Terrain Trail Runners-STL isn’t just St. Louis’s leading trail and ultra-running group—we’re the heartbeat behind some of the region’s most innovative and inclusive trail events. The TC10K Series is our newest grassroots addition, designed to transform ordinary nights into extraordinary adventures.

St. Louis has no shortage of 10K events, both road and trail. But TC10K stands apart for three reasons:

• Nighttime Challenge: Running trails in the dark demand's focus, courage, and a good headlamp.
• Progressive Elevation: Each race increases in climbing difficulty, offering a true test of endurance.
• Trail Diversity: From beginner-friendly paths to technical terrain like the legendary Chubb Trail, runners get a full tour of STL’s premium trail offerings.

Location: Bluff View Park, Wildwood, MO
Elevation: ~100 ft/mile
Terrain: Flowing singletrack, rolling hills, rocks and roots
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Runners: 29 participants, many experiencing night trail running for the first time
Bluff View kicked off the series with a gentle introduction to night running. Easy peasy? Maybe. But the thrill of navigating trails by headlamp made it anything but ordinary.

Location: Greensfelder County Park, Wildwood, MO
Elevation: ~130 ft/mile
Terrain: Rolling hills, flow trails, steep climbs, loose rock

Runners: 23 participants. Eagle Valley turned up the heat—literally and figuratively. Pierre Antoine Mathieus clocked the fastest men's time of the series at 00:50:57. Young guns Noah Jester (16) crushed the course in 00:57:18, while Andrew Huff (14) bravely tackled his first night trail race, finishing strong in 1:40:15.

Location: Chubb Trail, Eureka, MO 
Elevation: ~200 ft/mile
Terrain: Steep climbs, technical trails, relentless grind

Runners: 26 participants. With cooler August temps, Chubb Crawl delivered the most technical challenge of the series. Claire Henry claimed the fastest women’s time across all three races with a fierce 1:07:21.

Out of 19 series participants, 12 completed all three races—a testament to their dedication and grit.

• Overall Series Winner: Kenan Jones (Gender X category)
• Men’s Series Winner: Mike Klaus
• Women’s Series Winner: Emily Miller
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​Our vision for TC10K is simple: to introduce more runners to the mystique and magic of nighttime trail running. We want to see more boots on the trails after hours, more headlamps bobbing through the woods, and more runners—especially youth—stepping out of their comfort zones.
As we grow, we’re committed to keeping the series grassroots and community-driven. Whether you're a seasoned trail veteran or a curious newcomer, TC10K invites you to light up the night and chase the thrill.

​John Muir Trail – Section thru hike – Vermilion Valley to Yosemite Valley – July 2025

2024 cracked open with chaos. By the time the calendar flipped, I stood on the edge of losing everything—home, love, safety, and sense of self. I was in the midst of a tumultuous breakup with my live-in boyfriend of three years. When the relationship unraveled into physical abuse, the dismemberment of my life felt insurmountable. The realization hit me like a freight train: not only had he used me to propel his photography career, but while I was still living under the same roof—grieving, shattered, trying to piece my world back together—he had already moved on to someone new. The betrayal was layered. It wasn’t just the violence, or the emotional abandonment. It was the cold efficiency with which I was replaced, as if our life together had been nothing more than a steppingstone.

Emotionally and mentally fractured, I found myself disconnected from the one thing that had always grounded me—trail and ultrarunning. Running is how I process life. Running is how I heal. And now, I couldn’t even access the part of myself that had always felt unshakable. For the first time in my adult life, I felt truly lost.

One spring morning, I went out to run one of my favorite segments at Greensfelder County Park. I pushed hard up the hill to the Scenic Overlook, gasping for breath, ugly-crying and utterly broken. I collapsed onto the bench at the top, overlooking the bluff, and sobbed uncontrollably for ten minutes. Then, I pulled up my metaphorical big girl panties and resumed my run.

That’s when I noticed the quote engraved into the bench:

“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” — John Muir
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I stopped. I cried some more. And in that moment, I understood what I needed: Distance. Detachment. Renewal. I didn’t need to race anymore. I needed to wander. The idea took root quickly: what if I hiked the John Muir Trail? So, I began researching a thru-hike of the John Muir Trail. I’ll be turning 50 in December 2025, and I want to mark this milestone with an adventure of a lifetime—one that doesn’t involve race bibs or finish lines, but a different kind of journey. One that begins with healing.

I'm a firm believer that sharing your path gives it weight—it transforms your experience into something that echoes beyond yourself.
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So, I started talking to friends about joining me on a John Muir Trail adventure. It took a bit of convincing, but I eventually roped in Doug Huddleston, Chris Bartelsmeyer, and Tim Landewe to tackle a 100-mile section of the JMT with me in July 2025.

Our first official planning session happened in September 2024 at my place—over plenty of Mexican food and even more big dreams. By the time the calendar rolled into 2025, we had our permits secured. We'd be hiking northbound, starting at Vermilion Valley and ending in Yosemite Valley. Seven days of hiking, six nights of camping, one big goal.
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As the countdown to July began, our team saw a shift: Tim had to bow out due to a lingering knee injury. In walked Aaron Poe. We lost one, gained another, and our party of four was back on track.
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The plan was to hike roughly 15 miles a day, with two scheduled supply stops along the way. Training kicked into high gear. Most of my miles were logged alongside Doug—our schedules lined up best compared to Aaron and Chris.
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There were moments I felt exhilarated. There were moments I felt overwhelmed. Planning the logistics, acquiring the gear, prepping the food—it was a lot. And emotionally, I was still in a pretty fragile space. But something in me had latched onto the goal, and I wasn’t letting go.

The JMT wasn’t just a hike—it was a promise I made to myself. And I was ready to see it through.

​The day had finally arrived July 9, 2025. We were packed up and ready to roll, heading off on a long-awaited adventure through the majestic mountains of the High Sierra.

Our crew of four flew into Fresno, California, and from there, hitched a shuttle ride to Vermilion Valley Resort (VVR), the gateway to our wilderness trek. I felt a rush of anticipation—equal parts excitement and nerves—as we prepared for the altitude shift ahead. With a prescription from my doctor, I’d begun micro-dosing Diamox to help acclimate. It was no small leap: from just 300 feet in Fresno to a striking 7,700 feet at VVR. My body braced for the shock.

The journey to VVR, though winding and a bit treacherous, stretched over 3.5 hours and included two key stops—one to pick up our permits and another for gas. Thankfully, it was as pleasant as it was scenic. Our driver, Jim Clement, made all the difference. Jim, who owned VVR until 2022, was a natural storyteller, weaving tales from the trail and local lore while navigating the mountainous roads. We were all ears, soaking up every word.
And the scenery? Just as promised—breathtaking and wild, a taste of the untamed beauty awaiting us in the days to come.

When we arrived at Vermilion Valley Resort on July 9, the buzz was palpable. Through the patchwork of tents and the laughter of hikers swapping stories, I felt the pulse of a thousand journeys converging in one little corner of the Sierra. VVR wasn’t just a stop—it was a communal exhale.

Among the necessities—showers, laundry, food—what I truly received was connection. Chris, Aaron, Doug and I pitched our tents in the thick of it, surrounded by strangers whose journeys had already intertwined with ours through dust, fatigue, and the shared silence only mountains can grant.

Lessons in simplicity: Eight minutes of hot water. That’s what $10 bought me and I barely used five. Still, it was one of the best showers of my life. Not for the water, but for the clarity it brought. I realized how mindlessly I waste water back home. Out here, every drop feels earned. Every luxury—Wi-Fi, a hot meal, clean socks—makes you question what you truly need.

A Digital Whisper in a Wilderness of Thought: After rinsing off the dirt and reality, I paid another $10 for two hours of Wi-Fi. Our last digital tether for a while, I wanted to message my best friend, Denzil Jennings. Before leaving St. Louis, I had texted him something raw:
“I’m going through so much upheaval right now that I don’t know who I want to be anymore.” His reply: “Maybe you don’t have to know? Just lead with curiosity.”

Those four words struck me like lightning through the trees. Lead. With. Curiosity. It became a trail mantra—not a destination, but a way forward. A permission slip to not have answers, just questions worth exploring.
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As I said goodbye to Denzil, he mentioned an article he had sent that he thought I should read. I screenshot it before my Wi-Fi ran out, planning to read it in my tent later that night. After dinner, we lingered around campfire conversations before slipping into our tents. I pulled up the article and gave it a quick read —a beautiful tribute to Ezra Caldwell of Fast Boy Cycles, who was diagnosed with cancer in 2008. It was thoughtful, evocative, and quietly powerful. At the time, I didn’t fully absorb its depth. It felt more like a whisper than a revelation. Still, something about it lingered. A fragment of it stayed with me, tucked into the corners of my mind, waiting to resurface.  

Short documentary about Ezra Caldwell: Made by Hand / The Bike Maker — keef​

We had our last hot, cooked meal for a while before leaving VVR. The day ahead felt full of promise, and we had our first wildlife encounter—spotting a jackrabbit darting through the brush. Our goal was ambitious: to summit Silver Pass, which tops out at 10,754 feet, and make camp near Fish Creek at around 9,000 feet. That would put us close to 18 miles for the day.

​Right out of the gate, though, our judgment slipped. We opted to hike out of VVR along the lake—a rugged, 7-mile trek with technical terrain—rather than taking the water taxi. In hindsight, the boat would’ve spared us a lot of energy. Instead, we were met with a rude awakening. By mid-afternoon, we were climbing Silver Pass under the full blaze of the sun, fully exposed to the heat, with biting bugs—mosquitoes, flies, and everything else—swarming us for the first time on the trail. Holy shit.

Nonetheless, we pressed on, slowly grinding our way up the pass. Evening was closing in and we were moving sluggishly, so we made the call to stop just past Silver Pass Lake to avoid hiking in the dark. That meant sleeping at 10,000 feet. Woof.

Our campsite was tucked between the mountains—quiet, remote, and close to water. We were cooked. We’d managed about 15 miles, with serious elevation gain and loss. Doug pitched his tent and skipped dinner, crawling straight into his sleeping bag. Aaron, Chris and I rinsed off in the lake, washed our clothes, made a quick dinner, and followed suit. The mosquitoes were relentless; we ate with our bug nets still on, swatting between bites. Not much was said before we all turned in.

It was a full moon that night, casting a pale glow through my tent canopy. I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, breathing through my mouth, hearing my heart beat in my chest. Everything felt heavy. I started to question why it all felt so hard.

Once again, I pulled up the article Denzil had sent me. I read it again—this time with more conviction. It hit deeper. The words resonated, almost as if I were reading a story from my own life, even though it wasn’t mine. One passage, in particular, stuck with me:

“Maybe I’m taking myself into a corner here. I’ve always been a bit of a minimalist. My favorite artists are those that practice restraint, not those that seem eager to let you know about their virtuosity. I remind myself constantly not to stand too close to the bike I’m building, but to stand far enough away that I can take it in as a whole. It’s easy to get seduced by the details.”

I kept thinking: Am I getting seduced by the details? The little things that don’t really matter. I should be looking at the bigger picture—where I was, what I was doing—rather than focusing on all the discomforts and frustrations that brought me here.

This was the John Muir Trail. A journey of a lifetime.

With that thought, I finally drifted off, still breathing heavy, but a little more at peace.

Trail Days: Mosquitoes, Misery & the Magic of the Sierra

We had all agreed — boots on the trail by 8 am sharp. Morning greeted us with a chill in the air, and we woke a little more in sync with our rugged surroundings. As the sun descended into the valley we’d camped in, so did the mosquitoes. We filtered water, grabbed a quick bite, and scurried back to the junction for the John Muir Trail (JMT).
Ahead of us: 15 miles through Deer Pass at 10,135 feet, ending at our next stop — Deer Creek. Upwards and onwards.

But by mid-morning, I was already struggling. Both calves were red and swollen from bug bites. My 25% DEET spray had failed miserably, and the itching was relentless. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and the high elevation was draining me fast. My pack felt like it had doubled in weight. Every step was a battle — legs like lead, brain fog, mouth dry as bone. I was low on calories, dehydrated, and miserable.

I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in my own skin. So, I did what I do best — kept moving. I wrapped a wet bandanna around my head like a bonnet (fully embracing the "granny" look) and pushed through, one step at a time. The scenery, wild and untouched, surrounded us in its rugged beauty. It felt surreal — almost like an out-of-body experience.

Eventually, we made it to Deer Creek. I dropped my pack, doused myself in bug spray, and just sat there in a daze, swatting furiously at the relentless mosquitoes. My thoughts were foggy, but then — deer! Two of them, grazing nearby. Suddenly, things didn’t feel so bad. I rinsed off in the creek, unpacked, and settled down by the fire Aaron had built, praying the smoke would fend off the bugs. (Spoiler: it didn’t.)

We all sat around the fire, prepping dinner and making a plan: leave camp by 7:30 am to reach Red’s Meadow for lunch, refuel, and push through another 15-mile day to Rosalie Lake. The climb: from 7,630 feet to 9,346 feet.

My meals had all been planned as cold-soaks to save weight — no Jetboil or fuel canister. But when I reached into my bear can, I realized two days’ worth of homemade dehydrated pasta hadn’t dried properly. Mold. Disgusting. And as if that wasn’t enough, I noticed the socks I’d washed and laid out to dry by the fire had actually caught on fire and were now melting. Perfect.
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Thankfully, I had a backup pair of socks. And we were heading to Red’s Meadow, so I could grab replacements for the meals that went bad. That night, I took a Benadryl to help with the allergic reaction to the bites. Honestly? Best decision of the trip. It knocked me out cold — and for the first time in days, I actually slept.

Toads, Trail Names, and the Best Damn Coke Ever
I woke up to the gentle rush of water from the nearby creek, feeling surprisingly refreshed. The bug bites on my legs had calmed down—less red, less swollen—and for once, I wasn’t scratching like a maniac. Breathing at altitude finally felt a little easier. Right on.

I managed to wake up before the rest of the group stirred in their tents. With my trusty trowel in hand, I headed into the woods. It felt like one of those mornings where you just know it’s going to be a good day. As I bent down to dig a hole, I noticed there was already a shallow one in the dirt. Odd. Curious, I went to dig a bit deeper—and that’s when something moved.

I leaned in for a closer look and saw two perfectly camouflaged Western Toads nestled in the burrow. How cool is that?! I left their little home alone and found another spot, smiling at the wild, unexpected life out here.

By the time I returned, everyone was up and ready to hit the trail. Spirits were high—we were heading to Red’s Meadow for a resupply, and the guys were already dreaming about burgers. We hiked in sync, snapping photos, chatting, and laughing like a bunch of carefree kids. It was one of those rare, perfect stretches on trail.

We rolled into Red’s Meadow around 10:30 am—earlier than planned, so no burgers yet. Still, we loaded up on food, cookies, stickers, and cold drinks. I had the best damn Coke of my life there. It was ice-cold, fizzy, and pure magic. We took the time to recharge our electronics—our InReach, watches, battery packs—and just soaked in the vibe.

While lounging outside the store, we met a family of four thru hiking the JMT southbound: mom, dad, and two kids, maybe 10 and 13 years old. I was genuinely amazed at their strength and teamwork. And yeah, I joked about how they hadn’t killed each other yet—just kidding! It was inspiring to see a family tackling such a massive challenge together.
Fully stocked and a little sun-dazed, we hit the trail again in the afternoon heat, heading uphill toward Rosalie Lake. That climb? Brutal. And my backpack? Incredibly squeaky. It echoed with every step, the kind of sound that gets under your skin. I couldn’t figure out what was causing it—loose straps, maybe the frame? No clue.

At one point, Doug, hiking behind me, shouted, “Hey Squeaker! I can’t hear what they’re saying up front!” And that was it—my trail name was born. Squeaker.

Despite the grind, the scenery was incredible. We passed through meadows ablaze with wildflowers—some bathed in purple, others in white and red. The contrast against the rugged gray granite and dusty trail was breathtaking.

When we finally reached Rosalie Lake, it felt like we had found paradise. It was easily the most beautiful campsite yet. We even had just enough service to call and text home—a rare and welcome surprise. Best of all? No mosquitoes or flies!

That evening, we had dinner together by the lake, watching the sun dip behind the distant peaks as trout fed at the surface. Each ripple in the water felt like a reminder to slow down and soak it all in. Peaceful. Pristine. Perfect.

We called it a night with a plan for a 7:30 am start the next morning. Eleven to twelve miles ahead to Rush Creek, which would put us right at the base of Donohue Pass—ready to tackle it early on Day 4 and cruise into the next leg of our trek, eventually descending into Yosemite.
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All was well in our world.

Rush Creek Chronicles: Puss in Boots, The Kid from Up, Gandork, and Squeaker

Our trek to Rush Creek was nothing short of a scenic grind—steep ascents and descents that tested our legs but rewarded us with meadows and lakes drenched in vibrant moss and wildflowers. I spotted a small green frog! The open sky reflected in pools of still water, painted in hues of blue and green, while the sound of rushing creeks echoed from every direction. As we pushed forward, a dynamic among the four of us—Chris, Aaron, Doug, and me—began to emerge.

Aaron Poe: “Puss in Boots”
Aaron woke up each morning like a caffeinated jackrabbit. Three or four coffees in, he’d sling his 50-pound pack (no one really knew how much it weighed, but we all agreed it was “heavy as hell”) and get ready to roll. He even packed a folding chair, a mirror, and a razor—because who doesn’t shave in the wilderness? His evening meals were nothing short of gourmet, making our freeze-dried grub look sad. Blistered feet? Steep climbs? Aaron never seemed fazed. His combination of flair, grit, and unapologetic luxury earned him the trail name “Puss in Boots,” like the dashing cat from Shrek. Hiking with Aaron felt like tagging along on a fairy tale adventure.

Chris Bartelsmeyer: “The Kid from Up”
Chris was the rule-abiding navigator of the crew. Thoughtful, prepared, and always with a map in hand, he woke up each morning with the day’s plan ready to go. He’d often tell us “it’s all downhill from here”—a lie we learned to accept with a mix of hope and suspicion. But every bandwagon needs a driver, and Chris kept us moving. His earnestness, organizational skills, and unstoppable optimism made him the perfect match for the trail name “Russell”—the persistent Wilderness Explorer from Up.

Doug Huddleston: “Gandork the Wise”
Doug was the meticulous one, moving at his own pace and sticking to his methods. He always had advice—sometimes helpful, sometimes not so much. Like the time he gave me pole tips mid-climb and I snapped at him, to which he simply replied, “I’ll just shut up now.” Doug meant well, but his delivery could suffer from what we called altitude exhaustion. Still, he was the most seasoned hiker among us, having thru-hiked part of the Colorado Trail in 2024. Originally dubbed “Gandalf” for his wisdom, his occasional awkward timing and muddled phrasing earned him a more endearing title: “Gandork the Wise.”

And me? “Squeaker.”
Why? Because my backpack squeaked with every step—like a broken record nobody asked to play. Let’s just say every group needs a narrator... and a little comic relief.
And so, Puss in Boots, The Kid from Up, Gandork the Wise, and Squeaker marched on toward Rush Creek—our packs heavy, our spirits high, and our trail names well-earned.

When we finally made it to Rush Creek, I felt a real sense of accomplishment. We had covered roughly 57 grueling miles through some of the most challenging mountain passes I’d ever faced. The terrain had kicked our butts. We battled heat, dust, relentless climbs—and bugs. So many bugs. But despite it all, something had shifted in me.

By that point in the hike, I was finally hitting my stride. The long, hard miles no longer felt like punishment; they felt like purpose. I had started to actually enjoy the full-body exhaustion that came at the end of each day. It was deeply satisfying. So much so that I found myself telling the guys I wanted to commit to thru-hiking something--anything. The trail had broken me in, and I was hungry for more.

Rush Creek itself? Buggy as hell. The flies were relentless, and our bug nets didn’t leave our heads once that evening. We pitched our tents in one of the rockiest sites we’d camped on so far, but we had water nearby, and at that point, comfort was a luxury we didn’t expect. I laid down on the rocks, fully covered from head to toe to avoid the biting insects, while the boy's made dinner. Somehow, in that dusty, buggy, sore moment—I was happy.
Before turning in for the night, we made our plan: up early and on the trail by 7 am, with a goal to push over Donohue Pass and into Tuolumne Meadows—a 16-mile day. The good news? Our final two days on trail would be shorter mileage, giving us some breathing room to explore more of Yosemite.
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But more than that, Tuolumne Meadows meant resupply, cleaner campsites, showers—and maybe best of all, hot meals at the Tuolumne Meadows Lodge. We were getting close to the finish line of our JMT section, with just two more days ahead. And for the first time in the trip, I wasn’t just enduring the trail—I was loving it.

A Change in Plans and Campfire Reflections
We all trotted up and down Donohue Pass with purpose, eventually making it to the meadows—a flatter stretch of trail adorned with glorious lakes, wildflowers, and lazy creeks teeming with rainbow trout. Spirits were high. We were ahead of schedule, moving with precision, and dreaming of hot meals, real showers, and the little luxuries that come with “glamping.”

Then we ran into the ranger.

A friendly guy, he asked to check our permits and casually dropped a bomb: no camping within four miles of Tuolumne Meadows, in either direction. The area was under a long-term restoration project, and back country access wouldn’t reopen until August 1, 2025.

Wha, wha, whaaaaa?!

While we stood there trying to wrap our heads around the news, he added another fun fact: a black bear had recently stuck its head into a hiker’s tent near Ireland Creek—our possible backup campsite.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

We pushed on, each of us processing this new information in our own way. Our best-laid plans were beginning to feel like an abort mission. Time to pivot.

The Choice
We had two options:

• Option A: Cut the day short, camp at Ireland Creek, and prepare for a longer hike on Day 6, with hopes of making up time on Day 7 to catch our 6 PM YART bus back to Fresno.
• Option B: Power through a 21-mile day, do a quick resupply at Tuolumne Meadows, and continue on to the next campsite.

After much deliberation, we went with Option A.

We arrived at Ireland Creek by 1:30 PM and set up camp. It felt a bit like a wasted day—we’d only covered 11 miles and our plan had unraveled—but we chose to make the most of it. Aaron, Chris, Doug, and I spent the afternoon with our legs dunked in the freezing creek water, chatting without a care in the world.

A Full Camp and a Few Revelations
Throughout the afternoon, hikers trickled in—JMT hikers, south bounders, north bounders, even a few PCT thru-hikers. By evening, eleven of us were camped in close quarters. It was the first time in four days we’d been surrounded by so many people.
Aaron built a fire, and eight of us gathered around it to share stories—where we’d been, where we were headed. It was one of those unexpectedly perfect moments.

As we sat there, I noticed something: the lack of diversity on the trail. In five days on the JMT, I’d seen only two other people of color besides myself. That realization hit hard. The outdoors should be for everyone, regardless of race, gender, or background. So why isn’t it?

The trail connects people in such profound ways, and yet the representation is painfully lacking.

Trail Stories That Stuck
Among those we met that night was Sean, a twenty-something solo PCT hiker from Taiwan who had already logged 900 miles. I was in awe. Could I do that? Would I want to? What would it feel like to solo hike for months? My mind spun with questions.

We also met Jim, a solo JMT hiker from Seoul. He was nearing the end of his journey and had run out of food, surviving on rice for the past few days. Despite the language barrier, he and Aaron shared a bonding moment over their camp chairs—comparing brands and weights like seasoned trail nerds.

That night around the fire, I had a moment of clarity: the outdoors brings together the oddballs, the misfits, the quiet rebels. We come from different corners of the world, yet out here, we're one in the dirt. The ruggedness of the High Sierra binds us.

Life is strange—ugly and beautiful all at once.

A New Plan
Before turning in, we mapped out Day 6: an early start at 6 AM, a resupply and real breakfast at Tuolumne Meadows, then a 19- to 20-mile trek to Sunrise Creek. This would position us for a smoother final descent into Yosemite on Day 7.

No one protested. We all knew what we had to do: relentless forward progress.

Back in my tent, I pulled up the same article Denzil had sent me—about Ezra Caldwell. I’d read it every night for the past five days. Ezra’s story continues to resonate with me: the idea of doing what you love, adapting as life evolves, and staying fiercely committed to that fire inside you.

People throw around the phrase “living the dream,” but few realize the dream isn’t handed to you. For people like us, it comes through calluses, pain, and resilience. It softens you in places and hardens you in others.

As I drifted off to sleep, I whispered goodnight to the stars and thanked the universe—for this moment, this challenge, this life.

Tuolumne, Coyotes, and Questions That Linger
By 6 a.m., the boys already had their packs on and were breathing down my neck to get moving. I was still scrambling to get my shit together. All they could talk about was food--real food. I could hear the excitement in their voices as they listed off the greasy, glorious meals they were craving.

Doug turned and asked, “What are you looking forward to the most?”

I didn’t have an answer. I let the question linger in the air.

Just then, a rabbit hopped off the trail and all thoughts of food were forgotten.

It was a flat four miles to Tuolumne Meadows, winding past meandering creeks, open meadows, alpine lakes, and hot springs. The forest around us was just beginning to stir, the morning fog lifting slowly as the sun stretched its way down into the valley. That section of the trail felt like something out of a storybook—like I was Red Riding Hood slipping through the forest toward something unknown.

Through the light mist, we spotted a herd of deer grazing peacefully. It was a photo-worthy moment, but I resisted the urge to reach for my camera. I just stood there and soaked it in.

Doug led the way, followed by me, with Chris and Aaron not far behind. As we climbed a gentle hill, I caught a flash of movement—a furry animal darted across the trail ahead.
“Wait, what was that?” I said, stopping in my tracks.

It vanished as quickly as it appeared. I guessed it might’ve been a coyote. Or a fox.
Chris shrugged. “Yeah, those are common around here.”

We all scanned the woods to our left.

“There it is!” someone shouted.

A coyote trotted along parallel to us for a few seconds, then slipped back into the trees. We stood still, buzzing with excitement. That moment alone made the morning hike feel magical.

We reached Tuolumne Meadows just in time for breakfast. I ordered the biggest, most beautiful breakfast burrito I’ve ever seen—so big I couldn’t even finish it. I wrapped the rest up for lunch.

After eating, we restocked our supplies and walked the road to the visitor center so Aaron could check on his Yosemite Valley permits—he had plans to stay a few extra days after the rest of us left.

The stretch of road felt long. Civilization was creeping back in.

Tuolumne was buzzing with tourists, day hikers, wilderness camp groups, and families. It was the busiest cross-section of the JMT we’d hit so far, and I found myself feeling agitated. I couldn’t tell if it was the noise, the road, the sun, or the swarm of cars, but I was ready to be back on trail.

Eventually, we reconnected with the JMT and pushed on toward Cathedral Pass—another climb up to 9,700 feet. At the top, Cathedral Peak came into view: tall, jagged, and piercing the sky. As we snapped a few photos, we noticed tiny figures halfway up the rock face—climbers.

“Damn,” someone muttered.

We found a shady spot to rest and eat lunch. Sitting on the rocks, we watched a marmot dart between boulders while we polished off our food. It was a clear, perfect day and we were making good time.

We pushed hard for 19 miles and finally made it to Sunrise Creek to set up camp for the night. Just ten miles left to Yosemite. We had plenty of time to explore the valley, grab food, souvenirs, and chill before catching the YART bus out.

Sunrise Creek felt different from our previous campsites. It was dense and shaded, full of towering trees and massive downed trunks. It looked and felt like an enchanted forest.
We set up camp in close proximity to another hiker named Dolan. Recently retired and from Virginia, he was headed southbound, taking full advantage of his 34-day permit and exploring every off shoot along the way. We sat around trading stories and trail notes.

Later that evening, just as we were winding down, Doug spotted a six-point buck uncomfortably close to our tents. Its antlers still fuzzy, it circled our campsite slowly, like it owned the place. Maybe it did. It eventually bedded down just beyond a fallen log near us, completely unfazed by our presence.

As I crawled into my sleeping bag, I realized I was filthy. My skin felt like dry plastic, sunburned and peeling. Everything I owned smelled like the trail—musky, earthy, and entirely mine.

I wouldn't have to try very hard to pass as a hobo.

But I felt…content.

A wave of emotion came over me. I let a single tear slip down my cheek. I took in a long breath and reached for the article Denzil had sent me. Reading it had become a nightly ritual. Each time, I found something new to sit with. Tonight, the line that echoed was:

“Everyone dies but not everyone lives, and very few people lived with the creativity, fearlessness, and sangfroid that Ezra did.”

I closed my eyes and let the question rattle around in my mind.
​
Was I living?

Final Descent: Wrapping Up the JMT at Yosemite Valley
Our final day section hiking the John Muir Trail had crept up on us, slow and quiet. We woke up early again with one goal in mind: hike into Yosemite Valley by lunchtime and figure things out from there. I took my time eating breakfast, savoring my coffee while Doug and I exchanged small talk.

Doug mentioned how dry his lips and mouth were—“like dry leather,” he said. That’s when Chris chimed in, offering a much-needed moment of comic relief.

Chris: "I was wondering why the bear never bothered us at Ireland Creek—it was Doug’s dry lips. The bear took one look and thought, ‘Nah, I don’t want a dry piece of meat,’ and just left us alone."

I laughed so hard I had to stop eating. Doug, playing the straight man perfectly, just shook his head and said, "I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I somehow feel like the butt of the joke." More laughter followed, and with that, we said our goodbyes to Dolan and rolled out of Sunrise Creek.

The day was beautiful—yet another in a streak of perfect weather—and I marveled at how we had made it this far without encountering a single bear or major storm. As we moved quickly toward Half Dome, the solitude of the trail began to fade. People appeared—first a few, then more. By the time we started the steep, sandy descent into Yosemite Valley, the crowds were in full force.

The drop into the valley was technical and slippery, made worse by weaving around hikers, families, and tour groups. I fell twice. Twice! Not a single fall over 95 miles through sketchy terrain, and here I was, eating dirt in the final stretch. I wasn’t just annoyed—I was agitated.

Yosemite felt like a zoo. Shirtless hikers blasting music, people eating on narrow switchbacks, crowds everywhere with seemingly no awareness of their surroundings. I tried to breathe and remind myself that this was a national park, a magnet for visitors from all over the world. But it felt overwhelming. After days of solitude, the sudden chaos hit like heartburn.

We descended in silence, all of us in a kind of culture shock. The last five miles felt endless. Then the trail suddenly transitioned from dirt to pavement, and something in my brain just snapped. Fuck this, I thought, and started running—yes, running—down the asphalt switchbacks with a 30-pound pack just to get it over with.

At the bottom, I met up with the guys and we wandered into the village. Aaron and I grabbed a Coke and stood in line for food. After days of dehydrated meals, I had dreamed of a hot burger. What we got was a dried-up patty and the nauseating smell of fried food hanging heavy in the air. Maybe it wasn’t the food that turned my stomach. Maybe it was the sudden return to reality—civilization, noise, lines, routines.

I sat there, Coke in hand, quietly trying to console myself. Mentally, I was already mourning the end. After all that time on the trail, it felt jarring to stop. To be done. The mountains, the rhythm of hiking, the quiet—it was behind us now. And no matter how long we waited in that food line, nothing we ordered would fill the gap left by the trail.

After lunch, we aimlessly wandered around the park, doing the usual touristy things. We grabbed dinner from a quaint little cafe and lingered until it was time to board the YART (Yosemite Area Regional Transportation). The ride out of Yosemite was surprisingly nauseating—a mix of full stomachs, winding mountain roads, and the lingering haze of everything we had just experienced.

Just as we were settling in, the bus came to an abrupt halt. Was there an accident? What was going on? My mind raced with questions. That’s when Chris pointed out a line of cars pulled off to the side of the road, their drivers standing in a huddle, cameras focused on something in the woods.

"What’s happening?" I wondered, as the bus driver slowly maneuvered around the stopped vehicles. As we neared the clearing, we saw it: a black bear, sitting on a fallen log, staring at the crowd of tourists with their phones raised, completely engrossed in their own little world. It was a moment that felt both ironic and amusing—here we were, in the wilds of Yosemite, and the bear seemed more intrigued by us than we were of it. We carried on with our journey, eventually arriving in Fresno, where we checked into our hotel for the night. The next day, Chris, Doug, and I flew back to St. Louis, while Aaron stayed on in Yosemite Valley for the weekend.

The John Muir Trail (JMT) offers more than stunning views and solitude—it confronts you with yourself. Each step strips away the noise of everyday life until all that’s left is breath, heartbeat, and bare intention. I feel deeply privileged to have walked its ridge lines and slept beneath its unfiltered stars—challenged not just by the terrain, but by the internal landscape it revealed.

When I think back on the journey, the silence wasn’t empty—it was honest. It brought forward questions I’d long buried beneath convenience and distraction. Seven days I spent re-reading an article about Ezra Caldwell, and with each pass, the truth settled deeper into me: life isn’t just fleeting, it’s fragile. Too often we give our limited time to people who don't walk beside us, who don't understand that the ride is all we have. That's no longer a compromise I'm willing to make.

I’ve come to understand that very few people get to live with the kind of freedom and intensity that I’m fortunate enough to experience. Every day, I wake up in control of my path, pursuing my passions, navigating through uncertainty, and—despite the challenges—finding contentment in fleeting moments of clarity and joy. I've learned that healing isn't linear. Sometimes, strength manifests in breaking open and letting the cracks show. Some days, strength feels like fire. Other days, it’s brittle and quiet, barely enough to carry you forward. But there’s power in that honesty. The moment I stood alone on that windswept bluff wasn’t just a new beginning—it was a reckoning. I stopped fleeing from pain. I began walking toward something more real.

Experience. Vitality. Meaning. These aren’t abstract ideals anymore—they’re choices I make daily. And at the center of it all is curiosity: the willingness to ask better questions, to embrace change, and to lean into the unknown. Because every sunrise out there reminded me of something essential—this life is not about arrival. It’s about discovery.

If you’ve stuck with me through all this, thank you. Now here’s the one message I hope stays with you: Go Live—boldly, fully, and without holding back.​

To my adventure mates — Chris, Doug, and Aaron

Thanks for not pushing me off the mountain when I complained yet again about the bugs. I know it was close a few times. Eternal gratitude for the hot water each morning that kept my coffee addiction alive, and for the glorious hot chocolate at Rosalie Lake — a true back country delicacy.

Thanks for enduring the endless squeaking from my pack (yes, it annoyed me too — no one suffered more than I did). And most of all, thank you for sharing this ridiculous, beautiful, sweaty, bug-bitten adventure with me.

For the quiet moments, the unspoken camaraderie, the moral (and sometimes literal) support — and for letting me just be my weird, trail-dust-covered self. Though in hindsight, I do wish one of you had mentioned that I looked like a haunted Victorian child with sunblock smeared all over my face. Really leaned into the full “feral hiker-hobo” aesthetic.

The JMT was epic. The views were stunning, but honestly? The company was better. (Don’t let that go to your heads.)

Here’s to more dirt, more sweat, more laughs…and maybe fewer biting bug's next time. Maybe.

​What will you do when there is no finish line or predetermined measure of completion? When it hurts so badly but there's still time on the clock? The question beckons: WILL you continue? 
Backyard style ultras are a whole other animal and my favorite style of racing looped courses.  Aside from the social aspect, backyard style ultras generate a sense of equality and an illusion of hope that one can continue on much longer with no definitive end. It seems easy, and in many ways, it is, until it isn’t.
 
How did I get here? 

Queeny Backyard Ultra is put on by the Terrain Trail Runners in St. Louis, MO close to my hometown Jefferson City, MO a short 2-hour drive. The course is a combination of chat gravel, pavement and short sections of dirt trails with plenty of hills to keep things interesting. I had gotten my start in ultra-running within this community, and I couldn’t think of a better way to start back again!
 
As I wheeled my cooler up to the staging area, we were greeted by the cold, thirty miles per hour wind gust and the rain came in sideways. The tent city was under siege. To everyone's surprise, there was even a registration on race day! A runner had signed up to run the morning of the race, needless to say ultra-runners are incorrigible. The only way to stay warm was to run and at noon, we ran!
 
After four hours of steady downpour, the sun showed its glorious face before fading into a clear, cold night under the waning moon. I stopped to watch the light from my headlamp slither onwards like a snake. The daffodils slumped as the frost set in and the pack of runners dwindled in number and enthusiasm. As conversations ceased and playlists recycled, I looked forward to the morning, daybreak will eventually come.

​Perhaps it was the excitement of the potential warmth from the sunrise, or the pursuit of 100 miles, but my splits began to get faster. I had been running 50 minutes per 4.2-mile loop for much of the night, with a few catnaps here and there, but the day brought 48s and then consistent 47s. Over the course of twenty-four hours of running the Queeny Backyard Ultra loop I had perfected the course down to a science. In backyard style ultra-lingo, it’s called the “robot mode” and I knew when to walk and when to run. James Pratt, my one-man crew had been with me all night and had taken over my brain duties, as I continued on, visits from family and friends with food deliveries uplifted my spirit. In my head I knew to win a race with no end, I had to muster the courage deep within me to continue, and just keep moving forward until I would be the last person standing. 

After 24 yards the pack of five runners thinned out to only three runners when Kevin Rapp and Joyce Payne decided to drop out of the race. Joyce had led a record shattering effort for the ladies with a 24 yard performance! The remaining three Jason Kesterson, myself and Chris Silva ran a solid 27 yards after which Chris refused to continue and Jason walked back after leaving on the 28th and final lap while I continued on the loop. As I approached the finish line, I was greeted by cheers from the volunteers, my family, friends and my crew James, followed by a finish line hug from the race director. 

This finish line feeling is not something I will soon forget, but I know I will be back in 2024 for that Silver Ticket for BIG’s!

​The summer of 2021, I found myself on a women’s only group run, led by Shalini Bhajjan, founder of Terrain Trail Runners (TTR) and race director of several St. Louis-area trail ultras. I recall my conversation with Shalini clearly from that day, as she poured on about her excitement for a race, she was putting together for the Fall of 2022 that would be the area’s first 3-day stage race, starting and ending at Camp Wyman.

​Camp Wyman is tucked away in the rolling hills of Eureka, MO, established in 1898 and connects to some of St. Louis County’s toughest and most beautiful trail systems. This made for a perfect hosting location for this 3-day stage race along with presenting an opportunity to give back to the Wyman Center for their continued work with young adults.

 Start of Stage 1

Fast forward a year and half later I find myself at the starting line of the inaugural Thunder Chicken 100K Stage Races in Eureka, MO! Three days of racing encompassing up to a 100K in distance and over 10,000ft of elevation gain, touring three very different trail systems starting with Rockwoods Range Conservation Area, Greensfelder County Park and Rockwoods Reservation Conservation Area. To top all of this, Thunder Chicken 100K Stage Races is the first foot trail race of its kind to take place on some of these trail systems connecting all three parks over the course of three days! 

Stage 1 started on some woodland trails in Camp Wyman that connected to Greensfelder County Park as we made our way to Rockwoods Range on some glorious single-track trails. Once in Rockwoods Range runners were presented with some steep climbs and gnarly terrain, running through this section of the course required all of my concentration as I was easily distracted by the changing colors of the oaks and maples that set the landscape ablaze!

​At the turnaround aid station, I was greeted by the familiar and friendly faces of enthusiastic TTR volunteers to give me just the morale boost I needed to make it back up the steep climb I had just descended. Runners then made their way back to Camp Wyman to close out day one at 21 miles with approximately 3,350ft of total elevation gain. I finished feeling tired and achy and asking myself, “how am I going to get up and do this again tomorrow, knowing that day two is 6 miles longer and steeper?”

​Stage 2 kicked off with a beautiful sunrise and offered a grand tour of Camp Wyman’s grounds, leading runners through the trails on the other side of camp from where we had started the first day. This section included some big climbs and descents, taking runners past some old rustic cabins, around to a small frog pond and through an amphitheater before spitting us back onto trails connecting to Greensfelder County Park.

After cruising along on some flow trails through Greensfelder we then made our way out to Rockwoods Reservation on Greenrock Trail. This segment of the course was steep, single-track trails with lots of technical sections and rocks covered in green moss to keep you present, thence the name Greenrock Trail. With a quick stop at the aid station, I was on my way to tackle a series of very steep and rugged trails within the Rockwoods Reservation Conservation Area. As I made my way back to the aid station once more the fatigue from day one and the steep, technical climbs from day two had started to wear down on my legs. I topped off my water and prepared myself for the next 10 miles of rugged terrain.

​I cruised back to Camp Wyman, having already hit 26 miles on my gps watch, I was sure it was all downhill to the finish. And then I turned a corner and bam, one last long climb. I cursed Shalini under my breath and power hiked my way up. At a little over 27 miles and 4,650ft of elevation gain later, my legs were now trashed. I went home to soak in an ice bath and hoped for better sleep.

I woke up on day three eager to get back to Camp Wyman and join my fellow runners so we could all finish what we had started. Stage 3 was the shortest stage at 15 miles with an elevation gain of around 2100ft, but Mother Nature threw some rain at us adding to the challenge. I made my way to the starting line and could feel my hamstrings tighten up, but I was ready to run.

What made Stage 3 interesting was the course layout that included some fast flow trails along with few short but steep road sections as well as the challenging and rugged Mustang Trail in Greensfelder County Park. We sloshed and slid down the steep hills and cruised on the more rolling sections of the course.

​Coming into the finish I was overcome with emotions! I felt in awe of what the human body can endure. I also felt overwhelming gratitude for this community of people that make these events possible and provide unending encouragement along the way, including race directors like Shalini that dream up these crazy adventures for us to test our limits.

Thunder Chicken 100K Stage Races is the latest of Terrain Trail Runners-STL events to challenge even some of the most seasoned trail and ultra-runners!

Hard things are hard.
 
It’s day two, and after 28 hours of running I find myself deep in the pain cave. My watch is reading 78 miles, and I have yet to come across Hope Pass Aid Station at mile 76.9. I’m trying to push hard up yet another very steep, never-ending hill, and I find myself dehydrated and low on calories. I’m lightheaded, dizzy, and my feet feel like they are on fire. ‘She Talks to Angels’ is blaring through my headphones.
 
She never mentions the word "addiction"
In certain company
Yes, she'll tell you she's an orphan
After you meet her family
She paints her eyes as black as night now
Pulls those shades down tight
Yeah, she gives a smile when the pain come
The pains gonna make everything alright……
 
I ponder in my head if this song was written for me; surely many others have thought the same. I press on as I focus on getting to the aid station.

Like many of the other runners, I signed up to run Fat Dog 120 in 2020. And like most events out there, this race became a victim of Covid. So, two years of cancelations later, on August 4, I found myself at the pre-race meeting in a room full of runners at Manning Park Resort, BC. Somewhere between the nervous chattering, faint laughs, and infectious pre-race energy, we were told the race re-route would add more miles to the actual distance we’d be running race day. Fat Dog 120 will now be Fat Dog 123, but as we all know trail miles are approximations. The question that resonated in my head was “How much longer?” I knew when I had signed up that this race would take me well out of my comfort zone. I had only ever covered 108 miles in my previous 100-mile races.  Unable to wrap my head around all the logistics, I focused on a text I had received earlier in the week from friend I had only met two weeks earlier while volunteering to course sweep for Hardrock 100 in Colorado. The text read, “Have fun and stay in the moment! The light is always there if you remember to listen.” It was followed by these lyrics from ‘Closer To Fine’ by The Indigo Girls.
 
Well, darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable
And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear
 
This good luck text became my race day mantra, and for that I thank you, Michael Chavez! I held onto this the entire 127, that’s right… 127 miles that I ran. I chose to stay in the moment even when the going got tough and I questioned my ability to complete what I had started.

My partner and my crew, Marcus, drove Chuck Collins, a good friend and St. Louis ultra-runner, and me to the start line of Fat Dog 120. Chuck and I began our journey into the unknown at 10am Friday. We agreed to pace with each other and run as much of the race as possible together with the understanding that neither one of us will hold the other one back. But you see, agreeing to run with someone else puts you in a precarious position as at some point both of us would be running the other person’s race. This was not something I was used to. Like everyone else I take my highs and run them until I hit a low, then repeat. There is no way to coordinate those highs and lows with another person when you choose to run with them.
  
Going into Fat Dog 120, I had a lot of self-doubt… not because my training wasn’t all there, but simply because each time you find yourself at the start of yet another 100-mile race, you are journeying into the unknown. The outcome is never guaranteed. I had no real time goals except a best-case scenario of somewhere between 40-45 hours finish and a worst-case scenario to finish within the 48 hours cutoff.

​Start – Pasayten River Aid Station
Almost immediately we start with a 4,800 foot climb to the Cathedral Aid station at approximately 10 miles. Both the climb and the scenery left me breathless; I was on fresh legs and felt invincible! Following the ascent, we had a 4,200 foot decent into the Ashnola aid station. It was late afternoon by the time we got there, and the infestation of black flies and mosquitoes was at its prime, along with rising temperatures. This was the first time since the start that we had seen Marcus, and I was thankful to have him along for this wild ride! A quick stop for food, bug spray spritz, and ice, and we were back to running. As we left Ashnola, I noticed that my GPS watch read 18 miles, but the race guide had this aid station at 16.8 miles. I was following the GPS course file that I had uploaded to my watch, so the variance in distance was a bit unnerving. I realized that I couldn’t rely on the aid station distances that were provided to us in the race guide. As we left the Ashnola aid station I wondered in my head, “How far to the next aid station?” 
 
Heading into Trapper, the third aid station, we were still climbing but making good time. By the time we made it to Calcite aid station, the bugs had settled down a bit and the sun was starting to set over the distant peaks. The course started to wear down on my legs, and we were only 30 miles into the race. I tried hard to focus on the present moment… the sunset, the gorgeous scenery, and the comradery of fellow runners. At this aid station both Chuck and I stopped to add a long sleeve shirt and grab our headlamps before continuing into the setting sun. While I was waiting on Chuck, one of the aid station’s crew who was dressed like a grim reaper offered me cold beer. I immediately refused and then followed up with, “What kind of beer?” I’ve never once in my 9 years of racing had beer mid-race, surely I wasn’t going to start now. As I stood on top of the mountain of one of the most difficult races I had ever tackled with 97 miles more to go, I surely wouldn’t drink beer. In that moment the little voice in my head reminded me to stay in the moment, and so I reached into the cooler and opened a can of SOL, the best damn beer I have ever tasted! I offered a beer to Chuck, who reminded me of an article I had shared on Facebook on the negative effects of alcohol during endurance events which was followed by, “No thanks.” I thought about it, threw back the rest of the beer in an instant, and told myself, “You will not relive this moment, so do what feels good.” The cold beer felt heavenly!
 
The sun had set and the temperatures were dropping by the time we descended to the Pasayten River aid station. The light from my head lamp revealed the river. I took my first steps into the water; it was cold and moving fast. The water in the river was at my knees as I struggled to find my footing while also trying to hold on to the rope overhead. I stumbled hard and almost lost it. I was waist deep into the river. Fact: I don’t swim, and I was panicking. I tried hard to focus on where I stepped, grasping at the rope. My heart was racing so hard, but I had made it across the river.
 
I was in a bit of a shock and trying to process what had just happened. What if I had lost my grip? While I was still pondering on that what if, from somewhere in the dark I heard Marcus call out for me. This was the moment I reminded myself of something I get told by Marcus repeatedly. “One can’t continue to live their life with what-ifs.” It was time for me to let go of the question in my head, “What if?”
Next stop, the Bonnevier aid station at 41.3 miles. 

​Bonnevier – Hope Pass Aid Station
Bonnevier aid station was only the second major, crew accessible aid station, and I was looking forward to changing my wet shoes and socks and getting enough food and fluids in me before we moved onto the next three minor aid stations. Not only were these next three aid stations remote and had limited food and water supplies, but they were also further apart in distance averaging 9.6 miles between them. The next major aid station was at Hope Pass, which wouldn’t be until 77 miles in mid-afternoon the following day.
 
Little did I know this 33-mile stretch would test every ounce of my fitness and my mental fortitude. By the time Chuck and I made it to Heather aid station at 51.5 miles, not only was my GPS watch reading 55 miles, but it was also the middle of the night, windy as hell, and temperatures had taken a nosedive into mid-30s. We stopped to add more layers, gloves, and long pants. In the short period of time, it took us to do so, we were both shivering as we headed out without any food to grab at this aid station.
 
Due to the remote nature of these minor aid stations, the volunteers had to hike in the supplies. By the time Chuck and I got to Heather aid station the first time, they were all out of hot water/broth and we had to wait a while for the volunteers to prepare hot food. I was growing increasingly hypothermic at this point, so we decided to grab some gels and press on to the Nicomen Lake aid station in the hopes that we’d be able to get some hot food and refuel there.
 
By the time we hit the Nicomen Lake aid station, it was dawn and once again the aid station didn’t have any food prepared ahead of time. I was lethargic, and it was pretty apparent that I would need real food if I were to continue moving forward. I decided to wait for the volunteers to prepare some ramen for me. I was given a cup full of luke-warm water and dry-crumbled ramen.  I needed real food and didn’t want to wait for the ramen to fully dissolve, so I asked if they had anything else to eat. I was offered a cold slice of fatty bacon.  I felt lightheaded; I needed food. I sipped the water and pitched the rest, as I grabbed two more gels and we carried on to the next aid station.
 
I could feel the fatigue taking over, and the lack of food and water intake had slowed down my pace considerably. By the time we hit Granger Creek aid station, I felt fried but the volunteers at the Granger aid station had broth and other pre-prepared real food that was ready to go. I was finally able to throw down two cups of hot broth, saltines, and some fruit. The section from Granger Creek aid station to Hope Pass was incredibly challenging for me. We had a 3,300-foot descent that was followed by a 3,600-foot climb to Hope Pass aid station. It was mid-afternoon of day two, and the bugs had made their ugly return along with the intensity of the sun. I was low on calories, and with each step I struggled to stay up right as I was dizzy and nauseated.
 
Hope Pass aid station was littered with the carnage of runners dropping. We sat and started the process of getting this train back on track! I could barely speak as I choked on the dust I had been inhaling pretty much since the start of the race. I hacked some gross stuff out of my throat and felt better after chugging down two cups of coke. I was surprised and ecstatic to see Marcus at this aid station! Per our pre-race crewing discussion, Hope Pass was not one of the aid stations he was supposed to meet me at due to the challenging nature of the road getting up to the pass. But he had hitched a ride with another runner’s crew and had been waiting for us to get there with my drop bag ready to go. Both Chuck and I changed shoes, refreshed water, and ate a few perogies. At this point, knowing that I had almost 30 miles to the next major aid station at Blackwall, I decided to pack extra food for the trek back through the limited minor stations.

Hope Pass – Blackwall Aid Station
As we left Hope Pass aid station, I felt like a new person. I was determined to finish what I had started no matter how long it took. It’s amazing what a little food, coke, cold water, and change of gear can do for your mindset. I put my music on and pushed the pace for us to get to Nicomen. The sun was once more setting by the time we approached the Heather aid station; we were officially going into the second night and hadn’t quite hit 100 miles yet. I stopped to marvel at the insatiable depth of the mountains, the glorious sunset, and the slow cool breeze that carried the sweet smell of the wildflowers covering every stretch of ground as far as I could see. But there was something else the breeze was carrying... my own stench.
 
Just then I heard a low thrum. We had heard this low thrum earlier in the day when we had made the same trek from Heather to Nicomen, and Chuck and I had talked about it but hadn’t seen anything. There it was once again! I stopped to look around and saw a rustling in the field of wildflowers. Just then a Spruce Grouse scurried up the hillside to my left. I smiled and, in that instance, I was grateful for where I was standing, who I am, and what I was doing. Chuck and I both grabbed a gel at Heather and kept rolling to Blackwall aid station. The stretch from Heather to Blackwall aid station would have been ‘runnable’ had my feet not been trashed. To add to the agony, there was some technical terrain so I power-hiked until we hit the road.
 
It was around 11:30pm on Saturday, Aug 7 when we hit the Blackwall aid station and my GPS watch was reading 104 miles. Once more I was ecstatic to see Marcus and my pacer Zarah Hofer! Chuck and I both sat down at Blackwall aid station. We added layers as it was starting to get cold again and ate a ton of food knowing that this was going to be the last aid station with some decent real food to eat. We needed to refuel for the last 27 miles. The state of my feet was pretty bad. I fumbled to patch up some blisters and change my shoes and socks. Less than a marathon to go! I knew it would be a long stretch with approximately 5,900 feet of descent and 4,200 feet of ascent over East Skyline Trail before I’d cross Rainbow Bridge and see the finish line. In that moment I reminded myself of what I had endured and what I needed to do to finish!
 
At this point I knew Chuck and I had to part ways. I told him to go without me since I had a pacer, and I needed more time at Blackwall aid station for my feet. I felt a small tinge of panic as Chuck left, and I was about to start running with my pacer Zarah. Why a tinge of panic?
 
Up until midnight on Sunday, August 7, 2022, I hadn’t met Zarah Hofer.  I had never run with her and had no idea of who she was and vice versa. Up until 3 weeks prior to the race, I had a pacer lined up and ready to go, or so I thought until my pacer was injured and couldn’t pace me anymore. Upon the recommendation of some friends, I had posted a pacer request on a women’s only running group, “Ladies of the Trails” based in Vancouver. Zarah had responded to my post and was willing to tag along with me for the last 20 miles of the race and get me to the finish! Zarah and I had exchanged texts and a couple of phone calls prior to race weekend just so we could connect on some level and review pacing/running strategies. Somewhere in my rambling, I had mentioned to Zarah that the only time she could push me would be a downhill section. Outside of the simple task of getting me to the finish line, I had no expectations.

Blackwall Aid Station to the Finish Line
After what seemed like forever spent at this aid station, Zarah and I finally started on our trek so I could finish what I had started almost 40 hours earlier.
 
The next 6.6 miles to Windy Joe’s flew by as Zarah and I talked and ran a downhill section on the road in the stillness of the early hours of Sunday morning. Even though every rock I ran over felt like a stab to my feet, I was running and heading towards what would be the farthest distance I would have run thus far.
 
I grabbed a little food to eat at Windy Joe’s, and we kept rolling towards Strawberry Flats. Far out in the distance we could hear cheering and announcements for the 42 hour runners finishing the race. In that moment the two things that ran through my head were: One, I was going to finish this damn race and two, the 42 hours finish time was out, but could I still finish in 45 hours. Or at least I had to try!
I repeated this in my head, and we quickly moved the 4.9 miles to Strawberry Flats aid station. At this aid station both Zarah and I made sure we had plenty of food and water to get us through the final 11 miles to the finish.
 
Once we left this aid station, we started the brutal soul-crushing climb up the East Skyline Trail. Holy Shit! I can honestly say this was both physically and mentally the hardest section of the course for me. Just then we came to a halt and started climbing once again. With no end in sight, this trail segment was not only steep, but it was gnarly and technical. One misstep and death would be imminent. I tried hard to focus on continuing to move forward with encouragement from Zarah. I was 44 hours into the race, and my watch had already hit 123 miles which is what we were told the length of the race would be. How far was the finish line?
 
Race courses that challenge us as trail runners is why we keep finding events like Fat Dog 120 to suffer! With this thought, I pushed myself hard as we slowly crested what appeared to be the last hills. We started running downhill. Could this be the final descent to the finish!?!
 
My head was foggy, and I had lost all concept of time, thinking hurt my brain. I needed to be done. “Why was I hungry again? Now I’m hot. Why are we still running?” With all these thoughts rushing through my head all at once, I realized we were descending a very steep and never-ending downhill. I heard Zarah call back to me, “This is it! We are so close!!”
 
I was running the downhill as fast as I could push my legs. We turned a corner and the Lightning Loop Lake Bridge Rainbow Bridge came into view. We could hear cheering. I almost broke down in that moment, but then I looked at my watch and saw I was 46 hours and 30 minutes into the race. There was no more time to be wasted with the finish line in sight; I ran hard!
 
I saw Marcus running towards me as he cheered us on, and in a blink of an eye I found myself at the finish. Ok, ok, it wasn’t quite “in a blink of an eye”... more like 46:36:08!