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 8: Theodore Roosevelt National Park, ND

My first big run--in Theodore Roosevelt National Park--didn't go as planned. I got lost in the backcountry. And the NPS rangers helped me get out. Let me explain.

My original plan was to tackle the Achenbach Trail, a challenging 18-mile loop in a remote area of the park. On the 2.5-hour drive from Bismarck to the park's North Unit, however, the sky looked ominous. I'd checked, and the weather forecast called for thunderstorms. If that were the case, I simply didn't want to risk being backcountry by myself on such a challenging trail. 

The sky wasn't ominous all day. A double rainbow.  

When I arrived at the visitor center, the ranger confirmed my intuition. He recommended against running the Achenbach. Not only did it require two river crossings, which could get dangerously high in storm conditions, but it also had a significant amount of bentonite clay. I didn't quite understand the physical properties of this clay, but apparently when it gets wet, it is so slick that it feels like an ice skating rink. If I were to go on the Achenbach and it rained, I would risk being stuck in an extremely remote area with a very treacherous trail.

There was absolutely no question what I was going to do: anything but the Achenbach. I know that safety came first. I'm a greenhorn when it comes to backcountry navigation. I wasn't going to risk anything, especially on my first day doing a serious run. I've also been following the principle of building up gradually, so I knew that I wanted to do something simpler first.

The ranger suggested the Buckhorn Trail, an 11.2-mile loop that covered most of the park and included a couple prairie dog towns, and possibly also the Caprock Coulee Trail, a short 4.5-mile loop that covered some of the best vistas in the park. I opted to do both, and I decided to begin with the Buckhorn.

Right from the get-go, I was having trouble following the trail. The ranger in the visitor center had warned me that following any trails would be difficult in this park. Specifically, the bison had a tendency to create their own trails. And, to the human eye, a bison-created trail looked identical to a human-created trail. (In fact, I later learned that some bison trails seem more like "real" trails than the actual trail itself!)

Bison poop.  

Bentonite clay.  

Because the Buckhorn began in a very narrow patch of land between the park's main road and the Little Missouri River, I wasn't too worried about going off-trail. As long as I kept the road to the north, and the river to the south, of me, I knew that I'd be fine just generally proceeding east. As a result, the first 4 miles or so were of no real concern. I took time to explore the ecosystem where the buckhorn used to roam. I marveled at the sedimentary layers of the badlands buttes--the patterns are so naturally pleasing. I also noticed ubiquitous evidence that bison were around--fresh bison poop. And I found patches of bentonite clay, which I could easily envision getting extremely slick when wet.

Eventually, I popped back over the main road to the beginning of the backcountry portion of the Buckhorn Trail. I still felt very comfortable, and let myself push up a narrow trail as it ascended gradually. I passed through a wooded area, before reaching my first scenic point. It was amazing to take everything in from high up above.

Running through the woods.  

My first overlook.  

After about 2 hours and 8 miles, I had ascended way up above the buttes and had come out onto a grassy prairie. Imagine a grassy field that extended into the horizon along 270 degrees. I continued following the trail posts until--well, until I could no longer see either where the trail continued or the next trail post. At this point, I took out my map and compass to assess the situation. Several times, I ventured out before backtracking, realizing I'd not gone down the right trail. When I came back to the original post, I noticed that a trail continued back down the buttes. I followed that trail, dropping back down into the valley. Then, oddly, I passed 3 water troughs and a fenced section. I suspected that this was not part of the main trail and that I'd come across some kind of service or maintenance area (I later learned these troughs were for the bison). I continued anyways. Eventually, I found myself descending quickly again, and the views, again, were incredible. WAIT. This view was almost exactly as incredible as the one I'd already seen. And then it hit me: I was going in reverse down the trail I had originally come up.

At this point, I panicked a tad. My legs were fresh, I had lots of water and food, and I even had cell service high up on the prairie, but I just felt uneasy knowing that I'd somehow U-turned without even realizing it. Making this kind of mistake once would be fine. But if I kept doing this, I could get stuck out here. 

I took out my compass and figured out which general direction I needed to follow. I quickly realized that my original direction was correct. But I still couldn't, for the life of me, explain why I had done a loop and ended up retracing my steps. I knew I had to go out onto the prairie so I continued back in the original direction again, more determined than ever to find the right trail. 

Again, this proved extremely difficult. Every time I found a post, I could find no clear trail. Any time I thought I'd found a clear trail, I'd follow it for a few hundred yards and then it would disappear into tall prairie grass. I knew it couldn't be the case that the trail would take us into such tall grass. So I'd retrace my steps and try again. This was a labyrinth game, except I was criss-crossing the prairie. 

Following one of these paths, I noticed a prairie dog town on my right. I thought I could use the town to reorient myself, because the map noted two such towns. But when I looked at the map, I realized that both towns were supposed be on my left. This town was on my right. How? Again, I was utterly perplexed. Meanwhile, the prairie dogs just sat there, yapping away with their mating calls and poking their heads out every now and then to taunt me. 

Prairie dogs.  

At this point, I'd spent almost an hour in the exact same spot venturing out on various trails, realizing that they were false, and then returning to my starting point. I still had plenty of water, and it was a cool, overcast day, but I knew I didn't want to do this all day.

Realizing that I had cell signal, I decided to call the ranger station. The ranger I'd spoken to earlier got on the line. He tried to determine where I was and helped walk me through my route. With his help, I realized where I'd gone wrong. Past one of the posts, there was a very faint trail in some brush that I was supposed to follow. This trail was much more faint than the two other "trails" I'd attempted to follow. Those trails were created by bison. But now that he mentioned it, I could see that this was a trail nonetheless. I thanked the ranger, hung up, and pushed onward.

I reached the next post a few hundred yards away. But, again, the trail seemed to disappear. And, the only things crisscrossing the post were trails that went in the wrong direction relative to where I knew was supposed to be going. I strongly suspected that it was going in the wrong direction, but one trail was so clearly stamped down that I figured it must be the right one. I followed it, again breaking into a fast clip across the flat prairie.  I crossed over a dry stream bed and, within minutes, found myself at the park's fence. I was at the boundary. Beyond, I could see the highway. I knew I was supposed to come close to the northern border, but I didn't think I'd actually hit the border. I again called up the ranger station. He said I shouldn't be at the fence, even though it was possible to see the fence from the trail. After trying to figure things out, he said that I should just wait there. He'd send a ranger to meet me.

15 minutes later, I saw a white truck cruising on a road in the distance toward me. It was a ranger. Given the difficulties I'd been having, he suggested I just cut my losses and hop back in with him. I wasn't out here to prove anything. And, more than anything, I was sick of wasting time tracking the trail, and wanted to get back onto a different part of the park. So I hopped in.

Back inside the park, I met with the head ranger, John Heiser (he's been at this park for 42 years!). He wanted to know where things had gone wrong. I sheepishly waited for him to scold me. Interestingly, he was very friendly and understanding about the situation, and did no scolding of any sort. He just wanted to get the facts, walk through what happened, and provide tips for future runs. He was like a military commander doing a post-mortem analysis.

John Heiser, certified badass.  

I explained everything that had happened and he nodded along with me. He pointed out how tough it was to navigate this trail. This park is one of the least-visited, and some of these backcountry trails get very limited use. So the trails are already incredibly faint due to the lack of consistent human foot traffic. To make matters worse, the bison, as already noted, create their own trails--ones that are indistinguishable from, and oftentimes even more real-looking than, the actual trail. Heavy summer rains that had led to overgrown grass didn't help with trail post visibility. All in all, he commended me for cutting my losses and calling the ranger station for guidance, instead of pressing on when I knew something was off.

John also explained some other principles of following a trail. I should generally be able to see the next post from the current post. Unless it was plainly obvious, when I reached a post, I was to continue in the same direction. And using my compass to verify my course was a prudent thing to do regularly. He noted how even some of the newer rangers had gotten lost in the very section I'd gotten lost in.  (I later discovered that my neighbors at my campsite--lawyers from Canada--also started on the Buckhorn this afternoon and got completely lost and ended up popping out onto the road far from where they were supposed to.) 

John also explained good trail selection practice. He said that, in every new park I visited, I should always start off by "testing" an easy trail to "get a feel for the land." Every ecosystem had unique challenges. And those challenges couldn't be taken lightly. Here, the challenge was the misleading bison trails and the very faint actual trail (also, in wet conditions, the bentonite clay). Other parks would have their own challenges, and it was better to try them out first before pushing out too far.

After this mini-lesson, I told John how demoralized and discouraged I'd now become. This was meant to be my first epic run. And it had ended somewhat miserably, and in failure. To be clear, at no point was I in panic mode. I had plenty of food and water, and also knew that I could reverse course and return to the main road the way I'd come in. But it was disconcerting that I was unable to complete what was already my "second-choice" trail. More importantly, if I couldn't do this, how could I continue to do some of the other trails I've selected in other parks?

John disagreed with my dour assessment. He noted how smart I'd been in using my compass, in trying to retrace my steps, and, ultimately, in calling NPS. He also made it clear that this would be the hardest trail to follow, by far, in the national parks I was visiting. The bison create such incredibly realistic trails, that it's practically impossible not to get lost up here. He asked where I was going next, and he nodded along--all of the trails in those parks would be infinitely easier to follow.

After this 20-minute debriefing, John suggested I continue with the Caprock Coulee Trail anyways. He said it was nowhere near as difficult to follow, and that I should be able to do it no problem. And the vista had spectacular views that I couldn't miss. It was still the early afternoon, so I figured why not. Perhaps this could lift my spirits, and my self-confidence, after the Buckhorn Trail mishap. 

I thanked all of the rangers I spoke to, and drove over to the trailhead for Caprock Coulee. As I was about to set off onto the trail, John's truck pulled into the lot. He told me again not to worry about what had happened earlier and to have fun out there. I thanked him again and was about to set off when another car pulled in, and a trio of women popped out. Before I could leave, John told them about my earlier mishap, and joked about how they shouldn't follow me. That was funny. I said hello to the trio and set off.

Nat, Ruth-Ann, and Megan. 

The Caprock Coulee Trail began with a gradual ascent. I didn't want my heart rate to go too high, so I kept it easy. Right as I was reentering my running groove, I noticed movement in the corner of my eye. There, a hundred yards away, was a bison, standing watch over the trail (like the troll guarding the bridge from that one fairytale).

The bison watching over the path.  

​I immediately stopped and walked backwards away from the bison. I knew how dangerous bison were--I'd heard about the people who'd been killed this summer from trying to take selfies with them--and the rangers had noted that they have a top speed of 30 mph and can jump over 6-foot fences. I knew this beast was not worth messing with.

Cleaning off dirt? 

The bison seems uninterested.  

So, from afar, I took photos. Here, he was cleaning off some dirt (even though it looks like he's stomping). I waited 15 minutes, and he was still standing there, staring me down. Eventually, the trio of women caught up with me. After waiting several more minutes together, we decided we'd try to climb up the hill and around the bison. We scrambled up some dusty section, traversed 50 feet above the bison, and then descended behind him. We had successfully navigated around a bison!

At this point, I felt like my run had been foiled again. I simply was no longer in the mood to run. Also, the ladies were good company, so I decided I'd hike with them for the remainder of the loop.

The bison in our rear view mirror.  

I'm glad I continued, and with them. We climbed up and up and reached some spectacular ridges. At one point, we looked back down and saw that the bison was still exactly where we'd left it.

The bison is ruler of this kingdom.  

The views only got more spectacular.

Amazing view.  

Ruth-Ann at River Bend.  

Megan at River Bend.  

I took the women's photos, and they took mine. We eventually reached the River Bend Outlook. This, too, was impressive. We munched on some snacks, took some more photos, and expressed our love for the park. We then proceeded to finish the trail. 

River Bend Outlook. Too bad it was overcast.  

The patterns are mesmerizing.  

I'd spent from roughly 11:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. out on the trails in one form or another. I'd only covered 15 miles or so, but those were very slow, hard miles. Despite the hitches, it was a great day. It was also an important learning day. I learned that I really can't underestimate the wilderness. All of my fitness means nothing if I get lost.

Going forward, I'm going to be even more inquisitive at visitor centers to make sure I'm equipped with all the knowledge I need to know to navigate the unique aspects of each park. I'll take each day as an opportunity to become an even better outdoorsperson. And I'll continue running wild and free, with and alongside buffalo. 

Simple but delicious.  

I had a peaceful evening in a campsite in a juniper forest. I cooked a simple but hearty dinner--spaghetti with black beans,canned tuna, and a crapload of coconut oil. Next stop: Badlands National Park in South Dakota. 

Day 7: Bismarck, ND

In the last 4 days, I've driven over 1,600 miles. And today was my first pure driving day. I drove 460 miles from Afton State Park, which is just east of the Twin Cities in Minnesota, to Bismarck, a city in south-central North Dakota.  (Note: I recognize that I've skipped Day 6--I'll come back to it when I have time).

You might wonder why I'd spend an entire day driving. All along, that was my intention. One of the biggest priorities for me during this trip has been to hit our national parks. But the reality is that the vast majority of our national parks are west of the Mississippi. As interesting as Cuyahoga Valley National Park was, I know that it pales in comparison to what I'm going to get to see in some of the upcoming parks (Theodore Roosevelt, Badlands, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, etc.). Given my time constraints, I wanted to get out west as quickly as possible. This has meant several long days of driving.

Another important reason for only driving today is that I'm still in recovery mode from my trail 100K. Ultrarunners generally use the guideline of "one day off running for every 10 miles raced." Some even say that for a particularly hard race, you should take a day off for every 10 kilometers raced. So I should ideally be taking roughly 10 days of recovery. I recognize that I'm not completely following this rule-of-thumb. Even though I took several rest days (including some active recovery in the form of easy hiking), I could probably use a little more rest. Today was one more solid rest day.

Also, the driving was actually not as bad as it sounds. I quickly realized that there are lots of things that I like about driving. What I despise, though, is traffic. In the cities where I live, driving and traffic go hand in hand. So it's natural to have a tendency to dislike driving.

But out in the open farm country, where the speed limit is 75 mph, and you have driving directions as simple as "turn right onto I-94 and proceed 410 miles", driving actually becomes fun. It's stress-free, because you don't have to constantly worry about which asshole is going to swerve in front of you, or which pedestrian is going to mindlessly walk into your path. I also use this time to listen: to upbeat road-trip music, to the Revolutions Podcast (right now, I'm learning about the English Civil Wars), to nothing but the sound of my wheels roaring across the open road.

I also look around. The open road shows us the vastness of our country. Being on the open road also means that I'll inevitably stumble across interesting sights. This bison, for example:

Sometimes, you also see things that remind you of your friends (thinking of you, Sam, Henry, and Nick!):

Sometimes, you see a giant buffalo and want to run alongside it:

And sometimes, you just want to eat that very buffalo (the bison burger was quite delicious--the Big Chief Travel Plaza serves up a solid one):

And, sometimes, if you're really, really lucky, you might actually see a live bison resting for the afternoon:

After several stops, I arrived in Bismarck at 6 p.m. I filled up my almost-empty gas tank, and began shopping around for the motel with the lowest price (because when spending $0-20 on campsites, even the cheapest of motels seems exorbitantly expensive). Why a motel? Because I'm spending the next 10 or so days in our parks, and because I needed to plan ahead a little, I wanted to spend a night under a roof with wifi. I found America's Best Value Inn (no, really, the hotel is literally called "America's Best Value Inn"), and decided that it had the lowest price--and "best value"--in town. It has air conditioning and a bed, and no bugs. I can't complain.

Tomorrow, I hit my first big trail run. The Achenbach Trail (and possibly the Upper Caprock Coulee Trail) in Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Let's do this.

Day 5: Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, IN + Chicago, IL

I'm a day behind, but better late than never.

Tuesday morning was a little rushed, because I knew I had a lot to cover: I needed to drive 310 miles to Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore; explore the dunes; drive another 60 miles into Chicago; and meet my friend for a night out on the town.

I was able to break camp quickly and efficiently, but the part that took longer than I imagined was walking back with my gear to the parking lot, which was almost a mile away. I ended up leaving just before 8:30, which ultimately wasn't too late.  The morning drive was, all in all, pleasant. By 11:30, I'd entered Indiana. And, by 1:30, I was at the visitor center.

A caterpillar greeted me at the visitor center. 

Naturally, I spoke to a ranger first. She talked me into doing two things: complete the 3-dune challenge, and hike to the Beach House Blowout. Normally, the 4-5 miles involved would've been a breeze. But I had to deal with two obstacles: the sand, and my lingering fatigue from the 100K. I simply didn't want to overstress my body by running again too soon. And tractionless sand wouldn't be a good running surface anyways.

I first set out for the 3-dune challenge. This was a 1.5-mile loop that ascended 3 sand dune "mountains." Quotation marks are necessary because the maximum elevation was something like 190 feet above sea level--not entirely deserving of mountain status.

Trailhead for the 3-dune challenge. 

But this hike was no breeze (moreover, there was no breeze on this hike, and it was insanely hot). What made it challenging was the sand. It was hard to gain traction as I was ascending the dune slopes, some of which were quite steep.

Ascending a dune.

I went up and down, up and down, and then up one last time to the last sand dune's summit. From there, an easy exit appeared: 

Sand-less stairway. 

Given that I have many epic runs ahead of me, I didn't want to burn any more energy while still recovering from Twisted Branch. I opted for the stairs. 

Having completed the 3-dune challenge, I turned to the next trail leading to the sand dune "blowout". I don't know how to describe what a blowout is, but it's kind of what you'd expect. My friend likened it to a "bowl" on a ski mountain--a wide open area that leads to a ridge.

Little did I know that the trail leading to the blowout would have so many trees. In fact, I learned that the region is home to one of the few remaining oak tree savannas in the country. I was impressed by the sheer size of some of these trees.

A big oak. 

As impressive was the depth of the savanna--the trees seemed to extend endlessly into the distance. I tried to capture that depth on camera. 

The deep oak savanna. 

But more than anything, it was just really pretty in the savanna--the trees were beautiful to see.

Oaks in the oak savanna. 

Interestingly, the density of the trees varied as I walked. And a higher density altered the feel of the savanna--everything just felt darker.

Denser, darker oak savanna. 

Thankfully, the footing here was better. Instead of soft sand, the trail was harder-packed, but still not entirely firm, sand. But the trek was worth it, because after about 30 minutes, and after one dune ascent out of the forest, I made it to the blowout.

The view from the top of the Beach House Blowout. 

The color of Lake Michigan was spectacular. I never wouldn't imagined that a lake could have that hue of blue. It was almost tropical-looking. Part of me wanted to trek down to the water for a dip. Another part of me knew that I would hate myself on the hike back up--and through sand. I opted to skip the descent. This was a good call. 

On the way back to the visitor center, I took out my telephoto lens and focused on finding critters. The only thing I saw was a squirrel, scampering around in the low brush.

Squirrel friend in the forest. 

But that was literally all the wildlife I saw on the hike. Actually, I didn't even see a single human while hiking, either, which made for a peaceful walk. 

Eventually I saw a bunch of birds. 

Bird one. (I know very little about birds.) 

Bird two. 

Bird three. 

The kicker is that I took these photos by the nature center, which puts out food to attract the birds, squirrels, and chipmunks. I'd like to think I spotted them in the wild on my own.

By now, it was 4 p.m. and I was ready to head into Chicago. I arrived just after 5:30, parked my car near my friend Laura P.'s house, and then went to meet her at Millenium Park for the final Summer Film Series screening.  The movie? The Breakfast Club (which I had no idea was older than I am!).

The crowds at the Pritzker Pavilion. 

Before the movie began, though, I had to take the obligatory photo in front of the "bean"--Anish Kapoor's Cloud Gate. 

Melding parts of the Chicago skyline. 

I've seen Kapoor's works in other modern art museums (including one in Seoul), and I always come away impressed by his creativity. 

Anyways, Laura and I caught up while watching bits and pieces of the movie and chatting with some of her coworkers. The movie was a hoot, and we certainly saw it in a different light. I guess the passage of time helps see old things differently.

Before we knew it, the movie was over. 

The end of the movie. 

Before heading back to Laura's, I had the chance to visit her office in the Prudential Building. Seeing the city from above at night gave me a good sense of the scale of this city--it is massive. 

Chicago's grid. 

Tomorrow (Day 7) is a driving day. I'm currently in my 7th state (Minnesota), but I need to make it as far into North Dakota as possible tomorrow because Friday is when I run Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Here's to a good night's rest for a good day of driving.

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!

My first 100K

Today is technically the third day of my road trip. But I'm actually back in Baltimore tonight. I spent Friday and Saturday up in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York running the inaugural Twisted Branch Trail Run, a 102-kilometer race from Lake Canandaigua to Lake Keuka. I finished the race in 15 hours, 8 minutes, and 2 seconds. In that time, I gained 11,004 vertical feet. This was my first 100K, and my first serious trail race. (I use the word "I", but the reality is that this was a team effort. Jeremy L., my unflappable running partner, ran with me the entire time; we even crossed the finish line holding hands.)

That I would begin the trip with my first ever 100-kilometer race, and my first serious trail race is a little ridiculous. This was not how I had originally planned things out. My original plan was to leave for the trip on Labor Day, so that I'd have one full week to recover from the race. But scheduling complications on the back end (i.e. relating to moving into my new apartment in DC), required that I start the trip tomorrow if I wanted to maintain the scale and scope of the trip.

I'm happy to report that the race went remarkably well--and that I'm still ready to go tomorrow. I've talked about execution before, and I can legitimately say that this was the most perfectly executed race of my life. It was also, by far, the longest and most challenging physical and mental feat I've ever accomplished. (Note: it was not the most painful--that award goes to the 2014 JFK 50-Mile, my first ever 50-miler, and my first--and last--time that I'll ever sprain my ankle 20 miles into the race and decide to run the last 30 miles anyways.)

I don't have time for a full race report tonight, since a lot needs to be done before I hit the road again tomorrow morning. But I'll share one video clip that captures just part of the craziness that was the Twisted Branch Trail Run. Below is a video I took of a segment of the course at around mile 32. This was certainly a nuisance to run through, but it was nowhere near the hardest terrain we covered during the race. That says something, I think.

 Tomorrow, my lease is truly up, and the parks of America become my home for the next 40+ days. First destination: Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Here goes nothing.