This is Mountain Gumby. I named it as such because my intent was to create a newsletter about outdoor and mountain experiences - running, hiking, climbing, biking - the things I love. Over the year of its existence, it has unintentionally morphed into a public journal, more closely resembling personal blogs of yesteryear. I’ve done that trick. While they have their value, it’s not what I want this to be. Going forward, I intend to make it more about the things that excite me. Hopefully, that excites you. If not, no hard feelings. It’s what I need to do.
In George Saunders book A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, a literary form of the creative writing class he teaches at Syracuse, he says…
“When we ‘find our voice,’ what’s really happening is that we’re choosing a voice from among the many voices we’re able to ‘do,’ and we’re choosing it because we’ve found that, of all the voices we contain, it’s the one, so far, that has proven itself to be the most energetic.”
I am the most energetic about moving through mountains.
This is volume number one of a series I intend to continue called “Runs I’ve Done.” Perfectly enough, there was barely any running on this run. That’s the dirty, little secret that trail and ultra runners don’t tell you until you’re inside. Everything is a run. Time on feet is the best time, regardless of your speed.
I’ve had people tell me things like, “I don’t really run. I jog.” That’s running. You’re a runner. (Unless you don’t want to be. That’s cool too) The greatest female ultrarunner of all-time just won the most prestigious 100-mile race in the world in 23.5 hours. That means she did over 14-minute miles. Someone like myself would probably move over those Alpine trails at something like a 20- to 25-minute pace and then blow up after 10k. It’s still running.
The best way I can define “running” is moving on foot with intent at a rate that is more than leisurely. Which is why I’m still calling this a run.
My previous experience with Salt Lake City consisted of pass-throughs and a one-night AirBnB stay at an unpleasant moment in time. I’d seen those mountains, read about the climbing, but never confronted it.
So it was, on my way from the Sierra to Colorado, en route to home, that I parked at a truck stop on the edge of town, laid out the back seat, and grabbed my 40 winks, excited to see what Little Cottonwood Canyon had in store for me the next morning.
The sleep went well - it doesn’t always - and I awoke to a perfect morning. Highs down low were in the 80s, which is a great time to go up, go early, and find solace in the cooler temps.
Little Cottonwood is a world-renowned area for bouldering and sport climbing. It’s inclusion in the greater Wasatch Range is a not insignificant reason that SLC is the fastest growing city in the American west and the U.S. National climbing team has set up their headquarters nearby. On this visit, I had to avert my eyes as I cruised by all that magnificent rock and focus on my objective - what in winter is surely the bustling Alta ski resort.
I don’t dig crowds. I had gotten my fill in Yosemite and Tahoe. So rolling past full trailheads wasn’t encouraging on this morning, but luckily I was in a place where the trails were plentiful enough for everyone to have their own slice.
With my ankle still on the mend but feeling good, I had considered a few different routes for this, my triumphant return to trail running, and decided on a vaguely name 4ish mile loop up to the ridge line and back. Hopefully this was enough to get a taste but not so much as to be miserable if things went south.
In the previous two weeks, I had hiked a couple dozen miles, many of them straight up. My ankle wasn’t feeling full strength, but it also wasn’t hurting. It was, and still is, in that scary in-between state of “maybe this is fine.” This would be a test.
I failed that test almost instantly. Muddy switchbacks for the first segment did me no favors, but it became clear that “running,” as the layperson understands it, wasn’t in the cards. My heel striking was resulting in sharp but moderate jolts of pain. And since I was starting from 8,700 feet above sea level, breathing wasn’t all peaches and cream either. I needed to mentally reframe, fast.
Altitude doesn’t affect me terribly, but when the hike heads straight up, you can’t help but to gasp and wheeze. I also have a condition that doesn’t allow me to go slowly uphill. That always feels like walking up a down escalator. Instead I charge and take frequent full-stop breaks. Fortunately hiking incurred zero pain. This was both welcome and frustrating, but it allowed me to put my head down and grind out the first two miles, over which I gained roughly 1,300 feet of elevation.
It wasn’t until I reached Twin Lakes that it dawned on me, “Wait, is this the WURL?”
The WURL is a classic “running” route linking 20+ named peaks over the course of 32 miles, following the ridge that encircles the entirety of Little Cottonwood. It’s been a long-term goal of mine for some time now, as it lies in the realm of achievable but still an absolute sufferfest. Pioneered by Jared Campbell, WURL stands for Wasatch Ultimate Ridge Linkup. There isn’t much trail but also no technical climbing where a rope is required.
It’s a beast, and if you want to learn more, watch this…
It turned out, I was on the WURL, a teensy section but a section nonetheless. Maybe in a perfect world it shouldn’t have, but it made the views just a touch more awe-inspiring and the mind run wild with possibility.
I took the ridge proper over Black Bess Peak and the Honeycomb Cliffs and stood in awe of the challenge that lay before me should I ever decide to confront it. Suddenly this was a scouting mission. Sale Lake City looked pretty damn good from this angle.
I will never be a podium ultra-runner. It’s unlikely that I will ever climb 5.12. And it will take a lot of deliberate steps if I ever get to a point of comfort on fifth-class alpine peaks. But THIS. This is realistic. Airy, ridge walking/scrambling for hours on end. I’m just a healthy ankle and some altitude training away from this. (disclaimer: this was the easiest section of a serious route. I fully understand that)
It was an exciting revelation, but I was also stoked to start descending. And when a stretch of flat, smooth trail presented itself, I channeled that stoke into a little more than a trot.
It was a darn good morning.
Ankle problems are not new to me. I often say that I don’t think there is anything holding my right ankle in place anymore, so it just pops in and out of socket without a second thought. That’s why my sprain recoveries have been so quick the last dozen times, there’s no damage being done. This one is different and a bit frightening. I felt it when it happened - though I can’t explain what “it” is - and it has persisted.
There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, as I lace up my Hokas for a test run right after I hit “publish” on this. But contrary to last week's piece, multiple interests have come in handy during this time. I've funneled my inability to run into hiking and biking, even completing my first century ride last weekend. Diversity of activities proves crucial when one is taken away.
Because when it comes down to it, it’s about movement. When we stop moving forward, we die. I got a lot of life left.