I never really thought of myself as an athlete. I didn’t do organized sports at school. Fitness and “exercise” were things I associated with that old dude in the sweats on TV. But I grew up skiing, and have been doing it as long as I can remember. When we lived in western Mass in the 1960s, my father had part interest in a small ski area. I had lace-up leather boots, cable bindings and skis longer than I could reach, and I remember being picked up off the ground regularly by the rope tow.

Climbing in Boulder, 1977

My parents split up in 1968 and Mom moved us to Boulder, Colorado – a good place to develop my love of skiing. Pretty soon I learned about powder, which really changed my view of things. Instead of pounding bumps and flying down cruisers, I became a true powder hound and would stay deep in the trees. Tree skiing wasn’t popular in the ‘70s and ‘80s like it is today, and powder stashes would last for days if you were willing to tear up your clothing on branches. Duct tape became a key component of my equipment. I switched to snowboarding in the early ‘90s because I discovered it was simply a better vehicle for finding powder in the trees, and the style is freer and more creative.

“Shit for Brains” couloir, Loveland Pass, mid-1990′s

Splitboarding Selkirks, BC, 2000

The act of slicing turns through virgin powder, whether on alpine or telemark skis or on a snowboard, resonates with something deep within the human soul. It is, in a sense, the purest physical experience of the “flow” that is talked about so much in discussions of sports performance. You expend an effort, align yourself physically and emotionally with the environment, then you let it go and follow the flow through the great, white, buoyant world. You and the world are one.

Skiing was my first adventure sports activity, but that experience of “flow” influenced everything that came since, which has included rock climbing, mountaineering, expedition canoeing, whitewater kayaking, road and mountain biking, and, of course, running.

I’m the only one wearing a helmet!

In the mid-1970s I discovered great freedom via road bicycling. My friends and I would just get on our bikes and ride, first exploring the roads in all directions from Boulder, then venturing farther afield with overnight tours, and finally a couple of multi-week tours around the western U.S., Canada, and Europe. For me cycling was about exploration, adventure and freedom – freedom from schedules, responsibilities and adult supervision. I found that I would feel a deep sense of connection to things when I was exerting myself physically in nature – connection to the Universe, connection to friends as we spent many hours or days sharing adventures together, and connection with something deep in myself.

With Stephanie, moments after Leadville MtBike 100, 1998

I never intended to become a runner.  In junior high P.E. class we were required to run for 15 minutes once a week. I found this incredibly tedious, and often ended up with a side stitch after just a few minutes (no one mentioned that it didn’t work well to run right after eating a big breakfast). But by now, I am married to one of the best female ultrarunners in the country. I figured if I was going to spend any weekend time with my sweetie I’d better make the switch from biking to running.

Running

Colorado Trail Run, 1999

In the fall of 1998 I was barely an ultrarunner, having run just a couple of 50 mile races earlier that year. A group of us decided to run on trails from Boulder to Fraser, about 40 miles over the Continental Divide. Somewhere along the way Buzz Burrell mentioned that he wanted to run the whole Colorado Trail as fast as possible. I noticed that when he said this everyone else seemed to back away in horror at the thought of a 500 mile run, but I was naïve enough to be intrigued. I didn’t know Buzz very well at the time, though we had trained together some for the Leadville 100 mountain bike race. After spending the night at a friend’s place in Fraser, Buzz & I decided to try to run back, despite a snow storm, while the others elected to get a ride home. We epic’d trying to get over the Divide in a major snow storm, clad in skimpy running clothes, but that experience made us both realize that we’d be a good team for the Colorado Trail, which we attempted the following summer (1999). To make a long story short, I got injured 300 miles into the run, but Buzz was able to finish it, setting a respectable time of 11d16h13m for the 500 mile route, the record by several days at the time. The next year we upped the ante, and were on track for running the John Muir Trail in under four days, when a huge hail storm pushed us off the trail; while the sub-4 would have to wait two more years, we were so far ahead of the previous record when the storm hit we went easily under that as well. While disappointments were involved, these adventures did cement a friendship between Buzz and me that has been one of the deepest and most rewarding of my life – a far more enduring and valuable result!

JMT Finish

Doing these muilti-day runs launched me into ultrarunning in a more determined way. But, though I have done many races at all distances in many different countries, big adventure runs always attracted me the most.. I wanted to explore my limits. I wanted to attempt things I had no idea that I could finish. I wanted to dream up my own adventures and figure out how to make them happen. I spent some years pursuing those adventures, having amazing experiences, traveling widely, and seeing a lot in the process.

These days things have settled down. I no longer compete and no longer aspire to push the adventure envelope. But, I still feel deep satisfaction and enjoyment in a simple run in the hills, a scramble up one of the Flatirons, or linking some powder turns on my snowboard. I’ve recognized that what is important is the personal, inner experience, rather than getting a time or setting a mark.

Fortunately, this is available to all of us, simply by doing what we love every day.

Above Cusco, Peru

Mount Rainer; leg #1 of the Rainier, Adams, Hood Trifecta

Mount Hood, nearing end of PNW Trifecta

Approaching Gannett Peak

Morning After

Torres del Paine Circuito

Backside of Paine Circuito

On the White Rim with Brandon Sybrowski, Ian Torrence, Stephanie Ehret, and Paul Pomeroy

On the Mosquito Range Tenmile Traverse

Top of Aconcagua, 22,841′

Bottom of Aconcagua

Into Buckskin Gulch with Stephanie

How the pro’s do it.

April on the Front Range had record snowfalls, so a trip south to the desert made sense. Joe had a planned rendevous with his uncle in the Grand Canyon and my apartment sublease was up and I needed a long, hot run to get ready for Transvulcania next month, so figured, why not?

Joe’s and my first road trip together was the 22hr epic out to Western States in 2010 where he drove the entire way; the long, crooked arm of the law shamelessly profiled our unkempt, hirsute visages half-way across Nevada (thanks to the “Runners To Watch” section in the WS100 Handbook, we were able to finagle a warning); and I learned the meaning of Joe’s moniker “Joe G FM”—with his olympic abilities as a conversationalist, we never turned on the radio in over 1000 miles of driving.

Gold Hill, CO running at dawn. Photo: Joe Grant.

Last Thursday, this particular trip started off in classic style. After a well-intentioned break-of-dawn shakeout jog up in Gold Hill, we made our way down the hill to Boulder, but managed to not really hit the road until after mid-day. And then only 90min later, we, of course, needed to satiate our mountain running jones with a lap on Manitou Springs’ Incline/Rocky Mt. in the midst of a snowstorm.

Summit of Rocky Mt. in Manitou Springs. Photo: Joe Grant.

Our goal for the day was to make it to the Four Corners area, which we quickly amended to Durango. Having gone to college there, Joe is familiar with the place, and when we rolled in desperately bleary-eyed shortly after midnight he directed us to a vacant cul-de-sac-cum-trailhead as a convenient spot to park the Roost for a few hours snooze.

Sunset over the Sangre de Cristos. Photo: Joe Grant.

Of course, only a couple hours later, Durango’s finest rousted us from slumber with a rap on the window and blazing spot lights:

Officer: “There’s no camping within city limits.”
(Me, more than a bit punchy with sleep, to Joe): “Are we camping? Is this camping?”
Joe: “We just got in late and are taking a quick nap before going for a quick run in the morning and leaving early.”
Officer: (After running my plates and confirming the car wasn’t stolen, I suppose.) “Ok, well, we just had to make sure you weren’t axe murderers from Texas. Next time, just sleep outside of city limits.”

He was about as cool as a police officer could be in that situation. A few hours later we awoke to annoying +10F temps, but got out for a little jog on dry mountainbike trails before grabbing some coffee and a croissant at Jean-Pierre’s and hitting the road.

The Desert Southwest—specifically the northeast quadrant of Arizona—is an exceptionally bleak place. There’s little to no vegetation, the road stretches on for as far as you can see, and the landscape is only broken by the occasional sandstone tower or cliff band. Towns are infrequent and when you do get to them, it’s usually just a cluster of gas stations and fast food joints.

But there is something about such open country that is exciting and feels uniquely American. I remember chatting with Kiwi ultrarunner Vajin Armstrong last year when he commented how the American West was so great for its ease of road tripping. He specifically cited the wide open spaces, spectacular landscapes, cheap gasoline, and high-quality roads. Having spent all my life out here, these are all things that I essentially take for granted, so despite the unsettling sense of exposure I often feel when driving across desert expanses like Nevada and Arizona (especially when it’s hot), I am grateful for the concurrent sense of freedom that the open road; an affable, like-minded companion; and a full tank of gas provides. Almost unexpectedly, we are soon turning west onto Highway 64 and buying a pass into Grand Canyon National Park.

We are meeting Joe’s uncle, Dave, and Oregon friend, Nick, at the Canyon. The plan was for Joe to accompany his uncle on his first Double Crossing, and Nick would do whatever his recently-tweaked metatarsal would allow. He’d end up doing the full R2R2R the next day with Joe and Dave. The Canyon has a way of inspiring and luring you in like that, and Nick is the kind of fellow who is wont to respond to such inspiration.

Nick takes in the grandeur from the South Rim. Photo: Joe Grant.

After a short jog to shake out the drive and meeting up with Dave and Nick, we drive to Yaki Point for a look at the great rift itself in the evening light. We park on the side of the road, and jovially amble our way through the pines and junipers on the South Rim until, BOOM, the yawning void and rococo striations and glowing temples catch us almost by surprise. Good god, what a spectacle. It’s been almost five years since I’ve been to the Canyon, and this is too long. The scale, the magnificence, the dramatically exposed geology—it all adds up to make this one of those truly unique and special places on the planet.  Something about the stark, transition-less contrast in the landscape resonates deeply with me. One minute you’re strolling through a high desert plateau, the next—with basically zero warning—the world drops away and what lies beneath is a fantastical, almost incomprehensible wonderland. Running to the other side and back seems so improbable. This combined with the seductive pageantry of the geologic layers makes such an act overwhelmingly compelling. The Canyon seems like such a forbidden place that the fact that there is a totally reasonable means by which to truly engage with it makes doing so impossible to resist. As we make our way back to our simple campsite in the National Forest, I’m giddy about the next morning.

Waking up is easy because Arizona is an hour behind Colorado time. My set-up for the day is simple: shoes, socks, shorts, sunglasses, Buff, 12 gels, 4 S! Caps, and two bottles. I chug a bottle amongst the tourists at the trailhead and leave without water. One bottle is tucked in my waistband, the other strapped to my wrist; the initial downhill is relatively short, so I’ll just fill at Phantom Ranch. We’re relaxed at the start, but charged with the potential energy needed for the day’s efforts.

At 6:55am I drop off the rim and quickly find a comfy, sustainable rhythm. The knee I re-hyperextended in an avalanche a couple weeks previous isn’t giving me any issues and the trail is far smoother and more gradual than I remembered from five years previous. My perspective on terrain has certainly changed a lot in the last five years—especially the last two years—and I skip easily down the waterbars and switchbacks. My descent is only slowed just above the river by a pair of slow-moving mule trains hauling supplies down to the Ranch. It’s early in the day so I remain unfrustrated by the pause and hit the bridge crossing the Colorado River in 46min. This is a full 7min faster than the last time I ran a Double Crossing, so I decide to just go with it and see what the day brings me. My legs feel untouched as I scoot past another mule train on the north side of the bridge and run the 7min up to the Phantom Ranch Cantina/water spigot (:53). I spend a minute filling my bottles here, so leave at :54 elapsed time.

On the run through the narrow canyon leading to Cottonwood Campground—the next significant landmark along the route—I just try to slot into a sustainably quick groove, taking short, quick steps and steadily drinking my water. I know it will only be 75min or so to the Roaring Springs Residence and I want to be sure I arrive with empty bottles. The trail is very smooth and untechnical, so I’m able to take in the ambience of my surroundings while largely dissociating from the physical effort. Bright Angel Creek rushes loudly on my left side and steep walls tower above me. I avoid glancing up to the distinct band of Coconino Sandstone just below the North Rim; I’ll use it as a motivating benchmark when I get to it, but right now it seems too far away to even contemplate.

I pass Cottonwood’s water spigot at 1:54 and know it’s no more than 15min until the climb kicks up for real at the Roaring Springs Residence. I get there in 2:09 and spend one minute chugging water and filling my two bottles. The climb up is much less steep than I remember and in general is very runnable as it snakes higher and higher, tight along the western wall of the canyon. Many runners are out in the canyon today, and it’s energizing to cross paths with them, knowing that other people are out there each having their own meaningful experiences with the place. The trail steepens leading up to the Supai Tunnel (2:56) a couple miles below the rim and above there I go to a hike a lot more often as my running muscles fatigue and I try to keep the effort level relatively moderate.

I tap the North Rim kiosk at 3:22 elapsed time and immediately turn and start back the way I came. Everything is in efficient working order and I’m generally having a blast, but I only have ~10oz of water for the run back down to Roaring Springs. When I finally get there (4:04), I’m feeling pretty battered and I’m sure to chug a couple bottles of water before filling and leaving at 4:06. I really have the urge to sit down here–my legs are still getting used to sustained, continuous running this spring and I’m feeling it. Less than 10min later I cross Joe, Dave, and Nick on their way to the North Rim. The ache in my legs has been enough that I’ve largely abandoned any hope of running a fast time, so I gladly stop for a minute or two to check in with them and see how their day is going. Spirits are absurdly high with them, and Joe says I look like shit, which is pretty much what I feel like. I pose for a hammed up photo with Dave and then sink back into the gradual downhill grind to Phantom Ranch.

With Dave a little more than 4hr into the day. Photo: Joe Grant.

Most of the way there I have to remind myself that it’s OK to just take it easy and poke along, but I keep a decent pace going, mostly because I’m desperate to get there and rest and drink some water.  Which, after what seems like a very long time, I finally do. This section up to the Ranch was a grind, but a nice reminder of what running hard for a long time feels like. The ache in the legs, the need to be constantly forcing in 100 calorie pockets of sugar, monitoring the need for salt…it’s all familiar but something that I’ve missed over the past six months.

I get to the water spigot at the Ranch in 5:08 and sit down in the shade as I chug three full bottles of water. After refilling, I jog towards the river at 5:12 elapsed time and can tell the stop has done me good. I’m eager to see what the uphill holds for me, and enter the tunnel at the south end of the bridge right at 5:19. The last time I did a Double Crossing I blew up pretty badly on the final climb and it took me 1:51 to get from the river to the rim. I’m hoping I can go faster than that today, but know that nothing is guaranteed on this last hill, especially with the sun blazing.

I immediately fall into an efficient rhythm of hiking and running. The water at the Ranch is obviously hitting my system and I feel like I’m getting stronger and stronger, even having to hold myself back a bit at times; it’s especially energizing to be engaging the hiking muscles after running for so long. I get to Tip-Off–where the Tonto Trail crosses the South Kaibab–in just under 30min from the river, and I feel great. I’ve done this climb several times as the finish to other long runs in the Canyon and know that a :55-1:00 split from Tip-Off to the summit is totally reasonable. Right now, I feel more than strong enough to make that happen, and with my 5:49 accumulated time I briefly have visions of not only breaking Dakota’s record (6:53), but of taking it into the 6:40s.

Ah, how quickly things change. Less than 15min later I’m veritably staggering along. I hit a gel, hoping for a quick boost, and it doesn’t sit particularly well. I know what I really need is probably another liter or so of water, but I’m nursing my final 10oz, knowing I still have 2500′ of vertical to cover before I’m done. Most of the rest of the “run” up to the South Rim is a frustratingly weak hike/stumble. The equation in endurance sports is simple—given the appropriate fitness you just need water, sugar and salt to keep the engine humming along. However, lack in any of those ingredients and things will predictably grind to a halt.

I manage to avoid completely blowing up, though, and after an 1h10 of effort from the Tonto I finally jog up the final switchback and tag the kiosk at the South Rim. Done. 6:59:24.  The Canyon wins again, but this run is definitely a confidence boost going into the start of my racing season next month at Transvulcania. Joe, Nick, and Dave end up having a truly epic day, finishing late, late in the evening with a more than 15hr outing and 4hr final ascent from the river, but Dave got it done and never lost his ability to flourish his dry humor.

Despite refueling with midnight burritos, we all awake Sunday morning feeling pretty rough. Nick and Dave head back south, but Joe and I are eager to squeeze in one more date with the Canyon before pointing the Roost toward Colorado. Saturday we’d made our obligatory traverse of the uber-popular corridor trails, but today is about exploring another part of the canyon.

After finally locating the “trailhead” for the New Hance trail (there is no trailhead, per se, only a couple random pull-outs on Highway 64 near where a trail unceremoniously heads off into the woods toward the rim and eventually drops in), we spend too much time grumbling and groaning and complaining about our various aches and pains but eventually hobble off into the junipers, ready to descend back to the Colorado River. The trail turns out to be a real joy. There’s a route, but it is thin and sketchy, tucked beneath tree branches and thorny underbrush and technical, loose footing.

Our sore legs take a while to get coordinated, but soon we’re out of the shade of the rim and past the cliff bands and trotting down some smoother singletrack into a wide wash at the mouth of Red Canyon. Near here we pass a woman and a ranger hiking up the trail with large packs. They are, of course, incredulous at our near-naked appearance—we’re shirtless and each carrying a single bottle—and are eager to offer us liquid and food. We graciously decline and instead hustle the final 3mi down to the green-hued Colorado.

At the bottom of the Grand on the New Hance “trail”. Photo: Joe Grant.

Here we pause for a couple of dunkings in the frigid water, say hello to another pair of folks who are camping on the shores, and get to work returning the way we came, scaling the 4500′ of vert back to the rim. The sun is hot, so at the head of the wash we are thankful to chug several bottles of water at a meager spring before refilling and resuming our grunt back up to the highway. This taste of the Canyon’s more “primitive” routes only whets my appetite for more in the hopefully near future.

It’s 2pm and Joe and I need to be back in Boulder no later than 10am the following morning.  We’re sleep-deprived, sunburnt, sore, thirsty, and hungry. Time to hit the road. It turns into an endless journey punctuated by an unexpectedly outstanding milkshake and double-shot of espresso at the Peace Tree Cafe in Moab, Joe ODing on fast food, exhaustion-induced delirium soon thereafter, and finally a submission to sleep shortly after midnight at a rest area in Glenwood Canyon. We awake at 4am and I assume the wheel for the final push, but our progress is slowed dramatically by a blizzard on Vail Pass. We make it through at 20mph, stop for yet more coffee in Silverthorne, find the Eisenhower Tunnels to be mercifully tame conditions-wise, and finally roll into Boulder a little after 8am having replaced the storm clouds with gloriously lit-up Flatirons.

The sun has rejuvenated me, so I drop off the McNuggets-induced ill and virtually catatonic Frenchman and immediately make my way to Chautauqua for a trifecta of Flatirons, hoping to beat the incoming storm. I’m shirtless at the start, but finally am caught in the inevitable onslaught of snow about half-way up the 5th Flatiron. I don my jacket and scamper to the top and downclimb before it gets too wet, but then stubbornly wallow my way through the cold and snow to the summit of the mountain before finally descending back to Chautauqua and warmth, dryness, repose.

All in all, it was a glorious trip, full of adventures, miles, big hills, fellowship, and new experiences. Ultimately, though, there were several moments—whether it was while traversing a truly grand canyon, escaping with just a warning, or surviving a snow-bound mountain pass—where we were able to feel like real-life heroes. Challenges were met, we recognized our agency, stepped up, and our lives were richer as a result. That’s the difference between living and drifting. And something about getting away from home for even a short while really helps bring that into focus.

Whenever one has a mishap in the backcountry, the chain of decisions and events that led up to it always seem so obvious in hindsight. But I suppose that’s just the way it works. I was battling a bit of a head cold and was feeling beat down from a previous 10 days of high-volume outings, so on this morning I resolved to just wake up whenever my body wanted, not interrupting my slumber with the typical 5am alarm that I set when I’m planning on an ascent of Longs Peak. As such, I arrived at the trailhead an hour later than usual, and on top of that it was a gloriously warm day—temps in Boulder later in the day would reach the low-70s.

I made my usual quick time to treeline—slowed a couple of minutes by breaking trail on the short-cuts—and then, instead of bearing straight west to the northern shoulder of Mt. Lady Washington, I stomped and plunged my way through the krummholz and snowdrifts to Chasm Junction and the grand Longs/Meeker cirque. At 8:10am, under the “route” column at the trailhead register I had written “marthas? cables?”, indicating my uncertainty with the morning’s plans. Even as I contoured toward Chasm Lake I was thinking that if Martha Couloir—a popular, narrow, aesthetic, moderate alpine route on MLW’s south face—proved to be more than I was comfortable on-sight soloing, then I could just escape the cirque via the less technical Camel Couloir and easily salvage the morning.

Looking back down, just above one of the crux steps in the Martha Couloir.

I got to the base of Martha at 9:39am, and out in the sun things were definitely already getting soft. There was evidence of a wet slide from the day before at the base, but when I stepped into the couloir I was heartened by the fact that it was mostly still in the shade due to its narrow character. The first rock/ice step went easily with a couple of solid hooks from my Corsa Nanotech; and, surprisingly, my trusty but very dull Kahtoola KTS Steel crampons were giving my feet plenty of purchase. Shortly after the step I came upon a fresh-looking rap anchor that I actually took with me in case I felt the need to retreat higher up (I had a light harness and a 6mmx35m rap cord in my small pack).

The last step to be surmounted.

The next stretch of the couloir was very consistent and quite steep snow—maybe 60 degrees?—with a solid frozen crust that felt very secure. I cleared the second crux rock/ice step with some judicious stemming and several surprisingly good sticks with my Nanotech. Above here the  couloir was alarmingly narrow and steep but still good snow. I made sure to stay in the shade on the right-hand side of the chute to stay in the more solid snow this afforded. The third/final mixed step was slightly more difficult, but I was through quickly and exited the top of the couloir at 10:08am, pleased to have dispatched of the day’s unknown difficulties in a quick, efficient manner and to have climbed a new line. That unique feeling of satisfaction is a big motivation in climbing new routes on the mountain.

A snow-covered Chasm Lake, as seen from within Martha’s.

The traverse over to the MLW/Longs saddle was tedious but offered me a new stunning perspective on the Diamond and soon I was at the now very familiar Cables dihedral, which I climbed quickly and then made the customary slog to the summit via the north face’s upper slopes. There was a surprising amount of blowing snow up there, but it was uncharacteristically warm—normally I’m bundled in a windbreaker and puffy jacket for this portion of the climb but today I was still just in a thermal long-sleeve.

Nice view from the slopes of MLW.

I spent very little time on the summit, quickly plunged back down through the 3rd Class terrain (depending on snow, this 500′ of vert takes 15-20min on the way up and only 6min on the way down) to the top of the Cables downclimb, carefully reversed the 200′ of technical corner, and hopped the last 5′ or so down onto the steep snow slope below the Cables, something I’d done ten times previously this year. At this point I was thinking about:
A) how pleasant it was to be on the mountain in such balmy temps (after climbing it so many times this winter in more serious conditions), and
B) dispatching of the snow slope quickly so that I could take off my crampons, don Microspikes, and run over the boulders and tundra back down to the car.

Well, within about five steps, that snow slope went a whole lot more quickly than I would’ve liked. I was kicking steps down it backwards when I heard a swiiiish, like a particularly big torrent of spindrift coming down the mountain, which caused me to lift my head up and see the whole slope fracture maybe 10′ above me. I had just enough time to think “oh shit” before I was slaloming downhill on my backside and instantly accelerated to what felt like freefall. Immediately below the Cables are a couple slab steps that I usually carefully downclimb, but now I was plummeting down these and just trying not to hit one of the giant boulders that I also knew to be in the fall zone.

Looking back up at the avalanche debris.

Soon enough the avalanche came to a stop approximately 200′ down the north face, and I was only waist-deep in snow. For whatever reason—not that I have tons of prior experience or anything—my mind seems to become very rational and calculating in these kinds of situations, so I almost immediately did a body check…what hurts? Left hip, right knee, left foot, left forearm.  No bones sticking out. But man that right knee hurts, same one I hyperextended/broke two years ago, I can move it though, seems like it’ll be ok. My left gaiter and the running tights underneath were both shredded—I assume by catching a crampon point—but surprisingly there was nary a scratch on my calf. HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!?!

Crown of the avalanche can be seen just below the Cables.

It was still the same sunny, warm day, but now I was covered/soaked in snow, so I threw on an extra layer and tried to get my shit together. Really? An avalanche on Longs’ North Face? Really? I knew things could’ve been way worse, and that’s probably what rattled me the most. After a few more minutes of basically just shaking my head and rubbing my knee, I took a couple pics—mostly because I still couldn’t really believe I’d just been in an avalanche—removed my now bent and battered crampons, put on my Microspikes, and started back down to the trailhead.

It probably took 20min for my knee/peroneals to stop feeling weak and unstable, but by time I’d made it out of the boulders and onto the more predictable terrain of the tundra and eventually the trail I was running relatively comfortably and it felt just like any other day descending the mountain, only warmer. Every time I saw a casual snowshoer on the trail I wanted to exclaim, I was just in an avalanche! But, of course, didn’t.  Instead, I ran down to the parking lot, signed out at the kiosk register (noting the avalanche in the comments column), let my socks and shoes dry for a few minutes in the sun, and drove back to Boulder.

What is to be learned here? Humility and respect—the mountains don’t give a shit. They’re not malevolent, but not benevolent either. There is both safety and danger in familiarity. Martha’s couloir received most of my mental focus for the morning because it was new, but once I’d exited it and was on a route that I’ve climbed a dozen times before in similar conditions, I didn’t pause to assess the entire situation—the later hour, the abnormally warmer temps, the fact that the slope below the Cables was likely loaded with slough from the steep slabs above it.

Any time you head into the mountains, it’s a fascinating but not entirely predictable, controlled environment. It’s a capricious arena, as is life in general. Of course, that wildness is part of why we go, but it’s best to remember that you must absolutely always be on your ‘A’ game—ready to make informed, educated decisions—whether it feels like you need it or not.

This morning was quite a bit different. On the way up there was plenty of snow blowing in the wind, but once I had made it to the west side of Mt. Lady Washington the wind mostly died and the rest of the day was exceedingly pleasant. All of the snow on the north face made the technical climbing feel easy and secure, so on the way down I just downclimbed instead of rappeling, and since the sun was now high in the sky I actually stripped down to a short-sleeve t-shirt at 13,000′ and ran back down to the trailhead in comfort.

Since my first ever trip up the mountain last June, I’ve taken quite a liking to Longs Peak. Its majestic east face that contains the Diamond and forms the Chasm Cirque not only makes it possibly the most visually striking 14er in Colorado, but also makes it a true climber’s mountain with proper technical routes instead of the Class 1 or 2 walk-ups that most of the state’s 14ers offer.  I have a giant poster framed on my wall that details something like 98 different routes on Longs’ grand East Face. And it’s only a 45min drive from Boulder to the trailhead.

Hence, my recent decision to pursue a Longs Peak Project in 2013—climb it 52 times in a year (a once a week avg) and climb it by 12 different routes, a different one in each month.  Like most things that I get inspired to do in the mountains, I’m not really breaking any new ground here. The venerable Bill Briggs was the first to try to climb it in each month of a calendar year by 12 different routes, but apparently came up one short. Bill Wright, however, completed the 12 routes in 12 months objective in 2008.

Both of these men are far better rock climbers than I, however, and could probably just pick 12 different routes to climb on the East Face (though Wright didn’t do that, as outlined in the link).  Instead, I’ll have to get a little more creative, which segues into the obvious question:  Why?

My motivation for this type of project comes from many sources. First and foremost is the fact that I love to get to know a place…really know it. Longs Peak happens to be one of the more special—beautiful, inspiring, intimidating—places I’ve ever been, so the motivation there is high.

Secondly, I know it will challenge me. It will force me to develop new skills and hone current ones. A challenge is the best (only) way I know to stimulate personal growth, and that’s a value I hold deeply. In order to climb it by 12 different routes, I will have to develop at least moderate alpine climbing skills that will involve steep snow, a touch of water ice here and there, and alpine granite crack climbing.  Without a specific goal or objective, it is easy to remain static in familiarity and comfort.  While the (hopefully) 52 summits will undoubtedly engender the familiarity and comfort that I like to develop with a place, the 12 different routes will force me to learn things about this place that it would be easy to otherwise ignore via inertia.

During a recent evening climbing in Boulder Canyon, Buzz Burrell told me one of my favorite stories yet about Longs Peak. As a man of the mountains, Buzz felt it his duty to climb Longs’ Diamond, so he enlisted Bill Briggs to partner with him and take him up the somewhat ironically-named “Casual Route“, straight up the middle of the towering 1700′ face. As the name implies, the Casual Route is indeed the easiest line on the Diamond, but climbing the Diamond is never really a casual affair. (The approach is something like 5mi and 3500′ of vert and involves 500′ of moderate 5th Class terrain just to get to the base.) Unless, maybe, you’re a Briggs brother (Bill’s brother, Roger, first climbed the Diamond when he was 16, has climbed it more times than anyone else (somewhere right around 100), and has many first ascents on its face).

Despite the long approach, of course this duo was going to do it car-to-car, in-a-day. That’s just the appropriate style. Buzz, however, was surprised when—in the parking lot—Bill was already putting on his climbing harness and racking up. That’s when Buzz realized the Briggs brothers were so comfortable and so familiar with the mountain and the Diamond that they basically treated it like most others treat a local crag. Most people climbing the Diamond will bivy at Chasm Lake or even on Broadway at the very start of the climb. Bill, on the other hand, racked up in the parking lot as if the hike in was trivial and any extra gear was unnecessary and extraneous.

I will never be able to treat the Diamond like my local crag, but that depth of a relationship to a mountain is inspiring to me and the one thing that I hope to get out of this project by year’s end.

The Nuts & Bolts 
While there are a lot of routes on Longs Peak, it will still be tough for me to come up with 12, especially a different one for each month. So far this year I’ve used up Kieners in January (three ascents), the Keyhole trade route in February (one ascent), and the shortest, quickest North Face/Cables route in March (six ascents). Luckily, there are still a few other “easy” routes left over for the wintry last couple months of the year (the Loft, the Trough, Keplinger’s Couloir, maybe the Northwest Gulley, etc.).

I’m not sure what routes I’ll slot into which months, but I do know that I would like to get up the Casual Route this summer. I’ll pick my eight other routes from these:

Dreamweaver Couloir
The Loft/Clark’s Arrow
The Flying Dutchman Couloir
Lamb’s Slide
Longs Peak Grand Slam (could easily not be considered a different route)
The Beaver (skyline traverse from the Loft through the Notch and up the Stepladder)
Keplinger’s Couloir
Alexander’s Chimney
Stettners Ledges
Notch Couloir
Martha Couloir
The Trough
Northwest Gulley
Keyhole Ridge
Glacier Gorge Traverse

And, since the factory is in the Philippines, my morning run was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, followed by a quick swim. Very different than the 11 inches of snow and 8 degree temperature in Boulder this morning!

I also wanted to check on working conditions over there – I’ve always wondered if there really are “sweat shops” – what was our factory like? To be socially, environmentally, and technically progressive is very important to me personally, and thus I always want to move Ultimate in that Direction. And (presumably by coincidence), this town happened to be the start of the infamous “Bataan Death March” in WWll!

Upon arrival, my worst fears were realized: working conditions were really hard …

This is our Designer, Erin Doubleday, in the middle of a 3 week trip to Asia, away from her home (and dogs), working non-stop 10 hour days. Shocking! Unfair labor practices?

On the other hand, while the Filipinos were really hard workers, they were quite happy and relaxed:

Pardon my little joke there – couldn’t resist – the truth is this is a very well run factory. I was impressed, so I’ll briefly describe how it all works for those of you who like me, want to know what goes on behind the curtain.

THE DESIGN / PRODUCTION PROCESS

1. Set the Direction

As Brand Manager, I outline where we are going: what we are going to produce and why. I analyze pricing, profit, and costing spreadsheets, but in truth, the Ultimate Direction comes from my 40 years of competitive and recreational running experience, and especially, from all my friends. What will help my friends?

2. Design Concept

I also establish the product concepts – the Signature Series is a good example – but now that our UD design team has become established, the concepts often come from them. Erin Doubleday is the UD Designer, and she literally wakes up at night dreaming about cool new hydration packs. If she feels passionate about something, we go that way; if she doesn’t, we don’t go that way. You’ll see what I mean in the new 2014 product line – there are some interesting innovations!

3. Design Specifications

Erin draws sketches, and sometimes constructs actual packs, utilzing the sewing capabilities of our in-house Advance Development Center (more on that sometime). Once we like what we see, she will draw up a complete set of Plans and Specifications (she has a degree in Industrial Design), which are emailed to the factory.

4. Prototype and Revision Sequence

Using the Specs, the factory then makes prototypes of the new packs in their Sample Shop, which is separate from their production lines. They send these prototypes to us – we test and review them – Erin draws and emails a Revised Spec Package – the Sample Shop makes up the revised prototypes and ships to us – we review again – this process repeats for months!  It’s an excellent factory – these people are really good – and fortunately, don’t mind that we change, adjust, and tweak the products until they are just right.

5. Final Samples

Kevin Gallagher is our UD Product Manager – he has been involved all along, especially obtaining the special material we will be using (the 2014 Line has some surprises!), and as the design process culminates, he establishes pricing from the factory.

6. Production

We take one last look at the “QA” (Quality Assurance) samples, then production starts.  We take photo’s to go the websites, the salesmen show the samples at the Outdoor Retailer Show in early August, and retailers place their orders, even though the production pieces won’t arrive for a few more months.

7. On Sale

What we were working on in the Philippines two weeks ago will be available to you starting January 1. That’s how long it takes.

MY FACTORY VISIT

Here are my overall impressions:

1. Everyone is really good: the Owners, the Managers, the Sewers.

2. Everyone likes what they do: The vibe is good! I walked freely everywhere, and everyone was very friendly.

3. These sew shops are very labor intensive and capital un-intensive – I like that a lot of people are employed – your money goes into wages instead of machines.

4. Because the outdoor industry requires high quality and patterns are changing constantly, it’s better to just hire a lot of people to sew than to construct a giant machine to do it automatically.

5. This one shop (factory) employs 7,000 people (!) – most of whom are sewing together packs using individual sewing machines such as you could have in your house.

6. Much of the outdoor industry makes their products in the same location – I saw Black Diamond climbing harnesses being made, as well as Arcteryx packs, etc.

And the Bataan Death March? I certainly didn’t have time to do the whole 160km – turns out there’s an annual race (held at night to avoid the heat) – but I did turn on the Strava App on my phone, and now am “King of the Mountain” on the first 3k of the route!

As I’m running the streets back down to my apartment—indulgently striding right down the center, taking advantage of the universally higher amounts of inertia that exist in homes on weekend mornings, especially when it’s snowing—I am reminded of my roots as a runner. When I was 13, I would regularly run 20 milers in this kind of crap, I think. Thirteen. Over 15 years later, my current pursuits—100 mile mountain races, all-day peak-bagging efforts—suddenly make a lot more sense with that kind of perspective and history.

Here in Boulder, this weekend’s snow was, sadly, one of the biggest deposits so far this season.  When I was growing up in the windswept, rural hills of Nebraska, it seemed a dump of 10-12″ was a weekly occurrence throughout the winter season. And in Nebraska the snow was always whipped into epic, car-swallowing snow drifts by the unceasing, rasping wind. In Nebraska, wind is the default. It took real resolve to run through a Nebraska winter, and the winter of 1996-1997 was an exceptional one.

The previous summer, I had run my first marathon around Lake Okoboji in northwestern Iowa, and this accomplishment cemented in me the resolve to be a runner.  Make no mistake, I already took myself quite seriously—I had training log entries for every day since spring 1995, and I had just finished a marathon—but in the fall of 1996 I consciously raised the stakes.

Finish line of my first marathon, July 1996.

I remember the conversation quite well. It was mid-August, a month after my marathon, and pre-season junior high football practice had just begun. I was pulling weeds with my Dad in the garden and I was explaining to him how—once school started next week—it seemed like the best way to get my miles in around classes and football practice would be to run to and from school. It was 6.5 miles each way, and by doing this I would eliminate the 15-20min of dead-time riding in the car to town with my schoolteacher Mom in the mornings and then she wouldn’t always have to wait around until after I was done with football practice in order to drive me home.  (In retrospect, this was all a bit silly.  I was probably gaining myself no more than 30-40min of time each day by not riding in the car. I know for sure that my motivation at the time was in no small part influenced by the Kenyan mythology of running to and from school.)

So that’s what I did. Football was taken out of the equation when I tripped during an impassioned game of hide-and-seek after the first day of school and tore my left knee open, requiring 15 stitches.  I was on crutches for a couple of weeks, and I distinctly remember waking up before school to crutch-hop a mile before breakfast. The knee was runnable after a couple of weeks, and it didn’t take long for me to get down to business.

Running to and from school quickly became the norm for me.  The 6.5 mile trip into town in the morning would take me anywhere from 40-50min and I developed a trend of veritably tempoing the last 3mi, racing to beat my mom in her car . Taking advantage of the gradual downhill drop into the Missouri River floodplain I would regularly sprint the final mile in 5:10-15. (In the spring I would ultimately fail in my attempt to break 5:00 in the 1600 in junior high, managing only a 5:02. I always blamed it on having to race the 800 first.)  My mom would bring my bookbag and change of clothes in on her drive to work, so if I beat her, I would fill the extra time by running laps in the cemetery on the edge of town, waiting for her to drive past.

The run home in the evening was typically a more mellow affair (I’ve always been a morning person), and after changing clothes again I would simply cruise home at an easy effort.  Eventually, though, I began increasing the length of the evening outing once or twice a week, deliberately taking the long way home to stretch it into the 10-15mi range.  And, on the weekends, I happily engaged in the tradition of a Sunday morning long run. I had a 22mi loop that was the hilliest I could find, deliberately trying to mimic legendary New Zealand coach Arthur Lydiard’s famed Waiatarua Circuit on the outskirts of Auckland. Absent any mountain streams, I would jump in the horse tank immediately after these runs, running icy water over my legs with a garden hose while drinking an entire pitcher of orange juice.

In October, I remember I ran my first ever 100 mile week, capped by my usual 22 miler. The real fun began in November, however. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving we only had a half-day of school, so after my now-routine run to school in the morning, I took advantage of the couple extra free hours that afternoon to get in a mid-week long run. Except that a classic Nebraska blizzard was also blowing in. About 10 miles in I distinctly remember my eyeglasses repeatedly freezing over with sleet, but instead of being discouraged I almost took it as a dare and ended up extending the outing to a full 20 miles, just to see if I could, I guess.

Running quickly became the key factor in my identity, much as it is today. At a time when I didn’t feel much identification with my peers, this was how I differentiated myself, bolstered my self-image, and calculated my self-worth. At the time, I wasn’t nearly self-aware enough to fully understand these things, but I did know that setting audacious goals and then assiduously applying myself to achieve them was rewarding in a way that I’d never really known before.

I’m not sure how my parents perceived this craziness (My dad says now, “It was obvious there was no convincing you otherwise, and overall we thought it was a positive pursuit.” After witnessing three meltdowns–and two DNFs–at Leadville, I know his opinion of 100mi races isn’t nearly as charitable). I recall more than one evening where it had long since become dark, maybe snow was blowing and the temps were in the single digits, and my Dad would drive out to find me still a few miles from home. Sometimes I would accept the ride, sometimes not.

As one might expect, I definitely had a successful spring track season—I never lost an 800 or 1600—but that winter would ultimately haunt me for most of my high school running career. Rampant injuries prevented me from ever matching the 20 straight weeks of an average of 80mpw until several years later, and my 1600 time only improved another 10 seconds by the time I graduated high school. (When I was 13, I was only 4’10″ and ~80lbs…I think it’s hard to get injured when you’re so tiny. Another interesting fact: during 1996-1997 I logged over 3000 miles injury-free on a single pair of 1980s-era Nikes that my parents bought for me for $1 at the Goodwill.)

Nevertheless, I had definitely cultivated a niche for myself that basically revolved around a nearly unquenchable thirst for high mileage, long runs, and exploring the limits of my endurance. Whenever people ask me how I got started in ultras, it’s a difficult question for me to answer because almost from the very beginning of my running career it simply felt like the obvious path to pursue.

Now, 16 years later and having thoroughly exhausted the mega-mileage approach from 2005-2008 with dozens of 200+ mile weeks, I like to think that I’ve evolved a more sustainable approach to getting outside for long periods of time. There is no question in my mind, however, that those first couple years of running were ultimately beneficial in getting me to where I find myself today.

Sure, the air might’ve been a little thicker in Nebraska, and I don’t ever really wear cotton for winter running anymore, but as I was reminded on my standard 2hr run up and down Green Mountain in a snowstorm yesterday morning, all of those long runs in high plains blizzards were really just a form of experiential foreshadowing for the high-altitude mountain forays I do now. I may have spent eight intervening years suffering through innumerable interval sessions on golf courses and tracks during high school and college (experiences I am glad to have had, but don’t really miss), but now it seems pretty obvious to me that even as a 13 year old in Nebraska I wasn’t really laying a foundation for just a 1mi race around a track. Considering where my running has ended up, all those snowy long runs sure make a lot more sense now.

I’ve dealt with this more times than I care to recall, and the past six weeks have been another of those instances for me.  After being injured for 15 months straight, I had managed to stay healthy since May 2012, but then in mid-December I developed a nag in my right hip that had me incapacitated by Christmas.  I took three weeks off completely, drank a lot of egg nog, and then ran up and down Longs Peak three times in my first 10 days back.

Will I ever learn?

I like to think so. Another two weeks of rest, acupuncture, massage, and rehab exercises and I’m finally back out on the hill again, this time painfree.

I’ve been running for 18 years now, and I definitely deal with all of this stuff better than I used to, at least on an emotional level.  I remember when I was in college and I went to the training room for a pain in my foot that ended up being a stress fracture, and the athletic trainer told me I was going to be out for six weeks.

“Six weeks!?” I queried. “But I had a metatarsal fracture in high school and it only took three weeks of rest.”

“Well, Tony, you’re not 15 anymore, Bruce replied, “Things take longer to heal when you get older.” (I was all of 20 years old at the time.)

Back then, my reaction was usually one of depression (Bruce recommended the services of a sports psychologist after diagnosing another stress fracture a few months later) and cross-training like a fiend.

After one such injury at the beginning of the fall XC season, I purchased a road bike and immediately began logging 3-5hrs/day on the mountain roads surrounding Colorado Springs. I went on a three-day bike tour from Colorado Springs to Aspen (160 miles) sponsored by the college’s club cycling team and regularly dropped the team’s riders on the many mountain passes along the way, redirecting my usual obsession for running into the bike.  On the fourth day, everyone piled into a bus for the trip back to Colorado Springs.  I elected to ride all the way back in one shot. It took me eight and a half hours—starting with a 20mi climb to 12,000′ Independence Pass—and I gained my first lesson in ultra-distance endeavors when I bonked hard pedaling up Wilkerson Pass, having ridden 100mi on nothing but water.  A single granola bar I’d tucked in my shirt pocket saved the day and I rode into the Springs in style, having caught a glimpse of the euphoria and reward that comes from spending all day traveling through the mountains under one’s own power (a year and a half later I would do my first 30mi training run and the ultra-distance seed would truly be planted).  But, with all that biking, I almost certainly delayed the healing of my injury.

Now, I’m not so big on cross-training (that first road bike was eventually stolen). Admittedly, my motivations for running have shifted fairly dramatically—”fitness” has become less a goal than mountain summits, so it’s hard for me to motivate for hours in the pool aquajogging or in the gym on an elliptical machine—but I’ve also come to realize that sometimes I just need rest.  More often than not, when my body breaks down these days it’s because I’ve been pushing too hard for too long and more than my musculoskeletal system needs a rest.  So, when I can’t run, I truly rest. This time around, my main form of coping has come in the form of climbing.  Grunting and inching my way up a rock wall is not only a reliable source of terror, but it also typically affords me a stunning and inspirational mountain setting, even if it doesn’t do much to tax my heart, lungs, and legs.

In general, when dealing with injuries, I’ve gone from managing my body to managing my mind. A few tactics:

• Don’t fight the initial let-down.  When I go from running 2-3hrs/day to nothing at all, there are going to be some major brain-chemical imbalances.  The first two days or so of not running are usually pretty damn gloomy for me.  I tend to hate everything and everyone.  However, I’ve learned that if I just accept that and allow myself to feel shitty for a couple days I’ll often emotionally rebound by day three and start being willing to do some proactive things, even if that just means leaving the house and interacting with other humans. For me, however, I know there’s really no use in resisting my bad mood in the beginning. I mean, I literally get angrier if it’s a sunny day. There’s no use in even trying to apply rational thought to the situation, so it’s best to just wait it out, because it has always gotten better.

• Do get outside. Even if it’s not to exercise. Which, for me, it typically isn’t. But it’s okay to wait until after the initial grump-fest. I tend to walk a lot when I’m injured (something I generally avoid when training because I’m typically exhausted all the time), downtown to the coffeeshop, to the grocery store, to the post office. Just 20-30min of the sun shining on my face, breathing fresh air, helps my outlook immeasurably.

• Do try everything. Here in Boulder, I have a bevy of medical practitioners that I go to when I have a new ache or pain. Jeremy Rodgers (all around sportsmed encyclopedia and chiropractor) is always my first phone call. Jeremy is very process-oriented; like me, he’s not so interested in necessarily just getting me back to running but also in identifying why I got injured and what we can do to address that so that we won’t just be putting a band-aid on a larger issue. Having said that, one of his first questions is always when my next competition is; Jeremy is a talented athlete himself (multi-sport) so he fully understands the performance aspect of things, and I appreciate that.
  Three years ago I was a huge skeptic of non-traditional medical techniques, so when Jeremy suggested I see Allison Suddard for some acupuncture for a knee injury, I went in not expecting much. But, when nothing else was working she fixed me and I was able to run fast at Miwok and Western States that year.  I now see her for regular maintenance, working to keep initially innocuous little niggles from turning into full-blown injuries.
  Finally, Jeff Staron is my man for sports massage. Rickey Gates recommended him when I was dealing with shin issues, claiming that Jeff had magically healed him more than once. Maybe I’m just weak, but the hour-long sessions on Jeff’s table are by far the most intense, concentrated instances of suffering I’ve ever experienced. The man has thumbs of steel. But, on more than one occasion, Jeff has been able to make an issue disappear after only one or two excruciating sessions. In general, different injuries seem to respond positively to different treatment. Some issues, Jeff hasn’t been able to make a difference but Allison’s needles have proved to be the key.  But I won’t know until I try it.

• Do your damn exercises. I’m still working on this. For nearly every overuse injury I’ve had in the past three years, independent opinions have all pointed to my weak hips (glute medius) as being the main culprit. In nearly every case, I’ve experienced improvement after a couple weeks of diligently doing prescribed supplementary exercises (very simple, gym-class variety stretches; Jane Fonda-esque leg lifts; balance drills, etc.). These things are unsexy, feel awkward, and require a little focus and dedication, but they work. They also have the added bonus of making me feel like I’m doing something every single day to get healthier. A lot of the emotional side of dealing with an injury is fighting the feeling that you’re helpless and an unjust victim. Doing rehab every day helps me feel proactive.

• Don’t give up. This should go without saying, but simply not losing hope is super-key. Your mental state is as important as any treatment—maybe even more so—so fighting to remain positive is crucial. Over the course of a long-running injury this can be really tough and some despair is to be expected, but the important thing is to have more good days than bad.

• If you must get injured, just break a bone. Okay, so this is being kinda silly, but honestly, when I broke my leg in 2011 it was one of the easier injuries to heal, mentally and physically. Within only a couple hours of breaking it I was seriously fine with it. I couldn’t even stand up, let alone run, so it was easy to let go. There was no wiggle room for interpretation. Just two and a half months sitting on my ass letting the bone knit, and then a few weeks of rehab to regain strength and range of motion. I’ll take such definitive healing any day over the drawn-out nightmare of questioning and second-guessing and wondering that characterizes most soft-tissue ailments.

That’s about all I got.  No magic, no silver bullets, but there never is. Over time, I’ve realized the best way to deal with injuries is to not get them. Which means sometimes tempering my passion, engaging my rational mind, and even listening to friends’ (often sage) advice.  As Buzz likes to say, “Success in running is an injury-prevention game.”  That’s certainly the case for me—finding the energy and discipline to get out in the mountains isn’t an issue—so here’s to hoping  for as healthy a rest of 2013 as possible.

Back on the trail this week with Scott, Bryce, and Rickey. Photo: Rickey Gates.

Anton Krupicka’s running has evolved from roads to trails to mountains and now free-soloing. Filmed over one season, “In the High Country” is about living and running light and free.  The raw footage is terrific, is being edited now, and the film will be released in the Summer of 2013, with an approximate running time of 30 minutes.

Watch the Trailer Now –> 

Joel is the only person who could have made this film.  He drove to Colorado from his home in West Virginia in his old station wagon, then without really trying to, matched Anton’s lifestyle – pre-dawn starts, high ridge traverses, exposed soling, ice cold river baths, then sleep in the back of the car – all while filming everything.

I first met Joel when I went up to show Anton a route on the Second Flatiron above Boulder that can be used to link all five Flatirons.  I didn’t want Joel to go … this is not casual terrain … the crux is 5.6, but is a tricky, blind traverse.  Joel was very calm and understanding when we discussed it at the car, which is a good sign, so I agreed we should all go up.  I did the exposed move, turned around to see how the guys were doing, and watched Joel follow it – using one hand – filming with the other.

It doesn’t matter what cool things you do – if a camera can’t get there, there is no film.  Joel is a fit and excellent climber – everywhere Anton went, the camera went.  This is going to be worth watching!

Filmed and Produced by Joel Wolpert

Made possible by Ultimate Direction, with additional support from runningtimes.com , shoefitr.com , newbalance.com, and www.trtreads.org

Music
‘Seeding’ by Tyler Keene logacrossthewasher.bandcamp.com
“Rim of the Well’ by Rim of the Well stevemullinsmusic.com/bands/the-rim-of-the-well
Color Grading and Titles by Coat of Arms coatofarmspost.com

Longs is notorious for its winter winds and Joe and I experienced this first-hand back in late-November during a summit of the peak via the Loft under hurricane-like conditions.  Maybe this outing (which involved negotiating some impromptu and uncomfortable mixed 5th Class terrain in crampons) left a bad impression on me, because we didn’t make it up the peak in December–the first month I’d missed since my first-ever ascent of the mountain in June.  Sure, I was in the flatlands of Nebraska the week of Christmas, and then my hip started nagging, but if I’d really wanted to get up the hill, I would’ve gotten it done earlier in the month.

Ah well, new year, new beginnings, my hip healed, and as if on cue, this past week the weather gods bestowed spring-like conditions on the Front Range. No more excuses.

The path below treeline on Longs is well-packed this time of year, and mercifully forges a few shortcuts through the woods, eliminating time-consuming switchbacks. Joe and I both have relatively heavy packs on–well, at least much heavier than we’re used to.  In addition to extra layers, we’re hauling harnesses, a 7.8mm 60m rope, a handful of cams, crampons, and some slings and carabiners.  In the summer, the Broadway ledge that slices through the east face of Longs is alarmingly narrow and exposed in spots, but feels highly secure.  Add a bunch of snow and ice, though, and we both agree that protecting this traverse is important so as to guard against a 1000′ fall down the Lower East Face.  Furthermore, our experience on 5th Class rock in crampons is low.

Despite the extra weight, we hike strongly through the trees, and break into a casual trot on the flatter stretches, but Joe comments, “This is why I’m not wearing a pack at ITI.” (ITI—the Iditarod Trail Invitational—is a 350mi foot race in Alaska next month. Joe will pull a sled, which will allow some running to actually occur.) We’re both eager to get to treeline to see what the wind is doing.

Much to our delight, there is essentially no wind at all when we reach the tundra, and we comfortably cross a frozen Chasm Lake to the base of the Lambs Slide snowfield, the 40 degree slope that we’ll ascend for 1000′ to reach Broadway. The beauty of our natural surroundings, however, is impossible to ignore. The lake is housed in a gigantic natural amphitheater created by Mt. Meeker, the towering Diamond, and Mt. Lady Washington.

“It’s an overused term, but this place is truly stunning.”  The January snow highlights the cathedral we’re standing in and with the rising sun just grazing the east face of Longs, Joe is right. The snow on Lambs Slide is largely in great condition for kicking steps, so we put our heads down and set about the task of finally gaining some vertical.

Joe working his way up Lambs Slide.

Surprisingly, there is still a patch of exposed water ice near the entry to Broadway, but it is easily skirted and soon we are at the first crux—a near vertical cornice of snow where the ledge narrows down to only a foot or so in width.  With the massive exposure, we are happy to have brought a rope.

Joe on Broadway.

Joe carefully leads out across the ledge as I belay him, and just past the crux he clips a fixed pin. Nice. The grade of the snow slope on the ledge eases beyond here and soon Joe has stretched the rope’s 60m to the next belay stance on the corner just before the infamous crux “bulge” move.  After quickly scurrying to join him, I lead the next sequence—another very steep wall of snow with dizzying exposure—humbly crawl underneath the bulge and stop to belay Joe across before we unrope for the march up the apron of snow at the base of the Notch Couloir.  Here is where Kieners proper begins by leaving Broadway and heading up 2-3 pitches of 5.0-5.4 chimneys and cracks to the 4th Class terrain that will take us to the Diamond Step.

I’ve climbed Kieners a half dozen or so times to Joe’s single outing, so I lead us up the rock, which is much, much easier than I’d been building it up in my head these past couple of months.  There are jugs and footholds galore, and climbing in crampons presents really no issue at all.  I grunt up the two crux chimney moves (in the summer, on dry rock and with approach shoe rubber, these features hardly require a second look), which probably lend this route its 5.4 rating, but none of it ever feels desperate and before long Joe has followed and we coil the rope and stow the rack for the rest of the day.

Joe on the snow slope leading up to the Staircase and the Diamond Step.

Curiously, the steep snowfield that we solo up to the Diamond Step probably ends up being the most precarious and exposed section of the day. The position is outrageous with the Diamond below us to our right, Chasm Lake waaaay below, and the Notch, Lambs Slide, and Mt. Meeker all rearing up impressively behind us. The snow is reasonably good—pretty deep and sugary a lot of the way—but a slip here wouldn’t leave much time for a self-arrest before you’d shoot over the edge and plummet 1500′ to Mills Glacier at the foot of the Diamond.  It never feels insecure, though, and we easily pull the juggy moves up the Staircase and step onto the 3rd Class talus for the final stretch to the summit.

The Staircase. Photo: Joe Grant.

The summit plateau is idyllic.  I’d taken off my puffy jacket for the hard work wallowing up the snow slope, but once at rest on top (and finally in the sun!) it’s so calm and warm that there’s no need to put it back on.  It’s taken us a whopping 5h45min to get there, but our good fortune in picking such a perfect weather day, the engaging but comfortable climbing, and the unique position on the east face all have us nearly giddy with euphoria.  Things just rarely go this smoothly.

Joe popping out onto the talus field that leads to the summit.

There are a couple hitches on the descent.  Joe drops his axe somewhere on the North Face but doesn’t realize it until we’re at the Cables eye-bolts.  I stretch the rope as much as I can to rappel the Cables in one pitch, but still need to downclimb the final 15-20′ to reach easier terrain, fumbling my rap device in the process. (Both pieces of gear are recovered.)

Joe rappeling the North Face (Cables) slabs.

Then there’s just the monumental talus hop/run/slog back down to the trailhead. I’m bonking pretty hard, not having put in this long of a day in months, but once back at the trailhead after seven and a half hours on the mountain, we are both still buzzing with the energy that comes from having gotten away with something especially satisfying.

As we hit the parking lot, there is one other person there, a man who looks to be a grizzled veteran of the mountains. He asks us if we had made the summit.  Yes, we had.  What route did we take?  When I reply “Kieners”, his face lights up and he instantly queries us on the conditions we encountered. Mountains are radically different places in the winter, and considering that in Colorado these types of conditions exist up to nine months of the year, it might be argued that climbing a mountain in the winter allows one to experience a much more honest representation of the peak’s true character.  It feels good to connect with someone else who is clearly familiar with the mountain, and I am glad that I’d finally committed to stepping outside of my comfort zone to grow my own familiarity with Longs.

Encountering some tech on the Ten Mile Traverse last spring. Photo: Joe Grant.

While it is difficult for me to approach a solo, high-country project with the same level of intensity and focus that I do the races on my summer event schedule, I find these adventure running objectives to be just as rewarding and usually even more inspiring.  As such, right now, smack in the middle of winter’s snow and cold—when the high country is being pounded by gale-force winds and sub-zero temps and the more lowly Flatirons are likewise encrusted in snow and ice—my mind can’t help but wander ahead to summer when it’s possible to move truly light and fast again on the high peaks.  Normally, I try to not put too much of my energy into dreaming about the future—enjoy the present moment!—but hey, if one is going to accomplishment sufficiently ambitious and challenging things in the summer, a lot of pre-planning and scheming is necessary.

These are the non-race objectives that have me the most excited about 2013:

Nolan’s 14

Heart of the Sawatch Range, looking south from La Plata Peak (#3 in the Nolan’s line-up).

• What: continuous link-up of 14 14,000′+ peaks
• Where: Sawatch Range, Fish Hatchery TH to Shavano TH

This is the big one. Something like 90 miles and 45,000′ of vert.  I’ve been preoccupied with this most-perfect of link-ups for a full year now. Central Colorado’s Sawatch Range is unique in North America for its concentration of 14,000′+ peaks, so enchaining all 14 of them in one push (don’t even bring up Holy Cross with me—geographically, it’s a total outlier) is an obvious if highly ambitious undertaking. Last year, I didn’t begin the summer with the requisite route-experience and never made a serious attempt, but did manage the first five peaks in 10h30 before being chased down below treeline by lightning on Elkhead Pass, only 40min from tagging the next two summits.  This summer I’m very much planning on going the full way—Massive, Elbert, La Plata, Huron, Missouri, Belford, Oxford, Harvard, Columbia, Yale, Princeton, Antero, Tabeguache, Shavano—and I’m also planning on giving it the type of race-focus effort I think this line deserves.

Nolan’s 14 Route.

For all the enormity in scale that this link-up represents, it’s actually quite accessible.  Many of the peaks are separated by giant valleys that contain typically reasonably-maintained roads.  As such, I will tackle this effort with a fully-supported style, which will basically just mean that I plan to have a friend meet me in between mountains for a re-stocking of my gel supply and that I’ll likely pick up some company for the night portion.  The big crew-less section will occur between Winfield and the N. Cottonwood Creek TH and links up Huron, Missouri, Belford, Oxford, Harvard, and Columbia. Training runs have shown me that I can cover this section in 8hr or so…but then I will still have four more giant (like, vertical-mile giant) climbs in front of me, to be navigated mostly in the dark.

Overall, the Nolan’s route is actually pretty smooth sailing with nothing truly technical on it.  The quickest lines basically never exceed 3rd Class, but there is a lot of off-trail navigation, so nimble feet (i.e. talus-hopping for days), and a keen sense of direction are necessary. This link-up will take the place of an additional 100mi race this summer.  I’m just not sure yet if I’ll tackle it in June or August.

L.A. Freeway (Longs-to-Arapaho Traverse)

Looking north at Longs Peak on the horizon, from the summit of Arapaho Peak. The toothy ridge in the middle-ground is the final technical crux of the traverse.

• What: Traverse of the Continental Divide from Longs Peak to Arapaho Peak
• Where: Northern Front Range, Rocky Mt Nat’l Park & Indian Peaks Wilderness

Almost no one reading this has likely ever heard of anything called the “L.A. Freeway”.  That’s because—as far as I know—only one, maybe two, people have ever done it: Buzz Burrell (who named it) and possibly Gerry Roach.  The Freeway is a true traverse of the Continental Divide linking the highest point in Rocky Mountain National Park (Longs Peak-14,255′) and the highest point in the Indian Peaks Wilderness (Arapaho Peak–13,502′) and tagging 18 named peaks along the way, 15 of those over 12,900′ and 12 of them over 13,000′.  Sticking to the Divide requires maybe half a dozen instances of low-5th Class climbing and lots and lots of 3rd and 4th Class scrambling.  This is all intermixed with endless talus-hopping and tundra-trotting, basically all above 12,000′.

Thirty-plus miles right on the most technical part of the Continental Divide.

From Longs’ East Trailhead to Arapaho’s 4th of July Trailhead is approximately a 50K with at least 18,000′ of vertical.  The traverse starts with the nearly vertical-mile ascent of Longs Peak, preferably via either the North Face (the fastest way up the peak, mandatory 5.4) or Kieners (for style points, more 5.4 terrain, and really not that much slower than the Cables). From there, he route descends a couple of 5.2-ish sections of downclimbing to tag Pagoda and traverse over to Chiefs Head before striking out south on the Divide:  Alice, Tanima, Isolation (brief 5.4 pitch), Ouzel, Ogalalla, Sawtooth, and Paiute all await.  After Paiute, things get techy once again with some 4th Class on Mt. Toll and then lots and lots of 4th Class on the traverse of the Chessmen (a series of spires) from Shoshoni to Apache to Navajo.  And then even more from Navajo over to Arapaho.

Me standing on the shoulder of Shoshini looking south, with the Chessmen, Apache, and Navajo looming ahead. Photo: Joe Grant.

The biggest thing about this line is that it is nearly 100% off trail.  I’ll utilize about 2mi of historical trails below treeline on the ascent to Longs Peak, but other than that its up to my judgment. I suspect this sustained techiness is what has deterred most folks from attempting such an obvious line, but for me, this combination of endurance and technical terrain is what makes it so enticing.

Elk Range 14ers Enchainment

Standing on the summit of Pyramid and looking north to the Bells and Snowmass.

• What: continuous link-up of seven 14,000′+ peaks
• Where: Elk Range, Capitol Creek TH to Castle Creek TH

This link-up starts at the Capitol Creek TH, tags the summits of Capitol, Snowmass, North and South Maroon Bells, Pyramid, Castle and Conundrum before ending at the Castle Creek TH. As far as I know, this has been accomplished only once, in a legendary 34hr (?) effort by Neal Beidleman and Jeff Hollenbaugh back in 1996. John “Homie” Prater and Max Nuttleman made a valiant effort last summer, but were stalled out by electrical storms on the Bells and retreated to Maroon Lake after summiting them. (When chatting with Homie about this about a week later, he commented that it was probably the most scared he’s ever been in the mountains—not a trivial statement from someone so experienced and committed.)

Capitol Peak as seen from the starting trailhead of the link-up.

The ridge connecting the Maroon Bells.

I’ve only climbed four of the seven peaks—Capitol, the Bells, and Pyramid—but am drawn in by the area’s unparalleled scenery and the fact that it’s the only semi-reasonable 14er range link-up in Colorado other than Nolan’s (the summits are simply too spread out in the other ranges; the Sangres come close, but are really two isolated groups–the Crestones and the Blance Group).  The Elks also have the rare 14er distinction of being technical (high 4th Class, a few moves of 5th Class), but dubiously chossy.  The Elk 14ers are largely considered to be the toughest (and most dangerous) 14ers as a result.  Capitol requires traversing its famous Knife Edge, the traverse to Snowmass is almost never done, the Bells Traverse is loose with a few 5th-Class moves, Pyramid is more mandatory 4th Class, and then Castle and Conundrum are off by themselves, separated from the rest by two giant drainages and an entire 13,000′+ ridge.  As best I can make out (with significant input from Homie), the cleanest line would be ~38 miles and at least 22,000′ vert.  Again, many many trail-less miles on this route, too. Let’s do it!

Elks 14er Enchainment route.

I haven’t completely decided on style yet, but am leaning heavily towards hitting it solo and unsupported in one big push.  The only reasonable point of access for support is in the West Maroon Creek drainage between the Bells and Pyramid, but I’m hoping I can lace it quick enough to go sans headlamp—lightning, legs, and lungs willing…

I feel a little exposed by posting such big ambitions in a public forum, but right now these projects excite me more than anything else in the mountains, so it’s hard not to share.  Of course, if my body gives out and I fail to even get to attempt them…well, hopefully you won’t have to hear about that.