© 2002-2003 by Art Hutchinson
Context matters. And
so, an account of how I spent July 20th wouldn’t have as much
meaning—at least to me—without describing the before and after.
I’ve always loved the Adirondacks: the fresh air, the
piney-hot forest smell, the dry-blue sunny days, the deep silence, mixed with
the buzzing of cicadas and the eerie wail of loons, faraway over water.
When I was a child, we would visit my grandparents at their place in the Adirondacks every summer. From their house on a hill, my grandmother and I would hike to pick blackberries—stopping by the spring on the way back to pick fresh mint and wash the purple stains from our lips that revealed the berries that had never made it to the basket. When I felt the need to test my budding manhood, I’d take my grandfather’s handsaw and venture out into the woods alone to fell dead pine trees (“Nothing bigger than your arm!” my parents would warn).
But an account of my experience at the Wakely Dam Ultra
really begins with the trains. From
the porch of my grandparents’ house—if the wind was blowing just right—we
could hear them coming a long way off. At
the sound, my father and I would smile at each other, drop everything, and
sprint half a mile down the dirt road. If
we were lucky, we’d arrive just in time to lay a few pennies on the tracks and
watch the big train flatten them. My
father and I would hike back up the hill, covered in sweat, admiring the
still-warm copper ovals—trophies of our little adventure together.
When I was younger, we seldom made it in time.
As I grew older, we usually did. The
house on the hill was sold long before I would have been the one running ahead.
The sensations and memories of those summers are etched
into me in the most intimate, primitive way.
In the rush of adult life, I’d forgotten that most of them were still
there—as vivid as thirty years ago. And
so, running through the Adirondack woods on a perfect summer day, I was to feel
myself a child again.
When I first heard about the 32.6 mile Wakely Dam Ultra (http://run.to/wakelydam/),
it struck me as a truly “out there” kind of event.
There are no crossroads. There
are no aide stations. At the
“point of no return”, one is more than fifteen miles from the nearest
navigable road (or help) of any kind. A
turned ankle could mean a long cold night out, or worse.
It’s the kind of event that’s either utterly insane or perfect,
depending on one’s perspective. The
2001 event had been the first annual. There
were nine competitors. All of them
finished. They had to.
Dropping out simply isn’t an option at Wakely.
The course traverses one of the most remote sections of
wilderness in the Northeast, following a segment (90% rugged single-track) of
the Northville-to-Lake Placid trail from Piseco to Wakely Dam, (about ten miles
Southwest of Indian Lake, New York).
In the language of rock climbers, the course could be described as
following an “elegant line” on the map: point-to-point, South to North, over
a well-marked, long-established trail favored by backpackers in the know,
seeking some real isolation.
But maps never tell the whole story.
Numerous blow-downs, face-smacking undergrowth, shoe-sucking mud,
scattered rocks, and labyrinths of slick, interlacing roots demand the utmost
care and concentration with every step.
The winner of the inaugural event had done it in just over
seven and a half hours. That might
sound slow to the uninitiated, but I had reason to believe it was
reasonable—maybe even optimistic. One
month prior, I had done a self-supported 26-mile shakedown run with my friend
and college roommate Hal Lescinsky on the Northville-to-Lake Placid trail,
thirty miles further north. That
experience had been sobering. We’d
been taking it at what felt like a decent pace, but it still took us eight hours
to negotiate constant mud, frequent rock scrambles, dicey log bridges, swamps,
stinging nettles, and thick vegetation that hid one’s feet from view.
The fresh bear paw prints added some extra excitement.
As I began to plan, I quickly realized that the biggest
challenge would be drinking water. Sadly,
various microorganisms have become commonplace in the backcountry waters of many
wilderness recreation areas in the U.S.; the remote Adirondacks are no
exception. At a typical consumption
rate of one quart per hour (minimum), it would be nearly impossible to carry
enough fluid for the entire event. I
did not want to handicap myself with over fifteen pounds of dead weight if I
didn’t have to.
Some runners showed up with only one or two water bottles.
Others carried as much as a gallon of fluid.
I was towards that high end, but that still would not be enough.
I brought with me enough Gatorade, water tomato juice and Red Bull to get
through the first few hours. After
that I would rely on local water, using iodine tablets, plus a special water
filtration bottle to ensure that I didn’t get sick.
I carried a minimum of other items in case of emergency.
It occurred to me that the emergency might not be mine—a prophetic
insight as it turned out. My supplies included:
- thin watch cap (to preserve body heat if I were stuck out overnight)
- space blanket (unfolded); there have been accounts of hypothermia victims who died when their numb, fumbling fingers could not unpack a tightly folded new space blanket
- half a dozen matches
- small wrist compass
- map
- small Swiss Army knife
- small amount of duct tape (for foot blisters, wound closure, splinting, or setting up shelter)
- small roll of thin wire (for rigging temporary shelter or fixing shoes or pack)
- disposable camera
- ACE bandage
- basic first aid kit
-
food
After little more than three hours’ sleep, I awoke before
my alarm at 2:20AM. Three hours’
sleep would have to be enough. My
first mistake was to misjudge the time it would take to drive to the assembly
area (at what was to be the finish). At
4:30AM, when the bus was scheduled to leave for the start, I was still driving
down a poorly marked dirt road in the dark, assuming that I was lost, hoping
that I was headed in the right direction. I
made it with just moments to spare.
As we were driven over an hour to the start, we watched the
sun rise through the mist. Some
friends had already started the Vermont 100-Mile run at 4:00AM.
It was sobering to realize that many would still be running when I drove
back to Boston the next day.
We all gathered in a small clearing just after 6:00AM,
where Jim Houghtaling—the race director—said a few words about basic safety.
One item caught my attention:
“If you have to leave the trail”, he said, “be sure
to leave your pack on the trail. We
want to be able to find you if you collapse in the underbrush.”
This made good sense.
“Second,” he said, “if you have an accident and are
still ambulatory, try to get out. But
please stop if it gets dark.”
Whoa. This was
serious. There would be no
Starbucks along the course. Heck,
there wouldn’t be much of anything on the course that hadn’t been
here five thousand years ago. This
was raw, primitive reality. So,
without any pomp or circumstance Jim simply said, “you can start your watches
now.” As he said this, I was
turned the other way, a few yards out in the woods, getting rid of the
morning’s coffee. Mistake number
one. I scrambled to catch up.
The trail was relatively clear and flat for the first few
miles, enticing me into an over-fast pace.
Mistake number two. A glance
at my heart rate monitor told me to cool it.
The third and fourth mistakes were to make themselves apparent within
minutes.
I had thoroughly trail-tested my new fanny pack, but had
foolishly spent only spent a few minutes testing out its shoulder strap.
That strap—designed to keep the pack from bouncing as I ran—was
several inches too long. It was
already starting to chafe, and not keeping the pack from bouncing as it was
supposed to. With it, I knew, I
would abrade the skin off my back and shoulders well before the finish.
Dumb. As if that weren’t
enough, I had chosen (at the last minute) to wear a T-shirt over my singlet in
the morning cool. After only
minutes, I was already beginning to overheat.
Dead weight. Useless. Double
dumb. I was irritated at myself; I
had planned everything else so carefully.
I thought for a minute and decided to fold the T-shirt into
a makeshift pad to put under the shoulder strap, protecting my skin from
abrasion, and slightly increasing the tension on the pack.
It was awkward, but it would serve.
I stopped briefly, made the fix, and resolved to forget about it.
The course included nearly 4000 feet of elevation gain and
loss—not very severe, but enough to keep us honest. Overall, it didn’t seem very tough elevation-wise, though
the hills in the last few miles seemed much more formidable.
The main challenge was in figuring out how to handle the self-support and
maintain rhythm and momentum over the rugged surface.
The first two hours passed quickly and easily, enticing me into thinking
that I might have a shot at going under the old course record—if I stayed
focused. With more than a dozen strong competitors ahead of me, I
realized that the course record likely wouldn’t BE a record by the time I got
there, but it was a worthy goal nonetheless.
I was reinforced in my ambition by the presence near me of
last year’s winner. A wiry and
determined 56-year-old of few words, Frank Harrison hails from Florida, and his
deep tan bears that out. He wore
his #1 folded up and neatly pinned to his hat.
He was one of the minimalists—carrying just two water bottles.
We would be back and forth with one another for much of the race—until
he kicked my butt and set a new PR.
My other trail companion in this section was Colin
Kingsford, a modest 59-year-old British expatriate from Montreal.
Colin generously shared his wisdom from a vast and impressive
ultra-running career. I learned
that he was using this race as a training run to prepare for the unsupported,
106-mile “Plain” event in September through the Cascade Mountains of
Washington State. His goal: to
become the third-ever finisher in that race’s history.
Whoa.
At around eight miles, we passed one of the first lean-tos
that we’d be encountering along the course.
A group of us promptly took a wrong turn, realizing our mistake after a
few hundred yards, and irritating a backpacker whose solitude, breakfast (and
maybe sleep) we’d rudely interrupted. As
she emerged from the lean-to, she yelled:
“They keep coming down here,” then, “Where are all you guys going anyway?”
Frank, in back of me, remarked mater-of-factly: “Yep, this is where we got screwed up last year.”
“We’re running to Wakely Dam,” we yelled over our shoulders, turning to retrace our steps.
“Wakely? Wow. That’s a really long way.”
“Uh, yeah, you can say that again,” I thought to
myself. But then it struck me as
cool that others would see our undertaking as outrageous.
Our progress had been quite quick to this point, putting us
on what I estimated was easily a sub-seven-hour pace. But random roots, rocks, un-trimmed vegetation, and
blown-down trees all began to slow our progress on this more remote and less
well-maintained section of trail beyond the lean-tos. The detour had interrupted my concentration.
On this rougher terrain, before I knew it, I was taking my first
‘header’ of the day. Damage
assessment: just some mud and a bruise. This was a relatively cheap reminder to keep my wits about
me. We would have to be satisfied
with slower progress for a while.
But despite the mishap, the Adirondacks were working their
magic. The air was cool and clean,
and the same birdsong seemed to follow me all day.
The morning sunlight filtering through the trees made me glad to be
alive. At about fifteen miles,
several of us came together at a trail junction.
John Remington from Toronto had pulled out his well-marked map.
He had been following our little group for some time, gradually closing
the gap. After establishing our
whereabouts (roughly halfway), he and the others took off ahead as I jogged
slowly, refueling with a Clif Bar.
As I got going again, I caught up with John—much too
quickly. He was alone, and limping.
I asked if he needed an ACE Bandage.
“Do you have one?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah, I packed pretty heavy,” I replied.
“But no, I couldn’t take it, you might need it.”
“Uh, yeah, but if you take it, then maybe I won’t need it,” I replied.
“Uh, OK. But are you sure?”
“Yeah, I could use a lighter pack,” I joked.
“OK, thanks. I
can’t believe I was about to say no. You
go on then. I can take it from
here. I’m a trauma nurse. I
know what to do with this.”
He proceeded to remove his shoe and gingerly wrap his
ankle. “Cool,” I thought. “Now
I’ve got an emergency medical professional running behind me.
This is a bonus.” Little
did I know, but John was not to be running behind me for long.
I was happy to have my pack getting lighter as I drank down
my Gatorade supply and munched on a vegemite-plastered bagel.
Colin and Frank drifted off to the front as I slowed slightly.
At around this point (15-18 miles), I chatted briefly with a guy named
Dave. He had never run more than
fourteen miles—ever. His buddy
had talked him into this. He was
going well, and already into PR distance territory.
By themselves, the remaining miles would have been a lifetime distance
record for him. This was bold.
Around twenty miles, I was surprised to hear John’s
distinctive lilt from behind me. His
ankle was feeling much better. He
thanked me again for the bandage. We
ran together for a while and chatted, but I began to hit a rough patch.
It wasn’t too bad, but I wasn’t making headway as quickly as I had
before. He moved on, as I chugged
the Red Bull that I’d saved for just this moment.
It took a few miles to kick in, but when it did, I was also hitting a
stretch of good trail. I started moving well, enjoying the day again.
At about 23 miles, I stopped for my first local water.
John was just leaving as I arrived and we exchanged greetings.
His ankle was still doing fine. Dave
and his buddy were also there, getting water.
Dave was looking a little the worse for wear, but not too bad
considering. I asked him how it was
going. He complained of leg cramps,
and I surmised he might be short on salt. With
the vegemite I had consumed, I had more than enough salt in my system.
I offered my can of tomato juice, happy to lighten my pack.
He accepted, quickly chugging it down.
He would later finish strong: under eight hours.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was to run the rest
of the race alone. Dave and his
buddy were to remain behind me. Colin,
John and Frank were off the front. I
began to focus on the possibility of breaking seven hours. This didn’t distract me from the solitude and beauty of
what was around me, but it kept me focused on relentless forward motion.
This section became quite spiritual.
I allowed myself to feel the power coursing through me.
The vegetation, the smells, and the light all began to remind me of my
childhood visits to the Adirondacks; I smiled involuntarily.
What joy! I was alive in a
beautiful environment, and I’d already completed a difficult marathon
distance. I was feeling strong.
But the terrain continued to surprise.
I would run at what I imagined was a solid eight to nine minute per mile
pace for five minutes on good trail, only to be stopped for a minute or more as
I navigated a stream crossing next to a collapsed bridge, or bushwhacked through
swamp around an un-cut blow-down blocking the way.
At a sign showing 4.5 miles to go, I realized it would be quite a push to
make it under seven. I would later
discover that this marker was probably optimistic by as much as a mile.
I had already missed seven hours. But
this had never really been a firm goal. It had helped to push me for a while, but I could let it go
and still be happy.
As I emerged from the forest onto the dirt road near thirty miles, the proverbial wheels began to come off the proverbial bus. It was getting hot, the deerflies were getting pesky, my ankle was beginning to nag, and I was ready for this to be over. My shoulders were also sore and tight from steadying the pack and grabbing onto tree branches to keep my balance. But many things were still going very well. My quads weren’t sore at all, my heart rate wasn’t high, my stomach was fine, I had no blisters or blood, and nobody was catching me. I regrouped, dumped most of my excess water, re-set my pack, and trundled on.
The finish was as low key as the start.
The only way I found it was by noticing my own car.
A little way beyond it, a group of about a dozen people was standing on
what I assumed to be Wakely Dam (it had been hidden in the pre-dawn dark.)
They waved and cheered as I approached and ran across.
I stopped. It was over. My
watch showed 7:13:49: 16th out of 39 finishers. For the second year in a
row, the dropout rate was 0%.
Each of us received a nice little desk photo/certificate
for our efforts—an extremely generous gesture on Jim’s part, considering
that the entry fee was… free. I
peeled off my shoes and waded into the lake to cool my legs.
Tiny fish nibbled at my toes.
Back on the beach, I accepted a sandwich from John and took
a rain check on the cold Guinness he offered, (the fifth dumb move of the day!).
We both chatted with Colin: in addition to completing Plain, he was
starting to hatch plans to set the 60 and over age group world record for 48
hours of running. I said my goodbyes, and that was it. We all knew that we’d be back—probably with a lot more
company. This was truly a special
event. I returned to the motel,
soaked my feet in a bucket of ice, and went to sleep.
I had toyed with the idea of setting my alarm for midnight
and driving to Vermont to watch the 100-Miler.
But good sense got the better of me.
I slept until first light and arrived at Smoke Rise Farm a little after
9:00AM, with an hour left to go in that race.
It was almost incomprehensible to imagine that these
athletes had started two hours before we had yesterday morning.
I walked up the steep hill near the finish, half a mile back up the
course, and positioned myself alone by the side of the trail.
After a few minutes, a runner came by—a large runner
(later identified to me as Andy Lopuchowycz).
If anyone saw this guy on the street, they would never imagine he was an
athlete, much less a soon-to-be 100-mile finisher. He was built like a
lumberjack, moving forward relentlessly.
I congratulated him as he negotiated his way down the hill.
“Heck,” I thought, “if he can do this, maybe I can too.”
Four minutes later, I heard cheers and yells from the finish line.
I had my calibration. I
would wait here until just before 10AM and usher in the final combatants, giving
them a final time-check.
An older couple came by—he in front, she in back—about
twenty feet apart. They were bound
it seemed, by an invisible cord, the distance never changing.
She smiled broadly. The
positive energy was palpable. They
moved on, and then I heard cheers from down the hill.
They had made it. Three and
a half minutes this time.
Now there were seven minutes left until the course would
close. Presuming that the race had
started on time, any final finishers would need to be coming into view right
away. I walked twenty yards further
up the course and peered over the other side of the hill.
In the trees, I saw motion, a long way down.
A woman was making her way up. I
began clapping and cheering. She
raised her head and started running up the slope—amazing considering how far
she’d come and how long she’d been going.
As she came by, I could sense her emotion welling up:
“How close am I? How much more to go? Am I almost there?”
She sounded like a confused, frightened child, awakened from a nightmare, relieved that the light had been turned on, discovering that it was Christmas morning.
“You’ve made it. You’re
there,” I said. “Half a mile
downhill; you’ve even got a two minute cushion.
“Oh, wow! Oh,
yeah! I can’t believe it!” she
gasped plaintively, choking back sobs that sounded more than a little bit like
giggles. She hobbled as fast as she
could. I walked behind for a few
yards, almost matching her pace, cheering and clapping and fighting back a tear
or two of my own. Then I let her
go. Three minutes later, from six
hundred yards away, I heard the cheers, punctuated by loud sobs of joy and
relief. She’d made it.
I didn’t need to see any more. This one-minute interaction with a complete stranger (later identified to me as Susan McCarthy) seemed to encapsulate the meaning of the whole event. This was big. This was beautiful. This was the most positive human spirit, raw and pure. Twenty hours earlier, I’d been ready to swear off ultra-running. Now I wasn’t so sure. If the body was willing… Well, we’d have to see. I got in my car and drove home, feeling warm and satisfied. It had really been quite a weekend.