THE PREAMBLE

I’ve been running a lot this year.

Not the “couple miles every day” kinda thing.  But, long burly trail runs with craggy ups and technical downs.  Rain, humidity – getting to know the mosquito population in Eastern Massachusetts quite well kinda thing.

 

 

This is the training to get my lanky chicken legs in good enough shape to take me out on the real mountain trails.

I planned some vacation time at the end of July to head up to Lincoln, New Hampshire for 3 days with one goal – Run the Pemi Loop.

This is a classic bucket list route for just about any serious trail runner or hiker in the region.

“Pemi” is short for Pemmigewasset – A beautiful Wilderness area in The White Mountain National Forest.

 

 

Here are the route details:

 

Start / Finish: Lincoln Woods Visitor Center

Miles:  31.5

Elevation Gain: 9,000 feet

Mountain Peaks: Bondcliff, Bond, South Twin, Garfield, Lafayette, Lincoln, Liberty, Flume

Effort Required: Mucho!

 

The Pemi Loop is ranked #2 on BackPacker Magazine’s list of the America’s hardest day hikes.

And this is where the FEAR comes in.  I’m still and Alpine Newbie – Been in the weather blender of the Whites only a few times in my life.  I’ll feel like a total chump if I’m under prepared to survive a foul weather episode at altitude.

Training miles are in place, but have they been enough?   I expect that this gig will take 10+ hours.  Calories, electrolytes,”what if I have to take a shit mid run?”  All this stuff needs to be considered.

I think about why I want to do this.  Why I want to uncomfortably do in one day what I could comfortably do in two?

Easy answer here – many other runners have completed this.  It’s doable.

They have reported it on websites and personal blogs.  Articles have been written about the magic of a one day Pemi.  And the writing is so good that it’s sucked me in – it’s literally romanticized me into this attempt.

Seems like most trail runners have a one day Pemi in their bag of victories.  I want a one too.

I’ve rationalized this thought in my head for two years.  Being on the sidelines during my injured 2014 summer, I’d think about the kind of running I’d do if I ever got healthy again.  Pre injury, I was all about getting faster.  I wanted to race.  I wanted to compete.  I wanted to win (my age group at least).

Post injury, I just want to tour on two feet.  I want my running to take me to grand places to capture extraordinary views.  I want to celebrate my health by going long and strong in the mountains.

Reading and thinking about the Pemi is one thing.  Doing it is another.

So I’ve been hitting it hard since the snow melted in late March to build CONFIDENCE.

Haven’t gone more than three days in a row without running the local trails.  Weekends have been long efforts with a full pack of water and gear.  Loaded running has taken my chicken legs to –well, maybe rooster legs.  But, they are stronger.

In June I completed the Presidential Traverse in the Whites (18 miles over 9 mountain peaks including Washington).  This was more of a fastpack than a run.  But at 9 hours, it was an effort that showed me I could be on my feet and moving in the mountains for a full day.

Then later in the month, I read this in a trail running forum:

 

“If you can do the Presidential Traverse than you can do the Pemi Loop.”

 

Bingo!

That’s all I needed to put me on the Lincoln Woods suspension bridge at 6am – July 25^th.  My Pemi start.

 

 

THE RUN

I take off at an easy pace choosing to loop in the counter clockwise direction.  This is 6 miles of flat running parallel to the East Branch of the Pemigewasset River.  I tune into the rhythms of the early morning.

 

 

Strangely, this flat section would kill me at the end of the day had I gone clockwise.  Flat, non-technical terrain chews me up as a trail runner.  Flats let my mind relax so my body can complain.  I feel every ache and tightness that’s real or imaginary.

Roots and rocks – foot placement and trail concentration keep my mind occupied – I like that.

Easy miles complete, I bang a left onto the Bondcliff trail that will take me to 4200 feet.  Mountain running means you gotta get up the mountain at some point.  I know this and like the fact that I can mix some fast hiking into the day – no way I’m running up this trail unless I want to bonk in the first 2 hours.

 

 

The prescription for today is to run where it’s runnable and hike where it’s tough.  That’s the survival plan for those rooster stick legs propelling me up and forward.

Sweat drips off me and I curse my forgetfulness.  It’s too cold for just a t shirt, but with no breeze, too warm for a midlayer the I’m wearing.  The lightweight long sleeve that would be the perfect in between is safe in my closest at home.

“Damn in the closet.  I need that shirt!“ – I frustratingly yell out loud knowing there’s no one in earshot (I hope).

And while I’m second guessing my prep, I notice my pack – loaded with 2-1/2 liters of water, survival essentials, 2000 food calories, full rain gear ,and yes, a wad of toilet paper in a sandwich bag –  it suddenly feels too heavy (10 lbs) to lug around all day – FEAR.

Confidence – where are you?

I try to calm myself and talk out loud again in doing so.

“You’ll be thankful for that (midlayer) above treeline.”

And

“You trained all summer with a loaded pack – CALM DOWN!”

In the moment this works and doesn’t work.  Unresolved, I move forward because bailing out is not an option.

Just move FORWARD.

While my mind bargains with itself, I am making progress.  The trees get smaller as the trail gets steeper.

Suddenly, the trees disappear altogether.  And…

I’m at the summit of Mt. Bondcliff.

 

 

It’s a small victory and there’s still a day full of work to do, but the change in landscape induces energy – mountain energy.  I’m up here on the big New Hampshire 4000 footers.

“YEAH!” I shout that’s part celebration and part – new to the Pemi – enthusiasm.

Before I can put my camera away and take off, another runner cruises up to the small escarpment behind me.  He’s wearing a sleeveless running shirt, small hydration pack, and a mesh trucker’s hat with one bead of sweat about to fall off the bill and another ready to instantly replace it.

“You doing the full loop”, he asks.

“Yeah, if I can stop taking pictures”, I respond with half sarcasm and half-truth.

He continues, “Not sure about the weather – heard it’s going to hail on Lafayette.  I may bail out down Owl’s Head.”

Bad weather is in the forecast.  I heard this on the radio yesterday – afternoon thunderstorms they said.

“I’ve got full rain gear” I say swinging both arms behind me and double patting my oversized pack – “I’m racing the weather today”, Again half sarcasm half…

We exchange pleasantries for another minute and he’s off – clearly not as impressed by me as I am by him.

Fast and light is what I think as he works the trail.

 

 

Speed and flow – I add while snapping more pics as he begins the ascent to Mt. Bond.

 

 

Envying other runners isn’t closing the distance to my car so I take off – CONFIDENCE is rising, fear is receding.

And, I’ll add here that the wind is killer on the Bonds – 30-40 mph cold gusts.  I’m now thankful for the midlayer while the clouds sock in around the peaks.

“I’m on the Pemi!” – I’ll repeat this out loud and in my head all day.

On a rocky trail now, I get up and over Mt. Bond.

Then I transfer to the Twinway trail and up and over South Twin peak.

 

 

Rain is pending – when is the question?

Hopping, sliding, and long stepping down from South Twin, I encounter hikers coming up from Galehead Hut.

“Where’d you start?” is the common question.

“Lincoln Woods” I say.

“And you’re here now!!!???”

It’s 10 am and by their response, I guess I’ve accomplished something.  All I can tell them is – “Did you see the other runner ahead of me? – He’s killin’ it – I’m just cruisin’”

Yes, they’ve seen him and yes he’s all business.

It’s a nice compliment to have the other travelers on the Pemi acknowledge what I’m doing.  After reading so many trip reports about a one day-er, I just had it planted in my head that everyone is doing the same thing.

Not even close.  It’s me and the dude faster than me and that’s it for runners today.

I continue my descent to the hut.  The steep grade and damp rocks make this a grind.  The difficulty of the trail is seeping into my joints and muscles.  Small aches are noticeable, but the trail demands my attention and I’m literally only at 12 o’clock on this loop route (I started at 6 o’clock).

Keep moving forward. 

Finally, the trail bottoms out at Galehead Hut – the unofficial halfway point of the loop mileage-wise.  Effort-wise however, it’s less than half.  I’ve read many runners hit a low point on the Garfield Ridge Trail (GRT) on the way to Mt. Lafayette (which I’m about to tackle).

But, I feel good and stride into the hut not broken or despondent.  Just happy to sit for a few minutes, take in some solid calories, and revel in what it took to get here.

The Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) huts are really something to behold.  They are such a wonderful respite deep and high in the White Mountains.  Water, food, bathrooms, warmth – It’s all here in a building that is much more aesthetic and functional than what the words “hut” or “shelter” convey.

 

 

There are about 10 people gathered in the common area milling over maps and muffins.  Most are getting ready to set out for their day’s destination.  Some slept here last night and some are on a break just like me.  It’s reassuring to be around people in the mountains.  There’s an unspoken kinship amongst us all.  It’s a new feeling I really enjoy.

After shoving a peanut butter Pro Bar into my mouth, I dunk my hydration bladder under the water faucet to top it off.  I can’t help but notice that I only went through 1 liter of the 2-1/2 liters I carried all the way up here.  That’s a lot of weight to lug around and I consider carrying less.

My cautious mind tells me to fill it all the way up.  I don’t know the trail, what the afternoon temperature will be, or the hours from the finish.

A mantra I’ve carried around for a while benefits me in these situations –

 

It’s better to have water and not need it than to need water and not have it.

 

This works for most important gear choices or anything in your life really.

 

The beginnings of the Garfield Ridge Trail flow nicely and I take stock of some essentials:

Stride:  Turning over easily.

Mood:  Light and Happy

Ambition: Recharged.

The weather is still a question mark.  No serious rain as of yet, but the dampness in the air reminds me that it’s coming.  This thought doesn’t bum me out because now I’m committed to finishing this thing.  No bail outs down the side trails.  No sheltering and waiting out any weather.  I’ll continue forward – CONFIDENCE.

After running much of the first mile of the GRT, I downshift to fast packing as the trail pitches up and is littered with boulders and shopping cart sized rocks with smaller, unpredictable loose stones filling the spaces in between.

And, yeah it’s still pretty wet.

 

The above image from FranklinSites.com

The chatter in my mind settles down.  I don’t think about the finish or the weather or my aching knees.  I don’t think about anything.  Some words fly out of my mouth every five minutes or so.  Encouraging words, fun words from my inner self to my outer self.

This semi-conversation gets busted by a young, English, solo female hiker.

“Ahh, you caught me talkin’ to myself.”  I say without embarrassment – my ego stripped away somewhere back on the Twinway.

“No worries, I do it too.”  She says smiling back.

We chat for a bit – a nice respite for us both.  She’s out in New Hampshire sampling some of the AT.

“They don’t give those AT thru-hikers an easy route through the state do they?”  I say completely sincere.

The Appalachian Trail through NH is a quad busting grind to say the least.  It roller coasters through 4000’ and 5000’ foot peaks before and after it crests Washington at 6,288 feet.  People, tough people, hike that shit after logging 1,800 or so miles to the state line with a loaded, 30 + pound pack.

“It’s that way so they get the great views for sure.” She responds.

I trot away thinking about the other hikers I’ve encountered today.  Good people up here.

I ease back into silent propulsion mode.  At this point, I’m just doing it.  It’s automatic:

Walk, run, hike, crawl, grab, lunge, hop, slide.

This is all happening randomly.  The terrain so varied that the Pemi demands it.

Garfield peak comes and goes quickly – the fog is so thick that I don’t bother with the camera.

Rain, when are you coming? 

Lafayette I am coming!

Walk, run, hike, crawl….these actions continue.

Between little “I’m doing the Pemi” smirks, I keep thinking about an ultrarunner saying that describes exactly what’s happening today.

 

Relentless Forward Motion

 

I’ve seen that as a blog site title too I think.

My legs turn over and though a little achy, are still on task.  My mind also a little achy – maybe a little frayed as well is still positive.

Lafayette Peak, I see you.  Nope, a false summit.

The climbing continues.

Please Lafayette, I need to see you.

It’s been over 2-1/2 hours since I stepped out the door at Galehead Hut.  My trip report research tells me that bagging Lafayette caps the tough, tough climbing and the map tells me that I’ll be at almost 9 o’clock on the Pemi dial.

Above treeline now, the air is so damp that I can’t believe it’s not raining.  The fog so thick – no views are afforded.

 

 

That’s good so I can concentrate on the rocky trail and not falling.

That’s bad because I’m up here to have my breath taken away by the expanse and awesomeness of the Pemigewasset Wilderness.

Ahhhh, It’s okay.  I got my reward earlier on the Bonds.  I’m just grateful to have made it this far and still have gas in the tank.

And with that thought, I crest Lafayette and an immediate sense of relief washes over me.  I was talking and motivating myself into believing I could finish this.  Now, I know I will FOR SURE.

The metal duel of FEAR vs CONFIDENCE is over.

Drops finally start to fall.  The midlayer I have both cursed and praised the entire day is soaked with sweat from the inside and is about to become soaked from the outside.

Not ready to strip off the pack and fumble around with a wardrobe change, I trot along on the wonderful Franconia Ridge Trail.

When hikers want to do a quick hit at elevation and avoid the circus at Washington, I’ve read that many come here.   The views and the trail are four stars.  Despite the rain and fog, I can see why.  The trail runs along a knife edge between Lafayette and Mt. Lincoln.  It’s outlined beautifully with small, stacked granite rocks about 4-6 inches off the ground that follow a undulating route across the ridge.  It’s a mountain red carpet.

This all permeates into me as the rain picks up and forces my hand.

I’m due to take a rest anyway and find a slight rock overhang with a mossy perch underneath.   I pull into the pit row for the full hot order:

• Swap the midlayer for a nice, dry sweat wicking t-shirt and rain shell.
• Fuel up on Clif bar + Trail Mix + water.
• Just sit still for 3 minutes – long enough to let the legs rest, but not seize.

I’m back on my feet in less than 7 minutes.  The rain is really coming down now.  I worry about my footing and concentrate on every stride – every rock I intend to step on.  I have to.  A solo runner with a rolled ankle would be a burden on the other hikers up here.

I trot slow and deliberate.  Surprisingly the rain doesn’t both me.  I actually feel vindication for bringing dry layers and my shell (packed right).

As I pass a group of 8 or so college aged hikers (some prepared for the weather – others not so much) I get asked,

“How far to Lafayette summit?” a question I’ve recently purged from my mind.

“I was just there 15 minutes ago so you are less than ½ a mile.” I say.

“You hear that.” He yells above the pounding of the rain to the group “Less than ½ a mile.  Let’s GO!” more to convince himself than the others I surmise.

10 minutes later the rain lightens up.  Another 5 and it’s done.  A deluge for sure and I’m not convinced it’s over yet so the shell stays on.

I start losing elevation on my way to Little Haystack.  At this point, after 7+ hours of Pemi punishment, going down is harder than going up.  A nice gentle slope down would be fine, but I’m on wet, sharp, steep rocks.  My knees pulse with inflammation at each deep bend.  A younger trail runner probably jumps down from most of the 4-5 foot drops I butt slide.

Another 20 minutes of rough hiking and I can’t believe my eyes.  The clouds are breaking and the sun is coming out.

The Fucking Sun!

Really!

I’ve spent the whole day waiting on the rain – “Where’s the rain.  When’s it gonna rain.  It’ll definitely start before I get to Garfield (was my 20 dollar bet).”

I just give a madness kinda laugh out loud.  Sweating up Boncliff.  Cold at the summit.  Comfortable on the Twinway.  Suffering on the GRT.  No views on Franconia Ridge above treeline.

And now the sun beams through the trees.

I got it all today.

The sun and my steep decent means the temp is rising.  The shell comes off and is stuffed into the bungee webbing on the outside of the pack.  It’s summertime in the Whites and I’m wearing just a t-shirt.  My world has righted itself.

I run.  I’m happy.  The trail levels out and I glide the next mile.  Heaven.

I hit Mt. Liberty summit and the clouds have completely broken.  Views abound in a 360 degree panorama.

 

 

DAMN! I need this.

I snap pics and breathe deep.  Standing strong, I just view the views.  Happy chemicals pump through my brain. I’m unconsciously smiling.

 

 

I feel like nothing compared to what I’m seeing. But, feel like everything for witnessing it.

High in the mountains – I can’t put it into words.  I just have to be here.  I will always run and hike hard to get to these peaks.

Down from Liberty, I’m running well.  After 9 hours getting’ after it, I’m giddy that my mind wants to run and my body is able (thank you weekend long runs!).

Stride good.  Mind Good.  Body good…

…BAM!!!  It happens.

Letting my guard down, I catapult my left foot squarely into a rock cemented into Mother Liberty terra firma.

“FUCK!!!”  I yell out.

I don’t stop, but the pace slows while my mind quickly works through the five stages of grief.  I imagine a fractured toe or broken big toe nail floating in a pool of blood.

The pain at level 10 drops to 8 then 7.

“Fuck!” with more frustration than pain at this point.

It remains at a 5 for next ten minutes then drops to 4…then 3.

Crisis averted, I’m hopeful for no permanent damage.

That shoe ain’t comin’ off.  There was never a chance it was comin’ off.  Busted toe ain’t gonna stop me – my mental proper English failing.

I make it up to Mt. Flume summit.  The last peak.  High Mountain Magic is all around me, but after the toe hammer and almost 10 hours in…

I’m ready to be done.

I actually say those words to a trio of young guys milling around the summit who hiked up from Lincoln Woods.  They are psyched for me that I took the long way to get where they are now, but the compliment washes right by because…I smell the barn.

“Smell the barn” is a term ultrarunners use when they are close to finishing a race.  It refers to livestock that can literally smell their domicile (the barn) at the end of a day grazing in the fields.

It’s all downhill from Flume and I know this.  I’m premature in my thinking that I’m close when I see this sign.

 

 

5.5 miles to go – that’s still 17% of this 31.5 mile run.

But, Larisa Dannis tells me in her trip report that she “bounds down Osseo” – a breeze, no problem.

Somehow I think that I’m physically on par with a recent woman’s FKT holder for the Pemi even though I’m 3+ hours off her pace.

Smell the barn?  Bound down Osseo? Get real Steve.  You are barely close to being somewhat done.

I try to mentally wrangle that there is still work to do.  But, the seed is planted – my mind is pushing the chips under the window to the teller at the casino – cashing out – Done – going to my room to sleep.  I smell the barn in my imaginary night of gambling.

Yeah, a nice double analogy I write in my head as I work these ladders down the Osseo steeps (thank you ladders).

 

 

The above image is from FranklinSites.com

Larisa was right.  Before and after the ladders, the trail is a gentle grade – technical in spots, but very runnable.  And I do run.

Again, grateful that both mind and body are willing.

Down and down.  This is the longest 5 miles of my life.

No switch backs, no breaks in the trail.  Osseo has become a long, dirt parking garage ramp in the wilderness.

I run and run – legs rotating underneath my hips like a coasting bicycle wheel – they just roll downhill.  No speed is gained or lost.  I’m at a perfect synergy between the slope of the trail and the force of gravity.

My mind however, is breaking.

“FUCK!” I yell out.

“Am I there yet!”

There – being the right turn back onto the Lincoln Woods trail which will mean I’m exactly 1.4 painful, flat miles away from the finish.

“Come on!”  Smellin’ the Barn.

I hear water running and think that it must be the Pemigewasset River (It’s not) while I stare straight down a trail that stretches to infinity.

More expletives and more yelling.

Back at the Flume summit, I checked in on my time and sub 11 hours seemed possible.  With all the picture taking and trail chatting, I wasn’t too concerned with a time goal.  But, it’d be nice to finish sub-something and to race a little.

So here I am, racing the finish of this epic day.  That’s me – creating a priority where there need not be one.  In my head, right now, sub 11 hours is all I can think about.

I’m storming the trail.  Cussin’ and berating everything.

Finally, Osseo flattens out and when I see an older gentleman with tan Dockers, pristine white sneakers, and a blue windbreaker tied around his waist, I know I’m back in civilization.

Within 2 minutes, I’m at the turn.  A hard right puts me back on the Lincoln Woods trail – the last bit of the Pemi.

In less than a mile and a half I’ll break out the folding chair from the car, strip off my shoes and socks, and just sit in a motionless coma of relief and accomplishment.

This is a secondary thought right now.  My primary self-checks the watch.

10 hours 46 minutes.

If I want sub 11 hours then there’s gotta be a little giddy up.  I ask and my body responds.  It feels like an Olympic surge on the last lap of the 10,000 meters (Prefontaine flashes in and out of my mind).

The reality is that I’m only probably going at an 8:30 mile pace.  But, it should get me the time goal I launched back at Flume.

It’s late in the afternoon and the trail (wide rail trail really) is littered with people.  Hikers starting a twilight ascent, summer tourists from town on gentle strolls, locals pushing baby joggers getting their daily exercise in – are all here.

I strongly remind myself not to be a douche.  Don’t cut people off or force your way around walkers. Be trail courteous.  Getting sub 11 doesn’t give me king of the trail status.

I do get slowed up a few times and give a “Can I sneak by on your left?” in a gentle, un-frustrated tone (which is not genuine).

10 hours 52 minutes.

With stiff hips, fatigued quads, and inflamed knees.  I step on the gas – there’s not much response.

10 hours 54 minutes.

The trail curves a bit to the right and I can see the bridge through the trees about a ¼ mile away.

Is that the bridge?  That’s definitely the bridge?  Yeah, I see it.

The dense trees and low sun make it tough to get a clear view – But the bridge is there I’m sure.

I round out the bend and complete the ¼ mile expecting to see the sandwich board in the middle of the trail with construction info on it.

The sandwich board that sits directly across from the bridge.

The bridge that is the finish line of this thing.

It’s not there.

The bridge is not there.  I’m in slight disbelief.

Did I just have a hallucination?

My mind has played a cruel joke.  The bridge was there.  I ran to it.  Then it wasn’t there.

OUCH!

10 hours 56 minutes.

I’m close.  I know it, but just see another big chunk of trail ahead.  It’s feels like sub 11 is lost, but I still run with urgency.

2 minutes later and I make out the sandwich board.  I blink heavy just to make sure it’s really there.

I bomb the last 100 yards, right to the board where I started at 6am and kill the watch without checking the time.

People are looking at me as I gasp air and lightly walk with my hands on my hips to cool down.

I must look like a fool – a racer without a race – I don’t care.

I don’t care because my watch says 11 hours exactly.  I started the loop precisely at 6am and it is precisely 5pm now.

11 hours – I’ll take it.   My first Pemi Loop.  My first Ultra-anything.

I limp across the suspension bridge proud of my effort and incredibly relieved to be done.

 

 

To the car – chair in the shade – shoes + socks off – sit – drink – sit – nod off – drink – muscles and joints seizing.

This goes on for an hour before I can summon the effort to drive the 3 miles to town and grab the proper beer and burger recovery food at Black Mtn Burger Co.

The most satisfying meal I’ve had this year.

 

Random After Thoughts

 

The week after the run, I was able to connect with the other runner that passed me up on Bondcliff.  He ran an 8 hour 32 minute loop.  Awesome is all I can think.  It did, however, bring my Pemi high down a little.

I wish I could’ve run a time like that – was stuck in my head for a day or so.

Then I started adding up all the time I spent conversing with the hikers and lollygagging at the peaks.  Hell, I spent 25 minutes picture taking and soul searching up at Liberty and Flume alone.  Had I been ruled by the watch the whole run and not taken time to socialize and soak in the wilderness, then I would have cheated myself out of the experience.

I savored everything about the 11 hours I was out there (forgiving the mental fray down on Osseo).

So I probably could have lopped 1-1/2 hours off.  But, for what?

I look back and think that minutes off the watch would have added no value.  If fact it would have devalued my little adventure.

I’ll do it the same way next time too (minus the toe slam).

My ego rationalizing about time aside, I’m pretty proud.  I’ve been curious about longer efforts on the trails and getting up into the mountains.  The White Mountains have been 2 hours to the North most of my life.  I’ve skied a little, hiked them even less.  Now, in my mid-life, it feels like a new discovery.  I’ll be up there more – pushing limits and enjoying all the emotions that come with standing on rocks above 4,000 feet.

New England is such a wonderful, diverse landscape.  I don’t take it for granted, but need to use more of what is so readily available.

Completing the Pemi Loop without bonking is vindication for all the training runs in Blue Hills, the Middlesex Fells, and on the Midstate Trail.  It was like a little endurance project that I prepared for and executed.  I really enjoy when it comes together.  Plus, I did the run on a Friday so I had all day Saturday to relax around the campsite and in town.

Just reveling in the accomplishment.

That’s my kind of three day weekend.