Death Valley Peaks

Bucket-list item #1 in the hottest, driest place on the continent

I have always come to Death Valley National Park to ride my bike, either in one of the Adventure Corps century rides, or for one of their cycling camps. I had always hoped that one day I could come here and try a couple of different fun activities. This is the story of the first one.

Telescope Peak is known for having one of the most dramatic vertical contrasts anywhere. The view from the summit at around 11,049 feet (3,368 metres) looks down on Badwater, the lowest point in the Western hemisphere, 282 feet (86 metres) below sea level. I wanted to hike to the top.

The road that approaches the trailhead at 8,130 feet (2478 metres) is described as rough, and it is. It is recommended only for vehicles with four-wheel drive and high clearance. Our vehicle has both those features and it was still an ordeal to get to the parking lot where we began the ascent. Part of this might have been due to washouts from a recent episode of flash floods in the valley. (The appalling road conditions didn’t seem to deter the three young ladies who arrived in their Toyota Prius and scampered cheerfully up the mountain, so maybe it depends on how precious you are about your car.)

Rocky paths. Not for the
flat-footed  or faint-hearted.  

This is not a climb for people who don’t like hiking uphill a lot or who are nervous about heights. A lot of the path is narrow, with hardscrabble rock along the sides of bottomless slopes. A decent and fulfilling workout for experienced hikers; doable, but not a day at the beach for novices. 

The fourteen-mile round trip could take between seven and nine hours. Karen had brought a walking stick; I wouldn’t rule out two as optimum. One serious consideration is that you have to carry your own water, as there is none on the trail. I left some of ours cached behind a tree about halfway up and retrieved it on the way down. A bonus is that although the trail features Death Valley’s well-known dryness, the air is beautifully cool and clear.

A view of the snow-covered north face. 

The memorable (in one way or the other) finale is a series of steep, tough, scrabbly switchbacks (around 12 or 13 of them ... no one seems to be able to count them and get the same result twice). At the end of many of them there are flat stones to sit and rest on if by this time you are feeling a bit peaked (sorry).

We got to summit by walking along a short ridge followed by a little push to the top. The vista is spectacular, although the vistas all the way up are just as spectacular, so the summit views down to Badwater and all the way to Mount Whitney were just the cherry on top (as it were). There is a metal ammo box (how very American I thought) containing a logbook to write your name. There is no signpost for a summit photo, so posing with the ammo box is your photographic proof that you were there. We were lucky that another couple had arrived just before us so we were able to take turns snapping photos for each other.

Karen and I stand on the summit with the coveted ammo box. 

This was an outing I’ve been thinking about for years, and it fulfilled my hopes beautifully. If they would grade the ruts and furrows in the ghastly road to the trailhead, it would be a perfect activity for a day in (or above) Death Valley.

Next: The Badwater Mini-Marathon

Going the Extra Mile

Run for the Toad

Paris, Ontario, October 3 2015

Every trail has its secrets, its challenges, and its attractions. This, I am learning, is a major feature of trail running: pounding the pavement can’t match it for piquing and holding your interest. The two races I entered this fall were both challenging and rewarding – and as different as could be.

If the Haliburton Forest is Joaquin Phoenix – wild, unpredictable, and exciting – then the Run for the Toad, which I ran on October 3, is George Clooney – refined, poised, and easy on the eyes. The Run for the Toad is a race you'd like to sit down and have a beer with. 

Due to the purgatorial experience of trying to drive a car anywhere near Toronto (even at 6:30 am on a Saturday morning the traffic was stopped dead on the 401), the large time buffer I had left myself to get to the race site had evaporated by the time I arrived. I had to park about a kilometre from the start and was in a vile temper.

“Do you need a lift?” asked a lady in a car who pulled up beside me while I was walking back to my car after picking up my race kit. “You’re parked in the far lot, aren’t you?”

It turned out that she was a volunteer who was driving to the spot where she was going to marshal the runners in the race. Somehow she had divined that she was heading to the same place I was.  A small gesture like this went a long way toward making me glad I had come.

The race course follows a circuitous route through the Pinehurst Lake Conservation Area near Paris, Ontario. There are two well-balanced laps of 12.5k for the 25k racers, and four for the 50k racers. Most of the run takes place under cover of forest, but there are a few outings into open fields. On race day this meant emerging from the trees into a ferocious wind; one aid station had their Smarties and cookies blown right off the food table to someplace probably not in Kansas anymore.

The paths are usually wide enough to allow two people to run abreast with room for a third to pass. This came in handy as I began to be lapped by the fast runners, whose feet seemed to barely touch the pine-needled ground as they flew through the forest with a speed and agility I could only admire. “On your left!” became a familiar cry from racers zooming past me like cars in the fast lane of the Parkway on a Friday night, and I almost always got out the way in time.

I took some advice from my own experience at the Haliburton Forest and worried about pace and time not at all. I was 6 kilometres into my second lap before I even thought to look at my watch. It was a cool, grey day and I stayed comfortable at the back of the pack in my torn tights and worn blue running jacket, both relics of the last century.

Old wardrobe – older runner.

The finale of each lap features a run up a sharp, grassy hill, which the regulars have named Horror Hill. It isn’t really a horror, just a chance to get rid of any excess energy you might have been saving up over the previous 11k.

I liked everything about the Run for the Toad. From check-in to aid stations to finish line, it’s an event that is focused on the runners. I finished the 25k feeling refreshed, not trashed, and definitely more cheerful than I had when I arrived. On my way back to my car, I came across my helpful volunteer again. She spent some time trying to sell me on the idea of trying the whole 50k next year. Who knows? Maybe she succeeded. 

I am writing this from Death Valley National Park in California, where the temperature today is 40C and the cool boreal forest trails of a week ago seem ages away. I am here for a cycling, running, and hiking vacation, and I hope to write more about that in the days to come.

Into the Woods

“… to get the thing that makes it worth the journeying!”

Somewhere ahead of us were the people who were running the longer distances: 50K, 50 miles, 100 miles. They had started in the pre-dawn chill of a fall morning. The hundred milers would be out there all night and into the next day.

Lining up with a hundred others at the 22^nd annual Haliburton Forest Trail Run, I was happy just to be attempting the 26K distance; as a novice in the field, I thought that would about be my limit. I was right.

The trails in the Haliburton Forest are not like the wood-chipped, groomed trails in a suburban conservation area. The larger of them are winter snowmobile tracks; lacking snow they are steep, rocky steeplechase courses. The hiking trails are more like suggestions of pathways through the trees. All around me was the quiet grandeur of nature: tall evergreens, steep rock cliffs, lakes and rivers.

I saw very little of it. I was too busy trying not to fall on my face or twist my ankle. To accomplish this, I had to look down at my feet almost every step of the way.

Look down.

My gait along these paths was a sort of combination of hopping, skipping, and salsa dancing. Every time my foot came down, it landed on a new geological potpourri of dirt, gravel, and rocks the size of my head. The concentration and coordination required simply not to fall was almost mesmerizing. I was in awe of the people who could negotiate this topography with any kind of speed or confidence.

Running over terrain like this is a total body workout. All my leg muscles were working to keep my ankles from buckling and my body moving more or less forward. My arms were continually flying out from my sides to help me keep balanced or to catch me when I stumbled. And stumble I did, many times, although I fell only once. No one was around to see me, so I assumed that I did not make a sound.

As a rookie trail runner, I managed a few rookie mistakes.

Rookie mistake #1: Too many clothes. The morning of the race was very cool. I bundled up as if I were in a February polar bear run. The forest however provided a good amount of shelter from the chill wind. Once I got warmed up, I was sweat-soaked and clammy all day.

Rookie mistake #2: Not enough sustenance. Almost everybody in the event set off with some hydration and nutrition. I didn’t. There were aid stations at 2 and 6K, and at the turnaround at 13 kilometres. I figured I would have no trouble running the 7K between the second and third stations. I run that far all the time without eating or drinking.

Yes … along the paved flat bike paths in the valley behind my house in the city. Clambering down slippery hills and up rocky fields not only took more out of me than I expected, it also took about twice as long. I was dehydrated and undernourished the whole way.

Rookie mistake #3: Worrying about time and space. There was only so fast I could go, even though I felt that I was going as fast as I could. I had enough energy and my legs were never tired or sore; I just couldn’t move any faster. Even as I tap-danced my way along the root-laced paths, I knew that I was making very slow progress. My pace was glacial and there was nothing I could do to speed up.

In a nice urban road race like the Scotiabank Waterfront Marathon, there are little signs placed every kilometre along the way to show you how far you’ve come. In the Haliburton Forest there are almost no navigation aids, except the myriad little orange flags to show where the path is supposed to lead. I was disoriented the whole way because I never really knew where I was or how far I had left to go.

Eventually I realized that this is the point. “It’s all about enjoying the trail,” said a volunteer at an aid station. It took me the entire race to realize the wisdom of what she had said. A trail run is about discovery – of the terrain, the environment, and of your own limits. There is nothing to prove and everything to learn.

I learned enough to know that I want to come back to this place and run again. I crossed the finish line feeling somewhat battered, but also in a way, stronger than when I had started.

No two trail runs are the same, and this becomes part of the definition of the genre itself. Maybe running for me in the coming years won’t be about trying to be better at something I have already done; maybe it will be about doing something that I have never done, and figuring it all out as I go along.