Forward and Up: The Scummy Summer Slammer
The Start Line
Morning dew had barely begun to dampen the nearby cottonwood trees by the time we packed a weeks’ worth of carefully planned gear in the car. Three days of meals were cut and packaged for the whole lot of us. Various energy powders, chew blocks, SOS devices, and medkit adorned our running packs. The sun-kissed ridge line hazed the Hyalite Canyon in Aurelian shimmers and welcomed us with its viridescence.
The objective was this: a 3-day, 70+ mile route finding hike/run route through one of Montana’s most prominent ridge lines. Our team was a smattering of ultra runners all with different levels of backwoods experience and paces. Some of our six were training to run over a hundred miles, some had never ran 50-kilometers in their life, and all were starved for a real challenge in the mountains. The group in its entirety was over thirty runners who all greeted each other as family. We huddled together as the morning breeze danced over the cold waters of the Hyalite Reservoir and coated each of our arms and legs with goosebumps. Our crew wished us farewell as we took off into the forest for the day and the whole adventure finally began.
Day 1
I distinctly remember finding fun in the contrast between the group of absolute crushers leading the charge for our party while one of my running partners and I took a break to skip rocks along the alpine lake as we passed. Among the list of runners’ personal goals for this project I heard the phrase “push my limits” a number of times, but my goal was to undoubtedly have the most fun of anyone in the mountains.
We shuffled up the side of Mount Blackmore single file stunned by the rivulets which cut through the mountainside from the snow melting above. I charged ahead of our pack to take some photos as everyone ran by and pelted a few of them with snowballs as they passed. Blackmore, the first summit of the project, welcomed us with abundant sunshine and a 360 view of the Hyalite surrounded by all the smiling faces of our team. The cheers of encouragement only ceded long enough for us to watch a mountain grouse glare at the pack of runner who’d disturbed its day. It seemed to me that all the anxieties the group was carrying into this project began to jovially fade away as we embraced the camaraderie of another beautiful day in the mountains. At least that was the case until navigation came into play.
It was no surprise to me as the “sweep” of the project (the one to run in the back and make sure we were all together and safe) that the lead group fell far beyond our ability to see. It had been hours since we’d last caught up with them, but we frequently touched base with the mid-pack and they assured us everyone was doing ok. We wound down into the forested valley below where the soft bubbling of the rivulets were sharply overpowered by yells from somewhere above us. “Don’t go this way!” they called. The valley created an echo chamber and it took us a moment to determine where the voice had called from. In the midst of scattered greenery and scree-choked ridges was the tiny silhouette of a member from the lead party. She was off course, and what’s more she appeared to be stuck on a cliff! We called up to the mountain “are you ok?” To which she merely replied “No!” She directed us to head North and avoid the mountain as the cliffs were possible to ascend but reportedly dangerous to descend along the other side. The echos of the valley made it nearly impossible to communicate with one another, and by the time we’e plotted her location on our GPS units and began contingency planning for if we needed to get help we caught the tail end of the last thing we’d hear from her all day. “I’ll see you at camp.” For as concerned as we were she called this very confidently moments before disappearing over the ridge and out of sight. The only way we could be of any help to her now was by finishing the day and relaying with the team where she was. We pressed forward.
It became more and more obvious as we navigated timber fall and storm-riddled backcountry trails how the group had gotten off track. We had to stop multiple times an hour and confirm our location on the GPS units. This was no longer a trail run but a test in orienteering, a skillset in which a couple of us had really thrived. We circumvented debris-choked game trails and deep snow banks before entering a massive bowl on the backside of our objective mountain. The crew decided on the safest approach up the mountainside and began our slow and steady climb, staggering our positions as we went to ensure no one caught a blown-out boulder as they came barreling down the mountainside into the valley below.
We made our summit as the day clouded over and the sun cast golden beams upon all the distant mountains and other ranges. We could see Bozeman’s famous M Trail from which we had been training for months. From atop the summit it would have been hard to convince anyone of the Bridger Ridge’s arduous climb or position as one of the area’s proving grounds for runners. Heavy, dark clouds floated stalwartly on the other end of the valley like black, city-sized vanguards protecting us from the harsh midday sun. I watched the clouds roll as I refueled and my mind was swallowed by imaginings of all this landscape had been through. A culmination of ice ages, of volcanic explosions and land-shattering earthquakes, the rise and fall as great pillars of dirt and rock arose from the ground to form the Northern Rockies. I thought about the American Cheetah which used to prowl these lands and of the Absalooke Indians who called this pristine landscape home long before people who look like me expanded across the planet. I thought of early mountaineers who lost their lives to the harsh elements which satiated the wilderness and the lives of daily toil led by farming families who broke their backs and bled into this land for the right to continue living here. Somewhere far down the line from all these events transpired the opportunity for me, of healthy body and mind, amidst a community of incredible mountain athletes, to stand atop these very mountains in a life that allows me to do so regularly. An intense feeling of cathartic blessings filled my soul as I inhaled a breath of air mixed with pine and juniper, and before I knew it we were moving again.
Down the way a little over a mile was an orange speck yelling over to us from a snowdrift, and we shortly determined it was the two missing members of our party who’d charged ahead. While we couldn’t seem to catch up to them it was relieving to know they had stayed the course and weren’t mixed up in the party that got lost. We rode the ridge single file, marching aggressively across Telephone Ridge until we found the service road that descended all the way into camp. The team flew down those last few miles with the intense Montanan sun beating upon us. Camp was a welcoming sight filled with the faces of the entire lost party, our crew, two other party members, and our entire running community camped out by the river. We had a celebratory swim, ate alongside our entire team, and reveled in the accomplished feeling of completing the first day unscathed.
Day 2
Camp arose and smells of multiple parties’ breakfasts filled the air as we all refilled water reservoirs, applied varying chafing and sun creams, strapped up our running kits, and stepped to the days’ starting line. Miles and miles of forest service road flew by before spiderwebbing into a snow-filled valley where we were tasked with our first big climb of the day. The group marched up the snow bank in unison, following in the leader’s footsteps through pillowy slopes which blanketed the choss below. Our party was down a group member who decided to turn back, and along with select missing faces from other parties the first half of the day melded multiple groups into a single moving unit. We ate together atop the ridge, a mishmash of hopeful 20-somethings looking to make their way in the world. Married folks, solo-travelers, semi-pro mountain athletes, and first time ultra runners. We all cheered each other on as the mass descent to Hyalite Lake began, and amidst the mudslide wipeouts and hip deep snow plunges as we made our descent we became one. The hard, packed dirt appeared as we got below snow line and before we knew it we were moving at full gate, gallivanting across the valley like a migratory herd headed for water.
The lake welcomed me with a shock to the senses. Snowmelt encompassed my entire being and replaced all the sun-caked mud and sweat on my body with cool, refreshing spring water. The original plan was for us to swim together at the lake, but it seemed I was the last to know this wasn’t still the plan, so by the time I crawled out of the lake and filtered more drinking water the others were prepped to keep moving. We assured them it was ok to go on without us and our little party was once again traversing the landscape on our own.
The climb up to Hyalite Peak was rugged and long. Most of our footsteps were greeted by an undercut rivulet which either sank us to our knees in snow and water or backslid us in a mountain of mud recently saturated by the snow melt. It constantly felt like we were losing a half-step for every one we took forward. With a full day on the feet already behind us, an extra heavy water carry, and the unagreeable terrain forcing us to move at a crawl it seemed the first test of our will was upon us. The silence in our group was pervasive and broken only by the whumpfing of soft snow under our feet and the occasional exclamation as various members of our group fell down in the mud.
The final climb up to Hyalite appeared as we rounded a corner. It was a large, snow filled bowl at the steepest angle we’d ascend all weekend. The cornicing atop the ridge seem to swing back in create a roof under which we had to ascend the mountain and then dig our way up through. A switchbacked line of rock dodged in and out of the snow creating a path about halfway up the mountain, but even then we’d have to commit to going calf-deep in soft snow all the while taking each step with caution as to not fall and find ourselves sliding all the way back down to the basin. It was slow going, but what’s more it was inspiring to see the members of our group moving as best they could toward the same objective. I could see thirty yards to my left another member of our party with his head down, breathing furiously, fighting and earning each half-step which propelled him up the mountain.
He, who was a stranger just a few months ago, quickly transpired into becoming a member of this group filled with some of the most important people in my life. They all trained so hard together, all held each other to a high standard and demanded the best that each man could offer. We were all from different walks of life, all working towards varying and different goals, and all just as quick to take the piss out of each other as we were to step to the line for one another. No one was safe from a good ribbing, especially if we caught wind that they were slacking, but hidden beneath the trash talking was a healthy sense of accountability and an unparalleled support system wherein everyone helped each other along in their own long walks toward a better life. I saw months of consistent preparation circulating through his soul as he kept deciding to take another step and then another. Before we knew it the whole group was atop the mountain. They were tired but thriving.
I liken our time on the ridge to that of finding God. The first day showcased all our training as we could see our home mountains in the distance, but what the ridge gave me on day two was far more personal. The Paradise Valley slowly opened up as the afternoon drug on, and right about the time I was getting tired of moving for the day the entire range showed itself to me in all its grandeur. I could feel recent memories of climbing Emigrant Peak with my old roommate as he identified dozens of blooming Montanan wildflowers. I could nearly see the field from which a small group of us drank beer and skipped rocks in Livingston. The Southern side of the Valley gave me flashbacks to a lonely morning coping with my own mental health issues atop Ash mountain. The mysterious cairn which laid upon a cliff in that forest where no trail went felt just as potent as the deep feeling of calmness I experienced while rubbing a piece of mountain goat fur between my fingers as I sat atop the peak waiting for the sun to greet me. Across the way from Ash was Bunsen, Sepulcher, and Electric Peaks, all of which we planned to piece together in one big day before the floods barred us from entering Yellowstone. I could even see Eenie, Meenie, Miney, and Moe, which did little more than make me chuckle as they always had jutting out the side of Mt. Cowen. More so now than ever I think I realized just how much the mountains have given to me, and it’s no wonder I feel so compelled as to give my life to them in return.
Members of our party indulged me as I pointed at every peak, sliver, trail, and stream reliving moments given to me this Spring. We chatted as we moved about the idea of going for the Yellowstone Triple Crown(Bunsen, Sepulcher, Electric as previously stated) in August despite the delays caused by the flood. We were all feeling various levels of heavy and sore from the full day in the mountains, and though it wasn’t even over we were still hungry for more.
The sun slowly crept upon the horizon and the mountain air began to cool. We were a couple hours behind schedule but moving as well as could be imagined. The final descent began near a backcountry cabin which served as an excitable waypoint for us. We had been looking for it for miles. The cabin, though certainly welcomed, came and went in an instant as we flew by it and began our last few miles down into camp. I could feel the burly one-two one-two shock load my quads as I barreled down the mountainside. I ran in silence, listening closely for the sound of cheers as the member of our party just ahead of me was welcomed into camp. It felt like a hundred lifetimes as I rounded another bend, hopped another creek, sped by another grove of pine trees, and still heard nothing. I pumped my arms violently, committing myself to blowing forward to the end of the day. When I rounded the last corner and saw half our community standing at the line to greet me I sprinted performatively to the welcome party. I pulled one of my running partners in for a hug, awaited the rest of the parties’ arrival, and once our last few runners came in I welcomed them to camp for the night.
Day 3
The last day started as the second did, only this time we were down yet another party member and I was terribly week after not being able to get any dinner down the night previous. I’ve found during my time in the outdoors just how detrimental it can be for me to spend too much time in the heat. During my Arizona Trail thruhike in 2021 I had lost 13 pounds before I was even a third of the way through the effort. Scummy was only three days long and I was already down seven pounds. It seems that no matter how hard I try to fuel the heat just cooks out any desire for me to eat. I started the last day feeling weak.
Shakiness aside, the start really was beautiful. We lined back up, both us full-weekend runners and a smattering of folks who just came out for day three. I could look in any direction and see friendly and familiar faces encouraging each other up the first climbing segment and along logs for the first river crossing. Whether it was the top-grade mountain athletes or the amateur ultra runners, everyone was doing what they could to ensure the team was charged for the day.
A long, 3-mile climb up through the forest guided us to the same grassy ridge we’d turned off on day two. We cut right, and for nearly a mile I could see running vests bobbing up and down over the landscape. The same multitude of peaks came into view, only this time illuminated by the morning light and glistening like radiant diamonds across the timeless landscape. Snowfields shone even more brilliantly than the morning dew and shimmered as the light danced across their bodies laden with runners’ footsteps. It felt as if the world itself smiled in recognition of all the training, all the planning, and all the days spent growing this community. It thanked the runners for their relentlessness. For the group leaders, those founders of this community, it applauded their vision and welcomed their followers into the light. It was truly a beautiful moment.
The ridge led us up a brief snowbank before we bombed and snaked our way down its flanks. It was a morning of mud and snow that saturated our shoes in equal measure. Along one turn our shoes would grow heavy with the mud and the next would rub them clean with soft snow. I could feel myself losing stability in my quads as I went but I embraced those moments where I could help lead the pack. We snaked and twisted our way down the mountainside into the forest filled with bubbling brooks. We stopped only to let the horses and the mountain bikers pass, and on one occasion needed to refill our waters and eat.
The map read seven miles to go, but an incoming runner informed us that there was a mere 3.7 miles to the finish line. It was of little surprise to me that my 9-minute per mile run suddenly seemed slow as two members of our group peeled ahead throwing 7:30s. I chased them until they disappeared behind the river bend and admitted myself to continuing at a pace I felt I could hold. One year ago I was so proud of maintaining 15-minute miles at mile 70 of my first 100-mile attempt, and here I was passing 9:00s fluid and consistently. My form never dropped, my breathing stayed under control, and my only ailment was muscular fatigue and the lack of energy I earned by not eating enough. I felt reinvented as a runner. For the first time since starting this long journey traipsing about long lines of dirt I felt like a real mountain athlete. With a heavy bag full of extra kit (admittedly less on day three than day one) and 70-miles under my feet I felt I could keep moving like this for ages.
It was I and one other member of our group dancing along the river’s edge all the way to the finish line. The trucks came into view and we blasted into a sprint to the finish. Runners and crew welcomed us with a human tunnel through which we ran to the sound of our entire community applauding us on completing the event.
We caught our leading party members by the river and all took a celebratory swim before raising a couple beers in congratulations of one another. The laughter was infectious as some of us, bold and brash, sprang into the water with full disregard for how cold it might be just to be followed by the shaky steps of the more cautious members of our ragtag running group. Some floated gracefully and some plummeted into its grasp to the amusement of all the bystanders. Whichever way it went it was well-earned.
Every cut, every bruise, every shared memory and cramped leg, every bead of sweat, tear shed at the loss of a party member, or moment of laughter at each others’ shortfalls, it was all earned by shuffling along on our own two feet.