Mt. Hope Hike

For the video of my friend Katie's 2011 Leadville Trail 100 run, I shot plenty of footage at each of the aid stations. But it bothered me that I didn't have any shots from up on the mountains, among the most difficult and challenging parts of the course. So I talked my buddy Reynold into taking a hike up Hope Pass, which most LT100 runners acknowledge as the part of the race that takes the most out of them. I figured I'd get some photos and video I could splice in with my raceday footage, and the audience would be none the wiser.

I'm sorry to say that my plan didn't quite work out. We picked a day where the constant clouds and fog would make it obvious that none of my pictures were from the race, which had been a nice and sunny summer day. Oh well. It was still a great hike, and the video should still give the viewer a feel for what part of the race was like. Here it is:



Trust me, my friends...until you've been through this course, you have NO idea what it's like to do this race. The thought of running 100 miles at 10,000 feet of altitude (and above) is daunting beyond belief...but until I hiked up Hope Pass, I don't think I really understood the challenges these athletes face.

Heck, I probably still have no real clue. But let me tell you -- Hope Pass is hard...and to think of doing it twice, the second time with 60+ miles on your legs already, well, it boggles the mind. I have an entirely new sense of wonder and awe when thinking about the grit and determination it would take to push yourself over that monster after being on the move for something like 12 hours already.

My mind is definitely boggled. Definitely.

Anyway, Reynold and I started just before sunrise, letting our headlamps illuminate the trail. It was a comfortable temperature, and we were well equiped for the hike. I had a couple of cameras and a monopod, and started out on fresh legs. Reynold is a very experienced hiker, with dozens of 14ers under his belt, and our initial plan was to make it to where we could see Twin Lakes before heading back. Of course, we'd keep an eye on the weather to ensure we didn't get caught above treeline in a lightning storm. Once the sun came up, the fog and clouds made for some gorgeous scenery.


It's a beautiful mountain. The path winds among trees in some spots, along tundra slopes in others. Near the summit, there are piles of jagged rocks to scramble through. We also saw wildlife.

The ptarmigans didn't seem to be bothered by the noisy humans wandering among them. But the pikas barked (chirped?) like crazy when we crossed their rockfield domain. We saw a bunch of these fuzzy little guys, but none of them seemed inclined to pose for photos. And they do blend in with the rocks pretty well. They seem pretty harmless and cute, but for some reason, I kept thinking about the harmless little bunny from MPATHG.

Anyway, we made it to the summit, which was somewhat anticlimactic. The apex of the trail was marked with nothing more than a haphazard pile of rocks and sticks, and the fog prevented us from seeing what surely were breathtakingly spectacular vistas on race day. I took a photo, but as far as you can tell, this two-mile-high summit could've just as easily been down on the plains. Sigh.

It was pretty steep going down the other side of the summit, but at that point, my knees were operating effectively, and I was still more of less able to keep up with Reynold. We came across a large open area that we assumed had been the "Hopeless" Aid Station, but there wasn't enough llama poop or other evidence of occupation for us to be certain. It was a lovely spot, though, and would make a wonderful campout destination. But after snapping a few pictures, we moved on.

The wispy foglike clouds seemed to give way to more cumulorific formations in the sky, so we began to get nervous about the possibility of thunderstorms. We were still hoping to make it to where we could at least see the Twin Lakes in the distance, but as the clouds continued to build, we were leaning more and more toward an early turnaround. And when we came to a spot in the trail where you'd have no choice but to wade through standing water, well, it helped us to make the decision. (Keep in mind, though, that the LT100 racers have no such options. They just keep going, through the puddles, streams, and muddy bogs. It may seem like an unpleasant prospect to run across mountain trails with wet and filthy running shoes, but don't worry -- they get to change shoes at the next aid station. They probably only have wet feet for oh, 8 or 9 hours, that's all. Piece of cake, right?

After we turned around, the trek back up the pass was still quite enjoyable. But once we reached the summit and began the descent back down the southern side, my knees began to show their weakness. Or perhaps it was all in my mind -- I'm not sure exactly what the cause was, but my confidence and speed in descending had vanished. I was afraid that my knees were going to give out, or that my balance would fail...and I would take a tumble that would leave me rolling down the slopes for far longer than would be healthy. I began to choose my footsteps very carefully, and to use my camera monopod as a balance pole to help me get over the stair-like rock formations.

It took me a LONG time to get down. Reynold was walking at a normal pace, but was WAY faster than I was as I hobbled along, testing each footfall like a swimmer putting his toe in cold water in the early spring. Reynold would disappear into the woods in front of me, and then would sit down and wait on a convenient rock somewhere until Mr. Molasses eventually came creaking along.

I hate being the slowest guy at anything, and despite my advancing years, I'm not too old to remember when I used to RUN down the stadium steps at KU, and sprint downhill sections of road races. I was good at descending at one time in my life -- what the heck happened? (Well, OK, it was probably the pounding from slamming down those hills that wrecked my knees in the first place. It's ironic to think that if I hadn't been so good at downhills THEN, I might not suck so badly at them NOW. Hmm.)

The good news is that I have some great resources available as I deal with my "issues". With all the trail running experts I know, and with all the support I get from my friends and swimming teammates, I should certainly be able to acquire some hints about technique changes, drills, or mental tricks I could incorporate into my trail training. There's a good chance that my egregious suckage is merely temporary -- an artifact of attitudes, or an old injury compensation that's been habituated. I should be able to overcome it. After all, as a wise man once said, "We forge our bodies in the fire of our wills!"

If you have any advice for me, please let me know. In the meantime, if you see an LT100 runner, give them a high five. And have a great day!