Into the great dark yonder

(Here's the latest installment of my Excursions column, which runs every other week in the Jackson Hole News&Guide)

By Amy Schenck

For a fleeting moment as my car rumbled up Ski Hill Road toward Teton Canyon, I questioned my sanity.

It was two days after the winter solstice, the clock read 6:30 a.m., and not even a hint of morning sunshine lingered on the horizon. 

Instead, snow wisped in front of my windshield, reminding me that it was indeed the middle of winter.

I had planned to go to a 6 a.m. cardio and strength class and then go running afterward, with the first light of day.

But the fitness class got canceled for lack of students and my run got bumped up an hour.

Coming from Alaska, running in the dark and snow doesn’t much faze me. Up north, when the sun rises at 10 a.m. and sets by 4 p.m. this time of year, often my wintertime option was to get out in the dark or not get out all.

Sometimes I would run at 5 p.m., sometimes at midnight, sometimes at 5 a.m. … the time didn’t really matter, the landscape in the beam of my headlamp remained unchanged.

But on this Dec. 23 day in Alta, Wyoming the big difference from my previous running forays is that I lacked a headlamp.

Hoping ambient light and good eyesight would be enough to get me by, I parked at the beginning of the road to Teton Canyon.

I decided that it would be a good idea to warm up on the half mile of plowed road before it dead ended in a parking lot. After that, I knew the going would get much tougher, as the slog continued over snowmobile tracks.

With dogs Zippy and Oscar, we set out in the dark. I ran right down the center of the road, feeling my way forward. Zippy and Oscar frolicked in the woods, thrilled by the fresh snow that fell overnight.

Several minutes later, the drivable portion of the road ended. Unable to make out the path through the snowbank circling the parking lot, I followed Zippy and Oscar step for step, using them as beacons to find my way.

Now, on the groomed portion of the trail, I zigzagged back and forth, seeking out firm ground under my feet.

I knew it would be easier to run over the path compacted by snowmobilers; I also knew it was good manners to avoid tracking up the skate ski path. But without vision, it took some trial and error to get on the right track.

I laughed thinking about the folks who would ski, walk and sled down Teton Canyon later in the day. Surely, they would think a drunk or a lunatic, or both, had made the footprints in the snow.

I plodded along, trying not to dwell on the soft, sand-like surface under my feet. Gradually, morning sunbeams lit up the snowscape around me.

Alone in this frozen world, a peace settled in me.

My body churned out heat, fighting off the ice crystals clinging to my cheeks.

A few times I thought about turning around before reaching the end of the 4-mile canyon, telling myself the conditions were just too slow going.

I reminded myself to be patient, to just put one foot in front of the other.

My mind wandered.

I rounded a corner.

Surprised, I found myself at the parking lot that services Table Mountain in the summer.

I looped around and began the plod back to my car.

On my way, I ran into a volunteer out grooming the trail.

We chatted for a few minutes, commenting on the beauty of the place and the morning. That groomer was the only person I encountered the whole two hours I was out.

The return trip went seemingly much faster. While the downhill grade and sunlight probably helped, I suspect this was mostly because I had settled into a rhythm, and was no longer counting each step.

Soon I was back at my car, and by 9 a.m. I was in Driggs, ordering at extra hot Irish cream latte and a raspberry cheesecake pastry, with the whole day still before me.

Columnist Amy Schenck is perplexed by the lack of winter trail runners in these parts. Finding a packed down path in the mountains more than a mile or two long is no small feat. Amy Schenck’s columns appear in the News&Guide every other week.

North to south .... to north

A sign on the Bright Angel trail of the Grand Canyon warns that trying to hike to the river and back in a day is hazardous and should not be attempted ... good thing we didn't do that.

Instead Karen Williams and I ran from the north rim to the south rim and back to the north rim of the Grand Canyon in a spectacular - and sometimes grueling - 17 hours. The round-trip distance closed in on 50 miles and the elevation gain and loss was too intimidating to even calculate.

On the north rim 16 of us Alaskans, former Alaskans and friends of Alaskans congregated for an epically fun couple of days. Everyone went their own speed: there were rim to rimmers, rimer to river to rimers, and the rim to rim to rimmmers.(Of note, my mom and Karen's husband Kent hiked nearly 30 miles, going from the north rim to the river and back!)

We ran/ hiked on Thursday (10/14) and then all hung out and celebrated together on Friday. I spent the better part of Friday sitting on a veranda perched on the north rim, drinking coffee, reading and generally refusing to move. (I let out more than a few grumbles about the idea of walking 0.6 miles to a lookout for sunset, but in the end was lulled into the idea ... and it turned out to be worth the effort).

The highlights were many: reconnecting with friends and meeting new ones; descending in the dark with headlamps; listening to all the off-the-wall comments people made about our endeavor, especially when going back down the south rim and passing the same people we passed on the way up; gorging on a milkshake, hamburger, fries and coffee on the south rim; jumping into the water with all of our clothes on to cool down; crossing the bridge over the river in the bottom of the canyon; sitting with our backs against a sheer cliff admiring the stars overhead and the moonlit canyon below us; and mildly hallucinating, with the sound of water washing over me, reverberating off the canyon walls and then engulfing in me in a peaceful calm.

Our mantra for the day, and for ultrarunning in general, was in the forefront of our thoughts: there's no place I'd rather be than right here, right now, right at this point on the trail.

Let the wind take my troubles away

The crisp morning air poured through the rolled down window of my car as I snaked toward Teton Canyon outside of Driggs, Idaho.
Out my window poured the song “Windfall” by Son Volt.
“Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel, may the wind take your troubles away.”
With each passing mile my “troubles” i.e. the cares and stresses of the week dissolved, replaced by a penetrating inner peace.
Just me and my dog. Just me and my dog headed to the mountains. Just me and my dog headed to the mountains on a dazzling autumn day.
I relished the feeling of having a whole day to follow my creative whims.
The night before I poured over the map and came up with a circular traverse full of possibility. The topographic lines promised passable terrain and the location – a ridge directly to the west of the Grand Teton – hinted at stunning views.
I planned to go up Table Mountain – a hike that’s been on my to do list for some time – but, at the top, rather than retrace my steps, with the Sunday afternoon swarms, I hoped to traverse across to Hurricane Pass and descend via the Alaska Basin Trail.
I’d never been on any of these trails – or lack of trails as was the case for one section of my planned route – and with the extra edge of doing it by myself, the anticipation made me feel alive and free.
I pulled up to the parking lot at the end of Teton Canyon at 11 a.m. It was later in the day than I would have liked, but since I planned to half-hike half-run the route, I still had plenty of time to complete the guesstimated 17 miles before sunset.
There’s two ways to get up Table Mountain: the short and steep route or longer and semi-steep route. I was aiming for the short and steep route, but since only the trailhead for the longer and semi-steep route is marked, that’s where I found myself.
No matter. It followed a river, giving Zippy, my dog plenty of opportunity to hydrate.
(Scroll down to keep reading the day's narrative)

We jogged through aspens groves, bursting with circus colors, winding our way toward a plateau at the end of a basin.
For a long time – due to our late start – Zippy and I had the trail entirely to ourselves; but as we approached the summit of Table, the five-mile single track took on overtones of a highway.
The final section arcs across a sweeping ridge, and people dotted it as far as the eye could see.
Crawling carefully over loose gravel, Zippy and I crested the summit of Table Mountain, elevation 11,106 feet.

If you’ve never sat on Table Mountain on a clear day, you should.
It feels like you can reach your pointer finger out and caress the Grand’s rough, jagged, rock-strewn sides. You feel like a queen on a throne and an ant on a sandcastle – at the exact same time.
We sat up there, under the warmth of early October’s afternoon sun, eating lunch for nearly an hour – I shared some of my almond butter and jelly sandwich with my brown eyed, floppy eared pup, who chowed appreciatively.
Stomachs and spirits full, it was time for the real adventure to begin.

From Table Mountain I had a clear view to Hurricane Pass, and picked out a route and way markers: a snowfield shaped like a V, a grassy knoll and a scree field full of volcanic rocks.
With one last glance at the Grand, I was off. I tiptoed up to the edge of a bluff. Using a steep gully filled with dead grass and a scattering of loose boulders, I picked my way down.
Arriving at the bottom, I knew there was no turning back.
I then set out cross-country, hugging the shade of a few small trees as long as I could, before being funneled into a field of black, abrasive boulders.
As the sun beat down and the rocks baked from below, I began to wish I’d worn sunscreen. Instead I periodically gave Zippy a few gingerly sips of water from my Camelbak.
I then had to make my way up through a rock band that wrapped around most of the mountain side, like a ribbon on a gift.
I found a ravine that looked passable and started scrambling up it, faithful pup in toe. About half way up, loose rock began to drain out from underneath my feet.
Keeping my cool, but admittedly a bit unnerved, I was relieved when both Zippy and I reached semi-horizontal, grass-stabilized ground. (Note: if you attempt this route, there’s a much simpler way to get up, as I later discovered, directly below Hurricane Pass).
A short while later, traversing south, I made my way to Hurricane Pass. My total off-trail time was between one to two hours – I wasn’t keeping close track. The distance covered was a bit more than a mile.
In its own way, Hurricane Pass is every bit as spectacular as Table Mountain. An aqua green glacial lake sits like a gum drop directly below the pass, while the Grand towers above.
As I laced up my shoes, I felt a quiver of excitement. Before me, 10 gentle downhill miles twisted next to North Fork Darby Creek.

I easily found a running rhythm, a rhythm that got interrupted occasionally by a rock formation or waterfall so striking that I had to stop and gawk.
Zippy trotted behind me, his rhythm matching mine … through fields of crackling yellow leaves, past a merry marmot and into a refreshing alpine lake. (I didn’t actually go into the lake despite Zippy’s cajoling and assurances that nothing would feel better).
The sun hovered on the horizon, casting long shadows and soft magical light.

For 9.5 miles I saw no living creature, save that merry marmot.
It was just mom and dog in the mountains on a dazzling autumn day.
By the time we closed in on the last half mile, when we had a few sightings of other human beings, the wind had taken my troubles away, and filled my lungs. I was running faster than I would in a flat 5K.
I took that pace right to the parking lot and into a nearby a river – Zippy’s cajoling at work.

Toughness and tenacity

Last weekend I paced Mike Weston for the last half of the Grand Teton 100 miler ... he showed amazing toughness and tenacity ... finishing in 35 hours, 50 minutes ... 10 minutes before the 36 hour cutoff time ... it literally brought tears to my eyes (and others) to watch him cross the finish line! To view photos of my 20-plus hours out on the trail with him click here.

More on life soon ... and I still haven't forgot about the Leadville race report ... just busy, busy, busy now that I'm back in Jackson Hole ... moving into a new place and working full-time at the newspaper.

- Amy

Leadville: a shudder for the shutter

The photos of the Leadville 100 that Jeff Best took are live and ready to view. Click here to view all 141 of the photos. Here's a sampling of a few of my favorites!