Mountain Mist 50K Trail Run, Huntsville, AL, January 25, 2003.

A race report by Scott Pollard

    The ice extended 15-20 feet down the steep slope, covering every visible foothold on the trail. The frozen waterfall would have made a great picture, suitable for framing. Well, except for all the people falling off of it. I hate to use the word "carnage," but that is the exact word that came to mind as, one by one, runners ahead of me slipped and fell or dropped to their hands and knees and crawled down the sheet of ice. Back where I was, the gridlock was complete. We were literally standing still, waiting our turn to bodysurf the frozen rapids. In a feeble attempt to avoid the ice, I led a group off the trail to circumvent the bottleneck, but we only found a steeper slope covered in more snow and ice. Somehow we avoided injury, although I'm not so sure it was a shortcut. As we climbed back to the trail, I glanced over my shoulder at the white slab and caught a glimpse of an awkward mass of humans, in all kinds of body positions, trying to resist gravity without the aid of friction. We were less than a mile and a half into the 31-mile Mountain Mist Trail Run, and I was having the time of my life!

    An ultra marathon? Am I crazy? Last spring when I found out about Mountain Mist, I had not been running at all since 1999, except for a few recreational 10K's on no training. The race touts itself as the toughest trail run in Alabama and claims over 3500 feet of elevation change on extremely rock trails. My longest training run on the trail had been a complete loop of the course in two runs on back to back days in November. I could only hope it would be enough. I also ran the Rocket City Marathon in December, but that course is entirely flat by comparison. That was only the second time I had covered a marathon distance, the other being the 1999 Tucson Marathon.

    As race day approached, I was a little nervous. I had not done any runs longer than 12 miles in the six weeks since Rocket City, focusing mainly on hill-work, power walking, and resting a few minor injuries. It had snowed on Thursday and temperatures were not supposed to break the freezing point until afternoon of the race. To keep the nervousness down, I attended the pasta dinner the night before (a wonderful event, by the way), and met some of the friendliest and most accomplished runners I've ever had the privilege to meet. Veterans of dozens of ultra marathons made a slow first-timer like me feel welcome and were asking me for "inside information," since many were from out of town. Going into the race, I tried not to set a time goal, although 8:15 is the cutoff for an "official finish." I kept telling myself that I would be happy with anything under 8:00, but deep inside I was secretly hoping my familiarity with the course (e.g. I know where the bad hills are) would allow me to eke out a 7:30 finish.

    My lifeline was a waterproof pace-chart that I had made to monitor my progress during the race. It was a work of art. I laid all my gear out the night before, and even created "drop bags" with food and first aid, not sure how well stocked the aid stations would be. Wendi was going to crew for me, meeting me at the only two road crossings (Miles 17 and 25) to offer me food and moral support. The morning of the race, however, we were disappointed to learn that the first crew location was iced over. Knowing I would be on my own through Mile 25, I loaded my pockets with contents from my first drop bag.

    After mandatory runner check-in the morning of the race, we all huddled around a fire inside the Monte Sano pavilion. For safety reasons, the race staff must account for each person in the race at each of the five aid stations. In addition, a designated "trail sweep" brings up the rear to make sure nobody is lost on the trail by nightfall. The temperature was a brisk 20 degrees when the race started. I was dressed up top in fleece over a long-sleeve coolmax shirt, and down below in tights, the same outfit I wore for Rocket City. I was not taking any chances with new clothing for this race. My NB805 shoes were on their second application of Shoe Goo. With over 600 miles on them, I was not entirely certain they would hold together.

    How loud was the gun? There was no gun, no civil war musket either, just a guy with a stopwatch to wish us on our way. In a trail ultra marathon, even the pace of the front runners is slow by road race standards. The course record is 4:03:47, barely an 8-minute per mile pace, which is a testament to the rugged nature of the course. The record would not be challenged today in these icy conditions.

    We proceed to amble off down the road to the overlook, with yours truly bringing up the rear. My plan was to run an even pace throughout the race (hah!), which meant running the first mile as slowly I plan to run the last mile. This is harder than I imagined, jogging along in last place, 225th out of 225 starters, watching the field of runners spread out in front of me. At the left-hand turn onto the single-track trail, I jumped up one position as I called out to a woman ahead of me who had completely missed the turn. Oh, didn't I mention you can get lost out here?

    After the aforementioned ice slope, things calm down a bit, as we wind our up the Mountain Mist Trail, which gives the race its name. The scenery is beautiful this morning, icicles hanging from every cliff. Behind me, I hear, "Good morning, Scott!" The voice belongs to Johnny Walker, a friendly guy I sat with at the pasta dinner the night before. He looks and sounds as much like a cowboy as anyone I've ever met. I ask him where his hat is this morning (yes, he wore a cowboy hat last night), and he laughs. His wife Liz completed the Arkansas Traveler 100-miler last year and is more competitive than us. Today she would go on to place first in her age group.

    After a while, I catch a woman who had just qualified for the Boston Marathon in her last race. She was also hoping for a 7:30 finish today. We chat and gain a few more positions before refueling at Aid Station #1 (6.3 mi). At this point I am now in 220th place, based on post-race split times.

    I check my pace chart and am alarmed to find that I have run the first section at a 12 minute/mile pace, uncomfortably ahead of schedule. I tell myself to slow down a little as I plunge down the steep Warpath Ridge. I have loved this section of trail since last autumn, when portions of it were painted yellow from fallen leaves, bright enough to dilate my pupils. The trail also skirts the edge of several pit caves, where a slip would mean a (fatal?) fall into cold darkness. No temporary fencing, no safety tape. I hope everyone is paying attention to the trail. As the liability waiver says, each runner is responsible for his/her own safety. This race will test your confidence as well as your resolve.

    As we come out of the shade and hit the Power Line Trail, we also hit THE MUD. Lots and lots of mud. No, not friendly mud that sheds after a few steps, but MUD that adheres to your shoe and adheres to itself. I am growing noticeably taller with each step and leaving divots the size of dinner plates in my wake. Nancy Nail, a fellow Huntsvillian I ran this portion of the course with, keeps pulling over next to the trail in the futile attempt to wipe her shoes on a rock. Of course, she is not the first one with this idea. All the rocks within sight are already covered in mud. I slow my pace and just plow through it, wiping my shoes at the doorstep of the woods a mile later.

    At mile nine, K2 is the first of three major hills on the course. Although it is by far the easiest and shortest (400 ft climb over 1/2 mile), the toll it takes on a runner's legs is devastating this early in the race. Picture eight minutes of stairs at a brisk walking pace. Now, pour muddy water and bowling ball-sized rocks on the stairs and coat with a layer of ice and you will have some idea. A group in front of me is walking the hill and I quickly catch them and become the caboose on this vertical train. There is no use trying to pass. The trail is too narrow. I wait impatiently for the top, where I pass the entire group of six to eight people at once. I feel like I am being pushy, but I have wanted to pass for ten minutes.

    Nancy and I are now on the Goat Trail, a series of short steep hills that would make any mountain goat proud, but we chat for an enjoyable 25 minutes to pass the time. This section is too hilly to maintain a constant pace. At last, we hear voices up ahead and Aid Station #2 (11.5 mi) materializes out of the trees. I have risen to 203rd place already. I make quick work of some cookies while one of the workers refills my water bottle with Powerade in response to "gimme the red stuff."

    The next trail is my least favorite. Sure, it SOUNDS appealing. It follows an old logging trail around a minor peak with nice rolling hills and views of the valley below. The trail is wide enough for a vehicle, but so rutted and potted that it requires constant attention to foot placement. It also comes at a point in the race where you are starting to tire but have too many miles left to start thinking about the finish line. I slip at one stream crossing and almost go into the water. That was a close one. My right shoe is now wet. I slow a little to gnaw on an energy bar. And then it happens. I reach in my pocket to pull out my pace chart, and it is gone! My spirit sinks. Now I will have to rely on my intuition and the few mileage markers that I have memorized to monitor my progress. This is going to be interesting.

    Somewhere in here I pass Pete Eckel, a doctor from Tupelo, MS, who sat next to me last night. This is his first ultra, too. Pete is a really interesting guy (seems to be a common trait among ultrarunners) who spent a period of time above the Arctic Circle giving aid to an Eskimo tribe. After hearing his entertaining stories of running on the frozen tundra in Alaska, I assume he is impervious to the cold, but he is visibly tired and moving slowly. When he sees me, he perks up and remarks in a booming voice how beautiful the scenery is. I would not see him again, although I found out later that he did finish the race.

    Leaving the logging road, we head below ground level into the Stone Cuts, a natural series of cliffs and tunnels that are really interesting to negotiate while hiking, and downright difficult while attempting to run. Two portions are in near darkness, inching forward for the next foothold that you can't see. The air is dank and smells like a cave. What a blast! After emerging into the sunlight again, I pass several people on a steep downhill. I recognize one woman from the Rocket City Marathon. She told me at the time that she was not planning to run Mountain Mist this year. I kid her about coming back for more abuse. Soon I am running alone for the first time in the race. But that won't last long. I catch up to a group at Cold Spring, and we rock hop together across the icy water. Are you getting the idea that large portions of this race are not exactly runnable?

    We are on the north side of the mountain again, and the cold is creeping back into my bones. Fortunately, we can hear Aid Station #3 (16.9 mi) long before we reach it. As I round the corner I see Wendi waving to me from the road! The road is indeed closed, but she and the kids have walked down from the barricade to bring me my turkey sandwich! I am thankful she arrived early since I'm a full 4 minutes ahead of my time window. Without my pace chart I do not realize I am ahead of schedule, so Wendi warns me of this fact, and says she will also arrive early at the final aid station. I pause long enough to say hi to Ryan and Katie before crossing the street and hitting the woods again.

    It means a lot to me that they were there. I find out later that I had now climbed to 191st place.

    We follow a rocky wagon road down the mountain and turn left onto High Trail. At the turn, I seem to remember being greeted by a giant Raccoon that I am almost certain was not a hallucination. A lady tosses me an orange slice as I run by. I suck the juice out and throw it down into a bag at her feet. I realize too late that it is a bag of new slices. Not much I can do about that, so I run on.

    During the steep sections of High Trail, I slow to a fast walk and nibble on my sandwich. One of the weird things about ultra marathons is that you are running long enough to require real food. You actually start craving things like burgers and fries. Part of my training was learning to digest food on the run. I have found that I feel a little sluggish for about 15-20 minutes after eating, but then a sustained energy boost kicks in. I planned to eat here because I know the next several miles are downhill. Countless stream crossings and puddles later, we turn right onto Bluffline. We lose elevation quickly and the cliffs to our right are weeping water. The temperature is beginning to rise. We descend a series of icy stair-like rocks, where earlier in the day 1997 Badwater winner David Jones took a really bad spill. I have passed another seven people by Aid Station #4 (20.9 mi), where I catch up to Bill Sommers, an engineer for ICS in Huntsville. We enjoy many of the same activities, including rock climbing, so time passes quickly as we chat about this and that. I learn that Bill has run an Ironman Triathlon and climbed Half Dome in Yosemite. What kind of people am I running with? At the button-hole loop of the Railroad Trail, Bill slips and falls down the hill, but he says he's OK. I carefully follow, only to slip and fall in the same spot. The trail here follows an old railroad bed and is the rockiest section of the course, the rock sticking out of the hard ground at odd angles. My feet begin to hurt from the beating, but Bill and I are an efficient team. We take turns setting the pace and pass several small groups on the Alms' House trail over to Three Caves, which is a limestone quarry that looks like three giant boreholes in the mountain. The B-movie "Ravagers" starring Richard Harris was filmed here in 1979. I hear it is not recommended.

    At the quarry, we turn left onto the Waterline Trail. This is the steepest of the three major hills, and I have been anticipating this fifteen minutes of torture for over nine months. I decided weeks ago to conserve energy by walking the entire hill, so I immediately shift into low gear (a fast walk) and fuel up with a packet of Chocolate Gu. Yeah, it's about as tasty as it sounds, one hundred calories in one swallow. Waterline stands apart as an anomaly among trails.  It manages to follow the path of GREATEST resistance straight up Monte Sano. Somehow I imagine that Race Director Dink Taylor designed the course specifically for this hill. I don't recall a single switchback on this trail, save for the stream crossings, and one especially nasty stretch requires some technical climbing to ascend a 50 ft waterfall. A fall from this part of the trail would be ill-advised to say the least. As I approach the waterfall, I recall yelling, "Bring it on!" followed by nervous laughter from few others behind me. I say a little prayer and take my first big step up onto a boulder. My right thigh screams in pain and then cramps, forcing me to immediately step back down. After some smooth talking and a promise of a ½ lb burger after the race, my legs finally allow me to surge up the hill in my fastest time ever. I have blocked much of the climb from memory, but I do recall passing a gentleman on his hands and knees crawling up the trail. Miraculously, I cruise into Aid Station #5 (24.8 mi) none the worse for wear. I am now in 168th place and still feeling strong. Wendi informs me that I am still ahead of schedule. I tell Wendi to be at the finish line by the seven hour mark just in case.

    Although I had pulled ahead during the Waterline, Bill sneaks around me at the aid station. I alternately power-walk and run the next long, gradual uphill and catch him a few minutes later. Suddenly it hits me that I AM GOING TO FINISH THIS RACE and might finish it strongly. "Bill," I say excitedly, "we have a shot at breaking seven hours!" He reminds me of the steep canyon ahead and expresses some doubts that his body is up to the challenge. We agree to maintain a good pace until the canyon (without Bill I couldn't keep up this pace). None too soon we pass the Natural Well (another huge pit cave) and slow down for the serious descent into McKay Hollow, which includes multiple stream crossings, all of them iced over. We survive intact and two miles later reach the base of the dreaded Rest Shelter Hill. This is the final hill on the course, and for reasons that I now fully understand, it is simply labeled "censored" on the course map. I am feeling slightly nauseous from the boiled potatoes at the last aid station (bad idea), but I am able to gag down one more vanilla-flavored Gu packet for some much-needed energy.

    At the base of the hill, Bill decelerates from a slow run to a slow walk, but my thoughts are now on the 7:00 mark. I pass him and offer to pace him to the top. A few minutes later, however, I turn around to find that Bill has dropped out of sight. He would go on to finish in 7:02. Alone with my thoughts, I find it a struggle to place on foot in front of the other. At the top of the steepest section, there is an inviting rest bench calling my name. I refuse to even look in that direction, afraid of what might happen.

    The remaining ½ mile to the plateau is not as steep but seemingly never ends. I am not able to run any of this section, but impress myself with a strong walking pace, maintained only by swinging my arms like a maniac. Just before the plateau, some sadistic soul has nailed a large sign to a tree, reading, "Only wimps, whiners, and weenies walk this hill! Which one are you?"

    There is a water table at the rest shelter, but no rest to be found. Some character dressed like a Viking asks me how the hill was, and I lie about running all but the last ten yards. All the workers erupt into laughter, and the Viking proceeds to taunt me about being a weenie. I do not stop for water, but keep turning the crank, reciting the ultra runner's mantra "RFM - Relentless Forward Motion" in my head. I glance at my watch and realize that running the final 1 ¾ miles at a sub-12 minute/mile pace is going to be a sheer test of willpower. The hills are all behind me now, but the mental portion of the race in still in full swing. It is difficult to run when it takes most of your energy just to focus on the task at hand. The temperature has soared to 40 degrees, coating the trail in a glistening layer of wet mud. I'm too tired to avoid it.

    To tell the truth, the final stretch goes in and out of focus, until I hear the crowd at the finish line. Then the adrenaline rush kicks in, and I pick up the pace for the final quarter mile. I can see the race clock from 100 yards away and am relieved to find that it agrees with my watch. I let out a yell as I cross the finish line in 6:58:30, in 162nd place. I passed a total of 63 people during the race, and none of them passed me back. My last mile was faster than my first, and my finishing rank was higher than my seeded race number (178), something else of which I can be proud. My prizes include a long sleeve tee-shirt of a skeleton and a mountain goat (a true classic!) and a nice short-sleeve Capilene running shirt with the Mountain Mist logo.

    But the prize I will treasure is the memories.

    Sure, others ran the race faster and more efficiently. But nobody had more fun, and nobody can take away the amazing experience of my first ultra marathon. I gave my all and was amply rewarded. It feels good to say that I honestly could not have run harder

     While holding my daughter at the finish line, with my wife and son offering their heartfelt congratulations, I realize that even though I didn't finish first, I still won.