The Elk Mountain Grand Traverse Backcountry Ski Race
Winter
Training for Grand Traverse Ski Race
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March 28, 2009
Holy cow! This race is tough. It was eye-opening. I liken it
to ultra-marathons, where you see people who you wouldnÕt think could hold a
candle to you in mountain adventures, passing you. This is an event you have to
learn, because pure fitness isnÕt nearly enough to conquer this race. The Grand
Traverse is very serious, very committing and so very different from nearly any
other competition IÕve done.
Homie was the primary motivator to enter this race, though I
had planned to do it the year before with Kirsten. That plan fell through, and
this one almost did at the very last minute due to a behemoth storm I was
greatly unaware of until the day before the race itself. This race, though, is
part of my plan to do each of ColoradoÕs signature outdoor endurance events.
IÕve done adventure races, the Pikes Peak Marathon, and last year I did
Leadville. And, of course, the Rattlesnake Ramble. The logistics of this race
are daunting, at least for your support personnel due to the fact that it is a
6-hour or more drive from Boulder to Crested Butte. Then of course thereÕs the
6-hour drive from Crested Butte to Aspen (you can practically ski there
fasterÉwell, if you are Mike Kloser thatÕs almost true). Plus the final and
relatively short 4-hour drive from Aspen back to Boulder. The race offers you
no return transportation to Crested Butte requiring you to have driver support.
Because of this burden on others, this was a one-and-done event for me.
As it turns out, I vastly under-estimated this race. My
friend Kirsten wondered before the race, ŌIÕll be interested to hear if you
think this race is harder than the Leadville 100.Ķ That statement seemed
ridiculous to me at the time. This race was only 40 miles with only 7000
vertical feet of climbing. But if you compare those numbers with running along
the trails of the Leadville 100, you are in for a big, big surprise. Kirsten
was a professional runner, so obviously very fit and fast, but I didnÕt think
she was an ultra-athlete, despite her doing this race five times. My respect
for her, having already been substantial, is now simply immense.
I decided to run my first marathon so that I could say, ŌA
marathon is no big deal.Ķ I wouldnÕt dare saying that without running one
beforehand. I envisioned the Grand Traverse the same way. But with the marathon
I did a number of races building up to that distance and even got completely
crushed in a 30k where I could barely walk afterwards. Hence, by the time I
toed the line for my marathon I knew I was in for a Ōbig deal.Ķ While I did
some training of up to nearly 20 miles on skis and over 5000 vertical feet, it
was nearly all below tree line and it was all safe and easy. Plus, anyone who
thinks 40 miles on skis is twice as hard as 20 miles doesnÕt know the
mathematics of endurance events. ItÕs four times as hard because:
Perceived
difficulty = (total distance)2
Any intrepid adventurer must have a bad memory so that they
forget the suffering involved and I suspect that will eventually happen to my
view of this race, but as I write this on the day after the event, I could not
imagine doing it again. It is an ultra in every sense of the word and much more
committing than any running event IÕve done. While it is very hard to compare
it to ultra-running since it is so different, this event is considerably harder
than the Lake City 50 and, while much shorter, in some ways compares to
Leadville. It takes much more overall mountaineering knowledge and experience
and much more skill than ultra-running and I suspect that many that who do Leadville
couldnÕt do this event and visa-versa. ItÕs sort of like swimming the English
Channel. Though the Channel has been swum in less than seven hours, if an
endurance athlete that wasnÕt an open water swimmer tried it, theyÕd nearly
zero chance of making it. If you arenÕt an experienced backcountry skier, it
doesnÕt matter what youÕve done endurance wise, you arenÕt finishing the Grand
Traverse. Finally, you canÕt just drop out of this race whenever you want, like
in must ultras.
The race flyer says, Ōbecause of the extraordinary nature of
this event only teams of two will be able to compete.Ķ I thought this was
mainly BS, sort of like the Pikes Peak Marathon calling itself ŌAmericaÕs
Ultimate ChallengeĶ, there is a lot of truth here. Rescue from this race is so
difficult that they clearly state at the pre-race meeting that you will not be
snowmobiled out if you gear is broken. You will not be saved if you are too
cold. With 300 people deep in the backcountry, they couldnÕt rescue very many.
If a major event blew in when many races were over Star Pass, or over Taylor
Pass, it could seriously be a disaster. This has to be a very stressful event
to put on. In order to ease that stress and give racers a chance of surviving
such an event, each team is forced to carry a lot of mandatory gear, including
a sleeping bag, bivy bag, stove, first aid kit, spare binding, repair kit,
spare baskets, etc. I found myself fantasying about doing the race solo,
staring at 6 a.m. without any of the required gear and doing the race entirely
in the daylight with a very light pack. I might be able to pull that off, under ideal snow and weather conditions, but
if I didnÕtÉI could actually die. Seriously, if a storm came in and you had no
form of shelter with you, with no way to make it to any shelterÉ
Despite all the signs that this is not your average event, I
was very relaxed and confident at the start. Part of this was due to no
performance pressure. I did know that to go fast, IÕd have to at least do the
race once and learn its secrets, so I wasnÕt worried about my placement or
time. I still had goals however. They were, in order:
1.
Be a good partner to my great friend Homie
2.
Have fun and enjoy the experience
3.
Finish the race
4.
Break 12 hours
The last one was a ridiculous goal considering how
completely ignorant I knew I was. It was based on KirstenÕs best time of just
over 13 hours and her pumping me up that IÕd be a stronger racer than she was.
IÕll also admit that it came about because of Kirsten building up the race to
be some epic event and my desire to prove it was Ōno big deal.Ķ She was
absolutely right and I was absolutely wrong. But my ego wouldnÕt allow me to
comprehend what was coming.
We almost didnÕt even start this race. My family and I were
returning from an RV trip to the Grand Canyon when the biggest storm of the
year hit the front range. We couldnÕt make it back to Superior, where all my
race gear was located. The Boulder area was pretty much paralyzed with offices
closing at mid-day. Homie and I talked numerous times on the phone and I
decided to stop driving at Edwards, which is just west of Vail. I told Homie it
didnÕt look like the race was going to happen for us. I offered to pay our
entire entry fee since I was the one who couldnÕt get back home. He was having
none of it. We were going to make the start of the race if Homie had to move
the mountains themselves.
He drove to my house and gathered all my gear. His wife Lori
shuttled their two little girls to her parentsÕ house. Then they drove all the
way to Edwards to pick me up. Tired, we decided to spend the night there and
drive to Crested Butte in the morning. Homie did all the driving the next day.
WeÕd made it, all because he wouldnÕt be denied.
The pre-race meeting was held at a hotel at the base of the
ski area. We spent a good portion of the day here, getting our gear organized,
check in for the race, eating the catered lunch, and going through the
mandatory gear check. The pre-race meeting was inspiring and sobering. The race
directors are two women and one got really choked up talking about how this was
the biggest field ever and that it filled in one day. We were told the course
was in great condition, despite getting 30 inches of snow over the past four
days. Homie and I figured that would help us versus the icy/crusty conditions
that are common in the spring. Then we were told,
ŌWe will not rescue because you are cold. We will not rescue
because you are tired. We will not rescue you if your gear breaks. Take care of
yourselves and your partner. DonÕt become separated. If you get too far away
from your partner, youÕll be DQed. DonÕt get too wet with sweat. But on your
shell before you hit the wind. ItÕs going to be in the single digits at the
start. Where your neck gaiter and keep your skin covered.Ķ
We all filed out onto a wide, flat, Nordic trail for the
start. Racers were at least 10 across and Homie and I worked out way up to
about the middle of the field. We were told earlier that day that for the first
time there would be a rolling start behind a snowmobile. This was so that
things remained under control through some barbwire fences. The race director
told us that the snowmobile would be going really slow so that everyone could
jockey for a position before the start. From where I stood the snowmobile appeared
to be going about 15 mph. That isnÕt slow and the field quickly spread out into
a long line. I found out later that they decided against slow start at the last
minute. Within a mile the leaders seemed to be half a mile ahead.
The race started right on time, at midnight. What a bizarre
sight: 300 backcountry skiers, all donned in headlamps, blasting down the
course, poles flying, legs kicking. I was wearing one of PetzlÕs new MYO RXP headlamps
that has regulation. It kept up a constant, very bright light for six hours
before I had to turn it down. This was key in skiing fast down the backside of
Crested Butte and it kept me out of the ŌtunnelĶ that weaker headlamps put you
in.
Our plan for the race was for me to stay behind Homie for
most of the time during the night. IÕm a faster downhill skier so we thought if
I stayed behind Homie on the descent of Crested Butte, weÕd be able to stay
together in the dark. So, as soon as the gun went off, I cruised into the lead.
I know that wasnÕt the plan, butÉwell, you knowÉ I think I might have been
excited.
But I reined it in quickly and we generally skied right next
to each other as we skied around a horseshoe-shaped course in the Nordic park. Someone
stabbed HomieÕs pole or tripped him because he went down. It would be the first
in a long series of falls for Homie. On the drive home later that day, Homie
would guess he hit the ground thirty to fifty times.
The group was spreading out, but we were still following ski
tails. We crossed through the break in the barbwire fence and some skiers
stopped to put on skins. Homie had fish scales and I had extra blue wax and
both were gripping well, so we continued without skins. Soon we were on a
singletrack through the woods and I made sure Homie was in the lead.
Occasionally a team would have trouble with a tricky section and weÕd be
clogged up behind them. I felt like I was hardly working and wanted Homie to
pass, but didnÕt say anything. I knew it wasnÕt going to matter much at this
point in the race.
In a little under an hour we covered the 3.5 miles and
400-500 vertical feet to the base of the Crested Butte ski area. There was a
small crowd here cheering us on. I stopped here to put on my kicker skins while
Homie kept going. I was really quick putting on the skins and soon caught up to
Homie. I felt we were going great and were just going along at a pretty
comfortable pace, but I could already tell that Homie was working harder than I
was.
Homie had put in a Herculean effort to get us to the
starting line, including sacrificing a lot of sleep. He was also a bit sick and
this big effort in frigid weather wasnÕt making him stronger. But Homie never
complains and Homie doesnÕt DNF. Or DNS. IÕve done both and I knew entering
with him would immediately increase my chances of finishing.
Both of our Camelback hoses were frozen solid and we both
stopped to try and clear the hoses. For me this meant putting the entire
bladder down inside my bibs. If IÕm wearing a shell this works fine, as a lot
of heat is trapped inside, but I wasnÕt wearing a shell. If the tube was
exposed at all to the air, it wouldnÕt defrost. I had to make sure it was well
stuffed down into my pants. After 15 minutes or so, I was able to drink again,
but whenever I switched the Camelback to my pack, the hose froze. This happened
to everyone, including the people with fully insulted hoses. It was just too
cold out.
Figure 1: This is most of the race
profile - my watch stopped two hours before the finish. The first bump is
Crested Butte. First, there is the climb to the base of Crested Butte and then
the climb up the ski area. The huge climb is the one up to Star Pass. The Ō1Ķ
marks the Friends Hut. The next major peak is actually higher than Taylor Pass.
The Ō2Ķ marks the Barnard Hut. The Ō3Ķ just marks the top of the worst climb on
Richmond Hill.
I stripped off my skins at the top of the Crested Butte
climb and Homie got out ahead of me. I quickly caught him on the smooth descent
of the backside ski run. I was enjoying zipping down in the dark when I
remembered that Kirsten said it would be hard to regroup at the bottom. I
stopped put my headlamp in flashing mode and looked up the mountain, calling
out, ŌHomie,Ķ to each headlamp coming by. When I regrouped with Homie I told
him IÕd now stay behind him, but he wanted me in front. I used the flashing
headlamp trick to find him a couple more times.
The final steep descent exited the ski area and the snow
changed from a wide, packed trail to just a single set of tracks and powder. I
watched a number of skiers fall in big heaps here, but Homie made it down
standing. I think Homie then took over the lead and we kicked and glided for
the next two miles down the valley. Here it is was really cold, especially
after skiing down the descent without a shell. I had to ball up my hands, even
though I had a chemical heater inside my light, pile gloves. I had a big pair
of Dachstein wool mitts in my pack, but I didnÕt want to use them until
necessary.
After about two hours and eight miles we started up the
10-mile, 3500-foot climb to Star Pass. Most of this climbing was gentle and I
went a mile or so with my kick wax before switching to kicker skins. Our hose
problems continued, but we were drinking and eating. There was one steep
cross-slope section with a really icy step down, but Homie and I negotiated it
quickly. Homie and I got behind a pair of slower skiers who wouldnÕt move over
for us. It was too much effort to go around in the untracked powder, so we just
put up with it. Eventually, though, Homie couldnÕt stand it and zip around in
the powder, with me following. This was an exception. It seemed from here on
out everyone was really good about moving over to let a faster party pass,
including ourselves.
We just kept putting one ski in front of the other,
occasionally stopping briefly for a drink or to get some food or to pee. We
made the FriendÕs Hut station at 5:53 a.m. I never did actually see any hut,
nor did I at the Barnard Hut, but I assume it was nearby. There were some aid
station people out giving out cups of water and I downed a cup. I then headed
for the last section of trees to put on my mittens, my warmer hat, my neck
gaiter, and shell, and my full-length skins. Homie did likewise.
Above us there would be no protection from the wind. Star
Pass loomed very steeply above us. It was still dark, but we could see the
first signs of the approaching dawn. Before starting up the last climb Homie
said to me, ŌIÕm going to be slow. IÕm not feeling very well.Ķ We took it
pretty slow, but it was brutal at any speed. The wind had blown off any snow
that hadnÕt already turned to ice. That meant we were more sidestepping on our
edges than skinning up a steep slope. All the while the wind pounded us. I had
to concentrate hard on my edges so that I wouldnÕt slip down the hill and have
to regain the hard-fought altitude.
After topping the climb there is a high traverse across a
steep bowl to the actual pass. Here was another threesome of volunteers. They
were bundled to the hilt in what looked like Polar expedition suits. They stood
beside a serious Mountain Hardware dome tent. It was light now and I stopped
here to strip off my skins and wait for Homie. Below me was a precipitous drop,
but only for the first fifty vertical feet or so. Then it opened up into a
wonderful powder bowl. It was tracked by the racers before us, but the snow was
nice and made controlling our speed a lot easier.
I took my one and only fall of the race here and it was just
when I was stopping to look up the hill for Homie. I lost my balance and fell
backwards into the powder. Homie would join me in the powder a few times before
we got to the bottom. The other skiers in front of us were falling as well. One
team left behind one of their sleeping pads, probably not realizing it came
loose.
Homie and I skied across a flat meadow and on the other side
we found some race volunteers. They didnÕt have food or water for us, but they
did have a nice fire going. IÕd guess that some racers might be wet and cold
from the wind and falling in the powder, but not us. A few racers were huddled
by the fire and a volunteer asked if we wanted to stop and warm up our skins so
that they would stick better. You see, the glue on the backside of the skins
works best when it is warm. Most racers, ourselves included, would keep their
skins inside their jackets, to keep them warm. I put mine down inside my bibs
(it seems I keep everything in there).
We slapped on our skins on our skis and mine were barely
sticking on the tails. The volunteer asked me again if I wanted to warm them up
for 5 minutes by the fire. I asked Homie how his skins were doing and he
assured me that his were good. The volunteer rubbed my skin vigorously and
pressed it hard against my ski. This was some very nice assistance and I
thanked him for his support.
Figure 2: The blue mark indicates the
Friends Hut. The nasty climb up Star Pass is immediately following, then the
traverse to the actual pass and descent into the basin before starting up
towards Taylor Pass. You can see that the route climbs above Taylor Pass to the
northeast.
Homie and I started the long climb to Taylor Pass. This
climbed was gradual and stayed in the trees for a long time. We stopped a
couple of times for food or to de-frost our drink tubes and Homie even stopped
to pull on heavier gloves. Once we hit treeline, again, I kept thinking the
pass was imminent, but it always seemed to be around one more corner.
We eventually seemed to top out and there before us was a
great semi-flat expanse. I consulted with some other racers and decided to take
off my skins here, thinking I could kick and glide. Homie pulled off his skins
as well. While he had great traction, I did not. I struggled here and should
have put on my kicker skins immediately, but I kept thinking I was going to get
in some gliding. I never did. I herringboned up a couple of the rises and got
very tired doing so. I finally gave in and put on my kicker skins. By then I
was far behind Homie, but caught up quickly.
We still had gained the pass proper but when we did, we were
greeted with gale force winds. Much to our chagrin, the racecourse did not go
down the other side, but climbed the hill to the northeast. Here the winds were
so strong that all loose snow had been ripped away and only bare ice remained.
We both took off our skis for sections here as neither of our skis were getting
enough grip to keep us from being blown down the hill. I could only walk for
20-30 paces before stopping to rest, bracing myself against the raging wind.
At the summit, I didnÕt wait for Homie. I was very cold and
very miserable. Nothing could be accomplished in these conditions. I put my
skis back on and quickly skied down to the next saddle, at the base of another
substantial hill. I stopped here, now out of the worst of the wind, ate, drank,
and put my long skins back on for the climb. Homie joined me and followed suit.
We were pretty wasted at this point and desperately seeking
the solace of the Barnard Hut. It wasnÕt about to arrive quickly, though. We
climbed the big hill and descended again. Then we climbed up the slopes of
McArthur Mountain. A fellow racer told us the Barnard Hut was down beyond the
next rise. I pulled off my skins and rocketed down the slope and as far up the
other side as I could before stopping to re-skin. It seems like I took off my
skins and put them back on countless times. This got to be tiring.
At the top of this next rise, I stripped the skins once
again. From there I was able to ski downhill all the way to the Barnard Hut aid
station. This was the one and only real aid station in the race. You are
required to stay here for at least ten minutes. We stayed fifteen.
I had a couple of cups of Ramen noodles and some water. I
downed my second Ensure. Bob Wade, the owner of the Ute Mountaineer in Aspen
was working the aid station. He was very pleasant and very helpful. Just while
I was there he helped unfreeze at least four drinking tubes, including mine. He
filled my Camelback with hot water. He even waxed my skis with extra blue. He
described the rest of the course: ŌItÕs seven miles to Aspen ski area, but itÕs
a hard seven miles.Ķ He me that the wax would get me there except for one
20-minute climb where IÕd need full length skins. He was right and I followed
his advice.
The next seven miles last a long time, almost three hours,
IÕd guess. Homie wasnÕt very talkative here. WeÕd regroup whenever necessary.
There was one tricky, high-speed descent and then we came to the big climb. The
rest of the way to Aspen was along these snowmobile tracks with bumps or
whoop-dee-doos every few meters. These were very tiring and frustrating. I
passed two or three teams on this section as I skinned up. A couple of teams
were walking. Skinning was faster for me, it seemed.
At the top of the climb I stripped the skins for the last
time and waited for Homie. It wasnÕt the end of the climbing though. It seemed
it would never end and we trudged onwards, over each small climb. Another team told
me that the next climb was the last one where IÕd say, ŌDamn it!Ķ but it
wasnÕt. I herringboned up the one they indicated and there we met a number of
people camped out, cheering us on. One person told us it was a quarter mile to
Aspen, but it turned out being more than a mile still and included probably
three more small climbs.
Finally, we entered the ski area, at the very top of the
mountain, at the gondola. Race officials took our number and congratulated us.
I wasnÕt sure of the way down, but an Aspen Hospitality Skier volunteered to
guide us to the bottom. The easiest way down was a steep intermediate run.
Apparently Aspen doesnÕt have any snowcat trails.
We were quite the spectacle on the way down, with our packs
and our bib numbers. Countless people stopped to congratulate us and were
genuinely in awe of what we had done. Here we were finishing in the bottom half
of the race (top half of the starters) and getting such adulation. It was very
gratifying and surprising. How did all these skiers know what we were doing? I
guess this race gets some press in Aspen.
Homie was hurting a bit and struggled on the downhill ski,
but he had to be as relieved as I was to finally be done with the climbing.
When I entered this 40-mile race, I had naively assumed that it would be at
most 20 miles of climbing and then 20 miles of gliding downhill. Now, nearing
the finish, it felt like the race had 37 miles of climbing and three miles of
gliding. Nevertheless, I fully enjoyed this ski down. I zipped closely behind
my guide, parallel turning in her path and enjoying the nice, smooth snow.
We stopped to regroup four or five times and then Homie and
I skied across the finish line together. Before we had even come to a complete
stop, Sheri ran up to us holding her camera. She had been there since 11 a.m.
and now it was after 3 p.m. yet she was very excited for us. I was so glad to
see her and to finally take off my ski boots.
What a journey this had been, or, as the Grateful Dead said
it, ŌWhat a long, strange trip itÕs been.Ķ
We finished in 15h08m15s and were 66th place out
of 93 finishing teams. Not everyone made it, clearly. HereÕs a trip report about a pair that
didnÕt make it. The full results
are posted on the website. Fifty-three teams DNFed. That makes for a 64%
finishing rate.
The superstars of this event, like Mike Kloser, who won this
year for the fifth time, make the race seem reasonable. Even under the
horrendous wind conditions we had, he and his partner made it to Aspen in 9
hours and 15 minutes. My friend Charlie Nuttleman and his twin brother finished
in under ten hours. These times are deceptive. This wasnÕt their first time
trying this event. It was CharlieÕs sixth attempt, having various disasters in
previous attempts. Once he and his brother got severely hypothermic and race
personnel likely saved their lives. If alone, they might have died. And Charlie
is superhuman. He is one of the uber-athletes of Boulder like Dave Mackey,
Stefan Griebel, and Buzz Burrell. If you want to live, donÕt attempt what these
guys do. At least not without starting small and working up to your limit, will
likely be far, far below what you read about them doing. Before doing this
race, I thought CharlieÕs sub-10-hour goal to be an ambitious mark, but after
finishing the event, I canÕt even understand how he did it. How anyone can move
that fast and that continuously over such challenging terrain in such horrible
wind and stay warm and stay fueled baffles me. Yet, asking Charlie for beta on
how to do this race is like asking Hans Florine for beta on how to climb the
Nose. If I took eitherÕs advice, IÕd die. KirstenÕs advice was much more
relevant to my skill and fitness levels, yet I know now that I am not nearly
her equal at this race.
So much of this report is sprinkled with the phrase ŌI now
knowĶ or ŌnowĶ. Annoyingly repetitive, I know, but this race was eye opening. I
learned how incredibly ignorant I was. I was supremely humbled. I went into
this race wanting to later say Ōno big dealĶ. Now I bow before anyone who has
finished this race and stand in awe of anyone who goes back for more. I once
was blind, but now I seeÉ
Postscript: So, how do I compare this to the Lake
City 50 or to the Leadville 100 or even to climbing Buddha Temple in the Grand
Canyon? ItÕs hard to do, as they are all so different, but they are all
ultra-marathons. Grand Traverse is harder than Lake City, thatÕs for sure. ItÕs
way more adventurous and committing than Leadville, though takes only about
half the time. Yet, it is less adventurous, less committing, and shorter
(time-wise and vertical-wise) than climbing Buddha Temple. It all depends on
your skill set, I think, but IÕll say this. IÕm very proud to have finished
this race in my first try. And IÕm very proud to have partnered with HomieÉ