The absolutely nutty North Umpqua Trail 100k

After an amazing year full of adventures-- our first 100k atMiwok, running around Rainier, Hood AND St Helens, a PR at the Columbia Gorge half-- I was looking for our next big thing, preferably in our beloved home state. I found the North Umpqua Trail, 72 miles end-to-end along the Umpqua River in southern Oregon. And then I discovered that there was a supported race entirely along it, the NUT 100k. It was too good to resist, so when registration opened, Ann & I signed up.

Our race calendar for 2016 filled up and then we got picked for the CCC, one of the Ultra Trail du Mount Blanc (UTMB) races in late August. The NUT fit into our race calendar as the perfect big training run-- a similar distance but about half the elevation gain, and much closer to home.

Our running and training was going smoothly, even with our disappointing time at the Peterson Ridge 40 miler, until suddenly, it wasn't.

First vista-- we all stopped to snap photos

Ann's major back issue hit the day before we were set to take off work to do our final long run. My son got sick, and then I came down with strep throat exactly one week before the race. It was a rough month, with my average weekly mileage plummeting to about 5 miles. I concentrated on what I could control: resting, taking antibiotics, and going to physical therapy, acupuncture and massage to try to help the Achilles issue that has bothered me since the beginning of the year. I also skipped running the awesome Beacon Rock 25k the weekend before the NUT, which I had planned to run with my husband, Erik. He ran it solo—his first trail race, distance longer than a half marathon, and run in 100 degrees (F)!

Come Wednesday, three days til the race, I buckled down to it. Staring down my longest-ever run (at 64 miles, NUT is about two miles longer than 100k) without my best friend and training partner was terrifying. But I knew that Ann would give anything to run the race, and because I was physically able to run it, I owed it to both of us.

I read the course description. I printed small copies of two difference course elevation maps. I schemed out rudimentary time tables to make the single cut-off at aid station #7, mile 46.7. I figured out how I would get to the start and from the finish. I started packing my gear. 

Vista selfie-- this is what 2 hours of sleep and an hour of running looks like 

It was strange to do this without Ann; in fact, I didn't. She was there for me to bounce ideas off of, answer questions, and provide support. Even at my first ultra without her, she made the whole thing possible. And since she couldn't run the NUT, I would prove that we could have done it, that our training and preparation were enough.

Friday afternoon I spent running errands, packing, and getting everything ready. That evening my husband, son and I drove down to Roseburg where our hotel was about a half-hour from the start, and an hour and a half from the finish. With the excitement of our trip, I think my 5 year-old didn’t fall asleep around 11pm. I fared worse, tossing and turning only to have a nightmare that I didn't wake up in time and got to the race start an hour after it had already begun.

I got up just before 4:30am (I was awake anyways), got ready, and woke up my family. I carried my gear and sleepy son out to the car and drove to the start. With 30 minutes to go, I prepped my extra bag for the first of the two aid stations with drop bags allowed (mile 30 and 46.7), piled it on the appropriate tarp, and kissed my family goodbye. My plan was to text them at aid station #7, mile 46.7, which was supposed to have phone signal, to let them know I made the cut-off and when to meet me at the finish.

Mountains, forest and river

The runners clustered at the trailhead to hear the three race directors give final instructions and advice. One of the race directors, Renee, reached down and plucked a leaf from a small shrub. "To those of you who don't know," she said, "this is what poison oak looks like."

Holy shit. Who is so bad-ass that they just reach down and grab poison oak like it's no big deal? These are the kind of people who planned this event. Let that be a warning.

And then they warned us about the mosquitoes.

Picturesque bridge

Now I'm from the east coast, and mosquitoes here on the west coast barely even register. They are fewer, smaller, and less aggressive. But because of the way the race director described them, and because someone had just told me that the only race they ever DNF’d was because of mosquitoes, I made a mental note to avail myself of the bug spray they said would be at each aid station. Oh, and the Technu (poison oak wash) at the end.

About five minutes after 6am, and we were off. I waited til the back of the pack to get started, since there's no fun in jockeying for position along poison oak-fringed single track.

Before long I was running with Rob, a man with 4 kids who just started trail ultras and had lost more than 100 lbs, and Dave, a middle-aged trail veteran. Rob was using poles and after a fun conversation about Gary Robbins (who uses poles), I thought it was a good time to try out the ones Ann loaned me. After all, they’re highly recommended for CCC and I had never used them running before. We chatted and enjoyed a surprisingly runnable section before the first aid station was quickly upon us.

Rocky trail alongside the river

Hearing my ultra-crazy friend David's words ring in my ears to "not fart around" at the aid stations (as, admittedly, I have been wont to do), I grabbed a drink, snagged some Pringles, and was quickly on my way. Rob and Dave caught up after another mile or two, and we ran together til the next aid station. Again I was in and out quickly, they caught up, and eventually Rob ran on ahead. Dave and I were surprised at his speed so early in his first 100k, but he felt and looked great as he took off so we wished him a great race.

At this point I was running a nice light pace on some lovely, slight downhill, just holding the folded poles in my hands. Suddenly I tripped on a rock and splatted down on my hands and knees. The woman in front of me picked up one of my poles that had gone flying, and tried to put it back together to help me. "They were folded," I tried to explain, as she looked me up and down, and asked repeatedly if I was okay. I saw that my right shin and hand were scraped up, but I barely felt it. She seemed skeptical, but I wasn't about to let a few little cuts slow me down less than 20 miles into the race.

The segment from aid station #2 to #3 was one of the shortest in the race, so I knew we would get to an aid station soon. I was excited to see a man with a walkie talkie on the trail up ahead. While he did indeed signify that the aid station was nearby, he was there to warn us about a yellowjacket nest on the trail. I sped up to pass on the far side of the single-track, and surprisingly— given my history of getting stung by a yellow jacket every year— I made it up the short climb unscathed.

Fallen trees and waterfalls

Then we were at the aid station, and I asked a volunteer to coat me in bug spray (perhaps it would also deter yellowjackets!). It stung sharply in my fresh cuts before I got out of there as fast as possible, eating Pringles from bug spray-covered fingers and tasting a distinct and awful bitterness on the mouthpiece of my sprayed-down hydration pack.

The next aid station, #4 at mile 30, had my drop bag waiting for me, so I spent much of this longest segment of the race daydreaming about what I would do once I reached that sanctuary. I ran for a while behind a man and a woman who seemed to be a couple running together, and wondered what that was like for a romantic relationship. I ran out of water in my hydration pack, but it didn’t feel too dire as it was early enough in the race that I still felt good and knew I would recover— and not make the mistake of waiting to refill my pack again.

Along a particularly rocky section I decided I would change into my Hoka Stinsons at the aid station (I also had another pair of Brooks Pure Grits waiting for me, since I couldn't decide that morning) to cushion my feet. I hadn't worn them since my only previous 100k more than a year ago, Miwok. I certainly hadn't tried them since my Achilles issue started. Since Rob, Dave and I had talked about shoe drop and Achilles issues earlier in the race, I spent more than a mile wondering if the change from 4mm to zero drop would hurt or help me.

Wild ginger (would make a great tattoo)

By then my mind was set. We zigzagged down an open, golden, grass-covered hill and emptied out onto a road with the bags lined up on a tarp. After handing off my hydration pack to be filled, I knelt next to my drop bag to change as quickly as possible. But after swapping my t-shirt the strong sun was too much and I heaped my things into my arms to make a break for the shade of the tent that housed the food.

There in the shade I sat in a chair, unhooked my gaiters, took off my shoes, put on the new shoes, and reattached my gaiters. I grabbed another handful each of almonds and dried cherries from my drop bag, since I had been successfully eating those at steady intervals. Nothing else in my bag seemed particularly desirable, so I zipped the bag up and tossed it back onto the tarp. I left the aid station quickly, walking, eating Pringles and arranging my gear back into place.

The next segment was the shortest of the race, with the trail closely following the river and the road on its other side. The highway noise kept me out of my groove, but I had been running off and on with a strong, determined woman maybe 20 years older than me who didn’t talk much and made for great running company. She was worried about making the cutoff, so I had tried to reassure her with my pace charts. We exchanged a few stories before she went on ahead, picking up the pace while she felt good.

Overhanging rock

The trail opened out to a road, where we turned left and ran for a while before curving right to sidle along the river, the view opening up to a towering cliff straight ahead on the other side of the water. I followed the course-marking flags on a sharp left turn to take the road bridge over the river, before crossing and climbing back up into the wilderness. That was a relief with the hotter-than-predicted heat of the day radiating back up from the bare, baked road.

The woman I had run with before the aid station was headed back down, and I gave her a concerned, quizzical stare. "Forgot my music maker," she said shortly, as she hit the road and aimed back for the aid station. "You'll catch up," I shouted. I could tell by the unflagging stoutness of her pace.

I ran alone, slow and steady, before catching up to a few people along a gravel road up to the Soda Springs Reservoir on the right, following a huge pipe on the left that we ducked under as we followed the course markings. The woman also caught up with us, and went on ahead. We would leapfrog and run together a number of times, and at one point she introduced herself as Anna Bates-- a name that was incredibly comforting to me as it reminded me both of Ann and my long-time running friend Anna Yates.

The highway just across the river

I don’t remember aid station #6, mile 39.3, but I probably didn’t even stop. My eyes were on the cutoff at aid station #7, mile 46.7, and my comfortable pace of the first 30 miles had slowed with the increasing elevation gain. I began to use my poles to steady my pace into the fastest walk I could manage on the two steep climbs of this dauntingly uphill segment. On the few, short downs I jogged.

The trail here was wide and rutted, like a fire road. It became steep and dusty enough to make us slide back as we climbed; I was able to really dig in with my poles and speed past a number of people who didn't have poles. Even after the steeps I passed lots of people, many of whom fell into rhythm behind me, including Dave; it was refreshing to see a familiar face and chat with him again.

Finally we ambled downhill and glimpsed a paved road— a sure sign of Toketee Lake Campground and its aid station. Hitting the road was both triumphant and very painful, but it all faded in a burst of joy as I made it to the aid station at 5:50pm— with 10 minutes to spare til the cutoff.

Beautiful river views

I got my phone out to check for signal, but had none. I had my pack refilled, ate some olives, and began to feel frantic as I couldn’t reach either Erik or Ann, and knew I had mere minutes to leave the aid station. Luckily I found a kind volunteer with a different phone carrier who texted Erik that I made the cutoff and would be at the finish in about 4 hours.

As I left the aid station, feeling proud in the conviction that I would finish, I took the time to just walk, as slowly as I wanted. I passed a group of day hikers who said something to me like “You don’t look like you’re -running- a race” and spent the next mile thinking of witty rejoinders.

Now is when I decided that, for a treat, I would finally listen to some music or a podcast using the headphones and battery charger I had lugged all this way and not yet used. Normally I wouldn’t even bring headphones because I’d have Ann’s company the whole time. My phone was at 11% charge, so I dug into my bag for the external battery and cord.

The color of the water!

Only I didn't have the right cord. I had two mini-USB cords for charging my headlamp and hand torch, but none for my phone. I was pretty sure my phone wouldn't last another four hours on such a low charge, but the perceived safety of having a charged phone meant more to me than a short listen to some music, so I put everything away and resigned myself to running without.

Pretty soon I caught up to a guy who offered to let me pass, but I didn’t want to; I had pushed so hard to make the cutoff that I didn’t have enough left to run even the downhills. We came out to a gravel road and stayed at the same pace, complaining every once in a while about how long and painful the road segment was. And once we were back on dirt trail, how that didn’t actually feel better.

This segment from Toketee to aid station #8 was third-longest, distance-wise, but the very longest mentally. At some point we introduced ourselves, and as the daylight began to fade, Ryan and I decided to stick together. We told stories, talked about the run, and embraced silences. But as the time to aid station #8, mile 54.5, dragged on, I began to wonder if it would have been better for me not to have made the cutoff.

Beautiful rocky outcropping up ahead and aid station #5

Once that line of thought started, I thought about how the upcoming aid station was called “Road 710”— meaning it might be at a road and an easy place to drop out. I tried not to give that thought too much mental airtime, but by the time we finally saw the aid station at the crest of a steep section, I knew I wanted out.

Road 710, however, was a trail and the aid station was just three people (and a racer sitting in a chair) with containers of water lugged in. I took one look at 710, even steeper than the North Umpqua Trail in front of us, and recommitted. Ryan and I both ate some watermelon, had bug spray reapplied, and got out of there.

We continued the uphill in the darkening night, talking now and again but mostly quiet. It got dark, very dark. Sometimes we saw lights far ahead of us in the distance, but mostly not. We couldn’t see stars or the moon because of the tree cover, and my headlamp was stronger than Ryan’s, so I mostly ran in front.

Rocks in the river

I started to obsess about the course description for this segment: “The climb is steep. Be prepared. It will surprise you.” But then we saw lights that weren’t moving, and although it was uphill it felt like just about the same grade as the whole segment, and there we were at the last aid station. A tiny table, three volunteers, and the offer of hot broth. Ryan took some, so I got some too, and it was like the cake at an awesome party— unbelievably delicious and celebratory.

We spent a little more time at this aid station than the others, knowing we had less than 4 miles to go and trying to ward off the dark for a few precious, extra minutes. We asked about the broken bridge that was mentioned at the pre-race briefing, and were shocked when one of the volunteers shone a flashlight over to show us that we were right next to it.

The span was twisted and torqued, a massive tree leaning against it about three-quarters of the way to the other side. We couldn’t see the bottom of the canyon it bridged, and I was grateful for the dark to not see the details, but also too tired to worry much. Ryan and I crossed the bridge and started up some wicked switchbacks— much more what I expected from the course description for leading up to aid station #9.

Towering cliffs and a power station

We continued steeply uphill what felt like ages, and when the downhill finally came we could barely muster a trot. It was pitch black by now, and the trail was a narrow ribbon carved into the side of a steep canyon that was a wall on our left and dropped away to nothing but the sounds (and sometimes cool, damp breezes) of frequent waterfalls and rapids on our right.

We trudged like this for hours, or at least it felt that way. My mind played movies with variations on the themes “It Will Always Be Like This,” “Night Will Never End,” and the least popular, because I simply wouldn’t let myself dwell on it, “Whatever You Do, Do Not Trip And Fall Towards The Sound Of Rushing Water.” I think these movies were particularly vivid because there was nothing to see but a headlamp-illuminated circle of rocky trail, hour after hour. A few times I risked my footing to look to the right, but my light was swallowed by the thick darkness every time.

I made the cutoff at aid station #7!

At some point we came to a huge, smooth tree trunk slanted across the trail; there were many along the course but this one seemed particularly impassible with no way under, no branches or divots to help with grip, and a quick slide off the end into nothingness. Ryan, with his long legs, scrambled over and I stood still, trying to evaluate my options.

“Want a hand?” Ryan asked. I was grateful for his help as I clambered over.

Dave caught up to us just before we climbed up a small rise and crossed a road. He told us that there was one more road to cross and then we'd be at the lake where the campground and finish were located. We crossed another road, but-- as often happens during a long race like this, as implausible as it may sound-- couldn't decide if it really counted, because although it had a street sign it was just gravel.

A wall of waterfalls right on the trail at dusk-- felt great to cool our hands and faces here

It was here that I felt a sharp pain burst on the back of my left ankle and realized that a blister had popped. Despite the pain my feet were in, I hadn't realized I had any blisters, but now it dawned on me that my feet were going to be a mess.

Sure enough, we crossed another road-- this one paved-- and saw lights through the trees ahead of us off the trail to the right. We came to some flags and made our own turn through the woods, jumping down an embankment and onto another, much bigger road.

Here, we stopped for a moment in a daze and marveled at the civilization: a road, a street light, the dam before us. "Wait! Turn off your headlamps," I yelled. We could finally see stars above us in the clearing, but it was only a few seconds before we turned our lights back on and eagerly continued.

Totally stunned by the flash

We trotted over the bridge across the dam, looking out over the lake for the lights that would mark the campground and finish line. They seemed very dim and far away. It was starting to get cold, and we could now see our breath. Past the bridge, the trail was flat and skirted the edge of lake, and we became giddy with the finality of it all. We chatted and made jokes, looking back across the water at headlamps that had just arrived to the dam bridge.

And the suddenly the finish line was up a steep hill directly to the right. Dave scrambled up, and Ryan and I followed. The fire and electric lights were a dazzle and seeing Erik standing right at the finish line arch-- emblazoned with 17:39 as I stumbled through-- surprised me so much that as I made a beeline toward him, a sudden camera flash blinded me and I fell right into Erik's arms where he caught me and I held on tight.

We got our finisher's glasses and Dave had his filled with beer. He gleefully told Erik that I had helped him and he wouldn't have made it without me-- as I marveled at his energy. For my part, it took everything I have to go over to the house and giant bottle of Technu and scrub myself down the best I could, trying to ameliorate the poison oak just a bit.

Ryan celebrates, I beeline for Erik

Then we got in the car and started the long drive back to the hotel. I tried to stay conscious to help Erik stay awake to drive; it was a harrowing trip. I realized I hadn't retrieved my drop bag, but I also couldn't muster the energy to want to turn around and get it.

When we got back to the hotel around 2am and dragged all of my gear plus our sleeping child up to our room, it was time to take off my shoes. A ring of blisters along the bottom of my right heel created a hook that made the shoe very difficult and painful to remove. I peeled off my filthy gear and took a shower, feeling almost out-of-body that I was somewhere warm and electrified and indoors.

And then I lay awake in bed for hours. I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I would see that circle of rocks illuminated by my headlamp. I finally fell asleep around 4am and dreamed of running a trail in darkness, waking up often until 7am when it was time to start the next day and our trip home to Portland.

He caught me!

***

The NUT 100k was tough. In the two weeks afterwards, I told everyone I shouldn't have done it. I hobbled for almost three days and my feet were in ruins for weeks. But then race director Renee kindly and quickly returned my drop bag to me, and I got an email that as a top-three finisher in my age group, I won an engraved glass. That beautiful glass made me so damn proud.

I looked at my photos, and told people bits and pieces of my race story, and the pain began to recede from my memory. So now, two months later, I would recommend NUT (but maybe not as a first 100k). The course is beautiful and well-marked. The aid stations are good. The swag is top-notch. But really, it's the people. The race organizers, volunteers, and the runners I met were amazing people filled with kindness and the joy of running. They make all of that "brutiful" pain worthwhile.