A Beautiful Bad Idea Jacob Hartsoch

A Beautiful Bad Idea Story by Jacob Hartsoch Photos by Matt Seeley

Iwas sprawled out yard-sale style on the Coleman Glacier, high on the slopes of Mt. Baker. One ski was broken. Blood was splattered across the snow. A quick check revealed a perfect circular puncture wound in my thigh from where I’d impaled myself with a broken pole. I was shocked and embarrassed. But mostly, I was crushed. Could I finish what I had started?

The mountains. They always have lessons.

We left the downtown Bellingham waterfront that morning before dawn on our bikes with skis, boots and climbing gear attached. Our goal was this: to travel—unsupported—via human-power from Bellingham Bay to the summit of Mt. Baker and back.

It was a project inspired in part by the original Mount Baker Marathon. In 1911, 19-year old logger Joe Galbraith was whisked out past Deming in a Model T where he hopped out into the darkness and ran to the summit. He returned to Bellingham 12 hours and 28 minutes later. I’d always been unable to wrap my

On the summit

head around the audacity and beauty of that first race. For years I had looked up at the mountain from town and wondered: how fast could you do the whole thing human-powered?

The adventure had all the ingredients I was looking for: close to home and low impact, yet it still felt bold and uncertain. Best of all, it involved moving through the mountains I loved with friends.

Now here we were in the thick of it. 50 miles and almost 11,000 feet of elevation gain were behind us. Then, in the joyous excitement of finally skiing downhill I had gotten reckless and jeopardized it all.

• • • • I grew up in a small Montana town at the base of the Mission mountains, a beautiful untouched place. But the idyllic setting was eclipsed by childhood trauma—physical and sexual abuse —and one of my strongest early memories is of the town prosecutor pulling me into an empty courtroom to practice testifying against the abuser. It was overwhelming. My mom, seeing how I was suffering, marched us out of there with her head held high. There would be no trial. We didn’t really talk about it much after that.

Later that winter things started to turn around for me. We didn’t have a lot, but my mom wrangled a few friends to teach me how to ski. I followed them everywhere that season, often out of control. I loved it. The next winter I shoveled sidewalks after school to fund a season pass. One day, when conditions were right, my mentor took me under the rope and we skied an out-of-bounds line that I had eyed on nearly every ride up the

chairlift. On the traverse back out I felt something new stirring within: confidence. It turns out that you never really lose a day like that. It follows you around for decades, changes your trajectory.

Later I discovered climbing. When I was 14, I stood on top of a peak a few miles out of town and looked out across the Flathead Valley and north to Glacier National Park. I had scrambled up the last pitch alone, breathless, a light wind in my face. That night I slept next to a mountain lake in my bivy. It felt like magic.

I saved up all summer and bought a ragged little climbing rack and rope at an outdoor swap meet at the University of Montana. The college kid who sold me the gear looked worried about the fact that I was just a kid, but I didn’t care. I started getting out in the mountains every chance I got.

• • • • The morning didn’t start well. Fifteen minutes after starting out, I got a flat tire on the outskirts of Bellingham, which I changed by head lamp. After this setback, we settled into the flow of the ride up the Mt. Baker Highway towards Glacier in the cool predawn air, trading leads and drafting in the moonlight. Excitement ran high and our laughter drifted into the darkness.

The light-hearted mood evaporated after we turned off the highway onto the Glacier Creek Road and began climbing towards the Heliotrope Ridge trailhead. The eight miles of cycling uphill with 20 pounds of extra gear were brutal. With the whole climb and ski left ahead, the day began to feel daunting

At the trailhead we stashed the bikes and reconfigured our gear. The mood improved as we jogged up the trail through the woods in morning light. At the Hogsback we transitioned to skis and kept moving as quickly as we could, pausing occasionally to fill our hats with snow in the hot sun. The chemistry of our group was fantastic. We pushed each other but never took things too seriously. Conditions were good, allowing us to skin up the Roman Wall, but we were getting tired. The deep kind. Every kick turn seemed more challenging than the last as we approached the summit. Then there we were, looking out at Glacier Peak and the full sweep of the North Cascades, just a little over eight hours after leaving downtown Bellingham. It felt surreal and we all savored the experience. Here was that magic again.

After a quick lunch break we clicked in to our skis and started ripping turns down the mountain. It felt incredible to be heading down, but the snow was getting progressively softer in the heat of the sun. • • • • The project. It had been nearly ten years on the drawing board. I had always had an excuse. I didn’t have the right partners. I wasn’t fit enough. Conditions weren’t right. Now in my mid-forties, time was slipping away. Then this past spring things began to align just when I needed it most.

It was a polarizing year. I finally started unpacking the trauma I had buried away for half a lifetime. Initially the vulnerability felt awkward, but it began to break things loose. I forged new friendships. I began re-examining my relationship with competition and started just getting out and moving fast in the mountains again. It felt exhilarating and empowering. Through dark times, my spirit stayed anchored to those places, those experiences. Something else was happening too. The painful childhood experiences were slowly filtering out of my body. I felt competent and free out there.

One weekday in May I walked outside with my morning coffee to have a look at the mountain. It was perfectly clear. I called in to work, grabbed my gear, and embarked on a quick spontaneous ski Trading leads at first light on the Mt. Baker Highway

up the Coleman-Deming route. It was quiet and windless on the summit and I had it all to myself. It felt spiritual in a way that I can’t describe, like something deep within was shifting.

A few weeks later the project came together. I had known Matt Seeley for a long time, our friendship sealed while competing headto-head in one of the early winter triathlons in Montana nearly 20 years ago. Neither of us was getting any younger. He was an incredibly accomplished athlete, but his motivation seemed completely internalized, a trait that I admired. The stars aligned.

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Refilling water bottles

brother Lane had a few free days and the forecast was excellent. They headed north to Bellingham with a van full of gear and a head for beautiful bad ideas. When the brothers arrived I halfheartedly suggested that we could just do a regular ski of Baker instead of the ambitious human-powered plan, but they were having none of it. We got to work and

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spent the evening in a strange revelry of attaching gear to our bikes, testing it out by riding down the street, then reconfiguring. There were a lot of laughs and a few beers. Then we set the alarm for 3:30 a.m. and tried to sleep. • • • • After clearing the Roman Wall on the way down I felt like I was twelve years old again. I started skiing way too fast for the light gear. My ski tip caught in some soft snow and that was it. Boom. Matt and Lane quickly caught up to the scene. There was a lot of blood but the puncture had missed any major arteries. We applied a compression dressing of gauze and duct tape and decided to work our way down to the trailhead and re-assess. I skied carefully back down to the trail on one good ski. I assumed that the guys would finish without me and I’d get a ride home from the trail head.

I had so much emotional energy wrapped up in this adventure that I was near tears. But when I put on my running shoes, a strange thing Cruising up the Heliotrope Ridge Trail

Making

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04:00 AM: Left the Bellingham waterfront on gravel bikes loaded with skis and climbing gear. 04:15 AM: Stopped to change a flat tire in the dark just outside of town. 07:45 AM: Arrived at the Heliotrope trailhead. The 8 miles up Glacier Creek Road was one of the most challenging stretches of the day. 08:00 AM: After stashing the bikes and reconfiguring gear, we started jogging up the trail. 12:35 PM: Arrived at the summit after skinning up from snowline. 12:50 PM: Started the descent on skis. 01:10 PM: Broke a ski and pole in a strange high-speed crash below the Colfax icefall. 02:30 PM: Arrived back at the trailhead and loaded up bikes. A climber gave us a bag of potato chips. 03:10 PM: Stopped for Coke and ice cream at Graham’s in Glacier and relaxed in the shade. 04:45 PM: The first of many road construction delays where we sat exhausted on the side of the road in the hot sun waiting to be released. 06:03 PM: Arrived back at the waterfront, jumped into Bellingham Bay. A Day to Remember

happened: I could run. The bleeding had slowed and the pain was manageable. I loved m o u n t a i n running so much and banging down the trail with two friends bouncing off rocks with skis on our backs after so much had happened that day felt so ridiculous and simply great. I started to believe again.

At the trail head, we loaded our bikes and started down. It was awkward with the gear weighing down the bikes, but we enjoyed a sweeping descent into Glacier. We stopped at Grahams for ice cream and Coke and sat under a tree. My stomach shut down after the crash and the lack of calories and fluids had caught up with me. I left a few minutes ahead of the guys and had a long talk with myself on the Mt. Baker Highway. I knew I could just coast all the way back to town, but I didn’t want to let the guys down. Though I had done a lot of work trying to identify why I felt such a need to push my limits in the mountains, part of me just really loved effort. Going fast still mattered.

After a few miles the brothers caught up and we started trading pulls again. It was brutally hot and multiple times we were stopped along long lines of cars for road construction. It Transitioning to skis for the summit push

felt like a punch to the gut after the long day, but there was nothing we could do. We got some awfully strange looks standing next to the flaggers with our bikes and gear.

Back at Wayfair Park & just a little bit wrecked

I always envisioned being a hero on this journey, riding strongly all the way back to town. It didn’t work out that way. But my friends carefully nursing me back the last 20 miles really stirred my soul. In the end, we arrived at Wayfair park and jumped in the bay. In total we cycled 90 miles, ran four, and skied nine, with a combined elevation gain of 12,700 feet. The trip took just over 14 hours. My body was destroyed. I sat down on the

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shady side of the Granary building and emptied the contents of my stomach a few times.

We had done it. I was proud of both the effort and the style. The connection I had with my partners and with the mountain that day is something that I won’t forget. That night, after getting my injuries properly cleaned up and absorbing some fluids, I laid down amidst a pile of gear and felt something else: Release. And then, I slept. ANW

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Finding the Flow

Rocky ridge lines of the North Cascades. Photo by Abram Dickerson

Finding the Flow

A Trail Runner’s Journey

Story by Abram Dickerson

What calls? What beckons?

What primeval invitation is answered when the comforts of modernity are exchanged for dirt, rain, and rocks? A better body? A more enviable digital platform? A belt buckle? Bar room bragging rights? For sure each of those things have their appeal: the ego is a force to be reckoned with.

Yet, stripped of pretense, weathered, worn, and removed from the Wi-Fi and screens, all posturing and presumption is rendered moot. In the hills the hurt is real, the miles are long, the climbs are steep, and one’s physio-psycho capacity is the only currency that holds any value. The mountains have long been the inspiration of climbers, hikers, and backpackers. The beauty of the wild has inspired legions of adventurers who’ve turned their passion, creativity, and physical capacity to the remote, the wilderness, and the unknown. Today more runners are taking to the hills, bringing a different style—and new eyes—to what’s possible in the mountains. Cloudscape over Mt. Rainier. Photo by Abram Dickerson

Running is simple and yet, like all arts, its mastery is full of complexity. Running is arguably woven into our human anatomical and evolutionary DNA. For generations, our ancestors used their legs and lungs as transport while hunting, gathering, and commuting across the landscape. Our upright position, large glutes, skin that sweats, and neurological adaptations have all been tied to the act of running. Yet today we hunch over our keyboards, stare into our screens, and slay our dinner as it sits packaged, preserved, and wrapped in plastics on grocery aisles.

To run is to forsake the trappings of modernity, to exchange the comforts of tangible things we buy for the intangible things we earn. For many, running is a sport. It’s measured,

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marked, and defined by distances and time. However, outside of the race, running has other meanings. It is a practice, a discipline, a meditation. It is movement unto itself. It is freedom. To bring that quality of running into the mountains is to return physically and psychologically to a more raw and rhythmic state within nature.

When running in the mountains, the terms are clear: light, fast, and exposed. Conquering them is an illusion, but the journey to the edge of our individual/collective human capacity blurs the line between sport and spirituality.

Initially, the miles are easy and one can move swiftly on wings of anticipation and fresh legs. The trail is familiar and well trodden. However, as the day lengthens, and the miles accumulate, the margins of the familiar are reached and surpassed, giving way to uncertainty. This is the liminal state, the threshold of the senses where we leave determinates behind and embrace the unknown: terrain, weather, how far will our legs carry us? Here the rewards await.

Deep in the wild, every ridge crest, Summit clouds from the top of Church Mountain. Photo by Abram Dickerson

summit, and turn in the trail is a revelation. Running becomes a state of perpetual unfolding, a return to a childlike state where everything is captured in itself. One can remain in that eternal present so long as the intrusion of thought can be resisted.

Listen! In this space one can hear the universe: the sounds of creation unfolding in the cascading streams, the wind moving through forests, and in the echoes of time unraveling. Here we receive both the gifts… and the questions the wild holds for us.

This state of flow, of course, is an ideal. It is the culmination of careful physical preparations embedded in the context of a beautiful trail and is conditional upon preserving a state of mind that lives in the moment. There are plenty of ways for this ideal to go awry, chief among them,

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judgment. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that the run must be about pushing speed or distance. Far too many times I’ve heard runners qualifying their experience with “I only ran for X miles” or “I would have been faster but…”

These self-depreciating qualifications stem from external comparisons that assume a certain distance, speed, or effort is required for a run to “count.” Here the intrusion of our insecurities, our concern for personal presentation in the social milieu, and the skewed expectations that arise from comparing our efforts with others can rob us of our connectivity and the joy of the hills. Sometimes a run is simply hard. When returning to activity from an injury or hiatus, the work of recovering fitness can be punishing. Some days the fatigue, the effort, the climbs, the rain, the loneliness of it all can be overwhelming. Moments when everything hurts. Mt. Shuksan and the Curtis Glacier. Photo by Bacchus Taylor

No worthwhile effort in the mountains is without hardship. Sacrifice and the inevitable questioning of the decision to subject ourselves to the suffering are woven into the calculus of the experience.

Runs in the hills are journeys and each has a story. When we leave the sanctuary of the trails and return to a polarized, commoditized, currencydriven, digital world, we choose how to narrate our experience. We all have an audience. Our family, our friends, our colleagues, and most importantly, ourselves.

When we tell these stories will the emphasis be about how we conquered or cried? Will the story glorify the suffering

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or reflect finding solace in the hurt, beauty, and sublimity of it all? Will the story be defined by statistics or will it describe the process of becoming unburdened, accepted, connected, and embraced by the wild? What attitudes and relationships to the wild will our stories perpetuate?

The mountains don’t care. Compared to our brief visit to this realm, they are eternal. In our lifetimes, we write our narrative on the mountain’s face and project our egos against its rock, all without so much as leaving a scratch. Our footprints evaporate against the geologic rhythm of glaciers dancing with the climatic shifts that carved the valleys and ridges.

What then of our story? What consequences do our travels and travails hold? Herein lies the mystery and the motivation. The mountain is the altar. Our elective and arbitrary objectives are our offering. How will we define these experiences and how will they define us?

The best way to find out is to run. Identify a peak, a ridgeline, a lake, a place

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deep in the hills where the trails are narrow, the views are promising, and the difficulty lies just outside of what’s reasonable. Find the place on the map that calls to your creativity and to your sense of adventure. Hold to the vision, the inspiration, the uncertainty of what lies between here and there and give yourself over to the mystery. ANW

Abram Dickerson loves the mountains. He’s found that running is the easiest way to get into the hills for an adventure while balancing the demands and joys of parenting. As the founder of Aspire Adventure Running, he shares the challenge and beauty of the mountains with runners of all abilities. Check out their trips at www.AspireAdventureRunning.com

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