Running America's Hardest 50K

Back in 2019, so basically an eternity ago, I saw a photo on the cover of Runner’s World magazine of the Rut 50K trail race in Big Sky, Montana. The photo featured a runner descending a scree field on Headwaters Ridge in the fog and it looked like absolute hell. I decided to sign myself up. The 2020 race didn’t happen, but by this spring chances were looking good that the race would be possible on Labor Day weekend so I started training. It wasn’t until this summer that I finally read through all the course details on the race website. A couple things stood out to me: “EXTREMELY STEEP & TECHNICAL”, “15% off trail”, and “September in Montana often brings the first winter snowstorms and blizzards to the high peaks.” What had I gotten myself into?

I had three main goals for the race: 1) Get to the starting line healthy, 2) finish, and 3) have some fun. I was probably most anxious about my first goal, and I don’t mean I was worried about getting COVID (though I didn’t want that to happen either). No, I was paranoid about doing something stupid, something that would render my months of training useless. Something like twisting an ankle while dancing around the house, or being taken out by Denali on a walk, or getting water in my ear the day before the race then violently shaking my head to get it out, tweaking my back in the process (I may be familiar with that last one). My coworkers did nothing to calm my nerves. The day before I left, their parting words were “don’t twist an ankle” and “don’t get hurt.” 

I managed to not hurt myself before leaving for the race. But I still had to get there in one piece. And did I mention, Owen and I were driving to Montana in the 4Runner, a truck that’s 34 years old? I didn’t have a whole lot of confidence in the 4Runner when we first hit the road. At some point on the second day the speedometer stopped working. I almost wanted to get pulled over so Owen could say to a cop he honestly had no idea how fast we were going. The second night we camped in a National Forest in Idaho. It was so cold the water in Denali’s bowl froze, and the next morning the truck wouldn’t start. For a moment, I thought I’d have to beg a stranger for a ride to Montana, but somehow Owen got it started. That afternoon we crossed into Montana, and I finally understood what the term big sky country meant. That night, I read Out and Back, an account of how professional ultrarunner Hillary Allen nearly fell to her death while running in a mountain ultra race. In hindsight, it might not have been the best reading material choice but it did remind me that unlike professional ultra runners, there was no pressure for me to win the race tomorrow. And with that thought, I fell right to sleep. 

Quick pit stop at the Snake River in Idaho

At the starting line the next morning I felt a little scattered, second guessing my gear choices and checking the aid station cutoff times. But once the elk bugle went off signifying the start of the race, the excitement set in. We climbed up, up, up and when I looked behind me the sun was rising above the surrounding mountains. This is why I run ultras, I thought to myself. The first ten miles of the course were said to be the most runnable and I focused on just taking it easy and enjoying myself. I even grouped up with some women for awhile and picked their brains about what it was like living in Montana. My first hiccup didn’t come until mile 10, at an aid station. My pack was so full of extra gear (emergency blanket, jacket, food), that I could barely jam my full water bladder back in. So I shoved it until it exploded open, soaking me in the process. Owen and Denali were there but spectators weren’t supposed to offer any assistance so they just looked on, helpless. 

Dawn patrol

After the aid station we had a major climb, and somewhere along the way I finally got a view of Lone Peak, the highest part of the course at over 11,000 feet. It felt impossibly far away and impossibly high, but I got into my slow gear and just kept hiking. I’ve never thought of myself as fast on the climbs but I felt really strong and began passing people one by one. I even got called a beast, which is the highest compliment in outdoor pursuits. We were well above the tree line and the terrain eventually turned to scree, with narrow drop offs on each side. A strange mantra popped into my head: “follow the flags, they are your friend” and I went with it, focusing on nothing but the small orange flags marking the course. Eventually I made it to the summit of Lone Peak, and you’d think everything would get easier after that, right? You would be very, very wrong. 

Climbing to Lone Peak

I’ve always loved the thrill of descents in trail runs. But this terrain was like nothing I’d ever encountered, and it kicked my ass. I actually preferred the scree, because at least it gave my feet something to grip onto. Navigating down the steep bare dirt was next to impossible. The race has a rule that only ski patrol are allowed on certain sections of the course, and I’m pretty sure this descent was why that rule was created. At one point, the course got so steep that I was at a loss for how to navigate down until a woman behind me advised to get on all fours and crab walk down. (It worked!) Meanwhile, she was putting on crampons for extra grip. Then, two things happened that boosted my confidence in my slow and steady tortoise approach. I saw a runner that had fallen getting taken by helicopter off the course, and then someone above me fell and crashed into me. Luckily neither of us got hurt, but it reminded me that there was no way I’d finish the course if I bombed down the hills recklessly. 

Finally the steep descent was over but I had a new problem: I could barely run. My quads were trashed from braking with every step, and the bottom of my feet were throbbing with pain every so often. With about six miles left, I knew I had to dig deep. I employed two new mantras that I came up with on the spot: “Let the music take you” reminded me to focus on my playlist and “light on your feet” was for any time I felt sharp stabs of pain. With maybe two miles to go I started chatting with a woman and we decided that we were making it to that finish line, even if we had to crawl. Luckily, I didn’t actually need to crawl through the finish line- it was more of a hobble-  and 11.5 hours after I started, it was all over. I have heard the Rut described as possibly America's hardest 50K, and I have to agree.

Owen and I took the week after the race off from work so we could explore Montana and Idaho. I had planned out the first two days- checking out Missoula and hiking to a hot spring- but after that I left it up to Owen. Which meant that there were zero concrete plans, just vague ideas. It goes against my hyper-organized nature to travel that way, but I’ve come to accept that it’s actually really fun. We drove a remote section of the Idaho Backcountry Discovery Route through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness and the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, and survived despite carrying none of the gear recommended on the warning signs. The rest of our days were spent cruising on random beautiful backroads, and each night we found a campground or forest to sleep in.

Heading to Jerry Johnson hot springs

Somewhere near the Continental Divide

The benefit of traveling this way was that every new lookout or roadside stop we discovered was a complete surprise. I’m not sure what I enjoyed more: swimming in a canyon to cool off, watching the sun set over Lake Como, or our late night walk in the Sawtooth Mountains. Then there were the small towns we came across. Denali had the time of her life in Salmon, ID when a middle-school class came out for recess at the park we were eating lunch in and all wanted to pet her. In another town, Ketchum, ID the leaves were starting to change color with the start of fall and it was so beautiful we could not drag ourselves away. Sure, there were some low moments like getting ambushed by bugs in Nevada, constantly having to pack and unpack the 4Runner, and thick smoke from wildfires obscuring the views. But it was exhilarating being on the road for more than just a weekend.

Lake Como, ID

Cooling off in a river

The Sawtooth Mountains

Nightfall in the Sawtooths

There was no rest for the weary, and a few days after we got home from the road trip we left for another trip: a wedding in Connecticut, two weeks of living with my parents and Kelli in NJ while working remotely, then a wedding in Virginia. My time on the east coast was filled with nostalgia: seeing high school friends, reading old yearbooks, watching family videos. And don't worry, there was no shortage of New Jersey’s finest pizza, bagels, and pork roll.

I guess Kelli wasn’t sick of me after two weeks together in NJ, because at the end of October she flew out to CA to visit us while working remotely. We had grand plans to go camping in the Sierras but Mother Nature had other ideas and sent an atmospheric river (essentially a shitload of rain) which knocked our power out for four days. It was actually fun at first. We made a mean woodstove chili, invented our own games, and went for rainy runs. But by day four, I was pissed. Our dirty dishes were festering, we were all out of clean clothes, and hot showers were but a distant memory. The power came back on just in time for us to leave for a quick weekend trip to Napa Valley, where we pretended we were fancy and explored wineries and cute towns. Someone even declared Denali a “vineyard dog.” If only they saw her when she's covered in mud!

That finally brings me to now. It has been quite an eventful fall, and it's not over yet!