Trail Running

    I think I may have found a new potential addiction: Trail Running. In the past, I have enjoyed darting down wooded trails with my dogs, in my mind I am the hunter/warrior coursing my dogs through underbrush, along game trails, seeking prey. I love feeling fleet of foot as I dodge rocks, fallen branches, feel the constant change of terrain beneath me and the energy of the earth vibrating through my bones and innervating my entire being. But in the past, these moments were limited by knee instability and, quite frankly, aerobic capacity. Now, as my body becomes accustomed to running and racing, I crave variety and excitement, challenges, new endeavors. I have found this in my first Trail Run. The Multnomah Falls Trail Run, to be precise. 5.4 mile with nary a level spot in the entire course, dodgy footing beneath a canopy of trees and often times the only noticeable sound was that of rushing water.
    Race start was 09:00h, a reasonable start time. I was running a tad behind schedule, having stayed up a bit late the night before, so my morning was a bit sluggish. Ample coffee worked wonders and I was feeling great soon enough. My typical pre-race breakfast of banana, ProMax bar and black coffee was sitting very comfortably in my oft treacherous digestive system. I made good time on the drive up I84-E and pulled into the race area with a solid five minutes to spare. Let me say here, one thing I love about running races, I can show up at the last minute, slip on my shoes and go. No muss no fuss, no having to show up 2+ hours before my start with a ton of gear like I have to for a Tri.  Oddly, there was a dearth of runners, none actually. Was I in the right place? Well, there was a giant, digital clock counting time, an easy-up sunshade with a semi-officious looking woman sitting beneath, and a slightly harried looking young man who showed all the evidence of being a race coordinator. Turns out I was not five minutes early, I was 25 minutes late. Oh shit. But no worries, I wasn't in it to win it, I was here to try something new, in a beautiful location that I had not visited in perhaps 30 years. I was quickly and easily pinned with my number, shown a map and sent on my way.
    Loping along the trail in my moccasin-like ZemTek minimalist running shoes I was easily transported into my hunter/warrior mindset and was suddenly missing having my dogs flushing the underbrush for their own amusement. I was a little disconcerted by the exposed, jagged bedrock that seemed to dominate this lower section of trail, but dismissed it as temporary, knowing the main trail would be paved and well traveled. My legs felt good, it was a gorgeous Fall morning, the air was sweetly scented with pine and falling leaves. I loped along, feeling like all was right in the world that inhabits my skull.
    Once I hit the main, paved trail I found myself engulfed in a group of Japanese tourists, we all politely Excused Me-ed as I let my feet weave me through their smiling group. Now onto the steeps. The trail is quite steep with ten switchbacks on the lower half. I admit, I power walked the steepest sections, and my legs were burning pretty good by the time I hit the first mile marker, but my breathing was great. I kept up the climb, though I was soon counting mile markers and trying to remember what the harried race coordinator had told me about forks in the trail, and his stern reminder that I did not want to take the Larch Mountain trail. I kept climbing, my left knee clicking a steady metronome with each stride, nearly the only sound reaching my ears, but I felt good.
    Without warning, the pavement ended and there was a beautiful downgrade on a pine needle cushioned path. I let gravity pull me down with fast strides, feeling the pleasure of letting my legs stretch out a bit. Down, across a beautiful little stone bridge that I had to stop and admire for a brief moment, then on I ran. As suddenly as the pavement had ended, and just as I was feeling to joy of running, the jagged bedrock began again. Very tough footing for a bare minimalist shoe. I ran for a bit, trying to keep up my pace, but the rocks defeated me. I was beating the absolute hell out of my feet, and needed to avoid real damage. I slowed to a quick walk, picking my footing as carefully as I was able. The trail narrowed and actually worsened. I began to have the sneaking suspicion that I was on the wrong trail. I kept eyes peeled for a trail marker, anything to tell me I was or was not on the right route. I hit tight switchbacks on this narrow trail and started to worry a bit. Not too much, since I was in this for the experience not a record time. I was only in competition with myself. Finally, convinced I was on the wrong trail, I turned back to look for the turnoff I had obviously missed. I came across a couple, asked them if the was the Waukeena Trail. No, this is Perdition Trail, he responded. What? Perdition? That was not a name that had been mentioned in any way shape or form. So I headed back over the jagged bedrock, retracing my steps. Happy to hit the pine needle padded path I broke into a run, up, up, up, my legs suddenly warmed to their task and felt fantastic. But there was no missed fork, and I was back on pavement, back at switchback 7 when I stopped, again. I was definitely going in the right direction at this point, I was just retracing my steps, no doubt about it. Frustrated, I had a brief thought of just heading down, climbing in the car and going home. But it was a brief moment. I was not going to take a DNF on this, even if it meant hacking my way through the underbrush. I stopped a guy with a fly rod, he looked like a regular in these parts. Turns out I had turned back when I was a bare quarter mile from where the actual fork in the trail was.
     Once again, turning back up the trail, I ran. My legs still felt fantastic and I was invigorated with the clean air and natural beauty. I ran. Crossed the stone bridge for the third time, dainty footed my way through jagged bedrock, ignored the voice in my head that was telling me that I was beating holy hell out of my feet, and I moved along at a decent pace. I stubbed both my feet several times on unforgiving, solidly embedded stone. But what is a little pain, other a reminder that we are truly alive? I found the fork that would send me higher along the correct trail. A small group of women with racing bibs who were walking the course stood at the intersection, they too had taken a wrong turn, adding a few miles to their hike. We chatted for a moment and then I ran on.
    From that point on there was little walking. I ran and felt glorious. True, I slowed to dance across bedrock, hoping this solid, ancient partner did not abuse my feet too badly, and then I would run. I joyously greeted everyone I passed, we were all in high spirits. I ran. Up and Up. Into the low clouds that blanketed the Gorge. The air was clean and damp, cooling my face, purifying my soul. Reaching the trail summit, I slowed for a moment, did a victory dance and let out a whoop, it was nearly all downhill from here.
    Now, down and down. Some descents so steep I worked as hard to keep myself from succumbing to gravity as I had worked fighting against it on the steep ascent. I quickened my stride, and forced myself to be mindful of where I was putting my feet, I knew I was more in peril of a potentially devastating misstep now than when I was climbing. As if to forcefully remind Brain of the perils, within a few hundred feet of trail I stubbed my toe painfully and was nearly sent sprawling, and came within a few degrees of rolling my ankle badly. But still I ran. I danced over bedrock. Scrambled over tree roots. Scampered over narrow foot bridges. I felt amazing.
    Near the end I came across two college aged boys, they asked me what I was doing. I slowed a bit, laughingly told them of my insanity. The joked that they should pace me down since they were late getting back to their bus. They ran along behind me for a bit and I chatted with them over my shoulder, but not for long. They got winded, I did not. I was almost sad to reach the end of the trail. There was no one left to greet me, as is par for racing events, but I did not mind, the triumph was all mine and I was elated. I wandered down to the picnic area where I knew they had some post-race food and beverage, and to check in just in case they might think I was lost. I laughingly told them of my added mile or two. Vowed then and there that I would be back next year. As I ate some delicious chicken tortilla soup I chatted with an older man who was an obvious race veteran. He asked if I had done this race before. I confessed that I had only started running in June and this was my first trail run. He got a surprised look on his face, "Your first trail run? This is a tough course, with a pretty high difficulty, especially for a first timer. I'm impressed." I laughed, thanked him and thought, "I'm glad no one told me that sooner, or I might have been worried."
    Today I am a little sore. My leg muscles are all too happy to remind me that they worked hard and well for me yesterday. I am footsore, with a few lovely bruises adding color to my poor feet. But it was worth the small discomfort that was barely acknowledged during my joy and exhilaration. So, add another new passion to the growing list. I love trail running. Granted, it means investing in more appropriate footwear, but I want to keep my feet happy. I really do love my life.