Superior 100, 2013 (Unexplainable Stories)

The Superior 100 Endurance Run starts at Gooseberry State Park and travels north via the Superior Hiking Trail, a favorite playground, to Lutsen Mountain. Along the way, for an actual 103.6 miles, the adventure is filled with so many awesome and inspiring people, overwhelming views, incredible stories of triumphs of body and spirit. In other words, despite some physical pain and running through some dark spots, it's a total blast.

with Mom and Dad

The gathering at the start is fun, meeting new people and seeing others from these events, but you really want to get running. Your parents are there too. After a hug and sweet kiss from Lisa, and a “Go” from race director John Storkamp, you're finally doing this thing, running under the Highway 61 bridge and soon leaving paved trail. Except for highway crossings, you won’t run pavement again until the finish is in sight. The memories are very episodic--only a couple days removed you have a difficult time getting the specifics right, what happened in what section and so on.

To Split Rock Aid Station (9.7 miles)

Lots of chatter. Lots of people passing. Lots of excitement. You run too fast. 

Approaching the aid station, you let out a loud, "Woo!" Then another. You will do this approaching  every aid station. People will later say, "There's that guy who says 'Woo.'" 

To Beaver Bay (10.3 miles)

The heat kicks in. You're still drinking regularly, eating a Gu packet every half hour. Still running faster than you should, too. You decide to pull back—the day could get long and your goals are to finish and to enjoy it.

At Beaver Bay you see Lisa and your parents for the first time. You sit in a chair.  You pour ice water over your head, then Lisa covers your head with cold rags--she's amazing that way, the details. You're incredibly gassy and try to blame your mom. You eat some oranges and bananas. You can't stop laughing.

To Silver Bay (4.9 miles)

This section is short but a lot happens. It's more exposed and everyone who passes you or who you pass mentions the heat beating them up. People are zombied. You're nauseous and bloated from drinking so much water. At a beautiful overlook of endless trees you sit on a rock and consider throwing up. A friend named Joe (who's still in the Gnarly Bandit hunt) chats for a couple minutes. The breeze feels good here--you must have taken your shirt off. You spray orange chunks and liquid on the rocks in spurts, enjoying the view and the breeze. You feel so much better after the vomit. Not long after this you pass a man who has run out of water (or maybe he passes you), so you give him some of yours.

You dip your head in a cold creek before the aid station.

At some point you come upon Matt, who has ridden up with you (Lisa and your parents are helping crew him too). You work together to get to the aid station and the familiar company is nice. You feel wobbly and worry about being able to finish this thing when you take a chair at Silver Bay.

To Tettegouche (9.9 miles) 

This section feels long and hilly and beautiful and hot. But every section feels hilly and beautiful. It might be that you throw up here instead of the previous section. And you might have run into the man without water here instead. Heat blurs memory. You had looked at your mileage chart wrong before leaving and think this section's a mile or two shorter than it really is, so it feels like forever. By the time you hit Tettegouche, you're really scared you won't make it to the end.

To County Road 6 (8.6 mles)

You've got trekking poles now. Shortly after leaving Tettegouche, along the rocky shores of the Baptism River, with little daylight to spare, you pull out the headlamp. You love the magic of night running, how your world of vision is reduced to that circle of light and the shadows its movement creates. How other distant headlamps move across valleys and ridgetops. The echoing pip pip pip of nightbirds.

For a long time, you hear faint traces of a woman singing. You wonder if it's someone from the many campsites along the trail. But the voice moves through the dark. Ahead of you now. It's lovely. Then the voice connects to a pair of headlamps, a runner and her pacer, one of them singing. You thank them for the gift. They tell you they aren't really there, that you're hallucinating. Their laughter bounces in the dark as you continue on.

To Finland (7.5 miles)

The stars so thick and bright you could reach out and grab handfuls from the sky. Rocky outcrops and the sound of water rushing somewhere beneath you. 

You think of your friend Aric often tonight. Exactly a year ago he passed away and you walked the Blue Earth river looking for him. Now you talk to him and you are comforted.

AC/DC blasts from speakers at the aid station.

To Sonju Lake Road (7.7 miles)

Branches and brush hide the trail from your headlamp. At the aid station, you suck down a cup of soup broth. This has been your go-to aid station request. You've backed off the gel packets in the night because they make you want to throw up. It's still so humid and warm for such a clear night, and the campfire feels good but you don't linger here. You want to see Lisa, so you move on.

To Crosby-Manitou (4.2 miles)

You're feeling good, moving good. The poles give you a rhythm. You ran this section three weeks ago, so landmarks are familiar, even in the dark. You've been taking this thing piece by piece, aid station by aid station, but this one is special because the last had no crew access, and you'll see Lisa here. It's also the halfway mark. Yay!

Crosby bathroom

To Sugarloaf (9.4 miles)

The climbs through the Manitou River gorge are brutal, at spots so steep your hands pull you up. Twice you hit false summits, and then keep climbing. But when you finally top out the sun is twinkling over the big lake and there is enough light to see the whole forested gorge you just passed through. The light brings energy. You run more. You hop over rocks and roots instead of stumbling. You'll change shoes at Sugarloaf. It's a long day ahead, still hot and humid, and this section's got plenty of climbing, but you've got this. Just keep moving.

To Cramer Road (5.6 miles)

You've been running with a guy named Jason for awhile now, working together. It's amazing, the things you discover you have in common. It's good teamwork. You're grateful for the company. You're also leaving the aid stations faster. The end of this is in your head now.

You see Russ, Matt's pacer, here. Russ taught your son English in high school. Matt's suffering, but moving. He's in good hands.

Watermelon and soup broth for breakfast

To Temperance River (7.1 miles)

You're out in the open often in this section, but midmorning the heat starts to break. You first notice it in the cooler breezes by rivers. The air is dryer too. 

You will regret not taking a pancake from the last aid station.

Again, you've read your chart wrong and think this section is a couple miles shorter than it is, so it grows as you move through it. You're seeing 50 milers pass you now. They smell fresh, like soap and shampoo. They all offer encouragement.

To Sawbill (5.7 miles)

Jason has so much energy you cut the imaginary string that's held you together this long and let him go. You can't keep up and you're happy he's feeling this groove. 50 milers from Mankato are coming by. Your new friend TJ is doing great. You're moving too, doing what you can, steady, highs and lows pulsing through you in quick waves. You're eating more now too. 

You'd really like an ice cream cookie sandwich from here until the end. It's in your head.

The long and steep climb from the Temperance River to Carlton Peak whacks you hard, but long sections here are runnable. And once you pass the spur to the top of Carlton Peak, you feel different, lighter. You're in spring race territory here, only 25k to go. And it's mostly all downhill boardwalk to the aid station. Lisa returns your Woo! long before you can see her.

with Darren

To Oberg (5.5 miles)

Darren joins you. The company is great but you're not good at conversation now. You're deep inside yourself, focused on each step, each breath. You hear shallow grunts in your breathing. This section rides you heavy, and a couple miles before the aid station you sit on a bench and regroup. What's difficult now, besides the muscle cramping (you're used to that), is the feet, the toes, the mangled bottoms, the feel of the roots and rocks. 

You're grateful Darren is here. These things are better shared.

At Oberg, a man offers to spray your head with cold water. Of course you accept such a lovely gift. Like so many you've met here, he's a total trail angel.

To Finish (7.1 miles/ 103.6 total)

As tough as the previous section was, you've been thinking about this one since yesterday morning, since the spring runs. You've thought about what Moose and Mystery Mountains will feel like 100 miles into the game. And what you learn is that compared to where you've been, they've got nothing on you. You power through Moose Mountain. You hear finish line cheering, but you know you've got lots of circling to do. Darren tells you it's over a hundred miles done and it doesn't seem real. You power up Mystery, digging and leaning into your poles. You hoot and holler and woo and the darkness is almost upon you and what you don't want is to have to take that headlamp out again but you can't see the ground. Heading down Mystery Mountain you've entered the second night and the lights come out.

Someone has been answering your woos but now the sound of the Poplar River drowns human voices. Yes, you hear the river, feel its wind. You're crossing its bridge. You're answering your wife, hugging her. She's running beside you on the pavement.

Breathe it all in.

You're doing this.

You're circling the pool and crossing the line with your good friend and your wife.

You're stupefied by the wonder of it all.

This is happening.

Finish

You hug your parents. At least you think you do. You're so grateful you were able to cross the line with Lisa, because you ran this thing together, as a team--you will forever be grateful for the many ways she makes your life better. You get your buckle and your sweatshirt. Your time was 36 hours, 17 minutes, and some change. You greet Matt, both your new friends named Jason, others you met on the trail or at the pre-race meeting. And soon a strange thing happens. You're sitting alone at this table, your parents giving rides, Lisa ordering pizza, hunting a Coke for you. Your brain feels dry and messy, as if you might not know how to talk to someone if they came up to start a conversation. You wonder if you could write a full sentence, your name. But you're different now. You're carrying this new thing inside you--it's beautiful. 

A Cloud Cult song comes through the speakers on the hotel patio. Their song "Unexplainable Stories" has been looping through your head for the last 60 miles or so. It fits. This run is finished, but it will be with you forever.

Foot

Foot

Next day brunch with Matt

She's going to help me soak my feet. I'm a lucky lucky boy!

So grateful for the community it took to get me and all these other runners together and to our finish lines (Storkamp does these right and he's good people). Grateful for the overwhelming kindness and support of family, friends, and strangers throughout this thing. Grateful for the victories and character found in the DNF's. Grateful for the humility a thing like this brings. Grateful for the opportunities and the possibilities.

Jimbo's Boys

Jimbo’s Boys,  for Coach Jim Deane

We ran intervals around Man Made Lake.

The sand there slows time. Memory gives it some heat,

burns the legs a bit. I’m 43 years old tonight,

and I clearly recall your face,

the way your neck turned, and that smile

you gave at the end of our last interval,

our last gasp of oxygen to get us across the line.

Keep moving, you said. Give me one more lap.

There was no break here, not this time, just a turning over.

We turned the legs over to the head, and then to the arms.

We turned this ancient movement over to some stillness so deep

within us we won't be able to name it years later.

Somehow, in the sticky hot air, we found another lap,

one we didn’t know we had. We found it to impress you,

or each other, or some girl. We found it for our parents.

Or maybe even for ourselves.

We found this thing because we had to,

because we were Jimbo’s boys.

It changed something inside us, that last lap.

The air leaving our lungs was newer, the blood richer.

We were different people, full of hope and possibility.

We carry that last lap with us, and we find it in places

we never expected, places where we need it.

We find it when we realize we’ve lied to ourselves too long.

We find it on snowy rivers, in detox cots and prison visiting rooms.

We find it when we bury friends and family

and when we hear our boy’s first cry, that first breath of life.

We find it in hotel rooms when we think our run is over,

when we realize there’s a new life waiting outside the door.

We find it on moonlit midnight runs covered in soft rain

and in divorce courts and car accidents and doctor’s offices.

We find that last lap when we most need it,

and we learn to carefully unwrap this gift

you helped us discover, the gift of being one of Jimbo’s boys.

Isle Royale May 27 to June 2, 2013 (Minong Trail and points south)

Monday: Brian and I rode the Voyageur II to Isle Royale out of Grand Portage on Memorial Day. During the ride, I learned from the deck hand that if you turn a map of the island upside down, it shows the face of the windigo creature. Please be careful if you try this--it's scary. During the LNT talk at the ranger station, we learned that the ice had come off the inland lakes only a week earlier, and that all the moose calves were a week old (apparently, they are all born at the same time, gestation ending when the external conditions are right). After registering our itinerary, we took the long, half mile hike to our night's destination, Washington Creek.

Filtering water from Washington Creek

Washington Harbor and Beaver Island

After settling in, we hiked to Huginnin Cove on the north side of the island.

Isle Royale red squirrels have evolved into their own subspecies.

Bridge

Huginnin Cove

At Huginnin Cove we found a gift of watching what I think were huge brook trout (coasters?) swimming upstream to spawn, then returning to Lake Superior. It was really something. We also checked out the Wendigo Mine cabin from the 1890's.

Moments before spawning.

Tuesday: The hike to North Lake Desor was long, about six and a half hours, with lots of ups and downs. Last year there was a fire on this section, and that made it hard to find the trail at times.

Post apocalyptic wasteland scene

In places the trail was the only place grass was growing.

We eventually hit those amazing ridgetop views that I love about the Minong.

Above North Lake Desor

North Lake Desor evening

The loons made wonderful companions and sang us to sleep.

This would be the only night we spent in tents.

Wednesday: My favorite section of the Minong, Desor to Todd Harbor. I had forgotten how flat and straight the second half is, but the first half of this hike pounded me good.

Lovely fog on Lake Superior, looking north to Canada

Trail flowers

Ups and downs

Minong Ridge

Merganser in Todd Harbor

Islands outside Todd Harbor

Wednesday: We waited for the rain to let up before starting our easy hike to McCargoe Cove.

We explored the Minong Mine area and got a little rain on our walk back.

McCargoe Cove

Thursday: We hiked to Moskey Basin.

Fiddleheads

Reflection

Air laundry

Bathing...yes it was cold.

Moskey caterpillar

Snowshoe hare

Moskey storm

Friday: To Chippewa Harbor, where we would be picked up the next day by the Voyageur II. Oddly, this was the only campground that filled.

Chippewa Harbor

Little cabin down the shore

Bryan near the water

Chippewa Harbor

Voyageur II coming to take us home Sunday morning

I had a great time. It rained most days but never all day. The nights got cold. The days got warm and I burned my neck a bit. We had some campgrounds to ourselves. We met some wonderful people on the trails and in camp. My gear was a bit heavier than it normally is, because I carried a lot of clothes for weather variations and rain, and as usual, I carried too much food. I needed all the clothes, but not all the food. Starting weight was around 36 pounds.

Isle Royale has come to feel like a spiritual listening place for me. I'm grateful I had another opportunity to visit.

At the Windigo dock, the moose wolf study people were saying goodbye to their spring Moosewatch volunteers, who were leaving on our boat. With Rolf and Candy Peterson and John Vucetich waving goodbye, I was amazed at the amount of knowledge on that dock. Ranger Val put her arms around their shoulders and joined them for a goodbye chorus line dance as we left the island, watching these people who work so hard to protect all the island is about singing and kicking in rhythm with each other.

Superior 50k, May 18, 2013

SHT sign

Lisa and I drove up with Darren Reed (my awesome coworker who ran the 25k), and his wife Jill on Friday. We ate dinner at The Angry Trout Cafe in Grand Marais and I had the grilled trout (it didn't taste angry at all) with spinach fettuccine and pesto and salad. It was amazing.

Food porn from The Angry Trout

On Friday we also checked in at the race HQ. I normally don't care much about race shirts. In fact, at the last two local races, I've said, "You keep it." Nothing against those shirts, but I have enough, too many. However, these shirts from the Superior Run are mind-blowingly cool. Again. So are the race numbers. Again. John Storkamp puts on some fun running events. Again.

Don't forget to tie your shoes, dude.

I love the Superior Hiking Trail. Except for a couple blank spots, it runs from the Canadian border to Jay Cooke State Park south of Duluth. I could say I've backpacked it all, but they keep adding more connections and trail to the southern end. It's a lovely place to spend a day, a weekend, or a month if you can. This run starts at Lutsen ski resort and follows the trail southbound to Carlton Peak, then returns to Lutsen, a distance of 50k (31 miles) with a 25k (15.5 miles) that starts a couple hours later. In between are a few hills, some rocks and tree roots to watch out for, and some stellar views.

50k start

The weather was perfect, low fifties, cloudy. People said they had driven through downpours to get there. The most we would get during the race was a light cooling rain. 

That first section to Oberg was an exploration, trying to settle into a pace, trying to figure out what I could expend, knowing that there were some things on the way back that could drain my legs: hills, mud, hills, and distance. In my excitement, I hardly noticed Mystery Mountain and I  really enjoyed running down its backside. I felt strong climbing Moose Mountain and appreciated its ridgetop. Descending it, I remembered there would be a return trip and this is where things could get ugly fast if they hadn't yet. 

Following Zack and Alicia

I moved through the Oberg station quickly and fell in behind Alicia, who I would follow most of the race, and Zach, whose always taking pictures at these things, so I was grateful I got a picture of him this time, although it's fuzzy and his back was all I could see. Also in our little group was a guy named Joshua. I was feeling like I had found a good pace running with these people, something that required some effort, but felt patient enough to make this whole thing doable. I was worried about Carlton Peak because last year it really messed me up somehow.

Speedy

Shortly before the Sawbill aid station, Chris Lundstrom passed us on his return leg, then in second, on his way to the win. It's a fun thing about an out and back course to see the leaders coming through. With each passing, encouragements were exchanged.

Working Carlton Peak with Joshua

Joshua and I worked Carlton Peak together. It didn't feel nearly as tough as it did last year. Joshua's company helped. Although we had already been climbing a while when he pointed out the peak. I thought we were a lot closer to the top until he went and did that. It was a good reality check.

Awesome guy

Finally we spotted the top. An awesome guy was waiting to greet us with offers of a handshake, cookies, gatorade, and beer. Last year I spent some time up there enjoying the views (catching my breath, holding my knees), but this time, with all the fog, there wasn't much to see, and I felt good enough to keep going anyway. It was a fun descent, and I made sure to let many of the folks still climbing know that the way down was more fun. For some reason, this thing had been bigger in my head than it really was, and I was so happy to be through it.

Sawbill station, second time

At the second Sawbill station, I got to see Lisa and Jill for the first time. That's always so encouraging. And these volunteers at the aid stations are amazing. They don't get to keep moving like the runners, building heat. What's perfect weather for running certainly isn't for volunteering, but these folks fill water, block roads, divert rain puddles, do so many things with smiles, positivity, encouragement and a sense of humor. 

As I was leaving the aid station, I leaned in for a good luck kiss from Lisa. Watching her recoil made me realize I was a muddy, sweaty, stinky, snotty mess. She said it was the smell of the Gu I had just eaten.

Pond between Sawbill and Oberg

This next section from Sawbill to Oberg was draining simply because of the mud and the roots. It was sloppy. I felt my good running coming and going in waves. I ran much of it alone. There are no major hills here. From what I could hear, the Oberg aid station seemed to be moving around the forest, receding and approaching, teasing me with the distant enthusiasm of its volunteers and cowbells.  

Darren doing it

Not long after Oberg, I found Darren on his way back too. He looked great. I totally admire this guy running his first 25k. He looked to be enjoying himself despite what he said ("Miserable").

My watch had quit working early, as it does when it gets wet. Trail running isn't the best place for worrying about times, as conditions change, but when we left Oberg my sort of secret goal of a sub six hour run appeared sort of possible, if I could handle this last section from Oberg to the finish in roughly ninety minutes. No problem in the first half, but this was the return trip and I knew what Moose and Mystery could do to me. Still, the time was heavy in my head and I was pushing what I could even on these climbs.

Following Alicia

Coming out of Oberg, I found myself once again behind Alicia. I had followed her for so much of this race. I thanked her for dragging me along. In the latter parts of the few ultras I've run is when I learn about the value of working together with other runners. She helped me through much of this last section, and I hope I helped her in some small way too. We traded leads and words of encouragement. That return trip up Moose Mountain was still there, waiting, and we somehow tackled it.

Moose Mountain ridgetop

The fog was thick on the ridgetop of Moose Mountain. I forgot how much climbing there was to be done even up here. Hills grow that way in a long run, I guess. But it felt good to open my legs up going down Moose, and then we started climbing Mystery. It had grown too. This demoralized me. It's not so steep as the previous climb, but it's long enough. Alicia took the lead here and pulled away. Finally, I was able to return to some kind of a run. On the way down, my legs cramped with every step, but I've learned I can often run through such a thing, and I did, though I must have looked funny clenching up in a hop, hop, step on the downhill run. The sound of the Poplar River was a welcome treat. And its crossing was a stunning sight in that fog.

Pavement, about a half mile to go. Yaaaay!

Then there was pavement. A stretch of snow and mud. A surprising pump of arms and legs. And it was over. 6 hours and 3 minutes even. I was happy with that. Ecstatic. I still am. It was 45 minutes faster than last year's run. I cramped up changing clothes in Lisa's trunk; my muscles were fish swimming around under the surface of my skin. I thought I might puke in a puddle in the parking lot and wondered what color it might be after so much Gu. But I felt great, knowing I had given what I could that day.

Darren Reed's doing it

Lisa and I walked up the road to find Darren materialize from the fog. We ran a few steps with him and he was still smiling. This guy had worked to get here, to the race, and he had worked throughout the thing. He deserved that smile. He earned it. 

The chili and company at the finish were spectacular.

Caution

I still have a shirt from a run I did 7 years ago, my hometown (at the time) Fun Days 5k. It has a June 24, 2006 date on it. I'm sure I ran it. Somewhere there are results to prove it. But I don't remember anything about that run. Nothing. I had been drinking and I don't drink like normal people. I black out, don't stop, can't stop. Two days later, June 26 of that year, was my first day of sobriety, of this new life. Thinking of that shirt now makes me appreciate what's here. I'm so grateful that I am able to do this thing with the company of such an awesome woman, with friends old and new, at one of my favorite places on the planet. This weekend I was a little kid on one of my favorite playgrounds again. Some might argue that I should be dead, maybe many times over. They might be right. Like many of us, I'm a miracle. I'm still breathing. I'm still here. Thanks Superior Endurance Run for that valuable reminder of just what it means to be alive and to share this life with good people.