Crow Pass Crossing

There was a point there, sliding on my ass down a hundred-yard snowfield rippled with minute waves of ice & buried rock, when I wondered if perhaps I ought to reorient myself in order to avoid slamming into the jagged boulder looming below. & there was a point while loping across another pitch of snow sidelong wherein I noticed I might well slide a mile off course if I didn’t hit the footholds. There was incessant rain, beating down from the report of the starting pistol until the finish line, & a fierce firn wind weaving through the willows, the Devil’s Club, the sedge-green grass. & the feeling on the far shore of Eagle River of wholly numb legs wobbling underneath me. I completely ate shit a half dozen times, tripped & recovered a dozen more, stubbed my twice-broken toe, stepped knee-deep in beaver ponds, slid & slopped through mud, leapt over twenty piles of fresh bear scat & clutched looming thistles to right myself, committing the ensuing mile each time to plucking thorns from my hands. It was, without question, the most fun I’ve ever had on a long run. Crow Pass heads up 3000’ right off the bat, along scree & ridgeline, toward the yawning visage of the Raven Glacier. Up top, it bowls out, with glacial streams & moraine piling up & cutting through snowfields. From that point, you descend a long ways into the valley, alternating between the aforementioned way-too-fast snow slides, technical moraine, tumultuous stream crossings, ice shelves, root-cluttered willow patches & fine singletrack. At the bottom of the hill, a wooden bridge takes you across a cleft from which springs a hundred-foot waterfall. I found myself howling as I crossed it, & thought myself in just precisely the right company when the two folks behind me did the same. I was thinking of Shelley’s “Mont Blanc.” A few miles of dense willow, alder & Devil’s Club followed, during half of which we had to duck through tunnels of vegetation along a trail about 12” wide. With that much flora swaying in a relentless wind, there was no spying for footfall; you either land on trail or on a rock. Which means you either go flying off crashing into the brush while shouting obscenities, or you take your next step a free & unencumbered man. Indentations in the brush every few feet from the heft of fallen runners provide visual narratives of missteps. This continues unabated for some time, until you come upon Eagle River. The path veers sharply ninety degrees from your initial glimpse of the water, which is just as well, since beneath you, the river is torrential & impassable. A mile north, white markers on either side signal the best ford site, at which point, in my case, you link arms with whatever runners are close at hand & waste no time plunging in up to your waist. I lost footing at one point stepping on a rock & was grateful beyond belief for the gentleman next to me holding me up (with whom I shared a point-counterpoint sing-along to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” as well. This is clearly a good human being.). On the other side, once the checkpoint attendant put the band on my wrist testifying that I crossed at the appropriate point, I had to accelerate in order to regain feeling in my legs. At that point in the race, I had been numb in my hands & ass from the snow-fields, numb in my feet from glacial creek crossing & then numb in my legs from the river. Good tally. From that point along, the scenery changes. Taller trees loom, & the fact that the Chugach is a temperate rainforest becomes clear. The bear scat intensifies. The trail is augmented by curious rope systems that run over downed logs providing bridges over creeks or run alongside steep runnels, ladders that let you literally climb up & over boulders, & logs cross-cut with chainsaws that provide steps up brief inclines. It’s a good section of trail. The last five miles, which were closed a few weeks ago due to a bear on a moose kill, eventually widen out into rock-strewn, rooted trail that levels out unto the Eagle River Nature Center. Somehow, I found myself accelerating rapidly those last few miles, at least until the last little hill to the finish line. There, I was handed a Snickers bar & got to see my beautiful wife. 4:22:39, good for 55th among the fellas. At times along the trail I was reminded of my favorite aspects of hashing. I’d call it a truly shitty trail, hands down, with miles of brutal shiggy, plenty of slop, abundant opportunities to hurt oneself, & even beer at the end (though I had to wait until I was back home in Denali). It’s something to be reminded of that caliber of joyous running during a 24 plus mile race. Safe to say I’ll be back for more next year. Write-up & pictures here: http://www.adn.com/2012/07/21/2550601/patterson-lippmann-winners-in.html