes: I repeat, "I can do this," over and over to myself, usually in a cheerfully optimistic and self-affirming inner voice.  But that inner voice became progressively more tremulous and questioning as the trail continued on.  

Looking back, my panic was not as much in control as I thought and the final straw came just a couple miles from the end of the trail when Scott waited for me to catch up.  "You go on ahead," he said, "I'll be right along."  I couldn't frame a reply other than a mumbled "ok," but every muscle in my body went tense at the thought of having to find my own way.  What if I got on a side trail or a game trail and he didn't know? I could be lost wandering forever or - more likely - become a meal for the bears and chupacabra to fight over.  I stumbled. I tried to tell myself I could do it.  Scott would be right along.  I didn't know what he was doing, and due to twists and turns in the trail, soon couldn't see his headlamp behind me.

I was cold, exhausted, hungry, thirsty.  And now alone.  For someone who vaunts her independence as much as I do, it was shocking to me to be so terrified to be alone.  I'd backpacked solo, camped solo, done countless hikes and long runs, flights, road trips... most of the things I'd done so far in life, I'd done alone.  All I can guess is that the mental fatigue that had been steadily increasing throughout the day had finally taken over my entire mental capacity.  

Scott caught up to me and proudly held out a bottle of water that was the reason he'd dropped behind.  The chemical treatment he uses takes five minutes to take effect, and he'd stopped because he knew I needed more.  I was so grateful I nearly passed out.  No, seriously.  I nearly passed out.  I tried to stand back up from the crouched position I'd been resting in while Scott caught up to me, and the world went sideways and grey.  I laid down beside the trail and Scott covered my legs with his fleece pullover to help me warm up.  While I laid there half asleep, he dug through my pack to find the salty trail mix I'd forgotten about, put the bag in my hand and told me to eat some and drink some water.  

No, thank you.  I'm just going to lie here and die.  I just hope I finish the dying part before the bears start the dining part.

I think Scott was laughing at me, but in a good way.  He'd been there, done that and knew exactly what I was going through.  This was the moment I'd read about on countless endurance runner blogs and heard about on some of my favorite trail runner podcasts.  And here I was, doing it. I had pushed myself to the end of my mental endurance and reached the low that Scott had started calling "Death-con 2" after his experience of it during a trail run several weeks before.  I'd watched him go through it and felt sympathetic, but not empathetic.  In fact, a small part of my brain thought the whole idea was just plain pathetic.  

Until it happened to me.

After just a few minutes, a miracle occurred.  Just like I'd read about, just like I'd heard on the podcasts, a switch flipped in my brain.  That bag of trail mix was the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten and the cold mountain stream water was a heavenly elixir.  I felt like Pop-eye after eating a can of spinach.  I suddenly had the power to sit up, then stand up.  I'm pretty sure I even smiled.  "Let's do this," I said, and we headed back down the trail.

Hey, guess what.  Those chupacabras I'd been so worried about?  Mice! I even saw a few, and they were actually kind of cute.  The bears that were hunting me down?  Also mice!  Tell you what, there are some noisy damned mice out in the mountains.

Anyway, after my own Death-con 2 experience, I came back feeling strong.  We finished the hike down the trail and the 2-mile road walk back to the car pretty uneventfully.  By the time we got there and I'd changed into fresh, dry clothes, I even felt good enough to drive the hour home.  It's amazing what a little rest, some food, water and, most of all, moral support can do for the human spirit.

All told, this hike lasted from 7 AM to 10:45 pm, covered about 25 miles, 12 peaks (9 over 4000', including the highest peak in NY) and included a total climb and descent of just over 10,300 vertical feet.

A special thanks goes out to Scott for pulling me through the most difficult hike I've ever done.

Finally!

I call it "hiker hair."  Not sure why I'm making that face.

Scott, hamming it up on Upper Wolfjaw

"Yeah. I climbed that."