Trail Rat Meets The Sandman

Trail Rat Meets The Sandman
~Reed “Trail Rat” Nelson~
MARCH 2005
One of the first questions I asked myself after arriving in Virginia Beach is “where do I run?” The second question, for the record, was “where are the hills?” Trail withdrawal was eminent. It was mid-January and winter was in full “bloom.” Most of this Trail Rat’s training occurs on a “dreadmill” in the winter, staring blankly at a display with basic information. Unfortunately, wrist GPS gadgets won’t work on a dreadmill, so calculations are performed in one’s mind. This is particularly frustrating to rats, as our brains are quite small and thus limited in capacity for such calculations. And rats sometimes digress, so this one will move on.
There were a few other rats at work, but none with the real lustful sort of enthusiasm that this rat has. And nothing like other rats such as Larry K, or George P, or Kathy M, or Ed C, or Heidi GM, or… drat! Rats do digress! Anyway, this rat was on his own to figure out the best place to get a trail fix. Rats at the Tidewater Striders running club sent me to First Landing State Park. But rats get disappointed when you have to pay to enter a park to park. Rats may digress, but parking at a park is just plain redundant! So this rat bought a book at a bike shop [gasp] about mountain biking in Virginia. The book cost 18 rat dollars and the park tips contained therein saved 4 rat dollars per trip to the park. This rat was happy!
So, I put a rat rack on top of my sled and loaded the mountain bike. I had to be true to the purpose of the book for the first trip to the park. I rode the General McGuire trail out and back for 12 miles. Not a lot of distance, but rat riding in mixed dirt and sand can be a challenge that is not well measured by distance alone. It is not the length of the trail, but the firmness of the surface [innuendo intended]. This rat decided that the GMT was going to be a fine running trail! Plus, there were many capillary trails leading outward from the main trail. Rats love to explore!
One more bike ride and a rat run was finally in order. I parked at the bike shop [gasp again] and jogged the paved mile to the park trailhead. Through the mixed forest I ran, with pine trees providing green in the winter I was not used to seeing. Past the parking lot I ran, thinking of the money I saved and the extra two miles I would run by parking outside the park [redundancy intended]. Onto a capillary trail [The Bald Cypress Trail] I swerved. I was soon in heaven. 1.75 miles worth of trail took rats over little mounds [hills around here] and around swampland dotted with amazing bald cypress trees. The trees belched the breath of time itself, standing firm beneath an overcoat of Spanish moss. Oh my… I was not in Missouri! Only 6 miles of running provided me with 6 hours of smiling. Rats look mean when they smile, so I had to contain my joy.
I saw many other rats while at First Landing. There where scout rats, couple rats, and rats with strollers in the woods. There were biker rats and runner rats, and even a military rat or two keeping in tune for deployment. But, there were no familiar rats to me, so my joy was justly tempered to a mild euphoria. Rats are social, and even with small brains, we remember things for a long time. Running with familiar rats is one of those lingering memories. So new trails will be found and reported, just to share with my old rat friends, and bring back some great memories that no rat could ever forget.

The Truth Of Life
What matters most when the stuff hits the fan
FEBRUARY 2005
By Reed “Trail Rat” Nelson
By now, many of you know I have moved. Currently, I am sitting in an Extended Stay Hotel room typing on my work laptop. I have no phone. I have no ISP. I have no friends in the area. The traffic sucks. I can’t save to my 401k until July. I have to pay for two months of COBRA heath care. After 15 years of company cars I now have a car payment. I now have no home. The apartment I have leased is nowhere near big enough to hold the past 10 years worth of gathered goods. I will need storage. On the positive side I have made considerable settling progress since my arrival 7 days ago. I actually know my way around most of the time. This area has one of the worst reputations for getting people utterly lost. I believe it. I have such good directional sense that my initials should be GPS, and I still get confused here. I will live within running distance of the ocean. First Landing State Park has 7+ miles of un-groomed trails for this rat. The seafood is fresh. There is a Dick’s and a Bass Pro Shop for trail rat supplies. The Tidewater Striders running club here is one of the largest in the USA. Can you believe they do not publish a newsletter? I wonder whom they could get to do that? I wonder if the content could be tailored to TWO clubs… hmmmm….
I had been looking for a new job for about 26 months. Already having a job afforded me time and selectivity. It was only recently that the truth of my search hit me. The truth was that a new job might take me away from St Louis and my friends there. And so the truth came to be. But there is more.
I left behind a lot of truth. Terry hammers a marathon with a PF flare after 10K… that is truth. Kelly runs in a 25mph wind as Wonder Woman… that is truth. Bert invites us to ride 100 miles on a stormy summer day just for fun… that is truth. Jim just plain writes the truth… check out his story. Many of you are THE truth, out there leading lives of honor and courage and loyalty. You have physical injuries, failed relationships, challenged children, challenging jobs, aging parents, and many other things that demand your energy. But out you go. You freaking run. You friggin' pedal. You create a space for the peace of an elevated heartbeat… that is truth. In street slang, the truth is someone who is the epitome of excellence. Many of you fit this definition in my mind. So, it was pretty easy for me to get out and take my first run in Virginia Beach when I think of all of you. It was not on a trail, but through a business park. The majority of the run was on a street named Crossways. Well, if you ever find yourself crossways with this area, I should be able to show you a good trail run by then, and maybe we can hammer a tray of blue crabs together. Between the beer and Old Bay Seasoning I’m sure we will enjoy ourselves. And don’t forget the truth. When everything around you is changing find something that is steady. For me, that is faith, hope and love. And you don’t have to be an apostle to know for sure that the greatest of these is love. Indeed. That is truth.

Trail Rat Holiday Tails and Tales

Trail Rat Holiday Tails and Tales JANUARY 2005
Well, this trail rat knows better than most that this is has been one heck of a year. 2004 left this rat in a tail spin [pun FULLY intended]. Momma rat ran off and left this one to fend for himself in September 2003. But by December I was running the trails named for discoverers. And while running the frozen and crunchy trail tundra, I discovered a few things on my own.
This rat started lifting and running and biking again. About 40 pounds later I woke up and looked in the mirror. After the initial shock wore off I realized that when you burn more calories than you eat you start to shrink. Go figure?!
I found out that traffic truly sucks in St Charles. I’d load up for a trail run, and it would take me 35 minutes to drive what used to take 20 minutes. I searched high and low for a way to multi-task and use this time wisely. More on that later.
I did a few long runs… longer than I had ever planned. I met some amazing people along the way. I met rats like Terry and Kay, and found out that kindness, compassion, and irreverence can all happily coexist in the same household . Rat Kelly showed me that rats can look just like Lynda Carter if they try REALLY hard. Rat Glen became an encourager, which I found to be MOST effective coming from someone so incorrigible. I met rats I’d known before like Bert. He’d run some of the same trails and had woven some similar tales. I met gadget rats like Shiela, who take longer to suit up for a run than me with all her toys… but can provide far more interesting data along the way. Rat Bob R worked out at the same YMCA earlier in the year, and I found that it is possible to meet someone lifting weights who is truly a nice person. I met rats like Bev who threatened to whip my butt for my verbal faux pas, and I kind of liked that . Rat Dave gave me some perspective while his significant other, rat Joan, gave me some of the best cookies EVER. I don’t even think Dave would debate about that! Rat Vicki gave me work ethic at Flat Five... “stand in front of those cars!” I’m still in therapy after that. Rat Larry K gave me some great laughs while defending America from the onslaught of my French girlfriend [I hope he knows she was mostly juicing him for a reaction]. I learned from a few trail runs [with Heidi, George, and Kathy] that rats of different abilities can run and train together effectively.
Finally, all of these rat encounters have brought me through to the end of the best year of my life. I learned to use the drive time to think up newsletter articles. I learned to use my free will to run. I became the comeback rat. And a darn thankful rat. Thankful my paws will get me down the trail next to my home. At no time is this more poignant than when I see my neighbors getting their paraplegic son out on the trail for some fresh air. After seeing that, every run should seem easy. Anyway, this rat will carve a trail out of granite for all you club rats… anytime. You are all great people in your own unique ways. Share those gifts with both friends [and a few strangers] this season. Peace, Hope, and Love. ~Reed “Trail Rat” Nelson~

Advice From A Trail Rat-Becoming The Water In Bruce's Cup

Advice From A Trail Rat
Off-Roading & Becoming The Water In Bruce’s Cup
November 2004
Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless--like water. Now you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now water can flow, or it can crash! Be water, my friend.-- Bruce Lee When the opponent expands, I contract. When he contracts, I expand. And when there is an opportunity, I do not hit--it hits all by itself.-- Bruce Lee

Bruce must have been a trail runner. I know that some of the most yin/yang, zen-like, Jesus-I’m-in-the-zone moments in my entire life have been on the trail. I have also taken some nasty falls out there… indeed, the trail is a worthy adversary! And Bruce was into simplification, so he summarizes any imaginable struggle in the above quotes and gives us some insight into the “way of the wizard,” as Deepak Chopra would say. I would scream “technique!” Now, before you think this piece is going to be a fourth installment in the Lord of the Rings series or a Tony Little infommercial, let me get to the points I have on the subject of trail running. As you read on, keep ole Bruce’s quotes and Tony’s scream in mind. Also, I polled my running club officers and a few of them estimated that 85% of our club has trail running experience. Now, I have offered advice to people before and somehow it has been seen as offensive, regardless of the delivery technique. A little psychology here… for all of us. Whenever we receive advice let’s always take the high road. Let’s assume the intent of the advisor is one of genuine care and concern. All too often, we take the low road and assume the advisor is belittling us, especially if the advice is information we already know. That is a shame. So with those thoughts in mind, if this becomes repetitive for you have my apologies.

Let’s get the terminology out of the way first. Coming from Kentucky, my trail running glossary is likely quite different from yours. Some of you may not even talk when you run. If that is the case, never lead a group on a trail run… the people behind you are expecting advanced warning of all obstacles. Here are some terms to help you out when you lead:
Root! – Any slick root[s] or a root parallel to the course of travel. Perpendicular roots don’t roll ankles, so they are not worthy of warning calls. One exception is listed below.
Rock! – Any solidly anchored sharp rock[s] or loose stone[s] likely to maim those who follow you.
Rock Garden! – Any multiple/multitude of the above.
Steeplechase! – A tree that is passable in stride by stepping on and over or simply hurdling. If you can’t pass it in stride, your stopping says all you need to say!
Toe-catcher! – This is a perpendicular root from which the soil has eroded, leaving it completely exposed to trip runners. This is one of the most dangerous obstacles.
Spider! – When encountering a web, yell this out for extra credit [i.e. post-run gratitude]
Snake! –The most feared animal for most of us and worthy of much respect, Yelling this will not lower the leader’s chance of being bitten, and results in severe punishment from fellow runners if it is a false alarm.
Nettle! – Required vocalization when encountering Stinging Nettle. Caveat… the leader may not feel the sting of the nettle encounter until several steps past the encounter, at which point his/her fellow runners have become fellow victims.
Poison! – Ivy, Oak or Sumac.
Thorn! – When encountering briars.
Polecat! – When the smell of a skunk permeates the nostrils and causes bodily convulsions.
There are additional warning calls, but this gives everyone a nice base! Oh, mud is certainly not worthy of calling out. Why are you running trails if you wish to avoid mud?!

Now, let’s focus on running, shall we? There are generally three types of terrain… flat, uphill, and downhill. On a trail there will be obstacles all of the time. Let’s get the easy one’s out of the way first. Running flats is a cakewalk, er… uhh… run. Rhythm is hard to achieve on the trail, so I take it when I can get it. Flats give me that opportunity. I rarely adjust my stride or breathing pattern from what I use on the road. I think of Bruce and try to “flow” over the obstacles without too much drama. I make it as much like road running as possible.

Now we are going to go uphill. Here is where trails start to shine [and runners often wilt]. Being an avid biker I hear people moaning about hills constantly. But, speaking from loads of humbling experience, I can tell you that I’d rather run up any technical hill as opposed to biking up the thing. Aside from a good power-to-weight ratio, there are a few tricks [i.e. Technique!] to get you up the hills on a trail more comfortably and quickly. Again, remember Bruce… become the hill. Lean forward slightly. Move your eyes. Direct your vision down to your feet and quickly scan up, out, and ahead on the trail for 15 feet or so. Keep doing this as you run. Now that you can see, what about your feet? A little trick I learned mountaineering is to “heel” the high spots. Pick out stable rocks and roots and adjust your stride to plant your heel squarely on them. This will level your foot. The benefits of leveling are numerous. You will put less stress on your Achilles and calves, reducing chance of injury. You will rely more heavily on your stronger quads, hamstrings, and gluteus thereby increasing your endurance. Your feet will move less in your shoes, reducing blisters. And you will be able to push off more effectively, increasing your speed. When going up a hill, we all tend to slow down. There is time to focus on form factors like this one. Doing so will take your mind off your fast-approaching anaerobic threshold. This benefit alone makes it worth practicing the technique!

I cannot tell you how many people that are far superior to me physically I have literally left behind going downhill. I remember that dusting my Herculean climbing partners descending mountains are among my prouder moments. So, what makes me faster?
The first thing I will tell you is clichéd. I have no fear. Fear will freeze you on descents. Remember, you are RUNNING! There is no time for fear or being frozen! And your fear is likely one of falling, not speed. Once you fall a few times you will quickly move past that fear. There is a right way to fall. Don’t stick out your arm and lock your elbow! I’ll see you with a cast if you do that! You will need to use your hand, elbow, and shoulder in sequence to absorb an impact. After the impact you just tuck and roll to dissipate speed. Sound hard? It is! Sound painful? It is usually painful as well. I fell last Wednesday night on slick asphalt going downhill in Laurel Park. I used the technique and now have a dime sized war wound on my right elbow. Not bad. Practice falling on a grass hill. Play with your kids in a game of king-of-the-mountain. It is good practice for everyone. The place to learn how to fall is NOT on a trail of rocks while you are running 8 minute mile pace.

The second thing I will tell you is to do the opposite of the uphill technique. That is, use a progressive scanning of the trail and “toe” the high points. Benefits include less shin splint [tibialis posterior and tibialis anterior] stress and more stability. Also, I have seen runners refuse to use proper biomechanics when running down smoother hills on the trail. Specifically, I have seen the refusal to use the entire foot, starting with a heel strike and rolling it forward. Bounding down a hill on the balls of your feet is unstable and slower in most cases. Unless injuries prevent you from using a heel strike and roll, making sure you are doing it. If you are not, give it a try.

Now, here are some new thoughts. 1) As you scan, imagine where water would flow down the trail [remember Bruce?]. If you follow that path you will be happy with the results most of the time. 2) If a trail is a trough “straddle run” it. Essentially you will be bouncing from left to right down the trail. You will not believe the stability this technique has. I have never fallen while straddle running down a trough or rut. 3) You may also want to try your hand at bounding over uncertain terrain. Deer don’t bound for style points. Truth is, they haven’t a clue where their hooves will land. So they bound, and benefit from a supple landing at the end of each bound. In the fraction of time they are airborne they look to find a landing spot and extend their legs. When they touch down they use that extension to absorb the landing. If they slip, they simply short-step to regain balance or fall and bounce back to their feet. We can learn a lot by watching animals move across terrain. Watch domestic cats move about… they are smooth operators. Don’t get too confident though. You have toes instead of hooves… two legs instead of four… and calve muscles to exhaust! Anyway, elevate yourself going down a technical hill. Throw out your usual scoot or flat surface stride, or you will end up on the ground and left behind.

There are some other terrain encounters worth noting. Off-camber trails and turns [trails cut with a slant to the left or right, turns with negative banking], can wreak havoc on your knees and ankles. Don’t just plow through these sections. Search out every level surface you can for each step. I guess this brings us to the end of the road, err… uhh… trail. Trails are your chance to mentally focus unlike other times. I compare it to chopping vegetables. Pay attention [i.e. focus] and use proper technique, and you will enjoy the results. Don’t and you will likely get hurt! I hope some of these thoughts help get you down the trails you choose to run, and I hope to see you out there!

The Polarization Of America – Election 2004

The Polarization Of America – Election 2004
Commentary by Reed Nelson
25 October 2004
Well, I have HAD it! Today Bush said Kerry would ‘cut and run’ in Iraq. Truth? Bush has no clue what Kerry would do. Kerry slammed Bush for not finding tons of explosives hidden in Iraq. This comes after weeks of cries about no WMD’s. And, furthermore, was Bush the person solely responsible for finding the explosives? Was he crawling and sifting through the sand in Iraq, or did I miss something?
This, my friends, is a daily occurrence… and a huge annoyance for people who are thoughtful and intelligent enough to see past this type of third grade, back-and-forth campaigning. This election, like the last, is all about emotion. This election, like the last, is all about hate. Last time around we had the Republicans going hard after the Clinton-led Democrats, driven by hate and disgust for one Slick Willie. This time we have the Democrats, who kicked out crazy Howard Dean in favor of John Kerry. Not the best choice of the lot, but in my opinion the lot was purposefully made weak to LOSE this election so Hillary can run in 2008. Make no mistake… the Clintons CONTROL the party. Dig deep and you will find this to be pretty accurate. Anyway, without a robust candidate, the election is driven by the party’s hate for Bush, and the belief that he ‘stole’ the 2000 election. Now, if that is not emotional, can someone tell me what is?
So we have it. Both parties are guilty of very bad campaigning. Both candidates have lied and deceived their way down the campaign trail. I have watched this closely… both sides. I feel like I know. I also feel like I have a good basis for rational commentary. I have voted for presidents four times. One Democrat and three Republican. I have voted for Senators and Representatives on both sides of the aisle as well. I despise the two-party set up we have now. It is all too simplified… and polarizes the issues, skewing our thinking and our real positions. So, oftentimes, if we look honestly, we sit firmly on BOTH sides, but we choose one because we must. Often, inertia has everything to do with that choice, and rational thinking has been omitted from the process. Disagree? Well, if you buy into EVERY issue in ‘your’ party’s platform, you can always vote for that party in good conscience. If you do not buy into the whole lot of salad that ‘your’ party is tossing [I suspect most people fall into this group, but refuse to honestly look at it this way], you have a dilemma. How do you decide?
I’ll get to the decision process in a minute, but first I have to touch on the polarization issues. We’ve all been politicized to death in the past few years. It is quite disgusting in this day and age that grown and [supposedly] mature adults must avoid political discussions because arguments inevitably erupt. Why must that be true? And just why IS it true most of the time? And why do we accept that discouraging news so readily? Personally, I refuse to keep the company of friends who cannot argue their points factually and rationally. I’d rather know other people, to be quite honest about it… and not just people who agree with me. The point is we have just plain lost it. We have Michael Moore doing Fahrenheit 9/11 and calling it a ‘documentary.’ Really? And just who checked all of the facts for accuracy? We have bumper stickers from Democrats that say ‘Vote the Son of a Bush Out.’ Now that’s a classy way to represent 'your' party of choice. Republicans are not immune to drama either. They had Slick Willie stickers in 1996 and Sore Losserman [aka Gore Liebermann] stickers in 2000. This year we have Swift Boat Veterans coming out of the woodwork. Listen, just where were these people for the past 18 years that John Kerry has been Senator? Oh, apparently they had no problem with that. Riiiiiiight. This year I have actually seen regular bumper stickers for Bush Cheney defaced on cars by Democratic supporters. Again, the hate just continues to grow into ever uglier actions. This stuff is inexcusable. Both parties need a bath and an enema.
Now, back to the question at hand. How do you vote? Well, let’s do a little civics here. Let’s all remember that this country is NOT a democracy in the purest sense. It is, in fact, a representative democracy. When we elect people to office, we elect them to vote their Conscience for us. It is impossible to poll constituents on every issue and very inefficient as well. Since conscience is a key factor, I would opine that the CHARACTER of a particular candidate is central to any voting decision. Of course, we went through this a few years ago when the phrase ‘character doesn’t matter’ was circulating. Of course, that is lunacy. Character ALWAYS matters. It matters with you, your children, your spouse, your parents, your friends… and your elected officials. We all need to understand that very clearly. Think about it for a while. And, I will be glad to tell you where the question of character really matters… with VOTERS. I will be voting a split ticket this year. I am voting on character and will impose my own’ term limits’ in some cases, since most of our congresspersons are too self-absorbed to limit themselves. I wonder how many people truly consider the candidates? I wonder how many Democrats listen to Rush and how many Republicans listen to Carville? Or is it just the same ole song? Punch the straight ticket, check for hanging chads, and go home.
I hope most people are smarter than that. So, you may wonder where I stand. I will tell you that I am not voting for Nader. I will tell you that in the presidential race, the winner, based on the question of character, is clear if you look hard enough. I will tell you that in the state of Missouri that Kit Bond has been in office long enough. I will tell you that you probably do not know what you need to know about the threats we face as a nation from rogue terrorists… Washington will not tell you because it is too scary and they do not trust you. Both of those facts are sad. And just who am I to say these things? Well, at least you can ask me that question without fear of reaping a whirlwind of venom and emotion. My message to you is simple. Calm down, look deeper, and vote. Where you stand [or who you vote for] is of no consequence to me.

The Spirit Of Amateur Competition

The Spirit Of Amateur Competition
Commentary by Reed Nelson originally written 30 September, 2004
ARTICLE EXCERPT
“Japan's diminutive Mizuki Noguchi put on an extraordinary display of front-running to win the Olympic women's marathon title on Sunday as Paula Radcliffe's challenge ended in bitter tears. Big pre-race favourite Radcliffe, who led for the first half of the race, failed to finish, breaking down in tears at the 36-km mark as she slipped back to fourth after two hours' running.
The Briton, world record holder and never beaten in three previous marathons, tried to re-start but then slumped down by the side of the road, sobbing. Her record was almost 11 minutes quicker than Sunday's winning time.
The marathon had begun at 1800 local time but the heat was still intense. By five km, the lead group had already been whittled down to around a dozen. Radcliffe, desperate for a first title at a major championships, was unable to fight her eagerness and broke to the front after 25 minutes, shadowed by the Kenyans, Ethiopians and Japanese.
Already the event, on a steadily rising course, was taking casualties. Lydia Simon of Romania, the Sydney silver medallist, was dropped and soon 10 were left at the front. Kenya's Margaret Okayo, the fastest performer of the year, also lost touch as the race proper began. After exactly one-and-a-half hours Noguchi made her move, blasting up yet another incline and exploding the leading pack of seven. Only Alemu was able to keep in touch but Noguchi kept attacking up the climbs to forge 15 seconds clear, then 30, with a third of the race to run. Ndereba cut the gap to 12 seconds with two kilometres to go but Noguchi held on.”
The above article snip is available in its entirety at http://in.rediff.com/sports/2004/aug/23oly-ath1.htm

Well, I see it happen all the time. People train and live for an event, the event unfolds, and dreams of victory are crushed. But, is that really the intent and spirit of competition and amateur athletics? Let’s take a closer look from an entirely factual point of view.
First, let’s look at the true meaning of the word amateur. It has changed from a positive meaning to a disparaging meaning over the years. From Merriam Webster and from dictionary.com:
Etymology: French, from Latin amator lover, from amare to love1 : DEVOTEE, ADMIRER2 : one who engages in a pursuit, study, science, or sport as a pastime rather than as a profession3 : one lacking in experience and competence in an art or science.

Second, let’s look at the true meaning of competition. According to Merriam Webster:
Etymology: Late Latin competere to seek together, from Latin, to come together, agree, be suitable, from com- + petere to go to, seek:
1 : to strive consciously or unconsciously for an objective (as position, profit, or a prize) : be in a state of rivalry

Finally, let’s look at the word spirit, from the Merriam Webster definition:
Etymology: Middle English, from Old French or Latin; Old French, from Latin spiritus, literally, breath, from spirare to blow, breathe1 : an animating or vital principle held to give life to physical organisms

Now that we have knowledge of the words, true combined meanings can be derived. So, let me try my hand at defining the “spirit of amateur competition.”
“A gathering of people, with whom a common love of a particular sport is held, to strive for a common goal of victory, in which vitality also results.”
Now combined, it is clear that there are TWO purposes when one engages in the spirit of amateur competition. To win and to live [better]. And underlying all of that is love. I may have an altruistic view, but if one is acting out of love, then both goals of the competitive spirit need not be accomplished. By engaging in the competitive spirit alone, vitality is a result… and isn’t that a victory in-and-of itself? Winning should always be the goal, and without it there is no real competition. But winning is merely a bonus, as it is temporary. Vitality is clearly ”victorious’ over winning, as it is the essence of life, the addition of “spice” to our world and lives. “Winning is not everything, but the effort to win is,” says Zig Ziglar. There are variations to this quote such as “learning does not come from victory, but from struggle.” I believe these statements to be true.
Therefore, I have a hard time with quitters and sore losers. I cannot find sympathy in those situations. With the Radcliffe debacle, initial articles said she feigned some sort of leg injury. That is nonsense. Unless she was carried away, she still should have been on the course. Personally, I would have crawled the last 3 miles if I had to. There was a stadium full of people and over a hundred nations watching, and in the race of her life, Radcliffe quit and cried. She could have continued and cried, and she would never be forgotten. But as it is, this will haunt her. There are reasons that there are not millions of links on the web to post race interviews with her. First, she was too ashamed to talk. Second, the press is loath to spend too much time on quitters at the Olympics. Harsh? Maybe. But, as an amateur athlete, defined by a supposed love of her sport, she did a great injustice to her sport when she quit. It was an act of selfishness instead of selflessness. And the spirit of competition took a blow to the gut as well. When watching this unfold, did anyone feel vital? Conversely, would anyone have felt vital if she had continued toward the finish, crossing the finish and defying the tragedy of defeat?
Now, there is another side. Enough about Radcliffe. As the current world record holder I hope she will go on to win more races. Hopefully she can uphold the spirit of amateur competition when she does. I say this because the flip side of feeling shame is promoting shame. This is done through trash talking and over celebrating. Quitting is not nearly the problem that over celebrating has become. The NFL has tried to subdue it, and a portion of the rabid fan base and the highlight-dependent media have dubbed the NFL acronym as meaning the No Fun League. This is a warped view of competition in my opinion. But the NFL is a professional league, and those guys are playing for money and entertainment’. There is no pretense in that fact… and what passes as entertainment to one person may indeed repulse another person. So, I cannot criticize it too heavily. Still, the wrong message is delivered when a secondary goal of competition becomes humiliating the opponent. So now we have taunting and spiking and goalpost destruction and fighting… the negative list just goes on and on. Let me pose these questions:
1. “Would it be OK for an Olympic marathoner to trash talk their opponents on the course with a microphone for audio television coverage?”
2. “Would it be OK for me, upon finishing my marathon, to back track the course and encourage other potential finishers to quit because they can’t win anyway?”
3. “Would it be OK for a gymnast to shout at their competitors during the routine in an effort to distract them?
I could go on forever here, and most often the answer to the scenarios I would pose would be “no.”
Thankfully, there are still a few professional sports that, most of the time, promote the spirit of amateur competition. Golf comes to mind. Men and women battle and grind against themselves and each other on the course. Good shots and playmaking are usually acknowledged, even by competitors. There are no gifts… if an athlete has an off day they will most certainly be beaten badly. At the end they all remove their hats and shake hands. Competition has brought them closer. After all, they had a common love for the game and a common goal of winning, and all of them struggled mightily for that goal. Tennis comes close to this sometimes, too. There are other sports with higher standards, too, but none reach the pinnacle of amateur sports.
So, what can we take from this look at the spirit of amateur competition? I would say this to everyone. Compete! Go out and compete in something which you are bound to lose [but try to win anyway!]. Enjoy the lessons of competition like humility, and respect. Conversely, go out and compete in something which you are likely to win. Then, you may teach the same lessons to others. In doing this you will find your life more vital than before. You will find new friends. You will find your limits of physical and emotional endurance. After all, you will have competed and acted out of love, and life doesn’t get much purer than that.
I will end with a few quotes.

I love the winning, I can take the losing, but most of all I Love to play.
~ Boris Becker ~
The medals don't mean anything and the glory doesn't last. It's all about your happiness. The rewards are going to come, but my happiness is just loving the sport and having fun performing.
~ Jackie Joyner Kersee ~
I don't compete with other discus throwers. I compete with my own history.
~ Al Oerter ~
If you make every game a life and death proposition, you're going to have problems. For one thing, you'll be dead a lot.
~ Dean Smith ~
Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
~ William Shakespeare ~
The opponents and I are really one. My strength and skills only half of the equation. The other half is theirs. An opponent is someone whose strength joined to yours creates a certain result.
~ Sadaharu Oh ~
My greatest point is my persistence. I never give up in a match. However down I am, I fight until the last ball. My list of matches shows that I have turned a great many so-called irretrievable defeats into victories.
~ Bjorn Borg ~
Sports do not build character. They reveal it.
~ John Wooden ~
The first thing is to love your sport. Never do it to please someone else. It has to be yours.
~ Peggy Fleming ~
Men talk as if victory were something fortunate. Work is victory.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~
Any time you try to win everything, you must be willing to lose everything.
~ Larry Csonka ~
If you set a goal for yourself and are able to achieve it, you have won your race. Your goal can be to come in first, to improve your performance, or just to finish the race -- it's up to you.
~ Dave Scott ~
You can stand tall without standing on someone. You can be a victor without having victims.
~ Harriet Woods ~

AND FINALLY, ONE OF MY OWN…

Every time I lace up or strap the velcro on my shoes it is a new personal record, because it is one more step or pedal stroke than I have ever done before.
~ Reed Nelson – September, 2004~

2004 Lewis & Clark Marathon Journal

Lewis & Clark Marathon Journal
September 19th, 2004
The Vision
This past year has been a running adventure, and with an early season half marathon, my partner and I had kept our momentum over the spring and summer. We had no goal other than to work out enough to eat whatever we wanted. I think my partner always had her sights set on this half marathon… it is actually a very nice way to bookend the warm seasons. I was non-committal. But, as the month of September drew nearer we ran more and I became available for longer training runs. Following a trip to Las Vegas, two weeks prior to the event and just before a trip to Mexico we ran 12 miles and walked four on a Saturday. It was not a problem. We decided that day to register for the half marathon, as the fine people at Fleet Feet said we could do another lap if we chose to. And there it was, hedged to the maximum, registered to run a half and hoping to complete a full. But, usually one to complain about such evasions to commitment, I thought the whole scheme to be smart. The fact was that we were not prepared for a full 26.2 miles. Why not let our bodies decide on the day of the event?
Training
From a training standpoint, my partner and I do everything. She does more indoor and treadmill work than me. I do more weights and biking than her. Our mileage is probably similar. I like hills, she does not. She likes heat, I do not. There are other fun contrasts. Anyway, she follows the Fleet Feet half marathon schedule pretty well. I am more into the long runs once I have a good base. Since speed and times are not a concern for me, the long run is my key in training.
The Night Before
I made fettuccini Alfredo and we indulged. Crème brulee for dessert and we indulged some more. It was all homemade and wonderful. We planned on meeting at the Arena at 615am.
Race Morning
I set off after eating some lady fingers and Nutella and drinking my usual six shots of expresso. I threw in a protein drink and a glass of water for good measure. Everything seemed fine. I loaded my supplies in the car and drove in the dark onto 364 east. Just as I was grabbing the right lane for the Arena Parkway exit I heard a thump. I thought I must have hit a bird or rabbit and I drove on. There was little traffic at that point. After parking I organized everything and started to put on Body Glide as I watched the cars fill in around me. As I reached for my shoes my heart stopped. The thump I heard was the 70mph force of the wind ripping the shoes off the roof of my car… I had left them there when loading the car earlier!!! I quickly started the car and drove against the incoming flow of cars to the Arena. I was home in less than 10 minutes and grabbed more shoes and socks. Returning to 364 I knew exactly where to look for my Saucony’s. And there they were, safely positioned on in the “V” space between the merging lane from Heritage Landing and the main traffic lanes. I pulled off and grabbed them. I found my trusty Wright socks as well. Everything was good… if I could make the start time. The traffic had become horrendous. In a cell phone call with my partner, I had set up a meeting spot under the 10 minute pace marker. I made it with five minutes to spare. There was no need to warm up… my heart had been racing for 30 minutes! We were off!
The Start – Mile 2
DAG timing is cool. No worries about getting your true time. We just trotted up to the start line, and it took a couple of minutes. There was no real nervous energy, but anticipation of a good day by most. My partner handles things a little different than me. I usually end up the talker and cheerleader in stressful moments. She is usually irritated by my upbeat approach initially, and thankful for the diversion later! I am a militantly positive person, and everyone around me realizes that if they stick around long enough. The runners did not spread out very much for the first few miles. We ran in a crowd on the concrete of Arena Parkway. At the 2-mile mark on Main Street I was commenting on how Flat Five runners struggled mightily up the shallow grade in front of the Ameristar. I commented that I do not consider that particular geographical obstruction a hill at all, and that, according to me, there were NO hills on this course. Hey, I told you I was an optimist!
Miles 3-6
As we made Riverside Drive we traced our normal training route for about 1.5 miles. It was nice to be on your “home field” for your first marathon, I thought. Runners were comfortably spread out as we made the turn onto Second Street. As we made it through DuSable and Bales parks, I had no idea there was so much space up that way. Winding our way through the area would be the only new ground we would tread that day. Getting onto the Katy was gratifying for the joints, but I was careful of the pebbles. Getting one in your shoes is a frustrating experience, and would require a stop to remove it.
Miles 7-11
This is Katy Trail country. Flat, easy, shaded. The first two traits are welcome in a marathon, but torturously boring in training. Shade is always welcome! The only diversion is the section through Frontier Park. The Missouri River is a source of energy for me. It is ancient and mysterious and powerful. It hums to me. I liked being close to it for a moment. I know it sounds weird… but I can’t tell you how many times in the winter I have stood atop a bluff and watched the river flow. It is so persistent in its progress. It is exactly what we need to be to run a marathon, I thought.
Miles 12-13.1
Going up to the new parking lot at Page was another grade, but since riding it the first time I have thought the hill to be remarkably well done. I just zoom right up it on a bike. Running was no different. Two women were just hammering up the top section, which is the steepest part. I had heard them discuss getting up and getting over it quickly. I liked that approach. At the top I heard a man say “go Reed” at the food station. I looked back and was blinded by the southeastern sun, and just gave appreciative thumbs up to the unknown man. At the turn into the Arena parking lot at mile 12 we saw Sue, Jon and Jennifer from the “wine circle.” They had said they might come down and cheer us on at the halfway mark. It was VERY cool to have your own fans! Just after them there was a group offering Dixie cups of beer. I resisted the temptation. I had discussed not kicking the finish with my partner. Yeah… right! She never disagreed or agreed, but with her competitive nature she just could not hold back. After circumnavigating the parking lot we took the left turn into the Arena and finished in a flurry of activity and people. We walked around disoriented and grabbed some water. We finally made our way outside and to the car. Sue, Jon and Jennifer took a few quick pictures and we were off and walking.
The second half… mile 13.1 – 15
This was a discussion period for my partner and I. We committed to our walk run pattern and finishing, and I committed to staying with her. She seemed to deflect this commitment or not fully understand why I would do that. Marathons are a thing better experienced with others, but that is my opinion. I just get more out of doing things as a team… I accomplished enough by myself. I suppose not everyone feels the same, and that is cool, too. My partner had a blister on the knuckle of her big toe; I was going to be there for her if she were to tough it out to the finish. Our pattern was to be 2 walk, 1.5 run, 2 walk 1.5 run, 2 walk, 1 run, 2 walk, finish running. We reached the 15-mile marker and I was happy for the fact I had stopped sweating and regained my breath completely. I felt particularly strong. We started running again.
Miles 16 – 20
Truthfully, these miles just flew by. We made jokes with running club member Sheila at the Boonslick intersection about how we needed foot transplants and where we could go to get them. We ran along Riverside and onto Second, again knowing every inch and crack in the surface. We walked into and through the turnaround and began running again on the Katy Trail. I had to convince my partner to run, as her foot was really hurting. She gutted it out and found a favorable groove. As we progressed I made the comment that every step or stride we took for the remainder of the event was a new PR for both of us. We made the 20-mile mark at the South end of Frontier Park and started walking again.
Miles 21-23
At this point we could really smell the finish. It became easier in a way. But, my pinky toes were hypersensitive and my partner’s blister was raw and painful. Mentally, though… it was easier. At this point we both knew we would be able to finish. The whole race we had drank at every stop and did gels every 30 to 45 minutes. I had brought electrolyte drink for my fuel belt, which I had reloaded at my car, and had consumed 84 ounces of it… my kidneys ached slightly, and I realized why! We saw people finishing at the end of this stretch, which was very emotional for me. I saw two boys join their father to run the last mile and almost lost it.
Miles 24 – Finish
We were on our last interval… we had made it! There was no question at this point for me. The day, the weather, the energy, the plan… everything had fallen into place. Even with the catastrophic beginning, it had all worked out. We walked up to the 364 parking lot and I finally found out who my fan was. Ken, ultra-runner freak extraordinaire, was the man I could not see before. Ironwoman Vicki was there, too. At the Arena Parkway re-entry, running club member Terry was out there in her cast, recovering from a stress fracture. Damn, we were lucky! We had all of these people we knew see us and cheer us on. We had Terry there and she reminded us that we were healthy enough to do the event. We saw others as well. Ironcouple Terry and Kay were on the course as volunteers. It was awesome. We reached the 25-mile mark and started to run again. Another lap of the parking lot… but this time I grabbed a beer when offered and chugged it! As Severine and I hit the 26-mile mark I started thinking out loud.
“320 meters to go,” I said.
“And to think that my [ex] wife moved out a year ago yesterday,” I said. My partner began to cry a little. We have both had tough roads this past year. But we have created a nice legacy so far, becoming better people than we were before. We surged into the chute into the Arena, seesawing with each other in a full sprint. I kept yelling at her to push it. We were marathoners!!!
Post Race – Aftermath
I took off my shoes and walked on the freezing Arena floor. I placed my shoes on the finish line for a few moments. They had carried me through some miles, and would never bear my weight again. I don’t intend to run another marathon either. But I never say never! My more likely future is a graduation to Triathlons and Duathlons. My partner caught the bug, and will likely do another one. I hit the massage table and my smaller toes cramped into a bird’s claw position. A young lady marveled as she massaged the cramps away. I felt so good. They didn’t even hurt. It was great to walk out to the car in bare feet. I saw running club members Glen and Kelly resting on the grass. We had a few words, just like we had done in the starting mass. It had all come full circle. But now, after, burning about 4,000 calories and consuming only 1,000, it was time to EAT!
Equipment Details
Almost 100% of training and racing done in Saucony Grid Omni 3 CRM-M [Moderate Stability] 9.5 regular width. These shoes have a wide toe box and prevent my main foot problem… toe overlap/rub. Alternate shoes were New Balance 870OR [off-road] 9.5D. Also used Wright Running Lite double layer socks and BodyGlide lubricant to eliminate almost all blisters, rubs and chaffing. Used Clif Shot Mocha Gels in Amphipod Micropack LandSport & Airflow Rapid Access pouches. Used Ultima Replenisher sugar free electrolyte replacement drink in a 2005 Terminator 6 bottle Fuel Belt. I use running-specific shorts and wicking poly shirts of several brands... my favorites are InSport and Asics. Finally, I use waterproof athletic tape over my nipples to prevent wearing the ‘red number eleven’ at the end of long runs!!!

Keeping It Real – True Confessions of a Lying Cheating Running Scoundrel

Keeping It Real – True Confessions of a Lying Cheating Running Scoundrel
written in AUGUST 2004
PART ONE
You all must know by now that I love words and etymology. I even get into slang. With that in mind, here are some current terms to be used in the coming paragraphs.
>’Keeping It Real’ is a slang phrase I use a lot for ‘reality checks’ with others and myself. It means being you and not being a fake. Further, it means not living in a fantasy world. A fantasy world is generally one in which a person mistakenly believes his or her actions only affect themselves. Finally, it just means being TRUE to you and others in every way possible.
>Partner – the archaic definition is ‘one that shares,’ and I happen to like that definition!
>Scoundrel is defined as a disreputable person. A synonym is RASCAL, which is defined as a mean, unprincipled, or dishonest person.
Introduction & Purpose
Most of us have been running and training for years. Some of us are just getting started. This article serves as a tongue-in-cheek reminder of the quirks and bad habits we fall into as we train and exist as athletes in a world of couch potatoes [or worse, mean motorists and farm implement operators]. Be warned! There is no sugar coating to come. I am, as the title says, keeping it real. But the accusations and references to come are things I am guilty of myself. If you get offended just read the self-appraisal at the end of next month’s newsletter. You will find that I am taking long looks in the mirror on a regular basis and trying to change some of these things. Some of these traits are not worthy of a change effort, but of hardy laughter! So take all of this as seriously as a dentist’s visit but as lightly as a children’s musical. Does that make sense?
Subtle and Not-So-Subtle Ways We Lie & Cheat
Now, lying and cheating are powerful words. But we do it to ourselves [and others] all the time! Sometimes we don’t even know we are doing it. Scandalous! How? Read on… my friends!
>The Training Intensity Lie: How many times does our training schedule call for an easy day and we crank the effort up to the moon? Admit it! You look at the schedule in the morning. The afternoon comes and you start your run. You feel GOOOOOD! You reason with yourself and decide to push it. You finish and are proud of your effort. You are a liar and a cheater! You lied to yourself when you read the schedule and promised to stick to it. You may have lied to your partner, who was expecting to run with you based on the schedule you were waving around in the air. But you left them and your schedule far behind. You certainly did not share… right partner?! Personally, I try to do what my intentions and agreements call for. I do less if I am feeling crappy, but I never do more than prescribed. Why not? Listen, if Chris Carmichael makes a workout schedule I am sticking to it. I don’t want to burn out or have injuries creep up on me just because I decided I felt good enough to push it on an ‘easy’ training run. Further, if I am running with partners, I am sticking with them unless we have previously agreed to ‘scatter and gather.’ Sometimes this means taking one for the team. That means we run slower than preferred or we are bumping our redlines from the start. Hopefully we can find some common ground between these two extremes. I suppose the bottom line when running with partners is to clearly state our intentions before starting, and then stick to them. Nobody should get bent about that method.
>The Training Performance Lie: Have we ever been stopped at a stop light or felt bad and had to walk a few steps? Have we, at the end of our run, ‘reshaped’ the performance of the training because of these events? We may have said “I would have averaged an 8:45 mile were it not for the stoplight.” Or, my personal favorite, “If I were feeling better and didn’t have to walk, I could have ran a 7:30 average pace!” Uh, yeah… whatever dude! If I would have let off the gas pedal I would not have gotten that speeding ticket either! Cops don’t accept most excuses, and you shouldn’t either. We should police ourselves and record the real performance of our workouts! Log our honest results. If we don’t want to account for impediments, we should use a track or a treadmill. When I have to walk I log a run-walk, and forget about the pace data [it is irrelevant because I obviously went too fast!]. I get out of a lot of self deception by just logging time instead of miles [hey, I’m slow and can do it this way!]. However, if I run the Clark trail in 1:25 including stops, it gets logged as 8.2 miles at 1:25. I never ‘guess’ at my ‘true’ running time. That is ridiculous. I read an article about an elite marathoner who, because of time constraints, never runs more than 10K at a time. My point? It is crazy to get hung up on ‘what ifs’ and such… just run [or walk] the miles and log the TRUE results, and everything will usually work out fine. Of course, we’d all be accountable and unable of self-deception if Shiela were to buy a wrist GPS for all of us!
>The Training Purpose Lie: This one gets to me more than any other lie. We tend to sandbag here [understating reality a little bit to make ourselves look better]. The result of sandbagging is usually negative. Let’s say we tell a colleague in a conversation at work one Friday that we run for ‘fun and enjoyment.’ The following Monday we meet at the water cooler again to discuss the past weekend’s events. We tell the colleague of the 10+ mile club run Saturday at 7am, and of the 30 mile bike ride on a windy Sunday afternoon. The colleague leaves the conversation with a smile [they are thinking ‘it must be FUN to get up at 530am on Saturdays and ENJOYABLE to fight a vicious headwind for 90 minutes], and we leave with zero credibility! Come on people… if we have any goals at all, state them! The only reason we sandbag is that 1] we risk being judged [or judging ourselves] for not reaching a goal in the future or 2] we risk being labeled as a freak. So what if we fail? You are going to fail from time to time… get used to it. And, to most non-athletes we ARE freaks, so get over it. And I hope you never invite me on a ‘joy ride’ or ‘easy run’ for ‘fun and enjoyment’ while you click off 24mph or 7:30 miles, unless you want a replay of the Exorcist back at the car! This happened to me for the Mueller Monday rides two years ago. The sandbagging, perpetrating biker scoundrel was actually someone we all know, but the person is thankfully not a club member! [hahaha] The same water cooler discussions can also tarnish us if we are excessively humble. Let’s not talk about 10 mile runs as ‘easy’ to a non-runner. It is discouraging for them to hear such things. We want to encourage people to participate in our sport, and understating the effort and difficulty of it is not the best way to do it. Our club run is moderately hilly, and until recently, offered no decent place to take a leak. It’s TOUGH! And if someone is just starting training, they may end up running alone. By all means, let’s be truthful about those things.
>The Catch-Up Lie: I know what you are thinking… but no, this does not refer to a popular condiment! All of us take some days off from time to time for rest, injury, or illness. Instead of picking up where we left off in our training plan, we play catch up and try to squeeze the training we missed into our lives. The lie is thinking that this actually helps us gain fitness. This is no joke, and can lead to injuries. With the fitness base most of us have, it is best to just pick up where we left off or jump ahead to stay on schedule. Try not to skip the long runs, which are so important to most of us. But puuuhhhleeeze, do NOT try to squeeze five days of training into 2 days.
>The Rewards Lie: This one is funny, but serious, too. We often think to ourselves “I train like a freak, so I can have dessert anytime I want to!” And, guess what? We can! But do not complain when the pounds do not go away, or worse yet, reappear. None of us deserve continuous rewards for our healthy lifestyles, lest they become unhealthy because of overindulgence! If we reward ourselves for specific performances instead (that Saturday morning run, for example), we are less likely to cheat ourselves. That chocolate oblivion brownie with Hagen Daas dulce de leche ice cream I just had sure was good, though! [Doooh!]
In part two [The Way of the Scoundrel], sandbaggers will take another vicious blow to the jaw, road hogs will be slaughtered, and cutthroat competitors will be put under the microscope of reason. All of this will be followed by a short therapy session for Reed, and you will be invited to sit on the couch with him! Do you dare?!

In part one, lying and cheating ourselves and others was reviewed. The purpose was to take a look at ourselves and each other. Are we keeping it real? I certainly hope so! Here in part two we get to look more closely at the behavior of others, while keeping an eye on ourselves as we discover…

The Way of the Scoundrel
Keeping It Real – True Confessions of a Lying Cheating Running Scoundrel
Now, these bad traits are much easier to define and spot in other people. But once again, beware and don’t possess these hate-creating personality flaws… remember that we often run amongst the cars!
>Sandbagger Scum!
I’ve already touched on sandbagging. Now, we all know these people. It is annoying! These people show up for a run or a race. They whine and fret and b**ch about myriad ailments. Soon after the run starts all we see is their butt or a slowly disappearing race number. After the race we hear them called out for an age group award. Sandbagger Scum strikes again. Shut up and race. Jeeeez!
>King of the Road! [You could put my picture beside this one]
Well, runner/biker people of the world… actually, the road is NOT ours. While most of us own or admire ‘Share The Road’ shirts, why is it that we must ride/run two and three abreast on the roads and trails? Why is it that we fight with farmers each October who are struggling to get their crops in, and who have no other choice but to use the roads to get heavy equipment from field to field? Why do we blow through stop signs and lights without right-of-way, rarely announcing our intentions with hand signals? Why do we endanger pedestrians by going around them at 20+mph on sidewalks? It is no wonder that motorists, farmers, and pedestrians loathe to see a group of riders or runners coming at them. NEWSFLASH… slow down and get over! We can use the slow down to practice track stands and sprinting back up to pace. We can practice your coordination, teamwork, and off-road skills when we have to get over. The bottom line is this… we have enough enemies on the roads and trails without propagating more.
>Peacemaker Die!
Competition… it is one of the best parts of life, and it can distort the human mind into a selfish, reckless, human manifestation of hate in about 5 seconds. Most of us who run are competitive [or have we been sandbagging?!]. But what is true competition? It certainly is not spitting in our opponents’ lane before the swim start of a triathlon [One of our ‘lovely’ women Olympian swimmers from 2000 was known to do this]. Competition is certainly not wishing for our opponent to make a mistake or get ill. Let me give you my version again. Competition, in its truest sense, is preparing for and hoping for the best possible outcome for ourselves AND our fellow competitors, with winning as the goal. But winning becomes less relevant if a true competitive spirit exists. Personal performance and positive experience are the focus. I have written about this in previous articles. True champions are well prepared. On race day they lace up and wish their fellow competitors good luck. During the race they are quiet, focused, and if they talk they say only positive things to fellow competitors. After the race, they congratulate the best competitors regardless of their own finishing position. There are a few sports where this sense of decorum still exists. Generally, I think running and biking athletes are pretty good about having the right competitive spirit. But we could be better. The last time I was trash talked in a road race was years ago. I said something less than complimentary about the guy’s momma, knowing he wouldn’t stop mid-race to beat me up, and that I could disappear into the crowd at the finish! But those days are long gone for this writer.
The self-appraisal:
Nowadays I struggle to be a better person. When it comes to communicating I still stink at it sometimes. Sometimes I just need to shut up [like when confronted by a complete moron]. But, otherwise, I still try to keep it real all of the time. The hardest thing I have been learning is the transforming power of empathy. I have always been ‘geeked out’ about motorists and farmers trying to kill me on the roads. But then I started talking to a few of these people. I received some very real feedback [before they found out I was one of their ‘human targets.’] What I got was a dose of reality. As runners and bikers we are among the least desirable groups to relate to for non-athletes and motorists. I have been a lying, cheating, scoundrel at times. But now I tell people that I run to eat and to compete. I also say that my main competitor is me [because I am a weak, broken human]. I tell people I will try to crush them in a race, and that I would not even let my own kids win if I had any, let alone their kids! I am absolutely a freak about sandbagging, but even my own hatred of it doesn’t prevent an occasional lapse in self-awareness, with me making a sandbagging fool out of myself. And I know I just have to slow down and get over… but, I’m working on it.

1996 Bolivia Travel and Climbing Notes

Flight
Weather causes a route change from DFW to MIA and I would have missed my flight to Bolivia if it had not been delayed out of MIA as well
The flight to LaPaz was hell... I couldn’t sleep and it was an all night flight
All of the luggage made it
Everyone had hypoxia from the altitude upon arrival in LaPaz
Be prepared for a long day when you arrive due to the flight time
American’s flight service and food was excellent -- 2 meals and 2 movies
Airports
La Paz airport -- single gate and immigrations, walk on tarmac to plane
Immigrations was fast and friendly
Miami -- good hot dogs and nice terminal area--very busy
Again immigrations/customs was friendly
Chicago -- Everyone talks about traveling though Ohare like it’s a bad omen... actually it is a nice airport and easy to travel thru
Dallas--My favorite airport with four runways and the nicest restaurants and shops for layovers
LaPaz
City of contrasts in class and geography
Van buses use kids shouting streets visited out the window
Urinating in the streets is common -- what looks like water is NOT
Water was horrible -- use of a purifying filter is a must
Vendors sold everything -- tools, food, llama fetus, clothing, etc
South area of La Paz is nicer -- lower in the valley is better
Cabs are plentiful and cheap
Streets are stone, narrow, and steep
There are few lights or signs--traffic is controlled by horns and beeps
Policia are prominent in their dark olive green uniforms
Currency is Bolivianos -- about 5 “B’s” to 1 dollar
Be in shape for walking at altitude
Prepare to have sleep apenia (gasping for air) that will lower your sleep quality considerably
Calling home with a calling card code (0800 numbers) is virtually impossible from any phone... be prepared to pay a high direct dial cost or go to a nice hotel (Plaza or Radisson) that with let you call for a small fee
Speeds are controlled by monster speed bumps
Streets are generally safe at night, especially in groups

Food & Drink
Vienna restaurant on Frederico Suazzo #1905 was great
Pronto restaurant was also wonderful
Radisson has the only true American breakfast in town
The most I ever paid for an entree was $7US
Drinks are reasonably priced -- mostly latin beers and South American wines
Watch out for the black olive with the pit in Saltinas
Cubano sandwiches are good at Mirabellas
Casa deCoridorella was a great meal with live entertainment
Hotels
El Dorado was ok, the front desk was moderately helpful but SLOW $37US
Twin beds were very small, 60 channels of cable, restaurant
Hosteria Blanquita was quaint and musty, front desk was VERY helpful, near all the street vendors and action $27US, 1 TV in lobby with 10 channels tops
Plaza Hotel and Radisson Hotel are two nicer accomodations
Shopping
Street vendors carry everything--nuts, bolts, clothes, stereos, magazines, food, witchcraft items, you name it.
Generally you find the same things in a given area
Bargaining is OK in most cases
Nefertiti Joyas is the place to buy custom gold, silver, and gems at great prices. Jose Galindo and his wife were beyond helpful.
People
Either lower class or upper class -- not many middle class folks
Hard working
Generally honest
Know how to party, as most latins do!
Some kids tended to be the only anti American folks there
Tihuanaku
Neat to visit, very mysterious
$17 per person thru Calibre for our group
Construction of structures and agriculture methods facinating
Trek In
Dinner and Russ was sick
Shepherds were hardy folks, wore sandals and ragged coats in the cold and on the rocks
The paved & dirt roads were repaired by clumps of grass
Gear was loaded on llamas and mules
The high plains and foothills were all dry grass, wet grounds from meltwater and small lakes.
There were free ranging cows and sheep everywhere
Condoriri’s summit is very much like the Matterhorn
P.Alpamayo’s summit is hidden
The hike in is fairly easy with about 500ft gain in 7+miles
Base Camp
Base camp on the shore of a lake at the base of Condoriri Amphitheater
Nice three person domes -- held two+ gear
Set up with shepherds
Toilets made of holes framed by rock were plentiful
Fresh water and lake water within 100 meters
Trekking opportunities galore
Only one or two other groups, very quiet
Climbing
Day1
2.5 miles to foot of glacier
500 up to ice shelves -- fixed rope and vertical ice practice
Ice not solid but fun to play on
Everyone did well
A few small crevasses were ominous on the snow covered ice
Dave was the only on to peak the shelf
My change to glacier gear was SLOW
Day2 -- Pequeno Alpamayo
Up at 4am leave at 5am
To foot of glacier in dark
Up glacier past shelves easy
Temps warmed and snow softened
I was number 2 on rope w/Carlos 1 and Dave 3
Erick was 1 Dean 2 Russ 3 and Felix 4 on following rope
Snow compression was minimal behind 150lb Carlos
Finally swapped positions w/Dave towards the top of the glacier
The stepping was the hardest two hours I have ever done
Russ had to stop shy of the ridge (300ft) due to persistant coughing
Erick rushed ahead solo to catch our rope and joined in front of me
Dean and Felix stayed on a rope and fell about 45 minutes behind as the climb progressed
Our rope forged on at good pace with me laughing about the good compressed snow thanks to my team
We traversed right across the ridge and up a 30 degree slope to another ridge
There we continued left on the ridge and up a small unstable snow bridge to the peak of Tarija at 17,250
The bridge was solid ice left and VERY loose snow right
Exposure was a factor for the first time -- 1000ft left and 500ft+right
There was a small, steep granular snow slope down to a rock shelf on the back side of Tarija
The views of the summit ridge of P.Alpamayo, Huanya Potosi and the Tropical basin beyond were incredible from here
The ridge of P.Alpamayo started about 250ft below us across a small saddle, so a tricky downclimb in mixed terrain was necessary
I stopped there, having reached my fear limit
Dean and Felix arrived as Carlos was about to lead Erick and Dave down
Dean was not happy about the loose snow bridge and his new found perch on the very exposed Tarija
As the summit team descended Dean set up a picket anchor and Felix belayed him down the snow bridge
We used the same anchor to allow me to ascend the small snow slope back up to the summit of Tarija
Without an anchor in either direction a mistake would likely be fatal
Oddly, Felix would not let Dean or later myself walk forward down the bridge
He instead insisted on an uncomfortable back-first descent
This incident and the language barrier worried Dean and I
We finally got down the bridge to the ridge and watched the summit team reach the top of P.Alpamayo and anchored Felix down w/pickets
On the down climb all was well as we gathered Russ after his five hour wait
As we descended further Dean lost all energy and was struggling to keep on in the loose snow
I set a count pace with him and we forged on
I was hurting too but the slower pace was prolonging my pain
We spent nearly an hour on the rock at the foot of the glacier before struggling back into base camp
The whole day took 12 hours of constant movement
I was mentally and physically exhausted due to the lack of food and water
We rested, ate, filtered and bedded early to rest for tomorrow
Day3—Unknown Peak 5330m+
An option to do Condoriri was thwarted by bad snow and tired climbers
An unknown peak overlooked our camp and lake, Condoriri’s glacier system, and Lake Titikaka in the distance
The climb was easy but my legs were drained -- again no food or appetite
We headed across a rock feld and up an endless slope of grass and llama dung to a snowy drainage
After crossing the snow we started up a long scree slope to a ridge
At the ridge we crossed over to a back bowl and up another long scree slope
At the summit ridge there was a small band of rock and then snow and then rock again on top
We rejoiced and ate lunch higher than any point in the lower 48 (17,250ft)
The views were spectacular and offered yet another perspective
The down climb was fast for me as I got a second wind after swallowing several bags of GU and the lunch
Carlos, Erick, Dave, Holly, Debbie, Felix, and a Frenchman from our camp all made it
Holly was slow on the downclimb trying to get used to the scree
The day took six hours including our lunch

Westbound - It’s Just That Kind of Thinking

Introduction
The following is an account of a cross-country adventure I took alone by car in the summer of 1993. Three months later I put pen to paper and started writing about this adventure in narrative and expository form. But, like many things in my life at that point, I started it and never finished. I put it away for a year and wrote again in early 1995, and shelved it yet again until Fall of 1997 – that passage of several pages I wrote on a business trip on borrowed paper aboard commercial jets. Now in the waning days of the summer of 2000, I find myself with a memory of the trip that is just as sharp, and narrative themes that are much more mature. Finishing things is not as big a problem for me anymore. There is plenty of fact and totally subjective opinion to come, so thanks for sharing this time with me. Enjoy!

The Seduction – Written 10/12/93 to 1/6/94
It is absolutely amazing how many people do this “walk of life” thing and actually believe they will just keep walking. Well, we all – sooner or later – discover that we will have to quit living someday. My realization came one day in Somerset KY. I must have been at least sixteen. I was sitting on this old, black, leather chair. I had broken that chair once years prior in a wild rage. I had thrown myself on it and the legs gave way. Dad had fixed it using plywood, and the boards were arranged in a way that allowed for a space between the bottom of the chair and the leg support platform he had built. A small entrance to this space made a helluva hiding spot for Sherlock. That Siamese cat was viscous. Anyway, that black chair, sticking to my skin, was the first day my heart dropped. I was contemplating my school day and my next lettuce and mayo sandwich when the feeling hit. You know the feeling. It’s the same feeling you have when you know you’ve been had. Like when you drive up and over the rise on the interstate and there is a state patrol car – lights off, stealth as a @#$% turd from a termite in a sawdust pile – in the median running K-band instant-on radar. Suddenly the blood drains out of your head, your chest becomes a nuclear test sight, and your genitals react in a way that is similar to their reaction when you signed your organ donor card. I just sat there in that black chair for a moment. Now, when that feeling hits me, and I realize all over again that I am, indeed, as finite as a tank of 94 octane unleaded in an Aston Martin Virage, I usually react by doing something. I turn the “walk of life” into an all out sprint. Athletes call it interval training. They do it to build strength, endurance and speed on the track. I do it because it builds strength, endurance and speed in living.
It is just that kind of thinking, unrestrained though it may be, that leads me on some of life’s most wonderful adventures. I want to talk about one of those adventures. Some, like this western swing I want to tell you about are truly epic. Others, like my first attempt at bungee jumping, last but a few moments. So, in keeping with purpose and limiting further conjecture, let’s begin with the epic.
Back in February of 1993 I started to increase my awareness of nature and the outdoors. Having just been through a separation that literally sucked the life out of me, I was looking to build a new life somehow. Camping, backpacking, and climbing seemed to be the ways to nurture my new relationship. That relationship could not fail like the one before it.
As fate would have it I took a job as a server to pay for all the equipment I would need to go on this adventure. I thought I was buying a house… $550 for a tent? Anyway, while working at Lou Brock’s Sports City Grill I met a cat named Dean. Now, it just so happened that Dean was heavily into climbing. He was helpful by way of his good advice on equipment purchases. By the beginning of April Dean had solidified a trip to Washington State to climb Mount Rainier with a friend. This is where fate really plays a role. This friend, Erick, happened to live in the same apartment high-rise as me. Erick and I talked, and I was given the green light to climb with them.
Now, climbing with cats like Dean and Erick would take a little primer. I decided that the primer would be Yellowstone. Hell, it was on the way. If I am going to drive 2300 miles EACH WAY, I might as well hit the jewel of our National Park System. Yellowstone has it all… mountains; bears; trout; wolves; coyotes; lakes; rivers; canyons; geysers; thermal basins; beautiful meadows. All of this space would afford me the opportunity to camp in relative tranquility and acclimatize to the thin mountain air.
In my “intense” training for this trip I gained ten pounds, maintained my level of personal debt while holding three jobs, and found out my heart was truly lost. Men are so responsible. Explaining (not excusing) the above is easy. I ate too much, worked and played too hard, and realized I had failed miserably in love. I felt it would be some time before my vital signs reappeared. All of this pseudo-misery led quickly to June 24, 1993. That was the day the true journey began, though I’d been traveling in my mind for several months.
I would guess that quite a few vision quests begin at 3:30pm on a Thursday afternoon. Mine did. However, I am not here to downplay the arduous drive home that any city-worker/suburbanite must endure. My drive would prove to be a bit more difficult none the less. With a hair over 1400 miles between St Louis and Yellowstone, I had a task at hand that most solo drivers, save the heroic OTR truckers, simply would not attempt. But I was off and driving toward a dream. This wasn’t the usual vacation.
I had to stop for supplies in St Charles. St Charles is a nice suburb. It is nestled between the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. It is fairly scenic and had just about every creature comfort and opportunity that most large cities have. One thing that is absent from this and other human ant farms is culture. Save for the historic riverfront area, there’s really not much to see in terms of history and music and art. That is why I chose to stop right along the beaten path of I-70 at a Quiktrip. It was fitting. The first section of interstate built and certified began right there. It was a nice parallel to my new beginnings. As I headed west out of the sprawl, night was falling and so, too, was I.
As I pressed onward, westward on I-70, the ribbon of highway became mighty thin. I tired quickly after passing through Columbia and soon found refuge at a rest area near Emma. The area was pretty and rolling hills were abound. But, fading light and my lack of energy made Emma seem like central Kansas. I decided to nap for an hour or two. I woke up in four. Startled by the time and the condensation on my windows that greeted me with a haze, I dashed to the restroom and was on my way. I felt great as I rolled through Independence on the way to Kansas City. KC came and went in a blur. I-70 was a memory and I-29 was now my home for the next few hours. I decided to take a northern route on my way out west. Good weather and varied scenery were the factors in that decision. Driving along the bottoms of the Missouri River, little did I know that I was only going to count on one of those two factors. It’s easy to guess which one, isn’t it?
While cruising through the fertile bottoms, I was seeing that part of Missouri and Iowa for the first time. Damn, was it green. To my right (east) were the hills and mounds that were the banks of the wild and deadly Missouri River for thousands of years. A few miles to my left across the flats were the Big Muddy itself. Shades of central Illinois came to my mind when seeing all of this farmland. Every few miles I would spot a power plant. At larger intervals I would see a bridge crossing the river to the west. I would know if it were a car or a rail bridge by being observant of the crossings of roads and railways nearby. You know… it really freaking amazes me how people miss details like that. Human beings are very weak in that area. I can’t go on about this, though. I was missing a detail myself. On my journey out west a freak weather pattern was bringing the Big Muddy a few miles away to record levels. By the time I would get back to St Louis, the Great Flood of 1993 was well underway. The next two months would rewrite history and one of the greatest natural disasters of all time would come to be. I thought about building an arc.
My first stop for gas outside of Missouri was in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Now, I’m used to gas stations with attached convenience stores the size of an old Wal-Mart. However, Iowa – and I’ll take a lot of crap for this – is not a state. It is a bunch of farmland. Thus, creature comforts are not as plentiful, and I settled for a small Sinclair station. It had an outdoor restroom and a vending machine, and reminded me of scenes from the movie Kalifornia that I had seen recently. And this was the biggest place I could find in a major city along a major interstate. Go figure. In defense of Iowa, they do have some of the nicest folks around. I know a couple of cats from there that I am proud to be associated with. I am going to recommend that they invest in a Quiktrip and locate it along I-29 in Council Bluffs. When they become independently wealthy I can call favors. Then I might be able to fly to Wyoming and Seattle instead of driving 2400 plus miles each way. But don’t get me wrong. There’s not a thing I would change about this trip… yet.
Memorable fuel stops are not necessarily the things the haunt my innermost thoughts. And, with that in mind, I continued further north on I-29. Either I was in a profound state of shock or I just plain forgot, but the stretch from Council Bluffs to Sioux Falls is a blur. To reiterate, there is not much to remember. Actually, even the Missouri River had left me at that point, skating its way upstream across God’s country. The Great Plains are like a magnet that draws it further west and north. And, somewhat oblivious to the historical significance of the river, I was following a trail west blazed by Lewis and Clark. At this point my 1992 Caribbean Green Ford Taurus was like a plane to me. I left a wake of air across the land behind me. These wakes weren’t the vortices of a Boeing 777, but a whisper of air that caressed the land and said, “I’m free.” And while I was calling out the fortunes of life-on-the-run the miles just disappeared. I know many people have experienced this phenomenon before. There comes a time you are driving along and your mind goes to another place, another time. Things escape you. There is only enough conscious mind left to keep you functioning in whatever activity it is in which you happen to be engaged. Now this is not like seeing the Black Dog (more on that later), but this phenomenon scares the $&^% out of me none the less. Maybe I am just different, but driving along at 75 miles per hour in a dazed state of semi-consciousness for 177 miles is not something you really want to do. Yet, millions of us do this “zone out” every day. I think it is utterly amazing that the human mind can drive and recall the last time you got laid in high resolution at the same time.
Sioux Falls is announced to the world as you approach town as one of America’s favorite cities in which to live. Hey, who am I to argue? The roads were nice. The people were friendly. And the town seems reasonably developed without the congestion problems of similar areas. I arrived during the peak of lunch hour on a Friday and I was very hungry. I was lucky and got seated quickly at a packed TGI Fridays. An order of nine layer dip and about 10 iced teas later I was saying goodbye to Sioux Falls; good weather; scenery; cities; towns; villages; civilization. The prairie had begun and it was a new experience for me. Wall Drug – 386 miles!
I noticed the wind as soon as I left Sioux Falls. It was a rogue westerly. I had my mountain bike atop my car and it felt as if I had four flat tires. The westerly was humming at 30 miles per hour directly in my face on I-90. I soon lost interest in the prevailing lack of scenery and caught about twenty minutes of rest at a rest area some 100 miles west of Sioux Falls. It was sexy. I mean it! It was 85 degrees, windy, shoes off, windows down relaxation. The closest thing to being in a hammock or on the receiving end of a woman’s touch as I could get. I was hoping for a beautiful creature to walk out of the ladies room alone and saunter over to my car. The sexual impulse of my daydream gave me twenty minutes of happy rest and made me feel like a new man. I hit the road again and finally crossed the Missouri River for the last time outside of Chamberlain. Damn, was the river big up there. The whole scene was big. The land; the visibility; the water; the wind; the endless stretch of highway. I would realize at this point that I had covered some ground. My last reference to St Louis disappeared in my rearview mirror as I drove on.

The Realizations - Writings from one year later 1/6/95
I have no idea where I left off or what page I was on, but I think I was still in South Dakota. Yes, I was enjoying a solo lunch at TGI Fridays in Sioux Falls on a windy Friday afternoon. And, fitting enough, on a windy Friday afternoon. I do remember now that I gave my boss, Fred, a call from the Ramada lobby pay phones next to the restaurant before leaving. I also remember filling up my tank of gas as well. The prices were high up there, especially for a community that catered to retirement folks on fixed incomes.
The wind and the prices were two realizations that told me I was out of my element. I was really far from home. It wasn’t a serious realization. But hey, let’s face it… I knew where I was going but I had no idea what I was getting into. This fact would be evident time and time again in the coming days.
It was to be an adventure in dichotomy. Case in point was my previously mentioned rest area stop. Energized and refueled one hour, the next hour I was relaxing with my feet up. But then, as easy as I found rest I found restlessness. My traveling bone came knocking and off I went. West, into the wind.

The Race - Writings from 20 months later 10/22/97
I keep going back to that rest stop. Picking up again and moving was hard in way. I may have been restless. It may be that I subconsciously was thinking about all the miles and mountains I had to endure. I just want to get on with it in my mind. But, you cannot underestimate the seductive and sedative powers of warm air rushing through an arid landscape. Not to mention the high carbohydrate western diet I had just consumed. I would learn years later that I am kind of Hypoglycemic (i.e. Hyperinsulinism). That means that my body dumps tons on insulin into my system with even moderate carbohydrate consumption. The chain reaction is a quick conversion of sugars to fat stores and plummeting energy levels. Not to mention increases in heart rate, blood pressure, and blood cholesterol levels that are hidden killers. I would find out about all of this in the fall of 1999, and it would change my approach to life and to food. Back to the wind. Not only does it move the dirt, tumbleweed, and various other life forms not bolted down, but also it moves your soul. Warm winds bring about a lucid state, a relaxed state. I though about my journey and my traveling bone. I thought about all the things in life I had never finished. I knew that the journey, however, would be completed. Maybe not wholly fulfilled or as planned, but as complete as life would let it be.
On the road again and enjoying the monotony of a full tank of gas and I-90 through the windshield, my thoughts were focused on that Missouri River crossing in Chamberlain. I would cross a bridge there. If I jumped in the river and floated south I would end up in the Gulf of Mexico. If I swam north/west I would end up in the wilds of Montana… somewhere. Both destinations worked quite well in my mind. They were equally desirable. It was the thoughts of a sultry New Orleans night and of an unforgiving Montana that danced in my mind together. They helped me think away the miles against the wind.
I was distracted from my wanderlust by two things. The wind. Relentless and ripping at my car and my poor Giant ATX760 mountain bike on the roof rack. Then, there was Wall Drug. The signs started around Sioux Falls. The billboards announced mileage “386 miles to Wall Drug!” and services “Eat at Wall Drug!” What the hell was this place? It reminded me of Lambert’s Cafeteria in Sikeston, Missouri… home of the “throwed” roll. They sign out on every conceivable interstate in the Midwest for over 500 miles. Anyway, I grew anxious to see Wall Drug and get out of the gale for a moment. Everyone should be required to drive I-30 to I-20 to I-10 across Texas; I-70 across Kansas and eastern Colorado, I-80 across Iowa and Nebraska, and I-90 across South Dakota. In each case bring caffeine, nicotine and Prozac. The whole ordeal of a full day looking at a lot of nothing is indescribable. It makes me claustrophobic. Of the previously mentioned routes, I-90 through South Dakota is the most “fun.” The Missouri River is about midway and is kind of an oasis to lonesome drivers. Then you have the Badlands and the Black Hills on the far west side of the state. Regardless of in-route scenery, driving 1400+ miles alone in one day is tough. I thought about all of this and I was very happy when the first traces of the Badlands started to appear to the south. I thought about Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves. The awe he had when he looked out over the Badlands landscape for the first time. They loom. The Badlands speak to you. Colors, textures and senses abound. They say “Admire me and look at me. Feel my expanse and me. Enter me and become lost… never leave…” I can imagine why the early settlers went around this mysterious chasm. In the interests of time I did the same.
Rolling into Wall, South Dakota, the wind had “decreased” to less than 25 miles per hour. I filled up with gas, took a drive around Wall Drug, and proceeded to call my mother and my friend Jered from a phone booth. Just to end the hype, Wall Drug is a complex of pieced together buildings in the old downtown of Wall. They have everything a tourist could want. I would venture in a few years later to enjoy breakfast and a binocular purchase. Back to the phone calls, the wind was tearing through the phone booth as I spoke, howling a primal moan. It did feel good to talk to someone I knew. It did not feel good to have them wondering silently if I was #$^%&!= crazy. Here I am 1000 miles from home, planning on hiking solo in grizzly country, and mountain climbing for the first time up a 14,410 foot dormant volcano with friends I had just met. They were right. I am crazy, but not for doing what I was doing. A few years later, Jered would go through this same place on his Harley to find the Sturgis Bike Festival. My trip was justified by his 3,600 mile ride on a butt-numbing time machine. But don’t misunderstand me, my trip felt very justifiable to me at the time… it felt great to be out there.
Burning up the highway through Rapid City (how apropos) I had several thoughts. One, I would love to see Mount Rushmore again. I remembered its mysterious and lifelike grandeur from a visit when I was only 7 or 8 years old. I thought I would have an even greater appreciation of it at 25. It would end up taking two more tries to see it. A few years later, the first attempt was obscured by fog and low clouds, and the second attempt was an overwhelming success with my then-wife and 6 year old stepson in 1999. My second thought was on the surrounding countryside… the Black Hills. They were beautiful. The Black Hills area acquired its name, I believe, from the dark evergreens that comprise the majority of its forests. These trees come together to form a “black” or dark hue on the hills. It is gorgeous, producing a shadowing type of effect even in bright sunshine. Rapid City is tucked away in these hills, with high plains to the east and west. The area offers mountains without giving you that “closed in” feeling, and is much like parts of Montana with that “Big Sky” feeling. It contrasts nicely to certain towns in Colorado that are completely surrounded by peaks. My third thought was on history. It was captivating there. The fact that so many Indian tribes flourished here and so many Indians and white men died in the subsequent battles for the abundance. Knowing the history, if you look at the hills long enough you can get that haunting feeling. With the ongoing construction of the Crazy Horse, a colossal carved mountain that will make Rushmore insignificant in size, a reminder of the souls of the Indians who once roamed the land will be with us forever. It is only fitting.
Soon after Rapid City and Sturgis were in my rearview mirror, the high plains dominated the landscape once again. I kept looking for Devils Tower. I knew it was about 20 miles off to the right, but it must have been concealed by the hills. Once again, I was more fortunate on my subsequent visits, hiking and climbing the talus around the peak I remembered so well from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It is a mystical place… and that is yet another story. Being the much bolder climber that I am now, I would attempt to climb it with a guide in an instant. The tower is actually a much less intimidating climb that it appears to the non-climber. Large and small crevices and handholds abound on the shafts up the peak, and most routes are already bolted (i.e. have semi-permanent protection anchors in the rock) from previous years of climbing. Now, that initial level of fear about Devils Tower that screamed at me is but a whisper. Anyway, I ran off the road several times looking for it over my right shoulder in 1993. I was disappointed after about 30 miles of this nonsense, and I knew it was long gone. But, then again, so was I.
Moving on toward Gillette, there was nothing. Gillette came and went and all I could think of was the gap between exits. Over 60 miles separated the nearest exits at that time. You wouldn’t want to stop at either of them anyway! This is exactly the situation I wish for in suburbia. All of the exits we have piled onto the interstate system in urban areas have completely ruined the traffic flow. So, it looks like another dichotomy. After a while the draglines of the coal mines disappeared and something else captured me. Looming ahead was a wall of earth. The view teased me in the distant horizon and then leaped into my car as I fumbled through the atlas to figure out what I was looking at. The Big Horns? I thought to myself, “I am a fan of mountains and I didn’t even know about this range… I would bet that 90% of all Americans wouldn’t know where these mountains are located.” Future conversations proved that thought to be very accurate.
I can’t describe how the Big Horns looked as I approached them. The foothills started low to the south and they exploded to the sky. I’m sure that part of the awe was the surprise of it all. I had never heard of the Big Horns before, and like a child unwrapping a gift, I was smiling and giving praise for what was in front of me. As I drove into Sheridan and hopped onto highway 14 at the Acme exit in the fading light of dusk, I had know idea how prophetic the name of the town was. Most of us know Acme as the name of the company that Wile E. Coyote used to source all of his contraptions to catch the Roadrunner. I took it to mean something generic. Acme actually means the highest point. As I started my climb over the range I turned through switchback after switchback. I wondered aloud to myself exactly where the highest point was. As dark blanketed the mountains the mule deer became speed bumps, and I had to stop to let several large groups of them cross the road on the way up. As night consumed me in its entire force, I reached the acme of my pass over the Big Horns and had to make a choice… 14A to the north or 14 to the south. Being a Kentucky boy, the choice was easy.
I, of course, took 14. On my subsequent trips I have taken 14A. There is a milder pass on highway 16 further south. Someday I will take that road, but “mild” was not the purpose of my journey. Both 14 and 14A drop off the west face of the mountains… abruptly. I think 14A is a little more severe, and it lays claim to being one of the most expensive stretches of roadway ever constructed. Driving through its 10 feet high tunneled out snow banks (IN JUNE!) and turning on the wide shouldered switchbacks make me believe that claim. Highway 14 offers its own challenges, especially in the dark. There were no more deer, but paranoia takes over and my eyes were riveted to the wooded areas on the sides of the road looking for glowing eyes and movement of any kind. I was wired. Slow moving cars became the real obstacle. I would either suffer behind three cars and an RV for the next hour or do something. I blew by several groups of vehicles like this at very high speeds (because of the short passing zones) and had to rely on downshifting and heavy braking to make it through the next switchback. It was work, not a thrill ride. All of you skeptical Sunday drivers need to listen up. If I were slowing someone down (especially below the speed limit) I would pull off periodically and let people pass. Millions of tax dollars were spent to put pullouts along mountain roadways and slow, ignorant people fail to use them. They are not just for sight seeing. Anyway, it is the fast and trained drivers like me (yes, I have been to a few classes) that get the bad wrap. All of this slow-fast stuff was wearing on my mind and my nerves. At one point a late 80’s corvette blew by me like a rocket (I drove on the shoulder briefly to give him room, thank you). The road was laid out so steeply, I watched him proceed on the road below me as we left all other traffic behind us. I could see the lights of Greybull and Cody off in the distance.
After the white-knuckle descent, the land took a rest again and I just drove through the darkness. It was tough until dawn, but at the first sign of light I was hit with renewed energy. I knew I was close to Yellowstone. I thought it was just around the corner. Well, it wasn’t. The daylight revealed a formidable headwall of mountains east of Yellowstone after I passed through Cody. They were called the Absaroke and are in the Shoshone National Forest. I would follow the Shoshone River for the next 79 miles through the mountains to my campground. One of the peaks to the south of the road was called Fortress Peak. After driving all night across Wyoming I really needed a break. Fortress Peak? Oh, joy! As we all know, life has a cruel sense of humor, and she kicked the #@$% out of me for the third time in 24 hours. So, I laughed.
Uncertainty is a fact of life. As I drove westward out of Cody in the breaking day, I had no clue where the road would go or how it would be. The abrupt peaks in front of me were dark and forbidding. If I had been better rested maybe they would not have looked so large in my eyes. The Shoshone River has carved out a narrow corridor into Yellowstone. It is wide in spots like the Reservoir formed by Buffalo Bill dam, but it is mostly confining. The reservoir had some nice sailboats streaking about and some beautiful homes to the west. The folks living in them had to be retired, because there is nothing out there of which to be a CEO, except a ranch. After civilization really vanished, the road was dotted with several beautiful campgrounds along the river. All of the areas had signs on them that said “full.” Every single one. This worried me because I had a “reserved” sight in Yellowstone. From my experiences, I do not take the word reservation to mean guaranteed.
As I followed the road and the river up the pass the mountains grew closer and closer. The trees were thicker. The road was narrower. Finally, out of nowhere popped the east gate of Yellowstone. As soon as I entered the park the roads took a turn for the worse. Huge wash outs and potholes became the dominant features. There were construction crews and flagmen everywhere and there were several waits for heavy equipment to cross the road. They really don’t tell you, but these conditions exist every single year at Yellowstone. Due to the harsh winters and the heavy RV traffic (on roads with inadequate base structure), roads don’t last very long in the park. The eastern and northern entrances are many times worse than the southern and western ones. Other trouble spots occur on the interior roads on the northern and eastern edges again. The traffic jams can be epic at times. I was lucky, never waiting more than a couple of minutes at any stop. Soon, to my surprise, I was descending again. To where I did not know, but there would be a surprise waiting for me at the bottom of the hill.

The Learning (written 10/18/2000 to 12/7/2000)
After bouncing through the warped chip-and-seal roads and construction zones I descended into heaven. I know that sounds funny, but the roadway suddenly burst out of the trees into a panoramic view of Yellowstone Lake. The lake is vast and quite unexpected at an altitude of 8,000 feet or so. You expect it to be smaller, like almost all alpine lakes. It was surrounded by small thermal activity sights. I stopped at them and smelled the smell of Yellowstone for the fist time. Sulphur. It sounds gross, but the smell of old hard-boiled eggs is somehow acceptable in this great place. To see steam coming out of the ground, mud bubbling on the surface, and the landscape surrounding these features was awesome.
I drove on past the large RV camps and across Fishing Bridge to my campground. The primitive sites were nice and clean, but the campground was huge with about 500 sights. Several of the loops were open and undesirable. I lucked out and had trees in my loop. My original spot I had reserved was closed due to bear feeding on trout in a stream that runs along the border of the back of the campground. Upon hearing that news, I knew I would be sleeping lightly for the next three nights.
After I set up camp at Bridge Bay and settled in I had to ride my bike. I you are an avid rider, you know what I mean when I say that biking is all about rhythm. It takes a few minutes to settle in and then you are on autopilot. Biking is also an adventure if you have above average skills and use them. Riding on unkept property borders, along fence lines, and through construction areas can be very fun. I ride on the road when there is sufficient width and on the sidewalk otherwise. The irregularities in sidewalks make it more dangerous than riding with cars. Besides, some municipalities have ordinances against biking on sidewalks. Anyway, I love to bike. Off and rolling I immediately noticed something odd. After a mile or two I still had no rhythm. I was approaching a miserable frustration point when I realized I was at 8,000 feet. Thin air offers many challenges for us lowlanders.
I actually remember my first active trip into altitude. It was in Santa Fe and Taos, New Mexico. I was there skiing with my work buddies Tom, Dennis, and Rick. I thought I would take the opportunity to lose a little weight while we were so active, so I ate much less than normal. The first day out it was less than zero degrees air temperature at 10,000 feet and above. I ate fruit for breakfast and two apples for lunch. By midafternoon I was suffering under a pounding headache from the beginnings of AMS (acute mountain sickness). I took the bus back to the hotel early and swallowed about six Advil and a beer and passed out. When the guys got back they tried knocking on my door and calling several times but could not wake me up. I was OUT! Two hours after their return I finally woke up to their skepticism. They did not believe I was knocked out at first. That whole experience taught me to eat hearty foods in good quantity at altitude. Altitude sickness is mysterious and deceptive. You may get it, you may not. I believe, and experts concur for the most part, that it is very random. It does not matter what your physical condition is, or that you haven’t experienced problems up high before. You still may succumb. It may be that our bodies work in cycles and altitude sickness preys on our low points. There are only two direct correlations I know of. If you have a history of getting it, watch out… chances are you will suffer again. The only controllable aspect of it is nutrition. Thin air requires sustainable energy to build oxygen carrying red blood cells. The high and lows of high carb snacking and meals won’t cut it. You might crash. It is better to eat high protein foods with significant fat as well. No more than 40 percent of caloric intake should come from carbs. This gets harder as you get higher because your appetite disappears, making it impossible to eat hearty foods. Then you are forced to eat high carb gels and bars constantly to maintain good body chemistry. It is quite a challenge.
After about five miles on the bike (20 minutes or so) I finally found a cadence that worked. By that time I was across the lake following the road I had taken into the park. That is where the hills start. Oh, my legs! Instant lactic acid production seared my legs and I had to gear down to the easiest of my 21 speeds. I crept up the shoreline and stopped at a thermal area for lunch. I watched families coming into the park and awe at the view like I did. “These folks will have fun,” I thought. They were already enjoying the grandeur just a few miles in. I watched a child feed a raven and smiled. It was time to turn around.
Going back I was with the wind and downhill. That made it very fast and very hot. I realized I had made a grave mistake by not wearing my helmet or any sunscreen on my balding head. I was cooked by the time I returned to camp. I new it when I sponged off before fixing dinner. I would wear a hat for the next three days. I learned my lesson with my head, but there would be another lesson involving the sun that I would learn in the coming days as well.
Dinner was easy, consisting of a dehydrated meal in a bag and beans in a can with a Powerbar for desert. I followed bear country protocol by changing out of my cooking clothes and sealing them in a bag and placing them in my trunk. I settled into a comfortable sleeping bag that felt like a featherbed after a two days without any real sleep. I was startled awake a few times by coyotes having fun calling out to each other across the expanse of Yellowstone Lake. It was eerie. They were very close to my tent. I heard families trying to pacify frightened kids. I took no chances in bear country myself. I packed a venerable Glock 17 and slept with it and hiked with it. I didn’t worry about park rules regarding firearms… the bears don’t follow rules either, they follow instinct. I also followed all bear country protocol except for hiking alone, so I did not anticipate any problems. I know ardent naturalists and conservationists are tearing me up right now. But please feel free. If you have a wife and kids and go camping in bear country without a gun then the shame is on you. I suppose, to some people, it makes a lot of sense to leave a family fatherless/husbandless to save a bear. I am not one of them. While these people lay judgement on me, they do not realize my respect for bears and animal life is keen, and is well documented by my friends and my own actions. I would be deeply saddened to kill a great bear and would accept any punishment for doing so. However, if I have to choose between my life and that of any other animal, the choice is very clear.
There is nothing quite like waking up in the mountains. Usually you focus on a few overriding sensations. One, it is cold. It doesn’t feel like late June as the sun rises, it feels like late fall. Two, as is usually the case with camping, your bladder feels like a hot air balloon. If you are like me, getting out of a toasty sleeping bag and putting on sandals to walk 100 meters to a bathroom in the middle of the night is not on my preferred to-do list. I refined my bathroom technique is subsequent years by keeping a large water bottle in my tent. Grab that, roll onto my side, do my business and cap it off. Very clean and very warm. You then put the warm bottle at your feet! I do feel sorry for women, who anatomically would have difficulties with this technique. So, most women can probably relate to my freezing bathroom trips in the middle of the night. Anyway, mornings are very mystical in the mountains. The faint glow of light through your tent. The soreness of your muscles coming to life after a day of activity. The pinkish glow on the peaks in the early morning light. The taste of coffee and the feel of a warm campstove.
That second day in Yellowstone I did a little re-con and saw as many “tourist sights” as possible from Old Faithful counterclockwise and to the Northeast. The re-con was to figure out a good hike for the following day. The rangers down at the marina station and store helped me choose Seven Mile Hole. After that, it was off to Old Faithful.
The Old Faithful geyser and the surrounding upper geyser basin is a real treat. At first I was smitten with the huge log structure there, the lodge. My feelings about the lodge were soon justified as I was told that it is the largest log structure in the world. It is a true beast of a building. It creeks under foot as you peruse its bowels. The radiators hiss at you and hug you with dense warmth. The huge lobby with its mezzanine and fireplace welcome you to sit and watch the people parade. I can tell you that all is not well at park lodges though. On all other trips I have taken the park lodge services have been sketchy at best. Same for food services. I don’t know why these places are not on par with regular lodges and hotels. It is a shame, really. Sometimes it is the only negative thing people take home from their park experiences.
Old Faithful itself is well managed. It has benches set up in a broad semi circle around it. While waiting for its hourly performance you can browse the park store or roam the upper geyser basin itself on the numerous walkways and paths. When you finally sit down and view the geyser it is quite an event. The reason it is an event, in my speculation anyway, is that most of us have never seen a geyser before. And because of this you have anticipation. And because of the anticipation there is excitement and energy. So, as the eruption sends steam and superheated water some 100 feet into the sky you soon find out that you don’t merely view a geyser, it is a sensory explosion. You feel the heat. You are enveloped by the moisture that interrupts the dry mountain air. You smell and taste the sulphur and the minerals in the mist. You hear the hissing and bubbling and rushing waters and gases. It is surprising that the eruption lasts several seconds. The people gathered around the geyser “ooooh” and “aaaah,” coaxing their kids into a state of wonder. It is a very cool thing!
The upper geyser basin surrounding Old Faithful is filled with bubbling and splashing thermals, vents, and springs of all shapes and sizes. The colors of the water and the bacteria on the rock are amazing. The bacterium grows because of the warmth of the water. Different colors are formed by different bacteria, which grow at slightly different temperatures. Most of the bacteria colors range from green to yellow to red/rust to black. The springs are sea greens and blues. So, you can imagine the festival of color and sound.
Driving back and past my campground I admired the continental divide for the second time that day. I took notice of the burned areas left by the great fire of 1988. Pretty much all of the forest around Old Faithful was destroyed. Driving around West Thumb and Yellowstone Lake I passed the Lake Junction and headed north on the Grand Loop Road. On the east side of the road were incredible views of the Yellowstone River winding its way through lush, green bottomland. The green surrounding the dark blue strip of the river was beautiful. The river has almost no bank at all through this area, appearing to flow on top of the grass. There were several bison crossing the river at one point. In fact, there were several areas of grazing bison along this stretch. I had seen one moose with a calf in tow back around the lake area, and that scene was similar to this one… tourists, stupid with picture lust, venture out toward these wild animals. Three hundred bucks on a good telephoto lens is better than being gored and mauled. But, some fools never learn.
On the west side of this stretch between Lake and Canyon Junctions are several small areas of mudpots and other thermal activity. All are worthy of a stop. To see the ground move, alive with activity is just fascinating to me. It tells me our world is still growing and young. It is humbling in a way. I had spent the better part of a day seeing all of the south side of the park (except the lower geyser basin). I turned around at Canyon Junction and went back to the lake area for the close of the day.
My third and final day in Yellowstone prior to my West Coast run started slowly. At least I thought it started that way. I found through observation that people are slow to rise in the park. I guess people sleep in on vacation. But it seems to me that the crisp mountain air and the uncrowded roadways of the early morning would beckon one to get out and about. It is very relaxing to grab a muffin or doughnut and drive to any destination in the park without hoards of people stopping for one &%$#@*! Bison. That is what I did that morning on my way to Seven Mile Hole. The parking area for the Glacial Boulder Trailhead is very benign, and therefore somewhat hard to find. There are only enough spaces in the pullout for about 8 cars… yet another incentive to get your butt moving in the morning. When I finally figured out that I was in the right place I parked and ate a Cliffbar and drank some potted water. I started to don my gear. My intention was to do this hike with the equipment I was going to use in two days on Rainier. It was quite a load… about 55-60 pounds. In more recent years I have learned to pare that load down to the 40 pound level. A water filter and good food planning are the main weight savers for me. Loaded up with my “kitchen sink” I felt the anticipation of a good day hike.
Day hikes are great. Light loads. Easy planning. Good workout. No pressure. As I started down the trail I stopped at the trail register and signed in. Trail registers are used to estimate usage and provide safety. You also sign out, so if you become lost rangers know about it. Rangers will also have some idea of where you were going and what your intentions were. Signing in is a little nerve racking. It reminds you unequivocally that you are in bear country. The first section of the Hole trail follows the northwest rim of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. The canyon has shear walls dropping almost 2,000 feet to the Yellowstone River below. The walls are composed of colorful rocks and sediment. They are very hazardous and crumbly. Venturing right up to the brink of the drop-off is a simultaneous act of faith and utter stupidity. The views on this rim portion of the trail are spectacular. The drop is so precipitous that I sometimes inched my way to the edge for photos. There was the distant sound of the river pounding through the canyon below. I moved swiftly over the terrain, singing and talking loudly to myself as my bear bells chattered their own tune on my pack.
The trail heads off to the northwest just away from the rim for a few miles. This area is the most uncomfortable for a neophyte bear country hiker. I can see for quite a distance through the pines and junipers. I was always on the lookout for that rare bear encounter. I looked around corners. Crested hills with anticipation. Glanced behind myself periodically. I jumped like hell whenever a branch fell. When you run into people it scares the bejesus out of you at first, as you pick up their movement along the trail in front of you. Then it is a comfort to exchange a quick hello and maybe a few comments about the trail each party has left behind.
The wooded part of the trail eventually leads to a fork at the edge of a vast and gorgeously green meadow. The fork to the left leads to Mount Washburn, to the right is the hole. Soon after the split I noticed a series of gradual descending turns. The turns lead to a few dormant thermal areas, one with a large stalagmite or cone deposit. Then the going became steep. A series of switchbacks traversed a wide drainage into the canyon. The turns led me down rapidly to an active thermal field. I could smell the sulphur. I could feel the heat. Traversing the field offered very sketchy footing in some places. The loose gravel continued all the way down to the river some three hundred feet below at this point. During this stretch the river noise changed from a deep roar to a high pitched and metallic howl. I was fighting the footing problems and took out my ice axe to self-arrest just in case of a fall.
Closing in on the river changed the exposure, but actually made me more uncomfortable for a brief period. The river had no bank, just a 12-foot drop into a churning pool of death. As I reached the flatter area next to the river I sighed and headed downstream to Sulphur Creek. I stopped there and took off my boots and soaked my feet in the cold water of the creek. Ooooooooh! I put on my sandals and prepared my lunch. As I ate my sandwich and chips I admired the perfect weather. Just three hundred feet up the slope I had been hot. Down here at waters' edge the 45-degree churning mass cooled the air and sucked a breeze through the corridor. I looked all around. The canyon had me. The water was far from turbid, unlike many eastern rivers. The rapids made me wish I were rafting. The Osprey overhead made me wish I were fishing. The cool air and the solitude made me wish I could stay for longer.
Just as I was finishing my meal two girls showed up at the creek and river junction. They joined me in a Powerbar desert and a conversation unfolded. It ends up that the two of them were seasonal park employees out enjoying a day off. One had been to the hole before and loved the diversity of the hike so much she wanted to share it with some other people. We hung out and talked about work and the grueling hike out. We procrastinated in leaving our little paradise. Finally, they took off. I slowly re-clothed and booted my feet. I caught them on the steep thermal terrain 15 minutes later. I passed them and wished them a great summer. I had 5 more miles to get to my car.
I blazed through the back-track. There is good and bad in an out-and-back trail. The good is that you know what is coming. It is truly hard to get lost. You can’t get mad at a huge hill to climb when you know you had the luxury of descending it. The bad is that you know what is coming. Out-and-backs take a little of the spontaneity out of the hike. So, my only stop was to view Silver Chord Cascade on the opposite wall of the canyon. After imagining the plunge that water must take – 2,000 feet – and how long it might take a drop to go from rim to river, I hurried to my car. I wanted to see some BIG waterfalls before my day was through.
Thundering water is no stranger to me. I try to raft West Virginia’s world class rivers once a year. The Gauley, New, and Cheat rivers are a thrill in WVA that most people are oblivious to. The Yellowstone River had made that familiar thundering noise as I approached it on my 11-mile hike to the Hole and back. I could still faintly hear the water 2,000 feet above it walking along the rim. I had alluded to it earlier, but when you are a rafter this sound is intoxicating. I was about to go from intoxication to astonishment.
I toweled off and hopped into my car after the hike and turned down the road I was parked along toward the northwest canyon viewpoints that included Inspiration Point. The views of the canyon are spectacular here. I took one photo from Inspiration Point that garnered me Photo of the Month at a Fox Photo development lab back in St Louis. It is in this area that you first view the Lower Yellowstone Falls. It’s a powerful symmetrical drop flanked on the southeast side by a small piece of glacial ice at the bottom. The color of the rocks and the ice and the straight, high-volume water mass makes it a beautiful sight. There are several vantage points up on the northwest rim and a trail you can walk down for a closer look. I highly recommend every view be taken in. The addition of a wineskin or a good beer would be the only enhancements I could think of for my experience.
After I finished on the northwest side it was time for the southeast viewpoints. Just crossing the river bridge is worthy of a stop. In this area the Yellowstone that I had described earlier as a smooth blue ribbon atop the green bottomland gathered steam. It accelerated down and through rocky riverbed with great speed. I thought that if one tried to raft this short section that they might very well die before they tumbled over the falls. Speaking of the falls, this area has the first viewpoint of the Upper Falls. It can be viewed from the northwest brink or the southeast façade. I did both. The brink viewpoint is just plain scary fun. The water vibrated the rock I was standing on. When it left the shelf and tumbled several hundred feet it hit with such force the mist plumes reached back up to the viewpoint. The water then settled and gathered itself for the mad dash over the Lower Falls. It reminded me a jet engine starting, winding up and then releasing all of that power in an explosive rush.
The façade viewpoints on the southeast rim offer a great panorama. I took photos of the Upper Falls and framed the bridge in the picture with it. The bridge is actually quite pretty, and offers a photo, when included with the falls, that includes and triumph of man and a triumph of nature. I like that. Artist Point and the lower viewpoint of the Lower Falls façade are also beyond belief. Artist Point reminded me of Inspiration Point, which is just fine. It was again a great place to capture the color and depth of the canyon. The Fox photo lab in downtown St Louis featured one of my shots from Artist Point for photo of the month. The photo looked like a painting. OK. Aritst Point. NOW I get it.
The Lower Falls façade viewpoint was a mini-adventure. I realized halfway down that it was going to be a 500 vertical feet hike. Going down was no problem, but the 500 or so stairs coming back up after about 15 aggregate miles of previous hiking that day were another story. The powerful view of the Lower Falls spilling over the brink gave me a small shot of adrenaline. But by the 400th step that energy was depleted, and my legs burned with lactic acid.
Driving back down to Bridge Bay I was satisfied with my trip so far. I looked forward to a good nights sleep and more coyote serenades. I ate burritos at the Fishing Bridge complex and drank some microbeers... the stuff goes straight to your head at altitude. While walking around camp and stretching, there was a bison grazing about the tents in an adjacent loop. It was a real threat to campers. It would not likely charge a tent, but it was poised to maul a passerby. At the other end of the campground were some elk feeding on a grassy slope. No bulls around and no calves made it a little more comfortable to leave the cover of tree trunks for a good photo or two. Still, some people were too close in my book. It is not just dangerous, but disrespectful to the animal. It was quite a wildlife show that day. It was just another normal day in Yellowstone. I retired right after dark.
The next morning had me scrambling to pack early. Instead of the 8 hours I had planned, the drive to Olympia, Washington was more like 12 hours. I hate being late to meet someone for the first time. That someone would be Robin, Erick’s brother-in-law. The 5:30 a.m. drive out would take me through the northern entry/exit of the park into Gardiner, Montana. So, I started with a cup of coffee and headed down the road I had been on several times already. Back up to Canyon Junction and continuing on to Mammoth I made great time with the normal early morning absence of traffic. I have to say, though, that the Grand Loop Road between Canyon and Mammoth is hard driving. Tremendous drop-offs and curving mountain passes were hard to negotiate at my planned mach 1 speed. Not only was it rugged, it was also exhilarating and beautiful. It was the perfect start to a day.
Going through Mammoth I looked at the Hot Springs on the left side of the road. They were inactive in places. It made me wonder aloud if the inactive spots were the result of drilling just outside the park boundaries. I was willing to bet that was the case. Passing up the lodge and park headquarters I picked up the North Entrance Road and made my way through Gardiner Canyon. This was yet another neat drive. The weather had started to turn a little bit on me. After three near-perfect days Mother Nature was about to unfold her third lesson of the trip. By the time I drove into Gardiner it would be raining.
Highway 89 north through Gardiner followed a valley that showed me why this is Big Sky Country. The mountains of Montana are big and wide in most places. Not as much of the narrow stuff you see in other mountainous areas. I started running into a lot of traffic and 89 is a 2-lane road. Passing became useless after a while and I just sang to music until I hit I-90 west. Aaaaah… 90 west… it was like an old friend! In Montana the speed limit in the day was “reasonable and prudent” and 75 miles per hour at night. These are smart people, I thought. I found that the prudent speed was not faster than 75 or so in the light rain. On the uphill climbs 75 was about all the Ford Taurus I was driving could manage and that speed was making it scream for mercy. It was about 5 hours before Montana said farewell and Idaho said hello.
The Bitterroot Mountains in the panhandle of Idaho were very narrow and thick with evergreens. Right around Silver Mountain Ski area I remember it being pretty tight. That was no surprise. The mountains around other ski areas I had been to were usually tight, too. The only open feeling one I had ever been to was Steamboat Springs, Colorado. At least it had stopped raining. The Coeur d’ Alene area approached quickly and Idaho was a fast memory. I would have a much slower ride through Coeur d’ Alene after my Rainier visit.
By the time I reached Spokane I was ready to quit. I was back down to 1,800 feet above sea level but I wasn’t feeling like Superman. The only good thing going on was the weather. The landscape went back to “South Dakota boring” with ratty looking bushes and dry soils on rolling hills of no distinction at all. It was a real drag. Moses Lake was a nice, short diversion. But crossing the Columbia River was quite a sight. The road really took a plunge there and woke me up for good. The river is broad and the Saddle Mountains to the south along with the Wenatchee Mountains to the northwest framed the area well. There were a few sailboats riding the very stiff wind through the area. On the west side of the river valley the wind was at least a constant 25 miles per hour. There was a little town there called Vantage. Very apropos considering its location. I noticed on the map that Whiskey Dick Mountain was just to the north of the rest area I stopped at after passing Vantage. It is always sticking straight up, of course.
Less than thirty minutes later I was in Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest and it was raining again. The clouds hung low to the peaks I could see from the road. The pass at Snoqualmie is only around 3,000 feet, but that is still significant so close to the coast. Surrounding peaks leap up to the 5,000 and 6,000 feet range. The Cascade Range of the Rockies is beautiful. It is green and lush in evergreens. The northern cascades have some of the harshest environments in the lower 48 states in the alpine sense. Some of the peaks are just beautiful as well. My favorite is probably Mount Shuksan, a neighbor to Mount Baker up near the Canadian border. That rain and low cloud base really disappointed me. I kept looking for Rainier to the left and never could see it. I still don’t know if you can see it from I-90. Some things are worth waiting for.
Descending into the Seattle area reminded me of how lucky I was in St. Louis. The traffic was horrible and it was raining like hell. I had timed my arrival purposely with rush hour, just so I could sit in traffic with all of those Microsoft and Boeing employees. I decided to go downtown and pick up I-5 south. That was a mistake. Through my frustration I finally realized that this was Seattle… God’s chosen place for rain. I laughed. I put on some AM talk radio to give me traffic updates as I snaked south through Tacoma and finally out of the rain and the commuter hell. Heading toward Olympia I was right on time, a miracle. Pure luck, basically. The directions to Robin’s trailer were just fine and I sighed with relief as I pulled into the driveway. His kids started running toward the car to greet me.
Robin is a good looking, pale shaded, African American man. He is part of an Army Ranger platoon. He is not tall or a colossal physical presence. To me, he is the perfect Ranger. His smaller size gives him stealth and agility, and probably less long-term wear and tear on his body. Robin and his wife welcomed me and we talked and waited for Erick and Dean to arrive. I did not bash them for being late. I knew what the drive was like… hideous. Fatigue would probably be a climbing issue for all of us who traveled. When they arrived, Dean and I were beyond hungry and grabbed some Taco Bell. Robin’s family lives pretty much a vegetarian lifestyle, and they had made some teriyaki tofu with grilled veggies and salad. Dean and I definitely had our fill. Staying up late into the night in the trailer, we started going through our gear and talking about the climb.
The first thing that happened was our astonishment of the weights we were carrying. It was common to carry 60 pounds back in 1993. Now all of us probably get by with right at 40 pounds. That is a 6-pound pack plus 35 pounds of gear. My ignorant amount of water (about 20 pounds) was the main culprit in my pack nightmare. Experience would later teach me that 2 pounds of fuel to melt snow and a one pound filter is a better choice… about 15 pounds better! Dean had all the climbing gear necessary for a full-on summit attempt on K2. Erick seemed to have his stuff together pretty well. He used a smaller pack and that forced judicious use of space. Robin warned me that the Rangers would be carrying heavy MRE’s and normal rucksacks full of gear. He said several should break the 60-pound mark, so I was in good company. “Perhaps,” I thought. But then I thought about how those guys are used to carrying their rucksacks. They are paid to be in supreme shape and focused. I had resolve and good strength, but I found that my lack of pack experience worried me. This worry wouldn’t change anything, but it would be justified in about 24 hours, much to my chagrin.
Getting to sleep was hard that night. I knew what was coming. I was nervous and excited. Morning couldn’t come quick enough. I tossed and turned and prayed. I cursed at my wasted time and energy. I would have driven to Rainier and started climbing at night if I could have. In retrospect I should have. There you have it… would have, could have, and should have. True regret. I tried to visualize my will and fortitude moving me up the mountain. I had no earthly idea what I was in for. In the buzz of travel, my mind was awash with rambling thoughts. Can I do it? Am I prepared? How will the group dynamic work? Will it be cold? Is the weather forecast good? Will I get blisters? God can you hear me? Why can’t I sleep?!
Coffee. One word makes a sentence. It needs no verb, no adjective. Just… coffee. Being in the coffee capital of the world there was no shortage. We woke up and moved out. The drive behind Robin’s van scared me. Why? Because I was looking at Rainier for the first time through the windows of my car. It was a monolith. It filled the horizon from 30 miles distant. It was colossal. All I could say was “Oh, shit.” As we drove closer, the mountain disappeared under a veil of cloud layer at about the 5,000 feet level. As we drove toward the park entrance we passed through ethereal forest. It was like a rain forest. Once through the gate we climbed for several minutes and into the clouds. Visibility was still fine as slow as we were going. Then, through a droning engine and the noise of anticipation Paradise appeared.
Of course, I mean Paradise-the visitor center, not paradise in the theoretical sense. Paradise is on the southern slope of the monolith at about 5,000 feet above sea level. It has a visitor center and a lodge and a restaurant. All of these facilities are in constant need of repair. The lodge is old and lathered with substantial character, but is somewhat lacking in the areas of room décor and being period appropriate. Part of the reason for these shortcomings are park funds, or the lack thereof. Part of the reason is the unbelievable wear and tear of weather at paradise, which averages over 350 inches of snow each winter. The democrats in Washington DC will tell you it is the republicans who neglect our parks. But this park and others fell from grace under forty years of a democratic congress that passes all spending bills. I will tell you to believe neither party. They are both relative scoundrels in regards to our park system and deserve a sound thrashing from each constituent who gives a damn. After this trip I joined the National Parks and Conservation Association to shout at the jokers in DC. The NPCA tends to be a little left of center and misses the big picture sometimes, but overall they are a good organization. Anyway, Paradise appeared, even in its relative state of disrepair.
My car and Robin’s van parked and we waited for the remaining 5 Rangers to show up. We were going through gear when they rolled into the lot in a couple of different vehicles. Robin had opened up a locker box of rope and crampons and bunches of military goodies. He had also procured some civilian climbing equipment including some go-fast carabiners and runners (also called quick-draws). The Ranger dudes liked this and other lightweight, high-tech stuff. They called it “high speed-low drag.” Since I had the lions share of the goodies I ended up being saddled with that buzz phrase as my nickname. The mist of the clouds we were literally standing in enveloped our team. We continued to sort gear and laugh at ourselves.
The Rangers aren’t what most people think. You cannot stereotype them. Some are big and muscle-laden. Some are thin and lean. Some are quiet and reserved. Others are outgoing and engaging. All of them are fit, though, and have the resolve of soldiers trained to defend us with their lives. I think I got along well with them because I was interested in their job. They knew I had respect for them. I knew I had to earn their respect. I think I eventually did.
As we completed all of our sharing of gear I had been able to “shave” my pack weight down to a hideous 60 pounds or so. In church as a protestant we talk about the concept of brokenness. I am here to say right now that if you ever want to attain that state you need look no further than mountaineering. As we mobilized and started up the paved trail it was immediately steep. The average grade from Paradise to Camp Muir is between 13 and 14 percent. Imagine the steepest roadway you’ve driven and that will be close to the same grade. Some sections are, of course, much steeper. We were climbing for just a few short minutes and we hit snow. It would be the last time I would see anything but rock and snow for the next 24 hours. I labored under my pack, trying to learn to step properly and not slip on the granular surface of the snow. I was not having a good day. Dean was suffering through athsma and not having a good go of it either. We struggled together and cursed our shared misery. The Rangers and Erick disappeared through the mist, leaving Dean and I heaving in disgust at our misfortune and lack of conditioning.
Erick and the Rangers waited for us at there relative break points. I would crack a few jokes and successfully humor the crowd. At each stop they would depart soon after Dean and I arrived, leaving us to rest alone and find our own pace. Their pace seemed to be torrid. This was a huge mountain for Gods sakes. But I thought to myself “hooyah,” and laughed and marched on.
We reached the shelf onto Muir Snowfield in about one hour. That meant we had over two miles of nondescript agony to go before reaching camp. It did not matter though, as we were still in the clouds. It was so saturated and humid that I had stripped additional clothing off at each rest stop. I was down to thin, lycra, full-length tights and a simple thermal top. Gone were the fleece layer and the rain gear. I was sweating profusely and it had to go. Once we were on the snowfield we had to follow little orange survey flags that were stuck in the snow. Visibility had decreased to about 50 feet. I was busy cursing this weather ailment when I thought I saw something through the fog in front of Dean and I.
Kickstepping clumsily in the snow, I was becoming increasingly frustrated as the mountain appeared out of the top of the clouds. Slowly but surely it became clearer in our foreground. Behind us we had left what I thought was a miserable blanket of cotton. Soon the view really opened, as we had climbed a few hundred feet above the clouds. We could see Mount Saint Helens and Mount Hood. It was spectacular. The trailer-huts of Camp Muir appeared on the slope above us. They seemed so close to us at the time. I remember thinking we had about 30 minutes left to go. However, 90 minutes later I was still thinking that we had about 30 minutes left to go. That is when the scope of the mountain became truly apparent. This frame of reference and visual trickery is something I will never forget. It was cruel and merciless. It broke my spirit down as the minutes passed. Then something else betrayed me.
I really had settled in to the effort of moving forward and upward. The physical part was conquered. But my inexperience with mountain landscape and the sun started to beat me down mentally. The sunglasses cam out and the sunscreen went on while the firm snow I was already struggling on turned to slush. I relished the short stops we took to curse our misfortunate predicament, recalling our disdain for the clouds and laughing at our unexpected loathing of the sun. I wondered if all forces of nature were not, indeed, conspiring to break us.
While at a rest stop among a group of rock outcroppings we watched a guided group ascend past us. They were using ski poles to assist their footing and leg muscles. Immediately I seared inside. I was enraged that I had not thought of such a simple tool. My leg muscles confirmed my thoughts with the ache of lactic acid build-up. I also thought of the “expert” that sold me the very nice ice axe I was using. The Charlet Moser model I had was fine but way too short. It rendered me a leaning mass of ascending fury as I cursed at it. As I started to move onward again with Dean, my first slip in the snow was met with a chorus of defeat in my head. I would kill one of those bastards for a pair of poles! But, alas, I could not catch the scoundrels!
Just as Camp Muir became attainable I realized something was wrong. I hurt. Not my legs. No, they were just tired. My face burned… everywhere. Trudging up the final steps to the camp plateau I thought back to my first experience with “frying pan face” on Okrakoke Island, North Carolina. I was torched then. I knew I was torched now, too. The sun had reflected off the snow for two hours and burnt every known part of my face. Even my ear canals, nostril passages, and the roof of my mouth were well done. I would not know the true extent of my suffering until the next evening. I did know, however, that my climbing up Rainier was over at the halfway point. The mountain didn’t beat me. Instead, she enlisted the help of the sun and ambushed me. Later I would be somewhat redeemed, as I found several articles mentioning similar problems on the mountain. The Rangers would also confirm that my fate and misery were common.
Camp Muir, at 10,188 feet, was a bustling place. To the left of camp, snuggled against the lower rock outcroppings of Cowlitz Cleaver were a couple of trailer-huts. These huts were the ones I had seen from a distance some two hours ago. To the right were two more inconspicuous hut structures. They were terraced and surrounded by carefully placed and mortared stones. The stones reminded me of the pre-Civil War stone fences back home in Kentucky. I smiled and chose one of those structures in which to sleep for the night. Notably, there were solar toilets in between the huts. These are a welcome convenience to the alternative struggle to find a private place to do your duty. I was busy jawing with the Rangers, who, in various states of dress and undress, were sprawled out upon some boulders and soaking up the sun and some food. Behind the boulders were several tents. All tents needed to be dug in on the three sides facing the slope of the mountain. Some guys were busy doing just that. I call it mining nothing. Imagine… whack your axes and shovels for an hour for the pleasure of a good night’s sleep on hard, cold ice. There was a large snowfield over Cowlitz Glacier behind the tents that ran off to a steep pitch up through Cadaver Gap and onto Ingraham Glacier. You could see the trail in the snowfield leading that way. This time, as I surveyed the area, I was careful to not underestimate the distances.
The hours before dark went by quickly. We watched other small groups ascend the snowfield, while a large, guided group descended toward Anvil Rock to practice rope work and self-arrests. We cooked and ate two times that evening. We managed several laughs at my canned Ravioli and Spaghetti. I took the ribbing well, and managed to point out that the ubiquitous MRE was not much lighter. The Army Rangers were, indeed, a good group. They did not bitch about much. They just climbed, ate, talked and joked. This is the simplicity of climbing life that I have since grown to love. I learned my place quickly. I announced I would not be going to the summit at 3:00 a.m. I did not complain or show my disappointment too strongly. I was toasted to a well-done state and exposure the following day, if it were sunny, would do me in.
Just before dark we started to settle in for some sleep. In the mountains you do not waste time outside, talking around the campfire. First of all, there is usually no campfire! Second, the temperature takes a precipitous drop up high. That drop in temperature combined with a body’s idle state and energies directed toward digestion are a recipe for the chills… or worse. So it is inside that the last words are spoken.
I soon found that sleep was not an easy commodity for me. I am a light sleeper and am easily awakened by noise. Solo climbers continued to pour in to camp from time to time. Three chose our hut, and the incessant sound of swishing nylon filled my head. I wished for a book. If I were doomed to stay awake at least it would be a productive time. The night went on and I finally heard the sound of silence. I must have slept about three hours and then the action started again. The 2:00 a.m. wake up call comes quickly on Mount Rainier. The sounds of swishing nylon again filled my brain.
By this time though, I had started feeling the pain of the previous day’s over-exposure. Shots of pain jerked me about in my facial region. Joining my calamity were two of the Rangers. They had slept in one of the tents all night and were suffering from mild hypothermia. They were placed on the top bunk area and in a double sleeping bag together for added warmth. It would be a long night for them, too. I finally fell asleep again and woke up around 7:00 a.m.
Gathering my gear together, I checked on the hypothermic Rangers, finding them in need of more rest but A-OK. I made some Ramen noodles outside and found that one more Ranger had also been left behind. Richard Z had slipped on the ice outside in the early morning organizational period and wrenched his back. It was a repetitive problem for him, and there was no need to push for the summit in his condition. So, he and I bonded while we waited for the other two to wake. He wore a bandana over his head, one of my favorite types of winter hat arrangements, so we immediately had discussion material. Richard was an eccentric man who made his own beat in the world. Suited better for sniper work than Ranger work, I thought! I’m sure he was a fine Ranger, but I could see him working very well in a more solitary way.
The other two Rangers finally woke up and were feeling much better. We broke camp and headed down the snowfield. The weather on top of the peak looked a little tumultuous. Clouds capped the summit, but they were not the pretty lenticular (mountain-induced stratiform) clouds usually associated with high horizontal winds. The clouds were orographic (mountain-induced) cumulus clouds. These clouds are caused by rising, moisture-laden air and usually have some kind of precipitation within them. I have previously noted the legendary weather around Rainier, and I should further note that these mountains do create their own weather… all that is needed is wind and moisture. I hoped aloud that the five of our group going to the summit were having a good go of it.
While the view of the summit was shielded, the view of the sprawling lower mountain was impressive. We could clearly see the Paradise Visitor Center and Lodge below us. Again, views of Mounts Hood and Saint Helens were in the distant horizon, but seemed close enough to touch. I would be failing in my purpose to promote this beautiful area if I did not mention the Wonderland Trail. This trail was on my topo map and I noticed that it circumnavigated the mountain. I could only imagine the views one would encounter, and I concur with the trail’s unique name.
Plunge stepping and stomping our way down the snowfield was a joy and we made quick work of it. I suppose if I ever do Rainier again, I would consider telemark skis and boots. I could see making very quick work of the snowfields with them. We reached the snowfield terminus, which offers nice views of a huge moraine and drops about 30 feet down to the earth it rests upon. It was with a quick glance and a smile that we plopped down to our bums and glissaded to the bottom. We rested there and ate, sharing our collective disappointment, but thankful to be healthy enough to enjoy the walk down.
The rest of the decent was uneventful. The rock garden of the lower mountain is the home to multitudes of ground squirrels and marmots. These critters playfully interact with human intruders. The squirrels skitter about, stopping and starting in herky-jerky motions. The marmots stand on their hind legs and observe. If the marmot is scared or threatened it will let out a high-pitched warning whistle reminiscent of a teakettle. In the east, the marmot (a.k.a. woodchuck) is a nuisance to farmers. Out west that is less of an issue, and they are just plain cute and only rarely annoy people.
It was nice to reach the parking lot and see the car. I wanted to clean up, change clothes and relax a bit before the summit team made it back. I went to the lodge and negotiated a shower for a few dollars, reappearing fresh, but in great pain from my facial burns. Richard and I decided to do lunch and beers in the lodge dining room. The salad, cheeseburger, and Sam Adams Dopplebock were a very nice reward after a hard day and night. I also took a few moments to do some postcards in the lodge before napping in my car to wait for the rest of the team.
The summit team had arrived back in Paradise by early afternoon. I was happy to find out that they had made it to the summit. They did, indeed, encounter some driving wind and ice within the cumulus clouds. Of course, visibility was nil, thus the view was nil. It is a little disappointing to climb such a long way and not get rewarded with a view. And, oh what a view it would have been. A clear day would offer views well over 100 miles distant. But, the consolation prize when climbing is always a safe return. That is what we had here.
I was also silently proud of our mixture of civilians and Rangers. My high respect for the goodwill and endurance of the Rangers was already mentioned. One potential weakness, however, can be the “full speed” mentality that the Rangers have. I think our civilian duo may have tempered that a little. It is a good balance. I was concerned after suffering through the blistering pace they had set the previous day. But, all of my concerns were put to rest, and at this point I was only proud.
I stood around with the whole group for a while. I held on to Robin and Carrie’s youngest child while pictures were taken. We told jokes, drank and broke bread. The simplicity of climbing was over for all of us for now. It would be back to the complexity of day-to-day life for most of us. For me, it was time to get on the road back to Yellowstone. After a few short good-byes and a bitter swallow of melancholy I left Paradise, vowing to return again.
My new challenge was at hand. Another 12 or so hours of solo driving were on tap. I decided to take a drive through Yakima and back out to I-90. I needed to get back to Yellowstone by 9:00a.m. the following morning, so the quickest route was my only choice. I quickly dispensed of the two lane roads between Rainier and I-90. The drive through the country was beautiful, and the necessary monotony of the interstate arrived too fast. As I drove into eastern Washington my facial burns started to become a nuisance and a concern. Places around my ears and nose and cheekbones ruptured and started oozing a yellow puss. The puss dried and created a grotesque crust. I tried to remove the crust and more fluid would flow from the wounds. I couldn’t get enough fluids or pain relief. The pain was approaching unbearable by early evening. I cried as I drove.
By late evening I was rolling into Coeur d’ Alene, Idaho. I was utterly exhausted and emotionally demolished. I had consumed countless amounts of water and ibuprofen to seemingly no avail. I pulled off at a rest area and had decided to take a nap. That nap turned into five solid hours of sleep. I was startled awake by a trucker’s application of his jake-brake and hit the road again in a dazed panic. I was amazed that I had slept without fits of pain. I was still hurting pretty badly, but my predicament was a little more tolerable.
I blazed through Montana to exit 256 and took highway 287 south. I can’t remember much of the drive. The weather was great, I recall, but the scenery was a rehash and I took no mental notes. I had decided to re-enter the park through West Yellowstone, Idaho. As I rolled into the western gateway, the crowded, touristy atmosphere immediately disappointed me. It reminded me of Wall Drug, or any other tourist trap for that matter. It was a stark contrast to the beauty and desolation of the eastern and northern gateways.
It was a short drive following the Madison and Firehole rivers to Old Faithful. This was the area that I plan to visit the next day. The repeat drive to Bridge Bay was an endless effort. When I finally arrived the campsite reservation I had made was still intact. It was quite interesting when they put me in one of the last loops. Those were the loops that were closed because of bear activity just 4 days earlier. The new site was actually better, with more trees and less site concentration. I quickly made camp and, still clothed, readily collapsed into blissful sleep atop my sleeping pad.
The chill of twilight and pangs of hunger woke me up several hours later. I ventured over to the Fishing Bridge complex and ate a Chimichanga. It was just what I needed. The food along with copious amounts of water quelled any ambitions I had for the evening. I could not muster the energy to read more than a few lines without falling asleep. I gave in to the night and retired. My only stirring throughout the night was to use the restroom and drink yet more water. Otherwise, I was resting soundly.
The next morning I woke up to beautiful blue skies. It hurt to smile, or do anything that changed my facial expression. The elasticity was completely gone from my skin. So, I spent the day checking out the sights west of Old Faithful, keeping a stoic look all the while.
I visited a multitude of places along the Grand Loop Road between Old Faithful and Madison Junction. The areas along this stretch of road are mostly burnt. Forests of evergreen were replaced by charred reminders of the flames. Some of the memorable sights were the geysers on a loop road about halfway between the junctions. White Dome and Great Fountain were their names, although I cannot remember which one erupted with such playful ferocity while I was there. It danced for the small crowd for a few minutes, receiving “oooohs” and “aaaahs” from the onlookers. I also visited Biscuit Basin and the spectacular Midway Geyser Basin. The Grand Prismatic Pool is at Midway, and upon viewing it I was satisfied to the point I called it a day. It was good timing, too, as the rain began to fall just as I was getting into my car. I sat there a while and watched the people stream into and out of the area. I fell asleep for a few moments, and was amazed that my sun poisoning had taken so much out of me.
I should point out that there are some great geysers to see on trails along this stretch of road that I was unable to see. Imperial Geyser and Spray Geyser are neighbors that are an easy day hike. It would be good to catch Fairy Falls on the way to these two geysers. There are other sights of note as well at the Lower Geyser Basin and along the Mary Mountain Trail at Porcupine Hills. One could have several days of fascinating day hikes in this area.
The rain continued sporadically that day and it was apropos, because I was still miserable. I couldn’t believe that I had fallen asleep so easily back in Idaho and in the parking lot a few hours earlier. The sun poisoning had really beaten me down. My body was fighting and needed rest. I ate another burrito that afternoon and had a nice couple take a few photos of my hideous, swollen, and pealing face. I managed a weak smile through the pain it caused. Those pictures make me wince even today. Turning in that night I thought about home for the first time.
I awoke at about 6:00a.m. and the world seemed eerily quiet. I thought nothing of it at first, but then the chill hit me. It was cold. I thought that the 80-degree days of sun would last, but they did not. I opened my tent to about one-inch of frozen mix on the world. It was Friday, July 2nd.
I beat the ice off the keyhole and unlocked my car. I started the car to get warm and tried to catch a newscast on AM radio. While the commercials were on I tried scrapping the ice off my windows to no avail. I sat back down in the car and listened intently to the forecast. It did not look good for the next two days, and almost instantly I made the decision to leave a day early. I was prepared for any weather. But, in my state of repair and having no desire to hike in the cold rain for a day, leaving was the right choice.
I left the car running and quickly broke camp, shaking and beating the ice and water off my tent. As I shoved the wet tent into stuff sack with frozen hands I made a command decision… my drive home would be a nonstop trip. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, but I didn’t care. The adventure would continue!
As I made my way out of the park via the south gateway, I had a few retrospective moments about Yellowstone. I had really seen a good portion of Yellowstone, but I knew I would return. I had used all the gateways but the northeast entrance, which happens to be the most infrequently used of the five gateways. I had traveled every mile of road in the park (accept that northeastern entrance road). I had seen all of the major features. I had hiked to the bottom of the canyon. The only thing I wanted to do as I left was climb a peak in the park and see some of the meadows and lakes in a more personal way (i.e. on the trail).
The icy world of Yellowstone disappeared and I was approaching the Tetons with thick layers of low clouds draped about the sky. I studied the map and tried to decide which way to go. I was committed at this point to taking either I-80 through Nebraska or I-70 through Kansas. I made the call for I-70 because it was further south and was likely to be warmer. That seemed like a prudent decision at the time, but life does play tricks on us all. I had just been played, and I didn’t even know it.
I took highway 287 south at the junction (with 191) near Moran. The weather was a wild mixture of clouds and wind gusts and rain and even occasional sun. As I rolled into Dubois the drive had remained scenic, and the Wind River Range had appeared off to my right. The mountains, though barely visible from my angle, looked foreboding over the steep foothills. The clouds hung onto the peaks and released their fury, sparing and shielding me from the wind and rain, allowing me a drive in the sun.
The Wind River itself followed 287 south of Dubois. Save for the mountain views to the right, the rest of the countryside was barren. Living out here would be tough. The rocks were red clay and turned the river water into a red, muddy mixture. I didn’t see too much wildlife… at least not like I had seen in other parts of Wyoming. Lander was the next town of any sizable proportion. I was so focused on driving that my stops were minimal and my speeds were high. The 260 miles between the Tetons and Rawlins only took me about 3 ½ hours, and it was all two-lane road.
I picked up I-80 in Rawlins and had only 140 miles to drive to get to I-25. The drive was intriguing. The wind really started to whip from the west-southwest. There were barrier fences to keep large drifts of snow from forming over the highway in the winter. This area is known to be windy. It is said that Wyoming only gets about a foot of snow each year… and it just gets blown from one side of the state to the other all winter. I could see some of the Medicine Bow Mountains to the south along this drive. I was happy to see some green again as well.
I caught I-25 south in Cheyenne and immediately noticed that the wind, which had been behind me for 2 hours, had become fierce and was hitting me broadside. The counter-steering I had to do to stay on the road was astonishing. I estimated the wind to be 30 miles per hour with gusts to around 50. There were several tractor-trailers and RV’s turned over (onto their sides) between Cheyenne and Fort Collins, Colorado. Then I knew why the truck stop in Cheyenne was so packed in with idle 18-wheelers.
The drive to Denver was very fast after Fort Collins, and I was glad to have the wind at my back on I-70. It was late afternoon by this time and I had planned to stop in Limon to fill up. It is amazing how desolate eastern Colorado is. I am sorry, but it is ugly, and has no redeeming value to anyone who wasn’t born there. Only a son or daughter of this land could appreciate it. Limon is like an oasis. It lies about halfway between the Kansas/Colorado border and Denver. I think everyone stopped there. There is one gas station there that was filled with autographed portraits of famous musicians. I inquired about them and the attendant confirmed my thinking. This is the last piece of civilization heading east until Colby (140 miles) and Hays (250 miles) in Kansas. I planned on stopping again in 350 miles. That would be Salina, Kansas. Usually an easy drive, a surprise awaited me as darkness started to fall.
Out ahead of me, on the horizon, I could see it. Brilliant flashes of light in the sky. The light show started slowly, but as I drew closer the party really kicked in to high gear. I could not believe it. At about 25 miles out I could see the outline of the thunderhead with each flash. It was an enormous mushroom cloud, which meant it was still in the growing-to-mature stage. Most people associate the anvil shape to the top of a thunderstorm, but that indicates a declining storm that has grown too high in the atmosphere. The anvil shape is created when the top grows into the strong horizontal upper level winds and gets sheared off. I had no such luck. This storm was a monster, and as the first drops of rain glanced off my windshield I tuned in an AM station and hoped for the best.
The radio gave me the skinny. There were no less than 3 supercells developing along I-70 and to the north, with movement to the north at about 25-30 miles per hour. There were tornado warnings out, which is no surprise, as supercells are almost always tornado producers. At first the rain was moderate and the wind gusts were pretty strong. After about 15 minutes the rain became torrential, and the wind did not subside. Visibility was down to “the front bumper” and I had to watch closely to insure I didn’t drift off the road with the wind. Hydroplaning was a major concern, as the water was about an inch deep in many places. I had driven through similar conditions before, but only for a brief period. This rage lasted for about 15 minutes, and then became worse. The splats of rain against the car became pecks. The pecks became louder. I peered over my hood to see if the hail would show itself on the road. It did. I was lucky to be approaching an overpass and dived under it to a screeching halt. Marble sized hail, with good hardness, will turn a car into a golf ball with wheels. I was somewhere near Russell, Kansas.
I waited for the hail, which grew from pea to marble in size, to subside. It took about 10 minutes to change back to total rain. I had to keep my speed to 45 miles per hour or less as I pulled away. I was literally driving on marbles. The rain stayed in its heavy state for about 15 more minutes and I prayed I would not drive into a tornado. The radio let me know where the tornadoes were, but obviously could not predict new ones. My hands hurt from gripping the wheel so tightly.
As I eased away from the fury of the storm I was understandably relieved. It may have been a blessing. I drove into Salina and filled up with gas. I should have been tired, but was wired from the intensity of my experience. I was about 7 hours from home and this would usually be the tough part. So, I was happy as I had lived through the storm, was filling up with gas, and was filled up with energy.
Topeka and the turnpike became a blur. I could not drive as fast as I wanted. I have longed for an 85 miles per hour speed limit on open interstates. A mild delirium took over my thoughts as I recounted trips through this area before. Driving to the Rockies to ski. Covered wagon rides at a KOA campground as a child in Lawrence. My boss in Grandview. The then Americana Hotel in 1984 as a junior in high school; the rotating rooftop restaurant; the pancakes and waffles at Copperfields next to the lobby; break dancing, Michael Jackson; losing weight; Ronald Reagan… Suddenly I was very tired.
I stopped for gas in Blue Springs and at a rest area about 15 miles east of Kingdom City. I ran around my car. I did jumping jacks while people starred. I had crossed the flooded Missouri River again (the water was very close to closing the interstate) and needed to do it one more time to enter Saint Louis County. I was only 90 miles from home. The first 70 of those miles were like pouring molasses in my mind. It was like watching a dripping faucet fill a glass of water when you are dying of thirst. At last I reached the 6 lanes of traffic in Saint Charles County that would keep my attention and take me home.
It was quiet on a Saturday at about 5:30a.m. when I pulled into the Mansion House Center parking garage… about 21 hours and 45 minutes after leaving the campground in Yellowstone. I found a nice lower level spot near the door and went upstairs to get a luggage cart. One trip to my car and I was done. I had moved everything into my studio apartment and turned on the television to study the weather. I saw the storms I had driven through and it scared me all over again. I reorganized my equipment for storage and my film to take to the shop. Then, I remembered I was tired. I fell asleep instantly and dreamed a relentless flow of pleasantries.

The Retrospective (Written 12/7/2000)
Some people believe and some people don’t. Some people experience life while others are just living. I started my vision quest thinking that it is not enough to just be alive. I still believe that to be true. Almost 7 ½ years later my thirst for knowledge and adventure has not subsided. I have always had a spiritual connection with natures’ profound miracles. It is part of my personal faith. Now, much more entrenched in my personal faith and humanity, I see the lessons of this trip as ones of great worth.
My beliefs and ideals tell me we are here for a purpose, a purpose many of us struggle to discover. I stopped that struggle long ago. I have no stock in what I do for a living now or then. It has a small connection to my purpose, but could be replaced easily. I have much greater stock in my family and church, and in other people now. I learned from my time away that I have gifts, as we all do. I also learned how to use them. My purpose, and everyone’s purpose for that matter, is simple. No need for long career contemplation and introspection. Your career can matter, but doesn’t have to. Nobody can tell me a non-working spouse, that has given of themselves to the betterment of humankind, has lower value than someone who contributed through a career does.
So, there it is. That is our purpose... to help each other through our best, God-given and self-taught assets. Again, some of my gifts were discovered on this journey (along with fears and weaknesses). I learned I can be a team player. I learned that I can be incredibly organized, and woefully unprepared. I learned I can get along with almost anybody, or alone. I learned that I underestimate the power of my desires, and overestimate my own abilities. I learned that I was very well educated, but not very smart. I learned that what I do matters, but I am so insignificant. The list could go on and on. Does the word “humbling” come to mind? All of these things were easy to see during the highs and lows of my trip. I still believe that we uncover our greatest strengths and weaknesses during triumphs and tragedies. Triumphs and tragedies are the stuff of which life and adventures are made. My challenge to everyone I know is to seek out adventure. Face your fears. Go from the comfort of your dreams to planning those dreams. Go from planning those dreams to realizing them. You will build a person of greater strength and worth than ever before. Then you may share the treasure of you with everyone. Thanks again for letting me share this time and experience with you.