Preparing for, and racing in the 90 degree heat of Mexico was a great challenge. I have ran 40 something marathons and Mexico was the harshest conditions Id ever faced ... I looked ahead at the calendar.
In June I would be bringing a group of runners to run a marathon in Anchorage, Alaska as part of The Leukemia & Lymphoma Societys Team in Training program. The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society program trains runners and walkers to complete the marathon distance. In exchange for the coaching and travel, the Team members raise money for The Society that is used for patient services and research. As the running coach for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society I continually get to see first hand what happens when someone sets a long term goal, a goal that is quite often at the edge of their comfort zone. 26.2 miles is a serious distance and commitment. It is truly a life changing experience. Often a great, personal athletic accomplishment is a springboard to other great accomplishments in life. As a coach I am there to support Team Members and act as a coach at the marathon. This makes it impossible for me to personally enter the event. An option would be to extend my trip and perhaps enter another Alaska event. My extensive search came up with no other races during the week before or after the marathon. I did come across information on another marathon a month later that peaked my interest. A trail marathon that runs over the Chugash Mountain Range from Eagle River to Girdwood. An article about the event talked of snow-covered passes and grizzly bear encounters. This sounded like the perfect event, one out there on the edge of my comfort zone, but the wrong date. The search went on.
The edge is not static or clearly defined. As I approach it, it seems to move further out. I find that when I read books, watch movies or hear stories of the personal adventures of others, I find myself considering adventures that would have previously been outside of my comfort zone. During this same period I was reading the book "Into thin Air" by Jon Krakauer. The account of a tragic Everest expedition made all I had personally done pale in comparison. I went on to read several other mountaineering books with tales of month long solo climbs on remote peaks. The idea of my next adventure stuck. I would run that wilderness marathon in Alaska, solo. The heck with the actual event date.
My own marathon, the idea took hold. I set the date, time of start and training schedule. I would finish in first place, last place or not at all. I would carry all my gear and fluid. No outside aid. I called the Skinny Raven running store in Anchorage and asked about the course and told them my idea of running solo. They described the course and told me depending on the weather report I could expect on anything on the early June date I had planned. They told me it was bear country and to wear bells and carry no opened food.
As usual, all of life fell in place during the next few moths. My training was directed off road. Hilly trails with bad footing were my usual stomping grounds. A week out from the race I call the Skinny Raven in Anchorage for a spring weather report. I know I was warned to expect anything but I took that with a grain of salt. I had been to Alaska for the past 3 years in June and the weather had been perfect. The 22 hours of daylight was an awesome addition to the great summer weather. No hike or run would get cut short by darkness. The person who answered laughed and said spring had come late this year, actually the weather had finally warmed up that week. He said the entire course would be sloppy wet snow and that if I did not have much experience with snow crevasses he suggested I change my plans. He had also just talked to some runners who tried to go in on the trail at the beginning of the route near Eagle River. They said a small river crossing where you would have normally just carried your shoes across was a wide deep torrent. Totally uncrossable.
An altered plan. Pack more clothes to take on the run and start from the Girdwood side only running out 13 miles and then back. Actually the logistics would be easier and I would not need a ride to the start. I would deal with the snow and learn what I could about spotting a crevasse.
Race day dawned in Anchorage about 2:00am. The sun had set only an hour or so earlier. I was running on Michigan time, my body was thinking it was 6am. I felt awake and ready; the race day magic was working.
Two members of Team in Training drove me to Girdwood. We made a deal. I told them they could keep my rental car and sightsee while I was running and that I would by the beer and dinner if I survived. I started from the Crow Pass Trail Head where I would also finish. I picked a spot and hid water, a note pad and pen. I would leave a note if I had problems, gotten injured or come out early for any reason. They were to return in 5 hours and once every hour after that until 8 hours had elapsed. After 8 hours they would call the park service and report me missing.
We synchronized watches and I was off. I looked up at a valley of ice and rock. I was wearing only shorts and a singlet. The temp was about 55; overcast and looking like rain. Not ideal. I wondered how far I would run up before hitting snow. It turned out to be 18 minutes.
The snow was old, dirty and hard. The footing was much like a wet, sandy dirt road. It was runable. The first 3 miles climbed about 5,000 feet. I averaged about 20 minutes per mile; it was as tough as I imagined. As I hit Crow Pass I would guess the temp was about 30. I huddled behind a boulder and put on tights, hat, gloves, base layer and Gore-Tex (everything I had). The wind was howling through the pass. I was amazed how much protection the boulder gave. I drank 20 of the 80 ounces of water I brought and ate a Power Gel.
The scenery was breathtaking. I was alone in a world of ice, rock and mountains. It looked barren and desolate, much like I would expect the surface of the moon to look. My heart rate was high. This was not only from the running but from the additional anxiety of being alone. Bear track and scat were everywhere. I cant imagine what a bear would be doing in this desolate snow covered landscape, but signs were there. I could see a great distance in all directions, this thought helped. I kept ringing my bells.
The trail was fairly easy to follow and was about the only possible route. I referred to a topographical map often and found my position easy to determine. I figured out early how to determine the dangerous areas where I might fall through the snow into some deep abyss. I stayed up close to the edge of the rocky peaks jutting from the pass. The snow here was old, hard and solid from melt by the sun radiating off the dark surface of the rock. I could see fissures in the lower areas of the pass where the floor of the pass formed bowls of snow where glints of Mountain Rivers below the snow could be seen through fissures. Dangerous stuff! I could hear the rushing water below the surface.
I came across an emergency shelter with first aid supplies and logs for a fire. The comfort of knowing the location of the hut was like a second wind. I started to enjoy the run and the scenery and was able to put my worries on the back burner. It was like starting over.
From reading mountaineering books I know most deaths occur after the summit, on the way down. I also know from running marathons that the 20-mile mark is the half way point as far as the physical and mental requirements. I kept theses things in mind as I made the turn and headed back.
The wet snow had taken a toll on my feet. I was blistering badly. I removed the insoles of my shoes for a variation on the abrasion points on my feet. It helped. I had drunk water quite consistently and took more Power Gel every hour. At mile 18 I was about out of water and was around 4 hours into the run. I felt remarkably well. With my load lightened it helped balance the fatigue. I kept moving as if it were a race, the clock never stopped. Mentally this was necessary to keep me moving, to stop was a danger I knew could mean the end.
I was at Crow Pass, 3 miles of downhill and the finish line. I was home free. I bounded down the snow slopes with a bit of reckless abandon. I was taking what seemed to be 10 strides. I could see some hikers off in the distance coming up the pass. I was home free. The safe and secure feeling of seeing another human being made me forget the fatigue and erased the many nervous thoughts of the day. My time, 5 hours, 10 minutes.
I think back over the many thoughts and feelings experienced during my Alaska adventure. As hokey as it may sound, it has changed me forever. I know that my next adventure wont be listed in the upcoming event guides. A whole new world of adventure opportunities await. I will continue to enter marathons and other adventure events, but it will not be the same. This experience will no doubt help calm any fears I might have during an event with a medical staff, communications and course marshals. The edge had once again moved.
By: Randy Step
"I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time." - Jack London
