In With The Words

For decades, the sport of ultra running has been occupied by a small and atypical bunch of unique individuals. Until recently, the sport has been on the rise. Across the world humans have been drawn to the adventure and exploration, both physically and mentally, in a sport that tests the limits of human capability.

With the rise in popularity came an influx of 100-mile races. While none of these events are easy, there are a select few that separate from the rest. These select events often involve qualifying, volunteering, daunting safety waivers, and seemingly endless waitlists, for the great pleasure of paying $400 to torture yourself. Surely there must at least be a robust cash prize for winning these races? Wrong. The largest payout of any 100 mile race in the country in is the Run Rabbit Run 100 in Steamboat, CO offering a whopping $15,000 for the winner. While others, like the Moab 240, offer a grand total of zero dollars and zero cents for winning a 240 mile footrace through the Utah desert. There are select races throughout Europe that offer larger prize pools, but it’s hardly enough to float the mortgage for a year.

So, what is it about these things? What sets one apart from the other?

Some races are steeped in history. Some helped shape the sport as we know it today. And some are really friggin hard. The Leadville 100 has all three of these characteristics. The race is an out and back that starts and ends in Leadville, CO. A town perched at 10,119 feet above sea level. The highest incorporated town in the United States. The Leadville 100 is known as “The race across the sky.” As it traverses several mountain passes, and covers 18,000’ of climbing and descending. The course tops out at 12,600’ above sea level at the famed Hope Pass, which the runners have the great pleasure of summiting twice.

Leadville was once a bustling mining community, until 1980 when the last remaining silver mine closed for good. This sent the town into a bit of a tailspin, as the large majority of the town’s population received a paycheck from these mines. A few locals held out hope for their beautiful town in the Colorado mountains and decided that they could attract adventurous people to the area. The idea was that Leadville could serve as a base camp for the ample hiking, skiing, biking, and you guessed it, running areas this place offered. These locals knew that for a town to thrive as a tourism community, they needed people to spend the night. How do you get people to spend the night? Well of course, invite a bunch of idiots to partake in a 100-mile foot race, which takes the average braindead running maniac around 30 hours to complete.  This may surprise you, but people didn’t exactly flock to this proposed conquest across the mountains. The first running of the Leadville 100 in 1983 involved a whopping 45 brave souls. However, as luck would have it, the good people of Leadville hosted 800 participants in the running of this year’s race. That’s a grip of hotel rooms.

I was drawn to running when I moved to Boston in 2015. A community that held the Boston Marathon in the same company as the Super Bowl. With the trails weaving along the Charles River, one of the most congested cities in America offered a great opportunity to roam. I followed a pretty typical runner’s path. Here is a step by step summary:

1. Run a mile. Try not to die.
2. Run a mile a few days later. A small seed is planted that you might not suck too bad.
3. Run a little more and decide 4 miles is a good idea. Return to the trying not to die phase.
4. Eventually get comfortable enough to sign up for a half marathon.
5. Run half marathon and become slightly addicted.
6. Dream of longer distances.

From there I continued to seek out a variety of races. I enjoyed them but eventually started to lose my love of it.

Enter trail running.

After moving back to Colorado in 2019, we settled into a great little neighborhood that has several protected parks with miles and miles of single-track trails. This opened a new category to me that I really enjoyed. I never took much enjoyment from the activity of hiking. Mainly because it was just too damn slow. Developing the fitness to cover miles on trails in the mountains opened a new door. It provides the opportunity to cover more ground and see more beautiful parts of this state. I didn’t really have any grand plans or goals, I just enjoyed moving through the mountains. Then the almighty Youtube algorithm took hold, and positioned a video in front of my eyeballs that would plant another seed. The video is titled “How to Run 100 Miles.” The video featured two regular dudes who would embark on the preposterous task of training for and running a 100 mile race. This seemed, and still seems, utterly absurd.

When I caught the running bug, I had viewed the marathon distance as the peak of the endurance running mountain. I etched the marathon onto the life bucket list, and a few years back was fortunate to be able to (slowly) finish the Denver Colfax Marathon. A year after that I entered a race that connected the two small Colorado towns of Ouray and Telluride, with one teensy 5,000’ climb between them. I had no idea that I had just scratched the surface. 

The years since seeing that video I had a constant and nagging thought in the back of my head. What if? What if I just tried?

There was a long list of hurdles that stood in the way. For starters, I’m a dad to two little kids, a husband (albeit to the most patient and understanding wife on the planet), and I’m firmly into my late 30’s. Howevahhhhh, I couldn’t shake the idea of entering one of these races.

I sat on it for a few years. Let the thought marinate….and marinate it did. By the time I took that steak out of that proverbial refrigerator it could hardly be considered meat. 

Interlude: I’ve sat on writing this part for a long time. I more or less stared into nothing debating with myself as to whether or not I should share it. Frankly, sharing this is not comfortable. But I’ve been working on getting into the business of discomfort, so here we go. 

I fell into some bad habits. I imagined grandiose visions of what might lie ahead, but acted on none of them. My physical and mental being felt weak, and I needed some help. 

My aforementioned wonderful spouse helped me track down a therapist that could help get me sorted out. I wasn’t sure what to say. “Hello random person I’ve never met, I’m about to share all of my weaknesses, and ask for some kind of direction. Oh and by the way, I have no idea what I’m looking for, or what would be considered “wrong” with me. 

I had this preconceived notion that if there was some perceived ailment it could be and/or had to be fixed. I’m going to let you all in on a little surprise…I was wrong. My understanding of a small portion of this process, which I’m sure is an imperfect summarization, is to identify the difference between your own perception of a problem or challenge versus the other potential viewpoints or angles that may be valuable to a deeper understanding. This is a little easier in the technical world, but in the psychoanalytical world, it requires a removal of bias and personal ego, and an understanding of what makes yourself and others tick. 

To hopefully aid in seeing the forest through the trees here, let me provide an example. Let’s say there’s a person in your life that behaves in a fashion that causes you to feel a certain way. For the sake of the example, let’s pretend that feeling is a negative one. This is a problem you would like to address. There are several paths to take to identify the problem, but one could argue that the main issue is that when this person behaves a certain way you encounter negative emotions. Those emotions stink. Positive emotions are mucho bueno. One tempting road you could take is to approach that human and say something along these lines: “Hey human, you’re a pain in my ass, why don’t you stop being the way you are, and be more like the wonderful perfect specimen of a human that I am!” Now while this may result in some rather colorful and exciting interactions, it’s generally not recommended. Pointing out faults in others immediately puts them on the defensive, and the mission is not to change the other person. The mission is to remove your negative feelings, because negative feelings stink. Another potential approach could be something along these lines: “Hey human (pro tip, don’t call them human, use their real name, people like hearing their name), occasionally when we interact I experience certain feelings. I would like to spend more time with you, but I don’t want to spend more time with these negative thoughts, can we chat about this?” This removes personal ego and opens the door to potential growth. 

You are always in control of how you react and feel in the presence of external influences. A deeper commitment to this single fact changed the way I approached my professional and personal life. 

I developed a bad habit of placing the reason behind my shortcomings onto the actions of others. I’m on a mission to change that, and to find the joy in life under stones that I have previously left unturned. To compare my progress on this undefined mental journey back to the world of running, let’s just say that I’ve barely completed a 5k when the goal is to run a 100 miler. 

As I continued to march through this mental health journey I began to realize that I needed time to think, and digest the daily variables of life. Now this may come as a surprise to many, but in order to complete an ultramarathon, you need to run a lot. Fitting a large sum of running miles into my life requires deploying the running shoes at some rather unusual hours. So more often than not these miles are fulfilled by a party of one. Pardon my french here, but holy shit does it not feel like there is only one human present on these mornings. There are thoughts coming at me from all angles. One would think that a several hour run would be plenty of time to wrap up a few thoughts amongst these auditory hallucinations, but lemme tell ya, usually we are just getting started. 

As I mentioned earlier, the goal was to enhance mental and physical wellbeing. When the commitment was made to seeing this through, the train started chuggin. 

So back to the technical side. I knew the progress towards the Leadville 100 mission would need to be staged. About one year ago I signed up for a 50 mile trail ultramarathon in the mountains above Steamboat, CO. Improving strength, endurance, and understanding the particulars of human performance was of great importance. I dove into these various facets of the process, and started to find my groove. 

After many months of training, race day had arrived. Here’s my summary of how I felt, what I learned, and the broader gains of the experience…

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After criss-crossing the mountains for the better part of the last year, I still never felt like I was a true trail runner. I don’t really look the part. I still wear gear I bought 6 years ago. I’m not entirely sure what those little floppy hats are all about. I haven’t quite figured out why some guys ditch the shorts and just wear tights. After covering an abhorrent quantity of miles I still can’t run up all the gnarly climbs on the local trails. 

Needless to say when I showed up to my first ultra marathon start line, I felt out of place. By this point I’m fairly used to the local road race put on by a town or city. You arrive at a fairly normal hour that humans should be awake, there’s a bunch of people around, you shoot the breeze about if you’re getting the brat or the burger after the jog. It’s quite civilized, light hearted, and jovial. The morning of the Run Rabbit Run 50 Miler…was not that. 

The race started at 6 AM. I showed up to the start line 30 minutes early. I had thought about this one detail about 4 times. Each time I engaged in this mini internal dialogue I was sure this was the correct arrival time to an event of this flavor. There were 4 other people there when I arrived. Turns out this wouldn’t be the last rookie mistake of the day. 

Seemingly everyone there was a friggin elite athlete…or at least that’s the way my deer-in-headlights brain had contrived the situation. These people were pros. I would come to find out that traveling 50 miles by foot, at 10,000’ of elevation, while climbing and subsequently descending 9,000’ of elevation gain, would require a fairly large physical and mental output. These people knew that 15 more minutes of sleep, or 15 additional minutes not requiring focus and willpower could help. They knew what they had signed up for and were aware that the physical and mental output would push, and potentially exceed, what they were capable of. 

Don’t get me wrong, I had certainly put some brainpower towards this fact. I mapped out each ounce of water, each calorie, each milligram of sodium, hell – I even thought about what the appropriate amount of lubrication would be to lather across various areas of my body, but I had plenty more to learn. And learn this guy did. 

Before we fast forward an awkward 30 minutes to the start of the race, let me set the scene:

200 braindead humans are puttering around wearing just enough clothing, in the dark/cold/overcast morning, with headlamps strapped to their heads, convincing themselves it’s a good idea to run 50 miles. The whole thing starts and ends at the base of the Steamboat Ski Resort. It doesn’t take a psychic to forecast the charcuterie board of miles that is served ahead of a healthy entree of suffering. Ya just travel straight up the damn ski resort. 6.5 miles, with 3,500’ of elevation gain. From there the fortunate few jump on some single track, and get an appetizer of downhill/flat-ish miles through the woods with a few hors doueuvres of rocks, roots, and loose dirt sprinkled on top for taste. When you start feeling like you might have a chance, the chef comes out with a shit eating grin on his face letting you know that at mile 23, you’ll be climbing for 2 miles at a disgusting grade another 1,000’ vertical feet in the air, touch some magical rock, make an about face, and march your happy ass back to where you started along the same trail 25 miles away. 

OK. Now that we’ve gotten the formalities out of the way, let’s get back to the part where I lined up next to a bunch of truly fit mountain people, and pretended like I knew what the hell I was doing. The “gun” went off (which was just some dude yelling at us to start), and something weird happened. With the exception of about 20 people, none of these humans started running. They just started walking. I was completely befuddled. Turns out most of them had done this before, and knew that making up time while ascending thousands of vertical feet at elevation, wasn’t the right play. 

Again, I had thought about it this! Extensively! But I wasn’t one of these above optimal trail traveling specialists. I was just little old me, trying to engineer his way through a boatload of miles. I knew that slow was the answer at this start, but I had planned to run when I could. Grab some speed as it is allowed. I would run, then hike, run a little more, hike a little more. I started noticing the damndest thing. The people around me that never broke their stride from the aggressive power hiking approach, didn’t lose any ground on me. In fact, they started to gain on me! They just stayed steady, powering up this hill, but nothing about their stride resembled a jog. They used an efficient consistent stride to motor up this climb. The mental notebook was already hard at work. 

We get to the top as the sun is rising and it’s as clear as can be. It was stunningly beautiful. We were lucky to have a day in which the clouds had inverted. Meaning they were all hugging the town of steamboat down below, but up high, it was a beautiful clear day. This was not lost on me. I tried, when possible, to pick my head up and take this in. 

There was an aid station at the top of this climb for a nice water refill and to get some words of encouragement from the volunteers. From there we were all like kids in a running candy store. We had life in our legs, got served up some singletrack trails, and got to enjoy some downhill miles amongst a group of other running sickos. A true delight. 

This section of the course I was planning to put down some decent times on each mile. I knew it may be the only descent that I had some actual life in my legs. A real issue propped up at this point. A line of people were all held up by one or two people up front. A true “longest pole in the test” scenario. You could pass people, but it wasn’t easy, and came with the risk of a rolled ankle or ending up ass over tea kettle. I made peace with that conga line and made myself at home. 

Eventually the crowd thinned out and I was able to settle in with a group of runners who matched my pace. This group had a built-in hype man. His name was Andrew. I appreciate every ounce of juice this guy provided. He was ready to roll, and brought the heat with positive encouragement and good vibes. My buddy Andrew would enter the screenplay in the second half of the film, and things would look a little different. 

As previously mentioned I had put quite a bit of thought into my nutrition and hydration. My strategy consisted of almost exclusively gels, and liquid based calories. For those interested in the particulars, I wanted 1,000 mg of sodium (electrolytes), 300 calories (mostly carbohydrates), and 30 oz. of water (H2O) per hour. Hitting these targets requires a concerted effort of constant eating and drinking. There were plenty of aid stations along the way, but to reduce waste on the trail, they wouldn’t be providing gels. This meant I would need to carry them, and carry them I did. I had way too much stuff. Enter these other running specialists I was surrounded by again – These people had almost nothing. I was stunned. They had a belt or a running vest with almost nothing in em. They would rely on aid stations, I would rely on multiple pounds of gels in my vest. Again, I thought about this, but I had trained for almost a year, and found a nutrition strategy that worked for my stomach. The trade off of the additional weight seemed appropriate. 

My biggest fear was the sodium numbers. The night before I had convinced myself that I would be short on sodium. I packed a ridiculous amount of chewable salt pills. 50 mg a piece. I figured every hour I would reach into my pocket and eat about four or five of these things. This would supplement the sodium in my water flasks. 

All sounds like a great idea right!? Wrong. This is when things start trending in the southerly direction. You see, I was sweating, but not near the levels I’m accustomed to. It was a little chilly, and my sweat levels were way down compared to the heat I had trained in all summer. 

I had just finished choking down a handful of salt tabs when my stomach started to revolt. Looking back, I think I took in too much salt, given the relative lack of sweat/salt that had left my body at that point in the day. For more context, at this point I am 20 miles in. It’s quite normal for me to cover that distance and be completely covered in salt. I’m a salty sweater, hence my paranoia around the intake of this mineral. But on this day, in this weather, and this elevation, I just wasn’t losing water, and therefore wasn’t losing too much sodium. Looking back this diagnosis doesn’t appear to require a Harvard education. Howevahhhh, at the moment, this analysis wasn’t coming to me. 

I started to convince myself it was just a cramp, a big one. My pace slowed but I was able to run. I certainly felt very uncomfortable, but wasn’t convinced this was enough to alter my day. I made it to mile 23, which is where I got to see my crew, which was a huge boost. I explained in graphic detail what my stomach was up against and the various methods it was taking to relieve the various gases the body had stewed up. I’ll let your imagination devise those details. I got my water topped off, and tried to keep this stop relatively brief. I had a bear of a climb ahead, and I wanted to get on with it. I hobbled off and started in on this death march. 

The suffering on the way up, and the subsequent pounding on the way down, didn’t allow for much eating. At this point I’m pretty far behind on my nutrition and hydration numbers. My crew chief (aka my lovely wife) and I were pretty worried when I got back to them at mile 28.  We took the strategy of getting calories down at all costs. 

A quick sidebar to discuss what calories look like in this ridiculous “sport.” Endurance activities are driven mostly by carbohydrates. The body is able to break down and use this fuel source easier and more efficiently than fat or protein. There are two types of carbohydrates. Complex and simple. Complex carbs like bread, bananas, pastas, can take several hours for the body to break down and use to propel my half dead soul down the trail. Simple carbohydrates on the other hand, are a touch different. A simple carb is basically sugar. This is a beautiful thing for a wannabe runner with a sweet tooth. The body is able to take sugar and convert it to fuel in a matter of minutes. 

These simple carbohydrates can come in any form your heart desires. For me this was gels, various sports mixes in water, and, wait for it….Coca Cola and candy. Nerds gummy clusters to be exact. A handful of these will constitute enough calories for a quality 3 miles. Now here’s the only slight issue with our plan at mile 28. Taking down a handful of potato chips, 8 Oz of coke, two handfuls of nerds gummy clusters, 100 calories of sports nutrition in my water, along with 1,000 mg of sodium, may have some adverse results. 7 minutes later (my longest pit stop of the day) I was up and off to make a quick visit to the portable potty facility, then running again and sucking down 450 calories of gels. Now I’m sure it’s pretty easy in hindsight for all you Martin Scorcese aspirants to predict the next scene in this movie. It didn’t get better. 

This all seems pretty clear now, but it’s hard to articulate the importance of nutrition over the course of a 12 hour endurance event. When the dust settled, my Garmin had calculated that I burned over 7,000 calories that day. Some say that ultra running is just an eating contest with some running on the side. Calories are king, and I was desperate to get them down. 

We’re now around mile 30. I’m very nauseous, and running became a problem. In the days since the race I’ve tried to explain that my stomach went south and this was a problem. The general reaction I get is something along the lines of “Tough it out big boy, drink some water and don’t worry about your tummy ache.” Lemme tell ya, I wish it were this simple. I would push my body to run, and this would cause an almost immediate urge to remove all of the contents of my stomach from my being. While my stomach wasn’t down with the hoodlums hanging around at the time, we all knew they kind of wanted those dudes around for the remainder of this prolonged bar fight. So I hatched a new plan. 

The months leading up to this I had listened to a large quantity of ultra running podcasts (yes, that’s a thing). I knew that this problem was common, and everyone had various ways of handling the issue. One method fortunately planted some roots in the brain came to me in my adventuring stupor. It went something like this:

Step #1 – Commit to walking.

Step #2 – Cease and desist intake of any and all forms of calories.

Step #3 – Sip on extremely small amounts of water in an effort to trick your body/mind into thinking you’re getting something into the system.

Step #4 – Pray like hell this works. 

I opt to utilize this strategy.

We’re now at mile 31. Things aren’t looking great, until my buddy Andrew reintroduces himself to the plot. He was running. I was walking. He passed and told me to get on the train, and join him for as long as I could. I let him know I was riding shotgun on the struggle bus. I asked how he was and I’ll never forget his response. “I’m battling some serious demons right now brother.” Andrew had lost his lunch an estimated 15 times already that day. His previous 50 mile attempt resulted in him being found by the medical staff on the side of the trail in the fetal position 40 miles into the effort. Andrew and I suffered for a few miles together until we hit the next aid station. He was in worse shape than I was, but was still able to inspire me to move. I got in and out of that aid station fairly quickly, and Andrew needed some time to have a chat with those demons. I never saw him again that day, but I do know this, he finished the damn race. Can you imagine, puking 15 times before mile 31, and getting yourself through another 19 miles!!?? The people I’ve met in this sport have provided more inspiration than I can properly explain. 

One other thing happened at that aid station. I came in, took a seat, put on my rain jacket before the hail storm introduced itself, then had a brief and delirious chat with one of the volunteers. I uttered something about my fragile stomach, and she reached for a Costco sized bottle of Tums. Let me tell you, this changed my day. I popped one of those down the hatch and ventured off into the hail strewn wilderness. One mile later, I was back in the competition. 

At this point I was by no means healed, but I felt marginally better, and that was enough for me to go to work. As I’ve explained in detail, I’m not an expert in this activity. My VO2 max isn’t that good, my heart rate is a little higher than most endurance runners, my stride is mediocre, but I do have one thing. For whatever reason I am able to suffer. I’ve chiseled out some cozy little corners of my personal pain cave. It’s not fun, but I am not afraid to enter a heightened state of discomfort, and stay there for a long damn time. 

This was my time to utilize my one asset, and use it I did. 

At this point I was not worried about the miles left, I was just worried about my stomach holding out, and winning the mental battle between my mind and my legs. We’re now at mile 35 and this is beyond any single day distance I’ve ever done. The legs are sufficiently cooked, and my focus has been coming and going due to the stress of the day. Fortunately I never lost my desire to compete, and I almost welcomed the notion that my legs would hurt more than they’ve ever hurt in my life. Burning quads means less focus on my tipsy tummy, and more focus on something else.

I got to the next aid station around mile 37. I let the individuals know that I had never been happier to see a group of strangers in my life. I kept this stop brief, and off I went. I became fixated on mile 40. That was a big milestone for me, then I knew we had a big climb ahead to get to the top of Mt. Werner at mile 46. At this point we have found something, and the body is responding. 

Another interlude. One reason I got into this was to discover what it’s like to reach what I had originally perceived to be the physical and mental breaking point, and see what it was like, or if it was possible, to dig your way out of it. At this point, I got this experience. I could not have been more enamored with this fact. It brought me so much energy to realize that the body responded after visiting the depths of suffering I’ve never touched before. 

Mile 42 the weather went from bad to brutal. The rain was coming down at a decent clip and I absolutely loved it. I was elated because I was getting the entire experience I asked for. This was not a sunny, flat, fast 50 miles down in the city. This was an adventure. One that I knew I would never forget. 

I made it up to mile 44 and from this point it’s all downhill. These downhills stretches sound nice in theory, but they really pound the quads, knees, and feet. Again, at this point, this flavor of pain is suiting my palette just fine, but it certainly was starting to take its toll. At this juncture I got to pick up my pacer, my good friend Haley. She was able to take the gondola about 4 miles up the hill, but decided to keep trekking up the mountain another 2 miles in the pouring rain to meet me. I’m sure glad she was there to keep an eye on me as this sufferfest started to reach its conclusion. 

We made our way down the mountain and to the finish, where I was fortunate to cross the line with my two kids, and embrace my biggest supporter after I crossed the line. 12 hours and 22 minutes. Almost an hour slower than I was aiming for. After reflection those numbers have come to mean very little. I set out on this mission a year ago to finish this race ahead of the 15 hour cutoff. I did that, and I learned one important lesson along the way – Win the battle with your mind, and the rest will follow.

The little guy trots into a room. He makes you think, makes you wonder.

He’s small but tall. Beautiful blue eyes. A smile that could light up a stadium.

What did I pass along? If anything? I smile just wondering. Wondering when or if I’ll find out.

Loves to ride his bike. Loves people. Loves his sister. Loves his mom and I. Finds the good in people.

As a parent you dream of happy and healthy. Playing the ever so dangerous game of pregnancy and childbirth comes at a cost. Comes with risk. Comes with uncertainty. The hope is happy and healthy. We didn’t get that. We got something better. We were gifted with a human that could teach us. Teach us how to smile. Teach us how to care. Teach us how to love.

Parents across the board will gloat about how smart, funny, and cute their kids are. And every single one of them is correct. Their kid is smarter than yours. Says funnier things than yours and is definitely cuter than yours. And it’s all true. Because those kids are theirs.

I’ll need far more gray hairs to know or understand what this little human has done for me. But, as I tend to do, I’ll project.

He’ll take me from a person unsure of what’s next to one craving his next text.

He’ll take me from a person searching for a treasure under the sand to a person happy with his toes in it.

He’ll take me from an individual searching for purpose to an individual serving a purpose.

He’ll take me from a me to an us.

There are moments for everyone that are important. Small under a microscope, but big because they are yours. My incredible, smiling, blue eyed, loving 5-year-old is graduating from “pre-kindergarten” tomorrow, and this dad could not be prouder. You may have a child graduating from Harvard, you may be receiving a big promotion, you may have a family member running for an important political office. But this moment is just as important. Because it belongs to me, and my family.

I beg myself often to never take these the moments for granted. Never lose sight of what’s important to you. Regardless of what’s important to someone else.

Proud of you buddy. Go get em tomorrow!

-Dad

The sun rose on a beautiful New England early fall day. Kids woke up too early, as they tend to do. I was faced with the decision to shake the two-year-olds arm and the four-year-olds leg off my being or wake up and start the day at 5 AM. A wonderful predicament that I have the pleasure of being faced with all too often.  

However, today was a special day. A day of celebration. A day before we get the pleasure of witnessing two uniting for the rest of their lives.

As people tend to do, they throw a party, before a party. Americans really are brilliant.

This party in particular was at a brewery. My favorite. The younger generation was cordially invited to join the early portion of this event. Which was fortunate for me as my condition would gradually shift as the IPA’s got surprisingly colder. The accompaniment of my kids at a large-scale event is always ripe with internal dialogue. Are the kids here because others truly care? Are they present because I’m and overly proud dad of these cute kids and think people care? Upon our arrival and the small humans subsequent trampling of all furniture in site solidified my stance. Grandma needed to get these kids on the first train back to bedtime town.

This event was a prelude to a wedding. The wedding involved some important humans in my life. One of these humans was a friend I was lucky enough to find in the sixth grade. To maintain anonymity, we’ll refer to this friend as DJ. DJ established a friendship with me when he invited himself over to my house prior to a very important middle school dance. My roommates at the time politely obliged.

My relationship with DJ revolved around fun and wheels. From your standard kids’ bike, to scooters, to skateboards, to mountain bikes, to Jeeps. The wheels were abundant.

DJ was getting married the day after the brewery event, and I could only assume that he was focused on packing as much fun into this evening as was humanly possible. Spoiler – the mission was accomplished.

DJ ran for class president on more occasions that I could count. He was always present. Whether that be petitioning at your desk for a vote or adorning the front page of the year book proudly smirking next to the class clown award. DJ was a performer. The kind of guy that just needed a beer and some form of perceived stage to light up a room.

I’ve never approached DJ about this, but that night at the brewery something interesting happened. That night, about 40 people were interested in his soon to be bride, and him. He had beer(sssss), and had a stage, but didn’t want the light that night. DJ was uncomfortable that night. The good kind of uncomfortable. The kind that hinted at signs of life maturation.

Now not all beautiful sights of growth result in profound speeches with quotes from Steve Jobs and Albert Einstein. No, the conclusion of that night was quite the opposite. The result was a stack of empty 16 oz. double IPA cans that no grown man should ever be proud of. However, amongst the aluminum, was the prelude to one more fantastic story.

As anyone would do for a friend on the morning of their wedding day, I entered damage control mode. You know the drill: Advil, Gatorade, Bacon/Egg/Cheese Sandwich. The essentials. This wouldn’t be a problem. For some reason DJ was the proud owner of three vehicles I could use to fetch these supplies. All I had to do was pop open the blinds of the lovely guest room I was staying in, spot a vehicle at the front of the driveway, locate some keys, and off we go.  

What lay behind those blinds was approximately zero of these vehicles. Through the course of the evening some other attendees and the soon to be bride made off with all three of these internal combustion machines. This next realization certainly does not make me a genius, but I was certain we had a problem.

After a brief moment of panic, I remembered DJ’s affinity for wheels. I was sure that the three sets of wheels that meandered off from the desired location of DJ’s driveway, could not round out the stable of wheels this human owned. Not to brag, but this intuition couldn’t have been more spot on.

I gained my post IPA evening composure and took off for the garage. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Get to the garage, locate the spare wheels. And locate the spare wheels I did.

A beautiful Honda Ruckus scooter met me square in the eyes. My ticket to the groom’s hangover remedies had been gifted to me like a drum set at a 5 years olds Christmas. We had wheels baby. All I had to do was fire her up, find a helmet, and hit the road. I accomplished two of the three items on that list. I neglected to account for the Groom’s penchant for fun.

Somehow this guy resuscitated himself from the depths of hangover hell. He simply couldn’t bear the sight of his pal riding off into hangover cure heaven without him. There was no talking him out of it. I lost my aforementioned head gear and had to resort to the purple foam and plastic combination hanging from the future bride’s bicycle. Two grown men mounted a scooter fit for one. We were off, and it was beautiful.

To this day I cannot recall a moment in my life when I laughed half as hard as I did on that ride. We had that horn blasting at every pedestrian we passed. We had to let em know, the boys were back.

Our whole lives, from 6^th grade into “adulthood” were focused on captaining our own set of wheels into the wonderful world of fun. That devotion to movement had always occurred on separate platforms. That day, we opted for a new idea. That day was the most damn fun I’ve ever had with DJ.

We tracked down some Advil, the coldest Gatorade CVS had to offer, and the greasiest breakfast sandwich we could find. We showered, suited up, and shared a few more laughs. DJ proceeded to take the stage and light up the room.

Running to, chasing, stealing the light
Fearing, loathing, partaking in your vice
Find, remove, reinstate your passion
Drive, stop, reverse until the path is found

Hard times come, fun times linger
You get tired, just lift a finger
Never searching is worse than never knowing
Find a path, never stop growing 

Change lanes slow with your blinker on
Run and ride fast without a semblance of caution
Blink, think, and love with intention
Move with absolute reckless abandon 

Break the rules. Do what moves you.
Find a passion. I’ll do it with you.

About a year ago a friendly neighbor extended an invite to play on the neighborhood softball team. Given my general lack of hand eye coordination and lanky build thats not conducive to baseball I of course accepted immediately. 

I knew a few humans on the team, but generally was the newbie to the group. After getting absolutely walloped our team turned to the easy part, drinking shitty beer in the parking lot. At this stage in the outing I really found my social footing. One guy was donning a shirt that was emblazoned with a smattering of words. Three of which caught my eye. Ouray, Telluride, and Run. Ouray and Telluride are two of the most beautiful towns I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, and that third word, well, seemed within my un-athletic realm. 

Coming off a recent distance running event of my own I approached my new teammate with a pile of questions about the famous Imogene pass run. After some generic banter we cut to the chase. I asked for the low down. How hard is it? Is it as cool as I imagined? He looked at me and in no uncertain terms said the following: “If you actually follow through on this there will be a point in time a year from now that you may want to kill me, but the Imogene pass run is one you have to do.” Two things would come true a year later. 

June 1st of this year at 7 AM mountain time I was logged into the Imogene Pass run sign up site. I had four browsers open in case three of them shit the proverbial bed. The race is known to sell out quickly, so ya gotta be hot on the trigger. I had a few friends playing the same game I was. I was the only one “lucky” enough to nab a spot in the race. 

And so the training began…

This somewhat maniacal exercise consisted of finding a hill, or series of hills. Over and over I repeated the same routine of driving into the mountains and ascending as many vertical feet as I could. At times this felt like a fools errand, and at other times, felt like I was the luckiest dude around. I saw some beautiful places. 

Admittedly, I did not enjoy this training regiment as much as I had my other distance running endeavors. I kept trying to find something within myself, some purpose, or deeper desire. I couldn’t quite find it – until I thought that maybe the learning experiences were much simpler. 

Lesson Number 1: Listen intently to music:

It’s easy to have music on in the background and not hear the words, or understand the nuance of each instrument. When it’s just you, the mountain, and the birds it’s much easier to hear the message of the artist. I truly enjoyed this, and would like to give Mr. Zach Bryan a shout out for propelling me through some tough days. 

Lesson number 2: Look around

It’s easy to get caught up in your pace, your other commitments, your desire to always be moving. But what’s important is to use that swivel connecting your body to your head often referred to as a neck, and look around. Take in the sights.

Lesson Number 3: Smile. 

Smiling creates more energy in your system than any water, electrolyte drink, gu, or energy chew can. Don’t believe me? Run on up to 13,000 feet above sea level and report back if a mopey frown worked out better. 

Lesson 4: Mental strength is just as potent as physical strength. 

Admittedly this one took until mile 14 or so to equate, but I found it nonetheless. I had a totally lackluster summer of training. I didn’t commit. I didn’t put in long days. I didn’t fulfill Cam Hanes mantras of “Nobody cares, work harder.” And “Keep Hammering.” But what I did do was put one damn foot in front of the other with the unfettered belief that I would propel my ass over that mountain. 

I had a few lasting memories from this day- 

My first was at the starting line. The wise ass holding the microphone uttered a few words that I found quite funny. “Runners, welcome to the 50th Annual Imogene Pass Run. We’ll get started in 15 minutes. The great news for you all today, is that there’s only one hill!” 

Mr. Wise guy up on the podium is his puffy jacket is alluding to the hill from Ouray, Colorado (elevation 7,792’) to the top of Imogene pass (elevation 13,114’). He was right, it was only one hill, and pardon my French here, but it was one big fuckin hill. 

My second was descending into the town of Telluride where I was greeted by the best support crew in the business. 100 feet short of the finish line I was able to take the best steps I’ve had the privilege of taking. My 4 year old son ducked under the rope, grabbed my hand, and sprinted to the finish line with his dad. A small moment that left a big impact on my heart. 

A big thank you to everyone who sent along cheers, texts, and calls. It truly means the world. 

What makes a place special to one human vs. another? What makes you feel something deeper than you feel elsewhere in your life experiences? Is it the people? The history? The smells or the temperature or the views? Is it the vastness or lack thereof?

I spent a week in a relatively remote area of Canada to find out.

In the early 1900’s a man by the name of Gerald Holbrook discovered an area in the Gatineau region of Quebec. He was a man who didn’t take adventure lightly. He spent his time in many beautiful areas on this earth but decided to plant his flag at 31 Mile Lake. Through my initial research I could not figure out what drew this man to this place. Only after I began to look inward, did I figure it out.

31 mile lake is a 1.5 hour drive north of the Canadian city of Ottawa. While this may not sound like a large delta between a place and a major metropolitan area, I can assure you, it’s another world away. Once you leave the city lights in the rear view you’ll find quaint, lovely little communities. Where a baseball game on a Saturday afternoon amongst 12-year old’s draws in the entire town’s population. Where people huddle around a case of beer in the backyard with a fire and a camper trailer. Where every human, local or foreign, is greeted with a smile when you simply request a carton of worms or their coldest box of Budweiser. Where life just moves slower.

After the one grocery store (which serves up the thickest slices of bacon you’ve ever seen), you hang a hard right and make your way back east. After winding through some beautiful remote country, you’ll land in a place referred to as Point Comfort. It didn’t strike me until recently how apropos the name of this place was. It’s a place nestled between two stunning lakes. 31 Mile Lake to the north and Lake Pemichangan to the south. This piece of land was so small in fact, that when the area was initially surveyed, the team discovering the land didn’t even realize it existed. The previously mentioned 31 Mile Lake is only 26 miles in length. The missing 5 miles are made up of its neighbor, Lake Pemichangan. The beauty of this is just wonderful to me. They realized that a mistake had been made, but they stuck to their laurels. The name was the name, and how dare these modern travelers come in and try to change it based upon actual realized information.

Mr. Holbrook found his way to Point Comfort and couldn’t resist its allure. Surrounded by rich woodland and plentiful fishing, the man decided there was only one feasible route forward. Enter, the Gatineu Fish and Game Club. Mr. Holbrook knew what he found and knew that a place of such beauty needed to be shared. So, a proper club was founded in order to act as a social gathering location, as well as a fishing and hunting haven.

Mr. Holbrook didn’t stop there. While I don’t have any evidence, I imagine the man hopped aboard a fine yacht that he whittled out of the tallest tree in the forest and took to the water. He made his way north via water and discovered a sliver of an island that harnessed an irresistible view, and the potential of a perfect hunting and fishing base camp. Hunting base camp? On an island? I had the same questions. Bear with me. The name of this land has a storied history, but the name of the island is still in question. It’s known to some as “Half Crown Island,” and to others as “Half Penny Island.” Half Crown sounds a million percent cooler, so we’re going to roll with that. Mr. Holbrook started by building a main house, icehouse, boat house, and one small additional cabin. No small feat given the technology available, and the fact that it was 100 percent surrounded by water. People slobber over the creation of the pyramids. I say, go check out these dudes who fell trees, probably swam em’ across some frigid Canadian waters, then threw all 400 pounds of lumber on there shoulder, broke em’ in half using nothing but willpower, and slapped a cabin together. None of that previous sentence was an exaggeration, not a word. When this piece of property was acquired by Mr. Holbrook, another island to its north was purchased with it. And you guessed it, the name of this island is also left up to interpretation. Some refer to it to this day as Holbrook Island, and some refer to it simply as “72.” I’ll let you history buffs determine why Holbrook Island was on the ballot for naming the property, but deducing the rationale behind 72 is a little less obvious. It’s been relayed to me on several occasions that the island of 72 was the seventy second island on the lake, as you head from south to north. I find this to be preposterous. I envision a man in his hollowed-out tree trunk of a canoe paddling his ass for 20 some odd miles counting each island as they passed. If he had one more glass of whiskey the night before it could have easily been named 74, and if he had a full belly of bear and lake trout, he may have paddled on past a few previous islands and named it 68. Nonetheless, it’s a great name for a piece of land. Just a simple number. However, if you take a spin through google earth, you’ll notice it’s still named, to this day, Isle Holbrook. For those looking from the French to English translation, that equates to Holbrook Island. You’re welcome.

The location of Half Crown Island was made up of a beautiful expansive lake to its north, west, and south. To the east was a small sliver of easily passable lake with remote Canadian wilderness on the other side. This wilderness was full of incredible game hunting, that appealed to Mr. Holbrook and his family at the time. Hence, the hunting base camp on an island.

A few years passed when Gerald and his wife gave birth to a young girl who affectionately became known as “Bubbie.” Bubbie also took to the family interest of hunting and grew into a strong-willed woman who could hang with the best of em’. Bubbie began dating and developed a relationship with a man named Joseph Whitney. It just so happened the Joe shared many of the same interests. The passion for travel, adventure, and pushing one’s comfort zone.  After years of chasing dreams around the world, including partaking in the initial Alaskan gold rush, Joe Whitney discovered what made him feel whole. This so happened to be at 31 Mile Lake. Joe must have said the right things to his father-in-law because he was offered to take possession of Half Crown Island. From that point on Joe and Bubbie spent many summers driving from their home on Martha’s Vineyard to the beautiful remote territory of Quebec. Those who knew Joe well, knew his strong suit was not sitting still. Joe and Bubbie added three more cabins on the island and undertook a role in running the Gatineau Fish and Game Club (GFGC).

I’ve meandered through life often hearing the phrase “if these walls could talk.” And to be honest, the phrase never impacted me in one direction or another. Until I walked through the variety of rooms and hallways at the GFGC clubhouse. Joe and Bubbie can be found right next to the bar, in a framed photograph next to two large bears, that they had shot and strung up by their hind legs for a photo. The image is striking, for many reasons, but what struck me the most was the relative nonchalant nature of what they had just accomplished. Many other walls were covered by incredible photographs and renderings of those who had come before me in that space. I felt connected to the place, without being a real part of the goings on of that establishment. It was, and will forever be a special moment in time, making my way through this tidal wave of small, local culture.

Joe and Bubbie gave birth to three incredible daughters. These children had the great fortune of spending time on the island and at the club. Later introducing their significant others to this adventurer’s wonderland.

Fortunately, this summer I found myself traveling in the footsteps of all these aforementioned people. I got to experience Half Crown Island, 72, GFCG, Point Comfort, and the joys that the 26 mile long 31 Mile Lake brought to these travelers.

I asked anyone that would listen the same question. Why? Why did Mr. Holbrook and others find themselves in this incredible place, in the relative middle of nowhere, and no one had an answer. Fortunately, I figured it out.

Through life a basic sense of adventure will take you to places that resonate. A place that illuminates the senses, awakens your imagination, and illuminates your passion for the world around you. Mr. Holbrook was making his way through life looking for a place that would speak to him.

31 Mile Lake spoke loudly. Screaming to the man that this place was one that would bring joy and wonderment to his life.

My full name is Tyler Holbrook Duncan. My brother’s name is Whitney Duncan. Gerald Holbrook is our great grandfather; Joe Whitney is our grandfather. Grandpa Joe left an indelible imprint on our lives throughout our upbringing. The canvas Joe Whitney painted on was partially teed up by our great grandfather, who we never had the pleasure to meet, Mr. Holbrook.

This is the part where I pretend there’s significant amount of pollen in the room…

Joe Whitney was a man that had some firm ideals and beliefs. If you wanted to turn right, he suggested left. If you thought the roast was undercooked, he would cook it even less next Christmas. If you thought you only needed 10 flashlights to safely guide yourself around Half Crown Island, he would provide 30.

I never recall Joe Whitney being actively engaged with me as a child, but as I grew older, I began to see his vision. He was the maestro waving the stick, orchestrating the music. He was not the one over your shoulder showing you how to play the notes. He made sure every human being that he was close to him had an impactful experience.

Joe Whitney took his three daughters (one of which is my mother, for those following along) to Aspen Colorado almost every winter. Colorado was the stuff of legends in my upbringing. I loved skiing, and Colorado was a magical mystery land of deep snow, big mountains, and bigger smiles. My last conversation I had with my grandfather was about adventure (whoa, pollen is getting ripe). Indirectly, he told me to chase what made me passionate. Go find something that makes you feel something. This was certainly a factor when I packed my duffel bag and booked a one-way ticket headed for Colorado, where I now call home.

It had been 19 years since I had been to 31 Mile Lake. It was high time to return to a place that makes me feel something. From Boston, this lake is a 9-hour drive. You’ll pass several incredible lakes in New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont, and Quebec before landing in Point Comfort. What I’ll never find in any of those lakes is the deep sense of joy I get at 31 Mile Lake.

A basic and undeniable sense of adventure brought by Mr. Holbrook here 120 years ago. He found it because it spoke to him. It made him feel something. The same things I had the absolute pleasure to enjoy myself.

My brother made a wonderful comment halfway through our trip to Canada. He noted that we should all spend more time taking pictures with our mind, and less time taking pictures with our phones. My mind took many pictures this week, and they’ll forever be stamped in my mental photobook. I love each one of them, and they all speak to me differently.

(Getting dusty in here again).

There is a grassy hill at the GFGC that we grew up sliding down on a piece of cardboard when we were little kids. The same hill that my grandfather’s close personal friend, Pat Tone, slid down when he was younger. I like to imagine that they’ve somehow preserved the same pieces of cardboard that would endure 100+ years of sliding. On Wednesday nights the clubs host a dinner, that we were graciously invited to by my Uncle, and current member of the club. My kids, along with my niece and nephew, discovered this time-tested ritual of cardboard sliding. Watching them brought me immense joy. During this event, Pat Tone made a comment that resonated deeply. He stated, “It would bring Joe so much joy to be watching this.”

Grandpa Joe was watching that night. I could feel his presence then and for the rest of the trip.

It was time for our last sunset over the lake. Members of my family made their way down to the water throughout the evening to take one last photo, either with their mind or with their camera. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew the emotion would stir inside because my last experience here was with my grandfather, so I chose to stay in the house. Saying goodbye to the lake was saying goodbye to a human I idolized. The next morning, I got my wits about me and made my way to the dock. I knew it would bring out emotion, but realized it would be worthwhile, fulfilling emotion. I walked down the stairs, stood on the dock, and took it all in. When turning to head back up the stairs, and back to my home in Colorado, I said goodbye, and vowed to come back to the place that had captured my soul and those of many others.

I recently went on a little trip. I learned and discovered some things. Here is an account of my experiences and thoughts along the way, with many tangents throughout. I hope you enjoy.

It’s Wednesday December 29^th 2021, 10 AM. I have just loaded up the Tacoma and pointed this sucker southwest, for a little place called Silverton Colorado. The GPS on the ole cellular points out that I’ve got 6 hours and 7 minutes of drive time ahead of me, which is a little far, but it’s been snowing for the last week down there, and my lovely bride gave me the green light to head on out.

I’ve packed a new little device that my good pal Jeff Bezos sent me: a voice recorder. The object of this handy little device is to take some vocal notes along the way so that my little goldfish brain can recollect some of the occurrences of this trip a few days down the road. The hope is I can collect something of value and share it with my tens of followers on social media. I understand that this whole “value” portion of the previous sentence may be unlikely, but what the hell, we’re going to give it a shot.

I spent some time investigating the proper route to take to get to this little gem of a town. We’ve got two options. Option 1 – Take I-70, past all those high fluten ski resorts that I will not be skiing at, then you hook a hard left at Grand Junction and head south down to Silverton. Option 2 – Take 285, which I like to think of as the “workin’ mans” highway, which is a slightly more direct route. I’m sure this may be obvious, but we opted for the direct route.

Tangent: I’ll continue to refer to myself and my solo trip as we. Not sure why, I just like it, so roll with it.

Both have their pros and cons. If we were to get a significant snow event, I don’t believe the maintenance on the workin’ mans highway is quite as good as our pals over there on I-70. Our good friends over up on I-70 gets more attention during and after snow events, while the lowly “workin’ mans highway”, may not receive quite the love if we were to receive some weather. What ole 285 has going for it is that it is not lined with hoards of humans heading to these monstrous resorts. So, we like our chances.

The weather is nice, that’s good. Blue skies, that’s good. No signs of snow, that’s good. Quite cold. We can deal with cold though. Tacoma has heat.

Now let’s talk snacks. We packed this rig up good with some snacks. The rundown:

• Mini coca colas: Why? Because ya always waste the last ounce or two of the full sizers. May need some caffeine, break in case of emergency/get sleepy.
• Water: Got enough water to hydrate a small army. Key word here is small. But an army nonetheless.
• Homemade chocolate chip cookies: No explanation required.
• Full box of cheez its: None of that small bag business, we got the big boy box. That’s right.
• Chocolate covered pretzels: They’ve just been catchin’ the corner of my eye at the store, and I said to myself, “Daddy needs a bag of those.”
• Sweedish Fish: Simply cannot go on a road trip without candy. Impossible. Don’t care who ya are, ya cant do it.
• Clif Bars: For ski day. Boring. No one cares.
• Odwalla beverages: Only a few of them. Wouldn’t be able to afford the trip if I bought too many. Suckers are expensive. I’ve been told they are good for me, so we got em.

Figured that should get us there.

About an hour and change into the drive I head up and over Kenosha pass down into Fairplay, Colorado. While to many this stretch of the drive may be non-descript. I find it quite the contrary. The pass has some decent elevation gain when heading west, and upon reaching the summit you have a relatively short descent. The road winds to the right, and to your left there is a stunning view. It’s almost nothing but prairie and farmlands. It is an intense juxtaposition from the jagged mountains behind you and I find it to be one of the most picturesque views I have come across in the state. It may not have the wow factor that the black canyon or the continental divide command, but it is incredibly serene, peaceful, and beautiful. Coupled with the Colorado sunshine, this is a truly lovely way to start a long drive.

At this stage we’ve got an audible book playing. I’ve grown quite fond of audible over the last few years, and here’s why. When you are driving your eyeballs and hands are occupied, but your ears are available. Given said ear availability I am able to input things into them while on the road. Gives you the opportunity to potentially learn something new, educate yourself further, or simply listen to an interesting story, or engage in another human’s humor.

Tangent: What I am finding about this journey is that the audible slightly interferes with one of my goals for this trip. One thing I am hoping to do it jot some notes down along the way, in order to eventually write about it, and share it with others. In order to share something of value, you need to find the value in what it is you are doing. So what I find myself doing is being far more attentive to my surroundings. Scenery, weather, everything around you. In order to record something, you need to pay attention to something. The simplicity of this strikes me as being very cool, as it is often lost in the day to day shuffle.

Tangent from the tangent: Another reason for this trip is to get in touch with myself as an individual. As a husband and a parent, I spend a lot of time with others. This is without a doubt a good thing, as I believe the human beings are social creatures, that gain mental stability through being around and socializing with others. However, there is still tremendous value in spending time with yourself. This allows me to think, reflect, and gather myself in a way that I don’t often do.

At this point its just shy of noon. Important to note that I have not touched my mountain of snacks yet. I’m expecting some sort of medal for this superhuman amount of restraint.

Few more observation ions – Its windy. It is really friggin windy, did I mention that: its windy. I was also thinking how nice it would be to have an altimeter in my car. I always find myself wondering how high or low I am. I know this would make my father very proud.

Tangent: Whenever my dad comes to visit, he’s always asking me, “What elevation are we at?” Like my little brain is somehow going to be able to pinpoint our exact elevation no matter where we are in the state. Unfortunately for him, I cannot perform this feat, but maybe, with the aid of the aforementioned altimeter, I won’t have to let the old man down about 50 times throughout each visit.

Now heading over Monarch pass. The sunny skies, clear roads, and cruise control are well behind us at this point. This pass contains one of the few remaining independent mountains in the state. You won’t gain access to this with your shiny Ikon on Epic pass. No no no. You need to drive your ass out here, park in the parking lot, pay to ski, then drive on back down the hill and hang in the one lodge within a 20 mile radius. It’s a lovely place, and one that I wish to get to in the near future. Another note about Monarch pass is that is in the San Isabel National Forest. I would be doing a great disservice to everyone to not mention what resides in this forest. A man by the name of Jim Bishop began collecting rocks, loading them into his pickup truck, unloading them on his land, and stacking them as tall as possible in order to build a castle unlike anything you’ve ever seen. I visited Mr. Bishop and his castle years ago, and its truly remarkable. Both he, and his structure, are unforgettable.

It’s now a damn blizzard. This is good and bad. The good, we are driving a long way to go skiing. What makes skiing good, is lots of snow. What makes a ski trip bad, is landing your rig in a snow bank. Haven’t done that yet. Fingers crossed that status continues.

Tangent: Popped into my head at this point that given todays tools and toys there are many ways to shares stories and adventures. Many people do this very well through pictures, videos, and audio. I find my preference to be through writing. Why? When presenting words through writing you are afforded the use of a backspace button. Boy, do I find this useful. You get to make sure your words are arranged in the proper fashion before you present them to others, which I like. I’ve always jotted things down, written little stories, pondered life experiences through writing, but I’ve never shared any of them. There are many reasons for this. They main reason leading the pack is that I am simply a lazy human, a fact I simply cannot deny. I also wasn’t convinced that anyone would find enjoyment in what I put on paper, but for some reason this time around I figured, what the hell. Let’s give it a shot.  

The scenery is currently stunning. We are just east of Gunnison. The word that comes to mind is vast. It reminds me how big this world is. An important perspective.

To understand the purpose behind a 6 hour drive each way for one day of skiing its important to know more about the destination. Just outside of Silverton is this gem known as Silverton Ski Area. I say ski area and not resort because it is not, under any circumstances, considered a resort. In fact, it doesn’t even have a lodge at the base. It has a tent, a yurt of sorts, at the base of the one ski lift that they have. Inside said tent they have a few sets of skis, a couple other odds and ends you might want, and a bar about three feet long that serves up ice cold PBR at the end of each day. It’s a lovely place. Tomorrow is opening day, and it’s going to be incredible. They pair you up in groups of eight, give you a guide or two to show you around all day. Typically, there’s some hiking involved once you depart the chairlift. You rarely end up at the base of the lift after each run, in which case they shlop ya in the back of a pickup truck or a school bus and cart you back to the lift. They limit the mountain to about 80 skiers per day, so you’re all but guaranteed to have yourself some fresh tracks if there’s been some recent snow. It’s truly a great time.

Tangent: The one little wrinkle that just occurred to me is that I have had skis on my feet twice this year. However, both times I have been accompanied by my three-year-old son. As I’m sure you can deduce, I wasn’t exactly “sending it” as the kids like to say, on either occurrence. This means, that my first real turns of the year are going to be at around 11,000 feet, after a lung busting hike, in roughly two feet of snow, on some steep ass terrain. So that’ll be good! I’m sure nothing could possibly go wrong with this approach.

We now approach Blue Mesa reservoir. This past summer the people in charge of the water in this reservoir determined that our pals over there in California were a little short on H2O. I’m sure they were correct in their assessment, but nonetheless, the sight is a little sad. They opened the gates in the dam and damn near ran this thing dry (see what I did there). This brings to mind the water problem the western portion of the United States faces on an annual basis. An intriguing dilemma. I’m sure this will be breaking news to many, but humans require water to exist. Now, some of this water is consumed by watering lawns, showering, drinking, cleaning dishes, etc. But I think the majority of the water is taken up by farming practices. This isn’t to say that farmers are to blame for this issue, because they are doing a wonderful thing, they are feeding us. This may also be breaking news, but humans require food to exist as well. It makes me think that there must be more efficient ways to raise animals and grow plants in this world. The other day I saw some rich dude by the name of Elon Musk built a rocket and sent four civilians to space for three days. Surely, we can grow large quantities of corn using less water. Now you might be thinking, nice work Dunc, you’ve found a problem with the world, but haven’t heard you spewing any solutions. This couldn’t be more correct. In fact, I am doing very little on a daily basis to contribute towards a sustainable and efficient future. The other day I put a big ole slab of brisket on my smoker for about 12 hours and happily consumed it without remorse afterwards. The sight out of my window is having me consider this problem, and my contributions towards solving this issue differently.

Now we head into the town of Ouray. If you ever have the pleasure of making your way to the southwest part of Colorado, I couldn’t recommend this place enough. It is known as the Switzerland of America. This area is tremendous. My windshield currently displays several mountains shooting out of the earth. The sun is shining on these snow-covered peaks and it again, reminds you of how small you truly are.

After finding a little public restroom facility I’m heading up and over Red Mountain Pass. This is the real “meat and potatoes” of this drive. This road, connecting Ouray to Silverton is unique. For those of you who haven’t propelled your tires over this road, it is exciting, to say the least. I took my parents out to this area a few years back in the summer. I let them know we would be taking a scenic drive over to Silverton, and that I would drive so that they could soak in the scenery. I do not think I would be putting words in their mouth to say that they did NOT enjoy the scenery. They were far more focused on making sure their son kept that rental car between the lines than the stunning views out their passenger windows. The road follows a canyon carved out by a river, and on one side is a near vertical drop for about 300’ to the river below. There are very few guard rails on the road. The reason for this, from what I understand, is that in order to construct said safety devices, it would require putting many workers at great risk, and for the majority of this stretch of road, there simply isn’t enough earth required to place the columns that hold up guardrails. It is known as Red Mountain pass because the road was once used to facilitate mining operation back in the day. Mining practices in the old days used mercury to separate the rare rocks from the not so rare rocks. Mercury isn’t exactly a chemical that would be considered pleasant, and caused the mountainsides to be permanently stained red. Another reminder of the impact human beings have on this planet.

Alas, we have arrived in Silverton. Checked into the triangle motel. Place is an absolute gem. A brief google search brings me to the Avalanche Brewery, two blocks away. Scooped two beers and a pepperoni pizza, with extra pepperoni (a recommendation from the bartender). This outing ended exactly as I had hoped. Given that opening day at the mountain is approaching there were two flavors of people at the brewery. Flavor one was the locals. Flavor two was the tourists/skiers. Call me a rocket scientist if you like, but I sniffed out who was who almost immediately (I know, wicked smaht). Met someone who fell into the “Flavor Two” category quite quickly. He was also embarking on a solo mission to Silverton and we quickly became buddies and arranged to meet at the hill and ski together the following day.

Silverton has 10’ snow banks going right down the center of main street. The snow is coming down quick, and boy do we like that. Haven’t seen a single snowflake in Denver this season. Drive six hours, found a friggin’ winter wonderland. This town also reminds me of the DMV – bear with me. It’s the great equalizer. It doesn’t care who you are or what you’re worth. There’s no Ritz Carlton in town. You’re a CEO of a fortune 500? Cool. You’re a ski bum with a hundred bucks in your pocket? Cool. Grab a room at the triangle motel and get ready to shred.

My room, first floor (love that, easy unload), has a full size bed with about three feet around it on all sides. Its just quaint. Tucked myself in at 7 PM, really burned the midnight oil. Breakfast is served at 7 AM. You bet your bottom dollar I’ll be there for the first eggo.

Woke up, scooped some breakfast and started in on the 20 minute drive up the valley to the ski area. Quick report of the accommodations and the “continental” breakfast. The bed wouldn’t align with my definition of comfortable. This is, under no circumstances, a real issue. 15 years ago, when I was in college, I would have plopped my bones down onto that sleeping surface and counted my sheep all night long without one ounce of discomfort. My soft suburban king bed living self, has become unable to adapt, and live out there in the motel elements. A trait I must overcome. The breakfast would not align with my definition of “continental”. There were give or take 10 wrapped muffins, a few cans of OJ, and 7 boxes of cereal (no bowls or milk). However, all these items were perfectly suitable for human consumption. The current weather conditions consist of white fluffy soft wonderful snow falling from the sky, and 8ish inches of brand new delectable skiable San Juan goodness. Needless to say, its gonna be a helluva day. If I’m being honest with myself, and my projected hoards of readers, I’m a little nervous.  As I’ve mentioned I haven’t exactly been charging yet this season. The goal for the day is to not make a complete fool of myself. Some may say I’m setting the bar low; I think this may be a bit of a stretch to satisfy my personally assigned grade of success. I’ve got two sets of skis in the bed of the truck. One pair, fairly reasonable in size. Second pair, not so much. Pair number two have more of a resemblance to a set of water skis than they do to the snow sliding variety. Pair number 1 pros: lighter, easier to maneuver if snow isn’t as deep as anticipated; cons: much less delightful if the snow bears resemblance to any word listed under the word “depth” in the thesaurus. Pair number 2 pros: They float like a dream over the deep stuff; cons: they’re heavy (I’ll be lugging these things around on my back for portions of the day), and you run the risk of looking like an absolute dweeb if the snow is all windswept and doesn’t associate with the aforementioned noun. We chose pair number 2, the big boys.

Park the rig, go grab my lift ticket (that no one ever gives a hoot to look at), and meet up with my new friend from the previous night. Being opening day there’s a little more of a delay than usual, but this is all understandable given the unique conditions, and the bare bones operation. We meet our guide, Chris. This guy is an absolute legend. Chris is fresh off a few months guiding skiers and snowboarders up in Alaska. Goes without saying it isn’t his first rodeo. After the standard lesson about how to dig out our new friends in the event of an avalanche, we’re on our way up the lift.

My new friend JT and I hop on the lift and are both clearly in the same state of nervous excitement. Fortunately, JT cracked before I did and verbalized his level of apprehension. This made me feel much better, however, having a ski buddy that shares my trepidation at this moment in time did not change the fact that I would still need to personally escort myself down the hill on my water skis.

At the risk of being dramatic, the view at the top of the mountain was fresh out of one of those scenes from the dramatized Everest cinemas. There’s a couple hundred-yard hike that everyone had to undergo. The wind was whipping, the snow was dumping, and it was far from warm. At that moment, I had to have some unflattering internal dialogue with yours truly about what on god’s green/white earth I was doing here.

While I almost ruptured a lung on the hike, ate absolute shit on my 10^th turn of the day, and thought my quads were quite literally burning, we made it through our first run of the day. This run was about survival and getting my bearings. Once that was accomplished the next several hours consisted of absolute powder skiing bliss. The hike got easier as I acclimated to the elevation. My turns got better after I gained some confidence. And the company of the group I was paired with grew on me as each hour passed.

This brand of skiing is much different than a typical resort. The guide thoroughly explains where we are headed, and the fashion in which you are to make your way down the mountain. We were instructed to farm our turns, in other words, not tear up the fresh snow by spreading out in a giant fan on each run. This preserves the freshies for other groups, and even ourselves if we were to repeat the same run. This system, and the cooperation of all involved truly makes the experience what it is. As the runs funnel back towards the base of the mountain at the bottom, the terrain does get tracked out. However, at the top, you are greeted with every skiers dream over, and over, and over, and over again. For the large majority of the day, we had the privilege of skiing almost untouched terrain.

At one point I made a conscious attempt at determining the depth of this white fluffy goodness, and I simply could not. While it varied throughout the mountain, there was easily 18” of fresh snow delicately placed with no other purpose that to imprint smiles on everyone who made the trip that day.

I had a very pointed conversation with Chris at the bottom of one stretch of deep snow. I looked the man in the eyes and told him that I wasn’t sure there was anything else a human being could do that would be more fun that skiing untouched pow. He responded, without hesitancy, like he’s previously had long internal conversations with himself about this same topic, “If there is any utility to this activity, I haven’t found it, as far as I can tell, this exists because its just pure fun.” It has taken me 4,000 words to this point to communicate the entirety of this adventure, and my guy Chris summed it up in one sentence.

Towards the end of the day, after our 5^th run, I was absolutely beat. My legs were like noodles, and I was struggling. At the time, it felt like quite unfortunate that it was only 2:54. The lift stops spinning at 3:00. The good news, I had the option of one more powder lap. The bad news, I had to make my way through the wind whipping hike, dig out some energy reserves from somewhere to feed my legs, and go up for another. I knew I didn’t have the mental fortitude to forego my pride and say no. Up I went. At this point there were only three of us left of the eight that started the day.

Tangent: I sure am glad I chose to have another go. Chris put us on the goods, and with the smaller group we went for it in some more challenging terrain.  Its rare to have this opportunity. I had every excuse to bail, head back the brewery and lick my wounds. I’m comfortable saying that I’m proud of myself for getting back on the horse for one last go.

All in we skied 6 “runs”. While this may seem paltry in comparison to resort skiing, I can assure you this took everything I had. Each run takes roughly an hour. There’s always some hiking at the top, some stops throughout to make sure no ones triggering avalanches or getting lost, and the occasional bus ride at the bottom back to the lift. We were the third group up the hill, and the last group off it. Hoorah.

I would like to mention that we spent the entirety of the day skiing in the trees. This was for multiple reasons. If you didn’t have the trees to block the wind and snow you wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Also, the likelihood of triggering a slide out in the open bowls with this snowpack was very high. None of this is to say that staying in the trees didn’t carry any risk. Avalanches do occur in the trees, however, its slightly less often. My guide Chris was incredibly thorough. He took his job, and his responsibility of shepherding us through the snow seriously. Many years ago, I don’t think I would have appreciated or recognized the role that this individual played that day. As a human with three loving humans waiting for me back home, I have a deep appreciation for Chris. I wish I could have articulated my gratitude better.

Tangent: At the end of the day, I was fumbling over my wallet for some cash to give to Chris. After finally locating some bills, I awkwardly walked up to him, handed him the tip, thanked him for an awesome day, never really stopped walking, strangely patted him on the back, and continued to my car. Uncomfortable (for no reason) to say the least. I’m not sure why I’m so awkward in those moments. I’m sure if I stopped, took my time, and spoke with the man for 5 minutes, I would have really enjoyed it. Room for improvement.

As the day wound to a close, we learned that the world-famous Silverton Ski Area après scene was not to be. Given the current wave of covid, the tent and therefore the perfectly sized bar, was closed for the day. This was a bummer, but there wasn’t much that could bring me down from my current skiing high.

I ended up back the Avalanche brewery for another pizza and more beer. Feeling beat, I ate quickly and had this urge to get back to my hotel room. I just ran outta gas. I was thinking to myself, that I simply didn’t want to be in or around the elements any longer. I was walking back to the room in the snow and wind yet again, and I was, you guessed it, uncomfortable. Tucked myself in at 6:00 PM. See the trend?

Tangent: About three months ago I had the hairbrained idea to run a marathon. After a few of my longer, hotter runs, I would return home and develop a pounding headache. Some amateur google based home physician research lead me to believe this was something known as a exertion headache. I don’t know for sure, but I think I developed one that night. I was completely wiped. It was uncomfortable.

Final day of the trip and we are making our way back home. Another fresh foot of snow on the ground, somehow the pass is open, so we are going to boogie. Had some internal dialogue about skiing again today, but I’m not sure these bones could take another day, and I have a strong desire to return to my family, and bring in the new year with my wife, son, and daughter.   

The drive back was a long, snowy, slog back home. However, I again found solace in all this windshield time. I was truly able to think and listen far more than my day-to-day life allows.

Tangent: I find myself in the southwest of Colorado often. This is a special place in the world for me. The first time I came was with my dad. He flew all the way out to Colorado when I was going to college in Fort Collins to ski two days at Silverton. It was a series of days and memories I’ll never forget. A year later I found myself working in this area. Between Aspen, Montrose, Silverton, and Durango I ventured through the area for an entire summer. It is still the most memorable summer of my life. The Rocky Mountains get all the glory, but the San Juans are a gem that should not be overlooked.

As this trip came to a close, I found myself really thinking deeply. I vow to do this more often. Everything you do, or don’t do, in this world doesn’t necessarily have to be for some higher or grand purpose, but it should be for a purpose. The purpose of this trip was to have a ton of fun and entertain one’s independence. This doesn’t cure cancer and shed the world of a pandemic, but it provides me with mental stability.

I didn’t need this trip to recognize that I really enjoy my time with my family, but this trip did remind me that even as a husband and parent that I am still my own human. As a parent much of your time is consumed by looking out for the little ones you’ve introduced into this world, but its important to understand and maintain the relationship you have with yourself. In my opinion, it’s not selfish to scratch your own personal itch from time to time. It’s a powerful medicine to go do things as an individual.  

I did a few things over the last few days that were uncomfortable. I am slowly learning that this is OK. I plan to intentionally place myself in more situations and circumstances that are uncomfortable. I plan to become more comfortable, being uncomfortable.

Thank you to those that have made it this far. I plan to continue to share thoughts and stories. I hope you continue to read. I really enjoy going through this process and I hope it provides a small amount of fulfillment to others.  

Important Note:

While I was out of town a large fire took hold of several neighborhoods just northwest of Denver. It wiped out roughly 1,000 homes. Consider the magnitude of that for a moment. 1,000 families that could not return to the comfort of their own residence. A strong reminder to always appreciate what you have. My thoughts go out to all the individuals affected.