Glass More than Half Full: A Bigfoot 200 Race Report

Where to start when over four months have passed?  A lot of water under the bridge since the Bigfoot 200, Aug. 13-17, 2021.  But with some unexpected holiday and winter break downtime on my hands, I finally put together a report and some reflections on my first foray at the 200-mile distance at Bigfoot 200 in August 2021 in the gorgeous Cascades.  What a long, strange, amazing, fulfilling but also frustrating journey it was!

To cut to the chase (spoiler alert), I was timed out at mile 127 on a 209-mile course as day three gave way to day four. There were 111 finishers and 88 including me who didn’t make it (a 55.7% finish rate).  So I had a little company.  

Looking back, I see this as more than a glass half full in terms experience.  I hope it highlights for me where I have to improve and am still learning about the distance—even with a DNF, it was as far as I’ve ever gone by a good 20-plus miles.  I also learned that I love the challenge of the 200 format (multiple days of continuous running, the clock always ticking).  In terms of the training and just the sense of remoteness and backcountry adventure in the race.  It appeals to the mountaineer and hiker in me as much as the trail runner. As I write, I’m on the Tahoe and Bigfoot waitlists for ’22 and have just entered the Moab 240 lottery (hoping to get one, maybe two cracks this year at a 200, once things shake out with wait lists).  So, yes, I’ve been bitten by the 200 bug.  Definitely, the stakes are now higher as I need to internalize and apply any and all lessons learned.

First I’ll give a summary I hope I can keep short, and after that a blow by blow with more nitty-gritty details and some beta. The latter is for those really interested in this race, or the distance, or the experience of a back of the packer at a 200…or just some extra time on their hands!  For others not in those categories, it may be TMI, be forewarned!  Hopefully it doesn’t seem self-indulgent—I’ve found it truly eye-opening to look back on what really happened.  A lot of that I haven’t dwelt on or maybe pushed to the recesses of the mind these past months, with work and surgery and recovery and return to training dominating thoughts instead. 

Specifically, I’m kind of piecing together here from four sources—1) memory, 2) my Garmin Instinct Solar watch’s GPS track (which has a gap of about 8 miles where I lost the charge and is always imperfect anyway, tending to short me a little compared to official mileage), 3) the records still up there on trackleaders.com which did the real-time race tracking based on the Spot tracking devices we were all required to wear, strapped to our packs, and 4) the beta on the runners’ manual. The Spots transmitted data every six or so minutes on whereabouts, but there are sometimes gaps there where natural obstacles interfered or something like that.  Unfortunately, there are no official splits from a spreadsheet or similar like in some past years. So, I have to guesstimate a bit my arrival and departure times from aid stations and how much time I spent there. Oh yeah, and the pics are a mix of ones I took and ones Sue took.

Before I go further, huge thanks and kudos to Team Scott—that would be Wendy, Sue, and Bill!  They let me talk them into coming from Utah and D.C., taking precious vacation time, to spend it traipsing around the backcountry of the Cascades with me!  I couldn’t have gotten as far as I did without them! They supported, encouraged, cajoled, and consoled, both on the trails and off!  It would have been a very lonely experience without them.  Wendy with her attention to detail and experience and calm under fire.  Sue with her boundless energy and positive spirit. Bill with his steady demeanor and embrace of the role of backcountry road driver, navigator, and logistics czar.  They were truly amazing!  Forever grateful, from the bottom of my heart!

Summary

Days one and two were extremely hot. The first day hazy and somewhat smoky from forest fires some distance away.  Like seemingly a lot of folks, I lost some valuable time to the heat.  All the pre-race advice from vets and race organizers was to take it very easy. On night one, and the first part of night two, I moved better than in the daytime.  Cooler temps made a difference. But one consequence of being way behind where I wanted to be is that it cut into my planned sleeping time.  That took its toll. I got one restless hour of horizontal time when meeting crew on the first night.  Then just two catnaps of 5-10 minutes on night two.  No time for any sleep when I met the crew for the second time, at mile 91.3 (Road 9327) on the morning of day three. That all caught up to me!

I was just ahead of cutoffs most of the way from mile 91, though I did gain some back for a while. By the time I got to the extremely long and difficult 17-mile section from Lewis River to Quartz Ridge, it was my third night of practically no shuteye. Sleep deprivation took its toll, in a kind of vicious circle.  Hallucinations gave way to confusion.  I kept asking my pacer Sue where she was when her headlamp went out of view in the twists and turns, why we weren’t making any progress, why we seemed to be going in circles.  The race sweeps were on our heels, and their presence felt menacing as they got closer in my concerned and altered state of mind, and I could hear them chatting.  Finally, they decided I was weaving too much in an exposed area, and forced me to hop in my bivy in temps around freezing and take a nap (I fell asleep right away, and realized only looking back at the timing data that I was down MUCH longer than I had thought all these months).  I knew even in in my foggy mind that was basically the end of my race, but I was in no position to resist.   There wasn’t time to rest if I was to make the cutoff at Quartz at 5:30 AM., but my body and mind were giving out. In the end, “hiking it in,”
we came in several hours beyond the cutoff.

Overall, it was a tough year on an already tough course for Bigfoot racers. Of the people whom I shared the course with and got to know a little, precious few made it all the way.  Some did make it farther than I.  I was surprised to learn later they’d made it well into day four and the 140-150s or even more but still not been able to get further.  Hat’s off to those who ably built a margin, persevered through the heat, then dealt with cooler temps and some rain on day four, and made it to the finish. That was a hard-earned finish!

My main takeaways (discussed more below) had to do with a lighter pack load, more efficient aid station stops, being smarter about logistics, and the importance of a longer, higher sustained peak, better quality build-up than my winter 2020-21 injury layoff allowed this time around. Oh yeah, and coming into the race better rested.  But there were some positive lessons, too!

Getting to the Race Start

I got into Seattle on Tuesday before the Friday start, hoping to reset the body clock to Pacific time.  Spent one night there and got my last good night of sleep, and maybe the only one I got in the last week or so before the race.  Wednesday mid-day I picked up good friend and pacer Wendy, arriving from Salt Lake City.  I had a bit of an adventure getting our food shopping done near the airport, rushing to find parking, and then having a devil of a time after I picked her up locating the rental SUV (bonus miles as I ran around the covered last-minute pickup lot).  Not a good omen? Anyway, there was a beautiful spot for a close-up view of Rainier from the north along the highway in our 3.5ish hour drive.

We met pacer Sue (whom I had met through Wendy when we had a go at UTMX 100k in Mexico a few years back) and her partner Bill who had flown in from D.C.  He would complete the crew for “Team Scott” and be our driver/navigator. I loved our Airbnb rental house in Packwood.  Thursday was drop-bag packing, a little food shopping, and picking up race number and attending race briefing at White Pass High School in the town of Randall, in temps that reached 100 degrees on a local bank thermometer.

Thanks to Sue for getting up at the crack of dawn to drive me the 25 minutes to the finish and staging area at the high school.  The school buses taking us to start left on time at like 5:45AM but one of them broke down on the windy mountain roads.  Between the stop to load riders onto the other busesand one collective pee stop (well-hydrated runners!), we missed the time window to get through a one-way section where highway crew was working and each lane alternated stops of like 15 minutes.  So, it took over 3 hours for the 2.5 hour drive, and anxious runners driven by their crew and family were there waiting for us at the start.

The upshot was that the start was pushed off by half an hour.  We ended up having a very short time to line up to get our mandatory Spot satellite tracking devices (for them to know where we were, not for us to navigate), drop any belonging we wanted to send to the finish, and take care of last-minute needs. This came on top of a last-minute course change announced the weekend before (which added a little over 2 miles but a couple thousand feet of elevation gain), together with an additional hour added to cutoffs for that.  The outcome was that the online runner tracker was out of sync with de facto race time in terms of where we stood with aid station time limits.  That also made it a little confusing for crews hours away in towns that had WiFi access or cell reception to be able to know exactly how their runners were doing against cutoffs and how to plan their hours-long drives to go meet them in the backwoods. Did I mention how remote this course is?! Crew meeting their runner multiple times can easily drive some 800-900 miles over the course on sometimes sketchy off-the-grid backcountry roads.

Start (Marble Mountain Sno-Park) to Blue Lake (12.2):  12.2 miles, 2,980ft ascent, 2,490ft descent

“You start the run climbing up historic Mt. St.Helens. Sections range from treed at the start to dry, sandy and even a section with a boulder field. In the boulder field follow the posts and course markers to find your way. Gators recommended. Stream at mile 2.5 (silty), 8.4mi (clean), and mi 10.4 (small creek).”

We finally started at 9:30AM.  I remember a lot of climbing early on, as you ascend close to 2,000’ in the first 4 miles or so, topping out around 4,600’ above sea level.  Pretty steady, sometimes kicking up. I was watching my heart rate, and starting to feel the combination of the heat and altitude by 3-4 miles in. When it would creep up into 140s or close to 150, I’d either back off, or take a quick stop to grab a snack or take a pee. My mile splits ranged from 18 to 30 minutes per mile, averaging out around 26min/mile.

I don’t remember a lot about the descent.  I do remember the boulder fields (plural) after that.  Quite cool but they were tricky to navigate, with the occasional flag marker, but you sort of had to pick your line in between.  People took wildly different lines.  It took a lot of energy to hop across the jagged boulders.  Poles came in handy. I felt relieved once we were through the last one, and some people opened it up here and passed me.

Looking back at the topo map, I see we were basically traversing Mt. St. Helens.  We went right past a point where, if you turned right/up (onto the Monitor Ridge Trail), you’d climb up to 8,365 to the highest point you can get to, overlooking the 1980 crater (permit necessary, apparently).

I took too long at Blue Lake A.S.  I’m guessing 20ish minutes. Awkwardly, I knelt or sat in the sand by the drop bags to shed layers, apply sunscreen, grab snacks, etc.  In the blazing early to mid-afternoon sun. I didn’t realize till I was filling my bladder that there was a somewhat shaded area with chairs where people could more comfortably rummage through drop bags while eating and drinking (duh!).

Blue Lake (12.2) to Windy Ridge (30.3):  18.1 miles, 4,428ft ascent, 3,166ft descent

“Section starts out in woods, crosses a river by Blue Lake (the lake not the aid), Gently uphill until you descend into a canyon (7.4miles into section) on fixed ropes, cross knee-deep river, and climb fixed ropes. Continue to climb the exposed mountain side. Some trees. Some steep scrambles through dried riverbeds. River at mile 3.6 (good flowing), at mile 6.2 last chance for non-silty water for 10 miles! The river is just 1/10 off trail (at sharp hairpin turn), mile 7.4 Silty large river), mile 14.4 very silty river, 16 mi clean river.”

Very long, hot section of arid, rugged beauty. It took me from ~3PM to ~10PM, with mile splits as high as 51min/mile and as low as 18min/mile, with most clustering in the 21-29min/mile range. 

I remember feeling very “hot and bothered’ coming out of Blue Lake A.S. (I don’t ever remembering see the lake per se).  But pretty quickly you come to what I remember as the first swift flowing, abundant stream/river on the course.  Like others around me, I stopped to wet my hat and bandanna. Very refreshing!

The refreshment didn’t last long. That would be a constant.   I felt like I was keeping a decent pace till the iconic fixed ropes section, hitting it late afternoon.  The descent was straightforward enough. Then you crossed a couple different strands of the river with sandy stretches in between.  I think the wading part was maybe calf-deep, and pleasantly cold with air temps probably not far from 90. Then I had to wait for 4-5 people to go up, one by one, plus for someone to come down, as it’s too narrow for two people to climb/descend at same time.  I’m bad at these estimates, but it’s maybe a 20-30 yard climb, maybe 45-60 degrees, sandy, and with some prominent bulges.   You need to grab the rope with hands while you scramble up with feet, all with the weight of your pack.

Once up top, I passed a woman who’d gone right ahead of me, and had some difficulty.  She was bent over in distress.  I asked if she was okay and she said yes.  I remember feeling quite winded at the several minutes exertion in the heat, but glad it wasn’t worse.  Not long after that, I recall a tough section of sandy switchback ascents and then descents.  It felt like full-on dessert. This may have been one of the few sections where I put on my sun goggles over my glasses, as I was already wearing a sun, safari-type, brimmed hiking hat.

For a little while, I got into kind of a groove, and was enjoying the rolling sandy switchbacks.  But then on a couple of the corners, I lost my footing and fell on my rear.  The second (or was it third?) time it was a harder fall that left me a bit disconcerted. Nothing injured, but it felt like I lost all sense of momentum, and that this was not a “fall-worthy” stretch.

Not long after those falls, I started getting concerned I couldn’t see anyone ahead or behind me and hadn’t seen anyone for a while. I didn’t recall seeing any side trails, but I hadn’t seen a marking in a long time. Around that point I realized the GPS tracker on the phone that we were all required to use for navigation (downloaded onto the Gaia app) wasn’t working as the phone battery was dead.  Maybe the heat caused it to lose the charge?  I’d only used it for a few pics, checked the tracker a handful of times just to get used to doing that, and kept it on airplane mode to conserve battery. So, I stopped and was fumbling around in my pack for both a portable charger as well as charging cord, a little flustered at having to do that so early on, plus because of the stupid little falls.  At that point Gene Dykes, the age group wonder at marathon and submarathon road distances in his 70s who had finished Bigfoot a few years earlier, ran by (we had met at the pre-race briefing the day before and I’d read about him).  A few others did too. At least I knew I was not off-trail.

I worked to catch back up to Gene.  I recall him saying, with dusk imminent, that he’d gotten considerably farther by nightfall on his first successful outing on that course.  Maybe even to Windy Ridge.  (I think I reminded him we’d started later this year, but he still felt like he was slower).  Anyway, I do remember an amazing sunset, as well as what seemed like a couple herds of mountain goats silhouetted against the fading light.  Unfortunately, the pics didn’t come out in the dim light. Around that time, I saw that Gene, who had pulled ahead, was giving water to a dehydrated runner whose hydration bladder had burst.  Random acts of selfless behavior by a great guy.

It was pretty dark when I got to “the Oasis,” a spot with gushing fresh water where you could fill bottles plus wading-friendly spots.  I filled my filter bottle and others were pretty much euphoric to be at this spot, splashing and filling bottles and rehydrating.  The aforementioned guy in distress got there and starting chugging water. He was impressively clear-headed in saying that his race had been going well, and he just needed to get past this issue and get rehydrated and make it to next aid station where he might find a workaround solution.  A few steps past the Oasis I saw him throwing up again.  Nonetheless, he passed me not long after, and I never saw him again.  So I think it turned out okay for him (never caught his name), at least in getting past a low point. Gutsy and admirable!

After what felt like a long climb in the night, and passing outward bound runners on the way into Windy Ridge on the out and back section, I finally got to the aid station.  I believe it was on the way there but before the out and back section that I saw the much-beloved Catra Corbett with someone else headed in the wrong, opposite direction.  I learned later that she had sacrificed her race to run back to someone on the course who was in heat or some other type of distress, and tend to and stay with her until medical assistance could make it. Speaking of random acts of selfless behavior to help others, which we come to think of as part of the ultra creed.

I spent about an hour at Johnston Ridge—too much time.  I changed into dry socks.  Shed daytime layers for heavier nighttime layers.  Ate something substantial by way of hot food I can’t remember (maybe soup, some kind of sandwich, also something sweet). Refilled bladder.  Grabbed snacks and an additional light for next section. Used portasan. It never felt like I was just resting, but it seemed to just take a while to get all the “chores” done.  Almost 50k in, and only the second aid station! The cutoffs had been moved back half an hour from what I had printed out on my pace card I carried, and very roughly I had maybe an hour on the 11:30PM cutoff when I departed.

Windy Ridge (30.3) to Johnston Observatory/Ridge (39.9):  9.6 miles, 1,567ft ascent, 1,487ft descent

“Very exposed section with great views of Mt. St. Helens and the path of the volcano eruption that happened in 1980. Feels like you're in another world at times. Lots of small ups and downs. 5-6 extremely overgrown (bushes) sections. They are short and well-marked. Sand dunes and a climb to Johnston Ridge at the end. River 3 miles after Windy Ridge aid (clean).”

This was probably my best section progress- and pace-wise.  A male and female runner working together passed me on the relatively smooth dirt road on the initial section where we backtracked to the turn toward Johnston.  I made a little game out of trying to catch up or stay even with them for several miles, trying to always keep their headlamps in sight.  As we got into the climbing and up and down sections (which in daytime must have had awesome views), I lost sight of them. At times there were switchbacks where you had a long sightline ahead or behind, and I tried to use lights behind me as incentive not to let anyone catch me.

Somehow the sleep monsters weren’t much of an issue on night one.  I guess because of some combination of adrenaline, concern about being behind schedule, and the pleasantness of the cooler temps in maybe the 40s and 50s, with some light wind.  It was kind of exhilarating being out there by myself, some stars and a partial moon shone through, and it felt like I was pretty far up and with what must have been awesome vistas in daytime.

My Garmin mile splits read 18:41/18:44/20:18/20:38/23:32/29:27/22:58/42:11   I came into a quite chilly and airy Johnston A.S. at 2:45ish AM.  (I don’t believe this was a hard cutoff and wasn’t worried about it at the time per se.  But it looks like officially it was a 3:00AM cutoff here per the revised cutoffs.) I was out of there in less than 10 minutes, just time to slurp down some nice hot soup and take in a salty snack.

Johnston Observatory (39.9) to Coldwater Lake (46.5) :  6.6 miles, 412ft ascent, 2,099ft descent

“Very runnable and mostly downhill into the treed section before you get to Coldwater Creek. Should be a stream about partway through this section.”

This was a major downhill section. You steadily and sometimes a bit steeply drop 1,500’ or so on switchbacks (with mostly good footing).  The reflections of stars and the moon off the huge lake spreading out below were pretty special.  I was still alone initially and pretty much still as we got to the lake shoreline and then headed a bit away from it.  A very obnoxious thing was this approaching runner with what felt like blitzkrieg military lights blaring music from an external speaker you could easily hear a half mile away.  Like something out of a video game.  It ruined the nighttime stillness as he approached.  Extremely out of place.  Dude thought he was at a parade or something, or was really scared of the dark!  Once he got out of earshot, calm returned.  There was a brief and somewhat confusing section along a road, which I then had to cross to get into the campground where the Coldwater Lake A.S. was located.

The miles recorded on my Garmin on this downhill to relatively flat section, all at night, were in the 21-23min/mile range. 

I got into Coldwater at about 4:35AM based on the tracking board. Based on previous back of pack finishers, I had hoped to be into that station in the 12:40-2:30AM range.  So, in other words, I had made up some time in the previous two night sections, but not as much as I lost in the first two.  The two hours’ sleep I had budgeted thus got cut to an hour.

As scheduled, Wendy, Sue, and Bill were waiting—a welcome sight!  Sleeping bag, a few items left in back of the crew vehicle (rental SUV), plus my drop bag from that station were waiting in the warm car. I believe I just took off the shoes and hopped in the sleeping bag in the area they’d set up in the back with back seat down.  It was a somewhat frustrating hour, and I may have dozed off a few times.  But mostly, despite laying off caffeine overnight, I just laid very still. It was still dark, but maybe it was sort of past the window at night when you can sleep. Or my body still remembered it was already daytime back East?

When the alarm sounded, I fumbled around to change clothes and shoes and socks and lube. The feet were in good straits so no need to fix any tape or tend any blisters.  It was a little awkward to do all that laying down, while also trying to down breakfast food they brought from the aid station.  After a trip to the indoor bathroom (this was a rec area by the lake), I was ready to head onward with Wendy. It looks as though we left at about 7:08AM, with the revised cutoff being 8:30AM. In total, I spent about 2.5 hours at my first “sleep station.”

Coldwater Lake (46.5) to Norway Pass (65.2):  18.7 miles, 5,105ft ascent, 3,909ft descent

“Mostly a runnable section by the lake, make sure you fill up on water at the bridge before you start the steep climb out into the Mount Margaret Backcountry. Incredible views of Loowit, Spirit Lake, Lake Saint Helens, and the blast area. Dusty running, gaiters advised. Best views of the course, recommend running in daylight if possible. Climb up to the summit of Mount Margaret for the high point of the race; it’s all downhill from here! Easy descent to Norway Pass.”

Another long, very tough segment!  Beautiful but oh so tough!  Took me WAY longer than I thought it would.  Pretty much early morning to late afternoon. Mostly the heat but also maybe the accumulated sleep deprivation were the culprits.

It was pretty idyllic running along the lake with Wendy, and great to have company for a change! Early morning mist rising over the lake and then low hanging clouds, a densely forested shoreline, all sorts of whitewater streams with litter waterfalls emptying into the huge lake. Remembering we’d soon be climbing, I stopped at one of the last gushers to fill up my filter bottle.

The climb up to the peaks was deceptively hard.  In 3-4 miles you climb close to 2,500’, sometimes on switchbacks and sometimes kicking up more steeply. Good footing, a lot of vegetation, and it was getting into the heat of the day.  I recall seeing some hikers, one of the few times we saw such non-racers out. As we approached what proved to be a false summit, we passed a runner with bear bells on her pack who was freaked out by a bear encounter she’d just had (we assumed she wasn’t hallucinating and there are ursines around). So, she stayed close to us on the trail for a bit and we all called out and made noise just in case.

I felt strong on this initial climb, which I thought was the “main climb.”  But I didn’t realize we’d continue to undulate as we headed up toward the highest part of the course and stay for what seemed hours on a high ridgeline, with quite spectacular views. Especially of the ghostly Spirit Lake, almost half filled with the stumps of trees from the 1980 eruption. And of the hillsides eerily covered with trees that were carbonized in place four decades ago.  And later in the day of the crater itself, including with some snow-covered patches.

We were sun-exposed, and in a few places dropoff-exposed, as it seemed we just kept going forever up and down but always staying high with commanding views of the surrounding mountains and valleys below.  It was getting really hot (low 90s maybe?), and there was no shade as it was all above tree line.  A few times we stopped to catch our breath and have a drink.  The out and back to tag Mount Margaret—the high point of the course at 5,850’—was a steep scree and dirt affair off the main trail.  Summit Post says it has 440’ of “clean prominence.” Wendy said she was fine not going up and waited for me.  There were three teenage to early 20s young women around the top, who at first I thought were race officials (making sure we tagged the summit).  But as they hiked out and passed us later, they just seemed to be hikers who happened upon the racers and were giving moral support (thanks!).  On a clear day, Margaret (a popular hiking destination) offers “unobstructed views of Mount Rainier, Mount Adams, and Mount St. Helens (in three different directions), and expansive views of much more, including legendary Spirit Lake” (https://www.wta.org/go-hiking/hikes/mount-margaret-1). This was another hazy day (forest fire smoke), but I did catch great views of Rainier to the north and Adams to the southeast from Margaret.  You run in many special places at this race!

As we kept traversing the ridges of the Mount Margaret Backcountry, we saw practically no other runners, and precious few hikers.  My stomach acted up for a while, and I took I think some Pepcid Acid or a ginger candy, and didn’t take in any calories for a while.  We were both feeling the combined strain of heat, the effort, and (me more than Wendy who lives at altitude) elevation.  I remember passing a really cool snowfield shielded from the sun.  Finally, finally, we headed down!  It was a switchbacky, fairly runnable descent of a couple miles, dusty, sandy at times, a few loose rocks.  At one point I recall we played around with our GPS trackers as it seemed for a while we were heading in an opposite direction to where we thought we should be going.  That problem sorted out, later we had a vista ahead to where we thought the aid station must be, obscured by a little rise and trees, but it felt like it took a while to get there. 

Around here a posse of three crew or volunteers ran quickly in the opposite direction and asked if we’d seen any runners.  They were taking them water and concerned they might be in distress and would miss the cutoff at Norway.  We hadn’t seen any at all, as I recall, except perhaps the woman we came to think of as “bear bells” since we never exchanged names but kept having furtive encounters on through the race (I’d later see her listed in results as Lauren, from Tennessee). I believe she passed us up high before the descent, and was the only person we had seen as far as racers all afternoon

We got into Norway Pass A.S. about 35 minutes ahead of the 5:30PM cutoff.  (So, this section took me right around 28 minutes/mile on average.) I recall we left with only 5-7 minutes to spare, around the same time as others who had come in not long after us. I remember that Van Phan, the famed Northwest ultrarunner, made me a burger as she worked the grill.  It was so hot that I threw my usual caution about fizzy drinks and stomach upset to the wind, and had a Coke. The sweetness and coldness tasted so good, I had another. From then on, I’d crave a cold soda as I thought ahead to the next aid station throughout the race!  I did a layer change for the nighttime ahead, lubed, and put on sunscreen with some sunlight still left. As we crossed the road, a few runners who had gotten in not long ahead of the cutoff and just grabbed what they needed, pulled off the trail to stop for a nap. 

Norway Pass (65.2) to Elk Pass (76.3):  11.1 miles, 2,037ft ascent, 1,558ft descent

“Climb out from Norway Pass, downed logs in the blast area until Bear Camp. Beautiful forest trails from there to Elk Pass, no large climbs. A few water sources.”

I now read this description from the race manual with some bemusement.  Downed logs?  For sure! They were more numerous and daunting to navigate under, over, or around than any other section of the race (though I never made it to the infamous Klickitat area).  Some were just a tangled mass of multiple giant logs of immense width, where it wasn’t straightforward how you would get through or around.  But “in the blast area?”  The ones I remember were in the middle of a dense forest and this was a blast four decades earlier.  No trail crews had taken them on over four decades? Granted, they would require serious machinery for these massive trees, not just chainsaws and elbow grease.

The other thing that strikes me is “no large climbs” and the relatively measly amount of climb listed for the section.  I’m sure the numbers don’t lie, but I guess it’s a matter of perspective.  The early steady climb as the sun retreated, with plenty of downed trees, was challenging, though I felt like Wendy and I kept a good pace, and my energy felt good.  As for the latter part, which came after dark, I remember it as pretty relentless. The elevation profile shows a succession of steadily higher “needles.”

I was pretty conscious of being behind the curve and needing to put some time into cutoffs in this section (we ended up averaging about a 25:30 pace per my Garmin for this section). As it got dark, I remember telling Wendy I was going to take the lead for a while.  I was feeling that I could move from “shuffling” mode into something more like running.  That lasted for a little while (we threw in a couple 22-23 minute uphill miles).  And then she moved back ahead but as we kept a good pace.  At some point I think we both started to feel a little spent and low on calories, and started wondering how far the aid station was.  We said something about backing off a bit as we realized, frustratingly, we weren’t just going to get there with one concerted push.  I remember there were some brief navigational concerns, as the trail become a bit tough to follow in the dark, and flagging was very spread out.  So it was with great relief that we finally crossed a parking lot and entered the chilly, windy Elk Ridge station somewhere around 10:35PM on night two. 

Elk Pass (76.3) to Road 9327 (91.3):  15 miles, 2543ft ascent, 3144ft descent

“Easy climb out from Elk Pass to beautiful ridge meadows, knife ridges, and rocky outcroppings. Stop by Shark Rock for a view of Mount Adams and Rainier. Turn off the Boundary Trail to head south with fun descents, but rutted and dusty in a few areas. No water along the route. Fabulous cold swimming hole at 9327 Aid Station.”

We spent somewhere around 40-45 minutes at Elk.  That’s more time than we should (the official cutoff there was 1:30AM, and I think we left about 11:15). But I’m hard-pressed to say any of it was lolly-gagging.  It was crowded with runners in varying straits of distress. Volunteers were hard-working and extremely attentive, but stretched a bit then at that particular moment of the race.  We ate hot food (I believe again they had some sort of vegetarian and maybe vegan option for Megan). Used the portasan. I believe I had a drop bag and may have added or changed an outer layer. Probably our late-night weariness from the climb up to Elk, and the station being a little spread out, contributed to our slowness.  It was also quite cold.  The thing about 200s like this is that the distance between aid stations is so vast, the things to be taken care of are legion, and the limits of refueling fully on the march are real. So, there seems to be a lot to take care of before heading back out into battle. Quite different from 50 or 100-mile stations where you can be in and out quickly.

The first two-thirds or so of this section is generally up, and then the last third or so is mostly down, some of it pretty precipitous. As the sleep monsters paid their visit, I remember the hallucinations coming pretty heavy (they had first shown up on the climb up to Elk).  Wendy told me to tell her when I wanted to take a “dirt nap,” and said she’d show me how. Not long after, she had me lay down on the edge of the trail for five minutes.  I was out like a light, and woke up refreshed.  But a half hour or hour later, as we steadily hiked upward, I was dragging again. She said she’d give me ten minutes, and had me lay down right in the middle of the trail. She stood sentry to make sure no one was coming, but we were out there by ourselves. Again, I was out in nothing flat.

As we came to a section where the trail kicked up more steeply and we were on switchbacks, we heard other runners and then got passed by a couple small groups.  Finally, at a little over 5,000’ elevation and with it really cold and kind of misty, we started switch-backing down.  The footing became sketchier, the trail narrower, and even in the dark you could sense the exposure, and real consequences of a serious fall.  We picked our way down as we got passed by more runners. At one point, we were being trailed by a couple runners, who were talking up a storm and seemed to be quite fresh. They turned out to be the sweeps.  Fortunately, they yelled out to us as we started to miss a crucial turn.  That is when we realized they were the sweeps. 

We continued on a while with the sweeps in earshot behind us.  For some reason we had an exchange with them, and I asked them the approximate mileage (my Garmin watch had lost its charge). They gave the mileage as something right around 88 (I remember calculating that meant we had about 3.5 to go).  And they added without prompting, “At our current pace, we will arrive at Road 9327 at 7:25.”  I don’t know if that was designed to light a fire under me, but it sure did! It meant we’d get there five minutes under cutoff, with no realistic hope of moving on!

I hadn’t been cognizant of how much our pace had slipped and how quickly I had moved into jeopardy of my race ending at the next aid station. (It didn’t help that around seven miles into this section I had stopped getting the regular feedback on pace as my mile splits flashed automatically.)   I said quietly to Wendy, “I’m going to take the lead.”  It was a steadier and more runnable downhill, and I knew the remaining miles to the aid station were significantly downhill.  My hope was that she would follow suit and we’d make a push.  While she did pick it up, I quickly moved ahead, as I started looking back periodically. At a certain point I realized I was in “no man’s land” and had no choice but to continue my “move,” especially as I was suddenly filled with urgency and adrenaline.

Maybe a half mile or so into this surge, as we got into some really primo runnable terrain with a gentle downward slope, the woman from the male-female sweep duo accelerated closer to me and called out to me from behind that I was doing great.  She yelled something about “pick it up” and that I would need as much margin on the cutoff as possible to make it through the next aid.  I can’t recall if it was then or later on when she got close again, but she yelled to me that they had left my pacer behind, that she was on her own, and that their responsibility was only to me as the last runner.

I honestly don’t know what pace I was doing here for about the last 5k of the section, but it was faster than any I’d done throughout the race by a long shot. It felt more like what I might do in a half or in the latter stages of a 50K when trying to finish strong. Up on the balls of my feet, having some close calls with a few technical obstacles, adrenaline surging.  I’m guessing maybe 13-16 minute miles, which qualifies as a virtual sprint after you’ve been doing maybe 30 minute half-asleep hiking miles. (Overall, for the 15 nighttime miles, I did around 30-31minute miles.) The last time that the female sweep got into earshot she shouted I was doing great and had bought myself some valuable time to get through the next aid.

As I got to the edges of the aid station, I saw our vehicle, and Sue and Bill were waiting. It was maybe 6:55AM (on day three), so I had just a little over half an hour turnaround, and this was to be a major station--sleep (now out the window), complete change of shoes and socks and apparel, eat, restock food and water, deal with chargers, etc.  Maybe 10 or 15 minutes later, Wendy came in.  I felt awkward, but didn’t have much time to discuss what had just occurred.  She seemed more upset at the sweeps who had I guess chewed her out more than me whom they urged on. When I went into the food tent, a group of volunteers was sitting there including the female sweep (I have blocked out her name mentally I guess).  She praised me for really picking it up in the last section, but--directed to the others she was sitting with but in my earshot--she had harsh words for my pacer.  There wasn’t time to argue or discuss as I rushed around to get everything done, but I didn’t like her judgmental, condescending attitude one bit.

Thanks to Bill’s able assistance, I was able to get everything taken care of, as Sue hurried to get herself ready--this was our pacer exchange spot.  Maybe five minutes before the official cutoff, Sue and I checked out.  DFL or very close to it, I believe.  Lauren from Tennessee was checking in by phone on a loved one just beyond the checkout spot, apparently taking advantage of a rare spot of cell coverage on the course.

So, I had fought to earn the “privilege” of testing myself for a third day!

Road 9327 (91.3) to Spencer Butte (102.5):  11.2 miles, 2,817ft ascent, 2,860ft descent

“Descend and climb back up to the road, lots of great water sources to cool off. Cross the road and climb up and over Spencer Butte. Fast downhill then climb to the Spencer Butte Aid.”

This was a mostly forested section that took from early morning to mid-afternoon of day three.  Plenty of mostly gradual ascent and descent amidst huge trees. 

Sue brought giddy positive energy.  I needed that as the energy meter was running low at times.  Our pace was decent but not earth-shattering.  Per Garmin, looks like we averaged about 32 minute miles, which is too slow—I can’t recall there were any particular challenges like downed trees or challenging footing or sharp up’s and down’s.  Sleepiness was catching up and some daytime hallucinations were creeping in. I wasn’t too concerned about the next cutoff at Spencer, though overall I was conscious that I needed to try to get some margin back on the cutoffs to have a realistic chance of finishing. I don’t really recall us seeing runners ahead or behind.

Sue kept saying we needed to find a spot for me to nap, since I hadn’t had the chance to sleep at all at the Road A.S.  Finally, maybe 7-8 miles in, we spotted a grassy spot amongst the trees, and I sacked out in the dirt for around 15 minutes, setting the alarm. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to sleep, as tired as I was.  It was nice and still and peaceful though.  When I got up, I discovered Sue was a little peeved that the two sweeps had stopped for a rest not far from us.  She thought maybe they were a little too close, but I hadn’t noticed them and thought they were being discreet.  But she was watching what was going on as I was relaxing.  Anyway, they were a friendly couple guys, who had relieved the earlier sweeps.

I recall there were five or so runners at Spencer when we got there. Someone having their feet tended to, and a woman who was being checked by a race medic and who seemed quite shaken (not sure how much by her condition, and how much with the fate of her race). Seemed like maybe there were some possible or neurological heart issues involved, and that her race would be ending there.  They were suggesting for sake of ruling out anything grave that she be taken to an ER, and she didn’t seem to be resisting.  I never heard anything more (and I’m sure any really bad outcomes would have become known among those involved in the race), but I hope everything turned out okay for her.

The tracker lost my signal for a stretch that included the aid station. So, triangulating from my Garmin splits and what I remember, I think we got in at about 1:20 against a 2:30PM cutoff.  Apparently, we were there 30-40 minutes.  I recall there was a dropbag, and I believe I may have changed socks in part so I could examine my feet (it had been a rush with the shoe change at Road). Around here I was starting to feel hot spots a little, but it seemed like my Leukotape was mostly holding in the heels, and I think I may have applied some lube to the three smallest toes, the only non-taped ones.  With the foot swelling that naturally comes, I was feeling a bit the narrowness of the forefoot of the La Sportiva Mutants I was wearing (note to self:  these would have been a better choice for the start, and the roomier La Sportiva Karacals I’d worn at the start would have been a better fit for this segment).  It was sunny and pretty hot (maybe slightly less than days one and two, but still maybe upper 80s?).  It briefly occurred to me at some point that this was my first time hitting the 100-mile mark in quite a few years (since February 2016, Rocky Raccoon 100 in fact).

Spencer Butte (102.5) to Lewis River (110.1):  7.6 miles, 1,282ft ascent, 2,852ft descent

“Two paved miles and then a brushy descent down the Bluff Trail for a few more miles. Make sure you watch out for course markings in this area! Once along the Lewis River, enjoy the best groomed trails of your life with plenty of water. Stop along the Lower Falls for a fabulous waterfall view.”

This was an idyllic section.  Once we got past the initial two paved miles, which were kind of hard on the feet.  After that, there was a nice long descent under a forest canopy, with switchbacks, and Sue did her trademark “wee” yelp as she flew down them in carefree fashion.  This was kind of where I realized that my feet felt really sore and tight in the shoes I’d chosen to wear from 91.3 till Chain of Lakes, at 143.5.  I couldn’t take good advantage of the very runnable downs as a result.

After that we were along the gorgeous Lewis River. We had caught up to three runners—Karel from the Bay Area, her pacer whose name I’ve forgotten, and Ramon from Colorado.  We would stay with them for a few miles, and they had a wonderful playfulness and energy and we were happy we could tag along.  Apparently, they had met earlier in the race and decided to join forces.  At one point Karel and her pacer decided to take a dip in the river to cool off (which meant scooting down a steep, somewhat rocky embankment), and Ramon elected to lay down above at the top of the riverbank.  I decided to join Ramon, as Sue took off her shoes to go wading.  I shut my eyes and rested but couldn’t sleep.  We were there maybe 15-20 minutes.  A mile or so later we came to a bird’s eye view of a spectacular waterfall and swimming hole.

We lost sight of the trio around the waterfall as they forged ahead.  It was a little confusing to navigate through the parking area on the other side of the bridge behind the recreational area.  Past that it wasn’t long running along the river on the other side till we came to a turn that took us a few tenths away from the river and down a dirt road to the Lewis River A.S. Before we came to that turn, volunteers had placed a table, a funny sign I can’t quite remember, and a bottle of whisky along with shot glasses. We chose not to indulge but had a good laugh, and got to the well-stocked aid station with great volunteers. 

We had made decent time on this section, which had a lot more descent than climb.  We got into Lewis at about 6:35PM, and got out around 7:15.  The cutoff there was 8:30.  So we had put some time into the cutoff, but would it be enough for the long nighttime section ahead? 

At Lewis Aid I remember eating some substantial hot food, and gulping several cups of soda.  It took us a bit to get our bags, put in our orders for hot food and gulp it down, hit the portasans, put on nighttime layers and make sure we had batteries for headlamps, and stock up on water and food.  It was kind of rush hour at the station (maybe 10 or 12 when we got there, including some I hadn’t seen since the bus to the start or early in the race).  The volunteers were kind and as attentive as they could be with so many there.  We were not quite the last in, but we were just about the last ones out.  On to night three, and still in the game!

Lewis River (110.1) to Quartz Ridge (127.3):  17.2 miles, 7,347ft ascent, 4,522ft descent [my last section]

“Deep, dark, dank Pacific Northwest trail running at its best. Run along the Quartz Creek with LOTS of hidden elevation with roller coaster hills. Topo maps do not portray the constant ups and downs in this area. Steep climb out of Quartz Creek to meet back up with the Boundary Trail. Dry ridge up high leading to a descent to the next aid. Water along Quartz Creek, but none after the climb out of the valley. 1.8 mile out and back to the new Quartz Creek Aid location off of 9085 road.”

This section, coming on my third essentially sleepless night, was my undoing. It was the new section that they were forced to add on the fly only the weekend before as forest service road conditions didn’t allow access to the normal aid station location.  Something like 2,500’ net new of climbing and 2.5 miles net distance were added (for which they added an extra hour to the overall race cutoffs).  The description above conveys only some of the difficulty.  It had twists and turns, thick vegetation, and we faced it at night.  From Lewis you have this series of up and downs, each getting successively higher, which look like needles on the profile over the first eight or so miles.

But let’s back up a bit.  There was an initial section along the river at night.  Sue and I stopped so I could roll out my bivy and use it as a sort of ground covering to nap in the dirt.  I had a glorious 15 minute nap, my first actual sleep since the two quick dirt naps on night two. After that the trail turned sharply upward.  I was more alert for a while, but then I would imagine I was seeing stuff.  Yet be aware that what my eyes were seeing wasn’t real.

I remember frequently calling out to Sue to find out where she was if I couldn’t see her headlamp around a corner. The forest was dense, and there were switchbacks and frequent turns.  Markings weren’t that frequent and at times it was hard to see which way to go to get past a particular set of downed trees or other obstacles.

I was getting confused, as we seemed to be going round in circles, coming to sections that seemed identical to where we’d just been.  My mind was playing serious tricks on me. I kept asking Sue for the mileage, and why we weren’t making more progress.  Around that time the voices of the two sweeps started creeping up on us—turned out to be the same woman from earlier in the race and my dash to make the Road cutoff at 92, but now with a different man.  I felt their pressure behind me and the pressure of trying to keep Sue within sight and not step off-trail or fall. That seemed to go on for a long time.  As I look back, this was all in the “needles” section of the course—the one that topo maps don’t do justice to.

After a while of viewing my apparently wobbly footing and shaky navigation as I struggled to get around downed trees and the like, the sweeps I believe were saying things about me really needing a nap.  It apparently came to a head in a rocky, gnarly steep section where there was a bit of exposure, and a false step could be consequential.  Apparently, Sue agreed with them, and I remember them asking me to stop, and take off my pack.  They pulled out my puffy jacket (which I hadn’t yet worn the whole race) and my bivy sack which I climbed in.  I immediately fell asleep. I have no idea how long I slept, and Sue didn’t seem to remember afterwards.  I’ve gone through months thinking it was maybe 20-30 minutes. But now I see my Garmin records a single mile that took me 2 hours and 4 minutes!  So, apparently I was down for quite a long time.  There’s no doubt I needed it, and I’m very grateful to the sweeps and Sue for putting my health and wellbeing ahead of all else. I wasn’t seeing or thinking coherently, and was likely to really hurt myself. 

My pace had probably doomed my chances of making the cutoff at Quartz, but the long, necessary nap sealed the deal. Ironically, in terms of elevation, the biggest gain came after that, as we’d climb from around 3,000’ up to about 5,200’ above sea level over another 7ish miles before descending into Quartz.  Those were long miles, almost all hiking, but I was back to compos mentis and putting in a decent effort. 

Unfortunately, the death-march miles to the aid station were further aggravated by some unpleasantries Sue and I had to endure on the part of the sweeps.  Let’s just say, sparing details, they come down to an offensive, vile sense of humor on his part and not letting go of ragging on Wendy as my first pacer on her part.  Sometimes you don’t get to choose your company in the backcountry.

I did my best to keep my distance from both this pair, though I’m grateful that they did their job as sweeps in looking out for runner safety. Their attitudes were so unlike the kindness and warmth of the volunteers, organizers, and other runners I encountered across the three-plus days. 

According to my Garmin we got into Quartz at 9:43AM, over four hours past the 5:30AM cutoff. My 127-mile journey had come to an end, only 60% of the way toward my goal of a finish. We tried to get word through race radio and the aid station captain to Wendy and Bill, who were going to meet us later at the next aid.  To see if they could pick us up.  Likely they were out of cell range to be able to view the race tracking info and know where we were.  We had time to eat and relax a little as the volunteers were starting to thin out and break down the aid station.  One of them was going to give us a ride (to the finish, if memory serves), but quickly once we started out in his vehicle we passed our SUV, and were able to turn around and rendezvous with Bill and Wendy.  A sight for sore eyes!

Aftermath and Lessons Hopefully Learned

There was a day to get packed up and sleep and have some nice meals both in and out and pick up bags back at the finish and see some of the latter finishers triumphantly cross the line. I didn't really get to see people I'd met on the bus or those whom I'd been with on the course.  But it was great to see there Wendy's friend Jill, who had a great race and was on the second leg of what would become the Triple Crown of 200s--as a recent breast cancer survivor.  A profile in courage. 

The following day, after saying farewells to Team Scott as the three left for the airport and closing up the rental house, I did a little detour on the drive back to my hotel by SeaTac Airport to the beautiful Sunrise Visitor Center area of Rainier N.P.  It’s not terribly far from the turnoff to where I’ve climbed Rainier twice and summited once and provides a spectacular close-up view of the mountain from the less travelled side.

This is where the most tangible immediate outcome of Bigfoot, beyond exhaustion, enters the story—a hernia.  You know, the heavier pack laden with fluids, food, and required and optional survival gear, the months of training with it.  It was carrying two 50-60 pound duffels of gear up to my room near the Seatac Airport that I first felt something off.  I would finally get into see a sports doctor after our beach trip to Maine, and on my 60^th birthday, September 1^st, would get the unofficial news from the radiologist doing the ultrasound, “You’ve definitely got a hernia.” 

Over the 7ish weeks after Bigfoot and until outpatient surgery, it was only short, very intermittent running, maybe 2-3 times a week on average, no trail runs.  Family doctor said don’t run absolutely, sports doc and hernia said to do what wasn’t painful, so I took it easy with a few short runs of like 3-4 miles.

In a way, my Bigfoot ’21 story thus has both an injury prequel and an injury sequel.  The prequel part is that, after I had registered for it back in October 2020, I had finally gotten some unusual, somewhat roving upper quad/hip/adductor/groin pain checked out in December.  I found out around New Year’s it was a pubic ramus stress fracture.  I pushed to get my bone density checked out, and saw a metabolic bone specialist in January 2021, and found out also I have low bone density (not osteoporosis, but osteopenia, pretty much genetic, no need for meds, not degenerative, but something to watch).  The three bone stress injuries over about nine years now finally had a bit of an explanation or underlying cause. 

So, following what ended up being eight weeks of no running (walking, the last month or so some hiking, upper body stuff was ok), I got a very late start for Bigfoot training.  Essentially starting from zero running the second half of February, and having to mind very carefully my weekly and daily mileage and intensity buildup.  So as not to invite another stress fracture somewhere.  I knew the constraints I was under, and that it was going to be a shorter, lower-peak, less intense training buildup than I originally had in mind for Bigfoot.

Training volume, duration, and quality: I guess that would be #1 in terms of things I’d do differently (and am now if my current trajectory post-hernia surgery holds)—a longer, higher quality, higher-peak-mileage or more sustained high-peak-mileage buildup before a 200 is a top goal.   (If I get into Tahoe for June, I’d have had 8.5 months continuous training since I last “zeroed out” due to injury, by contrast).   More training races in the 50k-50 mile race, working faster gears through speedwork and long intervals, stuff I had to skimp on a bit before Bigfoot.  I could hike and climb forever at Bigfoot (it felt like after the back to back long vertical trail runs or hikes paired with races), but I lacked higher gears.  I probably carried more bulk and weight as a result, and closely related to that. I didn’t make good time in more runnable sections where I needed to and could have.

Pare down the pack weight!: This is a second big lesson learned. Every time a volunteer or pacer had occasion to lift my pack at an aid station, they were amazed how heavy it was.  I was carrying the proverbial kitchen sink!  More water than I could ever consume despite the heat. I’ve become a bit of a camel/drink to thirst person, without intending to be.  But I seem to get enough and haven’t had hydration/hyponatremia issues (knock wood!).  Each liter weighs like 2.5 pounds, and I was leaving aid stations with my 3-liter bladder full or near full, and sometimes with a 12 oz bottle to mix with VFuel powder.  A 2-liter with a 12 ouncer and possibly a second one would have been smarter.  Also, I carried well beyond the required gear with redundant layers, too much redundancy between what I was carrying and what was in dropbags (things like lube, sunscreen), and probably overkill on food (beyond the required spare calories they wanted us to always have).  Just in the tendency to stuff more in, or lose time locating stuff, probably going for a 22-25 liter pack would be smarter than the 30 liter UD I ended up finding and wearing.  Though I did long runs the last few months with a full pack of required gear plus water like what I thought I’d be carrying, it still weighed appreciably more during the race, and can’t have helped my pace.

Go into the race better rested:  Always a challenge, with travel and nerves. But the logistics and gear arrangement of a 200 point to point were at least three times as complicated as those of any 100. I thought I was on top of it, but so much still came down to the last week before traveling.  I’m a 7-8 hours sleep guy, and maybe got that twice in the last 10 days before the race.  There were many nights of waking up early and not being able to get back to sleep and just laying there. Anxiety. The taper. Worry after what was still to do to get to start line.  What instructions to prepare for crew and pacers?  I came into the race with my battery not at all fully charged.  It cost me.

Better aid station and drop bag management:  The drop bag packing was overkill and inefficient and labeling too late in process.  I had to pare down to travel and throw stuff out willy-nilly night  before flight to fit it into duffels. It could have been laid out, more compact, better labelled for efficient grab and go at aid stations.  Carrying beyond some essentials as far as comfort/hygiene/aid items isn’t a good bet if you know you’ll get to a dropbag every 20ish miles like at a Bigfoot. Like I said above, there’s a lot to do while at these little outposts of civilization with aid stations so far apart. But I still think the few times when I made it a real point, I got out of stations more quickly.  Not being afraid to rely on volunteers or pacers to help you is also important.

Better guidance for crew and pacers:  I try to be organized, but am not a spreadsheet whiz.  Turns out, not everyone relies like I on the wonderful piece of technology called a laminated pace chart in table format they can consult on the fly! I thought, as in other races, it would be smart to write down a realistic range of times when the last of those who would eventually go on to finish actually made it through the aid stations (based on the splits I had from two race years) would be a good guide for when they should expect me and I’d be getting in. But that yielded an amazingly broad range of times even as I zeroed in on only those who finished within 6-8 hours of the overall cutoff to be my “benchmarks.”  I should have supplemented that adding columns with a narrower window of a few hours per aid station where I aimed to get in (but honestly, any goal plan would have flown out the window after Aid #1, so it would have to have a Plan B and Plan C outlined for how to get to finish). 

Influenced by the book written about Bigfoot, I asked organizers at the pre-race to mark my laminated Trails Illustrated beautiful monster of a map.  But it was heavy and I ditched it the first time I met crew (or was it second?).  Anyway, a smarter plan would have been to instead make a color copy from that map of each section, stash each one in a dropbag, and carry only a single page at a time.  To give better sense of course layout, and also put any other specific info on particular sections.  As a supplement to the still handy pace chart (at least for me!). And of course, none of that replaces the reliance upon the GPS phone tracker with the Gaia app.

Run faster, sleep more and earlier:  Duh!  So much easier said than done. So many times I thought, I have to hurry up, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep the next time I see the crew.  If only that realization had been enough!  Looking back, and aware of the higher DNF ratio this year, I wonder what would have happened on day one with somewhat more normal temps (one site, weatherwx.com says average highs in August in Mt. St. Helens National Monument are 79 degrees; the first three days of the race, Aug. 13-15, the highs were 95, 91, and 91 per timeanddate.com).  Especially I wonder given the improved pace in the nighttime hours with cooler temps on night one.

Suppose instead of getting into 46.3 at Coldwater and meeting crew car in the wee hours of day two at 2.5 hours behind my slowest expected/needed time per my benchmarks --and then also leaving Coldwater that same margin slower despite chopping an hour off my planned nap time --that I’d gotten in 1.5 to 2 hours sooner? And been able to get say 30-45 minutes more down time, perhaps have actually fallen asleep for any length of time, plus have still gotten out of there with more like 2-2.5 hours on the cutoffs?  More refreshed, less on the bubble.  We’ll never know, but I’d love the do-over!

What Went Right

Anyway, lessons learned also include what went right or was positive, right?  I persevered three days on my feet.  Got through more sleep deprivation than I ever thought I could or cared to try. I didn’t panic when I was close to cutoffs. Each section is so different, there is often a chance to make up time the next section.  The back to back and B2B2B long runs with an emphasis on pack-wearing and mostly hiking seemed to work (learned those from partner in crime and Tahoe 200 finisher Steve Cooper!).  They are dead-on 200-specific training. I learned about what gear works.  So, all in all, I feel better prepared to tackle a 200 again! And whether it’s this year or some future year, I know I want to get back to Bigfoot—too spectacular a race not to go back!  The stunning variety of landscapes, flora, eco-zones, vistas really does just take your breath away!