Life (And Death) Is An
Adventure Race
by Jim Farmer (farmerjp@bellsouth.net)
Part I: The Race to the Starting Line
The Subaru Primal Quest (SPQ) has taken over the top spot as the biggest expedition adventure race in the world after the retirement of the Eco-Challenge and the Raid Gauloises, although both of the latter are threatening to return in the years to come. With a $250,000 prize purse, the Primal Quest has become the crown jewel of adventure racing and attracts the best teams and endurance athletes from around the world. The 2003 race, held in the Lake Tahoe area, was spectacular but was lambasted for having little navigation and few route choices available, turning it into a ten-day off-road triathlon of sorts. In 2004, Dan Barger answered his critics by creating one of the most brutal courses in adventure racing history in the Pacific Northwest. However, he didn’t anticipate that the unseasonably cold and wet conditions leading up to the race would raise the bar even higher. Of course, none of this information was available to us prior to the event. In fact, the starting location was not revealed until a few days before the start of the race. We simply knew that we had to fly in to Seattle a few days prior to the gun going off.
Originally, I had planned on doing the SPQ with my fellow Tennesseans, Todd Essig and Patricia Williams, but Patricia got into grad school and Todd and I floundered trying to replace her and finding a compatible fourth teammate willing to shell out the bucks and the time to slay this ten-day monster. As luck would have it, the North Atlanta Dirt Scorchers (NADS for short) were looking for a fourth and Star Affolter, a fellow Chattanoogan, that had raced with NADS on several occasions, recommended me for the job. I jumped at the chance to hook up with a well established team, especially since we would be joined by Jay Scott and Bill Hill, both experienced racers from Atlanta. Bill had competed in several expedition-length races in the past and also was an expert on the ropes, which would be crucial in preparing for this race. The team name was definitely a plus as well. “Go NADS, go NADS, go NADS” was a big hit with the other teams, support crews, race staff and even the media.
After months of preparation, including a variety of certification classes for ocean and whitewater kayaking, mountaineering and ropes skills, along with team meetings and practice sessions and, of course, unspeakable numbers of dollars spent on gear and travel, it was time to go. Just a couple of weeks prior to the start we were informed of the “Rally Point” for the race. Not the starting location, just the “Rally Point”. It was playing out like a “Dirty Harry” movie where Callahan has to make it from one phone booth to the next all the way across town or else the girl gets it. The “Rally Point” was in Anacortes, Washington, which happened to be the location of the ferry launch to the San Juan Islands. We knew that the San Juans would be involved somewhere along the way but it turned out that the Rosario Resort on Orcas Island, one of the largest and most populated of the San Juans, would be our home base for the start and finish of the race. Unfortunately, rain and fog had besieged these beautiful islands for well over a week prior to our arrival and we were greeted by one and the same as we made our way to Orcas in our rented RV late Thursday night. This was not a good omen.
Just about every adventure race that is more than a few hours long has a gear check before the start. Depending on the amount of required equipment and the zealousness of the race officials this can take anywhere from less than an hour to several hours. Since the Primal Quest was an expedition-length race they decided to make their gear check just as epic. We started filling out paperwork at a little after 10AM on Friday morning and finally finished up somewhere around 10PM that night. We had to display proficiency with all of our required gear from crampons to ice axes, ascenders, Prusik loops and even show them that we could set up our emergency tent. The paddling tests had us more worried than anything else since the Southeastern climate in mid-summer kept us from practicing our rescue techniques in the fifty degree water we would be encountering. Although I had packed on several pounds prior to the race I was still anxious about the five minutes of treading water that was required. My thicker-than-required wetsuit and my extra blubber got me through it though.
Each team was rated on the various disciplines during the gear check for the sole purpose of determining who would be on the “Teams to Watch Out For” list distributed to the race staff. We received a four out of five on just about everything so our preparation before the race had definitely paid off. The rest of the check-in process involved more gear checking and lessons on how to use the GPS, satellite phone and marine radio that we had to lug around with us for the entire race. We hopefully would not need to apply this newfound knowledge since it would mean immediate disqualification, but more importantly, it would mean that were in deep trouble. We also listened to a speech by the “Leave No Trace” folks from Subaru on proper trail etiquette and received our WAG bags that we would have to use when we made poopie on the glacier. Last, but not least, was the media station where we had pictures taken and looked amateurish as we were interviewed by a young lady who was obviously weary after a day of asking the same questions to a bunch of idiots like us. Although we barely broke a sweat the entire day we were exhausted at the end. This was definitely not part of the tapering plan.
I don’t know if the race directors had watched one too many Tours de France or if it was simply a good opportunity for some snazzy TV shots, but this year’s race included a prologue on Saturday. Since the race was being made into a TV show both on CBS and OLN and the scenery around Orcas Island was definitely easy on the eyes, I’ll put my money on the TV folks. Start times on Sunday would be staggered in groups of six based on the results of the prologue but, get this, the time gap would be just two minutes between each group. Fifty-six teams, groups of six, two-minute time gap, carry the zero, multiply by Pi. Even using the “new math” it was easy to see that killing ourselves on a four-hour prologue for a gain of a couple of minutes in a ten-day race was ludicrous. Our goal was simply not to be in the last group, which had nothing to do with strategy. Plain and simple vanity and pride were the order of the day as Bill and Star hit the paddle leg hard in a mass start on what was turning out to be a beautiful day on Orcas. After a six-mile out-and-back paddle in the bay, Jay and I joined Bill and Star for a four-mile trail run into the interior of the island. Jay and I followed this up with an eleven-mile mountain bike ride that started off with a steep two thousand foot ascent of Mt. Constitution where the travel days, gear check-in and pre-race jitters started to take their toll. My legs started turning to putty near the end of the brutal climb but we were soon rewarded with a spectacular descent through the heavily wooded forest in Moran State Park. After a quick change of shoes we joined up with Bill and Star once again for a mostly downhill run back to the Rosario Resort and the prologue finish. We held off a couple of teams at the finish and secured the last spot in the sixth wave of racers for the Sunday morning start. Middle of the pack was plenty fine with us.
The pre-race meeting on Saturday night was a combination of fanfare, fluff and some hair-raising warnings about the severity of the course: two-story-high strainers in the swollen Skagit River, bullet-hard ice on Mt. Baker and water, water, everywhere from the incessant rains. Bill went to the captains meeting that followed while Jay and I anxiously awaited the arrival of the maps. In 2003, the course was revealed in a piecemeal fashion, but this year was different as Bill came back with an armful of maps for the entire race. The first leg would be over fifty miles of ocean kayaking. Jay and I had both taken courses and read books on ocean kayak navigation and knew how to read ocean charts, tide tables, weather reports and the like; however, being landlocked, none of us had much practical experience in this area. We painstakingly laid out our route, deciding which side of an island to pass on based on the anticipated tidal currents. All of it was a guessing game though since we really didn’t know how fast we would be able to travel in the open waters in the Necky Amaruks furnished by the race organizers. Fortunately, we were spot on and our times never varied more than a half-hour or so throughout the next day. Dumb luck for sure. We spent a couple of hours on the paddling leg to make sure we had it right, but this put us well into Sunday morning and we decided to bed down for a couple of hours before the race start rather than deal with the maps for the other sections of the race. Although this seemed like a smart decision at the time, the fact that none of us could sleep very much that night, if at all, plus some of the navigation mistakes we made later on in the race due to the lack of time spent on the maps made this a less-than-optimal decision in hindsight.
Part II: Race #1
There were several teams at this year’s Primal Quest that were either filled with TrailBlazers Adventure Racing Club members or had one or two members on the team. It’s always good to have some brothers-in-arms when you’re in a strange place doing strange things. Also, since we weren’t planning on winning the race, it allowed for a little bit of playful competition between the groups. Bryan Goble, captain of Team Fortitude, and I had gotten to know each other well over the past couple of years both as racers and as directors of the TrailBlazers. My wife, Carol, and I had also spent a long weekend with Bryan and his teammates in Tybee Island, Georgia, while we got our paddling certifications for the race. Needless to say we were comfortable enough with each other to allow for a little bit of verbal jousting during the race. Actually, the jousting had started the week prior as Bryan posted his teams goals on the TrailBlazers message board. I must have been in a playfully confrontational mood that day as I publicly responded to Bryan’s post by saying that the one and only goal for Team NADS at the Primal Quest was to “beat Bryan Goble like a drum.” This soon took on a life of its own as we would pass and then be passed by Fortitude on the initial kayak leg of the race. I soon added a horrid rendition of “Little Drummer Boy” to my taunts but when his teammates starting singing along with me it started to lose its significance. However, it soon became a way of relieving the stress and monotony of miles and miles of relentless racing. Jay, Star and Bill soon got caught up in the game and were quick to ask, “Has Fortitude been through yet” as we got to various checkpoints (CPs) and transition areas (TAs). I would even try to leave messages in the dirt for Bryan and his merry band. I’m sure that he is still having nightmares hearing “pa rum pa pum pum” playing over and over in his head.
The fifty miles of ocean kayaking that kicked off the 2004 Primal Quest seemed to go by in no time. The picture-perfect weather and the fact that there were plenty of teams to chat with probably had something to do with that. I can see why the San Juans are such a popular destination for the ocean kayaking set: Islands, islands, everywhere. About the only downside was the imposing sight of the monster cargo vessels that periodically passed through the shipping lanes. Being in a small kayak just a few feet above the water line while one of these behemoths went by was intimidating to say the least. We entered the first transition area just an hour or so after sunset and were comfortably in the middle of the pack as we stuffed our faces while putting on some dry clothes for the trekking and scootering sections that lay ahead. “Scootering” you ask. Yes, it’s a hotly contested debate in the adventure racing world at the moment whether or not scootering should be part of wilderness adventure racing. Scootering is essentially any form of travel on wheels where there is no mechanical advantage other than the wheels themselves. Rollerblades, roller skates, razor scooters and kick bikes all full under this category. Kick bikes are the weapons of choice since they are essentially bicycles without pedals and gears. The large wheels, stable platform and hand brakes provide the most efficient and safest form of travel. However, the best ones do not come cheap. We bought some lower-end kick bikes that saved us some money but we definitely got what we paid for as a few teams passed us on their high-end steeds.
I’m getting ahead of myself here because there was a tricky little trekking leg in Larrabee State Park that came first. The first checkpoint on this leg, CP6, lay at the top of Chuckanut Mountain, about nineteen hundred feet above sea level, where we began our hike. Our topo map showed some trails and jeep roads heading up to the peak but, typical for older maps, there were many more trails and roads than what the map showed. That wasn’t surprising to us until we saw several teams hurriedly coming down the trail we were hoofing up. One team stopped and the eight of us hovered over the maps trying to figure out where we were and where we needed to go. The only problem was that the other team had a very colorful park trail map to go along with their 1:40,000 topo map. Oops! Our haste in getting out of the transition area and also our decision to skip the map work for all but the first paddling section the night before the race had bitten us in the butt and we were less than a day in at that point. Following the teams with the extra trail maps got us to CP6 but, as luck would have it, “not” having the trail map was the key to finding CP7. CP7 seemed like a no-brainer according to the colored trail map with trails linking our current location to Lily Lake several miles away on top of an adjacent ridge. Making our way southeast along the single-track trails we enjoyed the journey with our newfound friends from the Canada Post team; however, the joy turned to concern as we began heading northeast for an extended period of time. We went a little farther and soon came to a major trail junction. The only problem was that none of this stuff was on the trail map.
As we stared at the maps in the pitch black early Monday morning several other teams coming from every direction possible quickly joined us. Some were middle-of-the-packers like us but we also watched in amusement as the TV cameras came zipping by following some of the top teams looking for the ever-illusive trail to Lily Lake. We commented on how we couldn’t wait to see the GPS data on the website after the race to watch all the teams on this wild goose chase. There had to be some benefit to lugging around that GPS unit for ten days. One of the cardinal rules of navigation is to go back to a known point if you’re lost and then reassess. The downside to this was that the last truly known point was about an hour away. Looking at the map we came up with another plan where we followed logging roads to the north until we hit a paved road that ran along Lake Samish. This road would lead us around the mountain to CP8 at which point we could backtrack to CP7. Definitely a long haul but potentially easier than hunting for a trail that may not, and in hindsight did not, exist. We chose the northerly route to the lake after some debate and got to CP8 as the sun rose, quickly making our way up the mountain to CP7 to find that we had jumped up over ten spots. Looking at the GPS later we found that many teams did the same thing we did but took much longer to come to the conclusion that the trail maps were crap. We had made up for leaving the trail map in the TA.
Feeling good about ourselves we scampered back down the mountain and made our way back to CP8 where we jumped on our kick scooters for a fifteen-mile cruise to the next transition area just outside the town of Sedro Woolley. We were over thirty hours into the race at this point so we decided to grab an hour of shuteye. I knew full well from past experience that I had to go well into the second night before I was exhausted enough to sleep but I gave it a shot. Star and I both lay there counting sheep while Bill and Jay nodded off. I also started feeling the effects of the sniffles and scratchy throat I had developed not long after arriving in the Pacific Northwest. Cold and wet conditions, combined with the stresses of my first expedition race were starting to take their toll on my immune system. I knew that my body would start to revolt. The only question was when.
The next leg was called a “ride and tie” section. The name comes from a western sporting event where a team of two would share the same horse over a specified distance. One would run while the other rode and the rider would “tie” off the horse at a certain point and begin running while the runner would get to the horse and begin riding. Just replace the horse with a bike and you get the idea. However, instead of riding to a point and leaving the bike we decided to use bungee systems where the rider pulled the runner behind the bike. About two-thirds of the way through the eleven-mile section Bill came up with an even better idea. Since our other two bikes were sitting at the next checkpoint, and the “100 yard” rule was not in effect for this section, we could send the two bikes we had to the CP and one rider could return with a helmet and one of the other bikes riding along his side since the trails were nicely groomed and flat. Too bad we didn’t think of that in the first place.
Darkness hit as we picked up our remaining bikes at the CP and started making our way up into the Mt. Baker National Forest. Originally, we had planned on being on our own without any support for up to forty eight hours on this leg of the race since we had a long bike ride, a mountaineering section on the glacier section of Mt. Baker, another bike ride and then a long trek around Baker Lake to the next transition area. However, the race officials cancelled the mountaineering section because of the copious amounts of snow that fell in the area in the weeks past. Lots of folks were disappointed because this section would have definitely had a high “cool factor”, but the thought of all the clothes, equipment and food needed for such an epic race leg kept my disappointment to a minimum. What was left was definitely no walk in the park though, as we soon found out.
As we made our way up the winding gravel road both Star and I started to fight the sleep monsters and told Bill and Jay that we wouldn’t last much longer without an hour or so of zees. We soon found a side road with a grass patch that would serve as our makeshift beds for our short visit with the Sandman. Now, every adventure race of any decent length has an emergency blanket as required gear. I personally own about five of them but have never even taken one out of the wrapper before. For those of you that don’t know what an emergency blanket is just picture a door-sized piece of aluminum foil. That’s pretty much it. The concept is that it helps retain your body heat by reflecting it back at you. Given the length and severity of this race we decided to go for the more effective emergency bags rather than the blankets. Essentially, take an emergency blanket, fold it over and seal the sides and, voila, you have an emergency bag. We donned all the clothes we had with us and stepped into our bags trying to seal up the tops as much as possible as we lay on the cold, damp ground making us look more like hot dogs in the wrapper than adventure racers. We soon learned that emergency bags aren’t as effective when condensation starts to form on the inside of them from sweat, wet clothes and the overall humidity. It didn’t take long for Star and I, the smallest ones on the team, to start shivering in the cold night air. We ended up staying there for over two hours but Star and I both couldn’t have gotten over an hour of sleep. It would just have to be good enough since there was still a lot of racing to do.
I had started to feel a fever coming on right after the ride and tie section but it wasn’t too bad and was more annoying than anything. As we continued on the gravel roads up into the forest the fever increased in ferocity and the dry throat, sinus pressure and cold sweats started to pick up in earnest. A two-hour navigation bobble didn’t help matters. After correcting our mistake we started the steep uphill grind to the Three Lakes area just south of Mt. Baker. This steep trail would be a bear to do on foot but add a bike to the mix and it was insane. The trail was essentially an endless series of washed-out gullies with short gravel sections in between. There was no reason to get on your bike on the gravel because you might get two or three pedal strokes in before having to crawl down and then back out of another horrid gully. As the sun began to rise so did my temperature so I plodded along as best I could and prayed to the adventure racing gods for some help.
Although we had gotten away from most of the gullies by increasing our elevation it was still too steep and rocky to ride so the drudgery of hike-a-bike continued until we hit the CP at well over four thousand feet above sea level. CP 16, our next objective, was to our east and didn’t seem too far off when looking at the map but we had quickly noticed when laying out this section that there was no good way to get off the east side of the mountain. No roads, no trails, just steep, steep nastiness. We had planned on backtracking and staying on the roads in order to take the long way home but we hadn’t seen any teams coming back down the mountain while we made our way up it and the checkpoint official informed us that the trail down the east side of the mountain was flagged for a little while and then we could just follow the makeshift trail blazed by all of the other teams that preceded us. Sounded simple enough so we went for it.
It didn’t take long to find out that the official was either insane or a complete sadist as we bike-whacked our way down the side of an impossibly steep ridge by hanging on to vegetation with one hand and our bikes with the other while butt-sliding on the dirt and biomass beneath us. The heat of the day was on us and my water bladder was emptying quickly as I tried to stave off the effects of my fever. We soon caught up with several teams gingerly making their way down a thin creek bed filled with multi-sized boulders, one of which didn’t take kindly to my bike shoe being on top of it. The tree branch I was holding on to was not enough to prevent me from falling as my right foot jammed itself in between two large cobbles, dislodging them in the process. Luckily, they deflected away from the racers below me but my foot was anything but lucky. At least the intense pain below my ankle got my mind off the fever, sore throat and increasing dehydration I was battling.
The other teams continued down the twenty-five hundred feet of misery trying to follow the swath that previous teams had made. After doing some triangulation off of the impressive peaks to our east we determined that we were too far south to hit the jeep road that would take us out of this hell and on to the next checkpoint. We corrected our route to the north and quickly encountered some of the steepest and thickest terrain I’ve ever seen in an adventure race. Bill and Jay did their best to break trail while Star and I lagged behind. Our small statures meant that carrying a bike through this jungle full of vegetation and enormous downed trees was a gargantuan task. Lack of sleep, dehydration, fever and a busted foot didn’t help matters much. After a couple more hours of bike-whacking and lots of cursing Jay announced that he had found the overgrown old road bed just to the south of our forest road destination. It was quite a treat as we refilled our water bladders in the creek, downed some food and began to actually “ride” our bikes again. Amazingly, they still worked.
Clear blue skies were above us as we joyously pedaled our way, first on gravel then on pavement, to the northern end of Baker Lake and CP 16. As we dropped our bike gear and prepared for the sixteen-mile trek to the next transition area the checkpoint officials informed us that we were in the top thirty. We found out later that most teams never found the jeep road on the bike-whack section and ended up fording the large creek at the bottom of the canyon and making their way back up the adjacent ridge to find the gravel road on the other side. We thought we had it bad, but those guys really had a rough go of it.
The sun was starting to set as we walked across the swing bridge spanning the swollen Baker River and proceeded along the trail that skirted the east bank of Baker Lake. The lake was immense and eerily beautiful with its cloudy aquamarine hue due to the glacial milk that flowed from Mt. Baker towering above it. The trail took us through incredible stands of old growth timber broken up by a variety of creek crossings and waterfalls. A couple of the larger creek crossings involved walking across downed trees, one of which was a good thirty or forty feet in length and ten feet or so above the ground. Although incredibly cool it was also incredibly dangerous considering our rundown condition. As the darkness set in and the miles started to pile up behind us the sleep monsters started to visit once again and the throbbing of my big toe was the only thing keeping me awake. Jay, Bill and Star weren’t fairing much better either nor were the other teams that we encountered along the trail. It was starting to resemble a zombie march and we periodically took ten-minute catnaps to get us through a few more miles.
We weren’t given any trail maps for this section and had to rely on the incomplete 1:40,000 topo map for guidance. Only parts of the trail were on the map and the inability to see the surrounding features in the dark, combined with our sleep-deprived state and increasing paranoia made it very difficult to determine where in the heck we were. Part of our paranoia was due to the fact that there was a 6:00AM cutoff on Wednesday morning that would determine whether teams would continue on the full course or be put on the short course. We had plenty of time to make the cutoff when we started on the trail but underestimated how long of a haul it would be. As 1:00AM and then 2:00AM starting rolling by, combined with the fact that we weren’t very confident about our location, we became a bit nervous to say the least. Jay, our lead navigator, was really battling the sleep monsters and readily gave up the maps to me hoping that I had a few more brain cells to burn. My stomach was in knots as I tried to correlate the map to our surrounding features. I also spent an inordinate amount of time standing on the shoreline trying to make sense of the shadowy peaks on the other side of the lake. We continued on the trail as it started heading too far to the east for my liking and I feared that we would skirt right by the road that would lead us to the TA. I never felt more relieved in my life as the trail opened up into a gravel road that led us south to our desired pavement. We giddily hiked across the Upper Baker dam and made our way to the campground that served as the transition area. Although it was 3:30 in the morning when we arrived it was incredibly quiet and desolate for an adventure race transition area. After checking in we were pulled away from the race tent by one of the officials who told us why the TA had become a ghost town.
Part III: Nigel Aylott (1966-2004)
“We’ve had a death on the course” were the words that came from the race official’s mouth. We had just slugged our way through a thirty-plus hour section of some of the toughest adventure racing I had ever done, battling fever, sleep deprivation, dehydration and injuries and still making a tight cutoff. But all that was meaningless now. Someone was dead, not injured, but dead. We weren’t given any information beyond that relating to the death. No who, when or how, just that the race course was closed and we should get some food and sleep and wait for more information later on in the day. Bryan and Robin, our incredible support crew, had heard that it was someone from the top teams and it had happened on the orienteering section that lay ahead of us, but it was all still rumor and innuendo at that point.
The throbbing of my big toe brought me out of my state of shock and I made my way to the medical tent to open the messy present otherwise known as my right foot. When I had changed my shoes at the previous checkpoint before the hike I couldn’t help but notice the deep red stains all over my sock, but I took the “ignorance is bliss” approach and just squeezed my trail shoes on over the swollen mess without assessing the damage. I immediately drew the attention of the rest of the med staff as I took off my shoe and sock to reveal a big piggy that looked like it had been stuffed and roasted over the pit for a day. The hemorrhaging had spread to most of the front of my foot and my big toe was covered in blood blisters needing to be drained. Camera flashes went off and compliments for having the worst feet yet were given. At least I had something to be proud of.
After several hours of sleep in the RV we drove to a campground in the town of Rockport on the north side of the Skagit River. This campground was originally slated to be TA6 but was quickly transformed into the temporary race headquarters as it filled up with RVs, racers, race officials and the media. It was there that we were told that the victim was Nigel Aylott, an experienced Australian racer on Team AROC, the same Team AROC that had surprised everyone by finishing second at the 2003 Subaru Primal Quest. AROC and Team Montrail had shared the lead for much of the race and were cruising through the orienteering section on foot when a fateful decision was made by Nigel to take a short cut down a precarious ravine. Nigel and the rest of Team AROC led the charge down the slope while Montrail followed. John Jacoby, a fellow Australian on Team Montrail, was clawing his way down the ravine with his teammates when his right hand slipped shifting all of his body weight to the large, and what he thought would be stable, boulder that supported his left hand. His teammates yelled “ROCK!” as the truck tire size boulder broke loose, rolling over John’s leg in the process, making its way down the slope with several of its brethren. The rocks narrowly missed the three members of AROC that were in sight but when they petitioned for a response from Nigel, who was breaking trail farther down the slope at the time, they got silence.
Racers, support crews and race officials stood along the banks of the Skagit River on Wednesday morning and tossed roses into the swollen river to commemorate Nigel’s passing. While everyone relaxed and traded war stories, the race officials took comments from the team captains and the members of teams AROC and Montrail and mulled over the factors involved in order to make a decision regarding the future of the race. The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers cooking on the grill began permeating the air as a barbeque in Nigel’s honor was underway. As adventure racers we know the inherent dangers of our sport and we also know that Nigel went out of this world doing what he loved. Aussies celebrate things with a barbeque and we were going to celebrate Nigel’s life with one. We were convinced that it was the way he would have wanted it. That’s what I would have wanted.
Dan Barger, the race director, called for a meeting that would serve as a memorial for Nigel and also the announcement of their decision on the fate of the 2004 Primal Quest. Hundreds of people gathered on the campground commons as Dan and some of the other officials, all looking quite solemn and haggard at best, talked about Nigel and what he meant to the adventure racing community. This was followed by a tribute to Nigel from his fellow Aussies and some Kiwis thrown in for good measure. They had modified the lyrics to “Land Down Under” by Men At Work and were accompanied by a lone acoustic guitar as they giggled their way through the comically altered song. I don’t know if it was the realization of what had occurred or the exhaustion and stress coming to a head or some combination thereof, but I had to fight back the tears and control the enormous lump in my throat that had begun to develop. Hoops and hollers followed the joyous memorial as Dan Barger took the microphone to announce our fate.
The race would continue early the next morning with teams staggered in waves based on their relative positions at the time of the accident. We were all starting from scratch for the most part and a large portion of the race course had been cut off. We would start a little over four hours after the front-runners allowing us a little more sleep, which was fine with me, as we showered up, stuffed our faces and got our gear together before hitting the sack. Having a barbeque, showering, and getting a good night sleep is definitely not the status quo in expedition adventure racing but this race had quickly taken on a surreal nature that is hard to put into words.
Part IV: Race #2
It was not easy waking up early the next morning. Three days of hard racing followed by a day off puts your mind and body into recovery mode and it was definitely tough to get the motor running again. The dark, cold and rainy conditions, combined with a pack stuffed full of food, trekking gear and climbing equipment, made it that much harder to get motivated. But it didn’t take long to get the adrenaline pumping again as we headed out of the TA and quickly joined another team in a pace line flying along the relatively flat paved road leading south along the Sauk River. The first half of our forty plus miles of biking was on nicely paved roads, but it soon turned to gravel forest roads and more undulating terrain as we worked our way around the southern edge of the imposing mountains to our west. Our ride was periodically interrupted by fallen trees and completely washed out roads requiring us to skirt along the treacherously unstable path that remained.
The sun had come out and the rains ceased as we dropped our bike stuff at a trail parking lot along the Stillaguamish River and quickly transitioned to our trekking gear. With heavy packs and wet gear we began the more than two-thousand foot climb, first on a jeep road and then on trail, to the next checkpoint at Independence Lake, a beautiful mountain lake like sitting in a box canyon surrounded by a multitude of peaks. This checkpoint was a no-brainer but getting to CP30 would be a different story. The direct route would take us cross-country up and over ominous peaks and craggy ridgelines. The indirect route meant going back down the way we came and skirting around the peaks on mostly roads and trails. This seemed to be the obvious choice to Jay and me as we laid out our routes the day before. We were extremely happy to have 1:24,000 maps for this section of the course since they were much more detailed, but more importantly, that’s what we were used to dealing with. Because of our glee we totally ignored the 1:40,000 scale map when determining our route choices. This oversight almost cost us our goal of finishing the race as a ranked team.
We passed a couple of well-respected teams as they came back down the road on our way up to Independence Lake, but the majority of teams had obviously chosen the cross-country route to CP30. As we double-timed it back down the mountain a team on their way up to the lake confronted us. “Are you guys taking the road?” We responded with a confident “Yep.” “How are you getting around the No Travel Zone?” We gave each other inquisitive looks as we peered at the 1:40,000 map held by the other team’s navigator and quickly noticed that the border of the wilderness area we had planned on prancing right through was highlighted and the words, “No Travel Zone”, were typed over it in a large bold font. The penalty for going in a “No Travel Zone” was disqualification and the fact that we had a GPS unit on us meant that the eye in the sky would be watching. In our shock we failed to get the team name or number of our saviors but if you guys happen to read this then we owe you a beer or two for sure.
We had already come quite a way down the mountain by then so we decided to stick with our original plan despite the added inconvenience of having to bushwhack our way around the wilderness area. Once back to where we had started the trek we continued west and then north again on a gravel forest road that took us back up the other side of the mountains we had climbed just hours before. Our plan was to skirt along the edge of the rectangular wilderness boundary by following a contour interval along the ridgeline and then heading north straight up the fall line to an elevation comfortably above the boundary followed by a westward march back down to the road we had started on. Paranoid with the thought of disqualification I insisted on heading farther east then necessary which made me feel better at the time but ended up costing us time and, even worse, daylight as the sun began to set once again.
We had safely made our way to the ridgeline spur that would take us back to the road but our toughest task was ahead of us as we began our descent in the rapidly decreasing daylight. Bill broke trail on the steep, slippery and highly vegetated slope, while the rest of us tried to keep a good distance from each other so that our inevitable slides down the mountain didn’t take anyone else out in the process. The varied flora provided the only handholds as we blindly slithered down the steep drop-offs, hoping that there was a place to stand somewhere in our future. We didn’t discriminate when choosing vegetation to hold on to. If it looked stable then we grabbed it. It’s now nearly two weeks after the race and I’m still pulling thorns and barbs out of my skin as my body slowly works them through the epidermal layers on their way to the awaiting pair of tweezers. Even the relatively flatter areas were so thick with vegetation that every step was a mystery.
Still trying to avoid the wilderness boundary to our south we purposely erred to the north with our compass bearing. Unfortunately, as we got closer to our desired elevation, the number and intensity of the swollen creek beds increased and we were soon surrounded by raging torrents. The only way out was to head back up the ridge where the creeks could be crossed without as much difficulty or cross one of the creeks and claw our way up the nearly vertical wall of dirt on the other side. Tired and frustrated, Jay found a way across the creek and bulled his way up the embankment as we watched his headlamp continue to climb slowly up the slope. Bill, Star and I eventually followed our obsessed teammate clawing our way up above the creek bed to safer ground. Out of water and exhausted we contemplated bivying up for a couple of hours although we knew from our elevation readings that we were painfully close to the road we desperately sought. We decided to push on and not much farther down the ridge we happily dropped our packs to fill up our water bladders as our feet hit the flat ground on the overgrown roadbed.
CP30 was just several miles up the road, most of it downhill, and we were inspired by our tenacious effort and looking forward to hitting the upcoming ropes section. My delight left my body quickly and my legs literally buckled as I hit the ground with my hands clenched together over my head. My teammates stared at me quizzically as I could barely utter the words, “I lost my climbing helmet.” I had lashed my climbing helmet on to the back of my pack under the mesh and lashing cords meant for such a task. I had also binered the helmet straps to the side of my pack just in case it had made its way out of its home. My anal retentiveness usually meant that I placed the helmet in my pack to avoid such a catastrophe, but the bloated contents of my Salomon Raid Race forced my hand. How the helmet performed its Houdini act is still a mystery to me but our trip down the ridgeline from hell probably had something to do with it. Our torn clothes and skin were a testament to that.
I fully expected my teammates to be as devastated as I was and I anticipated a flurry of expletives cast in my direction for my blunder that could have cost us greatly. No helmet equals no ropes section equals huge penalties if not disqualification. “We’ll figure something out,” was their calming response. I kicked myself literally and figuratively as we hiked up the roadbed toward the checkpoint. Although Jay, being the lead navigator, had handled the maps for most of the race, I had made a mental picture of each section as I helped him prepare for each leg. Mentally analyzing the situation I came up with a plan that would save me from my personal hell. I have a healthy respect for everything in this world but there are very few things that I fear. Letting down my teammates is probably the greatest fear of all to me.
The original race plan was for teams to work their way up to the base of the imposing Exfoliation Dome and ascend up the rock face to the peaks above and then work along the top of the razorback ridge before rappelling down the east side of the crest to CP31. At that point they would bushwhack to the north to get back to the road they had started on taking them to the next transition area in Darrington. My plan was to check in at CP30 and then run up the road to head off teams coming off of the ropes section and back to the road a few miles north of the checkpoint. Being pitch black out we could spot the headlights coming in our direction and figure out exactly where they were exiting the woods. The butterflies in my stomach subsided a bit as I hashed out the plan with my teammates.
I anxiously awaited the sight of the checkpoint and we soon saw the flickering of headlamps up the road. Our joy was short-lived though as we heard the banging sound of cobbles being stirred up in the creek beside us. We turned our headlamps toward the commotion but couldn’t make anything out. Our brains were synched as we contemplated the reasoning behind having bear spray as part of our mandatory gear. Our legs were also in synch as we ran like scared children down the road yelling back in the direction of the clatter to warn the perceived mammal of our presence. Turns out that it was probably the sight of a gurgling spring or something of that ilk as teams after us reported the same sounds in the same spot. I have to admit that the pucker factor was high there for a minute.
When checking in at CP30 we were informed that the climbing route would not go over the top of Exfoliation Dome and we would simply come back down the same way we went up. That meant that this location would serve as both CP30 and CP31. As the race official finished his speech, Team Reebok Adventure from Sweden walked towards us after having finished the ropes section. I asked their team captain if I could lighten his load by taking the climbing helmet off his hands. After confirming the legality of the exchange with the race official he happily handed over his brain bucket to me with my promises of a safe return later on and a stream of thank yous. I could finally relax. We were also comforted by the fact that we had maintained our position in the standings for the most part. The northern cross-country route proved to be as harrowing as our journey around the wilderness area with multitudes of teams getting cliffed out and stories of people hanging from trees and being rescued by helicopters. Once again, we thought we had it bad.
The plan was for teams to hit the ropes section after a good six or seven days of continuous racing, separating them greatly in the process. With the restart just twenty-four hours before, this plan did not come to fruition and a logjam ensued. Teams were backed up all over the mountain and we were lucky in that they let us shack up at the base rather than joining some of the more unfortunate teams that tried to catch some zees on the exposed rock face above. Although shivering once again in our emergency bags we each got a few hours of much needed sleep before being awakened by the race official informing us that we were next in line. We donned our harnesses and sorted out our climbing gear as the first signs of light began to appear above the surrounding peaks.
The first twelve hundred feet of climbing was a painstaking series of short rope sections connected together at fixed points and taking us over varied terrain. Using an ascender along with a carabiner as a backup we slowly made our way up the cracked granite terrace until we hit the base of the imposing granite dome. With little vegetation around us we had a panoramic view of the craggy peaks and glaciers to our west as the sun began to rise above them. We felt reenergized as we ascended up the eight hundred feet of sheer rock wall to a ledge near the top where we reconfigured our systems for the rappel back down the wall. It was at that time that Jay and I heard the voice on the rope staffer’s radio saying, “A team just came in with a Petzl Meteor helmet with a Team 36 sticker on the side.” The race official at the bottom of the mountain informed him that Team 36 was already on the ropes section. The immediate reply was, “What has he got on his head, a two-by-four?” He was put at ease as the race official informed him of the earlier helmet swap. We got a good laugh out of it as we contemplated how the heck another team happened to come down the exact same path that we had taken earlier and amazingly came across my helmet that could have careened anywhere on that hellish slope. It’s kind of like the dog that finds its way home from three states away. My helmet has a name now: Lucky.
After rappelling back off the big wall we once again made our way through the maze of ropes feeding back down the terraced granite. We had used an ascender and a carabiner on the way up and made quick work of it, but the descent required the use of a Prusik loop around the safety ropes. A Prusik is a loop of rope that is fed around the safety rope and then through itself several times over creating a locking effect on itself when pulled tight. Attached to your harness it will keep you from free falling down the mountain if you happen to slip. Although I was quite proficient in tying Prusik loops before the race I felt like entering the Prusik tying world championships afterwards. We must have tied hundreds of Prusik loops as we snaked our way down the mountain one rope at a time. Overall, the ropes section, counting the multiple delays caused by less efficient teams ahead of us, took nearly seven hours to complete. That, combined with the five-hour delay at the bottom, added up to over a half a day of racing, if you can call it racing. This would not have been such a big deal if it were not for the dark zone that was being imposed at 4:00PM for the river paddling section that lay just a few tantalizing checkpoints away.
After a quick check of the maps we determined that there was no chance of making the dark zone cutoff so we started the long hike to the next transition area without much urgency in our steps. We played games and enjoyed the warm sunshine as our trekking poles rhythmically clacked against the gravel road taking us to the town of Darrington. We had passed through this small lumber town early the previous morning but the darkness and early morning fog prevented us from appreciating the sheer beauty of this place lying in a small valley surrounded by incredible mountains, many of them snow-capped even in the heat of summer. The support crews also felt inspired as they had used the transition area campground for a makeshift support crew Olympics in order to relieve the frustrations and boredom that comes with day after day of trying to turn an RV into a home and locker room and then tearing it down again in order to move to the next TA.
After reenergizing with food, drinks and some TLC for my toe from the med staff we mounted our bikes for the ride back to the town of Rockport were we had restarted the race a day and a half before. As with any adventure race it could not be this simple though as we began the long, steep climb up North Mountain to the lone checkpoint between Darrington and Rockport. The first half of the trip to Texas Pond was arduous but the views of the surrounding peaks were spectacular and we weren’t in much of a hurry either. Once at elevation it was a relatively flat ride to the checkpoint. On the way there we had run into Team Vasque, consisting of two younger guys and two, let’s call them “seasoned”, women. The ladies were from LA and had raced in the first two Primal Quests and their attitude and fitness level were inspiring to say the least. Their advice was also quite inspiring as they informed us of the inside scoop they had gotten on a shortcut off the mountain. Our faith in their advice paid off as we zipped down the jeep road taking us straight to the paved road in the valley below. The four of us got into a pace line and pounded out the road miles to the campground in Rockport as darkness settled in on one more day of racing.
Part V: Race #3
Dark zones are put into effect for safety reasons. Originally, the Skagit River paddling section was considered a “gray” zone. Essentially, if the river was raging then it would be a dark zone. If it wasn’t then there would be no dark zone and we could hit the water day or night. The excessive rains before the race had bloated the Skagit and the race officials were even talking about canceling this section if the rains continued. Luckily, the rains had subsided during the race and the river current had slowed to a scant nine miles per hour. Apparently, it was almost double that seven days before. Nine miles an hour is still nothing to sneeze at, especially with the amount of timber that constantly floated down the river and stacked up like Lincoln Logs forming death traps for the unlucky kayakers caught in their web.
We cleaned up, ate and got our kayaking gear together for the next day. We would be staggered every two minutes depending on our position entering the TA which put our start time around 6:40 the next morning. Once again we were going to have a good night sleep. This race was surreal indeed. Before shacking up in the RV I had a chance to visit with my buddies over in the Fortitude quarters. Bryan and his troop were over an hour ahead of us on the ropes section and I thought that they would have had a chance at beating the dark zone that afternoon. Turns out that not only had they beaten the dark zone cutoff but they did so after being delayed unnecessarily at the ropes. Apparently, the ropes staff had screwed up their position in the cue letting two teams that hit the CP after them on the ropes first. This had delayed them something on the order of two hours. They showed true grit though and double-timed it back to the TA after the ropes section and then humped it on the bikes to make it to the water section a little after 3:30. To their dismay, and mine for that matter, instead of getting their paddling gear together they had to serve a one hour drug test waiting period. I’m all for drug testing, but don’t put a mandatory drug test at a TA with a time cutoff. Are you listening SPQ? Luckily, Fortitude was awarded over five hours in bonuses after finishing the race for the screw up on the ropes section bumping them up five spots into the top twenty-five. They deserved it.
No matter how much time you give yourself to get your stuff together it always takes longer than expected as we rushed to pack our boats and get them to the beach for our scheduled launch. The fog was dense as first light hit the valley and we dug our paddles in after a restful night. The current was strong but the river was wide enough so we could avoid the strainers fairly easily, but reading the river was tough as the main channel snaked its way under the higher than normal river level. We figured it would be at least a couple of hours before we hit the first river checkpoint so we were surprised to see all the boats pulled up on the sandbar after only forty five minutes of paddling. At first I thought they were taking a pee break but that hope was dashed as a race official told us to eddy out. Apparently, a team that had spent the night at a checkpoint farther downstream, had to be rescued after “tacoing” their boat on a tree in the river. If you don’t know what “tacoing” is just think about what you would need to do to turn a nice straight boat into a taco. You get the picture.
The race officials were obviously a little gun shy after the death of Nigel, and justifiably so, as they made us sit on the sandbar for three hours until the fog lifted completely off of the river. Although it was illegal to build a fire while on the course the race officials turned a blind eye as we built a bonfire to take the chill off. We stood around the fire and swapped stories about the brutal trekking section just a day earlier. Some brave folks even suggested that we finish the race together as one large flotilla. This was a little idealistic though given the fact that were over fifteen teams in the group and there was still tons of racing left. Logistically it would have been impossible to keep everybody together, but even more important was the fact that this was still a race, despite all of the extraordinary circumstances that had gotten us to this point. I liked the concept since I’m pretty idealistic at times, but my realistic side took over and I sealed my lips. I was joined by just about everybody else in my silence.
There were a few sketchy sections of river with high rapids and plenty of strainers to avoid, but it was pretty uneventful as we pulled away from most of the teams and followed a handful of boats downstream. The views were impressive especially when we spotted a couple of bald eagles, one of which took wing from the riverbank and promptly turned upstream passing within fifteen feet of us. I was definitely ready to get out of the boat after over fifty miles of paddling but I couldn’t imagine how long it would have taken us if the current wasn’t as strong as it was. We pulled out at a boat ramp in the town of Mount Vernon just behind a couple of teams including our buddies from Team Vasque. After quickly putting the portaging wheels on our boats and changing our clothes we started the eleven mile boat portage to Bay View State Park just east of Anacortes. The end was now in sight.
Vasque started out ahead of us and made a wrong turn right off the bat. We owed them after their help on the bike section to Rockport and happily paid back the favor with a shout and our two teams began the long haul dragging our boats behind us. We rigged up a fairly efficient towing system allowing us to jog for periods and then walk when our legs told us that they had enough. The TV helicopters began flying overhead taking shots of the teams making their way up the shoulder of the county highway with their boats in tow. We got quite a few stares from the locals but also quite a bit of encouragement. A local apple farmer stood on the side of the road in front of his house and handed out freshly picked apples to the racers. It was easily one of the best apples I have ever had, not just because it tasted good.
The last leg of the race was a simple twenty three mile ocean paddle from the mainland to Orcas Island with one checkpoint in between. We had heard earlier that teams were being delayed and even pulled from this section due to the fog that had rolled in from the ocean essentially blinding racers but, more importantly, keeping the big boats in the shipping channels from being able to see them. We also had to worry about the tide levels since low tide meant that the boat put-in at Bay View State Park would be a muddy quagmire. Our hard work on the portage section had paid off as we hit the park just after high tide and the fog was holding off for the time being, but we had a little problem to deal with first before heading out. We had made a wrong turn on the mandatory route for the scootering section earlier in the race and were being penalized sixteen minutes for our mistake. This was not a big deal though as we stood in the penalty box, essentially a pop-up tent, and donned our wetsuits and dry tops, making good use of our jail time.
The nearly full moon and clear skies made it a beautiful night for paddling. The race safety boats were tracking us all the way and forcing us to take routes well away from the shipping channels due to the fog that had yet to appear. We could see the boat lights from another team in the distance and closed on them as we approached the last checkpoint before the finish. We had less than an hour of paddling to go and soon had the lights of the Rosario Resort in our sights. Our competitive side got the best of us as we decided to try and catch the team in front of us. It was difficult to gauge our progress in the darkness but we dug in hard and kept a furious pace. Our wetsuits and dry tops had kept us warm and dry for the first part of this leg but they quickly became sweat factories as we pounded out the strokes. About halfway home we started pulling alongside the other team and soon passed them easily on the way to beaching our boat at the finish line. Turns out that the other team was unranked and our effort was for naught, but we didn’t know that at the time and, to be honest, it felt good to let it all hang out at the end.
Part VI: The Finish
The finish was sweet indeed as we were doused with champagne while carrying the American flag across the line. Team Vasque came in about an hour later and were the last team to finish that night as the dense fog followed them all the way to the line. It was early Sunday morning and we secured a hotel room at the resort. Before crashing for the night I went to the med tent to get the blood blisters on my toe drained for one last time and hunted down my buddies from Team Fortitude who had finished less than an hour before us. We secured a couple of beers and sat around the computers at race headquarters exploring the race website with them and Neal Radford, a fellow TrailBlazer. Neal had raced with a Polish team and finished in the top twenty despite the language and cultural barrier. We compared notes on some of the tougher sections of the course viewing the GPS data from the teams as they formed a web of colored lines that could only be described as something reminiscent of the artwork created by a two year old given a box of Crayolas and a clean white wall.
The closing ceremonies had been moved up a day to Monday night due to the shortened course giving us plenty of down time on Sunday and Monday. Unfortunately, an expedition race isn’t over when you cross the finish line. We spent most of Sunday and Monday cleaning out the RV, washing clothes and drying out our gear. Repacking our gear was no picnic either as we disassembled our bikes and tried to remember how in gods name we had shoved all of this stuff into so few pieces of luggage. We had plenty of time to relax and socialize though and we tried to catch up on what had been going on in the real world, the same one that we would soon have to return to. The remaining teams, which had been held up the night before due to the fog, had begun to trickle in on Sunday night and we would make our way down to the beach to welcome each of them home.
We had learned that Team Nike ACG/Balance Bar and Team Seagate, two of the best adventure racing teams in the world, had finished together in the lead thereby splitting the victory and the huge cash prize that went with it. To assure a tie they had switched out paddlers in their boats putting a Nike ACG racer in a Seagate boat and vice versa. They had done this as both a memorial to Nigel and the other members of Teams AROC and Montrail and also as an admission of the fact that these two teams were well on their way to victory before the unfortunate accident. It was inspiring to us amateurs to see the professionals be so altruistic, especially in the biggest race in the world with such a large amount of prize money at stake. This altruism had trickled down to the bottom of the field as the final five teams finished together to a raucous ovation from the large group of racers, staff and media standing on the beach at the resort late that night.
As the fog lifted on Monday morning it revealed another gorgeous day on Orcas. Masses of people made their way down to the beach and leisurely launched the Necky Amaruks into the bay behind the resort to form a flotilla a few hundred yards off shore. The TV helicopter made a pass by the flotilla before heading farther out into the bay and hovering over several kayaks in the distance. The remaining members of Teams AROC and Montrail paddled towards the flotilla and then through it as the other kayakers raised their paddles in salute. This memorial paddle was made even more special by the fact that Nigel’s place in the boat had been taken by his brother who had been flown in from Australia, along with his mother, for the handling of Nigel’s arrangements. It wasn’t a twenty-one gun salute but, for adventure racers at least, it was a suitable tribute.
The closing ceremonies started off with a video tribute to Nigel Aylott and speeches from racers and race officials along with his brother and his mother. The co-winners, Nike ACG/Balance Bar and Seagate, received their awards but quickly turned them over to Nigel’s family. Although we were at a funeral service of sorts the mood was somewhat somber but never gloomy. The room was filled with the type of people that celebrate life rather than mull over death. The celebration continued as teams that finished were called up to the stage in reverse order to receive their finisher medals and a short stint in the spotlight. We were greeted by the ever-present “Go NADS” chant as we made our way on stage as the thirtieth place team out of the fifty seven that had started more than a week before.
After watching some of the videos and slide shows that the media folks had quickly pasted together we walked over to the multi-level decks behind the Rosario Mansion for the closing party. Free food and drinks plus hundreds of expedition adventure racers is a scary combination indeed. It didn’t take long for things to get a little crazy as naked bodies started diving into the mansion pool and the dance floor filled with drunken racers. Unfortunately, or fortunately if you ask my wife, we had to leave before things really got heated up since we wanted to drive the RV to the ferry launch and get in line for the first ferry back to the mainland. We had rescheduled our flights for early Tuesday afternoon and had to catch the first ferry in order to get back to Seattle in time. Plenty of other folks had the same idea as the line of vehicles stretched as far as the eye could see by the time the loading began the next morning.
There are plenty of things I love about adventure racing. Okay, I admit it, I’m a zealot. One of those things is that an amateur like me can race against the best endurance athletes in the world. Not only that, but these folks are as nice as anyone could imagine. No in-your-face, trash-talking, NBA-like attitudes here. Ian Adamson, arguably the best adventure racer in the world and captain of Team Nike ACG/Balance Bar, came up to me as I stood on the ferry deck getting my last eyefuls of the San Juan Islands. We talked about the race and the surreal nature it took on after Nigel’s death. I also thanked him for what he and Nathan Fa’avae, the captain of Team Seagate, did at the finish. It had confirmed my belief that adventure racing is still a grass-roots sport despite the relatively recent influx of money and large sponsorships. How long that will last is anybody’s guess but I’ve got my fingers crossed.