BIGFOOT 2019

Editor's note: Took me 6 years to finish this thing and kind of still feel like we should re-write it. But the impact it had is just as clear as it was when we finished. Such an amazing journey together.

Bigfoot, my god Bigfoot.  This race stripped me bare and delivered the promise to push me right to the edge of possible, staring into the dark, filled with fear and doubt. It was exactly what I had intended, but so much harder and deeply unsettling than I ever imagined it would be. The Bigfoot 200 is one of those gigantic experiences that will definitely resist all my efforts to capture it in writing, but in the hazy afterglow of the finish line I promised I would try, mostly for fear that my memory would never be enough to hold on to the true experience.  Bigfoot is hard to describe without seeming to rely on hyperbole - one of those lasting touchstones that will only resonate with people who have experienced it, and will just be thought of as an inflated exaggeration to everyone who only sees it on paper.

In the end, the Bigfoot 200 demands 206.5 miles, over 42,000 feet of vertical gain, multiple river crossings and rope climbs, and the most technical, rugged and remote trails I have ever seen.  The terrain is as varied as it is difficult, ranging from the Mt. St. Helens blast zone, through deeply rutted dirt bike trails, into the overgrown, forgotten Klickitat trails, and finally along 20 miles of endless jeep and paved road to the elusive finish.  For my brother and I this required 85 hours, with 5 hours of restless sleep strewn throughout.  And the help of two former strangers and now lifelong friends.  It is the hardest thing I have ever done, without a remote second, and remain the barometer for every adventure and race I do from now on.

Before the race

In the run up to the race, along with the endless planning and perseveration over drop bags, packing, eating, sleeping, etc. we had somehow enlisted an unlikely pair to crew and pace us.  The year before, we had somehow both been picked in the Cascade Crest lottery and came out to the Cascade mountains to run our first 100 mile race.  An unbelievable experience in itself, we were lucky to share a few early miles with Audra Rundle, in one of those brief wonderful conversations you have with people during long footraces like these.  A few months later, she remembered both of us (even though she dropped us early in the race and finished way ahead of us) and reached out to discuss our experiences in her preparation to write a book on the CCC100.  Doug mentioned that we were planning to run Bigfoot this summer and when she voiced her excitement, he flippantly mentioned she would be welcome to pace us for part if she wanted.  Incredibly, 8 months later, she and her husband Nate were en route to Randle, WA, to meet us and crew our race.  This amazing confluence of events would ultimately change our race completely, and turn two near strangers into dear friends to whom I will feel indebted for the rest of my life.

The day before the race we went to the pre-race briefings, met Audra and Nate for some last minute planning, and dropped off our bags.  We checked into our motel down the street, settled in and set our minds to getting really nervous.  Just to be totally ready in the morning, we filled our hydration bladders and packs and got everything ready.  Around an hour later, shortly before we planned to go to sleep, Doug was walking over to adjust the air conditioner and found he was standing in a big puddle of water.  Turns out my bladder had picked now to start leaking.  I was unable to fix it with duct tape we had brought, so I reduced myself to using a couple soft flasks, and filling a filtration bottle at streams until mile 30 when I could pick up my back up bladder from Nate and Audra.  In retrospect, neither of us really had any idea what we were getting into.  In 2019, Bigfoot was widely recognized as the most difficult 200 mile footrace in the US, perhaps in the world.  But all the stats and race reports really don’t convey how incredibly difficult this race is.  If they had, I’m not sure either of us would have signed up.  Or at least I would have been too nervous to sleep beforehand.

Start to Blue Lake

The start is a blur – 150 or so of us, slowly scrambling up a 2000+ foot ascent, trying to take it easy, but still passive aggressively jockeying for position and foolishly thinking that anything we do here will really affect the outcome of our race.  The climb feels good, we make our way above the clouds and the view is amazing.  Soon we are into the boulder fields, scrambling over rocks haphazardly just trying to make a more or less straight line between the markers.  Before we know it we are into the first aid station, cramming my face with watermelon and oreos before quickly pushing on.

Blue Lake to Windy Ridge

The blast zone of Mt. St. Helen’s is just as other-worldly as everyone says.  As we come around it you can see the entire side of the mountain that was blown off during the eruption.  The landscape remains a desert over 30 years later and an amazing contrast to the rest of the Cascades.

This portion of the course is notorious for being exposed and hot, and race reports from prior years almost universally talk about running out of water.  Although it was cooler this year than most, I loaded up both soft flasks and my bladder at Blue Lake, hoping that at least some of the water in the bladder would end up in my mouth and not just running down my ass.  Thankfully the cold weather let us push through this section and reach the oasis without any trouble, even though I was definitely wearing at least half the water in my bladder.  We filtered water from the Oasis stream and drank at least a liter and a half each – it was AMAZING.  Confident and feeling strong, we pushed hard into Windy Ridge.

Windy Ridge to Johnson Ridge

At Windy Ridge we go to see Nate and Audra for the first time, still tiptoeing around each other and unsure of exactly how this whole crew thing was supposed to work.  As Doug and I slowly came to terms with asking for help, Audra pulled together soup and snacks for us and Nate helped me swap out my busted bladder for a new one.

Johnson Ridge to Coldwater

This section flew by even though it’s like 17 miles or something. A ton is runnable through washed out creeks and nice trails over the exposed blast zone. We hooked up with another runner from TX and I got sucked into a really interesting discussion about his volunteer work as an EMT on a helicopter medical evacuation team that operates all over TX, retrieving sick kids from underserved rural areas. He was keeping a faster pace than we intended, however, and while I got swept up in the conversation thankfully Doug recognized we were pushing a little too hard and we pulled back. 

Night closed in quickly and we stubbornly refused to dig out our headlamps until we got to the aid station but thankfully nobody took any unnecessary spills. A little risky but sometimes I feel like the most interesting time to be in the woods is at dusk when things seem to move, noises seem to get louder and you can really start to feel how alone you are in a remote area. Shadows real and imagined skip across the edge of my vision and serve as a reminder of how small I am and that I am traveling in someone else’s home. 

Coldwater to Norway Pass

Coldwater is an amazing aid station. Tons of chairs under cover, a bustling kitchen and kids running around everywhere taking food orders.  I wolfed two veggie burgers, bagged another and changed clothes completely.  I was disappointed that Nate and Audra weren’t able to get there in time, but really the only thing I would have taken from them were my rain pants.  And at this point it was just a little cool and barely raining, so as long as we were moving I had no real concern about it and might not have even have taken them if they had been available.  Dumb.

It’s raining as we head out in the dark, but it’s pretty light and we’re warm as we move. This is the first time I’ve really used the Kogalla lights and they are incredible. Even at a mid-range setting ~250-300 lumens they light up a huge area and I am much more sure of my footing than otherwise.

The rain quickly picks up, however, and things start to get interesting. Lightning strikes light up the sky and for now it is amazing to see the lake lit up for a second and then plunged back into darkness. Sometimes the flashes reveal that we are actually on the edge of a steep drop off and we’re quickly reminded of how careful we need to be. As we start the big climb up to Mt Margaret the strikes get more frequent and louder and soon they are all around us. We both know there is no real cover and we are too far to turn back, so without discussing it we just continue moving forward.

This is one of the longest, hardest sections with over 19 miles to our next aid, and I had been worried before the race about doing it overnight and getting too tired to get there without sleeping. But the lightning storm sat on top of us for over four hours and if there is any silver lining to being hammered with lightning while trying to run and hike along 2 foot wide rocky ledges in the dark, it’s that you’re way too scared to feel sleepy. Before long it got very cold, and being wet on the exposed, windy mountainside was a real struggle. This became one of several times that my goals shrank down to just making it the next 100 yards, even the next few steps. The climb was relentless but slowing down meant shivering really hard and my fear of hypothermia overcame my fatigue. Eventually we topped out on the peak of Mt Margaret but we quickly scurried down to keep moving.

Eventually we came into Norway Pass, cold and confused ~2am. Nate found us and we slowly pulled ourselves together, ate, got changed and climbed into the back of the Subaru to sleep. We were very inefficient here, still kind of getting a feel for having a crew, and ended up spending over 4 hours here despite only sleeping for 90 minutes. But when we woke the rain was gone, the sun was coming up, and a little sleep made a huge difference. Doug got his blistered feet drained and taped up and Nate and Audra were awesome and really helped us get sorted and on our way up the next big climb.

Norway Pass to Elk Pass

This section was really fun. Sun was up, we had music going and we were moving really well. We passed a lot of folks in this section and the next, many of whom hadn’t slept yet and were really starting to drag.  We were still running downhills and excited to pick up a pacer at the next aid. Right before Elk Pass we had our first run in with a group of dirt bikers. I was in front and heard them only briefly before the first one came roaring around the corner at us. To be honest, they weren’t that close, but when I tried to step of the trail, I caught a toe on a stump and tumbled into a patch of briars. Cut my hand up a little but mostly just looked like an idiot. Not the last time.

We rolled into Elk Pass overall still feeling really good. We had to spend 45 minutes getting my GPS tracker fixed by the race staff. In any other race that would seem like forever, but in Bigfoot it was just a chance to eat more. Nate gave the staff some seriously intense stares which seemed to speed things up. This was our first glimpse of Big Nate.

Elk Pass to Road 9327/ Road 9327 to Lewis River

I have no real memory of Elk Pass to Road 9327, but the last several hours into Lewis River were crazy. Audra was pacing us and doing a great job of keeping us pointed in the right direction because night two was very weird.  It seemed like we were always right next to a roaring river we couldn;t see and the combination of the noise and sleep deprivation led to some very strange auditory hallucinations about trains and stampeding Bigfoots (Bigfeet?). Soon after my first real experience of visual hallucinations came crashing in and I was just trudging along confused and delirious for what seemed like hours. Doug seemed pretty loopy too but thankfully Audra was strong, patient and incredibly helpful getting us to Lewis River.

We arrived at Lewis River late in the night and tried to sleep in a sleep tent only to find our mattresses deflated into a puddle while we were sleeping.  Not an awesome way to wake up, especially when it is really cold out.  But Audra and Nate helped us wake up, get some food, pull ourselves together and get out of there. I have no idea it would have taken if we were on our own, but probably most of day 3.

Lewis River to Council Bluff / Council Bluff to Chain of Lakes

This stretch is a bit of a blur, but I do remember that climbing out of Lewis River was TOUGH.  Such a long, slow climb for thousands of feet with lots of river crossings and lots of mud.  Thankfully we felt pretty good through these two sections during the daytime, but took us quite a long time.  We finally got to a little bit cruisier trail after the giant climb and got to reconnect with Audra and Nate so we could pick Audra up to pace the next overnight section.

Chain of Lakes to Klickitat

If I thought anything was hard so far, it was nothing compared to the climb up Elk Peak.  Audra was amazing as a pacer (again), but we were dragging. This climb had like 14 false summits and was raining by the time we finally reached the top.  I remember thinking that I had never done anything as hard as that climb, and the end was so steep and slippery we did the last couple hundred yards up and down from the peak on all fours. More than once I think we mentioned that we had somehow paid to struggle this much.

We thought we were going to have to push straight through to Klickitat but somehow Nate had managed to get to Klickitat and we would have the chance to sleep in the back of the car again.  After shivering through a clothes change behind the Subaru, Doug and I crawled into the back of the car and Audra and Nate got in the front and we all tried to sleep. Nope.

After 90 minutes or so, we all started to rustle and realize none of us had slept at all.  Just shivered and wept gently.

Klickitat to Twin Sisters

This section is kind of notorious but I actually thought it was really cool.  It is such deep, remote old forest that seems like it never gets used outside of this race.  The sun was up, we were finally warm again, and I personally love the green tunnel.  Lots of hilariously slow climbs over enormous downed trees.

It was right in the middle of this 20+ mile section that we came across a runner and his pacer stopped on the trail just after an amazing view of Mt. Rainier (I think).  When we asked how he was doing, we learned that he had not peed in over 10 hours and was having worsening back pain that now made it impossible to keep going.  This had to be just about the worst place for what turned out to be a complete bladder obstruction.  I think he had sent a message with his GPS tracker, but we pushed ahead to try to get word to the next aid station.  In the end there was no way to get a vehicle anywhere near this stop and he had to be extracted by helicopter hours later.  Unbelievable story better described elsewhere, but highlighted how truly remote we were and how bad luck can quickly turn into a very big problem out there. 

The out and back to Twin Sisters has a seemingly endless descent that just sucks the whole time because you know you are going to have to climb back out.  And the pounding seemed to mobilize Doug’s bowels because I think we had to stop 3 times in as many miles so he could bury his trail dumps. We finally got into the aid station and the whole thing started to feel a little more possible.

Twin Sisters to Owen’s Creek

Audra was finally free after pacing over 100 miles, and Nate took over for the last 30ish miles.  It’s such a weird feeling in 200s to get to the last 30 miles and feel like you are almost done.  If you’re us, you have like 10 or 11 hours left, but somehow you feel close.  This section was also very cool and the views from Pompei peak were unbelievable.  Big Nate was strong as shit and brought a ton of energy even though he had been awake for over 3 days dealing with us idiots.  We pushed hard through here, ignoring the fact that we still had over a marathon left but so ready to be at the finish.

Owen’s Creek to White Pass High School

Strangely, this section was the hardest of the whole race. During the previous months and during the race itself, I imagined this flat, paved section to be an easy chance to reflect on the adventure and coast to the finish. The elevation profile makes it look almost like an afterthought. But when you get there, every step is so painful and you realize that it will be another half marathon before you’re done. After days of watching nearly every footfall to make sure you didn’t take a misstep or pausing to look out over incredible scenery, suddenly there is no distraction from the blisters, the swollen ankles, and the full weight of the exhaustion. We’re barely able to run at this point, and as we turn ourselves into the sun in the heat of the day, we’re too nervous to push for fear of blowing up this close to the end. So we reduce ourselves to marching, balancing our need to finish and our fear of coming apart this close to the end. 

A couple miles in, a bull stands in the middle of the road, staring us down. As we slowly approach, it lowers its head and starts pawing the road, so we back up and wait. And wait. It’s unclear why it’s taking so long to cross, but Big Nate’s valiant efforts to hurry it along just seem to be pissing it off and I’m sure none of us will outrun its charge. There is no real way around, so we’re stuck. What I never expected from this race was that standing still would hurt more than moving. But it really does. When we stand in place, everything below the knee just throbs and aches. The fatigue is overwhelming.  Moving seems to mask some of this, so we find we’re just fidgeting and pacing back and forth as we wait for the bull to move. Bizarre that after all these miles we can’t stop walking even when we can’t go forward.

After an eternity, a second cow starts to cross and it becomes clear that the bull was waiting until it was safe to escort his girlfriend across the road. We just messed it all up for him. Slowly they poke across into the neighboring field, stopping to eyeball us every few feet. We lumber on.

As the sun starts to set, the true weight of the sleep deprivation becomes clear. We have at least a couple more hours to go, and while that seems small compared to the scale of the whole race, it is brutal to imagine hiking into a fourth night. We strap our lights on again and shapes on the periphery start really getting weird. Huge faces in the rock outcroppings stare down at me and refuse to go away when I turn to face them like they have other nights. Soon they wear different giant masks and look down menacingly, threatening to swallow me up whole. The trees fold into a tunnel with imagined covered bridges that dissolve as we approach. Our feet are like metronomes, constant and painful, unable to stop for fear of more pain but seeming to go nowhere. The road just stretches on and I start to feel like I’m drifting through a dream with just a thin tether to reality. It’s like a wispy, smoky harness that binds me to the world and it grows thinner and thinner. It’s not as frightening as it is weird, but I’m too tired to fight back against it. Everything I see begins to blend together and then pull apart, as if trying to show me that under it all, the separate identities of the things around me are an illusion of my own mind. That I am just woven into this murky soup and if I let go I can just melt into it. The 3 of us aren’t speaking at this point, folded into our own thoughts, but without Doug and Nate nearby it’s possible I would have just drifted off into the nearby woods without even realizing it. 

Finally we see a streetlight on the horizon and it’s like an oasis. We’re finally coming into Randle. It’s 2 or 3 more miles to the end and it all hurts so bad, but we’re going to make it. I am pulled back into the present and I start to feel it. Really feel all of it. I’m alternating between gritting my teeth against the pain and crying with relief.

We can see the lights of the track and I am overwhelmed with gratitude. To be lucky enough to have a body and mind that can move through the world like this. To be surrounded by family and friends that not only make this possible but support and encourage these goals that seem so ridiculous when I first mention them. To have two almost complete strangers sacrifice themselves completely to help us scratch and claw and fight our way to this finish line. And to be able to share these huge parts of my life with my brother, my best friend for as long as I can remember. I’m the luckiest person in the world.

We find Audra inside the gate to the track as she runs up beaming and screaming how much earlier we got there than she expected. We’re running again, the pain is gone and I am totally bawling. The finish line is a blur of hugs, tears, buckles and the best beer of my life. 85 hours to completely shatter my perception of my limits and reinvent what I know is possible. Somewhere along the way I came to feel more than understand why I do these things. I may not be able to fully put it into words, but how Audra explained it somewhere on the trail is as good as any: it’s fun to do hard shit. There is nothing I have done that can compare to the beauty and the difficulty of Bigfoot. But I cannot wait to find the next one that does.

Prologue

In the course of running this race I realize (finally) why I seek out this challenges. There are a lot of things I love about them - the community, the wilderness, the mountains, the competition, the time with Doug. But I think in the end I’m looking for one specific moment. On some level I’ve always been looking for it.  That singular instant when it is all indescribably hard. Harder than you expected, harder than you wanted. And you only have to choose to stop to make it all better. And you get the opportunity to prove that the limits you thought you had were only ever a story you told yourself. They were never real, they were just a part of your imagination. And you can choose to walk right through them and into the new world of possibility where you have no idea what your limits are.