Scout Mountain

This race. Incredibly difficult. Incredibly educational. Incredibly humbling. Incredibly beautiful.

It was the polar opposite of our February race. There, we had the coldest weather for that time of year in over a century. Here? The hottest. Literally—hottest temps for the time of year in 100+ years, with a heat index of well over 100 degrees.

Even just standing around at the start, I was already uncomfortably hot.

The race begins with a lot of climb. And by “a lot,” I mean you're basically going up a mountain right away—no breeze, no shade, 96 degrees. Two miles in—two miles into a 100 miler—I already felt like I was going to vomit or pass out. At first, I was too proud to listen to my body. “I’ve finished four 100s—I can’t take a break at mile two.” But I quickly realized that if I didn’t, I wasn’t going to have a race at all. They’d pull me if I passed out.

So I found a scrap of shade, sat down, and sipped water while people jetted past me. Just a little bit, earlier there had been a small stream. I went backwards on course to it, I took my shirt off, submerged it in the stream, and put it back on. That would become the strategy. Every ten minutes or so, if I could find shade, I’d sit and drink—whether I felt overheated or not.

By the first aid station at mile five, people were already dropping. Some weren’t going to make the cutoff there. I passed many who had blown past me earlier—they were looking rough. My approach worked to keep me moving, but it put me up against cutoffs for the entire rest of the race.

And there were so many cutoffs. I’ve never done a race with so many—and they felt unreasonably tight. They were not aligned with and more far more aggressive than the race’s final cutoff. This is my one complaint about an otherwise great race: these constant cutoffs rob runners of autonomy. You're forced to math your way through 30+ hours of heat and climbs.

All I wanted was to take a long water break at an aid station. But instead, I felt pressure to rush through every single one. Eleven hours in, I realized I hadn’t peed once—and worse, I knew I couldn’t even if someone tried to make me. That was epiphany #2. Sure, missing a cutoff would end my race... but so would a trip to the ER. I forced myself to stop and chug some water, but the time pressure never let up.

(Seriously—give me one final cutoff and a couple intermediates, fine. But cutoffs at almost every aid station? Come on.)

Anyway—middle of the night, I was deep in mountain lion territory when two eyes came charging at me down the trail. I flipped my headlamp to high. A skunk did a screeching U-turn in the beam. Cutoffs or not, I hit the ground for a moment shaking and laughing, adrenaline rushing through me. “A skunk. It was just a skunk. Haha. Jesus.”

In the morning, something else charged me from the bushes—a grouse. At first, I laughed. Then I realized she wasn’t kidding. “Hey! What the hell is your problem?! I’m way bigger than you!” But her sheer intensity made me question whether size really mattered. Eventually, she gave up. I didn’t.

With the sun back, I returned to dunking my shirt in creeks. One time I dropped it and had to chase it downstream in just my bra. Later, after mile 65, I dunked it in what turned out to be a cow shit creek. Shortly after, I got a leg cramp while peeing behind a tree, lost balance, and peed all over myself.

At that point, having been bullied by a bird, and now covered in cow shit and my own urine, and convinced I wasn’t going to make the next aid station cutoff, what was left of my pride was gone.

At one aid station, they told me Lee had passed through an hour ago and wasn’t doing great. I worried for her and expected to find her at one of the next few stations. I didn’t. I was both relieved and a little sad each time I didn’t see her.

The second 50 miles were harder than the first. I worried about Diedre. This was her race distance, and I saw many 50-mile runners with far more experience than her looking wrecked.

One climb in direct sunlight took out a lot of 50-milers around me. I thought it might be my end, too. But when we hit the summit, there was a much needed unexpected water drop the race decided to add for us to refill at and a glorious breeze. It gave me enough to press on. I didn’t want to caretaker, but I felt responsible for Diedre being out there in those conditions. I stopped for a bit after that climb to get myself back to stable and used the time to message her: "Take pauses on the climb. No matter how bad it feels, there's water and wind when you summit." I think a lot of us would’ve handled the climb better if we’d known relief was close—because it looked like just more stagnant direct sun.

I never recovered from the overheating on that climb. Honestly, I never recovered from the heat the day before. But I kept inching forward. I’d decided long ago I would never voluntarily drop from a race again.

Mile 82—West Fork—was the cutoff I expected to miss. It was the last brutal one. What helped? Encouragement from passing 50-milers. Many told me I looked better than any other 100-milers they’d seen and said they believed I’d make it. I picked up my pace a little each time I heard that.

And they were right.

I made the cutoff. The temperature dropped slightly, and with that came a second wind. The next cutoffs were more manageable. I finished.

But that doesn’t change how close I came to not finishing.

This was one hell of a learning experience. And one hell of an adventure.

Later, I found out that Lee finished 2nd place female. Diedre got pulled at West Fork—which is incredibly frustrating, because she was doing great. She was managing the heat smartly, crushed the hardest climb, and was on a pace that would have easily gotten her to the finish. Still, she made it past 50K in one of the hardest conditions imaginable. In a race where over 50% of 100-milers and 30% of 50-milers dropped, that is no small thing.

All in all: stunning course. Tough race. Incredible people. Highly recommend—with the caveat that you better bring grit, extra water, and a healthy respect for mountain birds.