The Bear 100 by Phil Lowery, 10/3/00 Never trust the weather man. Looking down at my dropbags and all of my cold weather clothing that I hd stuffed into them, I made this ultimate, if untimely, conclusion. In the week before the Bear 100 I had assiduously researched the weather forecasts, spooked by a freak winter storm that hit Utah the weekend before. Whether from a deformation zone, Pacific trough, a closed low, or monsoonal moisture (the story changed every day), the bottom line was: rain. And somewhat cool in the mountains (50s high, 20s low). The result? Indian summer–perfect weather for a 100 miler. The colors in the Bear River Range were phenomenal: brilliant reds and oranges from the maples offset by yellow aspen and green pines. What a difference from the central Wasatch, my home, where scrub oak reigns below 8000 feet. This was Idaho, and I loved it. The Bear 100 was also phenomenal. Here is an event that reminds me so much of the early days of the Wasatch 100, told me by troubadours of those ancient times, when one year no one even finished! Twenty or so of us gathered at Leland Barker’s unassuming but delightful trout farm for the prerace meeting on Thursday afternoon. He took our word for it on our weight, handed out our shirts, and gave us some last-minute course updates. We were ready to rock. The race began and ended at the Deer Cliff Inn, dubbed by its owners as “The Most Romantic Place in the West,” and a favorite hangout of line dancers and country music fans from bustling Preston, Idaho. A rustic cabin going for $28 was my home the night before the race, 10 yards from the Start. It is rare when the starters of a 100 miler gather for a group picture, but we did. We were all friends, rooting for one another. At 6:00 a.m. on Friday we were off under a brilliant starry sky (no clouds at all, remember?). I decided this year as an experiment to run with my Global Positioning Satellite (GPS) receiver, a Garmin GPS+ III. I had downloaded a topo map of the course into it, along with routes that the GPS would signal me to follow. Having used this GPS system all of the time when training on unfamiliar trails, I figured it was time to try it in an unfamiliar race. In addition to the route info, the GPS would tell me my speed, altitude, and distance traveled (total and selectable legs). In other words, it was a toy, but a useful toy. At 8 oz. it was worth the weight, just in case. (I was right: later that night it would pay for itself.) I linked up with Tim Seminoff and Errol Jones right away, along with the eventual women’s winner, Betsy Nye. Then Leland (who was marking trail and racing) joined us, happily correcting us as we took wrong turns. Tim and Leland had just raced at Wasatch three weeks before (Leland holds the Wasatch course record and came in third this year. Tim is also a Wasatch champion). Errol is a grand slammer and excellent runner from the Bay area, and Betsy was third woman at Hardrock this year. I was thoroughly intimidated, but delighted. Leland finally pulled away, wondering how far ahead defending champion Hal Koerner III had shot. A race was on. We, the second-packers, kept up our conversations until there was a thud that turned all heads. Errol had crashed. He got up quickly, and we breathed again. That was the beginning of Errol’s trials at the Bear. After a good ten-mile warmup running through red and gold maple groves, the first big grunt of the course hit us as we launched from 5500 to 8500 feet, where we would all stay until mile 93. The day was warming quickly, especially once we crossed to the eastern face of Franklin Basin. I was glad to have two bottles. Unlike the central Wasatch, the Bear River range is not typified by high peaks offset by deep canyons. The mountains do rise 5,000 feet from the valley floor, bur are wider and interspersed with valleys and basins. We would be running the ridges and the basins all day (and night) long. As we climbed to 9100 feet, the wind picked up, and patches of snow on the north side of trees attested to the previous week’s weather shenanigans. The wind reminded me of the many DNFs at Wasatch this year, on a very similar day. I drank as fast as I could. By now, at Mile 14, our little group had split up, each to his (or her) own way. I was now nursing a sore right knee, but was only mildly frustrated since I had finally figured out why that stupid knee would only get sore at 100 milers: too much layoff beforehand. With the mystery solved I still had to deal with the pain and resorted to my addiction to Vitamin I (ibuprofen), 800 mg every six hours. Yummy! Each aid station was well-manned and helpful, but some were better than others. You could always tell which ones were manned by an ultrarunner. Special kudos to Robert Green (Dry Basin) and Paul Butkovich and his happy dog Althea (Danish Flat). Some of the stations lacked essentials, like duct tape and fruit, but I really didn’t care: it added to the adventure of being part of such a young event. Tim finally reeled me in at mile 44, as I knew he must. Betsy did the same at mile 55. So, where was Errol? I expected to see him at any moment. Robert Green took great care of me at Dry Basin aid station (mile 58), and I was off into the starry night. I had been coughing all day, and now things got worse. My kids had been coughing that week, and I had a bad head cold the Sunday/Monday before the race. My chest had not bothered me, though. But now my coughing spells required me to put my hands on my knees and cough and cough and cough, bringing up what I thought in the darkness were chunks of my lungs. At one point in the dark I thought I heard an animal whimpering next to the trail. Startled, I stopped to listen, and then realized that I was hearing the rasping of my own breathing. The blues followed. Radio reception tanked as I descended into Danish Flat, and I couldn’t wait to get my tunes on my minidisc player at mile 64. I could feel a bad blister forming under my forefoot, and since I haven’t really blistered for years, I was confused. At least I wasn’t throwing up. A scout troop ran Danish Flat aid station, and cheerfully sent me into the backstretch of the course, the whoop-de-doos of four different canyons that only exacted 1000 feet of total climb, but was more brutal than the 2500-foot climb of Wasatch’s Sunset Pass. Feeling quite ground down, I finally limped into Copenhagen Road (mile 74), but no duct tape and very little choice of food (more’s the challenge!!). At least I had no incentive to sit there and grow roots, which is tempting at most Mile 74 aid stations. Elsewhere other dramas were unfolding. Leland was only ten minutes ahead of me at mile57, feeling quite ill. At mile 74 he had just cleared 18 hours, and resolved to clean the last 26 miles in 6 hours for a sub-24 buckle. He succeeded–by two minutes. Errol just couldn’t stay awake. At one point he was holding a cocoa cup and was woken up by it hitting the ground–he had fallen asleep. At some aid stations he had to sleep for an hour or two. It was looking like a long night for Errol. As I descended into Mile 83 (Dry Basin again) the blister under my forefoot, and some others on the sides of my heel, were on fire. Robert was, of course, prepared, and we used second skin and duct tape to piece me back together. So far I had not had any problems with following the course, more because of excellent marking and my experience than my GPS. At mile 87 the trail left the trees and went into a basin. It was still dark, but I had come this way in reverse the evening before, so I thought I was on track. But then I lost the trail. The gloaming light was not enough to extract a route, and I was under the gun to stay under 30 hours. I looked at my GPS. It had left an electronic “breadcrumb” trail from the night before. I ignored my instincts (which were wrong) and followed the breadcrumbs, and in four minutes saw a marker. A potential half-hour hack was converted into a two- minute distraction. For Hal Koerner III four hours before, it had become a 11/2 hour hack, costing him a sub-22 finish (and he had run the course before). For another runner getting lost on this stretch cost him a finish. I was converted to my little GPS. It was indeed worth its 8 oz. I greeted my second sunrise just before the top of Paris Canyon (mile 90). I fixed my feet again, and headed over the pass and down the German Dugway. I was greeted by some of the most incredible fall colors I had ever seen. I was now on track for a sub-30 finish. Then I hit the Devil’s Den. Being a Civil War buff, I was listening to the Gettysburg movie soundtrack as I left the German Dugway aid station and headed onto a gnarly stretch of deer trail/cross country traverse that Leland had chosen to as an alternative to a long dirt road descent. The Devil’s Den was a boulder-strewn field in which confederate general John Bell Hood’s division was massacred by Union troops on the high ground. The trail did the same to all of us. While Leland had done some brush work on this “trail”, it was at best a route, and on the AAI classification scale it would rate a Class 2, with pitches of Class 3 (with about ten feet of full on Class 4 scramblng). It would make The Barkley’s Gary Cantrell proud. After leaving some choice words on this 2-mile stretch, I finally hit good trail again, and realized that sub-29 was now possible. I kept my speed at 3.5 mph on the GPS and hauled my butt down through the boulders of Worm Basin and down the canyon past Thorne Spring. The Indian summer sun was hot on this south face, but the flaming maples atoned for the heat. Once I hit the road I started to run, pegging out at 4.5 mph, and got in just under 28:50. This was 1 ½ hours behind last year’s Wasatch PR, but that’s what a cold can do. I knew I was sick once I downloaded all of my heart rate information. My average heart rate was 122, 8 beats/minute slower than Wasatch for the last three years. It was like during the entire race I was in one gear lower than I was used to. It was the chest cold, I’m sure, both because of its particular pains and systemic effect. The blisters were simply a nuisance, but cost me a half hour in triage. No complaints–I got a sub-30 and have kept my no-DNF streak alive (eight 100s and four 50s and never a DNF). The leaders had, of course, finished well ahead of me. Hal and Leland made it a race, both getting sub-24 hour as Leland tried to run down the uppity youngster. Hal still took it by a half-hour, notwithstanding his hour and a half wandering in the wilderness. Both should be credited with a gutsy performance. Hal is now the undisputed King of the Bear, and Leland has got to be the Crown Prince. After being singed by her afterburner at mile 55, I heard how Betsy continued to motor, reeling in Tim and coming in just over 25 hours. Tim kept his head on, overcoming fatigue from his Wasatch race to finish in just under 28 hours. Two first-time 100 milers also finished: Darren Wells and Chris Miller. Chris had passed me in the backstretch while I sat on a stump. I was shocked to see him, since in a field this small I really didn’t expect to see anyone after mile 50 (unless they passed me, which I was used to). I told him at the post- race dinner that if had asked me how I felt I would have hit him. I think he is now a seasoned ultrarunner. Darren, the other first-timer, successfully completed the Eco-Challenge in Borneo. Dealing with snakes, spiders and snooping press in that event kept the night demons at bay for him. Mary Workman finished within seven minutes of her winning time last year, notwithstanding the Devil’s Den. The real hero story was Errol’s. At 34:30 he came out of the trees looking strong, evoking screams from all of us. As he approached the finish it was clear that he was spent. After stopping, he put his hands on his knees and simply kept repeating that it was the hardest thing he ever did. His motivation was to be a “bear streaker,” along with Tim and Mary (two in a row ). We teased him that old age makes life harder (he just turned 50), but all shared in our admiration and respect for this outstanding runner who had been tested not for his speed, but for his fortitude. His story shows that no ultra is a gimme–the dice roll at every start line. My mentor John Moellmer has always said of Wasatch that it’s a “crap shoot.” Errol showed how one should deal with a sorry roll. He did so with courage and aplomb, always the gentleman. During the race and afterwards he spoke of his love for the race and how he could help Leland grow the event. He deservedly received his plaque and buckle first at the awards ceremony. Errol, you’re great! The Bear 100 is an awesome event. Most of us (most outspoken was Errol) disliked the Devil’s Den, but rather than go back to the road we resolved to improve the trail. The aid stations will improve, and next year the communications network will be in full operation. Leland accepted comments and suggestions graciously, and I know he will act on them. The bottom line is that the positive overwhelmed the little problems, and Leland has put together a 100 that rivals Wasatch in both beauty and difficulty. Its inevitable growth saddens me somewhat, since growth will necessarily bring a less homely atmosphere, but I am grateful that I got to see the humble beginnings of a wonderful event. Hopefully, as the race grows, it will retain its homegrown atmosphere, much like Wasatch has. The future looks bright, and I hope to be a part of it.