For me, Squamish is a climber's playground: world-class granite walls and splitter cracks - a miniature Yosemite with fewer rules and better beer. This summer, though - during my third annual visit there - my trip to Squamish was completely different. This summer, the town and its surrounding wilderness became a race course. I (Erik) ran my first 50-miler, the Squamish50, along with Seamus Boyd-Porter. This post tells the story of a climber dabbling in ultra-marathoning. If you're reading this because you're considering running the Squamish50, then you're in luck: this post also reveals detailed tips on what has become the biggest ultra in the Pacific Northwest. Birds of a featherIn mid-August Squamish becomes the gravitational centre the Pacific Northwest’s ultra-running scene. Each year the town is home to some strange sites: gangly men with no toenails are doing intervals on the Mamquam Service Rd; lithe women with GPS watches are in Howe Sound Brewery drinking double IPAs. Like the climbers who escape hot weather by migrating North of the 49th parallel, a new breed of outdoor weirdos, ultra-runners, have landed in Squamish. 17 August 2018: one day before the raceSeamus and I exchanged glances like soldiers behind enemy lines. Fuck, tomorrow is going to hurt. We opted for a rest day, where we would do nothing but sit around and eat. "What the hell have I gotten myself into," I thought. The day before Nick and I had bailed off the University Wall after only a measly three pitches, mainly because I thought a full rest rest day before my big race was essential. Nick, I worried, was disappointed in me. However, he found a replacement climbing partner later that evening. Seamus is an accomplished runner, with several cross-country and ultra-marathon medals under his belt. In 2017, he ran 100 kilometers on the gruelling East Coast Trail in Newfoundland. Why? "Because sometimes in life we have to do something hard to know why we live," he wrote in a Facebook post. I was a climber getting into running; in this sport I was his student. Seamus, on the other hand, was a runner getting into climbing; in the mountains it would be me showing him the ropes. The makings of a powerful relationship. We started off the day with a giant bowl of slumgullion: a hearty meal of potatoes, onions, and eggs, all fried up and scrambled up together. (“A loggers' breakfast!” wrote Jack Kerouac in The Dharma Bums.) Subsequent meals included fresh, wild sockeye fillets fried up on my MSR Windburner stove with salted boiled potatoes and lemon wedges. After a productive session of doing nothing in a Squamish park for the afternoon, we headed to the Stawamus Chief Campground for supper: more salty potatoes with canned tuna. As the sun set on the campground, Seamus and I sipped tea and tried not to think about the following day. Thoroughly stuffed and saturated with fluids to bursting (part of our hydration strategy), we got in our tents at 9 pm, ready for a good night’s rest. A fool’s errand, it turned out. Angus, Seamus’s boisterous younger brother, and Ryan ("RPC") Paul Collins, Nick’s replacement climbing buddy, showed up to the cramped campsite with more than enough verve to make up for our nervous temperaments. We didn't know it then, but the next 18 hours would be anything but peaceful. 18 August 2018: race dayMy alarm rang at 3:46 am. I got up, my tent fly zipper rupturing the peace of the still campground. I don't give a damn about being quiet, I thought, grumpily. Late-night chitter chatter from our neighbour, a tent just 15 cm away from mine housing Nick and RPC, had kept me up well past my planned bedtime. I had slept only a few precious hours. I heard shuffling coming from Seamus’s and Angus’s tent. Angus had agreed to drive us to the start line. As I ate a pre-cooked bowl of oats in the parking lot by Seamus’s van, I looked at my drop bag. It was pathetic: a canvas bag containing half a Mars Bar and nothing else. Jesus, why didn't I prepare better? Giddy with nerves, I visited the outhouse three times, depositing yesterday's meals in installments, unprocessed. We piled into the van for the start. It was complete chaos. Cars were lined up in a traffic jam on the only road to the start area. Garry Robbins, resembling a headlamped gnome, yelled, “Delayed Start! 5:40 am!” At the start area, I handed my pathetic excuse for a drop bag to a race official and I took a deep breath. I surveyed the scene: hundreds of wiry runners cast long shadows as headlamps flickered like candles in the wind. With maniacal energy, Gary Robbins shouted staccato instructions into a mic about the starting sequence. I was reminded of the scene in Apocalypse Now where, in the middle of a chaotic air raid of their Vietnam camp, a commander brings his troops surfing amid a hail of bullets and explosions. Around 5k, I started chatting with a fellow named John Maxwell. (John would end up finishing 12th while Seamus and I sang sea shanties far behind, but more on that later.) “Is this your first 50-miler?” I asked. He explained that he had run a few and had completed a 100-miler in the summer. “100 miles is too long, though, if you ask me,” he said, without irony. John wore a running vest with caches of gels. I was clutching onto a water bottle I bought in a discount bin at Sound Runner the day before, attached to an ancient hand strap that I bought on consignment from ClimbOn. I felt twinge of self-consciousness and straightened up my form. I felt like a university freshman who had borrowed his dad’s suit for an interview.
By the time I reached the top of Debeck’s Hill the first flickers of doubt entered my mind. “Jesus…” I thought, “it's too early to be sweating this much.” I caught a glimpse of the rising sun at the summit. Amazed at the altitude I had already gained (approximate 500 m), I collected my thoughts and started down the fire-trail. It was steep and strewn with softball sized rocks. Ankle busters, I thought, as I trundled downwards, trying to remember what my cross-country coach, Art Meaney, taught me about running downhill. “Lean into the hill, increase your turnover, maintain good form.” If I were to lean into this particularly hill, I thought, I would simply careen into the woods and never be found. At Alice Lake were some of the most enjoyable trails of the day: fast, soft, but non-technical. I felt like the Cheekye River parallel, rushing over smooth granite. Soon, I found myself at the 3rd aid station. I spotted Garry Robbins. He greeted me with an impish grin. An omen? I grabbed more food this time. I stuffed pretzels and chips into my mouth and snagged water melon and a half-banana for the trail. I refilled my bottle with a half-water-half-electrolyte mixture. I was in 26th place and things looked good. Little did I know that for poor Seamus, now in 5th place, the shit was hitting the fan...
Running back towards Aid Station 3 (the race route returns to this aid station, this time via the back side), my mind starting waging a battle with my body. How come you’re only running 6:30 kilometers? I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was gaining on me. No one. The run back up to Aid Station 3 had been a consistent low-grade hill for about 4 km. It drained me. I grabbed more pretzels and chips and looked for my aid bag. There was a sea of bags on the ground, covered in trail dust. Screw it. Equipped with a handful of cookies and a full water bottle, I ran off. It was just a half-eaten Mars Bar in there, anyway! I was alone now. I entered the trailhead for Galactic and starting walking. I had been running terrain like this earlier on, I thought, gloomily. I heard a shutter flicker and looked up to see a photographer snapping a few candid shots. So, I started running again, managing a smile, and yelled out, “Thanks for the boost!” The photographer laughed. The boost didn't last long, though. The Galactic trail is a relentless climb at a grade runnable only with fresh legs. Now, though, I just couldn’t manage to run for more than ~1 minute at a time. I took to power hiking. Frantically, I grabbed two sticks off the ground and used them as pseudo-hiking poles. "Holy shit," I thought. "This is not like the East Coast Trail back home..." Soon I was passed by a man from Indiana whom I had passed ~30 minutes before. This was the first time I was passed since the lead pack had established themselves early in the race. Not good.
Heading into Aid Station 4 I had been passed a few more times. “Man, you’re looking fresh!” Said a cheery volunteer. I probably looked like shit and he was just trying to make me feel better. Regardless, as I descended into the woods again and onto the Word of Mouth trail, I felt surprisingly light on my feet. Amazing what a few buoyant words from a volunteer can do to the psyche. A young runner named Nick caught up to me at around the 52 km mark. “You really caught up to me out of nowhere," I said to him. He replied in a relaxed tone. “Had a bit of a sugar rush, I guess.” Nick and I ran into the Quest University Aid Station together, where we were greeted by throngs of spectators holding homemade signs and yelling support. Incredible! I found my aid bag, which to my elation contained two samosas that our friend Sophie LaMarre had snuck in just minutes before. Sophie had promised us these treats the day before but we had no idea whether she would make true on her word. Sophie had also left a bottle of carbonated kambucha for me, which, upon chugging, came fizzing right back up. Not pleasant, especially considering the cup of pickle juice I had just downed to assuage cramping. I was in 27th place. Not bad. Seamus, meanwhile, had dropped to 19th place. Little did I know, but he was now in agonizing pain... I ran away from Quest merrily munching on my samosa. At one point, a fizzy kambucha burp almost brought up the whole savoury mess onto the road. After a steep road section that I walked, I continued into the Climb trail. The terrain was easy and runnable but had sudden short burst of hills.
I searched for the top of my water bottle, collecting my desperate thoughts. When I found it I tried to compose myself as more runners came up from behind. One tall, slender woman in her early thirties passed me. “Nice work!” I yelled out to her. I had decided to offer passers-by encouraging words to maintain a positive attitude in the midst of my newfound misery. I was parched and had an empty water bottle. The next aid station was about 10 km away. It was the hottest part of the day. During a drought. Damn it. Finally, at the Garibaldi Aid Station, I enjoyed a small feast of pickles, salted potatoes, and watermelon. I quenched my thirst. One volunteer offered ice, which I put under my hat. I descended onto the Another Man’s Gold trail, finding the descents as painful, if not more painful, than the ascents. Not good. I crossed a bridge and started up a long uphill on a service road, desperately trying to cling to positive thoughts. Then I saw it. The outline of a familiar figure at the top of the hill. “Rock on!” Said the figure. "No… could it be?" I thought. “SEAMUS? What the hell are you doing here?” He looked terrible. “Man, I started cramping by the time I reached the third aid station.” He launched into a woeful story. He had dropped from first place to where he was now, wracked with cramps but stubbornly refusing to drop out. “Pass me, man, you still have a race in you,” he told me. Part of me wanted to. But I couldn’t do it. Seamus had run 30 kilometers with cramps in his legs. I was moved by his grit. Anyone else would have dropped out. In fact, a local Squamish runner named Mike, who was in the lead pack with Seamus right up until Aid Station 3, did drop out. “Forget the race,” I told him, “Let's just finish this thing together, buddy.”
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we emerged onto the Smoke Bluffs parking lot looking like dusty rag dolls. Now, the elevation gain was over and we had only a few kilometers of easy trails and road left until the finish line. Still, we hobbled along, getting passed all the way to the final turn to the finish line. A voice announced as we crossed the finish line: “They are crossing the finish together folks, look at that! Oh, wait, I know why… they are both from St. John’s, Newfoundland!” Shortly after crossing the finish line, I wandered over to a nearby snack stand. A luxurious collection of salty nuts, the most delicious in the world, awaited me. Drunk on salty nuts, I stumbled over and found Sophie next to Seamus, who was spread-eagled across the grass. He was in serious pain, his legs angrily cramping in agonizing waves. Sophie had cookies for us, the best cookies I have ever tasted. Eventually Seamus started smiling again (the cookies helped) and soon we were joined by Nick and Angus and we all walked to Howe Sound Brewery together. Seamus was obviously extremely disappointed in his race. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help feeling victorious. My finishers medal hung proudly around my neck. Forty-eighth place was obviously not the best outcome, but then again I went into the race without expectations and I didn't feel as though I deserved a better outcome. Besides, it was one hell of day in the mountains with friends. At our table at Howe Sound Brewery, even Seamus raised a glass to that. "Rest up," said Nick, "first thing tomorrow morning we're heading to Mt. Sir Donald..." Note: Seamus is registered for the 2019 Squamish50. This time, he'll be back for revenge!
2 Comments
Daniel
1/9/2019 01:43:36 am
Great read! Like a suspense movie. Poor Seamus, didn't realize that happened...
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Leena-Mari
1/10/2019 01:45:55 am
This was a great story! I was so inspired by it that I seriously thought about attending ’Karhunkierros trail 2019’ for five minutes. Now I am back in reality 😅
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