Last weekend, I accompanied Beat to his fourth running of the Hardrock 100, an iconic 100-mile mountain race in southwestern Colorado. I’ll admit up front that I have mixed feelings about Hardrock. Like most mountain races, it’s run on a rugged course with many dangers and little margin for error. Steep snowfields, loose scree, exposed ridges, rockfall, lightning, instant-hypothermia-inducing hailstorms — usually Hardrock throws the whole pie at competitors, most of whom have to stay on the move if they have any hope of finishing. I used to see those who take on such a challenge as badass. But after accompanying Beat to dozens of mountain races over the past 13 years, I’ve lost the last vestiges of my mountain running innocence, and with it, my hero-worship of mountain runners. Now I tend to side-eye those who willingly climb toward dark storm clouds or scramble up rockfall gulleys without helmets.
Perhaps I just don’t like that my husband takes these risks. Perhaps I am smarting from a bruised ego about my own inadequacies in the mountains. Perhaps I’m jealous that I can’t get into Hardrock myself, with the lottery odds being about 1 in 1,000 for newbies. Even the qualifying races are difficult to enter these days. But I actually did get into Hardrock — once. The year was 2014. I threw my name into the hat because I could, because I wanted to start building up tickets to increase my odds of running this mythical race. I didn’t actually want to race in 2014 as I already had big plans to cycle the Race Across South Africa in June and July. When my name was drawn in the December 2013 lottery, I was quietly devastated. This was Hardrock. No one says no to Hardrock. Did this mean I had to give up my once-in-a-lifetime South Africa adventure? I genuinely considered this. My Facebook page was full of congratulatory messages about getting through the lottery, gushing as though I’d finished the race itself. Luckily, I’d already signed up for RASA as a team with my friend Liehann, who would have been rightfully pissed if I backed out. And still, the conflict gnawed at me. In hindsight, the Hardrock angst was silly. I had an incredible adventure in South Africa. I would have killed myself at Hardrock.
It took moving to Colorado to realize that I am, truly, a terrible mountain runner. Before 2014, I had big dreams and a few decent accomplishments. I finished the Bear 100. I have one of those UTMB finisher vests (the course was truncated that year; it still wasn’t easy.) It was the Alps that trampled my delusion. I idiotically signed up for the 2013 La Petite Trotte à Léon. Long story short, PTL is one of the reasons I’m in therapy now. I also thought I had what it took to finish the 2014 Tor des Geants, and even made it 200 kilometers before I slipped downhill during a deluge and tore the lateral collateral ligament in my left knee. In my wildest dreams, I still cling to the fantasy of finishing the Tor des Geants. But every summer I return to the mountains, and every summer I just get clumsier, slower, and worse.
Beat has finished so many of these mountain ultras. It’s beginning to feel like another day at the office for him. Every time he gets into Hardrock (the lottery odds heavily favor past finishers), I have to drag my curmudgeonly, resentful self to Silverton for far too much driving and far too little sleep in order to provide light crewing that Beat doesn’t really need. The crewing is just helpful enough, though, that I want to be there for him … this race is hard enough to finish as it is, even with as many finishes as he has. And Hardrock is a fun scene with all sorts of interesting characters. But after all of these years, I feel like an outsider. I don’t quite fit in here. The mountain-running dream raced through me, knocked me flat on my face, and left me behind.
During our first night in Silverton, after finishing my remote work shift at 8 p.m., I headed out for a brief sunset run. I intended to jog along County Road 2, but took a wrong turn and ended up on a gated and unmarked doubletrack behind the cemetery. After two miles, I arrived at a waterfall. Beyond that, a steep and somewhat faint trail headed straight up the slope on the other side of the stream. The trail was marked “Boulder Gulch.” I decided that’s where I wanted to go exploring after the race started on Friday. Unlike the flurry of activity surrounding the Hardrock course and its well-Instagramed viewpoints, this trail seemed likely to be much quieter. And best of all, I wouldn’t have to drive anywhere.
I may be an awkward and too-slow mountain runner, but I am a great hiker. Hiking is an underappreciated skill in this world. Mountain runners do a lot of hiking, to be sure. What makes them different is that they can move efficiently and often run quite fast downhill. They also waste little time while climbing. I am a hiker because I would scoot downhill on my butt if it was feasible. And I just can’t feel compelled to rush the climb. There’s too much to see to not stop and look around. I used to climb well, which is why I envisioned myself as a mountain runner. But now I have allergic asthma and inflammation that grips my lungs for most of the summer. Wheezing has become my high-pitched hiking companion. I make an effort not to become too winded and thus too dizzy to appreciate all there is to see.
And what is so great about seeing the mountains? I often ponder this question. I crave environments that frequently scare me and sometimes hurt me. What makes them so appealing? My ancestors couldn’t have seen them this way, with their inhospitable weather, rocky soil, and impassible terrain. Mountains were obstacles to surmount, not seek out. So what is the appeal?
I was more than two hours into my trek and still hadn’t seen a soul when I reached the saddle above Boulder Gulch, just below 13,000 feet. The weather was strange for these mountains in mid-July. The sky was impossibly blue. A few puffs of white were beginning to form to the south. Otherwise, the horizons were free of even a hint of an oncoming storm. The air was searingly hot. Temperatures were probably in the 70s, but combined with the UV power of the sun’s rays at 13,000 feet, the ridge felt like a solar oven. The reason I could feel the heat was because there was no wind. Not even a whisper. I doubt I’ve ever felt air so calm so high in the mountains. It was as though the world had stopped spinning and so time had stopped. The stillness became its own motion. The silence became its own sound. These paradoxical sensations were eerie and also exhilarating. Expansive stillness is not a common experience, yet I still wondered why the landscape made me feel this way.
I continued climbing the ridge toward Tower Mountain. It was the most lovely ridge for walking. Broad and flat, carpeted with tiny yellow tundra flowers and surrounded by mountains upon mountains. For most of the next mile to the summit, I fixated on the flowers. There was something mesmerizing about them — so much so that I almost lost the understanding that I was high on a mountain. When I finally looked over my shoulders, I wish there was a way to describe that feeling — the feeling of realizing the world is not tiny yellow flowers, but mountains upon mountains. It was like looking beyond the void into the infinite complexity of the universe. I became weak-kneed. I needed to sit down. My heart fluttered and my blood surged with all of the happy hormones — endorphins from the strenuous climb, serotonin from the beauty, dopamine for the summit I was about to bag, and oxytocin — a strong dose of it — for the love that surrounded me. Mountains may not love me, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t love here. I feel the love flowing through my body — the love of my father — that part of him I can never lose. The love of my family. My love for Beat, who I was so glad wasn’t stuck somewhere high on a mountain in an electrical storm. This day couldn’t be more beautiful.
This all-encompassing, heart-bursting joy isn’t something I experience often these days. It’s the aspect of my mental health I desperately wish to fix. I didn’t fully notice when the joy started to fade away, like a mountain stream slowing to a trickle beneath the glaring July sun. I did notice when the sky went dark and the wind began to howl and then all I could feel was anxiety and despair. After months of flailing through that inner storm, I turned to antidepressants. It was the best decision I could have possibly made. I was drowning in floodwaters and the drug was a liferaft. But that’s all it is — a liferaft.
Beat and I joke about the “happy pills” arriving each month, but antidepressants are not a source of happiness at all. They're more of a painkiller, taking the edge off a deep inner turmoil that was more impactful than any physical pain I’ve experienced. But it’s true that they also shave the edges off the heights of emotion. I’m not yet ready to give them up. I need to become stronger before I can return to face the storm. But I do miss this feeling — this unobstructed awe.
Sometimes I ponder past years of striving — especially the “mountain running” years — and wonder if I was playing too fast and loose with my mental health. All of that time I worried about physical injury — the torn ligaments and Achilles tendonitis and “overtraining syndrome.” Perhaps I should have given more consideration to the strain on my mind — the prolonged states of fear, the sleep deprivation, the adrenaline crashes. I wonder sometimes — what are we doing to ourselves out here? What are we really doing?
But I realize that question can apply to any part of our lives. There are no easy routes to the finish. It’s all a harrowing ultramarathon. I suppose the point is that sometimes — sometimes — we find ourselves high on a mountain on a perfect day, standing in perfect tranquility, feeling like we could lift our tired feet off the ground and start to soar.
hi, I'm sorry I didn't connect when you were back here. I share a lot of your mixed feelings about Hardrock, and I too am getting slower and clumsier annually (and since I'm 54, probably way more than you!). I am so frustrated with the lottery (it'll be my 9th year trying to get in -- 7 lotteries + 2 years of cancelations -- and I still have barely a chance). I want my shot at doing the whole massive loop, testing myself against the challenge. Thankfully, I can run/hike mountains on my own as you described. I'm glad you're getting help with antidepressants, and I hope you can develop a more joyful and easygoing, less turbulent and risky relationship with mountain running.
Once again, a beautiful essay on life and the draw of the mountains. I’ve always had that yearning for mountains even though I’m currently resident of Minnesota. Jill, I’ve struggled with low grade chronic depression for most of my life and I think I tried everything from diet to many antidepressants to try to alleviate the depression. Now at 67 I’m on my fifth round of ketamine treatment. I’m feeling a sense of lightness and motivation that I thought was gone forever. I don’t know how this will last longer term but I have nothing but gratitude for this new treatment. Something you may want to consider. Keep up the insightful writing! -scott