Day 12: Yellowstone National Park, WY

It was bound to happen. Today was my first bad day of the trip.  Two things went wrong. I couldn't get a campsite inside the park. And I learned that I wouldn't be running Electric Peak--the tallest mountain in the Gallatin Range--as originally planned.

I left Sheridan, Wyoming, a town just to the east of Bighorn National Forest, in the late morning. I was headed for Yellowstone National Park. I knew I needed to get there ASAP if I wanted to snag a campsite. Aside from the fancy lodges, and some privately operated sites, all of the park's campsites are first-come, first-served. If you're not there early enough, you'll miss out. Given that Labor Day weekend was over, I expected that  the number of visitors in the park would have subsided somewhat. I was wrong.

Let's start with my drive. I had almost 300 miles to cover, including 60-some odd miles on a scenic byway through Bighorn. I completely underestimated how long the drive would take--and paid the price. 

I departed Sheridan at 10:15 a.m., after looking at the Yellowstone campground website, which has live updates on each site. Two campsites had already filled up by 9:30 a.m. But I saw that there were still 5-6 other campsites that had availability. The website helpfully also shows the time at which a given site filled up on the previous day. Because I was planning to run Electric Peak in the northwest corner of the park, I looked at the campsites in that area and noticed that most of them hadn't filled up until late in the afternoon yesterday--and that was Labor Day.  So I figured I'd be safe if I arrived in the early afternoon.

But I ended up moving very slowly. I guess part of my determination and focus--my with-it-ness--was gone today. I just took it easy, way too easy. I made frequent stops, to fill up gas; for a long (and delicious) lunch in Greybull, another frontier town; and even to put my car through a wash for 15 minutes (my car was gross). In Cody, the last major town before entering Yellowstone from the east, I stopped at an outdoors store to pick up bear spray. And when I began the drive into Yellowstone, I stopped at Buffalo Dam to take photos and just see the engineering marvel first-hand. 

All of this meant that I arrived at the east entrance to the park just before 4 p.m. I hadn't had cell signal for quite some time, so I didn't know what the status of the campgrounds was. But right at the east entrance was a board with all of that information. To my dismay, almost all of the campgrounds were already full! I couldn't believe it. I was, however, relieved to see that Indian Creek, in the northwest corner, still had vacancies. I asked the ranger at the entrance what he thought my chances were. He said he had no way of knowing, but that if I was serious about snagging a spot, I should head there ASAP. 

I did that--or tried to. Yellowstone is a massive park. It's larger than the states of Delaware and Rhode Island combined. Getting from the east entrance to Indian Creek is almost 70 miles of windy 35- to 45-mph roads. And the Grand Loop, the figure-eight road that connects the major regions of the park, was packed with cars. Moving quickly was impossible.

I was also distracted by all of the sights. I told myself that I'd have all day tomorrow and part of the morning Thursday to linger and truly explore the park. The priority first had to be finding a place to stay inside the park. But I kept stopping on the side of the road, taking photos of the wildlife (bison, elk, birds of various kinds). I even stopped in the visitor center at Fishing Bridge to see if there was any updated information on campgrounds. (There was none.)

After waiting for 30 minutes in a roadwork-caused, single-lane segment of the Grand Loop, I finally made it to Indian Creek at 6:15. The sign noted that the campground was full. I went in anyways, hoping that the sign was wrong. Unsurprisingly, it was right. I spoke to the host, and he noted that the site had filled up at 5:30. If I hadn't lingered all day, I would've been in fine!

I then considered my options. I could drive all the way to the south entrance of the park, where one campground still had availability. Or I could drive past the north entrance into Montana and stay in the border town of Gardiner.

I decided to head north. Gardiner was only 12 miles away. The south entrance was a good 2 hours away, maybe more. Because it was already getting close to dinner time, I decided I'd just bite the bullet and stay in a motel there. When I dropped down out of Yellowstone into the valley below, I realized that Gardiner was quite a small town. I immediately began to worry that all the lodging would be full, too.

Gardiner was completely sold out. I went into one inn, talked with the host, and learned that all the hotel and motel operators communicated with each other about availiability. Nothing was available now. She handed me a sheet of paper with lodging options listed for Livingston--a town that was almost 60 miles north! 

I couldn't believe it. I'd driven all day, and everything had fallen apart. I had driven into, and straight through the park. And I potentially needed to drive past the park for another 90 minutes. Thankfully, I learned about a primitive campground just outside the town. I hustled there and got a makeshift tent site--the host basically let me stay even though there were no real campsites left. 

So that explains the first way my day went bad. The other way is that I'm no longer running Electric Peak. In fact, I'm no longer running at all. I'll be hiking instead. Simply put, I underestimated not only the significance of being in bear country, but also my experience as an outdoorsman.

On the way out to Gardiner, I had stopped at the Mammoth Hot Springs visitor center. I talked to the ranger about my plans, and she was basically astonished by what I was proposing. She strongly recommended against doing Electric Peak solo, and she also strongly recommended against running at all. Bears are more likely to be surprised by runners. And bears can also view a running human as prey, which can set off a chase instinct.

The last thing I want to do is underestimate the power of the wild and get mauled by a bear. So I've decided that I'm not going to run--at all. I've also decided not to hike Electric Peak. Instead, I'll hike a mountain that doesn't go as far into the backcountry.

Sitting in this cowboy bar in Gardiner, I've had a lot of time to think about how today went. Frankly, missing out on a campsite was stupidity on my part. But I'm much more okay with the second "mishap". I'm not here to prove anything. Better to respect the wilderness. And the hike that I'll do instead (Sepulchre Mountain) will still let me experience the wonder that is Yellowstone. (Yes, this place is magical. ) Here's to tomorrow.

Day 9: Badlands National Park, SD

I slept very little the night before I left at sunrise for Badlands National Park. At around 3 a.m. in the Juniper Campground at Theodore Roosevelt National Park, I awoke to one of the loudest thunderstorms I've ever heard. The rain was pouring down and shaking my tent to no end. Every now and then, my tent would light up as the lightning bolts flashed across the sky.

I started panicking. What if I hadn't put my rain fly on properly? What if my tent was leaking? Bleary-eyed, I put on my head lamp and surveyed the inside of my tent. Everything seemed fine. But the rain kept pounding down, and I was convinced that my campsite might flood. I don't remember when the rain stopped, but I didn't sleep a wink until then.

At about 5:30, I was up. I knew I had a long day of driving to get to Badlands. My tent was in a muddy mess. I decided to forego cooking breakfast there. I just wanted to get out of the bog that my campsite had become. I tried my best to scrape off the mud from my tent before packing it, but it was hopeless (even today, 2 days later, the tent is still covered in dried mud). I was exhausted, hungry, and in need of caffeine.

I set off for South Dakota at 5:55 not in the highest of spirits. As I was taking the road out of the park, however, I immediately noticed a large brown animal grazing just off the side of the road. It was a bison.

A bison having a more pleasant morning. 

It was fun to drive by him and have him look up at me. It was almost like we were sharing the morning--and the park. Not a soul stirred at this hour. (Theodore Roosevelt is already one of the least visited national parks. But I was also in the North Unit, which, due to being 70 miles away from the main highway,  is far less popular than the South Unit.)

I hit the road and cruised south. Though I'd started the morning in rough fashion, the scenery lifted my spirits. And I also can't discount how uplifting it is to drive on an open road. 

When I finally entered South Dakota, I saw, for the first time in my life, signs showing 80 mph as the speed limit. I took advantage of this opportunity to pass the miles quickly.

After cooking pancakes at a roadside rest stop outside of Sturgis, I was within 2 hours of the park. In the final stretch, I saw dozens of advertisements for the "Wall Drug Store." They touted their 5-cent coffee. I'd also heard that their donuts were good. So I figured I'd stop by.

The inside was a tourist trap. But it was still fun to see what paraphernalia people could get. I saw a veteran hanging out by "The Travelers Chapel." He didn't mind that I took a shot of him. 

I bought a couple of Wall's famous donuts--one for now, and one as a post-run treat--and pressed onwards to the park. 

The landscape changed almost instantly. Up from the prairie were beautiful layered badland buttes. I had to stop by the road and take my first photos. 

The park was teeming with people. It was then that I realized that it was Labor Day Weekend--I'd lost track of the days. I soon realized that there was a chance that I wouldn't be able to get a campsite inside the park. The campground had around 80 sites, but would I be able to get one of them? I made it a point to get there ASAP. 

I'm glad I proceeded straight to the campground. When I arrived, only 2 sites were still open. I took one of them. It was already well past 2 p.m., and the sun was beating down on the prairie. I knew I needed to get out on the trails as soon as possible. My goal was to run every marked trail in the park, starting on Castle, proceeding to Saddle Pass, returning on Medicine Root, and then completing the Window, Door, and Notch trails. I quickly set up my tent, changed into running gear (including my Tilley hat--such an essential for the sun), and headed to the trailhead. 

Because I was going backcountry on a very hot day, I was worried about safety. I made sure to sign every backcountry register I could find. 

Almost immediately after setting off, I saw my first signs of movement in the badlands. It was a desert bunny. He was super cute, and let me move quite close to him. 

The trail needled out into the prairie and back towards the buttes, like a sine curve. The contrasts were wonderful, especially with a clear blue sky. 

It was an impressive environment. This felt far more dry and desert-like than the badlands of Theodore Roosevelt. Speaking of Theodore Roosevelt, I made sure to track the trail at all times. Compared to the ridiculousness of the Buckhorn Trail in Theodore Roosevelt, the Castle Trail was incredibly easy to follow--all you had to do was look for the red stakes, which were placed frequently along the trail. 

As I criss-crossed the badlands, I came across a little ravine. It was relatively narrow, and I thought I'd have a little bit of fun. So I decided to jump it. 

Building speed.

Lifting off.

Getting air. 

Landing. 

That was fun, dangerous, and worth it. Teddy Roosevelt would've been proud. 

I continued until I reached Saddle Pass. I noticed that there was a rock spire that one could climb. So I scrambled up it to get to this vista.  Boy, was it incredible.

I then reached the end of the 6-mile one-way Castle Trail. I turned around and headed back, but this time took the Medicine Root Trail, which veers out further into the prairie than the Castle. A couple hikers warned me that they'd heard a rattlesnake 10 minutes in front of me. I took that as a sign that I should slow down my speed. Given the heat, my heart rate was already starting to spike above where I wanted it to be. So I settled into a very appropriate desert pace--a steady, light-footed canter.

I made it back to the trailhead. From there, I branched out to see the Door, Window, and Notch Trails. They were very similar to what I'd already seen. 

By this time, the sun was starting to set. I made it back to my campsite and gazed at the sun setting behind the tall grass in the prairies to our west. 

It felt somewhat odd to have 80 or so campsites right in the middle of this expanse. I took a few photos to try and capture the juxtaposition of man and nature. 

I had an excellent night sitting beneath the stars and taking in the cool badlands air. I went to bed utterly at peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was broken by the wind. It grew out of control at roughly 2:30 a.m. This was far worse than the thunderstorm. The tent walls whipped back and forth, and the base of the tent on the windward side actually began lifting up. I shifted all of my bags and even my own body to the windward side. It was terrifying. I realized I needed to reinforce the tent if I were to ever hope to fall back asleep.

I stepped out of my tent to the whipping winds. The winds had been so strong that two corners of my tent stakes had come undone, and my guy lines were nowhere near taut enough. Not knowing how to prevent me and my tent from blowing off into the badlands like a tumbleweed, I frustratedly tried to load up a YouTube tutorial on how to set up a tent in strong wind.  I finally got enough of the video loaded for me to realize that I'd been tying the guy lines wrong. Determined to stabilize my tent, I redid all of the guy lines and, this time, properly used the tensioner to make the lines taut. I looked up around me, and noticed that half the campground was also awake frantically scrambling to keep their tents on earth. It was a sight to see.

I returned to my tent and closed my eyes. The whipping of the tent walls was less intense, but the noise was still out of control. I didn't sleep well. 

But that's okay. Because when I woke up before 6 a.m. from the whipping winds, I looked outside and saw this. 

Realizing that this was a special sunrise that was occuring, I rushed out to the prairie to find a good place to watch the rising sun.

 After cooking pancakes and making coffee, I hit the road again. A few miles from my campsite, I came across Interior, population 67.  I didn't stop.

On the challenge.

Part of what makes this trip so thrilling for me is how logistically challenging it's been. Actually, to be entirely honest, I'm amazed that I've been able to do what I've done so far in this first full week.

Since hitting the road on my own on Monday, I've driven 2,202 miles. In that same time, I've also run over 43 hard trail miles. And I've also done a good bit of unplanned sightseeing along the way. You'd think that with all of this driving and running I've been doing, I'd have no time to relax, right?

Right. I've had basically no relaxation time. Each day, I'm up way before the sun rises, and I'm several hours into my drive when most people are still starting their morning routines. I then cruise into the national park visitor center around lunch time, talk to the rangers about what I need to know, and then set off on a trail. Between 3-7 hours later, I'm back, hurrying to set up camp before the sun sets, cooking dinner as fast as I can (my body needs substantial food immediately), cleaning up, and then trying to resort my car in preparation for the next day.

Looking back on my daily routine for the last 5 days, I chuckle every time I think of the valise stuffed with books that I brought along. I probably have 20-some books in there, several of which are over a thousand pages. I thought I'd knock off a book every 2-3 days. I'm now thinking I'd be lucky if I read 5. 

One might wonder why I'm in such a hurry--why, in God's name, I won't just take a chill pill, slow down, savor the moments that I have out here in the wild. This is an understandable criticism. Typically, one would hope that a person seeking to connect with nature would do exactly that--just be.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), this is not a typical trip. I have no qualms with rushing across the country at lightning speed. That's within the scope of what I'm trying to do--visit every single state I have yet to visit, run epic runs in as many national parks as I can along the way, and do all of this in a limited amount of time, Because I've chosen to prioritize the grand scale of my trip, I can't savor every moment. And I'm simply okay with that.

But getting back to the challenge. It has been an exhilarating 5 days on the road. Each day feels like the next stage in a multi-week adventure race. As soon as my alarm goes off at around 5:30 a.m., I'm immediately up and about, trying to accomplish all the tasks I need to get done before I can hit the road. 

My stopwatch has been a critical friend in this regard. I've begun to time all of my daily tasks, to figure out where I'm wasting and where I'm saving time. For example, I've slowly been whittling away the time it takes for me to: (1) set up my tent and sleeping arrangements, (2) get my Whisperlite stove up and running (the past two times I've been able to prime and light it with one try--my first time, it took me almost an hour to get the stove working!), (3) cook breakfast, and (4) break camp. If it's been only 5 nights and I'm already improving this much, I'm going to be an expert by the end of this summer.

Another aspect that I find rewarding is that I always have to think two steps ahead. Particularly when I'm doing this trip solo, and particularly when I've set out on an aggresive schedule, I really have no time to idle. In fact, I've realized that this trip will quickly grind to a halt if I focus only on the step immediately in front of me. (Interestingly, this same philosophy applies to my trail running: if I'm looking right down at my feet, I'm almost definitely going to misstep or hit something; if I'm scanning 20-30 yards ahead, I can plan for every obstacle as I approach each one.)

So I'm constantly thinking about ways to improve my routine--to set myself up for all the steps ahead of me, and not just the one immediately in front of me. What can I do each morning that will set me up better for what I do each evening? How can I arrange my campsite so that it is easiest to break down when I stumble around in the pre-dawn light?

The single biggest change in my routine over the last couple nights has been the amount of stuff I lug out of my car to my campsite. My first night, I practically unloaded my entire car. When morning came around, I had to lug everything back through the morning dew. It was such a waste of time! Now, I take the bare minimum. At my car, I measure out the food I want to cook, the things I'll need in my tent, and the other amenities of camp life. The rest stays in the car.

Interestingly, through this process, I've also learned that taking shortcuts can end up being a huge time waster. Taking the time to do things right the first time around generally leads to a better outcome than haphazardly rushing through a task. For example, I've tried to speed pack my sleeping pad and my tent. But when I've tried that, the items often aren't packed tight enough, so they don't fit into the stuff sacks or into my duffel bag. I have to start over again. That's more time wasted. 

In short, let's just say I had far too rosy of a picture of how leisurely life on the road would be.

I'm sure there are many people out there--one might call them camping or outdoors "purists"--who look down on what I'm doing. My response? I really don't care. So far, this trip has been an incredible experience--one that has challenged me in so many ways, and taught me so much. Despite the speed with which I'm covering all these distances, I can say for a fact that I've been communing with the wild and feeling an almost otherworldly sensation on each run. In fact, if the trip were to end tomorrow, I'd still walk away convinced that setting out on this crazy adventure was one of the best decisions of my life.

Despite my love for the challenges that each new day presents, I'm happy to report that tonight I can and will idle. Tonight is the first night that I've actually cooked and eaten dinner, cleaned and packed everything away before the sun has completely disappeared. It's now just after 9 p.m. here inside Badlands National Park, and all I can see when I look up are the stars illuminating the night sky. With that, I'm going to go savor the moment while I can. Because tomorrow, I'm back at it again.

Day 4: Cuyahoga Valley National Park, OH

You may not believe this, but I'm posting this from inside my tent in a backcountry campsite in Cuyahoga Valley National Park. I'll explain my technology set-up later (and I'll also explain why I'm not really even attempting to "unplug" from society during this trip), but, for now, I wanted to share some thoughts and some sights from my first solo day on the road.

I left Baltimore at 9:30 a.m. That was 3.5 hours after I'd planned to leave. I got back later than expected last night from upstate New York. Obviously resting and recovering from Twisted Branch was important. So I slept in and left late. 

That ended up being fine, because the day couldn't have been more perfect. I made good progress in my Prius, and arrived in Cuyahoga Valley National Park at around 4 p.m. The first thing I did was stop by the visitor center. Naturally, the Ranger was incredibly friendly, and gave me several trail suggestions. I told her I'd just run a 100-kilometer trail race, and that I wanted to do some easy recovery hiking. She immediately suggested that I watch the sunset at the Ledges Outlook. I also asked her if I should visit Brandywine Falls. She said "yes, definitely! But just so you know, you're going up and down a big hill to get there..."

I decided to set up camp before setting out onto the trails. Tonight, after all, is the first night in my entire life that I've camped alone. The last thing that I wanted was to have to set up in the dark. So I hustled over to the Stanford House campsite, where I'd booked a spot. By 5 p.m., I'd set up my tent, and brought all the gear I needed to cook dinner. 

My campsite.

WIth the knowledge that I had shelter for the day, I proceeded 1.7 miles down the Stanford Trail. The trail was peaceful, and, given that I had absolutely no plans to run today, I lingered and took photos. Also, despite the Ranger's warning, the "hill" that I had to climb was a joke--I climbed probably 100 of those on Saturday! Still, going downhill stressed the quads. I'm glad I opted not to run today (I plan to take tomorrow off from running too). 

Experimenting with depth of field. 

Shot from ground level. 

Eventually, I made it to the Brandywine Falls. It was certainly fun to see, but I can't say it took my breath away. I decided to see if I could come away with a couple good photos. I wanted to capture the blur of the falling water, and I also wanted to test out my travel tripod. The results are below.

Brandywine Falls--kind of blurry, right? I tried. 

Testing out my Joby GorillaPod. It worked. 

Seeing that it was already 6:15, and that the Ranger told me I should be on the Ledges Overlook by 7:30, I speedwalked back to the parking lot. I stopped to take a close-up of a flower along the way.

Having taken the REI one-day outdoor photography class, I now love manipulating depth of field. 

I made it over to the Ledges Overlook by 7:00. The sun had not yet set. But people were already gathered, including some canine friends as well.

On the Ledges Overlook. 

I didn't want to miss the sunset, but I also didn't want to miss seeing the rock cliffs that make the Ledges Trail one of the must-dos of this park. So I descended briefly to see what i could find.

Moss-covered rocks. 

Time passed too quickly, and I realized the forest was already getting dark! I scampered back up the trail to get back to the Overlook. And there was the sun, setting the evening sky on fire with an orange glow. I watched in awe as it continued to set. Realizing how quickly it was disappearing into the horizon, I decided I'd try to capture it on camera. Its color had turned red by this point, but was just as incredible to see. Here's my best photo. 

The setting sun at Ledges Overlook. 

By this point, I was surrounded by people. There were couples, families, solo hikers, runners--all manner of people. All were here to witness something worth witnessing--a spectacular setting sun.

Watching the sunset. 

It was now approaching 8:30. I returned to my campsite and realized it was pitch black. After a failed attempt to start my Whisperlite camping stove, I finally succeeded in getting that burning blue flame going.

A flame in the dark--success!

I cooked a quick pot of mac and cheese, opened a can of tuna, and rounded out my meal with some grape tomatoes I'd had in my fridge when I left Baltimore this morning. It was a surprisingly healthy meal. I'm well on my way to recovery from the 100K.

Tomorrow, I head to Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore before spending the night in Chicago (one of six urban friend-stops I'll be making this trip). I'm hoping I wake up naturally, but I've set my alarm for 6 a.m. just in case. I have no time to waste!

On solo camping

As excited as I am by all the running I'm about to do, there's another aspect of the trip that I'm eager to experience: solo camping.

Indeed, this trip is as much about immersing myself in the natural world as it is about traveling and running the country. I explicitly chose to avoid traditional lodging because I want to be, by night, where I'll be by day--in the wild. Also, the idea of going it alone seemed attractive, not because it would prove that I can, in fact, manage it, but rather because I anticipate learning things that one can learn only when alone in Nature. Having space to myself to reflect, and to take everything in, just seems incredibly appealing.

While I've gone camping a good number of times in my life, I've always done that as part of a group. That has also always meant that I could free-ride on the expertise and labor of others. Sure, I'd pitch in, but I never took the lead on anything. So I never really "learned" all that one would need to know to camp--let alone camp solo. Over the course of this trip, I hope to overcome that deficit. As with everything I'm doing on this trip, I'm taking things in steps.

The first step is to acquire the gear. I've done that. After talking things over with several experienced outdoorspeople (thanks Victoria B., Garrett M., and Lucas M-B!), and after several REI visits, I finally bought everything I needed (note: it wasn't cheap).

The next step is to familiarize myself with that gear in a controlled environment. Even if I theoretically have everything I need, I may not know whether I can "work" with what I have. Can I properly set up my tent by myself? Do I know how the ResQLink system works? Etc. I'm still 2 days away from hitting the road, but I've at least answered the first question. Yes I can.

Experienced and non-experienced campers alike may laugh at the above. How hard can it be to set up a tent? The answer? Really not that hard. But until I've done it with my own two hands, I can't be certain. And if I'm not certain, well, that means I'm taking another risk that probably need not be taken. 

Next, I'll take this into a semi-controlled environment. In advance of the Twisted Branch 100K, I'll be camping with Jeremy L. and Lisa P. at a county park near Naples, NY. There, I'll be outdoors, in a campsite, with all my gear. I'll truly be able to test out, in the elements, my home for the next 45 days. I'll also be able to try my hand at cooking food using my Whisperlite camp stove--another essential skill. If something goes wrong, I'll let Jeremy or Lisa (help me) figure things out. And then I'll keep practicing until I reach mastery. Again, the tasks I intend to be able to complete are easy in the grand scheme of things. But I won't leave upstate New York until I feel confident that I know the very basics of setting up camp.

From there, I'll gradually add layers of complexity as the trip progresses. On my first day alone, for instance, I'll be at a "backcountry" site in the very tame Cuyahoga Valley National Park. I'll be relatively close to a major road, but I'll have none of the amenities that proximity to civilization usually provides (i.e., no water, no electricity, etc.). Moreover, I'll have to "leave no trace." And so on. The hope is that, by the end of the trip, I'll be comfortable setting up camp anywhere and in any conditions.

*   *   *   *   *

With just over 50 hours to go until the start of the most epic race of my life, I'm continuing to taper. I'm running almost nothing (I've run <10 miles this week), eating like a pig, drinking water like a camel, and, most importantly, resting like a sloth. It's all a little uncomfortable, but that's part of the process. On that note, it's time to test out my sleeping arrangements in a very-controlled, air-conditioned, environment. Goodnight!