The Bighorn 100
Endurance.
Something about endurance has always intrigued me.
Whether it be athletes, adventurers, weekend warriors or people making it through everyday life, the pursuit of enduring an unpleasant or difficult process without giving way speaks to me.
Ultra trail races and the preparation for these endurance events, something that started as a curiosity, has evolved into something that I love.
In pursuit of that I now found myself toeing the line at the Bighorn Trail 100 prepared to find a new more.
The canyon was socked in by fog and the full bloom of wildflowers stood out in stark difference to this muted backdrop. With the fog came cooler temps and though I was disappointed by the lack of visibility, bypassing the potential difficulties of oppressive heat in the canyon seemed to be a fair trade off.
Evidence of the thunderstorm that proceed us started to reveal itself. My companion remarked about the “small marbles” on the trail. I laughed and said that was hail. He seemed to be in disbelief. Whether or not he believed me was soon to be a moot point. We would get to experience our own thunder hail storm shortly.
The hail come on quickly, like someone had turned on a faucet, and the unavoidable ice projectiles stung even through a rain jacket. The second downpour was more than the trail could absorb and the conditions deteriorated to a slop. The steep descent to Footbridge was something between skiing and running as the stampede of runners tried to find the correct technique to stay upright, make decent time and avoid their flailing companions.
At race check-in I had introduced myself to a woman from Omaha, Jodi Semonell, who was also running the 100 mile. After exchanging very brief pleasantries, she became serious and asked if I had brought trekking poles. I had not and after relaying this she stated plainly that on a muddy year it would not be possible to finish the race without them. Her advice was stated so matter of fact that I left the registration immediately and purchased a pair for the race.
I now understood why she had made the recommendation. I could not wait to pick up my poles at Footbridge. The ability to shift some of the pressure to stay upright to my upper body would prove to be extremely valuable. I owed her a beer.
The rain accompanied us into the Footbridge aid station and I was grateful for shelter to re-situate myself for the sustained climb up to Jaws. Volunteers warned of the predicted rain and 40 degree temps that awaited us up at higher elevations. Leaving this aid station adequately prepared was extremely important and my Dad took diligent inventory of what went into my pack.
It was now time to climb. The weather cleared briefly in the mid afternoon and early evening revealing the Little Bighorn Canyon. The steep canyon walls were topped by a ceiling of fog and as I grinded up the sustained climb my mind wandered to the possibility of backpacking trip here someday.
At the mile 40 aid station I witnessed the eventual 100-mile race winner, Gabe Joyes, bombing back down to Footbridge. The runners and volunteers lined both sides of the trail urging him on with each of us getting our own adrenaline boost from seeing him race down the canyon.
Shortly after leaving the aid station the rain returned and soon after it nightfall. As I clicked on my headlamp I tried to steer my thoughts away from the night ahead and focused intently on reaching the 48 mile turn around point.
With every approaching headlamp I was anxious to see my good friend, Ty Fluth, making his way back through the canyon. Based on his expected splits I figured I would see him anywhere from 4-6-miles from the turnaround point. When my headlamp revealed his face my stomach dropped. After a brief greeting he peeled off the trail and emptied his stomach confirming my concern. He encouraged me to keep moving and I left with a hope that he would be able to bounce back.
Pushing on through the mud the thought of relief from the rain and cold coupled with a spectator blasting some Led Zeppelin for passing runners was enough to keep me moving at a solid pace to Jaws.
Ducking my head into the Jaws aid station tent was a stark contrast from the past 8-miles. Bright, warm and bustling with activity. I was shepherded by a volunteer to a chair and then someone from the medical team did a quick check-in. From looking around at some of my fellow runners it was clear why this was protocol. Soon after my Dad took a seat next to me and we started the process of getting set for the next 20-miles back to the Footbridge.
Vest fully stocked and belly stuffed with cheese quesadillas I struck back out. The 40 degree temps were shocking after the warmth of the tent but I was motivated to take advantage of the descent to Footbridge and quickly re-acclimated.
Slopping through the bog back down to the Elk Camp aid station my thankfulness for the trekking poles grew. If I had owed Jodi a beer before I now needed to pony up a 12-pack.
Not intending to stay long at all Elk Camp I was caught off guard when I heard my name. Turning towards the fire I saw Tyler. His attempt to bounce back was not going well and after talking with him it seemed unlikely that he was going to be able to continue. I knew how much he had put into training for this race and my foggy brain struggled to find any words to share to truly acknowledge the disappointment and frustration that must have been churning in his head.
The fog grew thicker as I dropped further into the canyon and dropped visibility to what was immediately in front of my face. At one point, frustrated, I turned off my headlamp off to see if I would even miss it.
Click. Pitch black. Click. Press on.
Before Bighorn I had done three 50 mile races with a night start so running through the night was not something I was completely unfamiliar with. That said, as I found myself running alone with little visibility with each step propelling further than I had ever gone before my foggy brain begged for daylight.
Or coffee.
I would have killed for a cup of damn coffee.
Or some company.
The hours spent alone slogging through the mud and fog tested my resolve.
Keep on moving.
In my mind I had imagined and therefore expected that the sunrise during a 100-mile race to be nothing short of an epic jaw dropping spectacle. Instead as the dimmer switch inched towards daylight I felt my mind beginning to re-engage. When I came into Footbridge with 66-miles in my rear view mirror I was locked in.
The Bighorn 100 is not a crew friendly race. Meeting your runner at the major aid-stations requires long drives and when combined with the mud, fog and rain it only stacks on to the already exhausting commitment to your runner. I could see that strain on my Dad’s face when I rolled back into the Footbridge aid station but he made no mention of his fatigue. He again made sure that I had everything I needed before Dry Fork and repaired my busted trekking pole before sending on my way. 44 miles to go.
My focus coming into the Footbridge aid station came from my belief that the climb coming out of the aid station would be crux of my race. As I pushed through the mud and climbed back up from the river I felt strong. Moving upwards relentlessly I felt a surge of confidence that all of my preparation was paying off. If kept to my race plan I could finish my first 100 mile race.
My 3-mile crux climb went by in a blink with the surge of adrenaline. I now settled back in. I focused on keeping a consistent pace. Relentless forward progress. I forced myself to keep on schedule with calories and hydration.
As I closed in on the Dry Fork aid station and the last 18 miles of the race I could not wait to get into a pair of clean socks and fresh shoes. I figured that this was main reason my feet were so uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be until after the race when I would see true reason for this. I spent little time at Dry Fork and set off towards Tongue River Canyon and the final descent into Dayton.
For as good as I felt getting back to Dry Fork, the downhills back to the Tongue River TH were excruciating. My legs were not equipped to handle the unrelenting descent. Combined with my shredded feet I fought to get myself to run 20-30 seconds at a time. Frustratingly slow I hobbled and jogged the best I could down to the final aid station before the Tongue River TH.
Reaching the Tongue River TH meant 6-miles left. All flat. I was extremely excited to see Nicole (Tyler’s wife) and Tom (Tyler’s cousin) waiting to accompany me. They both immediately got to work on keeping me moving and lifting my spirit. At the pace I was moving those last 6-miles could have been a low point without them.
As I approached the finish nearly 31 hours after the start I struggled to hold back tears thinking about the path to get to the start line and the amazing experience and challenge the race had been.
Coming into the finish I received a high five my daughter Sylvie, a big smile from my wife Kelsey and a hearty congrats from Tyler after crossing the finish. Jodi was at the finish and I was able to thank her for the advice that had saved my butt.
My dad, still in crew mode even after the final major aid station, had backtracked to make sure I was doing alright on the last 6-miles and missed the finish. I big slap on the back announced his presence and the smile on his face hid any exhaustion.
Training for a 100-mile race can be a lonely thing. Countless miles repeating the same 4-mile loop at the local ski bump in Sioux Falls or rambling through the Black Elk Wilderness alone. What I experienced at Bighorn was anything but that. The amazing support that I felt from close friends and complete strangers, both near and far, was incredible. This event, which at first seemed to be selfish solo goal, turned into a shared experience with memories that will be reflected on for years to come.
First 100 in the books.
Can’t wait to do it again.
Something about endurance has always intrigued me.
Whether it be athletes, adventurers, weekend warriors or people making it through everyday life, the pursuit of enduring an unpleasant or difficult process without giving way speaks to me.
Ultra trail races and the preparation for these endurance events, something that started as a curiosity, has evolved into something that I love.
“You can’t really tell how much you can do until you try to do something...that’s more.”
In pursuit of that I now found myself toeing the line at the Bighorn Trail 100 prepared to find a new more.
 |
| Scouting hike |
Nervous to over-do the start of my first 100 mile race I positioned myself conservatively at the start line. Once we hit the Tongue River TH I knew that we would spend the next 13 miles climbing to the first major aid station at Dry Fork. Even though I felt my pace was slow I stayed patient and reminded myself I had no idea what would come after mile 50.
 |
| See you in 100-miles |
The canyon was socked in by fog and the full bloom of wildflowers stood out in stark difference to this muted backdrop. With the fog came cooler temps and though I was disappointed by the lack of visibility, bypassing the potential difficulties of oppressive heat in the canyon seemed to be a fair trade off.
 |
| Socked in |
I found myself wishing for solitude on the trail but grateful for the built in governor the congo line provided. As the terrain leveled off towards Dry Fork the field began to spread out. During this stretch I struck up a conversation with a runner from Wisconsin. We chatted back and forth as we approached the aid station and I wished him luck on the rest of the run not knowing we would end up knocking out the run to Footbridge together.
I did not spend much time at the aid station outside of getting my vest stocked by my Dad. He let me know that we were headed right into some afternoon thunderstorms and I struck back out linking up again with my new acquaintance.
Between Dry Fork and Footbridge each runner would make their way through rolling terrain before an abrupt steep drop back down to the river.
My running companion and I kept a solid pace and swapped stories from our runnings pasts. We both had stories about racing in terrible conditions this past April and with the rumble of thunder that we heard ahead it was likely that we would have another tale by the end of this one.
I did not spend much time at the aid station outside of getting my vest stocked by my Dad. He let me know that we were headed right into some afternoon thunderstorms and I struck back out linking up again with my new acquaintance.
Between Dry Fork and Footbridge each runner would make their way through rolling terrain before an abrupt steep drop back down to the river.
My running companion and I kept a solid pace and swapped stories from our runnings pasts. We both had stories about racing in terrible conditions this past April and with the rumble of thunder that we heard ahead it was likely that we would have another tale by the end of this one.
 |
| Storm brewing |
Evidence of the thunderstorm that proceed us started to reveal itself. My companion remarked about the “small marbles” on the trail. I laughed and said that was hail. He seemed to be in disbelief. Whether or not he believed me was soon to be a moot point. We would get to experience our own thunder hail storm shortly.
The hail come on quickly, like someone had turned on a faucet, and the unavoidable ice projectiles stung even through a rain jacket. The second downpour was more than the trail could absorb and the conditions deteriorated to a slop. The steep descent to Footbridge was something between skiing and running as the stampede of runners tried to find the correct technique to stay upright, make decent time and avoid their flailing companions.
At race check-in I had introduced myself to a woman from Omaha, Jodi Semonell, who was also running the 100 mile. After exchanging very brief pleasantries, she became serious and asked if I had brought trekking poles. I had not and after relaying this she stated plainly that on a muddy year it would not be possible to finish the race without them. Her advice was stated so matter of fact that I left the registration immediately and purchased a pair for the race.
I now understood why she had made the recommendation. I could not wait to pick up my poles at Footbridge. The ability to shift some of the pressure to stay upright to my upper body would prove to be extremely valuable. I owed her a beer.
The rain accompanied us into the Footbridge aid station and I was grateful for shelter to re-situate myself for the sustained climb up to Jaws. Volunteers warned of the predicted rain and 40 degree temps that awaited us up at higher elevations. Leaving this aid station adequately prepared was extremely important and my Dad took diligent inventory of what went into my pack.
It was now time to climb. The weather cleared briefly in the mid afternoon and early evening revealing the Little Bighorn Canyon. The steep canyon walls were topped by a ceiling of fog and as I grinded up the sustained climb my mind wandered to the possibility of backpacking trip here someday.
At the mile 40 aid station I witnessed the eventual 100-mile race winner, Gabe Joyes, bombing back down to Footbridge. The runners and volunteers lined both sides of the trail urging him on with each of us getting our own adrenaline boost from seeing him race down the canyon.
Shortly after leaving the aid station the rain returned and soon after it nightfall. As I clicked on my headlamp I tried to steer my thoughts away from the night ahead and focused intently on reaching the 48 mile turn around point.
With every approaching headlamp I was anxious to see my good friend, Ty Fluth, making his way back through the canyon. Based on his expected splits I figured I would see him anywhere from 4-6-miles from the turnaround point. When my headlamp revealed his face my stomach dropped. After a brief greeting he peeled off the trail and emptied his stomach confirming my concern. He encouraged me to keep moving and I left with a hope that he would be able to bounce back.
Pushing on through the mud the thought of relief from the rain and cold coupled with a spectator blasting some Led Zeppelin for passing runners was enough to keep me moving at a solid pace to Jaws.
Ducking my head into the Jaws aid station tent was a stark contrast from the past 8-miles. Bright, warm and bustling with activity. I was shepherded by a volunteer to a chair and then someone from the medical team did a quick check-in. From looking around at some of my fellow runners it was clear why this was protocol. Soon after my Dad took a seat next to me and we started the process of getting set for the next 20-miles back to the Footbridge.
Vest fully stocked and belly stuffed with cheese quesadillas I struck back out. The 40 degree temps were shocking after the warmth of the tent but I was motivated to take advantage of the descent to Footbridge and quickly re-acclimated.
Slopping through the bog back down to the Elk Camp aid station my thankfulness for the trekking poles grew. If I had owed Jodi a beer before I now needed to pony up a 12-pack.
Not intending to stay long at all Elk Camp I was caught off guard when I heard my name. Turning towards the fire I saw Tyler. His attempt to bounce back was not going well and after talking with him it seemed unlikely that he was going to be able to continue. I knew how much he had put into training for this race and my foggy brain struggled to find any words to share to truly acknowledge the disappointment and frustration that must have been churning in his head.
The fog grew thicker as I dropped further into the canyon and dropped visibility to what was immediately in front of my face. At one point, frustrated, I turned off my headlamp off to see if I would even miss it.
Click. Pitch black. Click. Press on.
Before Bighorn I had done three 50 mile races with a night start so running through the night was not something I was completely unfamiliar with. That said, as I found myself running alone with little visibility with each step propelling further than I had ever gone before my foggy brain begged for daylight.
Or coffee.
I would have killed for a cup of damn coffee.
Or some company.
The hours spent alone slogging through the mud and fog tested my resolve.
Keep on moving.
In my mind I had imagined and therefore expected that the sunrise during a 100-mile race to be nothing short of an epic jaw dropping spectacle. Instead as the dimmer switch inched towards daylight I felt my mind beginning to re-engage. When I came into Footbridge with 66-miles in my rear view mirror I was locked in.
The Bighorn 100 is not a crew friendly race. Meeting your runner at the major aid-stations requires long drives and when combined with the mud, fog and rain it only stacks on to the already exhausting commitment to your runner. I could see that strain on my Dad’s face when I rolled back into the Footbridge aid station but he made no mention of his fatigue. He again made sure that I had everything I needed before Dry Fork and repaired my busted trekking pole before sending on my way. 44 miles to go.
My focus coming into the Footbridge aid station came from my belief that the climb coming out of the aid station would be crux of my race. As I pushed through the mud and climbed back up from the river I felt strong. Moving upwards relentlessly I felt a surge of confidence that all of my preparation was paying off. If kept to my race plan I could finish my first 100 mile race.
My 3-mile crux climb went by in a blink with the surge of adrenaline. I now settled back in. I focused on keeping a consistent pace. Relentless forward progress. I forced myself to keep on schedule with calories and hydration.
As I closed in on the Dry Fork aid station and the last 18 miles of the race I could not wait to get into a pair of clean socks and fresh shoes. I figured that this was main reason my feet were so uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be until after the race when I would see true reason for this. I spent little time at Dry Fork and set off towards Tongue River Canyon and the final descent into Dayton.
For as good as I felt getting back to Dry Fork, the downhills back to the Tongue River TH were excruciating. My legs were not equipped to handle the unrelenting descent. Combined with my shredded feet I fought to get myself to run 20-30 seconds at a time. Frustratingly slow I hobbled and jogged the best I could down to the final aid station before the Tongue River TH.
Reaching the Tongue River TH meant 6-miles left. All flat. I was extremely excited to see Nicole (Tyler’s wife) and Tom (Tyler’s cousin) waiting to accompany me. They both immediately got to work on keeping me moving and lifting my spirit. At the pace I was moving those last 6-miles could have been a low point without them.
 |
| Don't look so happy Bryan |
As I approached the finish nearly 31 hours after the start I struggled to hold back tears thinking about the path to get to the start line and the amazing experience and challenge the race had been.
 |
| 100-mile Smile |
 |
| Cheering on Dad |
 |
| The finish |
My dad, still in crew mode even after the final major aid station, had backtracked to make sure I was doing alright on the last 6-miles and missed the finish. I big slap on the back announced his presence and the smile on his face hid any exhaustion.
 |
| Tired guys. |
Training for a 100-mile race can be a lonely thing. Countless miles repeating the same 4-mile loop at the local ski bump in Sioux Falls or rambling through the Black Elk Wilderness alone. What I experienced at Bighorn was anything but that. The amazing support that I felt from close friends and complete strangers, both near and far, was incredible. This event, which at first seemed to be selfish solo goal, turned into a shared experience with memories that will be reflected on for years to come.
 |
| Family at the finish |
First 100 in the books.
Can’t wait to do it again.
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