Adam’s Peak

09 Sunday Jun 2019

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Asia, hiking, Outdoors, Sri Lanka, Traveling

As we wound our way along a gravel mountain road I marvelled at the rolling acres of tea plantations. Women worked the land, gathering immense cloth bundles of tea leaves they would carry from the fields on their heads. Our driver informed us that tea plantations largely employed only women as they could be paid significantly less than men. A concept I found repugnant. Yet, I reminded myself, this was not my country and who was I to judge their social order. Besides, could we really ask western nations to suffer the indignity of a more expensive tea? (Yes, yes we can).

Our driver came to a stop in the middle of the mountain road. We strained to see what blocked our way. Stray dogs seem to be as numerous as people in Sri Lanka. It was a dog that now impeded our progression. More accurately, a puppy appeared to have chosen the middle of the narrow lane as the ideal place for a nap. The driver honked and the little thing raised its head sleepily but refused to move. No honking or aggressive posturing on our part made any impression upon the pup. This was his road and at the moment his bed.

One of many Sri Lankan puppies.

I stepped out of the car in order to persuade the little thing to move along. It ignored me as easily as it had the car. In the end I was forced to pick the little fellow up and move him to the side of the road. I was hesitant. Would he bite? Was he sick or injured? Still, I lifted him out of the way so we could continue our journey.

Our destination was a hotel? No, hostel perched above a mountain ravine on the pilgrimage road to Adam’s Peak. People come from across Sri Lanka, and perhaps further, certainly we came from much further, to make the pilgrimage to this singular mountain peak. The mountain rises a canonical tower over a forested and singular landscape. At its summit, it is said by some lies the footprint of Buddha, Shiva, or Adam, depending on your faith tradition. Lisa and I thought it would be entertaining to climb the mountain and see for ourselves. I could not spend the whole of my time in Sri Lanka lounging on its beaches.

The pilgrimage begins early in the morning or late at night, depending on one’s perspective of 2am. The ascent is made by climbing a mixture of cement and stone steps. Thousands, upon thousands of steps go up, and up, and up. Upon those steps go thousands and thousands of people. Though there be so many, the climb is somehow peaceful. The sounds of frogs and other insects of the night are clearly heard among the soft footfalls of the mountain’s travellers. There is little talking out of reverence, perhaps, or more likely that in climbing the ascent requires one’s breathe for measured breathing not speaking.

The way is softly lit by electric lights and the glow from little tin roofed shops pressed together like standing dominoes on both sides of the path. The shops sell mostly teas and other light victuals. As well, they sell toys and trinkets to the families and foreigners pressing to the summit.

It took us some hours to make the climb. In the dark we joined a queue to take our turn passing through a humble concrete building overtop the famed footprint. My curiosity was peaked and my anticipation climbed as we neared the site. Then we were suddenly there and I was peering through a plate of protective glass to the rock with the famed footprint. What I saw was no footprint at all but a tacky cloth lotus flower spread out over the spot in, what I learned was, supposed protection of the sacred print. My dissatisfaction was evident I’m sure.

Nonetheless, the footprint was really only secondary to the purpose of our climb. We were informed that the sunrise from the peak was impressive and worth the climb, hence the two am departure. So, Lisa and I found a small patch of concrete so situated that there would be none of the thousands that climbed with us between us and the rising sun. There we waited.

We waited patiently with the many pilgrims to witness the birth of a new day; to watch the sun shoot forth its rays over a blue-black sky and the billowing clouds beneath us. We waited to see the shadow of the mountain curl out behind us on a land far below. We waited. Though I was disappointed in the claimed footprint of the first man I would not be disappointed in this. The sun rose, brilliant, and breathtaking. It was true, I thought, that I would not see the footprint of Adam but this certainly felt like I was witnessing the indelible fingerprints of God.

A wide angle shot from Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka.

Once the sun was fully in the sky and we were thoroughly inspired, Lisa and I ran down the mountain path, leaping from stairs like much younger versions of ourselves. We ran past the little shops, the shrines to Shiva and Buddha with their burning incense. I felt renewed and exhausted. We would pay for the journey and our speedy dissent soon after. Our calves would be as hard as the stone we climbed, for days. We didn’t mind, though, as it made those final days in Sri Lanka, lounging on the beach, that much sweeter.

——–

Lisa and I visited Sri Lanka in the spring of 2014.

Picnic Boat

03 Monday Jun 2019

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Camping, Canada, I miss..., Outdoors

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This blog recently auto-renewed itself. Had I been thinking ahead I might have returned the blog to a free state. Now I feel as though I need to make use of my inadvertent purchase. Like a new year’s resolution I move forward with naive determination. I’ve found myself ruminating on youthful experiences lately. The following is one of those. As I nag my children to get outside, to be adventurous, to put down their devices I’m drawn to my own childhood. Those were days of the Sega and Nintendo but we couldn’t download games from the cloud. We collected enough pop-bottles to cash in at the store for the deposit money. We walked clear across town to the video store and rented games that we played for as long as the rental allowed. I am left with a sense of nostalgia and longing for the 90s. Will my children tell stories like these?

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Ragnar Wasatch Back

05 Tuesday Jun 2018

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Outdoors, race, running, USA

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I’d been chasing that little red blinking light for a couple kilometers. A three quarter moon was shinning brightly and the once inky black sky was giving way to infinite deep blues. My last leg of Ragnar Wasatch Back was a little mind numbing. It followed an old train track with less than a 2 percent incline. I beat back the monotony by chasing down the little red lights flashing in the distance. Each runner is required to wear a taillight.

I could see the finish line grow larger as I approached but that little red light wasn’t going to make it there before me. I turned up the speed slightly. Soon I was pulling in beside this last runner, his Ear Pods protruding from his head, his breathe in time to some silent beat. A few hundred meters away and I felt bad about passing the poor guy so close to the finish. Would his last memory of this epic race be my back flashing past him to sour his victory? “Let’s go! Don’t let me pass you right at the end!” I called.

He seemed to come to, to shake out of his dull cadence. He put on a burst of speed and I pushed harder. We seemed to drop through successive gears as we pressed our acceleration. The crowd at the finish line loved it as we barreled through shoulder-to-shoulder breathing hard and having fun. This was a near repeat of a scene from Ragnar Zion. In fact, it ended the same way. Where was my team? There was no one there to pass on the baton to. Could this really be happening again?

I called our team number. I called the name of my next runner. Nothing. Just as before the crowd thought this was just as enjoyable as whipping my opponent across the finish line. Their absence was my own fault. It was cold and my body was miserable at the start line so I estimated I’d be rather slow. A near flat 7.9 kilometers in my current shape and attitude might take me 50-55 minutes. I had no plans to run hard. I crossed the line in a little more than 41 minutes. Still slow but much faster than I imagined I’d be. In the end we burned up at least 5 minutes before the team realized I was there already.

Ragnar Wasatch Back is a different beast than Ragnar Zion. Our team of 12 was split across two vans. Where the trail run had us all start and end in the same spot Wasatch Back is a point-to-point race. Race teams elaborately decorate their support vehicles but no amount of bling would mask the odor of a can of ripe runners. I barely knew any of these folks before we started. They all know me a little more than they’d probably like to now.

Ragnar didn’t disappoint. The atmosphere was party like. The trail was stunning and the test was formidable. The many legs of the course made it possible to customize the run to the skill level of each runner. Our less seasoned runners could take the 2-5 mile legs or the down hill portions and those with a little more grit the 6-9 mile legs and torturous uphill. One 7-mile hill was so grueling the race provided a special medal for the runner from each team who tackled it. In our case this was the team captain and he dominated that hill. I was impressed. Next year that thing is mine.

We had a fellow on our team who stepped in last minute for us. He took the place of two runners. His first leg was more than a half-marathon and he’d end the event having covered more than 26 miles. I hammered out an easy 15 miles and my legs are still very annoyed with me a few days later.

Our team t-shirt logo

I was also added to this team at the last minute. I didn’t tell the team I’d be making this post so I won’t list the names of the team members here but I’ll say that it was a fun group of writers, editors, historians, students and this lone librarian, so, a bunch of nerds. Our team name is a play on an obscure quote of Joseph Smith’s though less obscure since the publication of Richard L. Bushman’s acclaimed biography of Joseph by that title, Rough Stone Rolling. We were the Rough Stones Running. Sufficiently nerdy, I’d say.

I thought I’d be able to say which race I preferred (Zion or Wasatch, road or trail). Turns out, I enjoyed both of them on their own merits. If I take my kids in the future it will probably be to the Zion trail run. I think it’s much less dangerous. Though, I’d be up for another Wasatch Back anytime.

Things that could be improved on:

Better finish line management. So often the finish lines were crowded with spectators and it was hard to tell exactly where to stop or transition
Something besides water at aid stations. You pay a good deal for these races. I feel like there could be more food and freebies along the way
Food trucks at the busier transitions. That epic hill run could have used a handful of food trucks – so many people
Double the number of portable toilets at those busy transitions too

Things that I really liked about the race:

Being packed into a van was actually good fun – road trip!
People really got into it and the sportsmanship was inspiring
Some great scenery on the trails
The high-school gyms that allowed for sleeping and showering. Those were awesome. Sleeping on a mat in a gym isn’t really great but it did look like a makeshift morgue dealing with a pandemic – which was kind of cool (only because it wasn’t actually a make shift morgue)
They’ve got great medals

Left: medal for running both Utah Ragnar events. Centre: medal for running two Ragnar events in 2018. Right: medal for running Ragnar Wasatch Back.

Ragnar Trail

12 Saturday May 2018

Posted by jrwmacdonald in race, running

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I caught the Frontrunner train out of Salt Lake to Provo after work on Thursday. A borrowed backpack with its sleeping mat strapped to the side and a sleeping bag hanging from my arm painted a strange juxtaposition to my white shirt, tie and polished dress shoes. On the way out my colleague commented I looked like a business hobo. It’s a good look for me I think.

A couple hours later the son-in-law of an old friend, Harri, from Dubai picked me up at the train station. Aside from Harri I’d never met anyone else on our 8 man Ragnar team. I’d spend the night at this stranger’s place before making the 5 hour drive to Zion National Park and the relay trail running race I was easily talked into.

Turns out I’d be the most experienced runner on the team but a good bunch of guys nonetheless. One of the team had come down sick so we were short a body to make a full team. The race officials were chill about it. We simply added a “shadow runner” which would take us out of the competition but we were never really in it from the start. Our only competitors were ourselves.

That missing member moved me up in the relay. Instead of an early evening run I’d start on the red loop at about 3pm and the worst of the heat of the day. Let me back up a moment and explain how this race works. There are 3 loops of progressive difficulty (green, yellow, red) all starting and returning to the same point. Your team only ever has one person out running at a time. Based on your current runner’s loop and ability you can estimate the time of return and the next runner’s start. When a runner reaches about 400 meters from the finish they cross a RFID mat which relays their imminent return to TV monitors in the start line tents. There teammates wait anxiously for the appearance of their team name so they can enter the start gates, and put on a colored arm bracelet indicating the loop they’d run. The teammate coming in removes a race belt with the RFID bib number and passes it on to their teammate before heading out on the trail.

Each runner runs each loop. My team’s skill level meant that I’d have about 6 hours between runs. My first run landed on the red route, the longest and most grueling. It would have been a challenging but enjoyable run had I not been out in the heat. That heat was powerfully oppressive. The trails were a mix of single and 4 wheeler tracks with a few sections of dirt roads.

The first mile floated away easily but then the terrain rose sharply through the pine where the dusty track exposed the veins of those trees and the rocky bones of the mountain beneath it. Runners of every sort tackled the trail. Women and men of every body type some pushing hard up the long hills and others nearly crawling up it, sweat matting their hair, and their breath deeply labored. Brave to be out here, I thought.

The trail would climb nearly 750 meters and most of that within the first third of the loop (about 4 kilometers). The hill forced me into a walk many times. It finally spit me out onto a long ridge with impressive views of beautiful semi-arid desert valleys. Signs encouraged runners to stop for selfies but I couldn’t be bothered. The valley was impressive, inspiring even, but that picture could never do justice to the living sight of it. I’d take mental images and file them away with the thousands of others only glimpsed by intrepid adventures. Besides, it was hot and I wasn’t hanging around in the sun any longer than I needed to.

The remainder of the loop was a roller coaster trail down the mountain and passing through, at the valley bottom, the tents of the thousands of Ragnar runners camped out for the weekend. My adopted team cheered me on as I ran past.

I pushed hard through the last 1000 meters of the 12k loop. I passed my race bib to Jake, Harri’s son-in-law, and then collapsed into a chair in the shade of the race tent. Volunteers filled my water bottles and brought me a cold wet cloth for my neck. I lingered there in that chair working to bring my body temperature under control. I was hovering on the edge of heat exhaustion, I could feel the edges of it like an old familiar friend. Much like you know the approach of your father or other loved one by the sound of their foot falls or the pattern of their breathing before they come into view, heat exhaustion and her sister heat stroke were approaching quickly. I hid in the shade and covered myself with cold water. I was grateful that the loop had not been any longer. I don’t think I could have out run them had it been. I completed that 12 kilometers in about 81 minutes. Not a great time but given the terrain and the heat I was happy with it.

I now had about 6 hours before I’d run again. There were 425 teams (4-8 people per team) out running. That many people meant the event had a carnival like feel. The race fee included a dinner which I gladly devoured with my team. I was grateful for the showers in the park and doubly grateful that I managed to walk straight into one of these showers without standing in a line. I caught it at the right time – there seemed to be a perpetual line there for the remainder of the event.

I managed an hour’s rest in the tent before making my way back to the start line to head out on the yellow loop. It would be a little after 10 before I’d start. With a borrowed head lamp I cautiously moved into the night. The cool air was heavenly. This yellow loop followed a trail along the inside of the red loop which made the route shorter (about 7 kilometers) but it also meant the first third of this trail would make a staggering climb up to the ridge of a great hill. The steepness was greater than even the red loop but the cool air was invigorating and I bounded to the top.

At the top, along the ridge, the trail snakes through desert scrub. I asked another runner aloud, “who put this beach here?” The trail was soft sand and it swallowed your shoes and stole your strength. Up and down along the ridge I went. Cresting a hill I dared for a moment to remove my eyes from my feet. The trail dropped before me along the ridge and then snaked its way up and up over the next hill. Evenly spaced along the route moved headlights strapped to struggling runners. It reminded me of a late night pilgrimage to the top of Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka. What were these pilgrims seeking?

The rest of this course went nearly completely down. A single track of soft sand wound down the mountain to the finish line. I don’t have the best depth perception so was being uncharacteristically cautious. Then I looked at my watch. I’d been running for 31 minutes and I had about 3 kilometers to go. Harri had completed this loop earlier in the day in about 48 minutes and I suddenly intended to beat that time. I abandoned much of my caution and lengthened my stride.

I was smiling. This was immense fun and I seemed filled with boundless energy. I poured it all out. I was feeling that elusive runner’s high and I relished it. Soon I was crossing that 400 meter marker and I really poured it on. The finish line was before me and so was a young lady who hearing the fall of my approaching footsteps quickened her pace. A challenge, I smiled and egged her on. “Let’s go” I said. “Dig deep!” She did. In the last 50 meters I was just behind her and the crowd was erupting with our enthusiastic finish. I could not help it. I bellowed behind her, “come on!” She answered by driving forward and we entered the finish line to the cheers of an amused crowd. She gave me a quick thanks as we looked for our running mates.

Where was Jake? He wasn’t there to claim the race bib and I waited impatiently. It wasn’t uncommon for runners to miss their handoff. I waited for ten minutes and then left the race bib at the announcer’s table with a handful of others and began to head back to camp to see if I needed to wrestle him out of bed. I met him about half way there coming up to the start line. They’d been watching for me to pass the camp before he’d head up. I guess I was traveling rather fast as they hadn’t seen me run by. Eventually he figured he’d missed me and started to head to the line.

I was still experiencing a terrific runner’s high. I felt like I could run it all over again. Instead I cracked a bottle of coke, found a chair and rode out the remainder of my high before washing my feet and crawling into a warm sleeping bag. I’d rolled in with a time of about 46 minutes. I’d won… though Harri wouldn’t know it, I knew it, and that was enough.

I rolled out of bed at 5am and headed to the start line. The others would take a little longer than we’d hoped. I hung out at one of the campfires near the start line chatting with other runners until about 7:30am. The air was chilly but I stripped down to a single layer as Harri came into the start tent. I traded my bag for the race bib. I was ready to crush this final race. It was about 5.5 kilometers and I’d heard it was relatively tame but for some tricky switch backs in the last mile. The trail was largely soft sand that stole your power like water to a sponge. I did what I could to regulate my breathing and to enjoy the feeling of power flowing through my body.

It was a quick run, though it still took a little more than 27 minutes. Jake took the race bib and headed out on our team’s final run. A good weekend that could only be made better with the presence of my family… and maybe if I’d brought a towel.

I’d recommend a Ragnar trail run. It’s a party like atmosphere coupled with a shared adventure. I expect I’ll be back next year and am already hoping Jaron will be ready to join the team.

An unplanned adventure

05 Monday Feb 2018

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Camping, Outdoors, Skiing

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From the porch of the cabin at Indianpoint Lake

I should have known something was wrong when I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything. I skipped breakfast and I knew that was a mistake. Adventures like these require fuel for the body, a steady supply, and I was starting out on the wrong foot. Brenton pulled up to my place a little after 7am and we loaded up our sleds for the 3 hour ride to the Bowron Lake Chain. The sleds contained everything we’d need for the 5-6 day round trip of this chain of lakes and rivers nestled in the Cariboo mountains. When we made this trip 2 years ago we had a third man, Greg, and our sleds averaged about 80 pounds a piece. This year it would just be the two of us and our sleds both came in at about 70 pounds. We wondered aloud what we might have forgotten. Nothing really, experience tends to lighten the burden of any adventure.

It was a little after 10am when we pulled into Bear River Mercantile. We stopped and chatted with the always friendly proprietor, Sandy. Last time we staged our adventure from here. We spent the night in one of their rustic cabins before heading out on the chain early the next morning. This time we’d go straight at it. We knew this would bring us into the distant, 24 kilometres distance to be exact, Moxley Creek trapper’s cabin a little after dark but we know the terrain well enough that the dark is easily cured by headlamps. Besides, the moon would be a waning full and reflecting off the untouched white canvas lakes. The dark wouldn’t be a problem.

We parked the truck at Bear River Mercantile having dropped our gear a few hundred meters up the road where the provincial park begins and the snowplows end. Giddy with excitement for the adventure ahead we pulled on our snow shoes and clipped into our sleds. 120 kilometres of lakes, rivers, and trails lay ahead of us filled with the familiar and the unknown. Sunsets that fill a man with awe, starry skies that roll out across the heavens as if a painter brushed them into existence, pounding waterfalls that throw clouds of freezing mist hundreds of feet into the air, and misty mornings filled with stillness awaited us. All we needed to do was walk into it.

We begin with a 2.4 kilometre portage trail with a gradual climb that ends with a slight drop into Kibee lake. The trees, heavy with snow, groan under the pressure of their loads and create a tunnel of sorts beneath their bows. Brenton easily outpaced me. “I should not have skipped breakfast” I thought. Yet, the thought of food made me a little queasy. As we pulled up to Kibee lake I forced myself to eat a little cheese. No matter how I felt I would need the fuel to push through the next 22 kilometres.

Portage trail – can you make out Brenton in the distance?

Kibee lake is also 2.4 kilometres long and begins with a few hundred meters of reedy wet land. In the spring and summer this area is a good place to spot a moose as you snake your way through the reeds in a canoe. That is, if you arrive early enough. The stream of campers making their way onto the chain tends to push them away from this place. Today it is just us though and a heavy blanket of snow that brings a pronounced calmness with it. Kicking off our snowshoes and sliding into skis is a welcome change. The snow is thick but someone has been out this far on the chain before us and a faint track has already been laid out, slightly easing the burden of blazing a fresh trail.

We stopped in at the trappers cabin at campsite number 1 on the north shore of Kibee lake. The dozen or so times I’ve been through here and I had no idea there was a cabin there. I thought I had memorized the park maps but clearly I’d overlooked the cabin marker on this lake every time. How could I pass by this place so many times and never notice this little gem? It is less than 5 kilometres from the trail head and would be a perfect winter get away with the kids or my wife. For some reason they tend to bulk when I suggest winter retreats with 10-12 kilometres of hiking or up mountains.

The 2 kilometre portage from Kibee to Indianpoint was another winter wonderland. This trail begins with a long climb away from Kibee and then a quick drop to Indianpoint Lake. Again I felt a little lethargic and was unable to keep pace with Brenton. I forced down some almonds. I was in a fuel deficit and I knew I was not eating enough to climb out of it but I figured I could have a heavy meal that night and a good night’s rest.

Indianpoint Lake was excellent skiing. A couple years back the lake was a solid sheet of ice with a thin layer of snow on top. Those conditions meant a very speedy crossing. This year there was several feet of snow and we were breaking trail. Still good skiing conditions but requiring substantially more effort with our sleds in tow. This lake is 6.8 kilometres long with a trapper’s cabin sitting on a knoll over looking the lake on the north shore at about kilometre 6. Brenton stopped in at the cabin to find it was well stocked with firewood. if you’ve been keeping track we’ve come about 12-13 kilometres but our goal lay at twice that distance.

We decided to push on from Indianpoint. Like the beginning of Kibee the end of Indianpoint is a reedy marsh land and the sanctuary of waterfowl and ungulates. These are my favourite places in canoes. On skis or snowshoes they tend to be choked with willows and other brush that seem to wilfully reach out to snare your feet or hook up your sled. Nonetheless we made a quick passage through the area and the start of the Indianpoint portage trail over to Isaac Lake. This portage is a quick mile but still as stunning as the others. As much as I love to slip on the skis after each stint in the snowshoes I am equally as happy to slip on the snowshoes after a few hours of skiing. Change really is as good as a rest.

About this time I began to notice that my heart rate was tracking a little higher than usual. I was also completely out of water. At the start of this portage the water is generally accessible. There must be a small spring here feeding the lake and keeping the ice at bay. the area is muddy and the ice thin but I could get close enough to the edge to reach out and scoop up enough fresh water I could treat with iodine tablets. At least that was the plan. I wedged my feet into the snow pack at the edge and reached out only to have both feet kick forward and onto the thin crust of ice at the water edge. Both feet easily punched through the ice and drove down into thick cold mud. I threw myself backward but it was too late the water rushed up over my boots and seeped in at the seams. The suction of the mud held me fast as I struggled to inch my way free. Curse words in this lovely spot reverberate like immorality in the walls of a church. The trees don’t get angry but there is a sense of offence floating in the air.

I managed to get my water but I paid a heavy price. Brenton suggested a possible retreat to Indianpoint’s cabin but I knew once we got moving my feet would warm the water around them and all would be well.

Issac Lake is formidable at the best of times. Its north western arm is about 6 kilometres long when it makes a sharp southern bend and runs an additional 32 kilometres. Moxley Creek and its accompanying trappers’ cabin is on the eastern shore of that southern arm about 9 kilometres from the end of the portage trail connecting Isaac and Indianpoint. By the time I hit Isaac Lake I was feeling the edges of a runner’s wall ahead. This is nothing new to me. I understand how to scale these types of walls. It wasn’t surprising either given how I had fuelled throughout the day. Though, there was an added element I was not used to, a heart rate that seemed unusually high. I’d been taking short video clips all along the route and as I review them now I can spot my decline but am also impressed with the clear joy I am experiencing right up to the end.

3 kilometers onto Isaac Lake the sun was rapidly sinking and casting an intense glow over everything. I record a video here trying to capture what I am seeing but the camera is unable to do it justice. This is a sunset without the typical reds and purples that compel the most amateur photographers to stop and snap a thousand photos. Anyplace else this would be an unremarkable sunset but here. Here, I was skiing through a celestial hue incapable of being captured by a photo or a thousand words.

My skis passed through an area of slush on the lake that instantly froze to their waxed bottoms. That ice gathered snow and soon I was walking my skis across the lake all glide gone. I pounded and shook and stomped to break them free but to no avail. Finally I stopped and pulled the skis free of my feet. I broke the ice away and applied some glide wax. Soon all would be right again. I carried on for another kilometre or so when again my skis became unusable as they passed through slush. The ice built up on my sled too and suddenly it felt as though it weighed two hundred pounds. I was hitting that wall I could feel the edges of earlier and hitting it hard. I sat down on my sled and pulled off my skis. There was no sense in cleaning them again the conditions were no longer ideal for the skis. The water in my boots was beginning to freeze and with it my feet.

I decided it was time for a change of footwear. Large chunks of ice had formed around my pant legs where I’d soaked them in the lake and the velcro straps holding on my boots were frozen solid. With bare hands I worked the material to rid it of ice and extricate my feet. I could not get the straps all the way open but, I thought, maybe just enough. Ski boots zip up. Those zippers were frozen solid too. I used the tip of my ski pole back and forth across the zipper until I could zip them about half way down. I was locked in these boots. With some serious effort I pried my feet free.

I am sure I chuckled a little to myself. Dry socks and warm boots. Heaven. Brenton had noticed my plight and was back tracking to give me some aid. I was feeling that wall again but there were just 4 kilometres to go. I didn’t bother with snowshoes, the track Brenton was creating was stable enough to make them unnecessary, I thought. I clipped back into my sled and soldiered on. My heart rate shot way up and my sled was an anchor at my waist. It’s just a wall, a wall I’d overcome countless times before. It’s just a wall. That wall broke but unlike anything I’d experienced in this type of situation before. The wall did not move aside to hidden stores of energy and clarity of thought it broke like a damn and expelled everything I had in a torrent of unmitigated disaster. The point of Issac Lake where the western arm turns sharply south was a kilometre off. I could see it in gloomy shadow at the outer edge of Wolverine Bay nestled beneath the snowy peak of Wolverine Mountain. In the bay, 3 kilometres on, was a shelter and an unoccupied ranger’s cabin and 4 kilometres away Moxley Creek Cabin but I had nothing left.

I was sweating profusely and my heart rate was uncontrollable. The world swam around me as I unclipped from my sled and stumbled forward. Brenton had turned around for me again. I was on my knees, broken and sick. “Brenton, I am dizzy” I said. “I think I am sick.” To his immeasurable credit Brenton did not hesitate. He did not try to bolster me with useless words. He did not prod me to get up, to shake it off, to just try harder. He saw my need and changed into his snowshoes. He clipped my sled to his and we reasoned we must press on to shelter. 140 pounds was the combined weight of our two sleds and Brenton pulled both. Surely there was ice built up beneath those sleds exacerbating the challenge but he pulled on and I followed shakily in their wake. We continued like that for a kilometre to that point of land connecting the western and souther arms of the Isaac where we stopped to counsel together, though I could not have been in my right mind.

Brenton ventured out around the point untethered from the sleds to assess the conditions on that long southern arm. The fog was rolling in and the wind was biting. It was clear that this would be as far as I could go. I have vague memories of helping to erect the tent. I pulled off my wet and sweaty clothes and climbed into dry replacements and my sleeping bag. I was floating in and out of consciousness. Brenton wrapped my sleeping bag in light tarps to help retain whatever heat I could generate. I could here the roar of the Whisper Light stove. Brenton handed me chicken soup and I drank it. Next came a mug of Neo Citron taken from my essentials bag. Then he handed me my water bottle full of heated water. I slipped it into my sleeping bag and felt the warmth spread through me. I lost consciousness, swallowed by peaceful oblivion.

The next day Brenton and I made the 3 kilometres to Moxley Creek’s cabin. Brenton broke trail the whole way. A few times along the route I contemplated abandoning my sled but I persevered. 3 kilometres. The little wood stoves in these cabins are perfect. Brenton got a fire going and headed out to find more wood. I took in as much fluid as I dared and fell asleep. I slept off and on the rest of the day. Brenton kept busy gathering wood and pondering his poor life choices. He is a good man. He made the most of being cooped up with an invalid while our plans of making our way around the chain drifted away. We should have been at Moxley Cabin the night before. That day we should have been pushing through a gruelling 28-29 kilometres of Isaac Lake and then down the Isaac River with a final hurdle over the mountain to McCleary lake and the trappers cabin on its shore.

McCleary Lake, pinned in by the Isaac River and Isaac Falls to its north and towering snow capped mountains to its south in whose shadow it pours its contents into the sweeping Cariboo River is my favourite place on the chain. It doesn’t get more remote than little McCleary lake. I wouldn’t sit on the porch of that cabin and watch the moon as it burst over the mountains. The next day, weary though we’d be, we would beat our way down the Cariboo River hugging as close as we could to the toe of the northern mountains. It would be gruelling pulling the sleds over and under logs and passing through stretches of deep snow. There would be frightening moments where our snowshoes would break through some weak part in the marsh land and we’d have to scramble to avoid soaking feet. There would be moments of anxiety as we raced against the setting sun to break away from the river and out onto Lanezi Lake. In the dark we’d likely trudge down Lanezi to the shelter at Turner Creek transfixed by a night sky completely free of the light pollution of our homes.

The end of the Cariboo River and the start of Lanezi Lake (2016)

Turner Creek’s enclosed shelter can be difficult to heat but we’d make do. The trek across Lanezi would blend into Sandy Lake where we’d hug the short side of its kidney bean shape. From Sandy the Cariboo River picks up again and we’d follow it to the ranger’s cabin on its small tributary, Babcock Creek. Babcock marks the end of the southern arm of the Circuit where we’d take the last remaining portage trails through to Babcock Lake and then small Skoi Lake to emerge on the shallow and sandy Spectacle Lake. It would be evening there on our 4th day and the sun would now be falling in front of us. Perhaps like our last trip there’d be an inch of water over the icy lake creating a mirror effect so startling that you’d swear you were skiing across a brilliant pink and purple sunset.

The division between Spectacle Lake and Swan Lake is amorphous. There is a long sandbar stretching out into a bay. There you’ll find a little cabin at a place called Pat’s Point. That sandbar would be invisible under the ice and snow but in summer it is a favourite place to swim. With one group of young men we played a game of tackle soccer there. The water of the lake barely covered the ten foot wide sandy surface beneath our feet stretching a couple hundred meters into the bay. From a distance it might appear as if we played the game on top of the lake.

Pat’s Point would be our last stop before heading the final 18 kilometres across Swan Lake to the meandering Bowron River and on to Bowron Lake. These places have a softer beauty than the hard mountainous lines of the Chain’s eastern arm. We’d drink in the cool air and haul our sleds through the marshy Bowron water ways glad to be done with the journey but happy with the experience, weary in body but invigorated in mind. Each time I complete the circuit I look forward to these final kilometres. There is a deep sense of gratitude and peace that I can’t quite explain.

These were my thoughts as we left Moxley Cabin the next day back in the direction we’d just come. The distances and the stress of our planned adventure was too risky in my condition. What if Brenton fell ill? What if I could not physically handle the hardships or my sickness grew worse? We headed back toward the cabin at Indianpoint 12 kilometres away. I started strong that day but 12 kilometres was about all I could handle. No sooner was the fire lit and I changed into dry clothes did I lie down on the plywood shelf with my head on a drysack of winter gear and fell asleep.

When we arrived, the snow was falling thick and heavy and a bitter wind gave the air a bite. The scene was idyllic from the comfort of a small warm cabin. The temperature rose and the snow turned to rain. That night it rained hard. Rain on a tin roof is supposed to be soothing but the drumming was relentless. The rain turned the snow in the tall spruce surrounding the cabin into large ice balls which fell from the trees like ordinance from a bomber, bang! bang! they went against the roof. Best to stay inside. A little after midnight the rain seemed to stop and I could sleep. At 4:30am we were up to prepare for an early departure. I opened the cabin door to find that the rain had turned to snow and the temperature in just 4 hours had dropped to 10 below. The wind chill made it feel much cooler.

The wind and snow completely obliterated our previous path. We set out from the cabin a little after 6am in the dark. I followed Brenton, my headlamp illuminating just a few feet in front of me. The snow, driven by the wind, obscured our vision and froze to our faces. The darkness pressed in on us like a shroud mourning the loss of our adventure. We pushed on. Over dressed for the strenuous work we stopped to shed a layer or two in spite of the wind. I put down the head lamp to pull off my fleece and the glow of a near full moon pressed through a thinning overcast. The shoreline began to take shape.

We skied the 6 kilometres across Indianpoint in great conditions. We pressed through some slush but arrived largely unscathed at the portage trail. We’d complete the remainder of the journey on snowshoes. Kibee Lake was a ruin of slush that turned to large balls of ice under our feet and weighed us down severely but we were in good spirits. The sun was shining and the snow reflecting the light of a beautiful winter day.

Looking at a map of the Bowron Chain you might be inclined to believe there was an intelligence behind its making. Did God smile when he carved it out of the mountains? I like to think so. In spite of my evident mortality it sure felt like God was smiling when we drove away from the Bowron that day. It wasn’t the adventure we’d planned but what adventure goes to plan?

A few related stories from my adventure on the Bowron Chain:

A near death experience

16 Sunday Jul 2017

Posted by jrwmacdonald in race, running, USA

≈ 6 Comments

I am in the hospital. This isn’t the type of place that I frequent, at least not as a patient. The heart rate monitor attached to my finger makes typing difficult but I suppose that is the least of my worries. Or perhaps it is my biggest worry at the moment? I feel great. It appears my travel insurance will cover these couple nights here too. The nurses, doctors and staff at the Logan Regional Hospital have been fantastic. I fully expected to wait in the emergency room for 3-4 hours (standard Canadian practice) before being admitted but I was in the door in minutes and had a doctor almost immediately. Since then the stay has been top notch. Though as we dialed up our insurance company before heading to the hospital and again on admittance (they were actually great too) I wondered whether I would take the 3 hour wait over the anxiety of whether I’d have to pay for this much needed visit out of pocket.

How did I get here in the first place? It started at the end of the Canadian Death Race in 2015. That was my second ultra marathon and it was awesome. My running buddy, Jeremy and I, immediately made plans for our next ultra together and we chose the 100k Beaverhead Endurance Race for the summer of 2017. Then life happened. Jeremy went home to Finland and kept running. The Beaverhead would become his 12th ultra marathon and for me number 3. I’ve got a million excuses. Some of them are even good. None of them matter when you are fighting to catch your breath at the peak of a jagged mountain staring at the next summit in your way. The Beaverhead is reportedly the most rugged ultra marathon in Northwest America. I’m no expert but I’d be surprised to find a tougher race. There were 89 entrants for the 100k option 44 didn’t complete it.

Jeremy and I camped out at the start line the night before the race. The alternative was to take a ~3am shuttle from Salmon, Idaho to the start line at Bannock Pass. Camping out gave us an extra hour of sleep. Not that the sleep was great. We pitched a borrowed 2-man tent that wasn’t quite long enough for either of us to fully stretch out. If it had rained we would’ve been soaked. I was grateful for it nonetheless, it kept the mosquitoes at bay. Bannock Pass is at about 7,400 feet in elevation and looks out on a green rolling landscape worthy of the artists paintbrush. It took the breath away. Literally. I’m used to 2,200 feet above sea level. 7,000 is a stretch. The course offers about 12,000 feet of elevation gain over the 100k distance rising and falling between ~7,400 and ~10,000 feet above sea level. I have zero experience running at elevation.

Campsite at Bannock Pass looking south (opposite direction of the race)

The bus with our competitors rolled in about 4:20am and we scrambled to get prepared for our 5am departure. The race crew kindly transported our camping gear back to the the finish line for us. The forty minutes before the race went by way too quickly. No time to even visit the loo. We lined up in the semi-dark, our headlamps and a full moon illuminating the way before us and counted off the seconds that slipped away on a big digital clock brought out for the occasion. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1” and off we went into the dark, reflective stakes pounded into the ground pointing out the way. What a feeling! Setting off on an immense challenge, feeling the muscles and tissues in your body reverberating with excitement and knowing the joy of being young and healthy. There is always a bit of anxiety of course and for me, on this day, not having put in the training I wanted and should have, there were variables that made me a little nervous. I was elated all the same to be running with my old friend Jeremy. It’s been nearly 2 years!

We soon moved into single track running and within a few kilometers the pack was spread out. The trail winds through an undeniably gorgeous backdrop and those first few kilometers were great for lulling you into a sense of ease. There were a good number of aid stations on this run. I can’t remember them all but they seemed to be spaced fairly evenly throughout the course. Arriving at the first station I was pleased to see PB&J sandwiches and Pepsi – these places were excellently stocked. The folks manning them were awesome too. There were no fancy GPS tracking gadgets so we found ourselves calling out our bib numbers as we came in and out, hoping the folks with the clipboards would get them down.

Jeremy set a manageable pace. We strove to keep the heart rate down by power walking the hills and running the downhills. My immediate goal was simply to keep up with Jeremy as long as I could. After that I planned to shift into a power walk with occasional light jog for the remainder of the race. As kilometre 18 drifted by it occurred to me that every K after this would be the longest distance I’d run in quite a while (a year perhaps). At about 20 kilometres my right toe caught the edge of a rock or a root and the shock instantly threw my right calf into a terrible spasm and cramp. I had to flex hard to keep the muscle from seizing completely. Not cool. It was very clear to me at this point, having hardly done a half marathon, that my fitness level was not where it should be. Jeremy gave me a salt tab and within a couple minutes the cramp began to release. Okay – clearly I was losing sodium more quickly than I’d anticipated. The day was growing hot fast.

Jeremy left me at about the 28 kilometre mark. He just slowly started pulling away. He kept looking back but I waved him on. I thought that’d be the last I saw of him but he was cheering me on as I pulled into the next aid station. He set out walking as I grabbed a few calories. He had to return when he realized he’d forgotten his poles. So off we set once more together. We stuck together for another 10k or so. I seemed to burst through something of a wall and we made some great time on a few long downhill portions of the course. Our drop bags were waiting for us at the 45k mark. Jeremy pulled away about 5k before then. My renewed energy and strength was waning and to tell the truth this is where the trouble really began. The heat of the day was pressing now and I made an error I’ve made many times before. I chose to wear a black long sleeve shirt and black hat when I set out in the morning expecting I’d reach my drop bag with lighter clothing before the heat could catch me. I was close.

With a few kilometres to my drop bag I ran out of water. I was doing everything I could to keep my body cool. At each aid station I would load my hat with ice and leave it to melt on my head. My sleeves drawn back and my collar as wide as it could go yet the sweat was flowing. I moderated my pace to keep my heart rate down but it hardly seemed to help. Worse even was the hot spots forming on my feet. I hate blisters and generally speaking I rarely get them. I’ve never lost a toenail like so many other ultra runners and I very rarely develop blisters of any significance. This one forming on the outsides of both big toes and the back of my left heel was giving me some trepidation. Where was that aid-station and drop bag? I was running on a fairly smooth jeep track winding its way through rolling hills and Idaho scrub when I seemed to spot the stop a ways out and up! My heart sank – “It must still be 2k away,” I thought. I pressed on worried about my growing dehydration and foot soreness knowing that at these temperatures without water a few hundred meters in either direction could spell relief or disaster.

Some race official was walking the course in the opposite direction. I wanted to quip he was headed the wrong way as I passed but I was hurting. “The aid-station is just ahead” he called. I thought him a bit of a Jerk – I’d clearly seen the vehicles at least another kilometre away now obscured by the hill I was climbing. To be fair a kilometre really is “just ahead” but it might as well have been a thousand in my mind. But then cresting the hill there it was hidden in a little bowl in the land like cool crystal waters in a land of fire. I made it and not a moment too soon. I queued up to the table and a volunteer was taking my empty water bottles and another asking after my drop bag. Jeremy was there looking like a master of his element, confident and cool, coiled to strike out on the course. He asked if he should wait for me but I waved him on. I knew I’d be at this station for a while. He pressed into my hand a small black bottle labeled “Hot Shot” and then sped off, words of encouragement lingering behind him.

I found a chair in the shade and downed a litre of water. I was suddenly ravishing. Normally it is a struggle for me to eat after 40k of running but here I found myself struggling to hold back. I ate and I ate and I ate. A volunteer suddenly appeared above me, in his hands he clutched an armful of sweating pop cans, their cool interiors reacting with the oppressive heat around them. We exchanged some words I’m sure but all I recall is the brilliant blue Pepsi can and his smile as it slipped from his hand to mine. A shaded chair, my shoes removed from my feet and the sensation of cool fizzing liquid sugar passing my parched lips combined for the perfect sense of euphoria. This is all I needed. I could stop the race right now. No, I finished repairing my feet and changed into my lighter shirt and hat. My body temperature fell, it seemed, a couple degrees. I was ready to press on.

I peeled open the small black bottle Jeremy had given me. I wasn’t sure what I’d find… a powder, pills, no, an ominous dark liquid. I reexamined the bottled and confirmed I was supposed to drink it. It felt a little Alice in Wonderland as I tipped it back. It burned going down. I chased it down with some water and hoped for the best. I moved off down the trail thanking the volunteers at the aid station and falling in with another runner. Turns out Jeb, this runner, had completed the 55k last year but not without some trouble. He explained that last year he fell in the infamous “boulder field” and opened a cut below his knee requiring 8 stitches. In true ultra form he finished the race regardless, just a little bloody. Much more lay ahead I realized than what came before. I was climbing and my mind and body found a compatible mutual gear. More a walk than a run but my poles worked to push me forward with every step in a stubborn rhythm. I wouldn’t do much more running in this race but I had it in my teeth and I wasn’t letting go.

The next miles are something of a blur. I was racing the clock and much of my time was comprised of math. How fast was I moving? If I moved at 9 minutes per kilometre what time would I make the next aid station and how close to the cut off would that put me (10 minutes, 11 minutes, 12 minutes)? This terrain minus the increase in blister size on my right foot plus the possibility of elevation gain minus possible downhill sections divided by my time at the last aid station would put me into the next cut off with so much to spare. But if this rain storm approaching is at all severe how long might it take to put on the rain gear and what will the rain do to the trail? I hate math by the way. I made it into the 3:30pm cutoff station with hours to spare. I inquired after Jeremy and learned he was about 30 minutes ahead of me. I’d inquire after him at every aid station and watch him pull ever so slowly away from me.

A storm was gathering along the mountain I was ascending, The thought of rain was a good one. I could hear the growing repeat of thunder though. I was running along a high ridge of the Continental Divide when the rain began and I had to put on my shell. I stopped next to the charred remains of a past lightning strike to pull it on. The booming of thunder as I ran through a forest of historical lightning strikes was unnerving. My metal trekking poles lightning rods in my hands. I morosely wondered what it might feel like to be struck by lightning. Would there be any warning? I suddenly could run again.

As the race progressed the race directors seemed more and more masochistic. I seemed to be climbing all the time. I was playing leap frog with what I knew was the final half dozen to dozen runners on the course. Some of us were not going to make the next cut-off. Would it be me? I was starting to hope it would be me. The last cutoff was 7:30pm. I was watching the clock. I told myself I would run for it at 7:15 if I was still not there. It was with mixed relief that the aid station appeared on the hill above me at 7:15. I’d make it. I wouldn’t need to run for it. I’d make it. Was that a good thing?

I collapsed into a chair at the aid station next to a jovial volunteer flipping quesadillas on the barbecue. “You need a quesadilla my friend!” And magically a corn tortilla was in my hand. I’d beat the cutoff by 12 minutes and I thought I might just die right there. 5 minutes washed away as I fumbled with my phone to text Lisa. The urge to let her know I was still alive seemed urgent to me and I was glad to find a weak cell signal. “Um, not trying to rush you but you should know that the cut-off at 7:30 means you need to leave the aid station by that time.” Wait, What? This was news to me and not good news. I looked down at my legs. There were dozens of small flies feasting on them. I looked at my watch. 7:27. I stood and borrowed a can of bug spray to douse my shaking legs. I shoved half the quesadilla down my throat and suppressed a violent gag reflex. The remainder went in a trash bin. “Thanks everyone! #47 heading out!” It was 7:28pm. As I pulled away I heard the volunteers tell the gentlemen right behind me the next cut off was the last aid station 4.5 miles away at 11pm. 3.5 hours to cover 4.5 miles shouldn’t be a problem I thought even if there is some “boulder field” in the way.

There was no trail really. All that lay before me was a field of jagged boulders the bones of some ancient mountain reaching up to stab and slice at those that would dare to disturb their rest. The sun was falling in front of me and I worried that I’d be trapped on these mountains in the dark. To my right the land fell immediately away, a cliff towering above moraine lakes and scree fields below. Beautiful valleys to my left teased with the knowledge that somewhere among them we would descend to the finish line. We final three on the course spoke little. Though we took queues from one another. When one rested the others seemed to receive permission to rest too. When one moved the others seemed drawn to move too. Each peak seemed to be followed by yet another in an endless procession into hell. Planting my poles between a few rocks I bent and pulled for air watching my sweat splash against the parched rocks at my feet. “I don’t care” I said. “I can miss the next cutoff, they can pull me from the course – I don’t care.” #11, smiled. “Yes you do, you care” she said. “Ok, yes I care but I don’t care” I rejoined and raised my head and my poles. It was time this was over.

We came off the boulder field suddenly and in a steep dive. The trail snaked sharply down the mountainside requiring you to use the surrounding trees to arrest your descent. It was nearly steep enough to slide down on your backside. If my quads had anything left it was about to be spent on this. The sun failed and I stopped to retrieve my headlamp. The trail was marked by a series of reflective stakes like glow bugs in some enchanted forest. I pulled into that final aid station about 20 minutes after 10pm having spent nearly the past 3 hours covering 4.5 miles. It was by far the most difficult 4.5 miles of my life. I felt like throwing up. A volunteer handed me a small cup full of fruit smoothie as I settled into a chair. #11 was there reminding me to be pleased with my achievement. I liked her attitude.

This was it. Just 9 more kilometers to go on a trail from all accounts that was relatively tame. I could cover that distance in my current condition in about 100 minutes I calculated. It was about 10:30pm when I stood up. I was going to finish this thing. I found a pace and pushed it a little harder. Down to the finish line. The river crossings at the end were a nice touch. The cool water on my feet was amazing. Soon enough I could see the lights of the finish line in the distance. Every time the trail veered away from the finish I felt the sting of annoyance. I concentrated on the time. No sense expecting the finish line before midnight. Then it was midnight and I was still on the trail. 10 more minutes. 10 more minutes. “Go James.” It was Jeremy’s voice. Jeremy was there on the side of the trail in a chair, the finish line out of sight. Was I hallucinating? “Go buddy, you’ve got 200 meters left.” 200 meters! My poles were in my hands and I was running, running down hill, running to the finish line. Running to my family, to freedom to relief and ecstasy and… I was running. Breathe. I fought tears, joyful tears. There was the clock (19 hours and 11 minutes) and the finish and tears desperately wanting to spill down my cheeks and pour out the last of my energy onto the ground. My girls were there and running with me. I crossed the line and felt my knees go. I was on my back staring up at smiling faces and thanking God for my life, for this body capable of so much. I knew that were I to finish it would be a triumph of mind over matter. It was an epic battle and my mind won. Though I would learn that my body wasn’t going to go quietly.

I won’t try to describe the feeling of finishing such a race. Those moments right after when you chat with competitors (there were only a handful of us left) is surreal. It was after midnight. I hoped to crawl straight into a tent and fall asleep. Lisa informed me we were instead going to drive three hours south to our friends the Anderson’s. She figured the ride would be worth the real bed. I couldn’t argue that. We had already imposed on the Anderson’s for nearly a week and I was reticent to inflict myself on them anymore but who was I to argue. Matt and Yvonne if you read this you need to know you are the embodiment of sainthood. Thank you.

It was a fitful ride back but I was hardly conscious even when I was technically conscious. At some point in the wee hours of the morning I took a shower and scrubbed myself as clean as I could. Then I threw up. That Hot Shot at kilometre 45 seemed to return with vengeance. At least the black vomit that swirled below my parched lips looked, smelled and tasted like the little vial I’d downed earlier. I felt marginally better. We rested at the Anderson’s where I fought recurring episodes of vomiting until about 4:30pm. Then we piled into the van with its poor attempt at an air conditioner to make the 3-hour drive to Logan, Utah where we planned to stay with friends before dropping the kids at summer camp at the University of Utah on Monday afternoon. “If I throw up one more time I think I’d better go to the hospital.” I told Lisa. Then the hiccup fit began. My feet on the dash and a bucket in my lap my chest spasming every few moments threatening to expel what little fluid I had left in my body. I took some anti-nausea meds (Gravol) just before getting in the car but they didn’t seem to be doing much.

I held on as long as I could before puking in the car. Lisa cracked the windows and we stopped at a gas station to rinse out the bucket. It was time for a hospital. We arrived at our friends’ home and announced my predicament. We could not have better friends. Marvin loaded me into his car after we called the insurance company and took me into Logan Regional Hospital. I figured they’d give me some anti-nausea medicine and some IV fluids. I’d be out in a few hours. Dr. Stolworthy had other ideas. He seemed rather concerned when he told me he needed to admit me for 3-4 days and that I’d developed something called Rabdomyolysis. Essentially my muscles had begun to break down and the resulting proteins were too large for the kidneys to handle. Eventually the condition would lead to renal failure, possible nerve damage and other nasty things. Lisa got on the phone with the insurance company and we proceeded as the doctors directed. There were all sorts of folks popping their head in and out of the room before I was officially wheeled off to the ICU. One young doctor appeared next to the bed and announced that Dr. Stolworthy had told her to come by and look at me. That my case was “interesting.” Everyone that saw me over the next couple days mentioned how impressive it was that I’d run 100 kilometres. Naturally, I thought it’d be much more impressive were I not lying in a hospital.

Honestly, I don’t feel any less about that 100 kilometre accomplishment even though it ended in a stay at the hospital. The hospital was about the best thing that could have happened. Sure they came around every few hours to stick needles in me but I slept. That first night I was racked with the worst hiccups I’ve ever experienced but they pumped me full of enough anti-nausea medicine that I did not throw up again. They hung bag after bag of IV fluids and kept a close eye on my sodium, potassium, “CK-protein” and other levels. Sure I had to get up every hour to pee but for the first day someone was there to unplug me and help me wheel the IV stand to the restroom. I was admitted Sunday evening. By Monday evening I was unhooking myself and getting in and out of bed unassisted. By Tuesday I was writing this post and feeling amazing. At least comparatively.

The doctors seemed to think my situation was concerning. They put me through a few tests including an EKG. My heart rate was concerning for me, resting in the 70s when it ought to be in the high 40s. There was some concern about a high “T wave” but in the end everything checked out. In fact, I checked out of the hospital Tuesday evening and Lisa and I headed into Salt Lake City to dinner with an old mission companion. I felt like I’d just been raised from the dead. I’m sure my family will never let me live this down. Most of them have promised to kick my butt when they next see me. I’m not too concerned.

So what have I learned? I’m not sure I know yet. There is the obvious: clearly I need to spend more time and effort on my preparation for these things, my mind is capable of killing me and I’m happy to be alive. Jeremy finished his race in just over 16 hours. I was about 2 hours behind him. The apprentice has truly become the master. What I’ve really been reminded of through this whole thing… how much I love my wife. She cried for just a moment in the hospital and it struck me how meaningless it’d all be without her.

The Canadian Death Race

05 Wednesday Aug 2015

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Canada, race, running

≈ 3 Comments

The Canadian Death Race (CDR) was my second ultra marathon. At 125 kilometres it is nearly double the distance of the first ultra I ran back in September, 2014. At the time I thought that ultra was pretty tough with some significant elevation change. Here is a little perspective for you: my total time for the 63k Mad Moose Ultra was a little less than 7 and 1 half hours. So when I finished leg 2 of the 5 leg CDR having run only 46k with a time of 7 hours and 3 minutes I began to realize this was a different breed of race.

There were somewhere between 1000-1500 runners in the CDR. This made for a fun start with the music going and a charged atmosphere as runners tried desperately to find an appropriate pace. The first leg is rated the easiest at 19k with comparatively tame trails. I say comparatively because on its own a good chunk of the leg is fairly technical and a few poor souls took some hard falls early on.

Jeremy and I strolled into the leg 1 finish in a cool 2 hours 3 minutes. The crowd was thick in the transition and spectators cheered us on. Jeremy was good about hustling us through the pit stop. I tend to take too long at these places.

Leg 2 began to climb almost immediately. We ran some distance on a quad track before entering single track that proceeded nearly straight up the side of a mountain. We planned to share a single set of poles. This it turns out was foolish. Running the CDR would be exponentially more difficult without two good running poles.

Before reaching our first summit Jeremy began to take a turn for the worse. He soon had both poles and was struggling to keep up. He began suggesting I go on without him at about K25. I hoped he was just hitting an early wall and we could push through. We moved slowly down the mountain in a tight pack of runners. The downhill so steep that many runners had to slide down on their rears. In dips and valleys we found mud and muskeg which made for even slower going.

At k31 Jeremy looked pale and was insistent that I move on without him. He threatened to pull out of the race all together unless I took the poles and left him there. He planned to take an hour and try to recuperate. I figured a remote possibility of his completing was better than none so I did as I was told and moved on. I’ll be honest, I thought he was done at that point. This was a serious blow to my mental state. It helped that I quickly began overtaking many runners but thoughts of how Jeremy was likely out of the race made progress bitter sweet.

Up and up leg 2 continued, culminating with a spectacular view of the surrounding country side. Any thoughts of the worst of the leg being over were quickly dashed. The trail followed a power line nearly directly down the face of the mountain. It was so steep that I began longing for the uphill. The incline was taking a toll on my quads which were now nearly shredded. I pictured Jeremy coming down that trail without poles and tried not to complain.

Jeremy had drug himself into the aid station where the medics gave him a rundown. He was wrapped in a blanket to combat the chills he was experiencing and he learned that his resting pulse rate was in excess of 128 beats per minute! The medics considered pulling him from the race but decided to let him sit an hour and check his fitness to continue then. So as I was approaching the end of the power line from hell Jeremy had recuperated and set off to run me down.

I saw the most beautiful woman in the world wearing a fluorescent vest (Lisa) marshaling runners through an intersection just 800 meters from the end of leg 2 (which happens to be the start/finish line). I met Lilli and Kirsten at the line who were kind enough to crew for me. Meaning, they filled my water bottles and watched over my stuff. They were awesome having waited around for us to show up 2 hours longer than we anticipated arriving. And there was no “we.” Jeremy was still out there!

A blister had begun to form on my right heel. I took some time in transition to clean it and apply mole skin. For a month I debated buying new shoes but put it off until, in typical James fashion, I broke down and bought new trail shoes two days before the race! Do you really need to break shoes in nowadays? Turns out the shoes worked great, all things considered.

It was 3:00pm when I finished leg 2 well under the 5:30 cutoff but much longer than I’d planned to be. The girls wanted to know what to do with Jeremy’s gear. I refused to give up on him and asked they leave it where it was and have mom come down and crew for him (as the girls were scheduled to take over Lisa’s volunteer tasks at 3pm).

Leg 3 followed the river valley for 19k. Frankly, I think this was the easiest leg of the race (it was less technical than leg 1). The weather may have had something to do with its relative ease. I understand that generally this trail is fraught with bogs and mud. The dry weather left just enough room on the edges of the puddles to keep our feet dry. Realizing that this leg would have few hills I held back a little to give my legs a little time for recovery before the onslaught of leg 4.

I arrived at the end of leg 3 at about 6:20. The transitions between legs were great. There were plenty of people to cheer you on as you ran in. I love to get the crowd going so I always pick up the pace a little and shout something like: “I can’t feel my legs!” (That one always draws a cheer).

I must have looked a little out of sorts at the end of this leg as the nurse was grilling me hard or maybe it was the comment about my legs. This was the furthest I’d ever run! I’d just covered 65k and run for a little over 10 hours and I understood quite profoundly that I was only about half way. After a short rest long enough to refill my bottles and shove some food in me I would be off. I took a moment to pull out my phone and switch off airplane mode (airplane mode to conserve battery life). Rats, no cell service. There was no way to know for sure if Jeremy was out or if he managed to carry on.

So, unknown to me Jeremy was only 40 minutes behind me. He had come into the leg 2/3 transition about an hour after I’d left it. Unlike me he did not have the luxury of holding back on leg 3 and he had just descended leg 2’s quad crushing descent without poles. He made up over 20 minutes in leg 3. A look back at his splits put him in the top 30 soloist runners for that leg – he was moving! As Jeremy approached the transition spectators rallied to let him know he was moments from the cutoff and to make it he’d have to sprint it in. I wish I had been there to watch as he dug in to race the clock. He timed in right at 7pm and then promptly threw up.

10 minutes later Jeremy was still at the aid station in recovery when another soloist came in to find she’d missed the cutoff. Runners can be the nicest folks. She was happy to lend Jeremy her poles for the remainder of the race. He would need them.

Starting out on leg 4 I was with a nice older lady who was completing the leg as a relay team. I managed to stay with her for about a kilometer and a half before she pulled away. I knew she had fresh legs and certainly was deceptively athletic but watching her pull away at the beginning of the steep climb up Mt. Hamel was quite the reality check.

I’ve heard other racers talk about this leg as the “assault” up Mt. Hamel. I’m not so sure who exactly is being assaulted… I have a feeling it’s the runner and not the mountain. It is an ascent of over 2000 feet on ever steeper switch backs. There is a bail out part way up the mountain (a couple stoic volunteers in a Jeep). I dug my poles in when I reached them and rested for a moment or two.

Leg 4 is 38 kilometers. I fell in with a group of runners part way up the mountain and it turned out that several had attempted to solo the run in the past. For some this was their 2nd or 3rd attempt. One able looking veteran in pink socks indicated that it was best to reach the end of the leg by 2am at the latest – 7 hours away! Another reality check!

Just short of the summit I realized I had not eaten anything in a couple hours. My stomach really didn’t want me putting anything in it. I was suffering from stomach cramps and even the thought of food threatened to have me expel all I had managed to ingest. I forced myself off the trail and sat down. Without exception every passing runner asked if I was alright (such nice people). I forced down an Eatmore bar refusing to stand until it was all gone.

The summit of Mt. Hamel provided some spectacular views. I arrived there just as the sun was setting. The bald mountain top looked down on Grand Cache and the stunning rolling Smoky River valley.

The wind was intense at the summit. I would only be up there for a short time (they make you run the length of the table top mountain and back – more than a kilometer). I resisted getting out my jacket, toque and gloves until I realized that I must be bleeding energy fast to keep myself warm.

So it was that a few kilometers later on the far side of Mt. Hamel I was sitting on a rock in what the race organizers called “Boulder Garden.” I was stowing my cold weather gear and the sun was setting fast. I had made a fatal mistake. Jeremy and I (more optimistic than prudent) had stowed our headlamps in our drop bags which were at Ambler Loop about 7-10 kilometres away.

Naturally, the first runner to come across me on that rock asked how I was doing and I mentioned my predicament. She didn’t hesitate to lend me her spare torch. Otherwise I may have had to follow a runner with a light and that had nothing but disaster written all over it. A few hours later I would learn that a runner tripped in the dark on Ambler Loop to cut her knees, elbows, bloody her nose and break a finger. (Thanks for the assistance Erin – if you are reading this).

It was a further blow to arrive at Ambler Loop to my drop bag which was clipped to Jeremy’s. Was he still out there? Was he without poles on that unforgiving ground? His headlamp was in the bag at my feet.

I believe it was about midnight when I arrived at Ambler Loop. The support staff here were fantastic. There was a fire burning and a chair seemed to be waiting just for me. After a quick rest and a forced feeding I set out on the loop. Here was a segment of trail I could wrap my head around. It was 5 kilometers. To this point with just a watch I was out of touch with my pace. I thought I must be taking as much as an hour to cover 5k and was beginning to worry about cutoff times. When I finished the loop I was rather pleased to see I’d made the distance in almost exactly 40 minutes. Another 10.5 kilometers would bring me to the end of leg 4 and the home stretch.

A steady downhill on a dirt road, fantastic. I can make up time here. I ran with a nice guy for a while until stomach cramps forced me off the road. If you think burpees are hard try squatting next to a tree after running 100k. Yeah, there is just nothing pleasant about that picture.

I pulled into the end of leg 4 pretty pleased with myself that it was only 2am. Another forced eating and I took 20 minutes here – I felt I deserved it. I checked my phone and found I had cell service. I texted Lisa to find out how Jeremy was doing. She hadn’t heard from him so that could mean only one thing – he was on the trail! He was still in this thing!

I toyed with the idea of waiting for Jeremy at the aid station but I had no idea if he’d make all the cutoff times. How long could I wait? If I sat too long would I be able to get going again? I had to push on and hope for the best.

Leg 5 was single track and some quad trails through fairly dense forest. There were reflective tacks pinned into trees along the route to help you find the way. It was a bit spooky at times running without another soul in sight through the shadowed canopy of the forest. To hear the patterned footfall of a runner far ahead or behind was actually a comfort.

It was a quick, though creepy, 7k of twisting trails to the next aid station. Again I forced down some food. It was a fruit source bar that tasted like dirty feet. After just a few minutes I left the aid station to make my way to the river just a few hundred meters away.

I rounded a corner to descend on the river bank and standing on the shore was Death. The river roiled black behind him and cast a mist upon the bank. He stood, motionless, in flowing black robes his face a skull. His right hand held a clear chalice filled with silver coins. The price of passage already paid by runners that had come before. At the start of the race every runner was given a coin to pay the ferryman. I’d stashed my coin in a gel pocket of my pack. With relief I paid the toll and climbed aboard the river boat leaving Death to collect the fairs of those that would come behind.

This was it. 15 kilometers and the race was over. I understood, however, that there were two rather aggressive hills between me and the finish line and I wasn’t sure how much I had left. It was 4:12 when I left the boat and I went straight at it. There was no way to know how fast I was traveling or how slow! After what felt like forever I saw a kilometer marker. It read 3k! “What! Are you serious,” I thought! I must be moving at 20 minutes per kilometer. I began to wonder about my ability to make the finish line by 8am. I pushed on as the sun broke the horizon and I caught glimpses of Grand Cache at what seemed an unreasonable distance away.

I eventually caught the group that had taken the boat before me. They were confident we were making good time but I couldn’t believe it. I broke away from them but one, Jeff, kept pace. He assured me we were fine but I was convinced we still had 10k to go and we’re moving too slowly. Then there was suddenly a spectator who congratulated us with the information that we had only 3 kilometres left.

Jeff and I sped walked along the now gravel road together and discussed how tired we were, how stupid this was and how we should stick to easier events like Tough Mudders or Spartan Races. Then we hit pavement and I knew we were less than a kilometre from the finish line.

I left Jeff then and like a horse that has caught the scent of home I broke out. It was a gradual climb I was making but I was doing it at a run and oh how smooth the pavement slid beneath my feet. I was breathing like a steam train but I didn’t care as I passed runner after runner on the final stretch. I thanked my pink socked friend as I passed him by and then was heading down hill and I was fighting tears of joy! Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I rounded the final corner and felt the grass beneath my trail shoes and bolted for the line like I had only been out for a 5k. My water bottles broke free from my pack on my chest and scattered across the field as I came through the line to time in at 6:24:37 am. I’d done it! I’d pushed myself through 125 kilometers. Someone had collected my water bottles and was giving them to me. I then laid down on the grass to take the weight off my feet.

I was only there a few moments when Lisa turned up with the kids. They’d missed me crossing the line by just minutes. I suppose I should have walked the end.

Lisa convinced me to take a shower. If Jeremy was still out there he was probably an hour behind me. The showers were close but it still took me nearly an hour to get the job done. Washing my legs was the most difficult… Try standing on one leg in a shower after running 125k. Yeah, I sat on my butt.

I was in the stands watching the runners come in at 7:20. Where was Jeremy? Every minute that passed seemed to spell disaster. Then there he was coming down the street with about 20 minutes left on the clock. I was shouting and moving (ever so slowly) to intercept him at the finish line. I couldn’t believe it! He had rallied from what seemed like the end. It was a reawakening, a resurrection. He had come back from the dead and he looked it.

Jeremy demonstrated incredible tenacity. He raced the clock to nearly every cutoff. That performance will be one I’ll never forget.

It has taken me a couple days to get my feet back under me. I was unable to eat anything solid for about 24 hours. My stomach took a far worse beating than my legs. The leg pain I can handle. In fact, at about kilometre 70 I truly could not feel my legs anymore. Now that I can eat again my mind is drawn to whether I couldn’t get that time down under 20 hours. If you’ve read this far you have something of the endurance gene in you too – maybe I’ll see you out there next year! I just need to work out how to train my stomach.

: On the road.

: Welcome to Grande Cache

: Are you ready?

: Go Death Racers!

: Look for James…

: Where is Jeremy?

: The terrain

: Registered for tent city

: Racer meeting

: Fresh and ready

: Canadian Death Race Volunteer 🙂

: Orange for racers, yellow for volunteers.

: 1000s of these around town and up the trails

: Where the magic happens.

: Signs to get them home

: Last minute pack check

: We’re set!

: Kilometer tracking

: To the start line!

: DONE!

: Not so fresh

: It’s over!

: Thanks buddy!

: Just a little rest.

: Solo Finisher Award

Northern Musandam: Wadi Khasab

09 Sunday Jun 2013

Posted by lcmacdonald in Oman, People, Traveling, wadi

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

arabian gulf, Bassa Beach, bluff, Camping, cliff jumping, hiking, khasab, Musandam, Oman, sea shells, snorkeling, steep mountain, swimming

Days of rest are many here in the UAE. June 6th is as of now (May 20th of this year) a national holiday here in the UAE called Al Isra’a Wal Miraj in Arabic, الإسراء والمعراج. It is taught in the Quran to be the day that the Prophet Muhammed traveled to Jerusalem from Mecca in one night and ascended to heaven to speak with God. So with yet another holiday suddenly upon us we quickly packed our camping gear together and headed for the mountains of Oman for our last possible chance to sleep comfortably under the stars.

Following the coastline.

We departed University City around 3:00pm, and arrived at the border crossing by about 4:30pm. No trouble there and we were on the road. The road past the border winds closely along the coast with the Arabian Gulf stretching out on one side, and steep mountain cliffs on the other. With no clear road signs (or signs with familiar names) we missed the turn off to the Sayh Plateau and stopped instead at the Acacia Forest.

Acacia Forest near Sall Ala

At 7:30, it was still +43C so we decided to pass up the temptation to set up camp here and head to the mountains where the temperature would likely drop to a more tolerable level. We drove back along the road to a small village that was located where we had expected the turnoff to be. Our trusty arab speaking ‘cousin’ made quick work of getting us on the right path after flagging over some local men and asking for directions.

Sunset approach up Wadi Khasab

The road up the mountain was unpaved, and steep but not nearly as soft and sandy as the mountain road we attempted the last time we were in Oman. The view was beautiful as we watched the sun disappear behind the mountains…I wish I could better portray in photographs the beauty we witnessed. It took approximately 25-30 minutes to reach the camping site confirmed to us only by the presence of other tents visible in our headlights. We searched among the rubble of an old settlement to find relatively flat ground free of rocks for pitching our tents. James and Jeremy set to building a fire from the dead branch of a near by Acacia tree, while us ladies set out to assemble our shelters. Dinner was quick and conversations short as we were all off to slumberland by 10:30.

My kids were focused on their devices most of the drive out, missing all the beautiful scenery, and when night fell that did not change. They quickly ate their dinner and hurried off to watch movies and play games on the iPad in their tent. Jaron must have been watching an action movie, as the sound of rattling guns and people yelling kept me awake late into the night.

I couldn’t have been happier with our chosen camping spot (unless I had gotten more sleep) when morning came and I had a perfect view of the sun rising up over Jebel as Sayh at 5:30 in the morning. I quickly dressed and emerged from my tent to go about taking care of the morning business. A few shots of the campsite in daylight, and then a trek up the trail to take in the view.

View of camp and Jabal as Sayh from the hiking path.

The temperature was perfect, and the hike was a little treacherous to be climbing in my flip-flops. I was soon joined by our two little “cousins” Miriam and Megd, and we explored the area for cool rocks while we waited for their Mom to join us. As we saw tents collapse we headed back down the mountain for a quick breakfast. We were off by 8:00am, back down the mountainside to find our way to Khawr an Najd.

Mountain path to Khawr an Najd

Khawr an Najd is the only beach bay accessible in the fjords by car. To get there you must drive up a road cut into the side of the mountain, much like what we drove up Wadi Khasab to the camp site on Jebel as Sayh. The view was spectacular, and the beach…less impressive. The amount of garbage on the beach and floating in the water was enough to convince us to start home and find a suitable beach along the coast.

Just past Khasab we pulled into a large gravel/sand lot next to a bluff named Bassa Beach. By this time the outside temperature was back to +40, and the water was just cool enough to give relief. We had pulled up on the beach near a group of young teenage boys who were jumping off the bluff into the ocean.

James and Jeremy jumped off the cliff with some Omani boys.

No surprise then when James and Jeremy disappeared to investigate did we see them a top the bluff with this group of boys. One by one they flung themselves from the top. Bridget guessed it was at least 40 feet to the water. James claimed a ‘lost’ t-shirt he found lying on a rock near the bottom of the bluff, and both received injuries from grazing the sharp rocks on their way back to beach. The younger kids were quite happy to just look for shells on the ocean floor in the clear blue water. 2 hours here and then we were ready to move on.

Crossing the border on the way back was as quick as one could expect, though the lineup for those traveling into Oman must have been quite a wait. We made a good decision traveling the day before the holiday instead of on the holiday instead.

Enjoy some more photos from the trip. I apologize for them seeming out of order. The photos are from multiple cameras…

Mortality and Wadi Adventure Race 3

28 Sunday Apr 2013

Posted by jrwmacdonald in race, UAE, wadi

≈ 5 Comments

I’ve just spent several hours piecing together a short video of the race i participated in on the weekend. The hardest part… picking an appropriate sound track. In the end I think the choice was appropriate but feel free to judge me. Having spent all that time on the movie I really don’t feel like writing so this post may be ~~short~~ poorly written.

I’ve been sick for the last two weeks. The fever, stuffed nose and sore throat were so bad that I missed work on Tuesday the 16th. I spent the day in bed. Sometime in the afternoon while reading the bed started shaking and I thought – “stinkin kids.” Then I said “hey! you kids better not be shaking my bed.” I looked around the edge of the bed but no kids. Then I thought, boy I hope whatever i got doesn’t now include vertigo. A few moments later the bed was shaking again. Oh crap! What kind of illness is this? Then Lisa informed me from downstairs that we just had an earthquake. She didn’t feel a thing and only knew because she happened to be sitting in front of a portal to the interwebs. Crazy. Apparently the epicentre was in Iran someplace.

The earthquake has had me thinking about disaster preparedness. I think it is time we stalked up on a few canned goods and some bottled water. I’m sure the university would do their best to take care of us in the event of a disaster but really I’d rather be prepared to help rather than be helped. So now just to find the space for a dozen extra water bottles.

Last week a tooth on the upper left of my mouth began aching especially while running and under pressure. The pressure being from diving deeper than 8-10 feet of water. A cavity I was sure. By Tuesday the 23rd the tooth was aching all the time. I was hoping it would just go away but it doesn’t generally work like that does it. Off to the dentist I went. By the time I got there I was in full fever mode. 35 degrees Celsius outside and I was freezing while wearing a sweater. The dentist prodded around for a while and then took an X-ray. The verdict… I had a sinus infection that was presenting as tooth pain. Awesome. He prescribed some antibiotics and sent me home.

I took my antibiotics regularly as I had a race on the coming Saturday I’ve been looking forward to for months. I kept training too. I ran a 5k on Wednesday night in 20min and 19sec. I felt strong despite the teeth and the sinus headache. We made an adventure out of the race held at Wadi Adventure in Al Ain. Al Ain is just under two hours from here. We drove down after church on Friday and stayed at a hotel. The kids loved the hotel – most especially the giant bathtub and the opportunity to beat their dad up in a pillow fight.

The race. Called W.A.R 3, the race is 10 kilometres long with over 20 obstacles involved. W.A.R 3 by the way stands for Wadi Adventure Race 3 (being the third time they’ve held it). Wadi Adventure is a massive outdoor surf park in Al Ain. I’m going to have to take Lisa down for some surf lessons at some point. The race began in the desert in one giant mass start with all 160 participants. They lined us up like an ancient army ready to charge the lines of the foe. I half expected the leader to drive up in 4 wheeler and give the Braveheart speech before the charge began.

I expected to contend with plus 40 degree weather but we were met with temperatures in the low 20s and rain. Rain! The weather was practically perfect. We charged through the desert in a 3k loop before heading back into the adventure park. The rain beating against our faces as we made the return journey. My friends Jeremy and Andy were also racing. All three of us meet up at running club twice a week. Andy and I are pretty well matched in a run despite his lengthier legs. As we left the desert we approached the first obstacle, our path was blocked by some highway dividers. I was pacing Andy about 15 meters back when he reached the 3.5ft barrier. He hurdled it. That was my first indication that I wasn’t going to beat him in this race.

Entering the park we headed across some low balance beams (piece of cake) and on to

Jeremy queuing up to enter the surf return channel and the 150m swim.

the surf pool. The race marshals directed us into a tight access panel leading underground where we found a 150 meter long water filled tunnel – the return channel for the surf pool. the water was choppy from dozens of swimmers battling there way to the end. When you did reach the end you had to wait for the person or persons ahead of you to ascend the ladder – this entailed treading water of course.

Emerging at the top of the surf pool you promptly threw yourself off the wall and into the pool 15 feet below where you were forced to swim across before ascending some stairs on the other side. From here it was on to the man made rafting river. Fighting the current in waist deep water (at least for us short guys) for 250 meters we pushed on. If you were lucky or smart you put yourself directly behind a big guy who could cut a wake for you.

At the top of the river you found a pool with a mushroom shaped waterfall. We were directed through the pounding water fall before pressing on to the edge of the pool and a seven foot wall you had to scale to move on. From there it was a quick jog down to the lake and one of my favourite obstacles. There were dozens of overturned rafts crossing a lake. The rafts were three across then two then one before they widened out again. This was a great setup as it allowed you to overtake and pass others. I passed two guys struggling to make the crossing and watched a third miss his mark and plunge into the waters. I was thrilled when I emerged unscathed and ahead on the other side.

The race carried on up a short hill where we were met with an odd obstacle. Simply throw two bean bags into a 5 gallon bucket about 10-15 feet away. Simple. Or maybe not so simple when you are winded. I made 4 tosses to get two bags in the bucket. Others were not so lucky. Turning around we went back down the hill. Just before leaving the park for another 3k in the desert we were met with a set of monkey bars. Falling off the monkey bars would require starting them over. They were wet and I couldn’t keep my hand wrapped firmly around each bar. Holding on with just the crooks of my fingers I strained at every swing but I made it first try. I could not have been more pleased as I headed into the desert.

The desert run included a set of 4ft walls to hurdle… well maybe Andy. I looked much more like a fat guy climbing a fence. Then it was time to get dirty. They had ropes strung out like barbed wire across the path forcing you to army crawl in the sand for 30 meters or so. When I reached the sandbag carry I was feeling it. 22 pounds of sand on the back is approximately 15% of my body weight. I managed to run with it but not fast. I hate being passed and at least 2 guys pushed by as we carried the sand for a kilometre (I caught one of them later at the wall).

Leaving the sandbag behind it was a dash back to the park and the final obstacles. Passing through a web of ropes we emerged to a group of rugby players ready to impede your progress with blocking pads. Once you fought your way through you reached the wall. A ten foot flat barrier is all that stands between you and the finish line. It took me two attempts to get over. My height was a slight disadvantage but unlike the sandbag carry my size in the end was an advantage I think. Triumph!

They are holding another race in the fall. I will be there. I’d say watch your back Andy but its more likely you’ll be watching mine continually pull away. 😉

In the end the first place guy came in at 00:40:40:00. Andy made 8th place with 00:44:57:00, I took 13th place with 00:47:02:00 and Jeremy took 54th place with 01:05:56:00. There were 74 individuals and the rest of the 160 participants were made up of teams. (teams had to cross the finish line together it wasn’t a relay for them).

Heres a write up of the same race from the 10th place finisher. Neat to read others perspectives.

Here is that video I slapped together:

Return to Oman

12 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Oman, Traveling, wadi

≈ 2 Comments

I love Oman. What a beautiful country both for its geography and its people. In many ways it feels like you are stepping back in time as you cross the border from the UAE to Oman. Muscat I have heard described as the anti-Dubai. Though a city of several hundred thousand no skyscrapers mark the horizon. It is a landscape of white adobe structures glistening against the blue depths of the sea and carved from rugged mountains. I have an Off-Road UAE book and an Off-Road Oman book. Oddly enough most of the great off-roading described in the UAE title is actually just across the border in Oman. I understand that the UAE and Oman settled on their borders in 2008. The UAE got the short end of the stick when it comes to geography.

Our last visit to Oman took me three posts to get out the whole story: Camping in Oman Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3. I won’t do that again but this post may be a little long. This adventure includes some disappointments but was also deeply memorable. The story includes sick children, scorpions, beautiful starry skies, strong winds, water falls, long hours in the car, a tow rope and a beautiful dawn among other things. Sadly the Palmers (off to Germany for the week) and the Andersons (off to Sri Lanka for the week) could not join us for this trip. Our friends Rik and Janele Villegas and their three youngest kids Kiana, Alicia and Jason joined us though. It just so happens that their kids almost exactly match up age wise with our kids and we all get along well.

Our first night in Oman took us just across the border to Wadi Madbah. This was one of those locations in the Off-Road UAE title that is actually in Oman. It is hard to gage just what a place will be like from the descriptions in the book. This one turned out to be a bust. A quick 5 minute hike took us to the first big pool of the Wadi. The pool was just big enough for a couple people to swim in. The trash around the site though did not make it very appealing. The water was a little murky too. A quick scramble up a short dry waterfall took us to the next and final pool and the highest waterfall in the region… it was more of a trickle and the surrounding rocks made it look quite a bit like a butt crack. The trash at the site was a sad thing to see. So far the adventure was not off to a great start.

The tallest waterfall in the UAE – According to the Off-Road UAE book (though it seems to be on the Oman side of the border).

After some quick exploring at Wadi Madbah we needed to find a campsite. A rugged back road led across a phenomenal open plain to the feet of some barren mountains in the distance. We’d hoped to cross the plain and set up camp in the shadow of those mountains. Alas the road proved too rugged for my little CR-V and my driving skills. This would not be the last time on the trip the CR-V was beaten.

Nestled between a couple very rustic farms at the foot of the hill the car could not overcome we set up camp. A goat had been slaughtered there at some point. The kids found its bleached white bones the next day. That night we had chilli for dinner. Well, Lisa and Kirsten and I had chilli. Lilli and Jaron just cannot handle anything that even intimates that it may be spicy. It was hotdogs roasted over the fire for them. I was rather annoyed when they complained that the hotdogs were too spicy. “They are not! You’d better eat those hotdogs or you’ll be in serious trouble,” I scolded. Later when I was eating the remains of their hotdogs as any dutiful father would to my surprise they were rather spicy. Turns out that bottle of ketchup was not any ordinary bottle but of the “Fiery Chilli” variety. I do not think I’ve seen Fiery Chilli ketchup anywhere else. Maybe its a normal thing in North America?

The next day was a series of border crossings and a long drive south beyond Muscat to Wadi Shab. As we reached the boarder Jaron clearly had a fever. Thankfully Janele had a great emergency medical kit which included a bottle of children’s Advil. Jaron basically limped from one dose of Advil to the next for the remainder of the trip. It was amazing how well he coped despite being ill. Of course, this meant that everyone of the kids eventually would present with symptoms. Its been nearly a week since our return and I too have finally started to get ill. It must have been those hotdogs!

We found a beautiful flat spot on the Gulf of Oman just up from Wadi Shab to setup camp that night. We were perched up on some cliffs above the water. You could sit on the edge of the cliff and peer down into the blue waters at the fish below. The kids were excited to see sting rays and turtles swimming below them. The crashing of the waves against the cliffs was lovely to fall asleep to.

Sunrise over our campsite just up from Wadi Shab.

Lilli had a close call walking around in the camp at night in her sandals. Lisa spotted the

The shadow makes it look like this thing has two tails.

giant scorpion just before Lilli could walk right into it. This was by far the largest scorpion I’ve seen thus far. It must have been 6 to 8 inches long. The dark and chasing the thing around with the shovel made it difficult to get any great pictures.

Wadi Shab like our last trip was really quite the highlight. We probably would not have gone back this trip but the Villegas family had not been and I couldn’t pass up sharing this place with them. We spent all day at the Wadi. This gave us the opportunity to explore more than we had the first time. The older girls bravely leaped from some cliffs into the pools below. Lilli surprised me by climbing straight up the waterfall several times to the pools above. Jaron spent quite a bit of time swimming and an equal portion of time bathing in the sun between doses of Advil. Jason and Alicia were also not feeling well and came for the hike rather than the swim – you can’t go to Wadi Shab and not swim. They were in the warm waters almost immediately.

A selfie of Lisa on her way into the cave. You can see the high water mark has created a great hand hold all along the crack.

Wadi Shab is about a 45 minute hike that takes all day. You can’t help but stop and play in the beautiful waters on the way out and back. At the end of the trek you come to a pool that requires swimming before you can go on. As the pool reaches what appears to be the end of the canyon a crack in the wall about a foot wide and two or three feet high rise from the water. Swimming through this crack for about 15 feet you emerge in a partially open cavern and a deep pool. Lisa had her iPone in its life-proof case which enabled her to get a few pictures this time. Unfortunately it is difficult to take pictures or video while treading water. I’ll share some of the better shots but they really do not do justice to just how amazing this place is.

Cracks in the roof of the cave allow for light. Someone placed a rope in the waterfall which allows you to pull yourself out of the water. The edges are eroded away such that without the rope it would be very difficult to get up. We didn’t realize it last time but if you climb all the way up the waterfall and squeeze through the opening where the water pours into the cave you emerge at yet more pools to explore.

Pool above the waterfall at Wadi Shab

The cave and falls at Wadi Shab

That night when we emerged from Wadi Shab utterly exhausted and satisfied we headed to the Salmah Plateau to find a camping spot for the night. I was hoping to camp at the top of the Plateau. The route up the mountain proved too steep for the CR-V. I realize now that I made a couple mistakes. First I left the air conditioning running and the engine really could have used the extra power. Second I was down to a quarter of a tank of gas. The road was so steep that the gas light was coming on and I think the pump was having difficulty supplying the engine with enough fuel. The rugged single track switch backed up the mountain precariously. When the CR-V refused to move another inch I had Lisa jump out of the car and place a few big rocks behind the back wheels.

This was an interesting teaching moment. The kids began to freak out in the back seat. I can’t really blame them I was a little freaked out myself. The Villegas family was behind me in their Toyota Fortuner and we were perched on the side of a dusty gravel track. It was looking as though I’d have to back down the mountain a few kilometres. Naturally the back of the car was full of camping gear and I only had my mirrors to go by. This could be easily solved by rearranging a few things but the possibility that I’d begin sliding backward seemed inevitable. I said a silent prayer and then put the vehicle back in gear. We crept forward another 5 or 6 feet. Again I sat for a while and then another 5 or 6 feet and I made the next corner. I then saw the small pull out to my left. If I could get the car up the hill just another 15 feet I could back into this little turn around and head back down the mountain – with the front of the car facing the right direction. The CR-V was spent however, it tried but the tires could not find any purchase on the loose gravel.

That extra 10 or 12 feet though put me on a corner and there was room for Rik to get around me. I was very thankful for the tow rope I had picked up before the trip. With the Fortuner’s bigger engine and wider tires Rik had no trouble towing me up another 15 feet to where I could safely turn around. Looking back he could have likely towed me over the tougher spots and brought us up the mountain. My nerves were a little shattered by then with my kids in the car so it was probably for the best heading down the mountain rather than up.

We found a flat camping spot part way up the mountain and set up for the night. Up above the lights of the towns and villages we were in for a treat. The stars were brilliant in the deep dark of night. Unless you’ve experienced a truly brilliant starry night I don’t know that you can appreciate the grandeur and awe invested in such a scene. It was the perfect ending to an exciting day. Early the next morning we were in for a different kind of adventure.

Just the power lines to mar the view

At about 3:30am the wind began. Pouring down the gorge on the edge of which we had perched our tents the wind came sweeping across the mountain side. Our dome tents without their outer tent flies (too hot for the fly) were buffeted hard. The tents would nearly flatten with each gust only for the poles to spring the structure back in place between gusts. The pegs driven into the rocky soil held fast. Our friends’ tent is a large Coleman. It is large enough to stand up in which is often welcome but it presented a wall to the wind. The tent gave to the pressure and collapsed. At 4am their kids were asleep on top of their fully flattened tent their combined weight keeping it fixed to the ground. Unable to sleep any longer we setup our chairs to take in the rising of the sun. With its rising the wind subsided enough to start up the gas burner and cook up some eggs. We’d need our strength for what turned out to be a long day of driving.

With the wind came the rain.

We were fortunate to miss the rain while on the dirt tracks of the mountain. In fact we only drove through a little rain as we passed by Muscat. Back in Sharjah and Dubai we later learned that they had an incredible dust storm followed by rain that mixing with the dust brought mud from the sky. I kind of wish I’d have been there for that.

On our last day of our Oman trip we tried to visit Al Hoota caves. It turns out because of flooding they’ve been closed for over a month. The small geological museum is open but the caves are closed. I see now that there is a scrolling message on their website – I swear it was not there before (perhaps they overheard me complaining about it). Though I tend to ignore scrolling messages on websites by default so it may have been there. It was disappointing but by this time everyone was over tired and all of the kids were sick. So we were grateful for the nearly painless re-entry to the UAE at the border. A quick stop for dinner and a couple bottles of children’s Advil at a mall in Al Ain and we were practically home.

I thought to finish this post off I’d put together a little video of our fun at Wadi Shab – like I did recently with Wadi Shawka. I tried to increase the quality of the video from the last one hopeful that the file will not be too large for most people to stream.

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~ Stories of MacDonald Family Adventures

Category Archives: Outdoors

Adam’s Peak

Picnic Boat

Ragnar Wasatch Back

Ragnar Trail

An unplanned adventure

A near death experience

The Canadian Death Race

Northern Musandam: Wadi Khasab

Mortality and Wadi Adventure Race 3

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