Fundy Circuit Ultra presented by Outdoor Elements
That's how far I have to drive to find the most enchanting forest you've ever seen. Tucked in along the Bay of Fundy in coastal New Brunswick you'll find the Fundy National Park. With the small town of Alma shouldering the park, and the worlds highest tides in easy walking distance, it has a lot to offer for weekend travelers. As Canadians also offer trail races within their National Parks, it also offers a world class 50K that circumnavigates the entire park against some of the best runners in the region.
I ran the Fundy Circuit 50k (actually closer to 29 miles) in 2018 for the first time. I struggled hard until the finish, barely making it to the halfway before the proverbial wheels fell off and the engine went up in flames. The unrelenting roots covering everything in sight wears you down to no end.
It is, without question, the most technical course I’ve ever run. With roots, mud, rocks, and rivers all combining to grind you into a pulp within the first 10 kilometers. However, it also winds its way through some of the most mystically beautiful forest your eyes have likely ever seen. Trails sliding through the moss covered forest floor, sunlight slicing through to spotlight the greenery, grabbing your eye just enough to risk a face plant on spiderweb of roots beneath you. While I suffered last year for much of the race, the feel of the race, location and the beauty of the area really pulled me in. In fact, I signed up minutes after the entry opened for this years race. My last minute decision to skip the Capes 100 in Nova Scotia was made in part by knowing this was coming a month after it. It wasn’t so much a consolation prize, its the kind of race that I’m sure one day will be THE prize for many runners. Only in its third (I think?) year, its still new to many people. For 4.5 miles of driving to the north, its head and shoulders above anything that same amount of driving to the south can provide. In fact, I don't know of a race in all of New England that can match the beauty of this course. There are more beautiful places, but none with a competitive race on its soil. Having an actual race in a place like this is truly special. Much like if we could do the same here in Acadia National Park. So that fact that this event even exists in a national park is something quite unique.
The race itself is centered within walking distance from the town of Alma and a number of amazing campsites. I think we paid $20 a night (USD) for a camp spot right next to a bathroom and shower at the Headquarters Campground. While we couldn't have a fire, we had a view of the ocean below and I didn't have to worry about getting to the race on time. (In fact, I was about 80 minutes early as I failed to notice the race start time was moved to 7am from 6am it was last year....) Being able to basically park your car for the weekend is really handy and any race that starts and finishes in the same place, and has a brewery waiting for you is A+ in my books. (Holy Whale Brewery sponsored the race and has some great beers if you're in town!) While small in size, the 100+ runners in the 50K field brings in some great talent from all of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and of course Maine. The area had a really great vibe, incredibly friendly people everywhere and energetic aid stations. The start and finish is also at a huge soccer field adjacent to a massive playground with zip lines and slides coming out of the forest. My kids were so excited to come back to this race just for the playground, making the 5+ hours my wife and kids waiting for me less of an issue with them fully occupied the whole time. Crewing the race is no more than 10 minutes of driving to any of the three available aid stations, all easy to find, and easy to get in and out of. This may just be the most family friendly, crew accessible, and logistically simple race experience you can find. You just show up at the race start and you're set. Throw in that everything is in Canadian currency and it feels its all on sale. Its not of course, but if feels like I'm saving money and that's what matters. Its the kind of race that leaves you wanting to tell anyone and everyone about it, so that you all can join in on the magic of it all. There are a lot of races I don't feel that way about, and as infrequent I race these days, very few I'd return to. I hope I get to return to Fundy every year for as long as I can, I'm already looking forward to the time on the trail, and even more the time in the area with my family. It's a special place.
I'm sure the 2020 race will fill up quickly, so pay attention to sign up or you'll miss it.
Read on if you're interested in reading what it feels like to run yourself into the ground.
Running on potential
My only goal for the race this year was to outrun my fitness level. After injuring my right ankle in late June, I’ve taken a few zero weeks, and a whole lot of sub 10 mile weeks this summer as I sorted out the nerve damage in my right foot. Skipping out on Capes let me focus in on running for recovery and not for finishing an arbitrary 100. I put in a long day in Acadia over Labor Day weekend to log 44 miles and 10K in climbing, but followed that up with two weeks of 10-15 mile weeks. I felt strong when I was running, but as always, failed to really log the miles needed to run to my full potential.
So for this race, I wanted to go in with a new outlook. To dismiss that shortcoming. I wanted to run to my potential, not my own perceived fitness level. To run out front, from the start, and never let up. When it starts to feel like the pace is too fast, keep pushing faster. When I get any sort of downhill, stretch the pace as fast as possible. Then just a little faster than that. When I feel like walking, lean forward and run harder. When the hill looks too big to run and I think I should be walking it, run it anyway.
Make every single person that passes you really earn it.
Make them passing you be a “Damn dude, good on you” and not a demoralizing gut punch during a pity party pace.
So with that I lined up at the very front of the line as the clock kicked off. Off I went with the front couple runners, crossing the field and across the street we dipped into the forest and hit the first single track of the day. We were less than a quarter mile into the race and I was out of breath.
I ran in the top 5 through the first river crossing and then the second crossing. Darting up and down the trail, navigating the high grass and eroded trail we took turns leading the way. Chatting with the guys while navigating the roots, the ups, downs and sloped trails I wondered internally, already, just how long I could do this. This was my kind of terrain, I can handle the technical terrain as well as anyone, but this pace at mile 2 of a 50K was dangerous.
I was focused on eliminating doubts early and threw that thought out the rear window. I was almost begging for the blow up. Daring it my body to try and revolt against me.
Dropping my water bottle three miles in, I looked up and saw the top 4 guys disappear up the river. Crossing one river after another, bounding across large slippery boulders, I caught them all by the next river crossing. Never quite catching them, but keeping them in sight, I’d repeat this for the rest of the Upper Salmon trail climb. I’d hit the steep climb out of the upper fork and lose them for the rest of the day.
Coming out of the climb I came upon my new friend Tom from Presque Isle, Maine, running the 100K and currently leading out front. Now on his 2nd loop after having started at midnight, Tom was at about 35 miles and looking strong. As we talked for a brief second walking along, I was passed by a hard charging male runner, Colin McQuade. I said goodbye to Tom and that would be the last few steps of the day I didn’t push hard on.
Leaving the first aid station at 12K and in 6th place, I flew down the dirt road with a reckless abandon that garnered several enthusiastic honks from passing crew vehicles. Knowing Colin was only seconds ahead of me I thought I'd catch him. I was flying down this road at a pace that in other races I would tell myself I had no business running. I pushed even harder around the turns until I was suddenly back on the trail. I walked much of this section last year going the other direction, utterly defeated only half way through the race and barely able to shuffle. This year I hit the turnoff in full stride and went straight into it on a mission to run every step through the maze of roots and wet bog crossings. I was feeling like I flew through the techy lakes section, yet I was passed by two runners. A couple times I had someone come up on me from behind and we’d hit a downhill or flat stretch of roots and I’d lose them. An extended climb in the roots would come and, despite still running it all, I’d be passed. These Canadians run these hills hard, and it was something I took note for the rest of the day.
I hit the second aid station Bennett Lake (mile 13) 10 minutes ahead of pace, and my wife, and powered on without seeing Jen and the kids. Being old pro’s at this I knew she’d just skip ahead with the kids to Point Wolfe aid station. I hit the hilly double track and could feel my legs gaining weight. They felt heavy and sluggish after even the briefest of stops at the aid station. I started to wonder if I’d pushed too hard on that last section. If I’d just sabotaged my second half. I took in some nutrition, slammed some water and kept running. Barreling through the heavy canopy of trees, a dusting of yellow foliage on the trail, light peeping through in the late morning, it was a stunning trail. Tunnel vision in the best possible sense, head forward and staring down this beautiful section of forest.
A couple miles in I hadn’t seen anyone. Running up a long incline, I finally look back down the trail.
I’d been running steadily, up every hill, strong down every hill. Someone caught me? He was coming fast too, around every corner, even faster. He was the Man in Black from The Princess Bride. Coming and coming, not knowing who he was and how could this be. I was tired and confused how this was happening. In a sudden low moment, it was making me question everything about my current ability.
How was someone catching me?!
I snap to as he comes up beside me and I conjure up enough of my remaining pride to let out a, “Hey man, strong pace. Great job man...”
“Thanks, you’re crushing it too! You’ve got a good lead on the next guy. Oh, I’m running the relay.”
Ahh. A relay runner! He's only running this one leg. EUREKA!
Ego regained. I power on up the mountain.
The boost would not last long. In a flash that momentum disappears and the cramping begins to come in major waves. My hip flexors started cramping at mile 14, my tell tale sign of under-training and generally expected every race. Its something I can work through. My calves started to cramp at 16 and that can put me down in the dirt like a sniper took me out in full stride. I drank 20oz of water and prayed the upcoming river crossing would be enough to keep it at bay.
At mile sixteen or so it finishes the first half of the double track returned to single track, descending steeply into the river below. One tight switch back after another, I pushed harder with each cut and stride off the rocks. This was me, my power move that few can recreate. Few people hit the downhills hard for fear of blowing up.
I hit the riverbed feeling invincible after taking it all at full speed.
I crossed the river feeling invincible.
I hit the other side feeling like a newborn deer being gnawed on by a pack of wolves. As steep as a trail can be built without ropes, it exited the river on a mission to climb 1000 ft as quickly as possible. It is West Webber of Mogollon Monster infamy, right after a freezing cold river. Climbing out of the river I waited to hear the cheers from the volunteers for any runner coming behind me. I pushed up the hills, wanting so bad to just stop and breath for a minute, just rest for a second. I didn’t, and pushed on up the switchbacks. One after another, they never ended. I started to think about Tom and the 100K runners doing this at mile 50. What a gut punch this will be for them. A few more switchbacks and I’m still not at the top when I hear the cheering down below.
Someone is near.
I stop power hiking and start running up the switchbacks. They’re getting closer.
The trail reconnects with double track for several more miles. More rolling hills through a tight forested tunnel, and more miles of steady consistent running. I’m fading fast, every section harder than the last, every muscle screaming out they can’t go on at this pace any longer. Every missed training opportunity over the last few weeks is popping in my head, every muscle strain explained. Every agonizing step reconciled. I block it out, and start counting steps to get my mind on another topic. I start thinking about the forest around us, how incredibly beautiful the weather is today, and how much fun these downhills still are. I think about my daughter Maggie's beautiful curly hair bouncing as she runs towards me at the aid station. My son Dean's gap tooth smile with all his front teeth missing, jumping into my tired arms as I run in. My beautiful wife Jen waiting for me with a smile as the kids tackle me in excitement.
The miles click away and I’m nearing the Point Wolfe aid station. I know its close, maybe 1-3 kilometers away, but I can’t remember exactly and the conversion to metric is hurting my brain at this point. At the top of what ends up being the last climb I roll over the crest of the hill and start striding downhill, hoping momentum creates some ability again. Suddenly from behind I hear the crunching sound of rocks and dirt and a quickly approaching runner. My mind snapped immediately to, “Relay, Relay, Relay. Let it be a relay runner.”
It was not.
It was a guy just hammering down this long rocky downhill. He was having a blast of a time, yelling out some passing encouragement of, “Just letting the brakes off for a bit and having some fun!” Having long thought of downhill running as “taking the e-brake off” and letting it fly, I followed suit. His enthusiasm jolted me out of my robotic stride and I took my e-brake off.
After a few strides my speed returned and I was humming down the hill. Strewn with boulders and loose gravel, it was anything but a road. Leaping over obstacles, clearing ditches, dodging loose boulders. It was a downhill worth hammering. Coming upon some hikers/crews for the race I heard the guy say to my passing legs, “That’s too fast.”
I picked up the pace and hit the aid station in full stride. Mile 22. Point Wolfe Aid station.
Not 30 seconds later a male runner comes in and immediately quits. Cramps he says with utter disappointment. I stare in bewilderment, wondering if that was really the reason he was quitting. Waiting for the punchline that doesn’t come, another runner flies into the aid station. Heidi McLellan, the first female in the race. She is not quitting and is in and out in 30 seconds. Following her out she’s already gone down the trail.
Coming up on the famous Point Wolfe covered bridge, I see my wife and kids waiting for me along the trail. They jump up in excitement and I get a couple quick hugs and cross the bridge. Seeing my family in a race is always a big boost and bound off with a renewed energy for the final stretch.
The last segment of the race goes through the covered bridge and across the Fundy Coastal Trail section to finish the race.
It is one of the most beautiful trails in the world.
All of it. Every inch. Every step.
Crossing the bridge at Point Wolfe there is a steep climb straight up. It was stunning. Ferns lined the winding pathway above your waist, a thick mixture of spruce and deciduous trees built the forest canopy. Sloping along the jagged coastline, lookouts into the sparkling Bay of Fundy every few miles was tantalizing. I stopped for none of it, but took note of all of it, wishing someone was there with me to share in it. Every turn of the trail was a new month on a calendar shoot for National Geographic or somebody's desktop screensaver. There is nothing else in the world when you're in a forest like that.
It is a section that brings in tourists to hike it over the course of days, making their visual of you running it seem like a page out of a comic book. They can’t believe it and they cheer you on like you’re a superhero. For the fragile ego’d few like me, its enough to boost your step just a bit more, just when you need it. After two more miles and a hard descent, I catch the female runner Heidi.
She seemed less than excited to see someone catch up with her, and I was less than excited to blow past her and have her on my tail for the rest of the day. So I tucked in behind her and proceeded to nearly spit blood trying to keep up with her the rest of the way. As if she was trying to drop me on every climb, she powered up and on through one big drop and climb. At each descent I thought of passing her, always having that upper hand, but I was already at max output just moving forward. With a 10K to go, it was all I could do to just keep up with her. So I did, in silence, for the next four miles matching her step for step.
Crossing the final field and on the last climb, she disappears into the last ascent. I concede and watch her go on up the cliff. She earned it and I wanted none of that. Well played Heidi. Well played.
Near the top of the last climb you can suddenly hear the loudspeaker at the headquarters. The finish is near and someone just came across. The crowd cheered, the announcer says something I couldn't understand. I can hear it and it sounds incredible.
The finish descends off the final forested peak, through a dark technical trail in a tight tunnel of trees. Hikers making their way up on a nice leisurely Saturday hike yield the trail with cheers and adulation, pushing my pace faster and faster. I love the sound of the finish, the feeling of a nearing finish line. An empty tank suddenly feels full. Like being a broke teenager back in high school buying gas with the loose change found between the seats to get you home. Seemingly now invincible with this renewed range, I could make it another 15 minutes before running out of gas. I hit the road in a full stride, cross the road and run up the hill hard, hoping to make one last run at catching Heidi. I make it another 100 meters at the top of the hill and sputter out.
Now only less than a mile from the finish, I can see it through the trees, and hear it clearly. I lean forward and run. Cars are going by and honking. People rolling their windows down and cheering. You can't walk here. You have to run.
One step after another, one step slightly faster than the last. I followed each trail marker to the next, fixated on each as the bread crumb to me sitting down. I hit the final grass field and succumb to power hiking the section nobody can see. Cresting the knoll and back in view of spectators, I roll forward and see the chute ahead of me.
I hear my wife yell out to our kids, “Daddy’s coming!”
I spring forward, preparing for my tradition of sprinting to the finish of any race, any distance, any circumstances.
Nothing left, empty the tank.
Those are the rules.
Those are my rules.
My son Dean (7) comes flying out from behind the playground smiling. Maggie (5) right beside them. We start to run together and Dean challenges me to a sprint. We run side by side for a while, my calves locking up in full revolt. Curling with a ferocity to the back of my knees I almost fall down. I know the only way to cure it is to run faster. Pushing past Dean and into full stride I hit the finish line flying.
Dean crashes into my arms at the finish, mumbling an exhausted “I thought you’d be tired at the finish and I’d be able to keep up with you.” Nice try buddy. Nice try.
I finished in 7th place overall out of 103 finishes. As a race with 29 miles, 4600 ft of elevation gain, and the most technical trail I’ve run, it was the hardest earned 5 hours and 40 minutes I’ve ever run. So many races I’ve run in better shape but without the belief in my ability. This race I put all the chips on the table that I can hang with the fast runners, that my abilities can compete with theirs, if I only give myself the chance.
The rest of the weekend was spent exploring the region, getting out and seeing what the rest of our beautiful coastline has to offer. We have visited a lot of beautiful places throughout our two plus years living in Maine, but Fundy seems to really stick with us.
Until next go round Fundy!
Every year I set a lot of goals for myself in what I want to accomplish, or experience in the coming year. It's usually tied to specific races or adventures planned, and without any formal training or planning involved. It almost never works out, and whatever comes out at the end of the year is what comes out. But it’s fun to start out a year with big dreams, find new adventures think about the world of possibilities in that perfect world of free time, disposable income, and a responsibility free life. Since none of that has lined up in over a decade now a I usually spend most of my time reading books to children and falling asleep in bunk beds, I’ve fallen a bit short on my January goals for some time.
This year was getting dangerously close to not even hitting 1000 miles or 175K in climbing, so come December I actually started running and with some intention on where I went and how often. I still barely ran a dozen times in the 31 days, but got in some bigger runs and got back to a steady streak of 4 straight 5am long runs. On the final day of the year I summited Cadillac Mountain one final time to push it over the 200K climbing mark on the year, making 6 of the 7 last years over that mark, but with the least amount of miles run since 2011. I raced a bit more this year (3 “official ultra races, 48K-60K) but had a whole lot of 10 mile weeks, and piled it on with big runs whenever the scheduled permitted. I rarely ran more than twice a week, and a 30 mile week was usually a 6 mile group run on Tuesday night and a 24 mile long run on Saturday. That’s pretty much my standard training plan since W was President.
I’ve run injury free for the better part of a decade but this year was different. This was my first full year in Acadia National Park and my first full winter of running.
It was rough on my body.
I think I was hurt a lot more this year due to pushing through the winter on spikes, ice, and falling about 1.3 million times through the winter. Microspikes on the ice isn’t exactly easy on your joints, with all the space in between where the granite rock is exposed but still covered in ice, it lends to miles and miles of running on granite with 1/2 metal spikes between your foot and the ground. It’s a jarring motion only saved by what snow you can find. And when I found the snow, I was without snowshoes and was post holing and climbing up these huge ice walls and knee deep snow that almost nobody else was even taking, or would be taking for much of the winter. It was slow going. It took its toll on me and I was barely able to run come spring time.
I flew out to Arizona in February to run the Black Canyon 60K with my brother Noah and Jay Danek. I was signed up for the 100K version the year I moved to Maine. I was actually supposed to race it the weekend I was packing up my house, my wife crying in the corner still in wild disbelief that we were leaving the sunshine of the desert for the far corner of the US...
I was but six miles into the race when my left calf started crawling up the back of my kneecap with so much pain I almost quit at the first aid station. I could barely run, I could barely walk, and these two are waiting for me around every corner, wondering when I was going to lock it up and stop my whining. With each ridgeline laying out a single track begging for easy, fast and fun miles, it was a form of torture to not be able to run this, after suffering through so many freezing cold, difficult, and abusive winter runs to get ready for this race.
It was all I could do to muster a 11 minute downhill mile before I even hit the 10K mark. I literally wanted to cry it was so painful. That’s a threshold I rarely enter.
I had run a 20 miler three weeks prior in Acadia after a big snow storm. It took me 7.5 hours. I fell so many times on the inches of solid ice under the foot of snow, I’d pulled my calf muscle somewhere along the way. With the race already booked, and vacation back to Arizona a definite, I was hoping it wouldn’t bother me and it had healed.
It had not. So I kept running.
By the time I got to the first aid station I was miserable, depressed that this race the three of us were going to run together was already unraveling and I couldn’t keep up, and furious all at the same time. I got to the aid station, filled my water and took off down the trail without Jay & Noah. I was determined to punish my calf into cooperating. I was going to open it up on this downhill and stop bitching about it. It wasn’t going to cooperate on its own, I was going to make it cooperate.
It never went away, I just buried the pain and after enough miles, I generally just forgot that it was an issue the first 30 miles. When we got to the finish at 40 something miles I’d forgotten it was bothering me. I’d wanted/needed to quit at every single aid station along the way it was so painful. But I know my body and I know what is long term detrimental and what is temporary misery. I can manage temporary misery long enough to finish a race. That day I was glad I finished and wondered just how many people that quit that day really gave it their all before deciding to give up. My guess is quite few, a group I never want to be included in.
Come May it was time for our now annual cross island adventure with Tom St. Germain. Twenty nine miles, just under 11K in climbing starting on the west side of Mount Desert Island (home of Acadia National Park and where I live) and traversing the entire Acadia National Park and almost all the peaks until finishing at the end of Gorham Mountain along the shore of the Atlantic. I was a day out from running across the island staring at my phone and thinking if I should call Tom and bail. My left shin was throbbing in pain sitting there holding my phone, a large welt was visable on my left shin and painful to the touch. A few days prior I sat on the north ridge of Dorr mountain unable to run downhill from that shin injury. I just sat there on the rocks, staring down at the town below, devastated at the thought that I’d broken my leg and I’m going to be out the entire summer in a cast. It took me over an hour to get down the final mile off Dorr, hobbling my way over the boulders back to my truck. I crawled into my truck that night thinking there was no way I was running this summer, let alone running a very challenging, physically abusive run in the park in under a week.
I really don’t like to bail on a committment. I showed up.
We hit the trail at 0400 the next morning and finished a bit over 9 hours later. With each passing mile my confidence grew and my memory of why I almost didn’t show up dissolved. I’d follow my way up the mountain behind Tom, trying my best to keep up and hobble my way through. I was weaker than I wanted to be not having been able to run much the last month, but I managed and came in 15 minutes behind Tom. By the time I’d finished I’d forgotten what my injury was.
It wouldn’t return as an issue for my leg the rest of the year.
Come August though I’d developed another issue, this time on my right knee, just below the patella. Another issue I think resulting from running too many granite mountain tops and not enough gravel carriage roads, but one that left me in throbbing pain with each step. Well, not every step. Just when I ran, walked, stood, sat, or went up or down. Possibly all from overcompensating to protect my recovering left shin injury I’d created this damage to my right knee, but regardless, I’d find myself yet again on the eve of a big run in Acadia to celebrate my friend Jenn’s 41st birthday. The prior year she and I were the sole finishers of her epic run across the mountains of Acadia, finishing with a dip in the Atlantic at Sand Beach. A lot of friends jump in and out at various parts throughout the day so I planned on just doing the first 10 mile section and calling it a day.
You know, to try and be smart about one of these things.
I ran all 41 miles, 12+ hours on our feet and an insane amount of climbing. Jenn, myself and Bradford would be the only finishers.
My knee hasn’t been an issue since then.
A month later I raced in New Brunswick, Canada in the Fundy National Park for 48K. Two weeks after that in Nova Scotia, Canada at the Round the Cape 48K. No lingering issues, I was healthy and running free.
I can’t really explain why it kept disappearing each time. The injuries were certainly not imaginary. Possibly the forced rest before the bigger events really helped prevent major damage, but in the end each time I was able to push through the inital pain and downright misery, and finish each and every event.
It was the same at Mogollon Monster 100 last fall. I was sick going into the race and then had a blown up ankle for the last 45 miles.
No lingering issues. I finished.
Possibly it has a lot to do with me simply hating to quit. I’ve told my small children for their short 4 and 6 years that “Dougherty’s don’t quit.” Don’t commit to something you can’t follow through on, and when you commit, you better not quit. I’ve repeated this over and over when they want to stop playing something they chose to do, when they wanted to shovel snow with me but wanted to stop after 4 minutes, or any other time that quitting came into their minds. It’s a character shortcoming I don’t want to ever exist in my family. There is a time for common sense and ending certain things, and then there is quitting because you didn’t want to try hard enough to see it through. The latter I detest. Apparently it’s sunk in.
I wanted to go inside after playing hockey for 4 hours in 15 degree temps after Christmas last week. I was tired, it was freezing cold and I’d regretted the decision to only put on one thin pair of socks for the last couple hours.
“Dougherty’s don’t quit Dad.” Said Dean, my 6 year old son.
Well then. I guess my toes aren’t that cold.
We kept playing.
I think a little injury scare has a lot of value. I’ve been so successful in limiting any injuries over the years, gaining the clear image of me not being able to run is frightening and I’ve really adjusted my training here to allow for better consistency. Staying on softer trails, finding more gravel miles, and hitting the granite peaks in bursts, not all day events, I think will give me a little more life over the course of the year. Even with the challenges, for a year that had so little cumulative running, I feel like it was a huge growth year for my ability as a runner, my confidence in inclement weather, and my ability to push through adversity in a wilderness situation. Which is all I really care about. I know I’ll get older every year, the trick is to also get wiser every year, and maybe even stronger every year. The times and numbers that comes with those statements become less and less important.
But since I’m a “numbers” guy I enjoy tracking how each year compares.
2018 (Maine)- 1097 miles - 236 hours - 201K elevation gain - 149 activities
2017 (Maine) - 1372 miles - 274 hours - 233K elevation gain - 167 activities
2016- (Arizona) 1348 miles - 254 hours - 203K elevation gain - 122 activities
2015 - (Arizona) 1127 miles - 222 hours - 191K elevation gain - 132 activites
2014 - (Arizona) 1259 miles - 238 hours - 219K elevation gain - 132 activities
2013 - (Arizona) 1874 miles - 346 hours - 211K elevation gain - 208 activities
2012 - (Arizona) 1749 miles - 349 hours - 251K elevation gain - 179 activities
2011 - (Arizona) 1053 miles - only tracked total miles
2010 - (Arizona) 1029 miles - only tracked total miles
2009 - (Arizona) -didn't keep track
My 11 Favorite Runs of 2018
New Years Day 2018 - Minus 20 degrees
First day of 2018 and we headed out for a long run during the frigid cold snap of the holiday break last year. It was -20 wind chill when we started and clipped off several mountains until we straight up called it a day and headed back in fear of frostbite on Jenn’s foot. Which she ultimately got and has bugged her from time to time ever since. Despite this, pushing through those temps, in those conditions was quite an adventure and a way to see Acadia that many will never see.
Cadillac Mountain Summitt - Coldest Run of the Year
James found me through Strava, looking for someone to run with him in the deep, dark, freezing winter when he was in town for work. He wanted to run up Cadillac Mountain for sunrise, as the highest point on the eastern US seaboard, its also the first place in the winter where the sun hits the US.
So I met this stranger at 4am, drove the south ridge trailhead and we headed up the ridge in unbelievably cold winds, a crystal clear morning with a truly epic sunrise. It was literally too cold to stick around and we took a quick couple photos and started back down, phones dead almost immediately from exposure to the cold. It was a beautiful run and still, dozens of Cadillac sunrise runs later, my favorite. All from a stranger reaching out for a run via social media, and since then James has returned for work and met up with us a few times for runs. The power of the internet.
Great Head May Run - The Monty Memorial
I picked up my chocolate lab and lifted him into my Tacoma on a sunny Friday afternoon in May. I drove really slow into town, hoping something would prevent me from getting there.
An hour later he was gone.
Losing my best friend of 17 years was really difficult. I spent a lot of days, nights, weekends, with just Monty. He was everything to me for so long, and everything to all of us when my family came into be more than just Monty & I. The next day we all piled into the car and went to have fun in Acadia, finding a quite side beach off Great Head that no tourists were at and we could discover little tide pools all our own. The kids were being incredible, and having a blast with big smiles on their faces despite knowing they really missed Monty too. We barely ran, but discovered a lot of side trails, rocks and ledges and still to this day, after dozens of other family hikes and runs, this is one of my all time favorite days with my family. An otherwise sad and depressing day thinking about a lost friend, was instead an incredible day of together.
May 2018 - The St. Germain Cross Island Traverse
Year 2 and no less special than the first crossing with Tom. It’s not an easy route, it’s all uphill, and what downhill we get is at 30-45% grade and all granite. Beaten, nearly broken, and trying to keep up with Tom we finished trying to finish strong on Gorham and time suddenly became important. Tom has 10+ years on me but not an ounce less of competitive spirt, something I can really appreciate and welcome. We’ve had two incredible weekends of weather for these two crossings, and one of my favorite weekends of the year that I’m already looking forward to.
July 2018 - The Week of the Mexican
When my brother moved to Phoenix 15 years ago we moved into a house together. Cesar was our roommate. Noah and I were the only gringos in the neighborhood. We lived together when both Noah and Cesar met their now wives, we all essentially grew up together through our 20’s and now 30’s. Our kids are very close, and it was our three families at the holidays together. Then we moved to Maine.
Noah, Cesar and I all drove out to Maine when I first started work. Fifty five straight hours with my 16 (at the time) year old lab who was havingexplosive diarrhea every 3 hours of the trip. Oh, the stories.
I’m fairly certain that weekend in March was the last time a Mexican stepped foot on the island before Cesar and his family came for a vacation over the 4th of July.
While the entire trip was incredible, what was really special is how much of the national park I was able to share with Cesar when we did 4-7 mile runs in different parts of the park every morning of their trip. Which is all the more special because Cesar doesn’t “run.” Not really, not as a habit. But he did in advance of coming out so we could see some of the mountains. And he clipped off some great loops with me and I loved it.
Every Tuesday Night Run - D.E.R.T.T
Trail running groups can be intimidating for some people. Not every group actually runs as a group. Some splinter quickly, completely leaving behind any new people to figure out the route on their own. I met up with DERTT (Down East Running Trail Team) their first weekend of 2017 where I met Jenn and nearly lost my left lung trying to keep up with her. Last year I made almost all of the Tuesday nights, making it a point to make the runs as it was always one of most fun, and favorite events of the week. The people, the laughs, the views, it really is much less about the running, and so much about the people. Every Tuesday we’d hit a new trail, a new mountain, a new river crossing. Someone would always show up a little intimidated, and we’d probably end up pushing them a little outside their comfort zone.
Every time they’d finish with a big smile on their face.
August 2018 - Jenn’s Acadian Birthday Run - 41 miles
Last year Jenn turned 40. I ran 41 miles with her in one of the funnest, yet difficult runs I can remember. I felt incredible, strong and better at 40 miles then almost any other endurance event. I entered the 2018 birthday run in far less fitness, but still recovered during the day and ended up keeping up with the group and finishing strong with everyone. Jenn’s birthday has turned into a collection of every local mountain runner showing up for a portion or all of her weekend. We hit almost every peak in the national park, every major view, different forests, and just hang out and take pictures and laugh all day. This year was even more special watching Bradford hit the 50K mark for the first time ever and then go on and finish the full event with us. As a super fast road runner, seeing him hammer the technical downhills and easily climb strongly all day, we were witnessing a road runner conversion right before our eyes. His enthusiasm for the outdoors and the fun he was having was truly infectious. Another annual event I’m already looking forward to for next summer.
October 2018 - Round the Cape 48K - Cape Chignecto Provincal Park, Nova Scotia, Canada
After a seven hour drive we reached the coast of Nova Scotia and Cape Chignecto Provincial Park in Canada. The race was already re-routed to a 15 mile out and back to high rivers along the course and we’d be now traversing the coastal trail along the 600 ft cliffs above the Bay of Fundy. Jenn and I took off together in the front of the small 40 person race pack and stuck together until the turnaround point. Two weeks prior at the Fundy Circuit 48K in New Brunswick I held onto Jenn for 4 miles before she dropped me. My goal for this race was to hold Jenn’s pace, a consistent and strong 10 minute trail mile over technical terrain, never, ever lagging. She’s strong and consistent no matter what comes up to her on the trail. I made it to the turnaround and we were in 2nd and 3rd respectively. My brother had just finished 3rd at the Flagstaff 50M in Arizona that same day.
I was going to finish on the podium and stuck with Jenn through the end, finishing just behind her by a few seconds. The course is unreasonably beautiful, and despite knee deep sections of mud, a mile of beach running at the end, and 6k in climbing where some was dangerously close to 50% grade’s, it was one of my favorite courses. I’m returning in 2018 for the Capes 100 which covers part of this region.
Thanksgiving 2018 - Noah, Jay and I in Spur Cross Conservation Area
In our second trip to Arizona in 2018 we had a break in the Thanksgiving schedule to head north of Phoenix to the Spur Cross Conservation Area. Home of Skull Mesa and Elephant Mountain and some of the most beautiful trails and “Old West” running in the country. Being able to run with Noah & Jay is always my choice as we can all joke about anything together, all are equal in running abilities on everyone’s best day, and we can’t go many steps without laughing. Noah had never been up Elephant Mountain itself and as the RD for Aravaipa Running’s Elephant Mountain races its a fun side adventure to check off for the upcoming race season. It’s so different in Maine then it is in Arizona, both so uniquely beautiful I’m not sure I think one is necessarily better or more beautiful than another. But wow, it’s such a rugged land of awesome out there.
December 29th, 2018 - A beautiful thaw
December 29th, 2017 it was -10. It was 40 on December 29th, 2018. I went running both times.
This one was far more enjoyable. In shorts and with far less snow and ice than last year, the western side of Acadia National Park was nothing short of stunning. I only ran 8 miles and it took me 3 hours.
I didn’t care. I stood on the cliffs and stared out over the mountains. I looked and studied the various lichen I found that looked, almost certainly, like they had grown two inches in the rain the night before.
I talked to locals out for their Saturday hike, petted dogs along the trail, practiced climbing on the Little Notch ice wall. I ran hard in sections, and was happy hiking others at a leisurely pace just enjoying the warm weather and sharp green contrasts of the moss against the red pine needle trail.
It’s part of what makes Acadia so magical. Even in the wettest of days, the driest, coldest, hottest, foggiest, it really doesn’t matter what the weather is. It will captivate you, make you forget all about your mileage goal for that day, what trail you planned to take. Because over there is a beautiful opening in the forest that is all lit up with that sliver of light coming through.
I think I’ll go check that out.
Hoping for some similar memories in 2019, down some more random rabbit holes and seeing where they take me.
I often day dream about adventures. Every time I look out of a window and see a tree, I think about how I could get to the top. Every mountain that speeds by my view out my car window, I think of the best way to the top. I dream up dreams of obscure adventures, races, team events, or adventure races. I read about sports I know nothing about, watch video's and learn about the subtle differences between nordic and skate skiing, only to find out they aren't so subtle afterall. I think up ways to cross Acadia National Park on different winter gear, on snowshoes or ski's. Climbing ice walls with no ice climbing experience. Nothing is out of bounds, nothing too intimidating. It's just a matter of research and preparation. I'll figure out the rest. But it all but consumes my restless mind.
All the time.
For years I've dreamed about all kinds of adventures, but it always came back to one adventure for me. One that leads me back to my very first trail run with my brother in law Brett. In Huntsville, Alabama we tracked down five miles of single track through the woods that summer, huffing my untrained body behind him as he talked of the Mountain Mist 50K held in that mountain trail system, and of one obscure race held in the mountains of Tennessee.
The infamously famous Barkley. Now so far from obscure after the Netflix documentary came out, and hoards of video and online articles every year, its become nothing short of a spectacle. Some would even say, a Testicle Spectacle.
For a number of reasons, infants and hotel openings being two big ones, I've steered clear of even attempting signup for Barkley. I respect the race difficulty too much to sign up for it when I otherwise knew I wouldn't be able to give it the full due attention in training. With newborns at home, or new hotel openings, it was always a new challenge every year and the timing wasn't ever right.
Until this year.
With Barkley now falling in my hotel off season and me being on the East Coast (although I'm probably still further away here than in Phoenix...) it felt like time to make the attempt. Navigate the unwritten application process, and see if I can write my way into getting into the race. I've come to know a lot of the past entrants of Barkley, a tough breed of ultrarunner no doubt, but a group I feel at home with. It's my kind of ultrarunner and a group I know I can physically hang with in that terrain. Give me a smooth course with a lot of running and I'll blow up. Give me unrelenting 40% hills on slippery slopes covered in leaves and ice and I'll give you Acadia National Park.
I call that a Saturday.
That's not to say I think I can easily complete one loop, let alone more than that. But I embrace those conditions and feel at home in them, it's a challenge that appeals to be in the core of what is running. A challenge not of speed, but of resilience, composure, and pure will power.
I sat up watching the time tick by. I sat with my laptop open. Minutes clicked off slowly. I wasn't sure why I was so hesitant to commit. I had been thinking about doing this for months, the last month and intense obsession that consumed me. I'd read and re-read so many race reports, I was about to dive into some serious off course orientation runs in the dead of winter and my training was already starting to get really strong.
Then it hit me.
For the longest time I've been successful at finishing races, difficult races usually, through very minimal training. A laughable 20 miles a week with 20 of it coming on a Saturday long run. Years go by without cracking 50 mile weeks, but slugging out long outings from the wee hours of Saturday mornings to get done by 8-9 am. It wasn't that I had an un- supportive wife, she's been nothing but supportive, but that from the onset of our marriage we agreed that running wouldn't impact our lives. If I chose to get up at 3am to run 25 miles then I can't complain about being tired at 3pm that day.
The lawn still needs to get mowed. We still have to go to that 5 year old's birthday party that afternoon, and I better not be slug on the floor come dinner time. Like many ultrarunner's, life went on and you just fit it in. But as I climbed the company ladder, I struggled being wrecked in the boardroom on a Tuesday because I was up at 4:30am training at the track that morning doing 400 m repeats for 90 minutes. I was constantly tired and mentally exhausting trying to balance a growing shouldering of work, with little ones at home and a tired wife waiting for relief. Being tired from running became less of a benefit, and more of a burden. So it moved further down the family list of importance. And rightfully so.
Moving to Maine opened up a world of new adventures for me, and rejuvenated my spirit. New trails, new mountains and new trail friends. A diverse and ever expanding universe ripe for the exploring. I dove head long into it all covering every trail I could find in the first year. Looking at every style of map, from every era, finding new and old trails and heading out to find them all. I traversed the island, hit all the peaks, did trails all winter long on ice beds and over ice walls, it filled my adventurous soul while destroying what I felt was a hardened ultrarunners body. Acadia redefined what "hard" really is.
Yet with each run I'm in the forest I'm not at home. That thought overwhelms me as I'm at the office all week and then gone on Saturday. I think about the time I could be spending with them and my wife and instead I'm out in the forest running.
My son Dean is six. He is my mini-me and at the same time and entirely different person I can't quite figure out. He's intriguing in his mindset and what drives him. He's an encyclopedia of knowledge, and a sensitive and honest soul. He wants to spend every waking moment with me, but also completely alone to his own thoughts and time.
Maggie is four and I can tell already she has my competitive spirit and I love her for it. She sees a mountain she powers up it like a gazelle. Fearless, confident and effortless, she goes until there is no more going. She never tires, she never stops smile, she is at home in the mountains and on the trail. She hears me waking up at 5 am to go running and immediately pops out of bed and comes running and tells me she is going with me. What was once a planned mountain run has now turned into an extra 25 minutes getting her ready, and a run/hike with Maggie. So it goes.
Sitting at home this Christmas over the last five days with the family, I realized I was missing something though. While I felt all this guilt out on the trail for being gone, for obsessing about all these adventures I wanted to go on but "couldn't" I was being selfish. I was working hard to provide for my family, trying to be a great husband, trying to be a great dad, and trying to somehow fill this need for adventure in the wilderness all at the same time. But this entire time I realized that the adventure wasn't on a mountain, up a tree or on a pair of snowshoes.
It was sitting right there in my own living room with my family. And I was too busy staring at a map, or looking for it on a trail, to even realize it.
My kids are begging for me to play with them and I was too busy planning my own adventures to even notice. We'd play all the time of course, but I'd convinced myself that I needed my "breaks" from everything else and that getting out into the forest was good for my overall health. It got me outside, out of an office and got some much needed exercise. I know that I need that now, at this stage of my life, without it I get antsy. I don't know that will ever change. But the real piece I realized was after Christmas we went outside, where it was 15 degrees out, and played hockey on our ice pond in the backyard. We grabbed sticks off the ground that as closely resembled a hockey stick as we could find, and we grabbed pine cones for pucks. We picked some rocks for goals on each side, and went started playing.
Hours went by, pine cones disappeared by the dozens (Thanks to our ever present labrador Lucky who loves stealing the puck) and the kids demanded we kept playing. There were hoards of new toys and games to play in the warm house.
They wanted to be outside.
"Dad, I love hockey, can we play this forever??"
"Dad, can you take off work tomorrow so we can play hockey again?"
"Dad, we don't even need hockey sticks, these sticks work great!"
"Daddy, can I play hockey if I'm a girl. I hope so."
We went in at lunch, and went right back out after lunch. We spent almost the whole day outside and it was a lot of fun.
I don't know that I'll ever stop day dreaming about adventures to be had, mountains to climb, or pushing myself with some new found challenge. But this week has taught me that my focus wasn't on the right kind of adventure, because it was happening all along right in front of my eyes. With my wife, with my kids, in this season of life we're in right now.
I just needed to wake up and realize it.
So I don't need Barkley right now, and I held my essay in my inbox for another year.
Right now I've got all the adventure I need.
We left Geromino Aid Station for the last time and entered the forest on a mission. Closing out this last climb up West Webber left only one long downhill to the finish line. Our up's and down's and misery was all out the window. We were 90 miles into the race, there wasn't an obstacle that was going to stop us.
Fifty five miles into the race I felt my ankle start to burn. I ignored it for thirty miles before it wasn't something I could ignore. Sharp shooting pain continued with every step as the pain started its way up my shin. Leaving Geronimo with a big climb left, there was no stopping. I'd heal tomorrow.
Our group of 6 had dwindled down to 3. Our pacer all night and good friend Jay Danek had dropped us off after the Highline section and got us to sunrise. His usual basket of low brow humor and general inability to empathize with anything we chose to complain about. Both key attributes to any good pacer. We had Tobias Sorenson from Utah (by way of Sweden) for the entire night and we'd clicked along miles together since our second trip through Houston Brothers as the sun had just set. Pacing along with the same long stride, the same dry sense of humor, we were no long a couple of brothers, but a trio of runners driven to the same finish line.
We hit the West Webber climb as the sun started beating down on the tall Ponderosa pines, shielding us from the intense Arizona sun. At least temporarily. My ankle was miserable, throbbing incessentlay and fragile to any unstable footing. The entire course is unstable footing. It hurt to walk, run, stand, lean. I just wanted to be done. My leg hurt so bad I stopped caring what was wrong with it. My stubborness took over and I took control of the pain but telling it to shut the hell up. To prove my own point to myself, I pushed harder up the trail. I pushed harder as we started up the mile climb, gaining 1000 feet at mile 93-94. Sharp switchbacks straight up the face of the 2000 ft. Mogollon Rim, we pushed each turn. Each one harder than the last. Noah up ahead, pushing each other faster up the turns, we pushed with a vengeance on this course, Tobias below us probably wondering what he'd done to us to deserve this. Cresting out on the top I knew we'd crushed it. Out of every training run, every fun run, all the times I've climbed up West Webber over the years, that was the fastest I've ever climbed that mountain.
Hitting the Donahue Trail walking became nothing but pain and misery. What isn't at 95 miles though? Running was all I could muster with my leg and we all pushed on across the top of the Rim before we caught a sight of the town below. Several miles of switchbacks and a stretch along the road and we'd be there, crossing the finish line of this sufferfest.
We'd end up running the entire way down.
Coming into the small town of Pine, Arizona and crossing that bridge I had the drive to push harder. My body was broken, hobbling on a leg that had been battered and shredded for the last 45 miles. We pushed up that incline past the saloon and the market, the same places I'd cheered finishers on year after year. Screaming at the top of my lungs in a town full of old cowboys and retireees, wondering what in the hell happened to their quiet Sunday afternoon. I'd cheer people on when I knew they just wanted to walk it in to the finish. I'd scream louder until they started running. I'd hammer on the cowbell until they pulled up a trot. One foot, then another, leaning forward until their momentum helped get them to at least a shuffle. A shuffle and some cowbell turns into a jog and as they come into view of the finish line, we'd see some push even harder. Every last drop of energy depleted as they cross under the big Monster sign, to a meager crowd, limited fan fare and a general populace that will be too confused to truly appreciate what you accomplished when you tell them at home.
We were in a different place looking up the hill and listening to the cheering. Looking up the road at the finish line instead of down at the runners was new to me. Families, wives, kids, friends, all following us around the mountains for two days, happy as can be to see us finish. Proud as can be to see us finish.
I wanted to think about that but I couldn't. My leg had been on my mind for the entire night. It dominated my thoughts for hours.
Would I be able to walk tomorrow? Did I completely tear the ligaments? Are the tendons shredded? Did I break my ankle? Is it the stupidest thing I've ever done running on this injury for so long?
Yet as we moved up the road towards the finish my mind shifted.
I looked over at Tobias and Noah as we moved from a walk, to a shuffle, and eventually to a jog, and I didn't feel my leg anymore. A random stranger that half way into a race called out to us, "Do you guys mind if I join you for the night?" We say sure. Eighteen hours later he's part of the family. That's ultrarunning.
My brother had never attempted a hundred miler and he was here crossing the line of one of the hardest hundreds out there. There were several times in the race early on I wasn't sure if I was going to even be able to keep up with him. But we ended up running every step of the race together. 100 miles. Step for step. Tobias and Noah looked weary, tired, dirty, covered in salt lines and dust. Their packs bouncing lightly as they trotted, their eyes squinting in the high sun overhead. You could see a smile breaking through each of their faces. The finish line was near.
We crossed that finish line holding our kids in our arms, with our gang of Dougherty's scattered about, under, around and through the finish line. They were everywhere and for a moment, it felt like everyone was a Dougherty.
I'd sprinted every single finish line I've ever come across. Unnecessarily so to some, harder than necessary even to myself, but something I've always looked forward to in any race, and what keeps me pushing hard towards the end of any race. I know when I get close, I need to gear up to empty the tank. When it feels like it's empty, I always know there is more in there to push hard, even if only for a short sprint. I've dreamed for years of hammering that finish line, straight across that bridge, and up the completely obnoxious 3% incline on pavement to the finish line. I've done training runs and run the finish line, and sprinted it as if I'm finishing the Mogollon Monster 100 one day. Like a kid pretending to hit the game winning homerun in the bottom of the ninth, I instead dreamed of sprinting to the finish of a hundred mile mountain race I'd helped create years before. A kids dream in an adult world I hoped to experience one day.
One day came and we finished. I didn't sprint and I didn't care. I wouldn't change a thing about it, it was a hell of a race. I don't know what place we came in, and I don't even know what time of day it was, or what our finish time was. Noah and I started this race and that day we finished it together.
It's now September 12th, 2018. The race is in three days and my Facebook feed is flooded with 7 years of past photos, video's and memories of time up on the Rim prepping or planning for the race. This will be the first time I'm not there.
Mogollon is always on my mind because it will always hold such a special place for me. So much of the course is ruggedly beautiful, raw to its core, and destructive at its worst. It's a beauty I haven't found in other places, and something about that area draws you back in and can't be replicated elsewhere. The natural, physical aspects are memorable enough, yet what I often think back on the most, now 3000+ miles away living on the coast of northern Maine (seriously, I couldn't' have picked a place further away...) is how much I miss the moments within a race that often define it. Hammering West Webber with my brother at the end of a physical beat down, in unison and without words, we didn't accept a difficult climb and hobbled our way to the top.
We owned that climb.
We destroyed that climb.
Feeling the pain of the course, wanting to quit so many times, feeling like there was no way I would finish, and then trotting up the road and under the finish line. Thirty minutes later thinking about the twenty ways I slowed myself down and where I could have saved time. Seeing Jamil's genuine excitement for us before, during and after the race, a guy that has been with me through this Monster journey in so many roles, and now the passionate driver in it's long term success. Seeing other runners pass us early on and then passing them late in the race with a "Keep Going" while secretly thinking "Yup. Shouldn't have passed me Turkey Springs..." Running through the night with a big group that ran together with a level of cooperation, teamwork and unison I don't know I've ever experienced before in an ultra. We'd all finish the race and seeing everyone come through after experiencing huge sections of time on the course together is one of the underappreciated values of ultrarunning. The "story" of a runner, from signup, through the training, the emails, the questions, to their nervous excitement at packet pickup, to the race high's and low's and their finish, IS the 100 mile race to me. Our sport is so much more than the 36 hour cutoff, it's the part that goes into all the planning in advance, training, travel, scouting, and hours of work time spent reading maps and past race reports. Then seeing that play out on race day. That's the part I miss the most.
Seeing our families at aid stations along the way, the now five kids big enough to set up a cheering section, jump in our arms and ask, "When are you going to be done running Daddy?" at mile 23. Friends at aid stations, pacing other runners, and the special people that have made Mogollon, or any race, is such a unique part of this sport.
Right now runners all over the country are planning their travel, or maybe already on their way to the dusty town of Pine. Packet Pickup is in two days, and all the stories, fears, talk of weather, heat, hills, and mountains will come up. Smiles, beers and laughs consumed before the impossible sleep begins.
The morning will come too soon, and not soon enough. The Monster will rise above the start line, and as the sun rises over the Rim, the sounds of the Star Spangled Banner will echo off it's cliffs. You'll get chills, no doubt. There is no gun to go off, you'll just go. Up the switchbacks and into the glaring sunrise. Enjoy it, embrace it, crush it.
Take what the trail gives you, hammer the finish, and remember,
"You're only tired because you think you're tired. Keep going."
I had my doubts more than a few times these last few weeks. Yet here it is. Finally.
That’s not to say it’s still not cold out. We’re still wearing hats and gloves, and layers out on the trail, but we’re at least seeing the ground beneath us and if there is anything I’ve learned this winter on the island, its that simple traction is in and of itself, something to be grateful for.
We still will see snow in patches between mountains well into May, but just being able to run, just run is so exciting. Piecing together the various trails in Acadia National Park because you WANT to run them, not because they are the only passable ones, opens up a world of fun that for the most part, has been really restricted this winter. I haven’t run more than 11 miles since the Black Canyon 60K in Arizona back on Feb 17th. Only once did I run 11 miles, nothing else over 10 miles since then. Now that we are past the last major snowstorms, and recent rain and 40-50 degree weather for a week plus, the majority of the trails are runnable. And that gives me a lot of motivation going into the spring running season.
Heading into running season I have to keep goals dangling in front of me or I struggle mightedly with consistency. Lining up a cross island traverse of the park in May was key as it was something I really enjoyed last May but wasn’t able to allocate the time to do the full distance. It’s about a 50K from point to point and this year should be a lot of fun now knowing the terrain and trails that much more. It’s a lot of climbing and a punishing route, but a stunning one and I’m excited to see it through.
Leading up to that over the next month I have to build up my base and get back to those big mileage runs and get used to the granite again. Much of the mountains are a bedrock of granite and while the lower trails are plush, soft pine needle trails the upper reaches of the trail network are almost exclusively running on rock. Going up is fine, but the downhill on the granite can give me some problems if I don’t build back up to it. One great thing about the snow is the cushion it provides. After a 13 mile, four hour run today I’m looking to jump into 30 mile weeks for the next two weeks and then 45 and then hit the traverse that week. It’s not a lot of training but my body is used to short training schedules followed by a painful day long abuse of my body.
With that base on my body I really want to take a crack at the FKT for the 26 peaks in Acadia National Park. It’s a bit of an unknown one with little information on what was attempted in the past, and with so many variations, hard to nail down what that might even be. So if nothing else, I’ll create my own attempt, go for it, and someone can at least use that time as some kind of measuring stick. I don’t care about the time, more about the effort and having a set goal to motiviate me. I can do the miles and the climbing. I need more to push me to train hard. A fixed time goal is enough for me.
I struggle planning further out than that. So much in my life now depends on the immediate, and often so much changes that makes 3-4+ months out planning needless for me. So I focus more on the training for the next 30 days, and 60 at the most. I find that I can focus more on getting in shape and for the next few weekends, then planning 3 months out and not knowing what family or work committments are going to shut down those plans. At the end fo the day, running is dead last on the overall calendar in terms of priorities. I’ve learned to not get too excited and put too many eggs in the proverbial running basket, chances are it’ll just end in disappointment.
But the the next 30 days? Yeah, I’m going to crush those.
I stood there in my front yard thinking it over. Or rather, just kind of staring blindly at the pallet and wondering how did I get to this place. How quickly things have changed. I didn’t think about it long, and grabbed at the plastic cover and starting to pull the bags off. Two bags at a time, 40 lbs each, I’d spend the next hour taking 25 trips to the basement to re-stock my wood pellet supply to heat my house.
Not exactly something that pops up as a regular household task as a resident of Phoenix the last 16 years. Moving 2000 lbs of tiny compressed sawdust pellets into a basement. Heck, they don’t even have basements in Phoenix. Yet, its exactly those almost routine tasks that remind me of what New England life is all about. Shoveling snow, pulling weeds, raking leaves, cutting wood, and moving bags of pellets. It’s what gives Mainers and other cold weather states that edge many softer (see: winter free) states just don’t have. In Phoenix you just pay your bills and go about your day, all year round. There is literally nothing to worry about beyond making sure your AC is working. No grass, no leaves, no weeds, no wood. You can just be as lazy as you want. Its why so many people retire there, they are sick of the work it takes to live in a cold weather state.
Lazy doesn’t have much place here in Maine though. If you don’t put in the work, you might just freeze. But if you put in the work, and you prepare for the conditions that come at you, you are rewarded with one of the most magical places you could ever live.
Much can be said about the running experience you get here on Mount Desert Island, home of Acadia National Park (or most of it) and the town of Bar Harbor, Maine. We’re on an island with a population that has less than most Wal-Marts on Black Friday and despite Acadia National Park being one of the top ten most visited national parks (3.5 million visitors last year, another new record) you rarely see anyone on the trails. (At least everything outside of Cadillac Mountain, the highest point on the eastern seaboard and the easiest to ascend with that convenient pavement leading its way to the top for all those visitors seeking instant gratification without any of the work.) This is particularly true in the offseason here whe visitors drop to under 500 a day spread over 46,000 acres. Last year I saw not a single person on the trails for 47 straight days. I was starting to think I moved to a deserted island, not Mount Desert Island.
I soon figured out why. It was winter when I moved here last year.
Winter in Acadia
March 6th last year it was -15 with the wind chill. I wore a coat. Several of them.
Before I had even moved from Phoenix I spent almost equal amounts of time preparing for my new position overseeing operations at the iconic and historic Bar Harbor Inn as I did pouring over topo maps of Acadia. I scoured the map and countour lines to understand how each unique path connected to one another, how to string together larger runs, bigger runs, steeper runs. I knew the entire trail system before I crossed the border into Maine. But I was 16 years removed from winter conditions and it quickly showed.
My first runs were in shorts. Because naturally I didn’t own any leggings/tights or anything remotely close to “winter running gear.” I resorted to my trusty 15 year old Adidas wind pants trying to see if there was also some magical way they would protect me from the inevitable mid section freeze I experienced with each and every run. The park is stunning in a fresh coat of snow and the ice covered rock walls. The unique way mountains light up in the low lying light of winter was enough to get me out the door every morning. And opening the front door every morning and feeling the brutally cold wind was amost enough to get me to turn right back around and go back to sleep every morning. I froze morning after morning trying to figure out the right number of layers to stay warm. (I settled on 19.) But more of what got me out the door was a new trailhead every morning, and the mystique of what I was going to find every day. I was addicted to the unknown, how much I could cram in before work, how much changing terrain could I handle.
“Can I connect the Gorge trail with Cadillac and down the Featherbed and not fall to my death on the ice?” These were the thoughts that ran through my head as I shivered in my truck driving to the trailhead. Often I had to alter the course mid-way through, or sometimes I pushed through and it was the adventure I didn’t know I was looking for that day. Every time it was spectacular, and immediately I fell in love with the area. While my wife and kids were still assimilating to the area, I was already hooked.
Spring in Acadia
Running in the winter here isn’t all rosy Instagram posts. Every mile takes the effort of three and the time I spent doing the extra laundry was excessive at best. After awhile you’re just excited to see some dirt. Any dirt.
And eventually, spring arrives in Bar Harbor and the park. Its certainly not in March. The first day of spring on the calendar is meaningless. We had 20 inches of snow on the ground when it hit “spring.” April saw several small snow storms but was also 72 degrees on Easter. But it sure wasn’t 72 degrees the next day. As any good self respecting New Englander says about the weather, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute.” Most of April is spent with wet shoes as everything is melting so eventually it just becomes an accepted part of your run. That eventually gets old too but the excitement of seeing dirt patches and slivers of green peeking through, certainly reigns supreme. I ran almost every day of April and soon had covered a huge portion of the 120+ official trails of Acadia and beyond. It became a fun game to find the route that could connect me to a new section I hadn’t seen yet, without repeating any prior segments. It was a game I thought and planned out often and called the “Acadian Pac-Man Project.” The Pac-Man project soon took over as my primary motivator when the alarm clock went off at 4:30am.
With spring also comes the pure discovery of sections that previously were covered in snow. What was originally a trail I had covered, now looked totally and completely different in the spring. Norumbega mountain was completely ice covered on the Goat Trail every time I took it, and the descent was always ice and snow. Yet in spring it became this stunning mass of bright green moss covering huge granite boulders amongst the tall pines. Light was peeking through on early morning runs and lighting up the wet moss like lanterns. It became a wonderland of color and life. You felt like you were in The Hobbitt every time you visited.
With spring comes more than just newborn wildlife and fresh vegetation. The runners on the island come out of their winter hiding spots and you start to see cars in the parking lots and even occasional hikers around the more popular peaks. While local runners certainly do run in the winter here, very few actually run the mountains and trails. (Clearly all of which are wiser than I am.). Yet with spring comes a new collection of “regulars” that increase your chances from 1% to 5% in seeing another trail runner in the woods. The 46 miles of crushed granite carriage roads are closed for several weeks in April as the imprints during the mud season can ruin the roads, and that pushs people out on the trails. The 20 mile driveable park loop road that circumnavigates a large portion of the national park opens up to traffic in the spring and with that comes Cadillac Mountain access. The park is open for business and that brings out the hikers, runners, andadventurists. Come May 1st, the park is open for business usually and active again.
In May I was fortunate enough to connect with Tom St. Germain, author of an incredible resource “A Walk in the Park, Acadia's Hiking Guide” as well as the best map available of the National Park. (He also co-authored the fascinating "Trails of History; The Story of Mount Desert Island's Paths from Norumbega to Acadia." Tom was someone I found online prior to deciding to move to Maine and interestingly (see: stalker) enough I found him through Strava.com. In researching Bar Harbor and the area as a potential new home, the running community I came to love in Phoenix was something I didn’t want to give up. Finding a similar community in Bar Harbor was a key aspect of the decision and I found Tom through activities he’d run in Acadia over the years. As it turns out, Tom is as experienced a runner in Acadia that likely has existed for decades and he’s published the literature to prove it. Reaching out to Tom via social media as a total stranger prior to moving to Maine proved to be a pivotal reason we did move. Come May of 2017, I was fortunate to go for a tour of the park with Tom starting from the west side in Seal Cove and finishing after Pemetic Mountain. That came after this 27 mile solo adventure the week before. Reading my comments on that run last May still ring true, "I thought I was a tough trail runner. Then I moved to Maine. Didn't even do 6 other peaks, didn't have the five extra hours to get it in. Or the heart to endure more rocks. 7:44 total time on feet."
That's the challenge of Acadia. As with any trail system, you quickly discover your biggest adversary after you spend enough time on the trails. In Phoenix, and Arizona in general, it was always about the heat and exposure. A long run in the desert was always planned around the available water, or how much water needed to be carried to make it through the chosen trails for the day. Here, water is abundant, particularly when the park is fully open and water fountains are functioning a several trail heads and parking lot locations you come across along your route. While the weather is ever changing, there isn't really much to worry about for the seasoned trail runner in these mountains. What will get you are the rocks.
Specifically the abundant supply of granite rocks. Entire mountain tops of pure granite, stairs of made of granite, boulder fields of granite. I remember finding the first person on an actual trail last winter on Dorr Mountain and even in that brief conversation he mentioned, "Be careful with stress fractures." My first thought was, "Oh please, I'm from Arizona. Land of the Rocks."
He was right. It's an entirely different running experience bounding between loose rocks, and running down granite bedrock for miles. Literally, for miles. It's stunning, rugged, and wild while you are doing it, but it takes a toll on your legs. So running Acadia in the spring, coming off the usually soft and forgiving snow packed trail, becomes an effort in easing into the Acadia Pounding that is the granite cliffs and rocks. Later in the season, with more conditioning, and rotating in carriage roads and soft mossy trails, my legs can handle it. But early on, it's a bruiser. For the casual visitor or runner they'll probably be fine for a weekend trip to Acadia, but week after week, it'll break you down.
Somewhere around late May comes the first leaves on the trees and like the flip of a switch in June, we're in summer.
Heaven on Earth.
Summer in Acadia
Long in daylight, yet short on time sums up the nature of summers on the island. Ranked by National Geographic and the Today Show as one of the best places to visit for the Fourth of July, it's the kind of place you dream about for summers. Time slows down, Saturdays become Tuesdays and weekends become weekdays. Nobody seems to be working and everyone seems to be on vacation. The streets are packed, the parks are full of people hiking, biking, running, and just experiencing the area. It's the busiest time of the year for a lot of residents, particularly those of us in hospitality, so it also limits how much free time there is to enjoy the area. Luckily, the sun is out until after 9pm so even after dinner we'd sneak in hikes or runs before the sun went down. The sun is up at 4am too, so there's plenty of no-headlamp time on the calendar!
Summer in Acadia also brings a lot of visitors you may even know, and with that brings some running companions. One of my favorite things to do in Acadia is show fellow runners the local trails here in the park, and then to see their reactions as we pass through one mountain range after another, up a sheer granite cliff and down a mossy one, and along a river to the Atlantic Ocean. Very few places can you smell the mountain air and ocean air in a few short miles and it provides for some incredibly scenic, and memorable routes that I'll never tire of showing people. Likewise, it brings a greater awareness to the difficulty of the trails in Acadia, often overlooked due to its shortage of elevation. At 1500 ft, its not exactly an imposing mountain on paper, but the grade up several of the mountains here, and quick accumulation of elevation gain, make any run in Acadia extremely difficult, and rewarding. It isn't difficult to put together a 7000 ft gain 20 mile run here, and you could do it a number of different ways covering a variety of different trails. It's part of what makes Acadia such a fascinating running paradise, you're not committed to any one trail for more than a few miles, and always have several options to add, delete, or edit any planned run based on your mood, the conditions, or how much caffeine is racing through your veins at that particular moment. Feel like going straight up a 30% grade? Just wait half a mile, you'll find one. Want to run along a fern covered single track in the woods? Take a left on the Jordan Stream Trail. Feel like running through maple and oak trees? Follow the Kebo Trail to the Gorge. You'll see plenty.
My favorite run of the summer last year was a 41 mile jaunt through the park, hitting most of the peaks, and all in the name of a 40th birthday for the super strong local runner Jen VanDongen. We hit 15 of the 26 peaks in the park and had 9000 feet of gain to show for it. Finishing the route in a dive into the frigid Sand Beach was a truly memorable way to end a 12 hour day in the woods. For the ultrarunners out there, the accessibility of this park is truly unique and almost perfect for these kinds of adventures. I left my truck at Jordan Pond the night prior (parking is very difficult in the summer, planning ahead is key,) a very central location on the eastern side of the island, and stocked it with water and food supplies. Then the following morning we kicked off from the Visitor Center and proceeded with the route. Every few miles we'd pass by another trailhead for parking, most of which have restrooms and some have water fountains. So even what you have to carry is quite limited, because there are frequent re-supply points along the way. To top it off, as Cadillac Mountain is a premiere destination for all visitors of Acadia, they have a gift shop at the top of the mountain! True story, I'm not even making this up. I started to bring a zip lock bag with $6 so I could get a coconut water and a Mexican Coca-Cola when I ran through the top of Cadillac. Literally, nothing on this earth exists that is better than a Mexican Coke at mile 20 something of a summer afternoon. (For those that don’t know the difference, Coca-Cola made in Mexico still makes it like Coca-Cola origially did. Before high fructose corn syrup.) It's incredible and became my go-to visit I'd look forward to each weekend trip up there. Best of all, you can finish your runs in the town of Bar Harbor quite easily as well, as it's only 1 mile from the trail heads to town. Finish at the Village Green in the center of town and there are 15 places to buy a beer, poutine or a lobster roll within 15 feet.
Fall in Acadia
Fall for many of the locals autumn is their favorite time of the year. Traditionally it was when the tourists would start trickling out after Labor Day (now it's Veteran's Day), and that quintessential crisp autumn morning air starts to greet you as you head out the door for your run. And with the change in weather, comes the change in scenery and as the month progresses you see the transition on the trails. As we enter October the leaves are sharp red and oranges, drawing you to a full stop at every opening in the trees. Your pace on any run slows considerably in the fall, it's just spectacular outside and yet again, the trails seem new again. As the leaves fall, the trails become a tricky set of rocks and roots, guesswork of where your foot is actually falling. But you don't really care because you still can't believe how beautiful it is outside and that you are running through this forest and nobody else is out there.
Fall also brings a number of races in the area, most notably the MDI Marathon & Half Marathon (www.runmdi.org) which has been named one of the most beautiful marathons by Runners World and I'm sure other publications and articles. It runs along the coast of the island through the various villages and towns and really highlights all that you can see in the island. Held in mid-October, it's often during foliage season and great weather for a marathon. It has a unique feel to it you won't find at many of the bigger marathons and the charm of the villages and people cheering you on is really something special. And unique, there are some interesting characters you see along the course that capture as much of your attention as the actual scenery. If you're going to come to Acadia to run, and road running is your thing, the MDI Marathon is special and a worthy reason to visit Maine in and of itself. I mean, you get a lobster claw medal. I probably could have just skipped that entire paragraph and just left it at that.
Run MDI. Always & Whenever.
It's been almost a full year of running on the island for me. I haven't done everything, I haven't seen everything, but I've seen a lot of the island. What I've seen, I've fallen in love with. It hasn't all been an easy go of it though. The winters have beaten me up bad and I've paid the price physically for some of the routes I've tried. One bad fall after another on the ice has damaged my motivation at times and contributed to the deep, dark "winter blues." Now in my second winter, I yearn for those clear trails again and the impending snow storms aren't quite as charming as they were leading up to Christmas. Yet, it's a part of the lifestyle here and I'll grab my drill, my box of screws, and set a new pair of running shoes for the ice. I'll throw on my running tights, my four layers, hat and mittens and dive out into another negative wind chill morning for a trip through the mountains. If we’re being honest though, I don’t really like it.
Spring can't come soon enough though as its truly a reward for fighting through these winters. Normally I would be anti-entitlement for any aspect of life, but I feel like I've EARNED the spring this year. We ALL earn these springs and the eventual summers. I've taken more falls, slips, smashes, trips, and pure pain and bruising from these trails than any combined five years of trail running in my life. Every step is an effort, every mile is a battle, and every mountain ascent comes with its own risks.
Spring brings with it new changes, new life, and a literal and psychological rejuvenation. While the winter is beautiful and welcomed on some levels, I'm more excited to repeat this cycle and seeing that green moss poking through the waning snow cover...and sticking around for the summer.
About one year ago today I was thinking I was on to something great. I wasn’t.
Eleven months ago I was looking for a new job. I found several. One in particular was holding onto my heart, and despite the logistical pieces of it all, I hoped secretly it was the one that was going to come through. After the Patriots made a dramatic comeback to win the Superbowl, my wife and I boarded a plane to fly 3200 miles away to Bangor, Maine.
I know...how do you even say that city? We arrived in the morning in February to temperatures I didn’t even recognize. We grabbed our rental car and drove the hour drive to Mount Desert Island, the home of Acadia National Park. We crossed the anticlimatic bridge to the island and I scanned the horizon feverishly for every morsal of positivity I could find to hopefully convince my wife this was the right move. The job was already ours, it was just a matter of us saying “yes.” We met the hotel owner, the new President, saw the hotel, did the dinner deep dive and it even snowed. In three days we saw almost no other humans in the town of Bar Harbor. It was insanely cold, the hotel was closed and in full disarray, and 90% of the national park was closed for the winter and inaccessible. It was the hardest pitch imaginable.
In the airport in Bangor on the way back to Phoenix, I called the President of the company and told him we were taking the job. He jokes today he never thought we would say yes.
Life on an island
We came to Bar Harbor, Maine in early March. March 6th to be exact. And as it turns out, that was about the temperature too.
It's not warm here. It's windy. It's brutally cold on some days. And not "oh you just came from the desert' cold. More the "even the Mainers are bundled up like they are going to the top of Everest, not the 12 ft to the grocery store entrance." In fact, most people seem to just leave their cars running in the parking lots of stores and go in and get what they need.
But now having seen some of the winter, spring, summer and now winter again, its clear life here is more about your attitude than about the temperature. From my office in the hotel I have this beautiful view of Agamnot Park right in town on the water. As soon as a spring day peaked through the clouds and it creeped above 55 degrees, people started coming out of the stores and seemingly nowhere, to just go sit in the grass and enjoy the beautiful afternoon. As the spring progressed, I found myself texting my wife that the afternoon was supposed to be really nice, lets go see a new part of the island.
And so we would. And as the summer progressed, we took every one of those opportunities that came our way. We weren’t moving this far away from our Arizona family to sit in our houses or sit in my office. We saw a ton of the island, visited the communities, went to events, tried a lot of restaurants and all the shops. We met a lot of people. I just started walking up to people and introducing myself as, “Hi, my name is Jeremy. I just moved here from Phoenix and don’t know anyone here.” That usually sparked at least a conversation about the weather. We had family and friends visit from all over the country, all summer and into the fall, which helped greatly as both excuses to try new places, but also not feel so far removed from everyone. The move to New England has allowed us to see so much more of our family that is in upstate NY and Vermont. Now a seven hour drive away versus 60. And because of that the kids have seen their grandmother 3 times these last 10 months instead of 3 times in five years. Its a big give and take with the move, and while there certainly is some major takes (my brother and his family in AZ, Jen’s parents and friends in AZ), the gives (my parents and sisters are in New England as well as dozens of others) are helping to offset it all.
What’s Maine Like?
I’d never stepped foot in Maine before I interviewed here in February. I was from Vermont and like any self respecting New Englander, you never went to another New England state because the assumption was always, “Well, I’m from Vermont, what does Maine have that Vermont doesn’t have?”
Turns out, quite a bit and its not even all that similar. The New England spirit is the same, a collective pride in self reliance, independence and general hardiness that even when not vocalized, it’s tangible in how people talk about just about anything. Coming to Bar Harbor there is an immediate and palpable spirit of community and an immense amount of pride that people hold for the town and the island (MDI for short) in general. We could live here for 30 more years and still not be considered “locals.” People are involved, they treat people with respect (expect on Facebook but that’s pretty normal) and you get a real sense of “it takes a village” now knowning many of the families here on the island. When you go to just about any family event, it’s not just the mom’s with the kids. Almost every event you’ll find both parents there for their kids. While you can certainly find that in Arizona if you look hard enough, the neighborhood feel was always something that was missing in my 16 years in AZ. Here, we know a significant portion of the community, and it seems, they know us. “Oh, you’re the family from Arizona?” There is a certain amount of charm to that, and while eventually I’m sure seeing someone we know every time we go somewhere will lose that small town charm, for now it’s quite reassuring and leaves us with a feeling of belonging. Even if we’re not quite sure yet we do.
A few observations about the island and Maine.
There are no brands on the island besides a Circle K, one Subway and a Hannaford grocery store. Well, I actually consider that a positive. Especially the lack of a Starbucks.
There is literally ZERO traffic. The human wall of traffic in the summer is a bit much at times, but generally, it’s a breeze getting anywhere.
There is literally ZERO crime. Well, maybe not zero, but it’s pretty close. Some locals think it’s a gang riddled spot that requires National Guardsmen to be ordered in because some pumpkins were smashed on Cottage Street, but that’s small town life. It’s basically The Sandlot in the summer here. Or Gilmore Girls. Totally looks like Gilmore Girls. Not that I watch that show...
There is literally ZERO chance you’ll get a pizza delivered to our house 6 miles from Bar Harbor. Better stock up, NO delivery available.
There is not a single Taco Bell on the island. It’s a “treat” to go to Ellsworth and even that’s a KFC combo. Which we all know is not the same as a real Taco Bell.
There are no Mexican restaurants worth spending a dollar at here on the island or in a 50 mile vicinity. And that’s a brutal adjustment. In fact, I haven’t met a single Mexican since I got here. Which helps explain the challenges.
Oil is wicked expensive to heat your house and since winter is not December 21st until March 21st as that stupid calendar tries to trick you with, it’s a bit more than the wickedly expensive AC bill was in Arizona. But the winter here is just as long as the summer in AZ, so that’s pretty much a wash.
Maine has an excise tax for your vehicles along with your registration. If you own a newer vehicle, its going to hit you for around a grand to register it. Our property taxes are 33% more than in Phoenix. So that’s also not particularly fun.
But you know what is?
We live in one of the most beautiful places on planet earth. Literally and without an ounce of sarcasm or exaggeration. We were so fortunate to find a great home right in the middle of the island and in the town of Bar Harbor. I have a 10 minute commute to work, and am able to take Dean to school each day as it’s a couple blocks from the hotel. When he is older, he could literally just walk through town to the hotel after school. Our home has much more space and land than we had in Phoenix. We have a huge backyard and a forest to explore. Our first day we moved in a deer (later named Blueberry until we realized there are a billion deer here and it was a different deer every day...) stood in our lawn eating the grass. A flock of the same wild turkeys come by every morning and we have cardinals, bluebirds and all kinds of wildlife constantly in our yards. It’s incredibly peaceful and relaxing just being home.
Acadia National Park is all around us and where I run 99% of the time. It’s a wide open national park with access (trail head parking lots) in dozens and dozens of places. You just drive down the road, grab a parking spot and start from a new place. There are over 120 miles of trails over 20 some mountains carved out between inlets and sounds of the Atlantic ocean, and deep, clear lakes and ponds. You climb a 40% grade granite cliff and are granted access to a 360 degree view of the island and the park all around you. It’s remarkable and as the seasons progress, every mile is new all over again. Not once has it gotten old, and not once have I tired of any of the miles. It’s an incredible place to live and for that, I’m happy to pay the premium in taxes for the privledge to live in this community.
There are a million other incredible reasons why living here in Maine has been a positive change. None of which totally cancel out the challeges that come with leaving behind my brother, his wife Jeanine and their three awesome kids that our kids were so close with. Jen’s parents now don’t get to see their daughter and grandkids when they want and that’s difficult for everyone involved. We miss our Arizona friends greatly, and because of them we return to them in our minds in these blistering cold days in Maine or the month where it just decided to rain every day. For now though, we’re at least enjoying Maine and what it has to offer. The kids LOVE Maine, and have met so many great kids here they have become fast friends with. Dean has quite possibly the greatest Kindergarten teacher ever in Ms. Pickers, he absolutely loves going to school and for that we can only be grateful. If the school wasn’t so amazing in Bar Harbor, our entire feeling of Maine would be so much different.
I've wanted to explore the side canyons of the Mogollon Rim for years now, and after this last trip, I know I'll be exploring them for years to come.
No trail, no route. Simply following what game trails can be found, pushing your way through thick manzanita, berry bushes and everything else that comes your way. Down and out steep ravines holding to themselves their own secret kingdoms of life, then up the steep cliffs to the rocky outcroppings that top out to the 8,000 ft Mogollon Rim. I saw more elk than I could count, came upon a newborn even that scurried off. Had it not jumped up four feet from me lying at 7,000 ft in the sun, I never would have seen it. A bald eagle soaring above me, an Arizona Rattlesnake I nearly stepped right on top of. Everywhere I looked wildlife was there, alert of my presence, but generally not caring. After several hours the elk had seen me working my way across the valley and canyons, and just kept a few hundred feet away, and eventually they became my guide to the only remotely accessible ascent to the top.
I ran .6 miles on the Highline Trail before I took an unexpected left turn into the woods. I wasn't planning on it, I just did it and almost 4 hours later I was on the top of the Rim, but had only covered a little over 3 miles.
I spent the rest of the day wandering through the forest. Quite literally, with no intent on mileage or direction, just walking through the woods alone. I came back out to the edge of the Rim and found another elk trail leading down the face of the Rim towards the railroad tunnel. What started out as a well used trail turned into a "how in the hell do elk go up or down this????" trail. Eventually I made it down the rock pile and then went on the Mogollon Monster course for about 100 yards under the powerline before breaking off into the woods again to follow the river downstream to the Washington Park trail head where my truck was. I found a game trail, and then a more worn trail that pushes through marshes and small streams before opening up into a beautiful field of waist high ferns.
One of the most incredible routes I've ever done.
82 Days and counting...
After the Tucson Marathon deflating defeat I went on vacation.
I was beat. I was working every day, long hours, and hours that never really ended with the phone, email and responsibilities tethered to me like a fish on a line. So getting back to Vermont, my home state, for Christmas and without access to phone and email was a dream.
Then I remembered that the weather there is absolutely terrible. This whole "winter" thing was quickly jogged back into my mind and I remembered that people owned coats and gloves back there. Twelve years in the desert does that to you but nonetheless I got out and ran. My first run was a 35 degree rain shower where I ended up running stronger, faster and easier than I had in months. I had nothing to worry about except finding my way back to our rented house. I absolutely hammered that run, every bit of it. Running through the rain and sloppy wet snow was more fun than I remembered. It was the single most fun run I've had in the entire year in running.
A week later I set out on Christmas Eve at 4:30am in 8 degrees. 8.
I ran 11 miles of trails with 3,500 feet of climbing, got lost, bushwhacked down the ridge, found the trail and flew down the mountain with a reckless disregard for my own safety only a drunk can appreciate. I finished down the grassy hill past a llama barn and my watch read a 3:43/mile pace for the max pace. Clearly my Garmin is broken...but again...one of the most fun runs I've ever had.
Those two runs in Vermont gave me hope that running could again be fun. For months it's been almost a chore getting training in. Partly because my work schedule has drained me so getting up at 4am for mile repeats on a track isn't exactly like someone just gave me Superbowl tickets. Doing it three mornings in a row doesn't add to the appeal either. Throw in a toddler who wants/needs attention as much as I want to give it to him and a wife who is wondering if I ordered a cot for my office or if I'm actually coming home from work one of these days. To say I've succumbed to "Runner's Guilt" more than my fair share of times is an understatement. It nearly killed me at Javalina Jundred when I went into that race averaging 33 miles a week of training, then Tucson with less than that.
Track on Tuesdays and then long runs on Saturday's does not equate to successful results in racing...
Fortunately I hate quitting as much as anything so instead of hitting my goals I instead just spend the middle of every race thinking about how I should just focus on my hidden talents in landscaping and bedtime stories and save the legs for carrying babies up our stairs. Then I get passed that dreaded wall, finish the race hard and magically forget how miserable I was and sign up for another race...it's a vicious cycle.
So I went into 2014 with another near empty training month to close out the previous year but with some great, and more importantly FUN, runs. With the turn of the new year comes the start of training for the most important race of the entire year.
The Zane Grey 50 Mile Endurance Race.
My "A" Race. My only race.
Everything else is just filler.
Last year I set a more than ambitious goal of breaking ten hours. My previous high was 12:26, followed by a terrible 13 plus hour finish in 2011. I skipped '12 to volunteer and in 2013 I finished in 10:36, 13th place overall. It was disappointing to not hit sub 10 but very gratifying knowing I gave it 100% from start to finish and didn't leave anything out there. I ran steady, strong and was passing people every segment of the race while never once getting passed by someone I didn't ultimately beat to the finish. I learned a lot about pushing past what you think is fatigue. Jay Danek paced me the final 17 miles and he pushed me hard to the finish. We'd come around a corner or over a ridge and spot a runner up front and he'd just give me a look over his shoulder and then immediately take off for the guy. We'd push a solid pace right past them and give a polite hello and speed on by. All the while my mind raced and prayed that they would just give up and not give chase because I could only hold that pace for the 40 more feet to the next bend where we could walk again...
We came across the finish line with more daylight left than any previous time I've ever run it. I was proud of that finish but it only left me wondering how in the world I'm going to take off 37 minutes next year and break 10 hours???
Race, you just have to race
I think the key for me is consistency and that's no small task. Already in 2014 I'm down 55 miles in January to what I ran in January 2013 and putting in the miles continues to be a real challenge. My time is so limited right now that heading out for back to back long runs on the weekends after working 60+ hours during the week is a tough sell with the wife.
And it should be. Ultimately running is down at the bottom of the food chain in our family, despite how important and prevalent it can be at times. Given the option of doing something with my little boy and my wife on the weekend, that always trumps a 5 hour run in the mountains. So instead I have to get up earlier, run faster, and get home sooner. Its certainly not ideal, I look back longingly at the weekends where I could just get up and run 8 hours and be back whenever I happened to finish.
Now I have to make every run count because it's a common occurrence that work or life will interrupt my scheduled runs and there won't be an opportunity to replace it. You can't run Zane Grey on borrowed training hours, it just doesn't work. I tried that in 2011 and it broke me in two.
February is a key month for me. I'm focused on a major event this week in Grandpa Jim's 12 Hours of Camelback. A fundraiser for Sunshine Acres (www.sunshineacres.org) where we will hike/run up and down Echo Canyon non-stop until 6:30pm. 1.3 miles up, 1.3 miles down, 1250 in climbing. The record is 12 roundtrips and my goal for the day. That would end up being a 15,000 foot in climbing 50K. My knees are already destroyed thinking about it...but it will be great training for the month and assuming it doesn't wreck me long term will get me back on track.
I'm planning on tackling Elephant Mountain 35K again this year after having a lot of fun out there in the inaugural running. Mountain to Fountain 15k is March 9th, a great local road race that involves beer, running on the Team RWB team and beer. Hopefully this year I cross both timing pads and not stop at the first one like last year...1:00:02.
Mesquite Canyon 50K in late March will be my last race tuneup before Zane Grey and will be my fifth time at the race, every year its been run since Aravaipa Running started their race series. I ran a 5:07 last year there, good for 4th place, but really want to be sub 5 hours this year after missing it last year. It's a tough course but perfect Zane training with the rocks, exposure and climbing there.
If none of that gets me where I need to be, well, then I'll be in Pine anyway for the start of Zane. I mean, what's the worst that can happen on the Highline when you're unprepared??