College commencement speakers often point out that “the end of a journey is the beginning of another”.   True in that context.  True here.   So many thoughts and emotions coming down that last downhill stretch, winding through the forest, nearly 7 hours into the 2016 Bridger Ridge Run.  Repeated reminders to self, “look down, DO NOT fall,” mixing with images of the last year.  Recalling when I first heard about this race, checking out the intoxicating video footage, deciding to train for it starting in January.  The Bridger — 20 miles along a rocky, iconic ridge northwest of Bozeman, Montana.  Known as one of the toughest, most technical trail races anywhere.  Starting at 7,000 feet, participants run/hike/climb for a total elevation gain of 6,800 feet and have to absorb a series of punishing downhills totaling 9,000 feet.  

Six months of training.  All the ups and downs — excitement of breakthroughs mixed with injuries and nagging doubts.  Then the surprise of being picked in the Bridger lottery,   And ending with six days in Bozeman, stalking the Range  while absorbing the local flavor (and getting used to its thin air).   Coming down the ridge, these emotions all churning.  Emotions in overdrive.

But forgive me while I back up and relive the day.  Alarm at 4:30am stirs me into action, despite stars still being out in full force.  Downed a bowl of granola, then, geared up and headed to the finish line where runners were advised to park and hitch rides for the hour trek out to the starting line at Fairy Lake.  Parked and lined up in the dark, standing in the 45 degree chill by the side of the road with a half dozen others.  A Suburu pulled over and grabbed three of us.  One from Manhatten, which I thought was cool, but then he quickly added, “Manhatten, Montana”.  Small talk and shared nervousness about the run, which none of us had done, though two of the others had done similar trail 30K’s.  

At Fairy Lake, there were several hundred people — runners, support crew, spouses and /friends — on hand.  Runners jumping up and down or stretching to stay warm as the tops of the nearby peaks begin to glow yellow-orange with the first rays of morning.  The 263 runners are broken down into five “waves”,  separated by 5 minutes.   They’ve assigned runners to particular waves based on rough estimates of finish times, so that the faster runners go first (the opposite of the Dipsea where are age and gender handicaps give the slower runners a head start, and leading to “passing” and “on your left” being the words of the day).  The Bridger’s waves and staggering are wise on a trail like this where passing can be precarious or disastrous.  I’m in wave 4, And so will not see the 160 or so runners in the first three waves till the post-race celebration.  The first group crosses the quaint chalk line drawn across the start of the dirt trail at exactly 7:00 a.m..

Laurie, who is from Mill Valley/San Anselmo and who I just met two days ago when she invited me over to dinner at her brother’s extraordinary mountain home east of Bozeman, is in Wave 2.  She is a Bridger rookie as well, but that is where our running similarities end.  She is a top flight distance runner and has several mountain ultras under her belt  (she ended up carting home a nice trophy from finishing second in her age group).

Soon it’s my turn, and Wave 4 departs with the obligatory hoops and hollers.  Everyone starts out running, but soon settles into fast walk as the trail snakes up towards Sacagawea.  Midway up the ridge, the air is filled with the sound of bagpipes playing Amazing Grace.  Even a bad bagpipe player (and he was) can bring chills to your spine in that setting.

The runner ahead of me, looks familiar, and I recognize Andy Pilskains from a Bridger video.   In the video he talks about his diagnosis with congestive heart failure, and being told he is going to die.  But, as he says, “we’re all going to die….we can’t let bad news discourage us too much.”   He has significantly diminished heart function, but this is his 28th Bridger.  Wow!  I tell him he is an inspiration.   A slight smile crosses his lips, but mostly they are pursed as he, like the rest of us, pushes toward Sacagawea Peak.   We trade small talk and I stick with him to the first checkpoint at the top of Sac, where he and his Bridger experience will lose me as the trail plummets down to the forest (I later recall his quote on the video about “loving the downhill”).  

From the Sac checkpoint, the trail bisects the ridge, a short, beautiful stretch that stays high, before we reach a rock cairn and take a hard right, descending fast.  After working so hard in the first 2+ miles to achieve Sacagawea’s summit — 2000 feet above the start at Fairy Lake — the trail quickly gives it all back.  In this, the most hair-raising descent of the day, we drop close to 2,500 feet in just over a mile.  To say this downhill is “technical” is like calling Shakespeare a “playwrite”.  Each stride is dangerous, possibilities for race-ending injuries everywhere.  Small steps, some hopping, mostly focused on on landing on rocks that will hold.  Lots of sliding.  Extremely slow going, more akin to the steep downhills we hiked a year ago in the rocky Dolomite range in Northern Italy than anything on my home Marin County trails.  Fortunately, I’ve donned my biking gloves, as I come around a corner and my feet lose grip and suddenly I’m sliding/rolling.  Luckily it is a relatively short fall.  My left arm is bloodied with scrapes and cuts, but limbs — particularly legs — intact.  Just a flesh wound as they say.  Didn’t even stop to apply a bandage, just kept going.  (At the post race gathering where awards were handed out, I was not alone, there were lots of bloodied arms and legs,  Also, one runner was taken off by helicopter.  Never heard what happened to him/her.)

After the descent, the trail then snakes through pine trees, the impassable Ross Peak looming above.  This is only part that feels like my Marin paths, as the trail rolls and rambles for a couple of miles, a welcome relief.   The first water station is at the far end of Ross Pass, an idyllic Sound-of-Music patch of grass that rests below and between Ross Peak and Bridger Peak, 7 miles into the race.  But getting back up to the scenic meadow is harder than anticipated, a 500 foot set of switchbacks through the forest.

At the Ross Pass station, I refill the bladder in my backpack, and am surprised to see that two hours into the race and I’m not drinking enough.  Not good.  I thank the volunteers and press on, and start taking in my electrolyte enhanced water like a freshman at a keg party.  Almost immediately after leaving bucolic Ross Pass comes the toughest climb of the Ridge Run, fifteen hundred feet straight up the side of Bridger Peak.  It is not close to a run.  It is not even a hike.  It is mountain climbing, mostly on rock, leaning into the hill just for balance.  Often scrambling over huge boulders.  

Part way up, stopping to catch my breath, second guessing my decision to sign up for this torture, a bandanna-clad runner approaches.  Bridger legend, 73 year old Pat Callis, oldest runner in the race, and a veteran of more than 20 Bridger Ridge Runs, is methodically, steadily and patiently making his way up to Bridger Peak.  I suck it up and fall in line behind him.  I tell Pat that he’s amazing, and he laughs it off.  “Take it easy on the uphills” he says, “or they’lll wipe you out” on the rest of the run.  It took him twenty years to figure that out, now he swears by it.  “I’m trying to follow your advice!” I say.  

The three miles between the Ross Pass and Bridger aid stations are an odyssey.  That ridiculous uphill is followed by a series of jagged mini peaks,  as the beautiful ridge is full of endless challenges.  

Imaginary numbers.  In the delusion of the moment, I think about imaginary numbers.  40 years after learning in high school math what they are, their meaning now eludes me.  But I’ve come across a new imaginary number.  Six.  As in six hours.  In the weeks leading up to the race, I had thought that six hours was a reasonable goal, knowing what I’ve been able to do on trails, even at comparable distances, and even at elevation.  But, after a quick water refill, I leave Bridger Bowl checkpoint — which at 10 miles the midway point of the race — 3 hours and 50 minutes after crossing the line at Fairy Lake.   Occasional checks of my watch had told me early on that six hours would be physically impossible for me.   I’ve learned that elevation plays a much bigger role than it had in my training because of the pitch of the slopes, and the terrain and steepness have turned my beloved downhills into absolute baby-step crawls.  So, leaving Bridger Bowl, I was not thinking about six hours, I was wondering if I could finish it in eight hours, as the splits I’d seen showed the second half taking about as long as the first.

But, though that could have been depressing, the clock-based reality was liberating.  I no longer cared about how long it would take.  The BRR is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, by far.  And the running, particularly on an unfamiliar course, is exceedingly technical.  I just wanted to finish strong.  There were several climbs left, and about 4,000 feet of punishing downhills, but no worries, I felt good,and was in heaven up being up on the ridge.  

One of my favorite parts of the Ridge was approaching and then running along on Saddle Peak.  Truly on top of the world, skipping and yelling the runnable stretch between the north and south tips of the saddle.  I’ve dreamed and obsessed about being up here for almost a year.  And now I am!  Some things, many things, most things, fail to live up to hype and expectations, but running along the Ridge hit the gold standard.  It was worth the roughly four hundred miles of running (not to mention hours in the gym, every goddam plank, push-up, and stretch) that led up to this.  I will treasure these moments — mountains in every direction, the Ridge snaking ahead eight miles to Bozeman and back twelve miles to the crest of Sac — for as long as I live.  

Three miles after Saddle I reach the final checkpoint at Baldy, fifteen miles in the bank, five to go, and a lot of it downhill.  As previewed, the downs are hard, but not as technical as the descent from Sacagawea, or the dips encountered along the top of the Ridge.  I’m almost six hours into the race, but no cramps, no fatigue, no bonking.  I continue to occupy this slice of runner’s heaven for the rest of the race.  

Torn between wanting a beer at the finish line versus wanting to inhabit the Ridge for eternity, I follow the trail — to the extent its visible — through patches of dense trees, boulder fields, and occasional meadows.   When in doubt, I heed the advice from the Race Director: “always stay on the ridge.”  Since two thirds of the runners started ahead of me at Fairy Lake, the runners moving at anywhere close to my pace (parts of Waves 4 and 5) are spread out over a wide expanse of the course.  In fact, in an experience at the opposite end of the spectrum from Mill Valley’s Dipsea Race (where six times as many runners occupy a course one third as long as the Bridger), I’ve encountered few fellow runners since mile 3.  

The last half mile is straight down from the bleached-rock Montana State “M” that looks down on Bozeman.  I had hiked up this stretch of the trail a few days ago, and was concerned about having to descend on tired, battered hamstrings after 19+ miles.  A longer, more winding, alternative route to the finish seemed more appealing, or so I thought.  But when I arrive at the “M” junction after 19 miles, the choice is now a no-brainer.  That “straight down” trail seems flat compared to the death-defying drop from Sac.  I cruise down to the finish, just over seven hours after leaving Fairy Lake.  A hamburger, a beer, and an ice bath for my feet, are moments away.

This journey is over.  This journey has just begun.