Long Road to Ruin: Blue Canyon 100K* Report

*Technically it was only about 49 miles, but that’s part of the longer story …

"Maybe the season - the colors change in the valley skies -
Dear God I’ve sealed my fate - running through hell, heaven can wait -
Long road to ruin there in your eyes ... "
- Foo Fighters, “Long Road to Ruin” (video after post)

**
Obviously, there’s not much suspense to the way this one ends: I've already announced that I didn’t finish the 100K race last weekend. Consequently, I’ve been predictably undermotivated to post a detailed account of one of the most disappointing events of my life, and pondered not presenting a report at all.

Two considerations ultimately changed my mind …

1) I’m still wondering how much of last weekend’s result was my own fault, and to what degree I was just an unfortunate victim of circumstance – and hopefully, writing an official report and getting some objective feedback (that means you, kind readers) may help sort some of that out. Also …

2) I took a ton of pictures and covered every trail on the course, so a full report might still be instructive (not to mention cautionary) to anyone thinking about doing this race in the future.

And with that, we’ll jump into the recap. I’ll try to keep things moving through the early stages, and spend some extra time on the more pivotal parts as we get there. Away we go!


The race started at 4:30AM, with about 20-25 people gathered in the darkness. Most of the first six miles are an uphill climb on a rocky, narrow single track …


… which poses some unique trail hazards not typically encountered in your average ultra.


One reason the race starts so early is to get some mileage under our belts before the fierce heat of the day takes a stranglehold on the course. Forecast temps were in the upper 90s for Santa Ynez (the nearest town), but we all knew the heat of the remote canyons would be far higher than that. The sun was coming hard – and the more shaded miles we could get in beforehand, the better.


Just past the Arroyo Burro aid station at mile 7, you spend a few miles on rolling single-track …


Before taking on a 2,000-ft climb towards Angustora Pass. Total elevation gain for the 100K course is more than 16,000’ - so while stretches of trail like this would be the biggest climb on many courses, at Blue Canyon it’s just a practice hill for later in the race.


From the aid station at Angostura, you’re awarded with a great view of Gibraltar Dam and Reservoir, and more than 3 miles of downhill fire roads ahead.


As you get closer to the reservoir, small rock features you first saw from a distance become larger and more impressive with every step.


This aid station marks the turnaround point of the 50K race held later in the morning, as well as miles 18 and 49 of the 100K. On my first time through, the morning was definitely heating up, and by the end of the day, one of the volunteers here (more about him later) told me the temperature reached 103. And this was a relatively cool spot: ultimately the course would take us 22 miles further into the hills, where the heat was noticeably greater. For the time being, however, I had no worries at all.


The next several miles skirt up and down the hills and around the inlets of Gibraltar Reservoir. This was one of the most scenic sections of the race – but later on, it would be the place where everything fell apart.


I’ve done two ultras this spring, and run past two quicksilver mines. I just thought that was an interesting coincidence.


The single-track portions of this race are best described as overgrown. Anyplace you could actually see the trail was a luxury; more frequently, you were stepping on top of tall grasses or through brush and brambles of various sizes (anywhere from shin- to waist-high), or bending over at the waist to avoid scratching the heck out of your face and neck. By the end of the day, the burrs and weeds nearly destroyed both my shoes and socks.

Even crazier is that these trails had actually been cleared prior to race weekend - so I’d hate to see what they looked like beforehand.


This is the Forbush aid station at mile 31. From the pre-race e-mails sent to us, here's what was supposed to be there: water, ice, soda, S-caps, Succeed, amino drink mix, GU gels, GU Brew, cooked potatoes, salt, crackers, jellybeans, chips, and various other snacks.

And here's what was actually there: water.

It might not have been so bad, except for one thing: the previous aid station was in precisely the same situation. The mile 25 station was billed as having the exact same list as above, but all it had was a single Gatorade container-sized stash of water and one bag of ice in an igloo cooler. And even THAT might not have been so bad, except for the fact that we had to pass each of these stations on the way back as well. And did I mention that the day was a little bit warm?

Nevertheless, I was still feeling pretty good here, and while I had my bottles filled, the volunteer assured me they’d keep replenishing the water supply throughout the day. File that one under “famous last words.”


Beyond the Forbush station begins a long descent towards Blue Canyon, which actually doesn’t look blue from here – but it sure looked challenging.


There’s really not much to the creek at the bottom of Blue Canyon, but a little later on, I’d get to know this particular area fairly well.


Leaving Blue Canyon is one of the steepest, longest, most difficult climbs I’ve ever done in an ultra. Throw in the fact that the trail was almost completely overgrown in parts and that the heat was becoming insufferable, and this was one of the most dreadful climbs I’ve ever experienced.


At the top, you’re rewarded by two things: this killer vista, and the knowledge that you’re only about three miles from the turnaround point.


I haven’t mentioned one other little unpleasantry yet: the whole course was simply CRAZY with flies. They were so widespread, so numerous, and so bothersome that I was compelled to pitch a tent over my head at times, like on this fire road that leads to the turnaround point. There’s really no way to accurately describe how irritating this was … but I’ll be darned if I’m going to let my race be ruined by a bunch of bugs.


Have you ever seen the turnaround point of a race in the distance, figured out that there’s nobody within miles of you, and realized you could just turn around early without being noticed? More importantly, if you were in that situation, would you spin around early?


Me neither.


There’s something about making the turn for home that feels great – and when it’s combined with the sight of a long downhill stretch in front of me, it’s not surprising that I was feeling really great through this section of the course …


… although the steep descent into Blue Canyon was almost as difficult on the descent as it was going up. The loose rocks, tricky footing, and steep grade were quite a challenge to my Evo shoes, which are super comfortable but a little bit lacking in the traction department. Worse, though, was that the heat was definitely becoming a major player in the event. Shady spots had long since disappeared, and there was really no escape from the conditions …


…except perhaps during a brief dip in the creek at the bottom of the canyon. In hindsight, this was probably my happiest point of the day: I was in the thick of the battle, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be able to survive.

Which is why I need to stop jumping to conclusions so much.


Even the bugs seemed friendlier around here: instead of the biting flies and gnats that swarmed everywhere else, this area of the wilderness was overrun by ladybugs (if you click to enlarge, you can see them). I like ladybugs: they don’t bite, they don’t try to burrow into your eyes or ears, and they’ve got that whole cute vibe going for them.


So I certainly didn’t mind giving several of them a ride for a while – even if it was on my head.

To this point, I was managing salt and calorie and fluid intake fairly well, typically draining my bottles 10 or 15 minutes before rolling into an aid station. However, I for the past several miles I also knew that I was dancing right on the edge of “managing” and “dealing with chaos”, and I could tell that my margin for error was razor-thin.


That’s why I was so glad to make it to back to the Forbush aid station, where the following exchange took place …

Me: Boy, am I glad to see you!

Volunteer: Hi there. Unfortunately I’ve got some bad news for you: we don’t have any water.

Me: Um … what?

Volunteer: We’re out of water, and we think the next aid station is out of water, too. I’m trying to get some more water in here, but in the meantime you should probably just sit in the shade and wait until it gets here.

Me: Crap. OK.


So I sat down next to a group of 50-mile runners who were also waiting for water, all of whom had already decided to drop from the race. It’s also worth mentioning here that I don’t have any ill will toward the volunteer, who was making the best of a horrible situation. All of this was happening at about 2 in the afternoon, at mile 41 on the course, after I had been running for more than 10 hours on a day when the temperature was well over 100 degrees. His main concern was keeping us safe, and I’m not sure what he could have done differently.


He eventually scoped out this little creek about 200 yards off-trail, where I spent the next 30 minutes soaking in the water, trying to lower my core temperature while simultaneously not letting my blood pressure boil because I was stressed out about getting back to the race.

I also contemplated just how sick I might get if I started sipping straight from the stream, but I flunked out of Boy Scouts too early to remember if I would get “life-threatening sick”, or just “bacterial infection or intestinal parasite leading to hospitalization” sick. Ultimately, I decided against taking the risk …


… and just stared at the happy ladybugs instead.

My own outlook was taking a significant downturn, however. After sitting for almost 40 minutes, my muscles were starting to cramp throughout my legs and feet, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to continue the race if I sat much longer. So I shuffled back towards the volunteer, where we had the following exchange:

Me: Any update on the water situation?

Him: Not really … I’m still trying to find out if anyone’s able to get some out to us.

In other words, the status report went from “We’ll replenish the water for sure,” to “We’re waiting on water to arrive,” to “We’re not sure if we’ll get any more,” in the time since I passed through here on my way out. For the first time all day, I wasn’t certain that my race would end well – but I became convinced that the way to finish wasn’t by sitting around here anymore.


And so I walked. Hobbled, more accurately. The next aid station was more than 4 miles away – a distance that seemed almost hopelessly far.


Along the way, I tried to hydrate through the skin as much as possible by lowering myself into whatever ponds or streams I came across, which was temporarily effective for cooling, but did nothing for my cravings for a drink.


Even though the terrain was only moderately rolling through here, I couldn’t run more than a few steps at a time because 1) my legs were still in cramp mode from the long rest, and 2) the more effort I exerted, the thirstier I felt. So I ended up walking most of the miles to the next aid station …

Which was out of water as well.

The Gatorade container I described earlier was completely empty, and all that was left in the igloo was an empty ice bag and a bit of standing water with lots of dirt floating in it (from ice being grabbed by messy hands). I tipped the cooler on edge enough to fill one bottle halfway, and eagerly drank the water almost all in one gulp …


… only to have it come right back up a few minutes later. By this time, I caught sight of the reservoir again. It’s hard to explain the feeling of seeing a huge body of water when you haven’t had anything to drink for several hours, and just thrown up while walking into the sun after covering more than 45 miles of hills … so let’s just say it’s unpleasant.

I was basically a dead man walking – my legs were cramped, I was completely lightheaded, and I had absolutely no energy to make it up even the gentle hills. And the day was running out on me: with a 9PM course closure, I was looking at a little over 3 hours left to cover 15 miles. That wouldn’t be happening.


So when I reached the 50K turnaround aid station at mile 49, I was cooked. I sat in the chair for a few minutes to see if I’d recover, but my leg pains just got worse, and my head wasn’t getting any better. So for the first time in my life, I officially dropped out of a race. Needless to say, it's not a moment I’ll remember fondly.


The only bright spot in the whole ordeal was this guy: Scott, a volunteer at the aid station who reads my blog. He recognized me on my first pass through the station as soon as I took my camera out for photos, and then he thanked me. When I looked puzzled, he explained that he was one of the winners of the Sockwa giveaway I did last fall. He was also the one who eventually gave me a ride off the course in his truck.

It turns out that Scott’s a super nice guy who’s fallen in love with trail running, and has two daughters who like Jack Johnson music. So obviously we hit it off pretty quickly. (He didn’t even complain when I made him pull over so I could puke again.) And I wouldn’t have known any of that if I hadn’t dropped out. The lesson here? Practice kindness – sooner or later it will come back around to you. And you never know who you might need to get yourself rescued.


Despite the pleasant surprise of finding a blog fan (really, what are the odds?) in the middle of the Santa Ynez Mountains, , I felt almost unbearable remorse as my final impression of the landscape was from the inside of Scott’s truck rather than standing upright on my own two feet. In the days since, I’ve spent an unhealthy majority of my waking hours vacillating between being disappointed in myself for not trying to finish the race - especially my decision to sit for 40 minutes instead of just trying to power through the Forbush aid station - and upset at the organizers who created a situation that invited so much failure and potential disaster.

Only 5 people finished the 100K race. Only 4 others finished the 50-mile race. From my standpoint, I’m absolutely certain that I could have finished if I had the support that was advertised, or even if I had an accurate sense of what to expect going in. I could have worn a hydration vest instead of carrying bottles, or I could have stashed fluids for myself at the drop stations. Other races have long stretches (10 miles or more) without aid, but that’s spelled out in advance so the runners can plan for it.

But to tell runners that aid stations will be fully stocked, and then have two consecutive stations turn up completely empty on the hottest day of the year on one of the toughest courses in California just seems irresponsible, potentially dangerous, and – in my case at least – a perfect way to ruin someone’s ultra.

I’ve decided to leave my ranting at that, but a friend of mine pointed out some interesting discussion that’s taken place since the race last weekend. I don’t really hold any bad feelings towards the event, although it’s unlikely I’d ever be inclined to race there again. In the meantime, I’ll just chalk this one up to a bad day and a learning experience, and move forward towards finding the next adventure to start building my mojo back.

**
Foo Fighters, "Long Road to Ruin" (click to play):

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Ocean Minded Moka Sandal Review

(Admin note: I’m slowly emerging from my post-race gloom, and should have a full report posted by Wednesday night. In the meantime, my wife got another chance to get in on the product review game, and she was quite pleased with the result of this one – and now that the weather is finally getting warmer, the timing seemed perfect to post the review.)

*
Regular readers will recall previous posts describing my wife’s ongoing quest to find the perfect pair of flip-flops; this spring, she found a pair that scores pretty high marks, from a company who gets a lot of respect in my book as well.

That company is Ocean Minded.


What does it mean to be Ocean Minded? If you’re a person, it’s living with appreciation and respect for the ocean and all natural resources. It’s combining a laid-back beach attitude with a proactive effort to make the world a better place than we found it. It’s being cool and simplistic, and maintaining your unique identity while embracing the larger community around you.

And if you’re the right kind of company, it can mean all those things as well.

Ocean Minded was born from the Southern California surf culture, and aims to combine the ocean lifestyle – mainly through apparel, sandals, and shoes - with environmental responsibility and community involvement that improves the quality of life for all of us. Think of Sanuk’s mellow surfer-dude vibe crossed with Simple’s mission to be 100% sustainable, and you’ve got a pretty accurate impression of Ocean Minded.

The company invests considerable time and effort on outreach programs and partnerships focused on preserving our natural resources, and makes every effort to reduce its own global footprint as much as possible. Part of their mission statement is “To become the global leader in sustainable lifestyle footwear” that is fashionable, responsible, and comfortable all at once – and if the sandals my wife tested are any indication, they’re doing an awfully good job of it.

Ocean Minded Moka

My wife has been wearing the Moka, which features a premium nubuck leather strap and footbed - tanned with natural vegetable tannins to eliminate chemical byproducts – on top of a soft recycled foam midsole that is approximately ¾” at the heel and ½” in the forefoot. As with all Ocean Minded products, all the adhesives on this sandal are water-based to further diminish their environmental impact. In addition to the midsole, post-consumer content is seen in the outsole that’s cut from a recycled car tire (definitely a reminder of Simple there), and a toe post that is made from recycled plastic bottles.


Best of all, this eco-savvy construction doesn’t prevent the sandal from being fashionable. The Moka would look right at home at the beach, but is stylish enough for a night out to dinner in the summertime.

The official verdict from my wife is that she likes these flips a lot. She loves the soft, smooth feel of the leather strap and footbed, and she says the midsole provides a nice balance of cushioning and ground feel while still allowing her foot to flex naturally while walking. They’ve been a very comfortable all-purpose sandal for her, and - in what might be the most telling endorsement my wife has to offer – they’re her shoes of choice for long shopping days at Costco.

Ocean Minded’s sandals are priced fairly reasonably as well, as the Moka sells for $45 from Amazon.com and other online vendors. Amazon carries almost the entire line of men’s and women’s sandals in addition to the Moka, which can be viewed from the link above as well.


*Product provided by Ocean Minded
**See other product reviews on sidebar at right. If you have a product you’d like reviewed, contact me at info@runningandrambling.com.

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The Runner

Before today's post, a quick administrative note: I’m still a few days away from having a race report on my Blue Canyon misadventure. I’ve settled into that awful second-guessing phase where I’m wondering if I made the correct decision to drop on Saturday. I still think it was right … but let’s just say I’m a little bit less certain today.

In the meantime, I’ve got a couple of items that have been on the back burner for a little while, starting with a Monterey Herald column from last week. The idea is courtesy of my friend Mike, who was reading through the obituaries and saw a mention of our local marathon. It led to a discussion of what any one of us will be remembered for, and how so many people use running as a means of identity, or an opportunity to have life experiences that are truly memorable.

Incidentally, since this article was published, I’ve been surprised to realize what a remarkably common experience the act of reading through the obituaries is for many people. I’ve never understood the appeal myself - but in this case, I’m glad that Mike did.

**

Running Life 6/03/10 “The Runner”

A recent obituary in the Herald honored a 55-year-old woman named Belinda, whose “natural friendliness, kindness, generosity, and good cheer made her many friends.” It mentioned that her passions in life included her cats, arts and crafts, and the company of friends.

One other note caught our attention; it stated that Belinda “was especially proud of completing the Big Sur International Marathon.”

Truth be told, it’s not the first time we’ve noticed a line like that in the obituaries – but for some reason, this one made us reflect a bit on life experiences we share.

What defines you? What accomplishment are you most proud of? How do others think of you? When people describe you to others, what will they say?

On the rare occasions that we get recognized around town from our smiling pictures above this column – believe us, it doesn’t happen that often - it’s usually followed by the comment, “Oh…you’re that runner dude.” Or sometimes, more simply, “You’re the runner.”

Even at work or in social situations, friends and acquaintances define us most easily as “the runner”. We’re not always sure how to take this, seeing as how we both have advanced educational degrees, professional careers, loving families, and are active in our religious communities, among other activities we enjoy. But apparently we’re not as noteworthy at anything else as we are at running.

It’s also curious to note that earlier in life, Donald was known as “the rower”, and Mike as “the golfer”. Most of our friends from those times were defined the same way. The sport you practice or activity you enjoy are often the most visible, and therefore the most easily identifiable aspects of how other people see us.

All this brings us back to the obituaries, which are always an interesting place to see how people are defined by others. Loved ones who write them offer their personal views of the departed’s accomplishments, priorities, and joys in life. Appropriately, the person’s family role is mentioned first: loving husband; father of three; doting grandparent. An occupation is frequently listed soon thereafter. But inevitably, the person’s activities and hobbies are described in some detail. And every now and then, you’ll see a mention of our local marathon.

We’ve written countless times about how training for and completing a marathon can be a life-changing experience. It’s an accomplishment that anyone should be proud of, and a milestone that outside observers recognize as significant. For most people, running 26.2 miles means more than just placing one foot in front of the other – it’s a life-defining exercise that reveals and defines the person we are for all the world to see.

Belinda’s obituary described how she “carried the burdens of developmental disabilities with great dignity, perseverance, and courage and would not let her challenges defeat her.” She sounds like someone we’re proud to call a fellow marathoner – and she’s also an example of what any of us can become.

The benefits and opportunities of running are available to anyone. You don’t have to be born a natural athlete, and you don’t have to be uniquely gifted. A life-shaping experience is there for the taking, waiting right outside your door. Maybe one of these years, you’ll even finish a marathon – and if you do, it’s an honor you can carry forever.

And if someone happens to refer to you one day as “the runner”, don’t take it the wrong way – just smile and consider it a compliment.

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Blue Canyon 100K: DNF

"We're goin' down, down in an earlier round -
And Sugar we're goin' down swinging."
- Fall Out Boy, "Sugar, We're Goin' Down"

So much for my goal of reaching the finish line.

Completing the Blue Canyon 100K wasn't meant to be on Saturday; it's partially my responsibility, and partially due to factors beyond my control. The short version is, Hot Day + No Water = Bad Juju.

The longer version will take me a few days to put together. I like to think I went down swinging, as I'll explain when the time comes. Obviously this result is a pretty big disappointment for me, and I might need a few days to lick my wounds a bit before sorting everything out, though. We'll see how it goes.

And now it's time to get some sleep.

**
Fall Out Boy, "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" (click to play):

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Letters and Numbers

I need to make a habit of checking my calendar more carefully.

This weekend marks the confluence of two events of nearly equal significance in my (admittedly somewhat warped) mind: the Scripps National Spelling Bee Friday morning and evening, and a 100K ultra in Santa Barbara on Saturday.


Despite the fact that those two events fall on different days, the proximity of one relative to the other makes it impossible for me to be fully “in the moment” with either one of them. On Friday afternoon, the hours I traditionally spend nailed to the chair catching up with the NSB’s morning preliminary rounds on TiVo will instead be spent nervously packing my gear for the following day’s race. In the evening, while I’m working my way through a 4-hour drive to Santa Barbara, the championship rounds of the Bee will air in prime time. And on Saturday, the day I normally re-watch the Bee a second (or even third) time to compile my NSB diary, I’ll be preoccupied with dragging my tail over 62 miles of mountainous terrain. I’d curse the fates for conspiring against me, but there’s really no one to blame for myself.

First, about the Bee: If you’re a new reader wondering what the heck I’m talking about, it’s important for you to know that I’m a freak for the National Spelling Bee. And if you don’t believe me, just look over to my right sidebar and read some of the reports for yourself.

This year's competition features two young ladies who I’m extremely excited about, although for completely different reasons. The first is someone I actually know: a sixth-grade classmate of my son's who will be making her first trip to the NSB after winning our regional championship. So if you see a girl from Monterey County make it to the televised rounds, you’ll know who I’m cheering for.

The second, of course, is Erin Andrews. Admit it – when I first started gushing about her NSB assignment in 2008, did you suspect she’d become almost a household name less than two years later? But then she was the victim of a well-publicized scandal, and Oprah got hold of her, and Dancing with the Stars happened ... and now she’s practically America’s Sweetheart. So it’s good to see that her newfound fame hasn’t caused her to turn her back on the awkward adolescent crowd who knew her back in the day. At least not yet.

Erin Andrews and someone who's not (as far as I know) a good speller

And now about the race: I mentioned that it’s 100K, but that number doesn’t do the course nearly enough justice. 16,000’ of climbing does. 85 to 90 degree temperatures (forecast for Saturday) do as well. Last year’s winning time of 12:45 – by a guy who has run sub-19-hours at the Leadville 100 – is a pretty telling number as well. Truthfully, the more numbers I look at, the more intimidating this race appears.

Here’s one more: Zero, which is the number of long (greater than 20-mile) runs I’ve done since the Quicksilver 50 four weeks ago. Basically, I’ll be doing the race on muscle memory and determination – which isn’t something I shy away from, but I know it’s going to be one of the tougher challenges I’ve faced in quite a while. If you thought I was kidding about my goals being to 1) not get lost, and 2) finish in one piece, let me assure you that my expectations seriously aren’t much loftier than that.

Assuming I make it through that gauntlet, I’ll recuperate by watching the National Spelling Bee a couple of days late, and getting to work on a race report sometime next week. I’m hopeful that I’ll have a spelling diary in me at some point as well, but for now that one’s going to take a back seat until I see how things shake out after the weekend.

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Lost in the (Actual) Wilderness: Ventana Big Pines Report

“Just because I'm hurting, doesn't mean I'm hurt –
Doesn't mean I didn't get what I deserve –
No better and no worse –
I just got lost ... ”
- Coldplay, “Lost” (video after post)


Each time I’ve ventured into the Ventana Wilderness, at some point or another the same thought has occurred to me: it would suck to get lost in here. The steep canyons and rugged terrain are inhospitable to human intruders even in the best of conditions; to get stuck (or worse yet, disoriented) in one of these remote areas seemed like a great way to invite tragedy upon yourself.

So it might have been a case of subconscious curiosity (you know – the thing that killed the cat) which led me to accidentally venture off course in the midst of a group run two weekends ago. Or perhaps it was due to poor trail conditions. Most likely of all is that I’m just an idiot. I’ll tell the story, and you can decide for yourself.


The morning started off unremarkably, as several of us set out from the trailhead with the goal of reaching a peak called Big Pines, approximately 9 miles away. Truthfully, “trailhead” might be a generous term, since the trail was almost completely overgrown; what you see here in the first mile is about as well defined as it got all morning long.


If there’s an upside, it’s that much of the overgrowth consisted of wildflowers, in particular the purple lupine that would eventually prove to be a lifeline of sorts for me later in the day. Then again, the wildflowers might have been my undoing to begin with – but I’m getting ahead of myself a bit here.


Believe it or not, we weren’t off trail here; just neck high in wild grasses that caused us to stop and orient ourselves to maps and landmarks much more frequently than any of us expected.


This landmark was easy: Blue Rock Ridge obviously takes its name from this distinctive granite outcropping nestled between two adjacent peaks. It’s also where I’d receive an impromptu lesson in survival tactics before everything was said and done.


Remember this post from March, when I complained that a full morning of running hadn’t even brought us to the official wilderness boundary? Needless to say, when we passed this sign less than a quarter-mile past the blue rocks, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself.


So much, in fact, that I really didn’t mind that long stretches of the “trail run” had pretty much turned into a “bushwhacking hike” as we tried to navigate sections of trail that were just barely navigable.


The official trail is supposed to intersect and cross this firebreak at several spots. The break was bulldozed by the California Department of Forestry a couple of years ago as a last line of defense against wildfires that seriously threatened Carmel Valley, and it has since proven to be a safety measure for wilderness explorers as well. The conventional fallback plan for hikers who lose the official trail is to stay on the firebreak, and you’ll eventually be able to locate the trail – and if not, you’ll at least be able to find your way back to the starting point again. File that piece of information away for later.

Also, on the subject of the firebreak: it was pretty remarkable to all of us that the most prevalent feature of the overgrown breakline was the abundance of lupines that stood out for their grayish purple hue in the distance. It was the trail equivalent of following the Yellow Brick Road through the vast, mysterious, potentially dangerous Land of Oz. Or maybe that was just me.


Every now and then we’d catch a break and find a fairly well-described portion of trail to follow for a while, and I found myself drifting a good distance behind the rest of the group …



... mainly because I was snapping my camera like crazy at the wildflowers or canyon vistas that were prevalent in every direction.


Even when the trail started to get overgrown again, I didn’t worry too much about it …


… because the trees of Big Pines were visible off in the distance, so I knew we were getting close to our destination. Or so I thought.


By the time we started the final climb to Big Pines, I had drifted pretty far behind the others – and this photo would end up being the last I saw of them for three hours. Apparently shortly after this point, I somehow veered off of whatever consensus trail existed …


... most likely distracted by taking pictures of this area, which no one else in the group seems to recognize. We were in a section of the forest that had been severely damaged by the recent wildfires, and one of my favorite scenes to witness in nature is the way life regains a foothold, time and time again, even in places of horrible destruction. It’s a powerful metaphor on a lot of different levels, and, um … it’s possible that I might have become lost in my thoughts somewhere around here and stopped paying attention to the trail.


But here’s the thing: it took me a very long time to realize I was off course, because this particular section of the hillside wasn’t any more overgrown or indecipherable than the previous 8 miles we had just trudged through. The fact that I couldn’t actually see a trail didn’t automatically trigger an alarm of any sort – and I had been trailing the group so routinely that I always figured they were just out of sight around the next curve. It probably took me about 20 minutes to figure out that wasn’t the case.


By the time I concluded I was off trail, I figured that my chances of actually retracing my steps and finding the official, ‘very hard to distinguish the first time around’ trail might prove difficult. Since I saw blue sky overhead, I decided that I’d just keep going uphill, and eventually make it to the top of Big Pines and meet up with the rest of the group.

And that plan might have worked … if the rest of the group hadn’t figured out I was missing and started backtracking to see where I went off course. Turns out I probably should have thought of that.


After several minutes of scrambling up slopes that proved much steeper than they initially appeared, I found my first sign of hope: the Purple Flower Road that marked both the firebreak, and a certain route back to civilization at some point. But instead of heading back down to the first trail junction I recognized, I went to the top of the hill and started shouting my fool head off, hoping to hear some sort of response from the rest of my group. Unfortunately, the wind was blowing like crazy, and all my shouting was pretty much futile.


Finally I decided to start the long haul down the firebreak, with the ridgeline flowers visible in the distance to reassure me that I’d ultimately make it back in one piece. It was at this point, however, that I began to worry about what the rest of the group might be doing - that they might be concerned that I was lost or hurt or something worse, and sacrificing their own plans and schedules to spend extra time tracking me down. That’s not exactly a pleasant feeling.


Once I finally reached the last known trail junction, I noticed this hat – which seemed odd, because I didn’t remember seeing it on the way in. At first I thought, maybe someone in my group left it? But then …


… Nah. None of my group works for the US Census. Couldn’t be them. Oh well.

(So here’s a little test for you: what should that hat have told me? The answer follows shortly.)


The ridgeline return wasn’t nearly as easy as I was hoping; apparently the reason the official trail frequently goes off the ridge is because the slopes that go straight up and over each successive peak are incredibly steep. And remember how the firebreak was created? By bulldozer, which meant that underneath the tall grass lurked unseen rocks, broken branches, potholes, and all manner of debris. I lost my footing more than a few times here, and emerged with some fairly bloody legs by the end of the day.


On the plus side, the views were still nice. Whatever.


When I passed the sign marking my exit from the official wilderness, I had to admit that my journey here wasn’t quite what I hoped or expected – but I suppose that’s why they call it the wilderness, anyway.


This is my friend Brian, who’s a decent enough guy; I’ve always liked him in a regular dude way. But when I saw him chasing me down - followed closely thereafter by the rest of the group -while I rested at Blue Rock Ridge, I swear that part of me wanted to sprint across the field and jump into his arms like a soldier coming home from war. I haven’t been that happy to see somebody in a very long time – because I knew I had finally been found.

Brian’s also a super-experienced outdoorsman who feels as much at home in remote, desolate wilderness areas as you and I do on our living room couches. On that note, here’s what he said I should have done in my situation, and the answer to the blue hat question …

Once I figured out I was off trail, my best course of action would have been to backtrack the last known trail spot and hold my position. Apparently only idiots keep looking for the top of the hill. And even though I doubted I could retrace my steps to the trail, I might have recognized some landmarks that would eventually lead me to the vicinity (as in, possible shouting distance) of where I had ventured off.

And the hat? My friends did put it there. Further up the trail from Big Pines, they came across a campsite and found it abandoned on the hillside. Knowing its color would attract attention, they put it on the last known trail junction that we were together to let me know that they had been there, and were doubling back and forth on the trail to look for me. Which means I could have saved them a lot of looking if I hadn’t kept moving towards the car at that point.

Here’s my favorite part of Brian’s story: once they returned to the hat a second time, the way they knew I was alive and moving back to the car was by tracking me through the grass like hunters. He used my imprints to determine which way I was heading, and could tell every time I missed the official trail to stay on the firebreak. I’m sure they could probably see all the spots I stumbled as well, but they were polite enough to not tell me.


Thankfully, we were all together again as we saw the dam that marked our entrance point to the wilderness, and the rest of the run finished without incident. The whole way down, I couldn't help dwelling on what an idiot I had been.

I wish I didn't have to be an experiential learner on this one - because getting lost in the wilderness really does suck. I wasn't even in any grave danger, but the whole experience made me feel bad for what I had put the rest of the group through when they were wondering what the heck happened to me. Maybe the bad day was what I deserved for being an idiot, but I wish I hadn't contributed to a bad day for anyone else.

So ... yeah. Don't get lost, kids. It's not as glamorous as it may seem.


On a completely unrelated topic: I wore my VivoBarefoot Evos for this adventure, and aside from the dozens of grass burrs stuck in my socks, they felt pretty comfortable all day long. I obviously had some footing issues on the super-steep ridgeline, but these weren't exactly groomed trails I was traversing. On the whole, I was confident enough in how they performed to try using them for my 100K this coming weekend.

The way things are going for me lately - going off course at Quicksilver, along with this run - footwear may be the least of my concerns at the race. As long as I stay on course, don't venture off trail, and make it to the finish line in one piece, I'll consider the day a success.

**
I know, I know ... I like Coldplay. We've discussed this before. And I'll even concede that the studio version of this song was a little sleepy for my tastes - if you'll admit that the percussion-heavy live version that follows below is pretty darn cool.

Coldplay, "Lost", live in Tokyo (click to play):

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