Last weekend I had easily one of the most enjoyable runs of my life. About a year ago Toby Guillette conjured up a new adventure that involved running across the entirety of Joshua Tree National Park using a 37 mile section of the California Riding and Hiking Trail. The route immediately captured our imagination, but took a year to ultimately come together due to injuries, illnesses, and life's other endless distractions. But the best things in life are worth waiting for.
It was such an amazing day because of the people, the place, and the experience. I was out there with five friends and each person contributed in their own unique way to an absolutely vibrant energy. It was Paul's first time in Joshua Tree and his longest run to date. You might think that would be intimidating, but he was the most giddy person in the group and savored every mile. Carlyn's Technicolor Dream Shorts perfectly captured her personality. Ben, as usual, with his mind racing, and his motivation and ambition overflowing. "Recovering" from a shoulder separation that happened while fighting Chuck Norris -- or mountain biking, I can't remember which -- Dax came out with his arm in sling and ran 20+ miles with us. While his toughness was certainly inspiring, I was even more moved by his selflessness and humility in supporting us and celebrating an event I know he badly wanted to complete (next year!). And Toby, whose excitement for pioneering this route was contagious, particularly given that he's such an accomplished endurance athlete and is still finding new adventures to fuel the fire.   It was really the first ultra run I've ever done where I felt energetic and excited nearly the entire time. I couldn't believe how quickly the miles melted away. It was because of the laughter, the singing, the bright colors, and the big smiles. We high-fived, bounded off of boulders, screamed into the desert, and jumped over downed Joshua Trees.  It was like some ridiculously long Mountain Dew commercial in super slow motion.
And of course the setting for our run was a 790,636 acre zen garden. Joshua Tree isn't grand. Unlike some of our other national treasures, it doesn't tower above you or dazzle with spectacular physical wonders. It is an expanse of piled rocks and twisted trees. But it is wondrous. It impresses upon you and affects you. I don't know if there is such a thing as a spiritual place. But I do know that there are places in this world that cause a stirring in the human soul. They silence you and settle the noise in your mind. They stoke the embers of passion and quietly remind you to yearn. Joshua Tree is all of these things. The fact that there is no documentation of this route ever having been run before is a testament to the youth of the sport of ultra running.  There are a handful of routes that are beginning to settle into a list of "must do" runs for the ultra inclined, such as Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim and the Zion Traverse. This trail deserves a proud spot on that list -- it is absolutely world class.

Logistics & Information

The trail is 37.3 miles long.  The trail is generally hard packed sand, with a few sections of soft sand, in particular during the first five miles or so.  It begins at the Black Rock Campground (elevation 3,983 feet) and ends at the North Entrance Station (elevation 2,885 feet). The trail is relatively flat, with a net elevation loss of 1,098 feet and a total cumulative elevation gain of 3,530 feet. The trail is very well marked with signs at most major junctions, and markers at each mile along the course. Despite these postings, getting off route is possible if you aren't paying close attention. The desert conditions are very unforgiving -- so make sure that doesn't happen.

With respect to logistics, I recommend camping at Black Rock Campground (reservations possible on line; the campground can fill up months in advance) and beginning the route there. There is no water whatsoever along the course, so you must entirely self-support. The route passes Keys View Road at approximately 19 miles. You can leave a car there with supplies or find a place to stash supplies. If you leave a car, make sure to obtain an overnight parking permit. As the route is point-to-point, you will also obviously need to leave a car at the North Entrance Station, or arrange for a pick-up.

I think the best times to do this route are spring and fall.  Joshua Tree is unbearably hot in the summer, and can have winter nighttime lows of well below freezing.

You can find some very detailed trail information here.

Last week I attempted the Zion Traverse with Dax Ross and Chris Sigel. Similar in nature to the Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim, the Zion Traverse is a 48-mile trail run that crosses the whole of Zion National Park from Lee Pass at the Northwest corner of the park to the East Entrance (or vice versa), and involves around 11,000 feet of total elevation gain. Typically done as a multi-day backpacking trip, the Zion Traverse is quickly becoming a "must do" for the types of people who get excited about running for full days at a time. We had been drooling over the prospect of doing the run since Dax discovered it in some obscure corner of the internet (can you imagine getting paid to surf the web  all day?) about six months ago.

 

It was a long, hard day, and it didn’t turn out as we expected. In the middle of weeks of perfect weather, the four days we booked our stay in the park was the exact duration of a heinous winter storm. The day we selected for the Traverse started off clear and beautiful, but we spent the second half of the day in thunderstorms, blizzards, and everything in between.

The defining moment of the day was when, at mile 7, we missed a key turn and spent hours off on a tangent. We eventually found ourselves lost in some dark, icy slot canyon in a far, seldom-explored corner of the park. We got so deep into No-Man’s Land because we were afraid to admit we were off-course. With a run like this you have all of your calories planned, your rehydration points dialed in, your family knows at what time they should start worrying about you, and you’ve trained specifically to accomplish your intended distance. Getting lost means your carefully crafted plan doesn’t work anymore.

In total, we lost 12 miles and three hours of effort, and knew that we likely wouldn’t finish the entire Traverse – a fact that weighed on the back of my mind the entire rest of the day. For me, running 50 miles, no matter the terrain or conditions, involves a significant level of discomfort and pain (there are people for whom that statement isn't true; like Chris, for instance). But that pain typically pales in comparison to the joy I find in the experience and accomplishment. Knowing that we wouldn’t finish our goal made it very difficult to manage my mood and pain tolerance. The second half of the day involved 20 miles of nearly continuous elevation gain on trails that were a wet, snowy, muddy, sloppy mess. I wanted to bear down and revel in the snowy isolation of the beautiful canyons around me, but I have to admit that I spent most of those hours just suffering and wishing it was over. 

Despite my condition, and less than admirable state of mind, once we reached Zion Canyon rim, I couldn’t help but become uplifted. Fog and snow drifts floated in and out of the narrow valleys, trying and failing to obscure the blooms of deep oranges, blacks, greys, and reds that painted the canyon walls.

In total, we ran 49 miles and finished at the Grotto in the floor of Zion Canyon. We were originally supposed to climb back out the other side of the canyon and finish 10 miles to the East at the park entrance. The part of me that tries to be zen about trail running feels satisfied with the day – the beauty of the park, the time spent with friends, and the gift of enough health to explore far off terrain that few experience. The goal-oriented, competitive side of me is disappointed that the planning and training didn’t result in the experience that I wanted (single tear). There’s an obvious lesson here – that this is ultra-running and there are so many variables, both internal and external, that these events will rarely go according to plan. You just have to adjust and be happy. It’s a lesson I’ve learned before and I’m bound to learn many times over.

If you're interested in some useful information about running the Zion Traverse, go here.

 

It’s easy to write about the high points.  The proud finish at an important race or clipping the chains on a long-term climbing project.  With a big event like a race or a climbing trip you spend so much time and effort training and waiting --- when it’s over there is a surge of emotion that you feel compelled to share.  It’s not as easy to write about the low points.  Mainly because they don’t seem that exciting.  But I’m at one right now, and I’m excited about it.

Running is a love-hate thing for me.  I love the way I feel when my legs are sturdy, my lungs and heart are strong, and I can just cruise for hours in the mountains without any distractions.  Mainly, I love the places that trail running brings me to and the amazing people that I’m lucky enough to be out there with.  But outside of those peak training weeks when everything is coming together, running hurts.  It’s uncomfortable most of the time.  That’s probably why after a big event has come and gone I completely fall off the wagon and I have to pull teeth to put my running shoes on. 

That’s where I’m at right now.  The low point.  The trough.  It’s been 0.426 toenail years since I’ve put any real mileage in on the trails. 

A toenail year is a new unit of measure I formulated in a joint venture with NASA and the New England Journal of Medicine.  It is a unit of time based on how far a toenail can grow in a year --- you know like a light year.  I bet you’re thinking “Hey Jess, I thought a light year was a measure of distance.”  Well, you know what?  How about you quit being so critical and just let me finish this blog post.  Thanks.

So anyway, it’s been a long time since I’ve been serious about running.  The other day I went out on my standard 5-mile tune-up run along the coast highway and came home with blisters.  And I was sore for two days.   This is a far cry from the fitness and exoskeletons I had grown over my feet for the Canadian Death Race.  But I’m stoked because I have a radtastic line-up of running events this spring --- a run across Joshua Tree National Park on the California riding and hiking trail, a 48 mile traverse of Zion National Park, and pacing Dax on the last section of the San Diego 100 Mile Endurance Run.  Not to mention a bunch of other loose plans to do some other wild stuff in the second half of the year.

So the trough is a good place to be.  Amazing adventures on the horizon that are only possible with proper training and preparation and focus.  The next few months will involve a lot of soreness, a lot of blisters, a lot of doubt and fatigue, and maybe even some vomiting for good measure.   But it will be worth it to be cruising through those trails in some of the most beautiful places in this country with great friends by my side.

Thanks for reading and here’s to the wild and exciting things on your horizon.

Two blog posts in one year? Yep, things are getting crazy around here. Get your American flag hammer pants on.

I got married a few weeks ago. It was a truly lovely wedding. Happiest day and all that jazz. But this post isn't about the wedding. You can't write about weddings in a blog with a blood red headline and ominous alpine landscapes in the background. That kind of gritty digital real estate is reserved for stories of sweat and effort and adventure. For me, such stories are typically of the weekend variety, but I'm happy to report that this time it involves two weeks and some globetrotting. I'm also happy to report that, unlike my prior posts that cover ultra-running events, this adventure involved a MUCH higher enjoyment-to-suffering ratio.

For the last two weeks, my new bride (it's still weird to call her that) and I have been trotting around Spain on our honeymoon, which was carefully crafted by me to take advantage of some of the best rock climbing on the planet.  In particular, it allowed me to get a heaping sample of a new and exciting style of climbing for me – deep water soloing (DWS). For those of you not indoctrinated into the climbing world, DWS is rock climbing on cliffs up to 50 or 60 feet tall directly over deep water – with no ropes.  If you fall, the water is there to safely break your landing.

Before you start tearing into photos and details about the trip, I want to take a few moments to relay what this trip and climbing opportunity meant to me.  In a sentence – I’m passionate about climbing.  I’m passionate about climbing like an artist is about painting. Like a mechanic is about cars.  Like a geek is about Star Wars or The Situation is about manscaping. I think about it all the time, I watch grainy videos of climbing on my phone when I’m at work, and many nights before a day of climbing I can’t sleep because I’m giddy like a child before Christmas. But on a relative scale, I don’t do it a whole lot. I'm a weekend warrior. Some of my old hometown buddies have saturated their lives in it and are now climbing routes that I can only dream of and will likely never achieve. I have a career, a wife, other sports I enjoy, and live in a city that’s a far cry from a climbing destination. I’ve structured my life intentionally, and feel insanely grateful that my life is as rich and full as it is. But still I crave climbing in a way I find hard to describe. So to me, this trip was a true gift. Perfect overhanging limestone. Deep, bright blue water and white sand beaches. An adrenaline pumping adventure of jumping for holds and skyrocketing 40 feet into the Mediterranean below. A fantasy realized.

I hope you enjoy the photos and videos; Nata did an amazing job.  If you're interested in some details and tips on DWS in Mallorca, there is some info at the bottom of this post past the photos/videos.  Thanks for reading.

Cala Sa Nau

Cala Barques

Cova del Diablo (Porto Cristo)

Tips and Details

First and foremost, if you're planning a trip to DWS in Mallorca for the first time, pick up a copy of the Rockfax Deep Water guidebook and the .pdf addendum for Mallorca.  They can be found here: http://www.rockfax.com/publications/books/item.php?id=132

In addition to the information found in this book, here are a few useful tid bits I picked up along the way:

- The south end of Cala Sa Nau and Cala Barques are excellent spots to sample DWS for the first time.  There are lots of easy routes and the cliffs vary in height, with many at five meters are lower to get your DWS head screwed on. 

- My favorite spot was Cala Barques.  It's beautiful, there are three caves with several cliff bands in between, it's tall, but not too tall, and there's lots of fun bonuses like water for sale, white sandy beaches, and topless sunbathers.

- In terms of gear, I only used one chalk bag and one pair shoes.  You could bring a second pair for some hard redpoints, but I found that by the time you're ready to climb again, your shoes were pretty dry on the outside.  Liquid chalk is a huge help.  I brought a dry bag and found it helpful a few times.

- The most challenging aspects are getting used to falling and the logistics of accessing routes.  For the first issue, learn how to fall right, then fall as far and as often as you can early in the trip.  You get over it quickly. For the second issue, study the downclimbs and exits ahead of time. Many exits are on rope ladders attached to the rock and hanging into the sea. I found they were always where you wanted them, but check before you fall into the water.

- A muerte!!! Push yourself and make friends.

 

Last December on the highs of having recently completed the Grand Canyon R2R2R, Dax Ross and I had the following e-mail exchange:

Jess:  Saw you make an offhanded comment about the Canadian Death Race awhile back on Facebook.  You really considering it?
Dax:  It's on the list of races I'm considering.  Do you want to do it?
Jess:  Thinking about it.
Dax:  Okay, you talked me into it.  Want to do it next year?
Jess:  I think I'm in.  Just have to convince Nata that I won't actually die during the race.

Like a casual crack habit, this ultra marathoning thing is clearly getting out of control. 

The Canadian Death Race is a 125km (78 mile) foot race through the Canadian Rocky Mountains in a small mountain town known for, well, pretty much just this race.  The race involves 17,000 feet of elevation gain and summitting three peaks (Flood, Grande, and Hamel).  My goal was to not die finish it somewhere between 18 and 24 hours, at which point the race officials shut down the course.  

Leg 1: Downtown Jaunt (19km; 12mi)

For me, leg one was a breeze.  All of the pent up anxiety, stress, and anticipation of this adventure just flooded out on this windy, muddy single track.  With my primary goal for Leg 1 being not sabotaging myself by going too fast, I was relaxed.  Taking in the morning air, feeling the energy of the pounding feet all around me, soaking in the saturating views of mountains and rivers.  The long stretches of shoe-stealing mud bogs and downed barbed wire fences only added to the fun.  I knew I had more than a full day and night of hard effort in front of me, but for now I was having fun.

Leg 2: The Slugfest (27km; 17mi) 

Knowing that this was the hardest leg of the race did little to prepare me for its true brutality.  It started with a relentless climb to the top of Flood Mountain (~2,200 feet of climbing), followed by what's playfully referred to as "The Slugfest"---the most challenging terrain I've ever ran, hiked, or done anything on.  Half-mile long descents on trails so steep that you could not stand still on them without sliding or falling down.  Mud bogs so long and thick that it was impossible to avoid continuous water and mud up to your shins.  Following this was an immediate ~1,700 foot climb to the top of Grande Mountain.  The last stretch of this leg is what most racers consider the worst part of the whole day---four miles of continuous steep downhill that keep your toes pressed into the front of your shoes and your quads pounding to exhaustion.

Leg 3: Old Mine Road (21km; 13mi)

Relatively flat and short, most Death Racers consider Leg 3 a much needed rest between tough climbs.  I was fearing this section all day, however, since I'm a much weaker runner than hiker (was that a humblebrag?  Yep, think so) and knew that this leg would grind me down---which it did.  Especially considering it was a half-marathon long minefield of baseball sized rocks waiting for you to stub your toes and roll your ankles.

Leg 4: Hamel Assault (36km, 22mi)

I was stoked to start Leg 4.  I knew that once I was on top of Mt. Hamel, all of the serious climbing would be done, and the rest of the race would just be a crawl to the finish.  Hamel was by far the biggest climb of the day, going from near the course's low point of ~3,300 feet to its high point of about 7,000 feet in only about 6 miles.  Surprisingly, it wasn't going up Hamel that was hard for me; it was the sheer length of the leg that wore me down.  I ran out of water about halfway down the mountain, which was the first of many setbacks that became harder to bounce back from as the day wound on.  The high point of this leg was bumping into Dax at Ambler Loop.  Seeing how strong and determined he looked after so many hard miles was inspiring.  The last hour of Leg 4 was done by headlamp as the sun had finally given up the last of it's light around 10pm.  Leg 4 had one last present in the last kilometer - a knee-deep river crossing that I knew would finish off any remaining skin on the bottoms of my toes that hadn't blistered and fallen off. 

Leg 5: Hell's Gate (22km; 14mi)

I'd like to say I finished strong.  I'd like to say that all my long training runs in the mountains had given me the mental toughness to bear the final miles with solemn grit.  But that's not what happened.  The final section of the race was a pure battle of attrition that felt like the longest 3.5 hours of my life.  The time passed like it does on a long flight with a screaming kid kicking the back of your chair.  It started raining the moment I started Leg 5 and it rained harder every minute thereafter.  This leg was supposed to be fairly flat, but I found myself climbing endless muddy slopes---many of them so steep that I had to pull myself up by grabbing roots and rocks.  I was alone for most of the last 10 miles, the only signs of civilization were lovely signs posted to trees by the race director---"Enjoying the dark?"---"Keep it up, Princess"---"No pussies".  I think one of the reasons I sign up for these things is to find the end of myself---to see who I am when there's nothing left.  Somewhere out there in the dark, I found it.

I finished the race in 18 hours and 31 minutes.  21 out of 131 finishers, which was less than half the people that started the race.

Before closing out this novel, I want express my thanks to the many people who supported me in this process.  I received a lot of encouragement along the way, particularly from Nata.  She was not a fan of this race, to say the least, but that didn't stop her from supporting me all the way---in particular, talking me out of quitting my training after a crushing blow-out at the Shadow of the Giants 50K.  A huge thanks goes to Dax as well---while this whole thing was his fault, his confidence, knowledge, and humor helped make this one of my favorite adventures ever. 

I'm sitting on a rock bench on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon with my hydration pack carelessly slumped next to me and my head in my hands. I'm nauseous - like pretty sure I'm going to throw up any second nauseous. I'm exhausted - my ribs hurt from constantly fighting for air for hours on end and my legs are screaming at me. I can't see the Grand Canyon from behind the layers of trees that separate me from the rim, but I can sense that it's there - a huge, empty, silent expanse that sinks down for thousands of feet and dozens of miles. It took seven hours to cover the 23-odd miles to get here from the Bright Angel trailhead at the South Rim. Miles that were punctuated by certain sensations: the exhilaration of traipsing down into an unseen abyss at 5am with only the shallow beams of headlamps and the sounds of four pairs of stomping feet to mark our piece of the darkness; fear as my legs started to burn and fatigue during a long gentle uphill stretch of trail before I knew the real climbing had even started; euphoria as a runner's high kicked in on an exposed stretch of trail carved out the side of the canyon as it skyrocketing from the valley floor at wild and colorful angles; and finally dread as a passer-by tells us "another half mile" to the summit of the North Rim when I didn't know if I had even another quarter mile of climbing left in my legs (turns out there was only a tenth of a mile left, that son of a bee sting). Getting to this point was probably one of the top two most challenging athletic feats of my life, and a few miles short of the longest distance I'd ever run. And I'm only halfway done.

After a short span at the North Rim stretching and forcing down some calories, Dax Ross and I put our packs back on and started jogging our way back down the canyon walls. I could tell Dax was feeling a lot better than I was. He is a very strong runner and had just completed the Lost Boys 50 Mile trail race a few weeks earlier. He was the organizer of our group of four running the "Rim to Rim to Rim"; a quiet and humble guy with eyes like a gunslinger from one of the old western movies who, as usual, now looked no more or less tired than he did at mile 4. After only a few minutes we bumped into Mike Campian and Toby Guillette. Much like myself, Toby was dealing with some serious nausea, and we'd find out much later that it would take an enormous effort on his part and some firm nudging from Mike to forego a ride in a car offered to him back to the South Rim and instead begin running back down the canyon.

Surprisingly, I recovered quite a bit during the descent down the North Rim. My stomach was in check and my legs loosened up nicely. It wasn't until the trail flattened out on the nine mile stretch to Phantom Ranch that things took a turn for the worse. The quickened pace had slowly brought my nausea back, and about four miles out from Phantom Ranch I ground to a halt. I was out of energy and needed calories badly, but the thought of taking down any form of food was enough to make me see stars. At that point, I couldn't stop thinking that even at a good clip, we still had another four or five hours to go. Dax was gracious enough to stick with me while I limped along and gave me a ginger chew and some encouraging words to ease my stomach. I was finally able to get a gel shot down (after a few unsuccessful tries at swallowing it), which was enough to get me to Phantom Ranch. We stopped at Phantom Ranch, at the foot of the Colorado river and the gateway to the South Rim, for some lemonade and decompression. My nausea was back in full force, and I felt that my chances of slogging out of the Grand Canyon were about as good as my chances of flying out. But I must have put crack cocaine in my iced tea instead of sugar or something, because twenty minutes later when we got back on the trail I felt like a new person. Funny how the human body works. The rest of the trail would be too steep to run, so I knew that my stomach wouldn't have to put up with any more jostling. And this was also the last "section" of trail so I now saw light at the end of the tunnel. Of course that tunnel was nearly ten miles long and would involve 3,200 feet of elevation gain.

We crossed the river and immediately started climbing up the canyon. I must have hit my 14th wind or something, because my legs felt strong and the miles were passing quickly. It wasn't until half way up, when the sun set and lit the canyon on fire with bright oranges and purples and then faded to black, that the exhaustion set back in. Dax and I were silent as we marched our way through the dark with little clue as to how far up we'd climbed and how left we had to go. I knew Dax was tired because he asked to stop for a quick break at one point, but you couldn't tell by looking at him or talking to him. Finally, nearly three and a half hours after we'd started our ascent, a light popped out of the sky directly above us. A building. And it looked close. That was enough motivation for me to put the after burners on and soon enough we popped out of the canyon and into the parking lot, me shouting in happiness and Dax with the same calm smile and laugh he'd had all day.

We had wondered for hours how Toby and Mike had fared. Every time we stopped for a break we expected to see them come trotting around the corner to join us, and became more and more concerned when that never happened. But not too much after we had reached the South Rim, another pair of headlamps bobbed into the parking lot to reignite our celebration. It was a long day, a proud accomplishment, a tremendous experience. But as is typically the case, the memories that are already beginning to distill from that day aren't of standing triumphantly in a Captain Morgan pose at the rim of the Grand Canyon, but of the moments of humor, compassion, and camaraderie as we helped and pushed each other through it, sometimes without even realizing it.