"What are men to rocks and mountains?" Jane Austen once asked. I had the same thought as I watched the first wave of runners begin the Ed Anacker Bridger Ridge Run, which bills itself as "19.65 miles of brutal climbing and descending." I would soon see whether the mountains outside Bozeman, Montana, would show compassion toward a prodigal son.
In my late 20s, I spent six months kicking around Bozeman as a ski and running bum. Years later, when my middle-aged brain replayed the Big Sky idylls of my youth, I couldn't escape one unpleasant memory--that of my first and only attempt at the Bridger Ridge Run. In it, I was doubled over near a vertiginous incline, enriching the flora with half-digested PowerBars. At the two-mile mark.
I finished the race, but not before a 67-year-old scampered past me as I shuffled down the final descent. It was not a performance that I, a former Division I runner, had dog-eared in my racing scrapbook. Now, almost two decades later, I had returned to redeem myself.
When the starter turned loose the second wave, 50 of us funneled from the Fairy Lake Campground onto a soft trail winding through stands of lodgepole pines. Within minutes, the path's incline up Mount Sacagawea cranked heavenward, and my lungs and quads, spoiled by the oxygen-soaked air and tortilla-flat training grounds of my Oklahoma home, protested. I slowed down. At least for the initial ascent, I would be hiking.
And what a hike it was. The trail unspooled toward a sky the color of faded jeans, zigging and zagging as we traded forest for alpine tundra, a rocky moonscape broken up by tattered shrubs. The chilly morning air warmed with the rising sun, which bathed everything in a honeyed glow. On the switchbacks, I caught sight of the long line of neon-clad runners adorning Sacagawea's slopes.
Just past two miles--no barfing!--I crested the summit. At 9,650 feet, it's the race's highest point. But as I skidded down a scree field on the peak's back side, I knew I had more climbing to come.
Whenever the trail dipped beneath the range's spine, I sped up. But when it wound back up to the knife-edge ridge, I slowed my cadence right back down. Occasionally, I paused to gaze upon the green fields of the Gallatin Valley below. But what really slowed me down was thinking: One false move and you'll go caroming down the mountainside like that stone you just kicked loose.
At the aid station atop Bridger Bowl, the ski area where I had spent a winter cavorting in Montana powder, I refilled my water bottles and downed a gel. With the competitors strung out, I trekked alone. My legs grew rubbery as I picked through a field of loose rock, and I almost went down near the final summit.
I breathed a deep sigh of relief (and oxygen) when I descended into the trees. The steep pitch of the trail prevented me from barreling down the mountain, however, and I braked with each step, igniting hot spots in my quads, toes, and lower back. About a mile from the finish, I took a hard, head-first fall, but the damage was minimal. At least I'll have some badges of honor to show off, How to Adjust Your Run Schedule After a Big Race.
All told, I climbed 7,100 vertical feet and descended 9,500. With a time of five hours and 19 minutes, I finished more than two hours behind the winner. But I bested my previous time by 34 minutes.
As a volunteer bandaged me, I gazed up at the beautiful and foreboding Bridger Mountains. Just like Meriwether Lewis, William Clark, and Sacagawea, I had traversed their ridgelines. The stone monoliths didn't remember those legendary explorers, and they wouldn't remember me. But I'd never forget them.
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You can run it yourself on August 9th. For more information, visit winddrinkers.org.
