What I Saw of the Cascade Crest 100-Mile Endurance Run

My daughter is an ultramarathon runner. I cannot begin to explain that to you, but she loves to run a hundred miles on woodland trails, up and down mountains, non-stop. She has now run ten races of a hundred miles or more. Her most recent effort was near to where we live, called the Cascade Crest 100. This was just under two months from her last one, the Badwater 135-miler in Death Valley. She was still a bit battered by that effort, but signed on for this one nevertheless. Part of the attraction for her was an overdue visit to her parents, and for us was the proximity, and a chance to ramble in unseen areas of our beautiful state. And I have not had a chance to crew for her in a race for a couple of years. "Crew" means meeting the runner at designated aid stations, where the trail crosses a road, generally, and providing support. Support consists of verbal encouragement, (no matter how battered and beat she seems) refills of electrolyte drink in camelback packs, changes of socks, exhorting food intake, fluid intake, and providing whatever else the runner needs. All this happens in a two-minute burst, and the runner disappears down the trail again, not to be seen for another 4-6 hours at the next aid station. Then we navigate to the next wilderness outpost, and wait anxiously for the re-emergence of our runner. This race is tough one, with huge climbs up and down in the Cascades, along the Pacific Crest Trail, then a return by a different trail to complete a loop. The elevation gained and lost adds up to 40,000 feet or so. It is mostly single track trail, marked with orange plastic tape and reflectors, but difficult to navigate at night. There are bears, yellow jackets, and hunters to deal with, and of course, just the distance looming ahead. Hannah arrived at our house with a fairly organized plan for this race, which is supported well by the organizers also. They posted a detailed course description, rough maps of the area, and leads to obtaining good topographical maps of the Pacific Crest Trail and surrounding mountains. Hannah brought bags of supplies to be dropped at various aid stations, containing more electrolyte powders, socks, headlamps and spare batteries, gloves, arm and leg warmers, etc. etc. These are given to the organizers before the start, to be distributed around the course at pre-arranged aid stations. We had our briefing on what to do when, and departed for the race start the day before. Easton, Washington is a small town, without hotel or much else in the way of services, so we found a room in Cle Elum, thirteen miles down the expressway. Hannah was having the usual pre-race jitters and sleep issues, so we got her a private room, fortunately, upon arrival at the hotel, and settled in. We met up with one of her early ultrarunning mentors, David Snipes, who paced her through much of her first race, the Grindstone 100, in Virginia, which I also crewed. He and a running buddy were here to run the race, so it was nice to catch up with him over dinner. He has run 40-odd hundreds, 13 in the past year or so, so he is a running machine, with a lot of experience and wisdom to dispense. We retired to our respective rooms, and awoke early for the 10:00AM start of the race. Hannah was pre-hydrating madly, nibbling at easily digestible fruits and such, while we ate our more routine breakfast fare. We drove to the start, gave drop bags to the support volunteers, and milled about, taking picture and renewing acquaintance with some familiar faces from prior races. The volunteers were the local fire/ambulance volunteers, who gave very generously and graciously of their time and firehouse. They really outdid themselves and everyone else in their hospitality and support. There was a pre-race briefing from the Race Director, mostly devoted to extolling the volunteers and prior winners and multi-race finishers. Then the runners lined up behind a big wooden arch, assembled just prior on the site, hugged spouses and supporters, and at 10:00 sharp, the horn was sounded, and off they went in a cloud of dust, along a flat jeep trail and out of sight. We were on our own for 6 hours or so. We stopped into town for a few supplies of our own--folding chairs didn't quite make it into the car, despite several mental notes to do that before we left, so we bought a couple of cheapies. We consulted our maps, and drove up some fairly gnarly Forest Service washboard gravel roads to reach the first crew-accessible aid station. There are actually stations about every 7 miles or so along the way, but many are quite remote, with no parking available, and so crews are not welcome there. This one, Tacoma Pass, at mile 23, was accessible enough, at least to four-wheel drive vehicles with some ground clearance, and had only roadside parking for the 30 or 40 dust-covered cars that converged there, so that a party formed at the crossing, with families camped out in folding chairs with canopies, blankets and picnics on the ground and dogs everywhere, greeting and sniffing and lolling. The first male runner had just run through as we arrived, and the second one not far behind, so we had a bit of a wait for the first females to emerge. We found a spot of shade, and waited, chatting with other support crews. The first female, the winner of last year's race, ran through looking very strong, paused very briefly at the aid station, and was gone. We waited, a bit nervous to see how our girl was doing after the first chunk, and never sure what condition will we see until we see it. After a half hour or so, another two women came up in close order, and let us know that Hannah was not far behind. They departed rapidly after a quick turnaround of water and food, and we waited some more. Finally, Hannah came trotting around the corner into the station, looking a bit grim, but not much the worse for wear. We had prepped her electrolyte drink as instructed, offered supplies out of her kit, and supplied the "dope" on the upcoming leg, gathered from the route description and the aid station volunteers before she arrived. She said she was doing OK, no pain or issues limiting her yet, but did not seem very cheerful or upbeat at that point. We reminded her to drink from her camelback, told her when we would see her next, in the late afternoon, and off she went. We gathered our stuff, collected her drop-bag, and made our way cautiously down the switchback gravel road, pulling off to pause for vehicles ascending the one lane road, and then feeling our way down through the thick roiling dust each passing car left behind. The next aid station we could access was 10 miles down the trail for Hannah, but a fairly short drive for us. We went down to town briefly, got some water and food, and headed back up the dusty washboard road to Stampede Pass. Another party had formed there, and we set up our chairs and hung out with the throng. The first men ran through looking surprisingly well, and after a while, and a steady trickle of males, the first female trotted in. She was the past year's winner, and course record holder, and arrived looking very strong. But she stayed in the aid station for a long time, and then just sat down, and said she was dropping from the race at that point. She said she felt fine, but just wasn't into racing that day, so she opened a beer, saluted the crowd, and visited with friends, awaiting other runners. The next two females came in together, also looking well, and said again that Hannah was close behind, and was doing well. "She is awesome!" is what she actually said. They departed quickly into the fading afternoon light, and sure enough, Hannah trotted in a few minutes later. She looked much less happy than at the first station, but again was all business, shifting hydration bladders, offloading sweat soaked gear, and adding flashlights and batteries for the oncoming night. We gave her the "dope" again, encouraged her as best we could, from our position of no useful experience to compare to hers, and off she went again. We would not see her for 20 miles, and it would be late in the night, at Hyak, mile 53. We drove to Hyak, an exit off the interstate, and found the party again. The volunteers had decorated this aid station in Christmas lights, with a lighted blow-up Santa-Snowman, and elf hats for all. We had a 4 hour wait, so we slept in the truck. I got up after a bit, kept awake by a huge full moon in my face, and wandered out to get set up, thinking I had an hour at least, before Hannah could reach us. I had barely assembled my gear and readied the water bladders and energy bars, when a bobbing headlight came down the road alone, and she trotted in a full half hour ahead of schedule, and in second place among females. Her mom was still asleep in the car. She seemed physically good, but still in an emotionally strange place, remote, not her usual upbeat self. She discovered that the leading woman had just left, and departed after her in a rush. She had forgotten the water bottle she carries, so I woke her mom up, fired up the car, and drove down the road after her, and caught up with her a mile later. She hadn't wanted the bottle, but I was glad to be sure, before she left the stretch of road, and climbed back up into the hills. I bid her good night, and see you in 15 miles. I drove back to collect her mom, our gear, and we departed again for the next stop, Lake Kachess, at mile 68. Here was a more subdued party, clustered around the lights of the aid station like sleepy moths, but at 01:00, only the serious partiers are still in the mood to party. It was cool but not really cold, but it settled in on you when you had nothing to do but sit and wait. The volunteers were very chatty and helpful, and we passed the time cheering the occasional runner who came through and stopped at the station. The captain shared a cup of coffee and a cup of vegan potato leek soup with me as we chatted. The first woman, Missy, came through looking very strong and upbeat. Another woman who had been in 4th place earlier came through, and departed. We were concerned, of course, since we expected Hannah next. She came in in due course, but seemed really tired at this point. She sat and changed some wet, grimy socks, had some of the potato soup, but it was too hot for her, so she had to spit it out. Her camelback bladder was nearly full, so she clearly had not been drinking adequately. She saddled up and went out into the night, but I chased her up the trail a bit, exhorting her to drink, as she was departing from the game plan, and that was not good. She acknowledged my hectoring and promised to hydrate, and hiked off into the night. Now I really was concerned. There is no time in an aid station to really talk and assess what is up, and Hannah was never much of a talker anyway, so we are left reading the tea leaves, and divining what she is feeling. I thought she was at the low point here, but at mile 68 in the middle of the night, that is to be expected. We would not see her for a long time, though, as there was no crew access until mile 96, fully 28 miles away. We drove down the hill and talked about our impressions and worries, but there was nothing to do but wait. If she had wanted to drop, that was the place to do it, so she must have felt up to the rest of the race. We drove back to the start of the race, near to the last aid station we could access, and parked, and slept a few hours. Here, at least, it was flat, and safe, and there were porta-potties available. We got with the sun, sallied forth in search of coffee, and drove up to the last station, just 4 miles from the finish. That drive was on a jeep track, less wide than our Expedition, so we were batting saplings aside with our rearview mirrors for a couple of miles. We passed a number of deer munching their breakfasts, unconcerned at the clatter we made going by. We beached the truck in a little pull-out, and made our way to the station on foot, a hundred yards or so away. A small but jolly crew of supporters huddled around the support station, working on omelets and coffee. Again, they generously shared their food and caffeine with us as we waited. At this station were some inspirational people. The captain was my age, and had recently weighed 70 pounds more than he now does. He just decided to turn himself around, stopped eating carbs, and started to run. He has run marathons, and now ultras up to 50 milers, and looks a picture of health. Also there were a couple in their 70s, who still run ultras. They were just great to talk with, and real heroes, if you happen to need one. A ham radio operator was there as well, and we were thrilled to hear from his radio that Hannah had just departed the second to last aid station, in first place among women, with Missy close behind. We had a 45 minute wait, and then they came down the hilly trail together. They fueled up quickly, and ran out of the station, with Hannah slightly ahead, but looking back to join up with Missy again. They had time enough, if they pushed, to beat the 24 hour mark, so push they did. We departed by Expedition, and got to the finish line with not much time to spare, and in they came, arm in arm, for a joint first place finish, at 23:48:30. Both women were beaming, so supportive of each other, and happy to share the finish. It was inspiring and wonderful to witness. They hugged, posed for pictures, and decompressed for an hour or so, watching and cheering other runners on as they came in. Hannah was truly done in after all that. We bade all good-bye, and gathered our stiff-legged daughter up for the ride home. By the time of our return, 2 1/2 hours later, she could just barely walk up two steps to the house. She had definitely left it all in the mountains. We met some unique and inspiring people at this race, as we have done at every ultra we have attended. It is a different cut of humanity, to be sure. I owe all these experiences and insights to my daughter's strange and unexplainable predilection for running long distances, and to her allowing us to participate. She swore on the way back she would never do this race again, calling it the toughest she had ever done, (this from a Badwater finisher), but the foggy glasses of time have changed that view, and she looks forward to doing it again, when work and life allow. I look forward to it also.