Keys to finishing the Hardrock are a full acclimatization to the altitude at which it is run and a complete understanding of the trails over which it courses.  The only way for a flatlander like myself to finish the run successfully is to arrive in Silverton early and help Charlie Thorn mark the course.  My roommate, Corey, and I arrived in Silverton two weeks early, in time for the first course marking day.  It was a Saturday afternoon start, a marking of the last section of trail over Porcupine Creek and Putnam basin, the last 11 miles of the course prior to the crossing of Mineral Creek, 1.3 miles from town.  In our unacclimitized state, Corey and I had extreme trouble finishing the distance.  Corey threw up at the end; I felt like doing the same.  It was a hard and fast lesson in humility, as Charlie summed up our state with his usual degree of tact: "You guys will never make it like that."

The statement hit hard, but it was true.  The mountains don't relax for the underprepared.

In the next two weeks, we prepared.  We marked course, running over 80 miles of the actual race path, climbed mountains, scouted out high vistas, examined the wildflowers.  We walked a lot, ran extensively, and spent most of our time outdoors enjoying the beauty of the land through which the race is run.

We made camp in the San Juan National Forest near Minnie Gulch east of Silverton.  In the silent stillness of the mountain mornings, the birds sang their colorful tunes, the sun greeted us with a smile, and the very cool temperatures chilled our bones in the early morning air.  Peacefulness, fresh air, and complete relaxation greeted each day.

The typical scenario was to awaken early, change clothes, and make breakfast.  Breakfast either consisted of oatmeal and coffee over the camp stove or cold cereal in the seat of the car as we waited for the course marking day to begin.  I would prepare my waist pack for the day's adventure, and Corey would prepare his.  Water, trail mix, the camera, toilet paper, and sunscreen were the staples that we carried.  Every day we would venture to a different part of the course, placing flags to mark the route.  A relaxed pace helped both of us enjoy the long days on the trail with several of our running friends.

The running and the marking gradually became easier.  As we acclimated to the altitude, we were able to run more and surge ahead on the course marking days.  We were able to climb with purpose, at a steady uphill pace, quickly.  At one point in the preparation, I ventured out for a solo run with Brick Robbins.  We ran from Silverton to Maggie Gulch, and were met at Rte 110 by Corey later in the day.  While the run took Brick and me close to two hours longer than we thought it would, we had a good explanation: The course wasn't marked, and we took a wrong turn, adding about four miles to our already long day.

The training mileage rose dramatically during the first week I was in town.  I amassed over 70 miles in five days, more than I would ever think of doing at home.  I was in God's country, in the lands of the high San Juans, and I was at peace with what I was doing.  I enjoyed every mile, every climb, every descent, every marmot, and every flower.

The training was important for the run at hand.  It was a necessary component of a successful race, as important as proper fluid and nutrition management and clothing.  The training allowed me to be out on the trail, learning where the course went, learning what the mountains looked like at different times of the day.  The preparation was invaluable during the run, as I could tell, even without the flagging, where I was supposed to go.

As the weeks progressed, I tapered my training mileage slowly in preparation for the big day.  I ran a quick seven miles on the road early the week of the race, to stretch out my legs and test my strength.  Finishing the miles in under 55 minutes, I knew that I could be honest with myself and say that I was ready for the race -- at least as ready as I'd ever be.

The detailed pre-race course briefing on Wednesday afternoon, held in the old Miner's Theater and conducted by Charlie Thorn and John Cappis, the route directors for the Hardrock, takes each section of the course and uncovers it, stone by stone, using slides, maps, and verbal descriptions of important landmarks on the course.  While allotted a full two hours to complete the briefing, Charlie and John always end up taking more time than that explaining all of the various twists and turns in the route, the changes from the course description, how to ford the rivers safely, and how to navigate the snow and scree fields that can impede progress.

This year, Charlie explains that there are two major changes in the course from previous years: First, the route up Handies Peak no longer goes through the boulder field, but up the shoulder of a mountain (affectionately named "Up-Chuck Ridge") and approaches the summit from the south; and second, the final 1.3 miles of pavement on US 550 has been eliminated, thanks to Chris Nute, Carolyn Erdman, and Gordan Hartman.  Instead of the road miles, we are to cross the highway and climb 200 feet to an abandoned railway bed, where the route will take us into town on a relatively flat grade.  This section, named after Chris, has become known as the "Nute Chute".

I think of the section as "Shoot Nute", as the last thing I want to do after running 100 miles is to run up another hill and across scree while balancing on an outcropped trail carved from the side of Anvil Mountain.  But I have no choice.  Charlie determined that the temptation to use the road would be too inviting for delirious runners, so he decided to place a punch on the Nute Chute, forcing everyone to mark their number so he would know that the section was indeed crossed.

I walk out of the course briefing after viewing some pictures of the only area I am not familiar with, American Basin.  If I am going to get lost, it will be here, coming down off of Handies at mile 40 of the run.  At least I have a couple of things working in my favor.  First, I will be through that section on the first day, while it is still light out; second, it occurs relatively early in the run, when I will be fresh and alert -- and in the company of other people.  While the pictures only slightly reduce my anxiety, I feel better knowing that the course is marked with many flags.  It also helps to know that this section will be the snowiest part of the course, except for maybe Virginius Pass at mile 67.

The next morning I sleep in, awaiting the mandatory meeting at noon in the high school gym.  I eat a large breakfast, sit at the Avalanche Coffee House and drink coffee, and review -- again -- the course description that was provided.  Corey and I get to the gym early in order to pack my five drop bags that will be out on the course. Each bag contains a change of socks, a mixture of CLIP and Amino (2 scoops CLIP and 1 scoop Amino per 20-oz bottle), a change of shirt, and other dry clothing that I may need while out on the course.  Even though my crew, Corey, Bob Rayburn, and Doug Spink, will be at each of the crew-accessible aid stations, I still pack drop bags just in case they miss me at any of the points, lose time changing a tire on a mountain road, or oversleep.  In a race where the proper equipment is essential to completion, a runner can never be too prepared or have too much clothing available for use.  Dropping bags at the available locations ensures that even if my crew is delayed, I will still be able to press on with the clothing and nutrition I have stored.

Shortly before noon, Corey and I eat lunch and walk back over to the gym (you can walk anywhere in Silverton) and meet with the other runners.  It is, once again, a big family reunion for me, and I stop to speak with almost everyone I see.  Included in the crowd are Chris Nute and Brad Hatton, two friends of mine attempting their first 100 mile run.

Dale Garland and Kristina Maxfield, the co-race directors, begin the briefing, and I find myself lost in a world of my own.  I can't believe that race day has come so fast.  Even though I have prepared as well I could, the prospect of such an extreme undertaking is worrisome to me.  In fact, while in Silverton, I wrote the following piece for inclusion in this report:
 

Why is Hardrock different? I'm sitting here in the Silverton library the evening before I commence my journey through the San Juans.  The race will be my 15th 100-mile start, but it seems as though it is my first. I no longer routinely get nervous or excited about the idea of running 100 miles, but this time, I find myself restless and anxious.  I find myself feeling like it is my first all over again.

Why is Hardrock different? It is different because the course elevation is between 7700 and 14048 feet.  It is different because the time limit is 48 hours.  It is different because many of the trails are hard to follow.  It is different because we will be running -- we ALL will be running -- through a night, into another day, and back into night. And maybe morning of a third day.

Those are the mechanical things that make the course different from the rest of the 100-milers.  But there is something more than that which causes my stomach to turn and my heart to race.  There is something more than just the sheer magnitude of the course that is making me nervous and excited about what I am attempting to do.  But why is it different from the rest?  What makes the course unique?  I don't have the answer right now, the night before I start, but I hope to discover the reason in the next 48 hours, as I traverse the course and test my limit of human endurance.

The briefing finishes and Corey and I take my drop bags out to the Maxfield's Shop, the site of the start and finish for this year's run.  Our previous start and finish, the Ski Hut, was destroyed by fire last winter and has not yet been rebuilt.  The rest of the day is ours to use as we see fit, so Corey decides to read while I check my e-mail at the library.

I can't sit still.  My mind is going in four thousand different directions, and my muscles don't want to relax.  I find that I can't just sit and wait for the start; I must be up and moving about.  I force myself to browse each of the tourist-oriented shops along Greene Street, just to waste some time.  I munch on the remains of the trail mix we'd made up to use during the course marking days.  I read through my runner's manual again.  I have to wait for the rest of my crew to show up in town, Bob Rayburn, from Broomfield, Colorado, and Doug Spink, from Portland, Oregon, and I'm not doing a very good job at it.

Before long, though, Corey and I head over to the Brown Bear Cafe for dinner.  We have arranged to meet as a crew for dinner at 7:00 p.m., right before I go to bed and try to rest for the night.  We eat and make plans for the race, as I let everyone know where they will be pacing, when I will be at the aid stations, and what I want to eat when.  Corey has taken on the role of "head crew" person, and is well aware of what and when I want to eat.  Bob and Doug, along for the pacing detail, are actually able to spend most of Friday, as I run the first 42 miles of the race, sleeping and resting up for their journeys through the mountains.

I find myself unable to sleep.  This is quite unusual, as I normally sleep like a log the night before a 100-mile effort.  But this one, as I've mentioned before, is different.  The race keeps me awake even before I begin.  My mind cannot relax, and I find myself lying in my tent at the South Mineral Campground wide awake, listening to the rain fall through the trees and splatter on the tarp above our tent.  I really don't want to start the race in the cold, wet weather, but the rain pattern over the last week has not looked too promising.  My anxiety over the event, the cacophony of the giant-sized rain drops, and my inherent fear that I will oversleep, force me into staring at the ceiling, wondering what lies ahead of me in the next 101.3 miles of trails.

I must doze off for a while, as I awake and look at my alarm clock.  Two hours have passed, but my eyes tell me that I've not had enough sleep to effectively run 100 miles.  While there is nothing that I can do about my insomnia, I know that I will be wide awake at the 6:00 start, and I take comfort in knowing that I will make it to the starting line with plenty of time to spare.  The rain continues.

The alarm awakens us at 4:15 a.m., and I gently roll over on Corey to turn the thing off.  It's constant beeping irks me, even though I know it is only doing what I have advised it to do.  I put on my spandex shorts and long sleeve DriFit top, my signature clothing for the 100-mile effort.  I have pulled out a lightweight Activent jacket in which I plan to start, but the morning is still cold and wet, and I decide that I should try something heavier and warmer.  The Nike StormFit jacket, my spare one, comes out of the pack and I put it on.  Waterproof, windproof, and warm, I end up running the whole 100 miles with it.

Clothed and ready, Corey, Bob and I leave the confines of the tent, knock on Matt Mahoney's tent door to be sure that he is awake, and head off into Silverton for breakfast at the Kendall Mountain Cafe.  I eat pancakes and oatmeal, and drink a lot of coffee.  The lack of sleep hits me hard, as my body doesn't want to wake up, but I am ready and willing to get this thing started -- much more than any other race I've ever entered.

It is still raining outside, and as we drive to the start at the Maxfield's, I realize that the decision to wear a heavier coat was a good one.  It is cold and wet.  Other competitors are rummaging around the area wearing heavier clothes than I am, but I know that the first few miles is all uphill and I will warm up quickly on the early climbs.  It is also necessary to remember that the weather can change quickly in the high country, so wearing too much right now, without the opportunity to change clothes right away, could leave me overdressed.  I keep the shorts on with the heavy coat on top, pin my number to my hat, cinch up the waist pack, and head out the door to the start banner.  It is now almost 6:00 a.m.

The rain doesn't abate as Dale Garland has us sing "Happy Birthday" to Kristina to signal the start.  The 82 starters of the race, prepared and ready to run over Cement Creek and into the forest, don't sound too enthusiastic about the singing, but it is 6 a.m., cold, and rainy.  We are on the verge of starting a most amazing adventure, and the excitement shows.  I toe the line next to Frank Probst, from Virginia, who is concerned about the altitude.  "Well, Frank, there's nothing that you can do about it now.  We just have to go out and run."

Dale starts the race with a vocal, "GO!", and we all head out down the short alley to 14th street.  We cross the creek and pass the temporary shelter erected after the Ski Hut fire.  A line of runners, single file and energetic, climbs the trail quickly.  I run with Frank and Eliza MacLean, and run into Brad Hatton as the field spreads out a little bit more.

The trail climbs only slightly before leveling off and crossing Swansee Gulch.  The creek there is our first crossing of the run; it is hardly our last.  A small wooden bridge is there and is adequate to keep us out of the water and dry -- at least for a little bit further.  We are in the woods, sheltered from the direct rain, but the low-lying clouds and the mist surround us like a blanket and it is difficult to see very clearly or very far.  We pass the Lackawanna Mill and continue on the single track, undulating through the beaver ponds, and dodging the standing water that has become synonymous with the trail.

Even though we have only run close to a mile, the field is already quite spread out and I am running generally alone with only Brad a few meters behind me.  I see no one in front of me, and there are few markers along the trail to indicate the correct path, but that is common on this run and the reason I have chosen to carry my course map in my waist belt.  I am familiar with the course, so I know that I am on the correct trail, but the assurance of an occasional marker is always nice.  Currently, I don't mind, but over the next 48 hours, I'm sure the markers will be critical to my mental health.

I reach the jeep road leading me through Arrastra Gulch, and after crossing the stream on a wet and narrow plank, make the correct turn upward, leading to Dives-Little Giant Pass at the southern end of King Solomon Mountain.

"I wish it would stop raining, Brad.  I don't mind the cloud cover, but the rain can get cold if it keeps coming down for the next day."

We continue on up, making the switchbacks and turns as we follow the tram system of the Mayflower and Big Giant Mining operations up the road to the lower basin, past treeline. As we climb, we can see nothing but the 50 meters of road in front of us and some trees directly off the side of the road.  The fog has penned us in and mist has taken the place of the steady rain.  I look up and Frank Probst has slowed in his ascent.  He is walking with four-time finisher Odin Christensen, and even though they are only a few feet in front of me, the mist has taken the sharpness from my eyes and they appear fuzzy in my vision.

"How's the climb, Frank?"

"I can't get my breath.  People are passing me like I'm standing still."

"Well, if you look closely, it appears like the clouds are lifting and you can see where we're headed."  The sky breaks and it becomes clear, just as we ascend above the Big Giant Mine. I point to a saddle, far in the distance and about 1000 feet higher than our current elevation.  "There's the first goal.  We climb off the left side of the basin, along that narrow trail you can see through the scree."

I continue past Frank and Odin.  I also leave Brad behind.  I feel strong for this climb, and even though I know what the terrain is like ahead of me, I realize that I need to keep moving to give myself a small buffer of time for later, when I might need it.  This course is unlike all the others, where it is generally advisable to walk the uphills and run the downhills.  Here, it is necessary to walk the uphills and attempt to make up some of the time on the downs, but since I am a bad downhill runner -- especially on scree, loose rock, and boulders -- I know that my downhill running will be just about as slow as my uphill capability.  I walk uphill with purpose, speed hiking as fast as I possibly can without forcing myself too hard and going into oxygen dept.  I pass people at a steady rate.

The climb goes fast, and I note that the snow that had covered the basin six days prior has melted quite extensively.  I take that as an omen for the snow melt over the rest of the course, hoping upon hope that American Basin and Cataract Basins are free of snow.  While marking the course, I discovered that in areas where the snow was lingering, there was a lot of wet grass and tundra.  The wetness, soaking through the mesh on my shoes, made my feet wet and was almost worse than the hard packed snow that remained.

The climb to Dives-Little Giant, 13000 feet, takes me under two hours, and I cross the wide ridge past the steep east face of Little Giant Peak on the old miner's trail that hangs perched over cliffs several hundred feet high.  I cross into Dives Basin, pass the Shenandoah Mine, and descend the steep, rocky switchbacks to the aid station at Cunningham Gulch.  On a nice day, it is possible to see the road about 3000 feet directly below, but today, even though the passes are clear, fog still covers the valley and it is impossible to see much of the descent.  I descend past treeline, into the trail overgrown with willows, and continue following the switchbacks, slowly because of the poor footing, into the Cunningham Aid Station, at mile 9.2.

After crossing Cunningham Creek, about mid-calf in depth, I enter the aid station, wondering where my crew is.  I'm much earlier than I had expected to be, by about 30 minutes, but they were told to be here in plenty of time.

"Way to go, Jay," Carolyn Erdman enthusiastically shouts as she takes my picture.

"Have you seen Corey," I ask, genuinely concerned if they are here or not.

"I just saw him, so he's around."

I grab some water and food at the aid station tables while I scout the surroundings for any sign of my crew.  I find them still unloading the vehicle, taking their time in the process.

"Corey, I'm here!" I yell over the din of the aid station personnel.  My entire crew comes running toward me, asking what I need for the next section.  "Nothing in the black bag.  I need two powders in my pack and two new water bottles with the CLIP/Amino mix."

"Sorry, we weren't expecting you yet."

"That's OK. I wasn't expecting to be here yet.  But I want to stay ahead of my projection as much as possible because I don't know when I'll need the time later."

"So we should expect you at Sherman at least 30 minutes early."

"Yeah, at least that long.  I'm feeling strong and climbing well, so it could even be a little bit faster than that."  I walk out of the aid station carrying a turkey sandwich, giving Dale Garland my race number in the process.  "Number 34 is on his way!"

"I wasn't able to get a hamburger ready in time," Corey tells me as I'm leaving.

"That's OK.  I don't think I'd eat it right now anyway.  Why don't you guys drive up the road a bit and take a picture of me running down it."

They surprise me around the next bend, as I work my way down the road to the Stony Pass turn off. "Smile!"  I do, as I find the road a nice and easy surface on which to run.  I'm feeling strong and break from the rocks invigorates me.  I reach the intersection and begin the second long climb of the day, up the Stony Pass road to the Buffalo Boy Mine and Tram House.

I climb up the road, careful not to miss the turn off that I missed during the day of course marking.  I want to be sure that I travel up the correct basin, up through Rocky Gulch instead of climbing all the way to Stony Pass.  This time, the course is well marked, and I turn off the main road to the left and head up an old jeep road that is littered with rocks.  The fog has lifted, and I can see the valley from where I've come below me.  I climb.  I pass treeline once again, switchbacking my way to the Buffalo Boy tram house at 12500 feet.  Following the road past the shed and into the basin behind it, I climb by myself to the ridge separating Rocky Gulch from Maggie Gulch.  The road ends and I continue up, cross-country, past a small memorial at the summit, 13060 feet.

Not pausing a moment, I continue to follow the flagging off to the north.  There is no marked trail here, only flags placed by Charlie and John to mark the safest way down the ridge to the aid station.  This section of trail, known for its ability to hold snow late in the season, is different for each year of the run.  This year, a snow field allows us to glissade down to a saddle, then climb again and cross a bald notch to the north before turning east and heading into the gulch along a steep, but steady downhill shoulder.

The rocks in this area are well-embedded in the grass tundra, are immovable when kicked, and are difficult to run over because they are partially hidden from view.  I slip and fall, catching myself with my hands.  Blood squirts out of my right index finger, and I notice a deep diagonal gash in my proximal phalanx.  I press on, sucking the blood from my finger as I descend steeply to a faint animal trail below.  Hard to follow and only variably present, the trail descends along a stream bed, and I play leap-frog over the stream, the wet rocks, and the boggy tundra immediately adjacent.  Arriving at the mining road that leads uphill to the Little Martha Mine, I turn downhill toward the gulch bottom and the aid station that awaits me, 16.6 miles into the run.  I am still a half hour ahead of my projected arrival.

The Maggie Gulch aid station has no crew access because the road on which it sits is extremely rough and steep.  The aid people there make me another turkey sandwich, refill my bottles, and provide me with a bagel for the road.  After a brief stop, I make my way out of the checkpoint and head off to the next ascent, up La Garita Pack Trail to the Maggie-Pole saddle, at 12530 feet and on the Continental Divide.

The course between Maggie and Sherman, mile 31.7, is my favorite part of the course because the wildflowers make the wilderness spring to life.  Even though much of the first 1.2 miles from Maggie is uphill, it is a very easy ascent that goes quickly.  On this ascent, Blake Wood passes me like I am standing still.  Actually, I am, as I stop for a drink of CLIP/Amino and take an electrolyte capsule.

I remember this section from 1997 when I paced Carolyn Erdman in the opposite direction, but the trail this time doesn't seem nearly as long or as steep as it did back then.  There is very little snow, even on the Divide, and I cruise through this section, down through the saddle and into the West Fork of Pole Creek, through the willows and the muddy trail, through Sheep Creek, and into the meadow that is marked only with the ten-foot high markers that indicate the Continental Divide Trail.

Across the meadow I run, a picturesque scene that makes me want to sing "The Sound of Music."  The wind is gentle and the sun, peaking out from behind the intermittent cloud, shines its rays on the valley making the flowers open their petals to catch the warm and the energy it provides.  I cross Pole Creek, narrowly avoiding the mud pits that line its banks, and continue downhill to the junction of the creek forks and the Pole Creek Aid Station at mile 22.4.

This area, miles away from the nearest road, is pristine and secluded.  Elk graze in the pasture to my right during the evening hours, taking shelter from the sun in the stately pines during the day.  The narrow Continental Divide Trail leads me to the aid station, which has been packed into this secluded wilderness on horseback.  There, I sit in the shade of a pine tree and remove my shoes in order to rid them of dirt and pebbles that I've picked up along the way.  I grab a cup of soup, some water, and ask for a refill on my water bottles.  Even though I've allotted 2 hours from Maggie to get here, I'm ahead of myself by 30 minutes, and I begin to worry about my crew and their projected arrival at Sherman.  Will I beat them there??

I also know, however, that I've allotted only 2 hours for the next 9 miles, much of which is a gentle climb to the next saddle at the head of the Pole Creek Main Fork.  Probably an error in judgement on my part to think I could cover this much ground that quickly, I figure that 2.5 hours is very possible on this section, and I feel better, knowing that I'll at least cover the distance from Maggie to Sherman in about the time I had originally planned.

After the brief stop at Pole Creek to refuel, I head out to the trail along the Main Fork, fording the river and climbing steeply to the place where the Main Fork cuts a rift in the hillside.  As I climb quickly, I cross the creak several times and am able to jog through much of the upper basin on its gentle ascent.  I take water from the stream, as I know that I will need more than my 2-20 ounce bottles I carry on my belt.  While many people opt not to take water from the streams for fear of Giardia, I personally feel that the risk of dehydration is much worse than the risk of Giardia, and I replenish my stock of water as frequently as needed.

I continue through the high tundra filled with colorful flowers, willows, and grasses, eventually reaching the nontrail trail that leaves the main trail at the head of the Pole Creek basin.  I make the correct turn to the left, follow the placed aluminum markers around a bench, and climb to the saddle on the Continental Divide.  At 12910 feet, a small lake straddles Cataract-Pole Pass, and I pass it, wondering to which ocean the water leaving it eventually reaches.  A short while later, still high in the mountains, I see Cataract Lake off to my right and pick up the faint ribbon of trail over which I will be running in a few minutes.

Because the main trail disappears here, and because I lose the yellow aluminum stakes that mark the race route, I head cross country to the trail I will eventually run down, making for some hikers that have traveled from the ghost town of Sherman, my next stop for aid.  In the distance, at the far end of the Cataract drainage, I see Sunshine Peak.  While I won't travel across this specific 14er, I know that the trail I am following leads me toward its base.  I continue down.

The trail, once I am on it again, is distinct and well used.  Many hikers have traversed this way, and have cut a deep trench in the route that hold water.  The trench is very narrow -- too narrow to run down -- and I opt to stay off to one side as I make my way through the meadow and eventually back into the trees.

Below tree line, I cross Cataract Creek on two narrow logs with the waterfall directly to my right.  If I fall, I get washed away, ending up at the bottom lifeless, but quicker than if I stay on the trail.  I opt to take the long way down, following the trail as it switchbacks through the groves of pine and aspen, over fallen trees, atop an avalanche field, and down into the ghost town of Sherman.

Crossing Cottonwood Creek and entering the aid station, I see my crew waiting for me.  The trip from Maggie has taken the planned four hours.

"Are you OK?" Corey asks.  "You took an extra 30 minutes from the last aid station."

"That was kind of planned.  I screwed up on the prediction.  I should have realized earlier that this is what was going to happen.  I didn't slow down; the section was just longer than I remembered it to be.  The delta from Maggie was what I planned."

"What can I get you?"

"I could use food and water.  I'd also like a sock change.  I need to use the pit toilet.  My clothes are OK.  I need my bottles filled with CLIP/Amino.  And I'll drink a Coke from the stream."

"Here.  Drink this."  Doug is holding a little bottle in his hands, trying to make me take it.

"What is it and what is it supposed to do?"

"Choline.  Helps clear your mind."

"What does it taste like?"

"Lemon-lime water.  Just wash it down with a Coke if you need to."

I drink the Pro Enhancer choline solution, finish up the Coke, eat another turkey sandwich, and change my shoes.  The stop actually takes me a long time, but I realize the value in spending time eating and drinking, taking care of my energy needs.  On this course, it is imperative that a runner stay on top of the energy curve, as the calorie expenditure for climbing and crossing the high mountain passes is extensive.  If the energy intake is not maintained and a shortage occurs, it is very difficult to recover and continue the course.  Likewise, fluid intake is essential, and I make it a point to drink continuously, both out on the course and at the aid stations as I rest.

"I need to use the latrine, then I can go." I walk to the outhouse, lock the door and sit down.

"Who's in there?"  I hear voices through the door, immediately after I sit down.  "I've got places to go.  Shit, I should have gone on the trail, as I'd thought about doing."

I don't respond to the voices of impatience, opting to finish up silently instead.

"What's taking so long.  I gotta get going."

I finish my business and open the door to reveal a very impatient Jim Fisher.  "What's your problem, and why are you being such a jerk?"  I turn around and walk away.

"He's always a jerk," Corey says, as he snaps a picture of me.  "Don't let him bother you."

On my way up the road, I see Carolyn and pause to give her a hug.  "Memories, here, right Carolyn?"  She kisses me and Corey snaps another photo.  "Tell Nute I said good luck!"

"Grouse Gulch in five hours, Corey.  See you then."  I turn away and make my way up the road to Boulder Gulch and the climb to Handies Peak, the high point on the course at 14048 feet above sea level.

The road seems to take forever, and since there are no markings present, I begin to wonder if I've missed my turn-off.  This is the only section of trail I have never seen, so I am acutely aware of my propensity to get lost.  I take some refuge in looking to my left and right, seeing the sheer cliffs that line the jeep road on which I'm running, and realizing that no trail could climb the steep inclines that line the road.  Shortly after I leave the aid station, I pass by a section of road lined with downed white-barked aspen, fallen like bowling pins from an avalanche.  Both sides of the road are littered in this matter, the trees making like toothpicks sticking out of the dirty ground.

Eventually, I cross the Boulder Gulch stream and follow the flagging to the right, up a steep pitch that climbs along the water.  To the west, the sky is growing pitch black and the echoes of thunder invade the silence of the canyons.  I put my coat on, in preparation for rain, and continue to climb as giant rain drops begin to pelt the trail.  Still safely among the trees, I am sure that the storm will pass much before I am exposed on the top of the mountain, and I continue to climb the trail step by step, pausing every few feet to catch my breathe and admire the storm as it invades the aid station three miles distant.

It rains extremely hard and the winds whip out of the west, decreasing visibility to a few feet.  I thank God for letting the storm pass before I get exposed on the peak, and for holding me safe as I climb.  I break tree line, the sun reappears, and the rain dissipates almost as fast as it arrived.

The trail is relentless in its ascent, and as I continue to climb, I realize that others are catching up to me.  I press on faster, hoping to at least maintain my position as I ascend.  I turn into the bowl, formed at its head by Handies, and notice people directly above me on a ridge.  To the right, I notice flags on a hillside more suited for navigation by mountain goats, and as I take deep breaths in preparation of the climb, I realize that I have reached the section of trail aptly named "Up-Chuck Ridge" by John Cappis.  The climb is indescribably steep, and I use my hands as well as my feet to navigate the climb through rocks and scree.  Finally reaching the summit ridge, I pause to catch my breath and examine the surroundings.  While I am not the highest thing around, I am quickly becoming so.

In all its grandeur, the top of Colorado holds another surprise.  Off to the west, directly over Grouse Gulch and the American Basin on the other side of the peak, the sky is growing dark.  The wind picks up and sun quickly disappears from view.  The afternoon has suddenly become night, save for the lightening that lights up the sky.  I continue to climb, knowing that I will likely be hit by a major storm while close to the top of Handies, but also knowing that I have no other, safer place to go.  I hope that I can get off the summit before the heart of the storm hits.

I continue walking over the scree field that holds the narrow trail to the summit as the rain begins to pelt me with drop after drop after drop.  The rain becomes more frequent and the drops turn to hail.  I continue on upward, crawling on all fours to avoid being the highest thing around and to prevent the hail from pelting the front of my face.  I figure that I'll try to find safety near a pile of rocks 50 feet higher than my current position.  As I scramble up amid the hail and the thunder, lightening shocks the sky.  I am momentarily frozen, but as I quickly realize that I am still alive, I scamper the rest of the way to the racks, where Stephen Simmons waits out the storm.

"Here.  Take the million dollar picture."  Stephen gives me his disposable camera, and I take a picture of him being pelted by hail.  "I got one of you crawling uphill like a baby."

We pause, waiting for the storm to subside, and I undo my pants attached to my waist belt, opting to put them on for warmth and protection.

As quickly as the storm came out of American Basin, it departs to our east.  Looking back over Grizzly Gulch and Boulder Gulch, an intense rainbow can be seen.  In many places, the bow is multiarched, as many as three repeating spectra of color in a single view.  I am reminded of the presence of God, of His guiding hand, of His vow of safety and His promise of deliverance from the forces of evil.  It is here, 200 feet from the summit of Handies, that I am renewed in my confidence to finish the race, to make it to the finish line, to pass through the remaining miles with God's hand guiding my way.

"Why is Hardrock different from the rest?" I wrote following my return to civilization.  This was the reason that stuck out in my mind.

The Bible is an interesting book of literature that plays an important religious role in the lives of Christians and Jews.  I'm not going to comment further on the religious aspects of the book, but I want to relay a story told in the Old Testament about Noah and the Ark.

See, this old dude was told by God that the world was going to be destroyed by rain that would last for 40 days and 40 nights.  God told Noah to build a big boat and put a male and female of every species of animal on the boat.  Noah took his family on the boat, too, but all of the other townspeople thought Noah was crazy and didn't listen to him. It started to rain, and continued, non-stop, for 40 days and nights.  The world was destroyed. Except for the man and his family who had faith God.  The story goes on to say that God placed a rainbow in the sky as a reminder of faith and as a promise that God would never destroy the world in that way ever again.

So what does this have to do with ultrarunning?  And Hardrock specifically?  And what is it about this story that makes Hardrock different from the rest of the 100-milers?

Well, it's Friday afternoon, and I'm climbing Handies at mile 39 of the HRH.  The rain is coming down hard, pelting me relentlessly as I climb Boulder Gulch.  It stops, and I continue up past treeline, up over Up-Chuck Ridge, and onto the final pitch about 200 vertical feet below the summit.  A storm brews to the west and blows in within minutes.  I'm exposed, on the ridge, when the lightening and thunder and sleet and rain begin.  Trying to find a place of safety, I climb a few more feet and take shelter near Stephen Simmons, Jim Fisher, Eliza MacLean, Steve Pattillo, and Gordan Hartman.

Within 5 minutes, the storm has passed and the sunlight hit the peak. Looking back over Grizzly Gulch and Boulder Gulch, a brilliant rainbow (and pieces of others) is in view.  As a reminder, no doubt, of faith and of safety.

Why is Hardrock different from the others?

It is different because within 5 minutes, we were able to experience complete fear and complete comfort at 14,000 feet.  Our emotions were played by god, and in the end, the Promise given to Noah in the story of the Ark became *our* promise: that with faith we mortals are able to move over mountains and complete feats seemingly impossible to humans.

The route to the summit, briefly obscured by the hail, the wind, and the rain, comes back into focus as the sky clears and the sun returns to the land.  Climbing the final pitch, my hands on my knees to increase my lung volume, I take deep breaths and view the surroundings.  I have made it to the top of the world, to the highest point on the course, after the steepest climb in our 101.3 mile journey.  I've done this.  And I am confident that the remainder of the run will go just fine.

I lead Stephen Simmons, Eliza MacLean, and Steve Pattillo from the summit and into American Basin.  We traverse the switchbacks, ford multiple streams, wade several marshes, and plod through many snow fields on our way through the basin to American-Grouse Pass, our next climb at 13020 feet.  I grab some water from a stream leaving Sloan Lake and punch my bib number using the orienteering marker placed on the Sloan Lake Trail.  As I continue to descend, the sun heats up the valley and I sit on a rock to take off my pants.

"Steve!" I yell ahead, noticing that he has missed the cutoff to the correct route and is heading down American Basin to the trailhead at its mouth.  He turns around.  "This way," I point to the flags.

I climb slowly to the pass, slightly disturbed that I had forgotten about this climb in my preparation work and fearful that it will put me behind my projected time of arrival at the next aid station.  Even with the storm that hindered my Handies climb, I had reached the summit at the exact time as I had planned; I had two hours to get to Grouse Gulch from the summit before I would consider myself late.

I plod through the basin and climb over the pass into Grouse Gulch.  Switchbacking down the head of the basin, I pass several snow fields and dance among the rocks that litter the trail.  Grouse Gulch has several unique features, and I note them as I head toward the mouth.  I note the boulders that lie scattered in the valley, stalwart guardians of the gulch floor.  And I note that I don't descend steeply once I am at the level of the creek meandering down the drainage toward the Animas River valley.  Grouse Gulch, unlike many of the other gulches the trail crisscrosses, is a hanging gulch; its mouth quickly opens at its end, spitting us out onto the road and the Grouse Gulch aid station, at mile 42.0.  I am right on schedule, five hours after my departure from Sherman 10 miles ago.

"What do you need?" Corey and Doug are ready and waiting.  I note that Doug has changed clothes and is preparing to run with me.  "Your pizza is here."

"I need to change shoes and socks, as planned.  I need to carry the pants that are around my belt, keep the shirt and the coat, and find some really warm gloves.  Let's use the red GoreTex ones.  Then, I need to check the flashlights for the night and refill the water.  Let me sit down while you get me some food to eat."

In a string of words, I shout out everything I need to get done before leaving the aid station and climbing over five miles on jeep road to the summit of Engineer Mountain.  I sit down and take off my shoes and socks, relieved that my feet will remain dry for at least two hours.

"Nice storm up there, 'eh Steve?" Stephen Simmons looks like he is in shock.  "How are the legs?"

"Like boards.  I can feel Western States already."

He finished Western States only two weeks ago, and is out here to brave the toughest course in North America.  Given the look on his face and the condition of his legs, I find doubt that he will finish.  But I admire him for trying.

I take ample time to refuel, eating pizza and turkey sandwiches while I slowly work on drying my feet and getting new shoes.  "Things are actually going quite well out there.  I got caught about 200 from the summit in the hail storm, held tight for a few minutes as it passed, and continued on.  Not a nice picture up there, that's for sure.  I wish one of you guys would come along with me from here on out."

"Doug's ready to go."

"Really?" I turn to Doug in amazement.  "Are you sure you're up for this? You know it's road to the summit, then downhill along a cliff before the river crossing.  The river will hit you at least crotch deep.  I'm planning on at least waist deep."

"I'm ready to go and get started.  This looks like fun."

Spoken like an amateur that needs a rude awakening, Doug straps up his pack as I ready mine.  We stand up and head out along the road, climbing to Engineer Pass, 5.4 miles distant.  It is still light out, which I am happy about -- and which is unplanned (I'm about an hour ahead of my planned time) -- the wind has died down to nothing, and the sky is a brilliant light blue, signifying the start to a spectacular night.

"Give me over five hours to the city, Corey.  There's no way we'll make it by 1:00 a.m., like I have on the schedule."

Doug and I head out up the road, passing by Animas Forks nestled in the mouth of California Basin.  I am not very talkative, but as Doug and I climb, we are able to discuss work and school and Doug's home in Portland, Oregon, at sea level.

"Are you sure you're going to be able to do this stretch?" I ask, knowing that he's only been at altitude for about 24 hours.  "This is a long 15 miles."

"Fifteen?  I thought it was only about eight."

"Eight to the next aid station, which is over the pass and into treeline of the next basin over.  Then we have about seven more into town, all downhill."

"Sure.  I can make it."

I'm not excited by the reply, so I indicate that if the pace dictates it, I'll just leave him behind and Corey can wait in Ouray until he arrives.  I can't feel like my pacers are dragging me down, so I need to be sure that they are all aware that if I leave them behind, it is no big deal to me. And it shouldn't be something they take personally.

We continue to climb as the sun disappears behind the mountains.  It gets cool quickly, and I put my coat on as we climb the switchbacks to the top of Engineer.

"Have a GU."

"I don't want one," I reply.

"It doesn't matter.  You need to use this stretch to refuel and recover before you hit the big climbs in the morning.  The calories will do you good."

I eat one, but I don't like it.  I know that Doug is right; the night has to be used for slow and steady progress, in preparation for the tough trail sections that come after Ouray.  For the night, the climb over Engineer and the climb up Camp Bird Road will be recovery walks, times when I am ascending on gentle roads and conserving my strength for the final push.

As the climb continues, the moon appears over the mountains to the east, shining so brilliantly that flashlights aren't even needed.  "It looks like the sun," I comment.  "I'm able to see every dip in the road."

The light casts an eerie glow over the landscape, and in the absence of color, the snow fields make dalmatians of the mountainsides, speckling them in a random pattern of black and white.

"There's a thunderstorm over Telluride area," I comment, observing the flashes of lightning coming from the southwest.  "But the stars and the moon are sure bright here."

We reach Oh Point, at the Engineer saddle (elevation 12910) after about two hours of climbing.  Eric Robinson and his pacer, Andrea, pass us here and disappear into the bowl over the road, on their way through the headwaters of Bear Creek - Ouray and down into the trees that hold our next destination, the Engineer Aid Station.  From our high viewpoint, we can't see the aid station, and I just assume that they've placed it on the underside of some cliffs right below treeline.  If that is the case, we won't see it until we are there.

Steve Pattillo and his wife pass us, too, as we pause at the top to breathe the fresh, cool air, and take in the silence of the night, the light of the moon, and the handiwork that God has provided.  We step off the road and follow the others through the basin, staying on the trail as much as possible, crossing the snow fields, and trying to avoid the really wet prairie grasses.  The snow has melted fast here, as the remains of the gopher trails can still be seen at the edges of the snow fields.  We cross several side streams and are able to momentarily keep our feet dry.

"Don't worry about your feet, Doug.  We cross Bear Creek a couple of times right after the aid station.  You won't stay dry for long."

We continue past treeline and reach the point where the cliffs begin.  Rounding a corner, the aid station pops into view.  Even though the manuals say we've only covered 7.6 miles, I'm sure that our 2.5 hour hike has let us cover more than that.

There, I take a seat, refill the water bottles, and eat some mashed potatoes.

"How are you doing, Steve?"  He's looking really strong for being out here with me.

"I'm doing good, but instead of working the downhill, I'm going to take it easy and regroup for the climbs later on."

"I'm planning on doing the same thing, so I'll take the descent quite slowly."

"I wonder where Charlie is."

"Well, he was a couple of hours ahead at Grouse Gulch, and I would guess that he ran the road section up Engineer.  He probably passed by here shortly before dark."  The aid station worker confirms Charlie's arrival: "He was out of here before dark."

I only sit for a few minutes before deciding that we should get moving.  "Doug, are you ready to get wet?"  I'm actually concerned about our arrival in Ouray, predicted at about 1:30 a.m.  I don't think that I'll make it if I sit here any longer -- it's already 11:10 p.m. -- and I don't want the guys to get worried about me.  The descent in front of me is steep and quite technical, running for the better part of a mile along a cliff that falls off about 400 feet into the Bear Creek Falls to our left.  It is no place for a misstep or a mind lapse, so as we cross the creek in the safe, upper reaches of the basin, cross over the side creek at the Yellowjacket Mine, and begin the descent, I begin to talk quite extensively about nothing in particular.  I'm trying to keep myself alert and awake, aware of the danger that is coming ahead.

My eyes are transfixed on the trail in front of my feet.  I take the descent slowly so I won't trip over rocks or roots, and concentrate wholly on the effort at hand.  I let my mind wander and look over the edge of the trail to the gorge below; I trip on a rock, and narrowly catch my balance.

"When you run, run.  When you look, look." I repeat to myself.  "Don't do both at the same time."

We continue on past the remains of the Grizzly Mine, noting the big boiler littering the trail.  We pause.

"Doug, look at this thing, and as we continue from here to the road, consider how this thing had to get up here."  I know that the trail is chiseled from the rock face, allowing us a path of less than two feet wide on which to run.

Navigating the remaining trail to the Rte 550 tunnel is simple in the dark.  "You know, Doug, last year when PJ Salmonson was out here with her pacer, her pacer shined her light on the water and freaked when nothing was seen.  The pacer wouldn't go a step further, and returned back to the aid station.  I'm just telling you this because I don't want you to expect me to go back up the hill if you freak out on me."

We hit the road and continue down the steep bank to the Uncompaghre River.  Brick Robbins passes us on this stretch and beats us to the crossing.  We arrive as he is getting out on the opposite side.

"Jason.  It's crotch deep on me.  Waist high on you."

"Waist high!?!" I shout back over the roaring river.  There is only a double strand of 11-mm climbing line spanning the rushing water.

"Oh, yeah.  It's fucking cold."

I'm glad that Brick gave us a temperature report, but it doesn't change my plans on how to cross the river.  I take off my pants and coat, stripping down to my shorts and long sleeved top to keep my outer clothing dry.  I place my light in my waist pack, and strap the pack around my neck.  In this way, the essentials remain dry and I can put my warm clothes back on once I am across the river.  I keep the GoreTex gloves on my hands.

Grabbing the rope with both hands and facing upstream to make the current bearable, I cross carefully to avoid being swept away by the current.  The water gradually deepens as I progress, first covering my shins, then my knees, my thighs, my crotch, and finally my waist.  The current gets stronger toward the opposite shore, and I almost lose my balance as I step out onto the bank.

"Careful on the far side.  It gets swifter right before you get out!" I yell to Doug, who has just begun to cross.

I put my clothes back on, noting that the temperature of the water is right at the temperature Brick told us it was: Fucking Cold.  We climb the bank through the trees, step over the support cables to the pipe that carries water to the Ouray hydroelectric plant, and travel along the jeep road that brings us to Camp Bird Road.

"What's that?"  Doug has stopped dead in his tracks.  I listen carefully to the sound, noting that is sound like a constant growling coming from a point in the woods in front of us and to our left.

"I have no idea, but if its a bear, I want you to distract him.  I'm not ready to give up on this race yet."

OK, I didn't really say that, but that's what I was thinking in the brief moment before our flashlights shined light on a break in the pipe.  "That scared the shit out of me, Doug."

We make Camp Bird Road, and I take a right turn, heading down the road into town past the Box Springs parking lot and into the dead center of town.  The streets are deserted, save us two runners meandering down the road to the town park at the far north end of the city.  "When we get here, Doug, I'm going to need a refill on the water, more food, a change of shoes and socks, and a few minutes to sit and take a break.  And I'll use the bathroom before I leave town."

Eventually, we make the aid station, and after almost six hours on the trail from Grouse Gulch, I am ready to take a short break.  I note the windy conditions in town, and am relieved that the aid station is inside a covered building this year.  It is one of the coolest areas that I've encountered on the course.

"I'll have the rest of the pizza, Corey.  And I'll keep the clothes I have on -- but not the socks and the shoes.  Make sure you change the batteries in my flashlight before I leave, and make sure that both of them work."

"Can I have a piece of pizza?"

Brick is there, asking for food that I gladly hand over.  "Thanks for warning me about the water temperature.  You were about right.  How are you feeling?"

"A little slower than I wanted to be, but I'm still going to sleep for awhile before heading out."

"I can't do that.  I'll never get back up if I stop.  I'm just going to continue the long walk up the road to Governor, hopefully getting there about morning.  Then I can go over Virginius as the sun comes up."

Bob is ready and waiting to pace, and he is way overdressed for the conditions.  "Bob, you want to take some clothes off.  It's really warm in the mountains, and there's no wind up there.  You're standing at the coldest place on the course."

I grab my climbing pole, a piece of equipment that I think I might need to climb on the snow later in the morning, and prepare for the next section of trail.  Bob and I head out into the darkness, over the suspension bridge that spans the Uncompaghre River, and up the road out of town toward Camp Bird.  It is nearly 3:00 a.m.

The seven miles to the trailhead at Governor's Basin goes slowly and silently during the early morning hours.  While I am certainly able to make it through the night, the hardest part of the morning for my alertness is the hours between 3:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m.  The early morning hits me hard this time, and I find myself climbing in a trance-like state, following Bob's footsteps up the road out of town.  We pass Camp Bird Mine and the road to Imogene Pass, and as the sun comes up, we can see Yankee Boy Basin in the distance.  Steve Pattillo passes us on the road and asks me what the problem is.

"I didn't think you'd notice, Steve.  My left foot is having problems with my shoe.  I think I have some tendinitis in my big toe."

Looking back, I don't see how he couldn't notice.  It was a one-two-three step.  Pause.  One-two-three step.  Pause.  All the way up.  And the seven miles to the station took me about two hours and forty-five minutes to complete.  The pain in my foot, sore from the miles, would only get worse as the miles continued.  But as I climb, I am happy with my progress.  I planned on getting to the Basin at daybreak, and as we round the corner and find the aid station tent, it is close to that time of day.

"We've got about two hours from here to the summit, Bob.  Then another couple of hours to the park in Telluride."

I restock my water and grab another turkey sandwich.  Turning my gaze to the climb ahead, I cross the bridge spanning the river and begin climbing to the saddle, three miles distant.  The jeep road switchbacks a few times as we climb, but the gentle climb is nice in comparison to what lies ahead.  As we climb into the basin and pass the remains of the Mountain Top Mine across the valley floor, the snow fields begin to block our quick and clear passage.

"Here comes the fun part, Bob.  I hope you're ready for some interesting climbing."

I'm really not looking forward to this, but at least I know what lies ahead.  Bob volunteered for this section while thinking that we came into Telluride on the Imogene Pass Road.  After I informed him otherwise, he didn't feel that he could back out without looking like a chicken.  Even though he was right, his apprehension of the climb ahead was noticeable, and in my exhausted state, I reveled in telling him just how bad it was going to be.

Each pitch the came into view was greeted by a finger pointing.  "Is that it there?" he would ask, only to be disappointed with my standard reply: "No.  It's much steeper than that.  But at least we do it in three separate pitches."

To the west, St. Mary's Spires mark the jagged landscape of the ridge, and as we climb ever higher, they begin to meet us off to the west of the Virginius Mine dump.  We climb over the talings, carefully avoiding the wood containing nails, and head toward the pitch on the far side of the field.  It is as steep as I remember it during the course marking day, and as I begin to climb using my pole to break the thin layer of ice on the snow, Bob follows behind in toe.  "Even though there is some dirt part of the way up, I'm going to avoid it.  The snow is much easier to climb over, so as long as there are adequate footholds, I'm following them."

I'm glad that others have been through here to mark the route, but since we are so early in the day, the snow is very firm and I slip often, holding myself to the side of the cliff with the pole in my left hand.  I'm using my arms as much as I'm using my legs, and as I climb higher, I remind myself of how much effort I'd forfeit if I were to fall to the bottom of the pitch.  As the field levels out, I can finally stand up and walk through the snow toward the second, less extensive, pitch.

My feet are frozen from the ground, but the sun, rising over the adjacent peaks, warms them as we cross the snowfields.  I've forgotten my sunglasses, and the reflection off the snow is blinding.  "You know, Bob, I didn't even consider the sunglass idea when we left Ouray.  It's going to be a hot day out here.  Not a cloud in the sky today."

We climb the second pitch without much ado since it is short and not as steep as the first.  We only have another 200 feet to the pass, at 13100 feet, and much of the last climb has been roped by the aid station personnel at the pass.  We climb the pitch individually, grabbing the rope and placing our feet on the cut footholds that others have made before us.  Reaching the top and grabbing some warm soup, I'm happy that the worst part of the snow on the course is over and I have a downhill path to Telluride.

"Bob, I want you to know that I've decided to stop in Telluride.  My foot is causing me too much trouble to make it the last 28 miles, and I've always promised myself that I'd stop whenever severe damage was likely to be done.  My foot isn't working out of this, so I think it best to stop."

"You might feel different after a period of downhill, so don't give up now.  You are at the top, so the worst part of this leg is over.  Have a GU while you take a break here.  I promised the guys I'd force it down your throat."

We pause for a couple of minutes, and I point out the next climb, up the Bear Creek - Telluride drainage to Oscar's Pass on the other side of town.  "I go up that one next," I say.  My enthusiasm for the race is quickly diminishing.  I'm not having fun anymore.  This has become work, and the effort each step is expending makes me that much more tired.  "Let's head down to the saddle.  It'll take a while, but when we get there, the trail actually becomes quite runnable into town."

We head down the steep scree, intersecting the trail that leads us through the upper part of Marshall Basin
and over the Mendota Ridge.  From the ridge, I point out the skiing trails overlooking Telluride and the pinpoint view of the jeep road that lies at the floor of Liberty Bell Basin, the road to which we will next descend.  Following the trail through the scree fields and into the grassy slopes of the basin, we get passed by Brick and his pacer once again.

"Things aren't going very well anymore, Brick.  I've decided to stop in Telluride.  My 5th metatarsal is bothering me too much to keep going."

"You can't quit.  I've seen you look a lot worse than this before.  Your a stud."

I let him go past me, but his words hit home and give me renewed hope.  I want to stop, as my foot is terribly sore, but I want to continue in order to say that I've finished, in order to prove to myself that I have come a long way since that first trail marking day two weeks ago, when Charlie told me that I'd "never make it like that."  I wanted to prove him wrong.  I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.  And I wanted to be able to come back next year on my own terms, without the stress of a DNF looming over my head.

We reach the jeep road and I pick up the pace to see what I am still capable of.  Even though I'm not as fast as I want to be, I quickly realize that the increased pace is comforting on my foot.  I feel better than I have in miles, and I know that if I can force myself to make the remaining climbs, I'll make the cutoffs and the finish with time to spare.

We come into Telluride, and I jog down the paved streets of town to the park and the aid station.  It is around 10:30 a.m., several hours later than my original plan, but I have gone through a terrible stretch of road and physical discomfort, overcoming the severity of the stabbing pain invading my feet.  In Telluride, there is never any talk of quitting; only effort that is focused on making some changes in my gait (a new style of shoe), refueling me for the climbs ahead, and helping me make it back out onto the trail before I fear the uphills that lie ahead of me.

At the aid station, my crew has arranged my shoe store, consisting of three pairs of brand new shoes.  "Corey, why don't you please take out the blue ones."

"We've heard reports that you're having problems with your metatarsal and want to quit.  I want you to use the new shoes instead, and if it doesn't work, then we'll consider the alternatives at Chapman when you get there."

Hal Winton comes over and talks, "I've had problems like that myself, Jason.  I cut you a couple of pads to put under your arch.  They'll help support it and change the pressure points just a bit.  Worked wonders for me when I was having trouble."  He puts the moleskin pads in my pack, and I take them along just in case.

"Hal, my problem isn't the 5th metatarsal directly.  I have a dropped 4th and that tends to cause aggravation of the 5th when the terrain is really uneven."

Corey gets out the shoes I've requested and proceeds to lace them in the town park as I wait, 73 miles into a 100-mile race.  All of the volunteers and other runner's crews stare at our operation, not believing that I'd take a shoe out of the box and put it on for the first time during an event.  I ask for new socks, my sunglasses, and a change of shirt.  "Let's go with a short sleeve shirt.  Take the tights off the pack and put the pants back on it for later.  Sunscreen would be a good idea -- it's getting hot out there."

I step around the corner to the restroom to relieve myself, then return to the tables, grab a turkey sandwich, and examine the leader board.  I'm the 25th runner through the aid station and the leader is almost done with the race.  I am elated that I'm the 25th one, as that means there are several others behind me, still walking up the slippery slopes of Virginius, cresting Mendota Ridge, and looking down upon me from the north.  I refuel completely, drinking more of that lemon-lime Pro Enhancer fluid and readying my pack for the day section ahead.  "Corey, please take the lights out of the pack for now.  I don't really want to carry anything in there if I can do without it.  The next climb is a long one."

Doug decides that he is the one who is supposed to run this section, and I'm surprised as I thought this was Corey's duty.  "Are you going in from Chapman?" I ask Corey.  He nods in approval.  "You know that doubles your mileage, don't you?"  I just want to make sure that someone will be with me for the push to the finish line, someone who will be able to push me if I need to be pushed.  As in all races where I'm not 10 hours ahead of the time cutoff, I'm a little concerned with making the time limits and the finish line with time to spare.  Even though I should have no worry -- I have 4 hours before I must be out of Telluride -- I think I need something to fret about to keep me going.  What better motivator is there than the fear of being timed out close to the finish?

Brick is sitting at the aid station, refueling on his own.  "Thanks for your confidence, Brick.  I'm ready to walk up another mountain."  I leave, crossing the town park and heading up the narrow single track to the broad Bear Creek Trail.

The trail is well-used for the first two miles, and we pass several hikers as we make our way up out of the city.  While I don't find it in my power to run the uphill, I set a decent walking pace and reach the Wasatch Trail intersection, two miles from town, in about 40 minutes.  If I can keep up the 3 MPH pace, I'll make it to the finish before midnight, six hours in front of the time cutoff.

The narrow Wasatch Trail pitches steeply right and climbs several switchbacks on trail overgrown with grasses and brilliantly hued wildflowers.  Every switchback, Doug tells me to drink from my bottle and to eat a GU.  "Doug, if I continue drinking like this, I'll run out before we reach the top.  And as for the GU crap, I've just eaten and I don't really want anything else right now."

I continue to climb.  To the other side of the drainage, I see switchbacks carved out of the cliffs, and I'm grateful that we don't have to climb to that side of the creek.  Our trail, still climbing sharply, passes through the cliffs on a narrow, slippery footbridge, until it merges with the creek.  We follow the creek up into the lower basin, through a massive avalanche field that has completely destroyed the Nellie Mine to our right.  Pine trees litter the landscape, and we follow the trail as best as we can, over the snow and upward, following the flags lest we take the wrong trail at a non-existent fork in the route.  In the avalanche field, the trail splits; the west fork of the Wasatch Trail heads up the west ridge, while the east fork takes the low route through another snow field and up the east ridge.  We pause in this drainage to fill our water bottles with RaceDay drink, something that I have never tried on a run before.

Refilled, we continue to climb to the southeast, under the waterfall on the trail and switchbacking steeply into the middle basin.  We meet the Wasatch trail and again pitch upward and to our left, climbing to a big flat meadow, which we cross while trying to keep our feet out of the marshy ground.  Travelling to the far end of the flats, we cross the stream several times and I stop once again to fill water.  I know that there is no water once we reach the saddle, so I stock up now for the trip down into Chapman Gulch.

"Doug, was this your idea to do this section, or was it Corey's?"

"Well, I suggested that you should have a fresh pacer for the last part of the race, and he agreed."

"You don't think you can make it another 19, do you??"

He smiles, and I know that he's learned, very quickly, the spirit of the Hardrock.  We climb up to the Wasatch Saddle with Brick and his pacer by our side.  Reaching the top, we pause for a moment to admire the view, and I begin to head over the snow field, into Bridal Veil Basin.  Glissading down the steep slide on my butt, I get a little wet, and quickly regain my footing as we head off up the snow-covered jeep road to our right, the road that leads us over Oscar's Pass, at elevation 13120 feet.

I head down the jeep road to the Chapman aid station with Doug in tow.  While he doesn't slow me down, he doesn't push me along either.  I'm happy with my pace, and since I'm able to run the steep and rocky road, my spirits are elevated once again.  Once at the bottom, I know that I'll be under 20 miles from the finish, and that I can no longer quit if I wanted to.  The descent takes forever once we reach treeline, and as I reach the Ophir Pass Road, I'm confused by the lack of an aid station.  We were told that it would be up in the Gulch, before we crossed the road, but it is suspiciously absent.

I continue along the course, not sure of what to think about the whole situation, but as we enter a hollow filled with aspen, I see parked vehicles and a tent on the side of the road.  Exactly five hours after leaving Telluride, I arrive at Chapman Gulch, mile 82.3, elevation 10480 feet.  It is almost 4:00 p.m.

Corey is ready to pace, and asks me if he should wear his light coat or if he should carry my extra heavy one.  "The heavy one," I say, knowing that the weather can change in an instant and that the night can get cold, especially at 13000 feet.

The aid station is in the hot sun, and the sweltering temperatures make me sweat even as I sit under the shade of the tent.  I eat a sandwich and drink more Coke, clean out my socks, and ready myself for the night section.  Doug looks plumb tuckered out.

Black flies circle about my head, land on my arms and legs, and annoy me to the point where I need to stand up and move just to get some relief from their constant presence.  Brick returns the pizza favor, giving me a slice of sausage and cheese as I refuel.  Corey has all of our gear laid out on the car, ready for me to pick and choose what I need for the final push to the finish.  Starting with my waist belt, I pack for the night: two flashlights, an extra set of batteries, an extra bulb, GU, gloves, water, and an extra couple of bottles of CLIP/Amino.  I also continue to carry my pole, as I know the next climb culminates in a scree scramble to the ridge.

Doug hands me six amino acid capsules to eat before I leave and I need something to wash them down with.  "Can I get a glass of water?" I ask the aid station volunteer.

"Sure," comes the reply, "it's in the gas can."

While I know that the gas can has only been used for water, I find the statement kind of suspicious.  I stare briefly at the guy because I know that I can't lift the water container by myself and the he is not doing the job to which he has been assigned.  I decide to pour a bit of Gatorade into a cup from the cooler on the table, even though I hate the stuff and find it extremely awful to drink during the run.  I'd prefer water, but I didn't get any help in pouring it.

I get ready to go, say "Thank you" to the aid personnel, and head out along the path that leads me up Swamp Canyon to the worst of the remaining climbs: Grant-Swamp Pass.  Brick is ahead of me, running along with Kristina Irvin, from California.

Corey tries to push me hard, but my legs don't respond.  After every aid station break, there is a period of time in which I find it extremely difficult to move and force myself over the trail.  But as I climb to the bench in Swamp Canyon, the discomfort seems to remain for much longer than it has ever done previously.  I find it hard to keep my breath, and I take several breaks on the ascent, wheezing and gasping for the air that I need.  "I don't think the pizza is settling very well, Corey.  The sauce was a little spicy, and I probably ate a bit too much."

Sure, it's an excuse for my inability to breathe, but it settles Corey's fears about my health and allows me to continue upward, through the grasses and trees, to the scree slope paralleling the trail.  We traverse the canyon just above the bench, on a tiny trail that is only intermittently present.  The scree over which we've already past holds the slightest resemblance of trail, but as I look back from where we've come, I can't make out our path.  The bench, though quite broad, has many small creaks draining it, and there are drop-offs in places that we can't see until we are almost on top of them.  I cross one such stream on a snow bridge, where others have passed, but Corey, thinking the snow is too thin in this area climbs up a few feet to the right and crosses there.  The snow breaks from his weight, and both of our stomachs briefly fall out of our bodies.

"You should have taken the safe route," I say, arrogantly noting how many other runners had safely traversed the field in the place that I had trod.

"But it was thin, so I took the safer route upstream."

"Mine was safer."

"No it wasn't."

"I didn't fall in."

We begin the ascent to the pass, climbing over scree field on a trail-like path that only exists in our minds.  Heading toward the final pitch, we know where we are heading, and we know that the final push to 12920 feet is going to be rough.  The final climb, about 1/4 mile in length, is up very fine rock, dirt, and loose scree.  I begin to scramble on my hands and knees, using my pole to dig into the dirt after each step.  I fear sliding down to the bottom, and briefly consider what I would do if I made it 3/4 of the way up only to fall back down to the bottom.  I only have enough strength to do this once, and the prospect of losing the precious ground I've gained forces me to hold on tight to the sliding rock and not let go.

Off to the west, clouds are starting to build and the sky is becoming black.  I know that a storm is about to hit, and I pray to God that we reach the top before  it starts to rain on us.  I can only imagine the difficulty I'd have climbing on the dirt if it is turned to mud by the rain.

After twenty minutes of extreme exertion, Corey and I reach the ridge, Grant-Swamp Pass.

At this point, I realize that I'm not the most pleasant person to be around.  I stink.  I'm tired mentally and physically.  I'm not in the best of moods, and Corey is putting up with my less than happy behavior.  "Let's get off this pitch before the storm hits," I say, looking down the scree at Island Lake.

"The trail goes this way, doesn't it?"  I think Corey is trying to avoid the steep scree slope.

"There's really no well-defined path to the bottom.  It's pretty much cross country.  The goal is the bottom of the basin, off to the left.  Just get there any way you can."

We both switchback through the scree on a partially defined path.  As we quickly descend, the storm blows over us and rain starts to fall.  The narrow trail becomes more pronounced as hail starts to pelt us again.  It's cold, and I want to get down to tree line before the rain gets too hard.  We reach the Ice Lake Trail and turn to our left, down the trail and looking for our turn to the creek crossing below.  I run quickly, looking carefully for the markers which flag the route, as I've never made this turn before.  I panic as the flags stop.

"I don't think we follow this too far.  We must have missed the turn at the top."  Corey and I climb back up the trail to the last flag, gazing to the west in search of the markers in the drainage.  None can be found.

"Well, either they were taken away, or the turnoff is further down the trail."  We jog the descent again, this time not turning around as quickly.  I still don't see any markers, and I'm swearing up a storm.  This is the last thing I need right now, to lose the trail at mile 85 while running through a driving rain.  Because I have no choice, I follow the well-worn trail toward the Mineral Creek Campground, hoping that the turn-off is farther down than I think.  The lack of markers isn't reassuring, but I also know that on the more popular parts of the course, hikers take the flags for souvenirs.  With most of my hope lost, I spy a marker at the next switchback, reassuring me that I'm still on the right trail.  Several flags mark the landscape at the next turn, heading off cross country to the Ice Lake Stream crossing below.  I'm relieved and can now concentrate on finishing the race.

Corey and I make it to the shore where rushing water cascades over rocks and downed trees.  I hunt for a safe way to cross, attempt to make it over the creek in one place, but chicken out as my foot slips underneath me.  There is no obvious place to cross safely, and I panic, watching the swirling water as it tumbles over the cliff below.

"This is some fast water.  I'm scared."

"So am I.  Do you see a good place to cross?"

Corey scouts out the crossing and observes one of the narrower sections that would only require a short jump from a wet log to a dry rock.  It is very close to the falls, and I realize that a slip could mean instant death.  "You go first."  He steps on the log and jumps to the safety of the rock on the other side.  I follow to the log, carefully placing my left foot on the wet surface.  It slips.  "Corey, I don't think this is such a good idea.  I can't steady myself enough to push off safely."  I use my pole and try again, carefully moving my center of gravity over the slippery log.

"Look, all you need to do is reach and catch my hand.  I'm holding on over here, so if you slip, I can just pull you up."  I press against the log with all of my weight, and transfer my right foot to the rock on the other side.  Corey pulls me hard, and I fall into his arms and toward the far bank.

"You trusted me."

"Of course, I did.  I didn't have much alternative, did I?"

"That's not a very safe crossing.  I'm glad we don't have to do it again."

And so am I.  We get out of the drainage and meander through some really wet marsh before turning once again to our west, out of the trees and along a ledge designed for mountain goats.  "So this is the Kamm Traverse," I remark as I look over the steep slope to the road below.  There's nothing to fall onto, so a single slip could be deadly.

"This is a trail made for mountain goats, not people," Corey agrees.

"But that's all we've got, and it widens a bit a little way down."  We continue at a brisk pace, the wind and rain still in our faces as we head toward the next aid station, the KT stop at mile 89.1.  "We just continue to descend very gradually as the road comes up to meet us.  Even though we can't see the aid station, it lies right around the corner, in a little depression where the trail meets the road."  Reaching the aid shelter, we sit and take a break to refill our bottles and grab some hot chocolate before the darkness sets in.  I eat another turkey sandwich, remove the grit from my socks, and stand to leave.

"How long ago did Brick Robbins leave?" I ask, surprised that he wasn't sitting and eating when we arrived.

"He hasn't been here yet."

"Are you sure?  He was ahead of us coming over Grant-Swamp, and should have beaten us here by about five minutes."

"Haven't seen him yet, but there's someone coming right down the trail."

I look over to the trail and confirm that Brick is just arriving.  "What happened to you?" I ask, wondering where he lost the course.

"We missed the cutoff to the Traverse and headed down the trail toward the campground.  Had to climb back up.  I figure we lost about 30 minutes in the thing.  Very discouraging that the flagging wasn't better than it was."

"I had a problem too, but we turned around before the cutoff.  We didn't go far enough."

Corey and I get up to leave and head out along the jeep road toward the crossing of Mineral Creek and the climb to Porcupine Gulch.  It is a little bit after 8:00 p.m., and I realize that if we can only cover the last 12.2 miles in the time we did it on our first day out here two weeks ago, I'll finish with time to spare.  The rain stops momentarily, the sun appears through some small breaks in the clouds, and Corey and I head toward the final climb, toward home.

"I need to stop and catch my breath," I wheeze as we climb out of the valley, up Porcupine Gulch through the meadow and some fallen trees.  "I can hardly breathe."  This is not a good sign, and I'm quite concerned by my difficulty in breathing.  I've never felt like this before. Each three steps upward is forcing me to breathe deeper, to call on oxygen reserves that are no longer there.  I make Corey stop and let me take a dump behind the trees, hoping that the rest will allow me to gain my breathing back.

Finishing my business, I feel much better and am recovered sufficiently to continue the climb to the edge of the trees, at about 11400 feet.  Here, the trail turns abruptly left and we traverse right along treeline, passing several minor streams and creeks that drain the basin.  Brick and his pacer catch up to us, and we travel together for a long distance.  The pacers chat about pacer-ly things, singing songs and enjoying the hike through the near-darkness.  Brick and I are much more silent, using most of our available energy to press on forward toward the finish line.

Eventually, we turn our lights on and continue to the Porcupine Creek crossing, our signal to begin the final pitch to the Porcupine-Cataract Saddle at 12230.  Corey is still singing, leading me through the woods, but leaving me behind in his wake; he can climb much faster than I can.

"Corey, I need your help!" I holler.  He turns around and waits for me to catch up.

"Help me, please, by staying near me.  You can only coax me to follow in your steps if you are close enough for me to see. I need your extra light, too."

We slow to my pace, cross Porcupine Creek, and head on up through the wet grasses and trail to the saddle, some one thousand feet above us.  The night is as black as pitch and a few drops of rain are still falling on us.  Off in the distance, we see the faint lights of runners descending Grant-Swamp Pass in the dark.  "I'd bet they'd give anything to be in our position now," I volunteer, knowing that these have to be some of the last runners to have a legitimate shot at finishing the course in the allotted time.  Of the runners behind me, I feel confident that Matt Mahoney and Joel Zucker are still out there hammering away at the course, making the cutoffs by minutes and staying ahead of the monsters that face them from within.

Back in Porcupine Gulch, the pacers continue their din of annoying singing, and I don't feel like I'm making much progress.  The route is very hard to follow even with the reflective markers, as their placement leaves a lot to be desired.  Hidden behind rocks and trees, switchbacks, and tall grasses, they are impossible to follow.  The four of us work together, searching for each successive marker, one after another.  Rarely are two visible at a time. Even though I marked this section of trail, the route we are following doesn't remind me of anything I've ever seen before.  I trust the markers to lead me over the saddle, through Cataract Basin, and over the last climb of the night before turning me in the direction toward home.

Thoroughly annoyed by Corey's giggling and singing, especially his rendition of "Gilligan's Island" sung to the tune of "Amazing Grace", I'm convinced that a finish is beyond my grasp and I pull him aside.

"Corey, I don't feel like you are helping me at all.  The singing is bothering me, because I don't feel like I'm making any progress.  And if I miss the time limit by five minutes because of you, I'll be very upset."

My harsh words shut him up, and he shines his light ahead to reveal a half-dozen flags in a row.  "There.  We go straight up."

I let Brick forge ahead as I take a break and catch my breath once we reach the top.  I'm still confused by the landscape which looks completely foreign to me, and as we make the traverse through Cataract Basin, I still feel like I am on a different planet.  When we had originally come through here with flags, there was too much snow in the basin to effectively mark a trail.  Charlie and John came back later in the week to set flags, and as we progress around the bowl, I note how dry the land is.  We take a break because Corey is cold, and put on our long pants for the duration of the run.

"Are you glad that I made you take the heavy jacket?" I ask, assuming that he'd agree it was the right choice.

"Yes!" he enthusiastically volunteers.

We continue around the bowl and finally reach the last pitch, the climb to the Putnam-Lime Creek Saddle.  Here, as I remember it, Charlie laid the trail cross country directly up a steep mountainside.  The reflection of the markers indicates the direct route to the ridge, but Corey stops in his tracks and doesn't take a step further.

"I don't know what you need me to do.  You aren't talking to me, so I don't know if I'm doing this right."

"You're doing great.  I'd like you to lead me by about a flag, so when you climb, I'm resting, and when I'm climbing, I'm working to reach you."

Corey's in a bad mood, I can tell, but I don't know what is bothering him. His joy and lightheartedness has been replaced by quiet melancholy, and I occasionally hear him mumble something under his breath.

"I'm sick and tired of being the happy one," I hear him say as we climb.  "I just want to get this done and be back in town."

"You and me both. The fun left this race last night, and it hasn't gotten better.  But I can't stop now.  Just a little bit further."

We reach a sheep trail near the top of the ridge that courses right, at a single contour, to the bluff overlooking the saddle.  "I'm sorry, but I need to tell you this right now," Corey begins as he continues to walk.  "I don't want to ruin your race, so I'm sorry that I can't wait to say this."  The moon breaks through the clouds.  "I am NEVER going to do this again.  I can be your crew and meet you at the aid stations, but I can't pace you.  I don't want to fight with you.  I don't want you to treat me like shit.  I don't want anything to do with it anymore."

"Corey, I'm sorry that I upset you.  I didn't realize that what I said bothered you.  I don't want to fight with you, either, but I really think we should talk about this later, when we're not tired and when we're not at 12000 feet."

"It's just that my goals are different from yours.  I had fun out here at the course markings, but it was a more relaxed atmosphere.  I don't want to train with you.  When we go out and hike together, I don't want to train, I want to enjoy the scenery.  The singing back there was for me.  It took my mind off of my hurting feet.  Then you just throw that away for me and tell me that if you don't make it, it'll be my fault.  I don't have to put up with that."

I apologize again, as I didn't realize what was going on in his mind as we climbed the last pitch of the run.  I had no idea that I had been so mean to him or that he hated what we were doing out here in the middle of my second night on the trail, but the altitude and the fatigue are known for altering good judgement.  "Corey, let's just get down and finish this thing, and we'll worry about feelings later.  I don't really want to fight."

I had told myself during the last climb that Corey was a much better crew person than a pacer, and that I was going to suggest that for future races, he'd only meet me at the aid stations and let others worry about pacing me.  I could tell that the last two days had really worn him thin and that he was tired from not getting any sleep.  But I had no idea that he was miserable pacing me, and even though I wish that our 19 miles together had worked out better, I'm now glad that the understanding is mutual and that my crew chief will remain in the pits and that others will be allowed to run with me on the course.

Far in the distance, we can see the beacon of hope in the darkness: the Putnam Basin Aid Station.  Even though I am able to slowly jog the trail in front of me, its narrowness and occasional rocks are enough to keep me from picking up the pace.  I'm content with a fast hike, sure that I will make the cutoff in plenty of time.  We weave through the willows and the mud lining the trail, arriving at the last break point as Brick leaves for the final push to the end.

"Did you guys carry all of this up Bear Creek?" I ask, amazed that the remote aid station is so extensive.  There are small chairs on which to sit, a tarp to keep the supplies dry, and a ton of food sprawled out on a plastic sheet on the ground.  No tables, but beggars can't be choosers.  Off in the distance, a big bonfire burns brightly, lighting up the night.

"Care to sit by the fire?" someone asks.

"Fire. Bad."  Those were my only two words, but Corey gives me a glare that indicates I should explain.  "It's great for the volunteers, but if I get to close and get warm, I freeze when it is time to leave."

I change the batteries in my flashlight knowing that they are close to being dead.  I don't want to try to do a change in the dark, unless I have to.  I stand up.

"Are you ready?" I ask Corey, who is stuffing his face with food.  "I'm ready when you are."

From the aid station, we have six miles to go.  The trail follows Bear Creek - Silverton to the paved highway and the Mineral Creek Crossing almost four miles distant.  Then we cross the road, climb up onto the Nute Chute, and follow the Shrine road into town and back to the Maxfield's shop.  I figure that the whole journey will take about three hours.

We press on down the trail, weaving through sections of woods marked with "Charlie Trail", a trail that exists only in the deep recesses of Charlie's mind as he plants flags to mark our path.  The forest gives way to the scree fields that line the path, and though we can hear the water in the creek below, our lights never reach it.  The glassy reflection of the moon in the cascading water is refreshing, and momentarily I forget that I'm walking on uneven rocks along a ledge that drops precipitously to the water 400 feet below.

The scree and boulder fields seem to never end.  I can see what lies ahead of me because the moon is so bright, and I look forward to getting off the narrow trail and onto something a little bit more substantial a little closer to the road.

"Remember the road down here is quite broad," Corey tells me.  There is a section of jeep trail that comes up to meet the trail, and I am eagerly awaiting it.

It never comes, and I don't know why.  The trail that I thought was jeep road is actually a wide single track.  When we finally reach it, I begin preparing my mind for the river crossing.  I expect it to be quite deep and cold, so the plan for tonight's crossing is the same plan I used last night.  The outer layer of clothes come off and go around my neck while I cross with both hands on the rope.

The creek crossing doesn't come soon enough.  We pass through sections of trail that I don't remember existed, over some switchbacks, and through a zone where loggers are felling some trees. Two tall aspen lean into each other, forming a canopy-like structure overhead that, in the moonlight, casts strange shadows on the ground.  The rocks begin to move.  They step up to meet me, biting my toes step after step.  Eventually, the river comes into view at the far side of a wide meadow.  Corey and I walk to its bank, remove our outer layers of clothing, put our flashlights away, and strap our waist packs around our neck.

"I know you've never done this before, so take all your warm clothes and wrap them around your neck.  The waist pack needs to be strapped as high as possible, since we don't know how deep the water is.  Do you want me to go first, or do you want to?"

"You."

I head down the bank and into the creek.  While the current is swift, it is nothing like the Uncompaghre River current of the night before.  The water only comes to me mid-thigh, but as I'm ready to get out on the opposite bank, I slip on the rocky bottom and get waist-deep in water.

"Up to your thighs, Corey.  The current is faster on this side over here, and there are a few rocks to watch out for."  He starts across, carefully reaching hand-over-hand on the single, 11-mm rope that saves us from being carried downstream.  After exchanging a few words about the temperature of the water (it's not "fucking cold," like the Uncompaghre, but it's not a sauna either), I tell Corey to head out to the road before putting his clothes back on.  We only have a little over two miles to go.

We cross the road, turning left uphill to the gentle slope that leads us to the railroad bed comprising the newest section of the course, the Nute Chute.  The nice, rock-free section of the trail makes me wonder why Charlie liked this section, as it seems very much out of character with the rest of the course.  As the rocks reappear, I have my answer.  Loose rocks litter the trail approaching the washout and I swear loudly at them as they make me trip.  Even though I am moving at a pace no faster than a snail's crawl, each step I take allows my foot to land on a loose rock, forcing me off balance and causing the bottom of my feet to scream in pain.

Some things just cease to be fun, and this is one of them.  As we cross the slide area behind the Columbine, I realize that this is the last ledge that I will cross.  I pick up the pace and jog gently to the orienteering punch placed on the trail to ensure that we haven't taken the road into town.  I punch my number, and on down the trail to where it joins the shrine road.

"Let's run."

Corey is less than enthusiastic about the idea, but as I pick up the pace to a jog, he follows behind.  I think that he is as tired as I am and that running is becoming very painful for him.  Even though he marked course with us for several days, hiking as much as 18 miles through Pole Creek, he is not a runner and this leg has been long.  And he has been awake for most of the last 48 hours, as I have.

I run about 50 feet and start gasping for breath.  My body reacts negatively to the exertion, and I start to cough and choke on my own air.  I attempt to throw up, my gut muscles in spasm.  "I guess that's not going to work and I'll just walk it in."

We walk up the shrine road in the dark.  I am walking at a brisk pace, and Corey can barely keep up.  I'm feeling good, as I can see purpose in all of this.  I can see the goal across town.  I can see that I am almost done.  I can see completion.

"How can you walk so fast?" Corey asks.  He picks up into the occasional jog to keep up.  "I have a goal now."

We find the trees that signal the last cross-country descent into town, and I let Corey go ahead of me.  "I need to take this easy.  I'll catch up."

We make it to the bottom of the hill and begin to walk down 14th street toward the finish line.  I'm happy that my day is almost done and that the effort I have expended over the last two days has yielded a positive finish.  As we head down the last alley to the digital sign that marks the finish line, I look at my watch and discover that I have made the cutoff with over two hours to spare.  It is 3:45 a.m., Sunday, 45:45:07 after the start two days ago.

Doug meets us at the finish line and shakes my hand.  I head inside to grab some water and relax.  My lucidity of thought and my acute awareness of my surroundings quickly fades as I sit and begin to recover.  But now, the goal has been met and there is no reason to put the fatigue aside while I walk.  I can rest, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and I sit for a moment, my hands in my face.  I think of the effort, and while I am happy that I've finished the run, I am more happy that I have succeeded in overcoming my doubt, overcoming my personal difficulties on the trail, overcoming the biggest challenge to a finish: the lack of desire.

I can't explain the joy that I felt at finishing the Hardrock.  The effort was so draining -- and so fulfilling -- that words cannot begin to express the emotion that I felt.  Even today, the shock that I feel at actually accomplishing something so "impossible" to many people puts me at a loss for words.  The hardest race that I've ever started has also become one that I've finished.  For this, I thank my crew: Bob, Doug, and Corey.  I thank God for keeping me safe in the midst of the storms.  I thank the mountains for allowing me passage, for without the cooperation of nature to invite us into its sanctuary, we men must remain prisoners to the concrete jungles we have made with our hands, never being able to enjoy the handiwork of God and the beauty of creation abounding in such remote places.