Lassen Peak

Sunday morning comes early for much of the Manzanita Lake campers. The first day the park road is open to vehicle traffic is finally here! The campground is abuzz with activity as everyone scrambles around to pack up and head out on their adventure before returning home to work. When we finally hit the road, most of the area has cleared out. Since the previous day was our twenty mile run, we are a little creaky and slow to get moving.

We decide to drive the park road in its entirety and check out the snow conditions before committing to a hike for the day. Since Matt's last trip up Lassen Peak was smoky without any views, I know he secretly wants to eat his trail cookies atop the park's tallest volcano. The park road climbs higher and higher and the snowbanks beside the road grow taller and more impressive.

The parking lot for Lassen Peak is carved out of a massive snow block whose walls top fifteen feet or more in some places. The parking area is full of skiers, snowboarders, and sledders alike.

While I admit my mountaineering skills are limited, this looks entirely doable.

The most worrisome part of the trail is near the summit. Exposed and near vertical without a snow-free trail, I know it has to be almost dry up there for me to make it to the top. I glance up and notice that the southern exposure has done this trail a favor and it appears to be dry dirt up there. Matt and I agree to at least give it a try. Even if we don't make it very high up, the views are incredible after only a five minute hike.

I've got eight years of winter backpacking and hiking in the mountains, I think that counts?

I gather my things in the pack and Matt and I line up behind a family trying to make it out of the parking lot and onto the snow towering almost fifteen feet above them. They slip and slide in their sneakers and when it's finally my turn, they watch as I make it up without a single slip. One kid asks his dad how we make it look so easy. They're both stumped until someone points out the Kahtoola micro-spikes attached to my shoes. Naw kid, I'm just a superhero. ;)

Before I know it, the trail is a staircase of small notches through the snow. There are two clear tracks pointed skyward, one the hikers have been taking and one the skiers and snowboarders have. We decide that since it probably takes more mountaineering experience to ski and snowboard, those are the folks we want to follow. We are reassured when their route makes switchbacks up the mountain rather than a straight shot for the summit, knowing that's the way we'd go too if we had to blaze our own trail.

It's steep enough that I'm climbing a fair amount with my hands in the snow to steady myself. I test each step before continuing on. It takes an enormous amount of concentration, but I'm enjoying the distraction. I know my fear of heights will be activated if I think about it too much. Left foot, chop chop, step up. Right foot, chop, kick, step up. Soon I crest the top of a ledge and to my surprise and elation, it's the trail! The summertime trail without any snow on it!

Matt and I pull off our spikes and zoom up the trail. It feels effortless compared to the first mile of our hike. On a clear summer day, I can make it to the top in under an hour. It's only two and a half miles, but the switchbacks help to make it an accessible climb for anyone. Today it takes us 1:41.

We find a quiet spot overlooking the southern half of the park and pull a bag of cookies from our pack. Since his trip last year was clouded by wildfire smoke, Matt finally gets to enjoy the view. We sit and savor our snacks while we watch the skiers disappear over the edge. I'm uncomfortable by his level of intrigue. Please don't take up backcountry skiing, Honey. It looks terrifying.

Mt. Shasta

Soon, we make our way back down the mountain. Since we're on the easy summer trail, conversation has resumed and our spirits lightened. I try not to think about the snowy descent we face up ahead.

I snap one photo of Matt descending on the snowfield before I tuck the camera away and follow suit. Going downhill is always harder than going up. For me, it's because I actually have to look at how high up I am rather than staring straight ahead.

We make use of the snowy glissades when we can and for a little while, it's fun and distracting to pick out my next slide path away from the trees and not on too steep a slope that I'm afraid of losing control and rolling to the bottom.

When we reach a small flat landing before the final drop to the parking area, we notice a series of orange flags marking the route. We didn't take these to the top, but we figure that we should probably play by the rules now since we noticed them.

The flags meander through the trees and soon I regret my decision. The icy crust has no give to it and my spikes aren't sticking to the snow. I take one step and make it. The next one feels sturdy too so I go. My foot slips out. I slide down the hillside headed for a patch of trees, a dry area, and some boulders. I have little time to react other than thinking "Oh shit, this is going to hurt" on my way down.

To my surprise, I come to a stop just shy of going over a small drop where the boulders are waiting. Then I realize why. My left arm, the one who isn't allowed to carry more than a gallon of milk for fear of breaking its fragile one-bone self, is supporting all my weight as I cling to a small tree I passed. I quickly grab onto the branch with my right hand to lend support. Whew, let's not do that again, I say aloud in an effort to calm myself.

Matt makes it down to where I am and together we decide to abandon the idea of being rule followers and ignore the flags. We sneak around this cluster of trees and see that there are no more dangers below us. If we slip out again, it's a glissade to the bottom. Once I get low enough to be comfortable with a glissade, I let myself go and end my hike with a long, lovely slide down to the bottom. Matt follows along behind as I shoot a video. Sorry that it's sideways, I don't know how to fix it.

It is warm when we arrive at the parking area so we change our outfits and head back onto the road. We explore a few of the volcanic features of the park before heading back to camp for the night.

Sulfur Works

 Hammocks await!

20 Miles in Lassen Volcanic National Park

I'm just four miles into my long run and every step feels impossible. The black volcanic sand makes even the most gentle of climbs a struggle. I'm grumpy and my legs are tired. I try to push away the dark thoughts as I slow to a walk.

Just as I'm about to resign myself to a full day of power-hiking, I crest the gentle hill and finally, for the first time in over an hour, I'm going downhill!! I hop, skip, and bound down effortlessly. Angels sing. I cry out a woohoo of joy. Things begin to look up from here, thank goodness.

Badger Flat

Every few miles, we reach a new trail junction. Each turn provides another checkpoint on our route, breaking up the miles and miles of charred trees and helps my mental game enormously. Each new set of burned trees is different. Some areas burned hot and little remains, others have stands of trees spared a fiery death.

Nobles Emigrant Trail

The trail ebbs and flows while Matt and I pass the miles admiring wildflowers. We've passed several varieties of yellow flowers. Then sections of only purple flowers. It's interesting to see the colors segregated like that.

Western Aster

Western Wallflower

Entire fields of Mule Ears

My favorite: Snow Flower, which isn't really a flower at all.

Since there are over a dozen lakes on our route today, I try to talk Matt into sampling each of them. Just as I'm sure I've got him convinced, we come upon our first lake: Soap Lake. The shores are muddy and the name doesn't make the water sound appetizing so we abandon that idea.

Soap Lake

As we'd later find out during a drink at Lower Twin Lake, the Life Straw is probably best left to emergency situations rather than as a primary water source.

Alongside the PCT about midway through our run, we stumble upon a cabin. There are two outbuildings in addition to the main building whose sign says "Park Ranger". Nobody is home, so we take a peek into the outhouse, excited to have a civilized pit stop. Matt agrees to let me go first on the condition that I report back on the toilet paper to critter ratio. I open the door and see it is being used to store lumber. "It's stocked, but the TP is a little raw....."

Climbing up and over a ridge between Rainbow and Snag Lakes, Matt and I reminisce about our backpacking trip on this section a few years ago. This two mile section of trail is all that overlaps that adventure with this one. "It's about here where we made the decision to pack all the way out and go get some DQ instead of another night," I recalled. "Can we do that again?" The climb is equally brutal today, but there will be no Dairy Queen. Sads.

Lower Twin Lake

We pass two hikers stopped on the side of the trail for lunch. One has a can of Easy Cheese, which I admit to him sounds amazing. He tells us about the bear encounter he had that morning at his campsite near the lake but assures us that it was not where we were headed.

Just as that conversation leaves my mind and we reach another trail junction, I spot two hikers pointing at a clearing littered with toppled trees. Then a moving object catches my eye. It's a cinnamon-hued black bear running parallel to the trail about forty feet from us, but bounding off in our direction. I call out a loud, "Hey Bear!" and he stops to look at me. I snap a couple of photos as his snout points to the sky. He soon loses interest and now that he's far enough away from the scary humans, he returns to rooting around in the dirt.

The next few miles of trail skirt the western shore of Snag Lake. It's another of those gentle downhill trails that seems effortless. Drunk on endorphins, sunshine, and perfect views, we profess our undying love for this trail, our favorite of the entire day.

Once our trail moves away from the lake, it travels between a sandy hillside and lava bed and its unique beauty once again makes us giddy even though we're once again struggling through the ankle-deep sand. We practice our power hiking skills for several miles while the landscape changes from forest to dunes of sand.

I bound down each dune at a 7:20 pace with ease, but climbing the other side reduces me to a 22:00 pace at max effort. The variation in pace helps break up the slog through some of the best views of the day.

Cinder Cone and view to the south.

Since our first and last mile are on the same trail, we look forward to the downhill finish. When we're confident it's all downhill from here, Matt takes off ahead of me while I practice my downhill running form as I follow behind. We pass groups of day hikers headed for the Cinder Cone, the main attraction in this part of the park. Bounding down with near reckless abandon, I feel invincible and for a moment I think I can fly.

Back at the car, we make a beeline for our lunches. A man getting out of the car next to ours asks, "Did you climb Cinder Cone?". We say that we skirted the base but didn't go to the top. A look of disappointment spreads across his face. "Maybe tomorrow then?" he asks.

It's been awhile since my toes were this dirty!

No, thanks. I think we've had plenty of adventure for awhile. Little did I know what Matt was going to talk me into doing tomorrow!

20 miles, 4:31, 1,675 ft gain. Elevation: 6,000-7,000 ft.

We went counter-clockwise on the loop.

Grasshopper Peak Redwoods Run, 3rd edition

Surrounded by a small army of volunteers and eager runners, I make my way through the pack to the starting line I've drawn in the dirt. I push the button on the megaphone's handheld mic. I click the button once to test it, a second time to calm myself, and by the third time I've keyed up the microphone, my voice is ready to go. Before I can realize that everyone is staring at me and the bubble of nerves rises to my throat, I've made it through pre-race announcements and the word "go!" has spilled out.

Y. Kim, SRRC photo.

The rush of excitement quickly fades as the forest returns to its quiet, natural state. The first order of business is meeting with the course sweep. I send her up with the final runner count for each race. Then I meet with the Cal Fire crew to discuss the medical plan.

These four end up being my most helpful volunteers all day.

I've got an hour before runners start to arrive so I spend it mostly showing everyone to their jobs for the day. Being in charge always feels weird to me even though this is my third year holding the reins on this particular event. I'm very independent and unless I'm physically unable to do something, I find it hard to ask for help or tell people what to do. Being race director forces me to grow in a myriad of different ways, some fun and some not so much, which I'll explain later.

Y. Kim, SRRC photo.

CM is the first runner across the finish line in the 10.5 mile race. Shortly thereafter, the trickle of runners becomes a steady stream. I've already made my rounds to the medics, the food table, and the finish line. Nobody needs my help. For the first time as director, I seem to have found the proper balance between not enough people and having too many. I grab my camera, shoot some photos of the volunteers, and then head out onto the course to get some runner shots with those magnificent trees.

By now, Rachel is receiving updates from out on the course. The leaders of the 30K have made it to the last aid station. Behind them, there's a dehydrated and disoriented runner at the midway aid station. Everything happens at once and the peaceful morning turns into a rush of activity. Since I've never had to activate my on-course evacuation plan before, I'm a little surprised by how smoothly it works.

While the park ranger escorts the runner back to the finish area via ATV, the firefighters at the finish prep for her arrival. Since Gwen, the first aid attendant at that aid station mentioned the words "IV fluids" and they aren't qualified to do that, an ambulance is called. Just moments later, we get word of another runner who has collapsed on the course, this time on the trail about a mile from the finish. This is where the Cal Fire guys come in handy. They're experts at extracting people from hard-to-reach places. They take off on foot right behind a few of our own club volunteers.

Just as everything has quieted down and I await the arrival of both runners and the ambulance, Harry, who is doing the timing, points out a runner without a bib number. Since the club has no policy on bandits, I'm not sure what to do. Harry suggests I confront her. By the time I get there, she's already helped herself to the finish line food. I'm shaking like a leaf. Confrontation is my least favorite thing to do.

Oh look, she even knew she had to carry her own water bottle!

Before I can figure out a tactful way to say anything, I blurt out, "So...tell me, why do you think everyone else has to pay to enter this race but you don't?" Oh well, so much for being classy. I calm down a little and try to explain to her why this sort of thing is not allowed, in the case of this race, it's mostly for safety reasons (remember that final count I sent with the sweep? now any single injured or lost runner could be missed because of her). I try not to let this bother me, but it does. Can I smack that watermelon from her hand?

Meanwhile, Matt takes third place in the 30K and I miss it.

The two distressed runners arrive before I can dwell on the bandit for too long. Both ladies happen to be club regulars and personal friends of mine. One looks like she is doing better and color is returning to her cheeks. The other is completely dazed, slurring her words, and doesn't seem to improve much. The ambulance arrives and runs a series of tests on both of them. I pull the Cal Fire medic aside and tell him that I'm worried about the second woman. She's still not improving. She still denies the ambulance ride to the hospital. Both went home with friends, but the latter, ended up making a visit to the ER and spending the night in the hospital.

Y. Kim, SRRC photo.

The warm day distresses a lot of other runners despite the shady route. Living on the coast, none of us are acclimated to temperatures above 65 degrees. It is between eighty and eighty-five degrees when everyone finishes. In all, a total of one hundred (official) runners complete the grueling course.

Y. Kim, SRRC photo.

Three years into this run and I've had my first bandit and first DNF runner. I guess that makes it legit now? Despite the challenges, I'm proud of how well all of the different groups communicated and worked together. 2016 was a success! :)

Favorite finish shot. Y. Kim, SRRC photo.