Accept the pain, for all who ever tried
Accept the pain, as all our fears subside
...
Accept the pain, for all who ever tried
Accept the pain, as spirits purify
This is the part 2 of a two-part story. I wrote part 1 almost 15 months ago. This post is a collection of my memories from the Shawangunk Ridge Trail Run/Hike from 2019. I participated in the 30-mile race. This was my second time running the race; the first was in 2018.
Update 1: After I had initially published this, I found reflections I had written immediately after the race. I decided to update this post with those reflections. In particular, the portions from Clearwater Road to the beast are based on those reflections.
Update 2: While talking with my friend Jona, whom I met at the 2018 race, and re-reading my unfinished race report from that event, I realized that I totally misnamed one of the runners. I had written her name as Amy, but according to my notes, her name was Dawn. I’ve fixed her name below. (30 Mar 2022)
As I approached Rainbow Falls, a runner caught up to and passed me. I believe he was the runner who went on to win the 50-mile race, but I don’t remember exchanging names. He stopped to fill up at the falls as I was passing through. My only other memory of him was on the vast bedrock section beyond Rainbow Falls. The area is not well-marked, and he was questioning which way to go. I pointed in the general direction, told him that the trail eventually ducks into the trees on the left, and wished him luck.
Shortly after that, I stopped to filter some water from the Fly Brook. That was the clearest water source I had found all day. I returned to the trail and pushed on to Jenny Lane.
Near the end of Jenny Lane there’s another checkpoint; one of the people there mentioned that one of the runners who had come through ahead of me said they saw a bear, but I don’t remember if they said where. I had seen a ton of scat earlier, near Murray Hill, and I suspect that’s where it was. There are a lot of berry bushes up there.
In 2018, I remember standing near the checkpoint, which was basically in a stream that year, waiting with my new friend Jona, while we waited to make sure her friend made it to the checkpoint safely. We ran together for a little while after that, but her pace was quicker than I could sustain, and she pushed on ahead.
My next clear memory of 2019 is all the way over at the Peters Kill crossing, several miles later. I had almost made my way down to the bridge, when the skies opened up in a torrential rain. I pushed myself up against a tree the best I could, and waited for the storm to calm down some. It was raining so hard that my glasses were covered in water, despite my hat.
Once I was able to see, I made my way to the Coxing Kill trailhead, said hello to the person running the checkpoint, stopped to change my socks, and moved on. As I hiked up the Old Minnewaska Trail, I looked to my left to see the scene in the picture above; mist rising out of the valley. It reminded me of the meaning of Shawangunk: “in the smoky air”, referring to the heavy mist that sometimes enshrouds the ridge.
The start of the Undivided Lot Trail was made especially hazardous by the weather and the exposed, slanted bedrock, but I made my way down. Right before Old Clove Road, I passed two 30-milers, the only 30-milers I passed that day, and that was only because they were dropping. I asked them if they had let the RD know, and they said they would, in a way that implied they were as tired, damp and cold as I was, and they would get to it only once their basic needs were sated. Conscious of this response, and the SAR teams standing by, I took note of their bib numbers and said I’d also let the people at the next checkpoint know.
After the double road crossing, on bog bridging slick from the mist in the air and slime from the environment, I slipped sideways. I landed hard on my left side, my thumb somehow taking the brunt of it. I looked, expecting to see blood, but there was none.
Just before the Spring Farm Trailhead, I stopped to filter water from a trickle of a stream. It was gross, but I knew it was going to be several miles before I had another water source, and that most of the upcoming water sources were worse than what I had here. Despite the rain, most of the streams were running really low. I used my last water purification tablet, in addition to the filter, and pushed on.
The last checkpoint before the finish is at the Spring Farm Trailhead. I was surprised to see Ken, the RD, at the checkpoint. I told him about the two runners that had dropped. He asked me if I wanted to continue.
I was tempted to say no: I was miserable, everything was soaked, and I definitely had blisters forming, but I had made it this far, and I wanted to continue. There was only one more treacherous section, the Cliffs of Insanity, along the side of Bonticou Crag. I figured I’d be OK. I said I’d like to continue; he made sure I had a headlamp, and I pushed on.
The route through the Spring Farm area is a collection of carriage roads, and it deviates from the official SRT in this area.
I paired up with a pair of racers, possibly 50-milers, for a minute, as we made our way down to the Northeast Trail. At the bottom of a short access trail, the start of the Bonticou Scramble loomed over us in the gloaming. There was mist shrouding the rocks, and light passing in from ahead, and for a moment, it looked like something out of a Jurassic Park movie. The course went to the left, bypassing the scramble. The other runners moved on, and I didn’t try to keep up with them.
In 2018, I navigated the Mohonk section with two other 30-mile racers, Don and Dawn. As we approached the small climb up the side of Bonticou Crag, two other racers called out from down the wrong trail. We used our voices to lead them to us, and it was none other than Dawn S and Aimee, whom I had met earlier. They were also running the 30-mile race; Dawn S and I had shared several miles along the Undivided Lot trail. They had both forgotten their headlamps, so we all decided to work together as we navigated our way through the rest of the course. I was at the back, keeping an eye on Avenza, to see if we had gone off course, and trying to illuminate the trail for Dawn S, Aimee, and myself. We made a few wrong turns, but we navigated the confusion of trails, cliffs, woods roads, and muddy stream crossings.
They were on my mind when I attempted to descend Bonticou Crag and cross the private section in 2019.
When I got to Clearwater Road, at the end of the Northeast Trail, I didn’t see flagging. I checked my map, and it was obvious that I needed to go right. Down the hill. I checked the map twice, because I didn’t want to go down and then have to come back up again, but down was correct. At some point near the bottom of the road, I found myself repeating a mistake from last year. The trail had branched off to the left, and the road was slowly being filled in with dead trees; several of which I clambered over before realizing my mistake and retaking the trail, which ran parallel to the road.
Eventually I got to the “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” sign. Under normal circumstances, this is where everyone has to turn around. For one night only, for those who have slogged their way through, the trail continues on to Rosendale. This was part of the reason why I was here, to explore this stretch.
The moment I crossed that threshold, I heard a gun fire in the distance, on my right. My mind flashed to last year, when some vandals had stolen all of the markings and left us to our own devices. This year the markings were still present, for the most part; was someone planning on dissuading us through other means now? Eventually I calmed myself down enough to remember that it was early hunting season, and that many hunting hours extend a half hour after sunset.
I pushed on.
At some point, on my right, I saw a pair of eyes. I expected to see the rest of the deer attached to them, but this wasn’t a deer. I could tell by the way it moved that this was a carnivore. It was no more than 15 feet away from me, and I could see its eyes, and that was it. It darted over the ridge and then popped back up again, sitting like a Seussian creature, a large oval with a smaller half circle above, and luminous eyes. It rocked back and forth. I knew it was most likely feline. It was too big to be a fisher or other mustelid, and it didn’t move like a bear or a canine. It darted back down the ridge, and re-emerged a moment later, a few meters to the right of where it had just been. I calmed myself, told myself that it was almost certainly a bobcat, and not a far-wandering mountain lion, but for a brief moment I thought about making myself huge and making a racket. Instead, I turned my headlamp to its maximum brightness, to try and spot its markings, but that just scared the poor thing off.
Today, 2.5 years later, I still get chills recalling that. I still don’t know what it was.
Needless to say, I was on high alert after that. I kept looking back over my shoulder, expecting to see a something large padding silently after me, but I saw no further sign of it.
Further down the trail, I made a series of wrong turns, and had to backtrack. That was nerve-wracking, because in my mind, the beast was definitely stalking me, and I was just making its job easier. Eventually I made my way to the rail trail. One final runner caught me at that point; I think he was from the 70-mile race, but I’m not sure at this point. It was a relief just to have another human around.
We chatted for a bit, but we were both pretty gassed. I think he started running a bit after the railroad trestle, so I didn’t see him again until the tent at the finish area. I was exhausted, but happy to have finished.
Somehow I managed to shave 30 minutes off of my time the previous year. My goal for this race, after running it twice, is to cross the railroad trestle while there’s still daylight. I hope to get a chance to do that one day.
If you’re interested, you can read RD Kenneth Posner’s race report here. He includes links to other race reports from the same event.
Thank you for reading, and until next time, be excellent to each other.