Both Kirk and I know what it feels like to be a foreigner in an unfamiliar place. But other then some beachy trips to Mexico they barely remember, our kids haven’t had many
opportunities to experience travelling…like, real travelling. Where everything feels exciting simply
because it is different.

As the signs switched to predominantly French when we crossed the border, I hoped that going into a place as unique as Québec would fuel their wanderlust the same way it did for me back in ’94.

I feel like Québec remains a bit of a mystery to us prairie folks. We mostly just feel frustrated over words like ‘transfer payments’ and the wave of Bloc Québecois seats in parliament that feel irrelevant to us, but I really don’t hear much else about the province. And we of course worried that we would not be well received with our clunky van and virtually non-existent French skills.

First stop was Montréal, where we headed straight to a bike rental shop to get fitted with bikes to tour the city and avoid the same traffic woes we had with the CN tower parking nightmare in Toronto. It was hot out and our time was limited because the rental place closed at 6, but we made a nice loop along the Lachine Canal to the St. Lawrence, stopping to watch people surfing on the rapids of the river. Who
knew urban surfing was a thing?
We strolled towards Old Montreal, finding poutine and Montreal smoked meat sandwiches to check that off the list, and then wandered past Notre-Dame Basillica. As we stood in the square in front of the cathedral, I watched the faces of my children to see if they were in awe of the depth of history and richness of story that old buildings hold, like Kirk and I were when we backpacked around Europe, hunting down big old cathedrals as we went.

Their pained faces said they were more hot and tired then architecturally inspired.

Ok Montreal, what else do you have to show us?

The sun set and the air cooled and we stumbled into the heart of Old Montreal where I could actually hear Katie gasp at the beauty of the moment.

Narrow cobblestone streets, lights and flowers strung overhead between ancient buildings, live music drifting through the air and people milling about with big smiles and summer dresses. The kind of feeling you wish you could capture in a bottle to pour out in front of you everywhere you went to make every street sing with the same beauty. It was a scene right out of a perfect Parisienne summer night, topped off with some decadent treats and shopping in adorable stores, practicing our French.

I’ll never forget the look on Levi’s face when he worked up the courage to try out ‘Merci Beaucoup’ with a vendor and they responded back and he understood. I want to expand horizons for my children to extend far beyond our comfortable life in Edmonton, and am
saddened we haven’t done that with a second language in our home. So far, none of them are excited about learning French; they blame boring French teachers for that, but I also wonder if we should have put more effort into encouraging a second language. Google translate will have to do I guess.

The next morning, I snuck out of Vannesa and set out for a run across Montreal to what the internet
claimed was the best bagel shop in town. I don’t normally like road running on busy city streets, but it sure is a great way to experience a city. My route took me past some beautiful old buildings, quaint neighbourhoods and McGill university before arriving at Fairmont Bagel where my family was waiting for me with a pretty tasty post run breakfast.

Onward to Québec City where we aimed straight to the heart and found parking below the Plains of Abraham. Canadian history came to life for the kids as we took a tour to see the recently discovered remains of the governors castle. Hearing names like Jacques Cartier, Samuel De Champlain, Wolfe and Montcalm instigated long explanations (mostly from Tegan) about the history lessons she remembered from school.

The hot day turned angry and exploded into a wicked summer storm while we were wandering through Chateau Frontenac, sending swarms of tourists running into the lobby for cover and sent us pushing against them to get out into the storm. Cause that is where memories are made. We got soaked, but we also got abandoned streets and were rewarded with a stunning double rainbow between historical buildings on the oh so adorable Rue Du Petit Champlain.

Good thing we aren’t made of sugar and melt in the rain. Although with the amount of ice cream we have been eating so far, we must be getting close to 100% sugar.

Upon the recommendation of our tour guide from the castle, we stopped in the fading light to see Montmorency Falls, and to see it lit up like Niagara was. And then of course we had to race up the 478 stairs to get back to the top.

Feeling the effects of too many cities, we were ready to explore the Gaspé Peninsula, a place neither of us had been, nor did we know much about, so we took our sweet time stopping at tide pools, lighthouses and a Fromagerie for some to-die-for cheese and still-hot-from-the-oven bread.

After a long day of driving, we stopped for the night at a beautiful campground at Forillon National Park and had enough time to get in some serious vert on a hike up to a watchtower for a sweeping view of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Between the stairs the night before, and racing Levi up the steep sections, Levi was feeling
that burn in his calves for a couple days.

At the end of the Gaspé Peninsula, is an adorable touristy town called Percé, that is cute by its own
right, but it made famous thanks to Percé Rock and the nearby Île Bonaventure.

We weren’t as well prepared as we thought we were, and lucked out by catching the last boat for the day with only ten minutes to spare. It also meant that our time on the island was limited because they shut down the longer trails early in the day to make sure everyone gets on the last boat out of there. Much to Katie’s dismay, that meant we just had to hike fast if we wanted to see the whole island! Île Bonaventure used to by occupied by a few hearty families that survived by fishing and gardening as best they could. The
island has been abandoned since the 70’s but is now home to 150 000 squawking Common Gannets, covering the cliffs with their piles of poop for nests. Stinky. But pretty impressive to see that many birds (and their babies!) up close.

We got to snoop through the empty houses on the island, before heading back while a pair of harbour dolphins jumped near the boat.

That calls for another ice cream cone to celebrate such a great day, right? Maple dip, in case you were wondering.

Overall, we were so pleasantly surprised by our time in Québec. Sometimes, western Canadian
sentiment towards Québec is omission at best, or disparaging at worst. However, every single encounter we had with Québecois folks was positive. Not one person seemed bothered by our limited French skills and dilapidated Alberta van. Many even went out of their way to show us kindness and make us feel welcome.

I’d like to go back. Not just because there is a 100 mile race on the Gaspé Peninsula I have now added to my bucket list, but because it still feels like a vast province with a lot more to explore. Do you ever look at map, at all the empty space up north and wonder what is up there?

Ok, maybe I’m the only one.

And Kirk. He asks those kind of questions too. I guess that makes us a pretty good team doesn’t it? That will be a trip with an upgraded version of Vannessa and no kids in tow, sometime way in the hopefully not too distant future.

Photo Dump!

Life on the road has settled into its own comfortable rhythm with Van-nessa. The basics of survival are distilled down to finding groceries, water, sani-dump stations, showers, fuel, a place to park overnight. Sometimes we sleep under fluorescent lights and busy roads in Walmart parking lots, sometimes we get sunsets and starry nights at serene campsites. Our space is small, but we are perfecting the (sometimes impatient) dance to make our tiny home on wheels work. Sometimes the kids complain they want their space and the comforts of home, but mostly we are content with what we have.

I remind them: you can’t have a comfortable life AND an adventurous life all the time. Usually, it is a trade off.

And its worth it.
Living in a van is a good exercise in remaining fully present and only tending to what is happening right in front of you. Thankfully, Prince Edward Island is a pretty spectacular place to be fully present.

We crossed over the Confederation Bridge from New Brunswick to Prince Edward Island just as the last bit of sun was disappearing below the water. The bridge was under construction when both Kirk and I went to PEI in the 90’s, so this was new for everyone. At 12 km long and ranging from 40-60 meters above the water (which freezes in winter!) it is quite the engineering feat, that many islanders say irrevocably changed PEI culture.

Sunday morning and we headed to Charlottetown to browse a flea market where Katie found all kinds of treasures she insisted enhanced her vibe. Whatever that means.

Then to Queen street for the Charlottetown farmers market and to wander around the beautiful harbour, complete with lots of treats and browsing for whatever caught our eye.
We were hoping for a picture of the parliament at the home of Confederation but it was entirely under construction so a picture in front of a picture was a quirky enough alternative. Does that enhance my vibe? I think so.

The island is super small. 280km long and as narrow as 6km in some places, so it didn’t take long to drive around most of it, stopping at picturesque lighthouses as we went. On the north side of the island is Prince Edward Island National Park, where we lucked out with another beach front campsite at Cavendish, played in the red sand and watched the sunset over the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

When Kirk travelled across Canada as a teen, they spent most of their time in PEI visiting relatives, many of whom still live there. Much to his mother’s dismay, we did not contact any of them to go visit on this trip. Kirk’s only memories of meeting them was feeling bored out of his mind with yet another cemetery visit and family BBQ, and desperately wanting to go to the beach. So, this time we made sure to maximize beach time by spending a hot afternoon at Cavendish beach between sand dunes and the surprisingly warm water, soaking up the sun.

We also made the stop at iconic home that inspired Lucy Maud Montgomery to write Anne of Green Gables, which is, in my opinion, one of the best pieces of Canadian classics ever written. The house was adorable, and the “Haunted Woods”, “Lovers Lane” and “Babbling Brook” were equally quaint. Katie, an author herself, was astounded to learn that Kirk’s family is related through marriage to Lucy Maud Montgomery, a fact she has heard dozens of times before, but only sunk in once she was standing there, reading snippets of Lucy’s journal entries and her thoughts on being a writer. It is pretty incredible to think of how one character, one simple story has had such an impact on so many people and both captured and shaped Islander life so perfectly.

Of course we promptly bought tickets to see the musical production of Anne of Green Gables for the following night.

But first, seafood.
To New Glasgow Lobster Supper we went. A low-key lobster dinner place that Kirk recalls going to on their visit. For over twice the price of a lobster dinner in ’95, we each ordered a lobster that comes with all you can eat mussels, seafood chowder, hot dinner rolls, salad and dessert. I don’t get as excited about lobster as most people do, but I admit pretty delicious. Mussels on the other hand? I just don’t get it. I always try them and am disappointed every time. I can’t be the only one that thinks they taste like mud pate, am I?

We spent our last night in PEI at a campsite called Cumberland Cove upon the recommendation of my good friend Lori. It is a humble piece of grass along the shore, owned and operated by a cute old couple that were more then happy to show us treasures they found washed up on shore (a 3000-year-old arrowhead from England!) and gave us a bedazzled shell and sand dollars as mementos of our stay. It was getting late, but the tide was out, and we couldn’t resist another walk along the ocean floor. I sent some pictures to Lori and she wrote back “Aw that makes me so happy and so sad at the same time.” You see, Lori’s parents had a summer home a few houses down the dead-end red road opposite the campsite. Lori and her family loved to spend a few weeks in the summer playing on the same ocean floor, searching for
sea glass and jellyfish, and spending time with her parents. Not long after their last visit, Lori’s father passed away, rather unexpectedly. Her mom sold the house and they have never been back.

The people we love, the places we visit and the feelings they bring, braid together to create a memory. What happens when one of those strands unravel and the memory shifts? I guess that’s the fleeting and devastatingly beautiful thing about our experiences. What will we take away from our experiences on this trip? Is it the beaches of PEI, our uncontrollable laughter while we drew funny characters in the sand or the fact we were all there together as a family?
The ocean floor at Cumberland Cove felt a bit like sacred ground, knowing that it is so special to someone that I care about, even though the place meant nothing to me prior.

However, the next morning, we stamped our own memories on the ocean floor when we spent several hours digging for clams on the sandbar on a moody, rainy morning. New memories my kids will tell their future partners and bore their children with on new roadtrips in 25 years.

A bit more touring around to see some more beautiful lighthouses before we headed back to Charlottetown to catch Anne of Green Gables: The Musical, which was of course incredible. I cried when Matthew Cuthbert died. Just like I do every time. I think its because his character reminds me of my Grandpa who passed away several years ago. My memories of him are happy/sad all at the same time too. That’s just the way it goes sometimes.

Back over the long Confederation Bridge in the darkib. ‘Night PEI and thanks for the memories.

I don’t want to rush this. I want to soak up every ounce of goodness and every fragment of time the universe will give us because I know this will all be over too soon.

Another maritime province to explore. This is going by too fast.

After leaving Prince Edward Island at night, we woke in a quiet town called Amherst, armed with a list of things to see in Nova Scotia. It was an incredibly windy day and poor Vannessa got a good workout by pushing headwind and navigating the narrow hilly roads down the north west coast of the province. When the tide is low on the Bay of Fundy, the banks of all the inlets turn to mud slicks that look like they would be so much fun to slip and slid down, and there are rafting companies that offer tours to go play in the mud. We were really tempted to try it out but cost and miserable wind were enough of a deterrent to opt out. Can’t do all the fun things can we?

Burntcoat Park was a good alternative to go explore the low rocks at low tide and wander into caves and over tidal pools that will be under 40 feet of water in a mere six hours.

Further along the coast we were into Anapolis Valley where most Nova Scotia’s produce is grown and is the site of early Acadian settlements. Unfortunately we just missed the last tour of Fort Anne, but we’re still able to wander around the grounds making up our own theories on what the fort was used for. I’m sure the canons and dry moats are only decorative and meant for us to climb all over them for pictures. No war, right?

While Kirk and I bought local cider, Levi ran down the street to scout out the nearest ice cream shop. The ice cream lady watched him for awhile, bemused by the little guy who was intently studying the posters of the insurance agent next door. She came outside and stood beside him and asked if he would like to buy some insurance. He looked at her with great offence and said ‘No’ and ran away while she looked on with a smile on her face.

Of course, we went back to the correct store to buy the ice cream and explained to Levi he may actually want to purchase some insurance one day. In the mean time, ice cream is better.

We felt like we won the lottery yet again when we left the coast to cross over the middle of Nova Scotia to camp at Kujimkujik National Park. The kids were drawn to the perfectly warm lake water next to our campsite, and spent hours splashing and laughing while playing with a big floating log. Sometimes it’s the simplest things that are most fun, right?

We cooked up our bucket of clams we dug in PEI after a steep learning curve and a lot of interneting to figure out how to clean and cook fresh clams. I was a little sad to eat them cause we grew kinda attached to them after watching them spit and poke out of their shells all day. Although I don’t think they liked me cause one of them spit all over my face when I leaned in to tell them they were cute.

Our clam dinner was amazing and we ended the night by start gazing by the lake where the stars actually reflected over the glassy surface.

Can we just freeze time?

Up the pretty southeast coast of Nova Scotia we wandered the adorable fishing village of Lunenburg with the required tour of the BlueNose II. Villages like Lunenburg are straight off of postcards with the cute brightly painted houses right on the water and it’s pretty easy to spend a few hours just meandering up and down the hilly streets enjoying the views.

We stopped at a place called “The Ovens” to hike along the cliffs and see the sea caves as best we could from above. Deep tunnels go under the rocks into big caves that echo like canons as the waves ricochet inside. The hardest part about that stop was convincing Kirk he couldn’t go down inside the caves because he would definitely die.

The east coast fog rolled in as we neared Peggy’s Cove, another iconic harbour town with a beautiful lighthouse on the rocks. There were lots of people milling about, and we had fun playing on the rocks and exploring the town, I’m sure we ruined a few touristy photos with our rock hopping under the lighthouse.

Once we were into Halifax Kirk was on a mission to try a Halifax donair with its signature sweet sauce. Thankfully the kids also quiet liked them, which is always a win when we find something everyone can agree on.

Other then delicious donairs, we also found the lovely Halifax harbour once the fog burned off, and wandered all the way from the infamous Pier 21 to the HMCS Sackville before dragging our very reluctant children up the steep hill to see the Citadel, another star shaped Fort complete with more decorative canons and actors in period costume. As we entered through the thick stone wall gates, a light bulb went off for Tegan when she realized she had done a school project about the Fort and had found it on google earth. Look it up, it looks pretty cool from above!

Before heading to Newfoundland, we wanted to spend at least a day in Cape Breton, getting to know this unique island that feels like it should be its own province. It’s mix of Celtic and French and a whole lot of rugged beauty we really loved exploring. The best way to see the island is to drive the scenic Cabot trail, a 280km loop that had Vannessa working hard on the climbs and whooping with joy on the descents. The views were incredible and I made Kirk pinky promise we would come back one year in the fall when the trees were changing to road bike the loop. He’s in. Yay.

With plenty of stops at lookouts, summits, ice cream (of course) and the Alexander Graham Bell Site we jammed a lot into one day. I’m a big fan of Mr. Bell, did you know that he considers the telephone the least of his successes? His proudest accomplishment was his work with the deaf community and development of speech strategies to improve communication and integration into society. As the mother of a hearing impaired son and an employee at a school for children with communication delays I was ready to high five his ghost in appreciation. Phones are cool too, I guess.

The day was hot and we were ready for a late swim at the beautiful Ingonish beach, where the waves were perfect for body surfing. All three kids were in there having a great time until Kirk found and big ugly eel and that was enough for Katie to decide she was happiest on land (like I am!). We were quite content to listen to her eclectic playlist together and watch a bride and groom from Keltic Lodge get their pictures on the beach instead.

A sunset walk down Middle Head trail was the perfect way to solidify Cape Breton in our minds as a beautiful, rugged and likely a lil haunted treasure of the maritimes. We told ghost stories as we walked through the thick forest in the dark, back to the beach. We were all in desperate need of a cleaning so we rinsed off at the beach outdoor shower in the deserted parking lot under the cover of darkness. Which was fine, until a ghost walk tour group emerged from the trail nearby carrying lanterns through the trees.

Yeah, this place is definitely haunted.

Let’s try further East, see what it’s like. Newfoundland up next!

Photo dump!

“Next available ferry is next week, July 31st”

“Um. Are you serious? How about the overnight ferry?”

“August 2nd. There’s always room for foot passengers though.”

There goes our dreams of driving Vannessa all the way to St. John’s.

We really didn’t do much pre-planning for this trip. But the one thing we did do, was look into the ferry to Newfoundland. I had checked the website repeatedly, and saw that advance reservations were not required, although were recommended. And every time I checked availability, it showed there was lots of space. Since we weren’t following a schedule and had no idea when we would be ready for the ferry, we decided to wait until we were a few days away before booking. However, thanks to a heartwarming campaign called “Come Home 2022” put on by the province of Newfoundland, unprecedented numbers of travellers were going back to their beloved island after two years of pandemic restrictions kept the Newfoundland diaspora away.

Great news for Newfoundlanders returning home.

Bad news for us and Vannessa.

The amount of problem solving (and cost) of navigating a massive province with three children, no vehicle and not great public transit felt overwhelming. At one point in Nova Scotia, we even gave up, accepting that we wouldn’t make it all the way east. But after a good sleep, some fresh resolve, and a lucky phone call to Enterprise as soon as they opened, we managed to snag what was likely the only rental vehicle left on the island. Unfortunately, it was in Deer Lake, a few hours from the ferry terminal, and only available for four days and there was still a whole lot of logistics to sort out to make it happen.
We booked the SUV and decided to go for it.

We picked up some duffel bags at Walmart, packed the bare minimum essentials, found a parking spot for our dear Vannessa (promised her we would be back) and set out on foot.

We felt a bit like the intrepid explorers of Ernest Shackleton’s Endurance expedition to Antarctica, being forced to leave behind their beloved ship and venture into the unknown with survival their only goal. Except instead of lifeboats across the polar ice, we had a comfy ferry, followed by an SUV with AC and satellite radio. Regardless, our brave little explorers did a great job of rolling with the changes, even digging deep when travel felt pretty uncomfortable.

The ferry drops you in Port-aux-Basque, a sleepy harbour town with not a lot going on. However, the hearty souls that live there are some of the friendliest you’ll ever meet. The lady at the front desk of our hotel offered us her vehicle for the week!

Instead, Kirk opted to take the arduous bus ride to Deer Lake while the kids and I loitered around the town, killing time like a couple of vagabonds. We wandered the streets, made friends with the staff at Tim Horton’s, found a purse that belonged to a woman that lived in Alberta and helped her reunite with it, shopped at Riff’s and had a contest at the grocery store to see who could find the weirdest local food.

Levi won when he came back with a giant jar of pickled wieners that had us laughing so hard I was worried we would drop it and get kicked out of the store. We ended up buying Purity’s Square Milk Lunch which are quite possibly the most blah food product you could imagine.

After an hour of playing at the only playground in town, Tegan said “Today was awesome, I forgot how amazing it is to just do nothing for a day.” I agree. I don’t remember the last time I just did nothing for the sake of killing time and how refreshing it was to know that there was nothing else I could (or should) be doing.

I also don’t remember when I last laughed so hard with my kids. Coincidence? Nope.

Kirk, on the other hand, did not have such a great day, covering all that ground just to come back to retrieve us with our new ride. But finally, we were off on the final stretch east.

Except first we went north.

I was on a mission to find caribou.

Throughout all my travels, and despite all my valiant efforts, I had never seen a caribou before. When I was 13, my family went to Aklavik, NWT to visit family, and we spent an entire day on snowmobiles and dog sleds (with the huskies riding in the dog sleds with us instead of pulling us!) looking for an elusive migratory herd that we never found. Then in Iceland we found domestic reindeer, which was pretty cool, but not the same. Then I missed out again when running Tonquin valley with zero caribou sightings. We had it on good authority that Port-aux-Choix was the place to go since they rarely left the peninsula. And sure enough, it was just as easy as that. They were waiting for me by the lighthouse, just chilling with their babies.

Bucket list item checked.

Back through Gros Morne National Park where we took in a few hikes to see some gorgeous views and explore one of the few places in the world where you can see the Earth’s Mantle, the layer of rock below the crust, that was pushed up and exposed during continental drift. The rock is toxic to plant life so the hills look naked and kinda orange thanks to oxidation of the iron in the rocks.

Like Trump on a beach vacation. You’re welcome.

We could’ve spent a lot more time there, but the northern peninsula is huge, and the clock was ticking so we kept heading east, taking the scenic route through cute fishing villages where the cod industry once thrived before the cod moratorium changed Newfoundland life forever.

Kirk and I often commented that Newfoundland reminded us of Iceland, and we were pretty excited to stop at rock in Elliston that was covered in Puffins, just like we had seen in Iceland. Same adorable birds, an ocean apart, this time with our kids to witness them too.

Finally, we arrived in St. John’s on a gorgeous summer evening. We walked through downtown, strolled Water Street and Jellybean row with the quirky colourful houses and found some pretty amazing ice cream thanks to a recommendation from my Newfoundland friend Jill. We definitely weren’t done with the city, but the sun was down and we had an early morning date with the sunrise.

(Have you ever tried getting a 15-year-old nightowl up for sunrise?)

Bleary eyed kids, cursing missed turns and racing east on winding roads before we made it to Cape Spear just as the sun peaked over the horizon at the most easterly point in North America. Could this moment get any more beautiful?

Just to make sure it was perfect, some whales decided to play close by while we watched. OK, now its perfect. Let’s just enjoy this moment. Its all roads west from here.

Travelling is funny like that, sometimes you work so hard to reach some arbitrary destination, stop, look around, and move on. The goal is to experience it simply because you haven’t before. Don’t get me wrong, making it to Cape Spear was incredible. But although that was our ‘goal’, it really wasn’t the purpose of the trip. The purpose of this trip was all the moments along the way to make this absolutely unforgettable. Whales, lighthouses and a sunrise was the bonus.

Kinda like the medal at the end of an ultra. The true value is in the journey that led you to the finish line, the medal just commemorates it all.

Speaking of running.

I was thankful to sneak in a quick run up Signal Hill to let these restless legs fly before another long journey back to our overnight ferry scheduled on the other side of the island.

A seven hour drive, with lots of construction delays and stops for food at busy, understaffed fast food joints, then a four hour bus ride to the ferry, then a seven hour ferry ride, ten minute walk and we were back at Vannessa, happy with our whirlwind tour of gorgeous Newfoundland that left us wanting more.

Hey Labrador, you must have some treasures waiting to be discovered? Seriously though, what is up there? (They have mountains!)
For now, we were just excited we made it all the way across this vast country of ours. What a strange feeling to be closer to Europe then to home, yet still in the same country.

So far from home. I guess this journey isn’t over yet.

Photo Dump!

Exploring New Brunswick actually happened in two parts. First, on the way to Prince Edward Island, and again after our return from Newfoundland. Which is fitting, since it felt like an in-between province anyway; not quite French, and not quite Maritimes, it has its own quiet charm and we enjoyed a few of the gems it has to offer.

But first, Vannessa needed some love. You know how it is with us middle-aged ladies, we’re tough as nails but we still require occasional maintenance. We were noticing a new sound that Kirk figured was the wheel bearing needing to be replaced. Some very helpful parts dealers and a few detours to parts stores along the north coast and we got the parts we needed. ‘Operation Wheel Bearing’ happened in Shediac, mostly because it was a good place for the kids and I to explore while Kirk got to work.

Lobster roll dinner and pictures with a giant lobster was enough to keep us entertained, while Kirk was entertained by a old local guy that saw him in the parking lot and stopped to keep him company (or maybe to supervise?), even coming back with water and an ice cream sandwich for him. Another example of maritime kindness we certainly appreciated.

Unfortunately, the strange sound persisted after the wheel bearing change, and even seemed to be getting worse. Kirk made the rounds with a tire iron and was horrified to realize that four out of five of the lug nuts on the back wheel were loose. Something he definitely checked before the trip started. Which means there is a good chance someone loosened them on us. We blame the racoons with their tiny opposable thumbs. I’m not sure what is scarier, the racoon theory or the more likely theory that a human lacking a conscious targeted Vannessa for some reason. Either way, we fixed it before calamity struck and were happily on our way. It takes more then a loose lug nut or two to shake us up.

New Brunswick is perhaps most famous for the high tides on the Bay of Fundy, where all the power of the ocean is funneled into a shallow bay, making for dramatic tide changes throughout the day. One of the best places to experience the changing tides is Hopewell Rocks, where unique rock formations are submerged, and exposed within each six-hour tide change, and you can walk on the ocean floor among the rocks at low tide, as long as you are mindful of how getting out quickly, so you aren’t trapped by the water that rises as fast a foot a minute. Squishy mud, hermit crabs, jellyfish and lotsa cool rocks made
this a fun place to play for the morning. Then picnic lunch, a nap and voila, back to the same viewpoint that looks completely different at high tide.

A stop to explore Fundy National Park where we were hoping to swim at the outdoor pool near Alma, but a severe staff shortage meant they were operating at half capacity so the wait to get into the pool was far longer than Levi’s patience allowed. We hit pause on the province and crossed the Confederation Bridge to PEI .

A few weeks later, we were headed back to New Brunswick to finish the tour.

It was a hot day, so we took a long stop at Heather’s Beach, (which is actually in Nova Scotia), near Pugwash, where I saw ZERO pugs. I want pugs, and I want them getting baths. I’m very disappointed.

I miss my puppy

Despite feeling so let down over the lack of dogs, we enjoyed playing in the red sand and walking out into the shallow water to perfect our new clam digging skills and find more hermit crabs. Tegan, the fish of the family, could spend all day in the sea and be perfectly happy. Is that why we say “Happy as a clam”?? She was definitely that.

Happy as a clam.

Turns out, there wasn’t wasn’t a whole lot more to do in New Brunswick. By the time we started heading west, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm for much else. The kids had even lost track of where we were. Tegan casually commented that it was so weird that there were so many New Brunswick licence plates all of a sudden. Erm… cause we are in New Brunswick maybe??

Into Saint John where Kirk remembers watching jet boats take tourists up the reversing falls in ’94 and being very impressed. However, after checking out what Wikipedia has declared is “The Worst Tourist Attraction in the World” we decided that what 13-year-old Kirk was actually impressed with was the jet boats, not the reversing falls. It’s a cool concept though, the outflow from the Saint John river competes with the inflow of the high rising tide and the water churns and reverses directions as the tide changes. Not worth the visit, but worth the laugh we had about. We will take a jet boat ride another day.

Our stop in Fredricton was also short lived when Tegan tried to jump a post and rolled her ankle instead.

But just when we thought we were done the New Brunswick, we made the excellent decision to pull over to see one of the covered bridges that the province is noted for. I’m sure it was haunted, but it made for some pretty pictures.

And some creepy ones.

New Brunswick makes some great potato chips and has excellent seafood and impressive fluctuating tides but other that we weren’t sure what else to explore.

One last goodbye to the Maritimes before heading inland for good.

It is bittersweet now that it is all over. While I look forward to clean showers and melting into a cuddle puddle with Bruno, I’m sad that years of dreaming about this trip are over. Of course, we have more adventures ahead, but we simply won’t get these years with the kids back.

Katie is especially impatient to get home. She misses her friends, her privacy and the comfort of her bedroom. But as she stands on the edge of starting high school, I want to tell her I know something she doesn’t understand yet. Once she takes that next step towards adulthood, everything changes. She will jump to test her wings, returning to us for safety and support as needed, before leaping away again. Tegan is not far behind; she is already so much older then her age. And I swear, Levi has grown three inches in only a month on the road. Must be all the fresh air and ice cream. This trip was so important for our family to take.

It was never about making it east at all, it was about making it there together.

Along the way we gained a whole new appreciation for this incredible country of ours and how we won the lottery of geography and history to be right here, right now. We were fortunate enough to have countless beautiful encounters with other Canadians along the way, with Newfoundlanders and Quebecois showing the greatest kindness, and Ontario drivers showing the greatest impatience.

I was also amazed at how safe I felt everywhere we travelled. Whether it was running alone or walking around late at night, we never once felt like our personal safety was threatened in the cities and towns we visited.

In contrast, we learned a lot about our dark history, and ongoing issues of race and injustice we continue to sort through as a country. So many of the historical landmarks we visited are riddled with the horrors of colonialism and deep rifts between the English, French and Indigenous peoples that were here first. On our way back through Winnipeg, we stopped at the Human Rights Museum to learn the moving accounts of Human Rights violations, and reparations we have undergone as a nation. A good reminder to remain humble, curious and willing to set aside our privilege to give equal voice and power to those that have been denied that in the past.

Apart from the people, what makes this country amazing, is the land. And there’s a lot of it. Vannessa barely scratched the surface when you consider the amount of wilderness that extends north, mostly uninhabited and loudly calling my name. And we’ve got a lotta trees. And rocks.

And soooo much water.

We stood in the Pacific, and Atlantic Oceans and swam in all five Great Lakes because that was Levi’s big goal for the trip. We even made it to Lake Michigan, which required an American detour on the way home but was definitely worth it.

We stopped at countless waterfalls; most notably the big flashy ones like Niagara and Montmorency.

And lots of rivers and lakes, also called ‘brooks’ and ‘ponds’ if you’re in Newfoundland, and I was so impressed at how easy it was to find water that was safe to drink everywhere we went. So many countries in the world do not have such accessible safe drinking water, and we have it in abundance here. Sounds like a resource worth protecting doesn’t it?

You know what else is worth protecting? Ice cream. If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you know that we take our ice cream very seriously in this family. While the best ice cream award still goes to the Big Scoop in Waterton, AB, we found some close contenders in Percé, and St. John’s, and Winnipeg and Old Quebec City …ok we ate ice cream every day everywhere we went and who are we kidding, it was all good.

We even had an emergency ice cream binge in Cavendish where we had to eat two pints of melting ice cream after our freezer ran out of propane. What a hardship.

Once and a while we introduced other foods into our diets, like poutine in Quebec, and fish and chips in Newfoundland, and bagels in Montreal, and Hard Rock Café in Niagara, and lobster, mussels and clams in PEI, scallops in New Brunswick, cheese and more cheese in Quebec, smoked meat sandwiches in Montreal, pizza from a vending machine in Ontario, pasties in Michigan and Halifax donairs in Halifax.
Obviously.

To wash it all down we made sure to drink wine from Niagara and Gaspe, Moosehead Radlers from Saint John, Iceberg beer from Newfoundland and ciders from Anapolis Valley. And some American wine on the way home just cause it’s so much cheaper and I wasn’t about to argue with that.

It’s kind of fun when you travel to pick out little goals along the way to give some purpose and structure to your ramblings, and so one of our goals became to find the parliament building in each province to get a picture. Thanks to spending a year in Europe, I just love old buildings, and it seems our parliament buildings are the closest thing we have to old buildings in Canada, so mission accomplished.

We found ‘em all.

We also found the ‘Welcome to” signs of every province except Prince Edward Island! Either it didn’t exist or we missed it while travelling across the bridge in the dark. So, I guess that mission isn’t over yet.

Levi started collecting the dog tags from the Xplorer program in the National Parks across the country and amassed 11 of them despite visiting a lot more National Parks then that. Our National Park system is incredible and having an annual pass more then paid for itself several times over. I highly recommend.

Our favourite? Going to Levi National Park and finding a tag that felt custom made for our little explorer.

You know what else we found? A lot of weird ‘big’ things. Ya know, like big apples, and geese and a dime, and a nickel and lobster and moose.

So. Many. Moose.

Plus, the highways are riddled with signs warning drivers to be cautious of moose while driving, with the moose on the signs in Newfoundland looking especially formidable.

Guess how many real moose we saw?

One. Just one.

Thankfully we saw lots of other real-life animals too. Caribou in Port-aux-Choix, deer EVERYWHERE and a mama black bear and her two cubs at Riding Mountain in an incident a little too close for comfort even for this trail runner.

We found lots of smaller creatures like a bobcat near Thunder Bay, red foxes in PEI, mink in Michigan, black fox with a white tail in Newfoundland, Mississauga rattle snake in Bruce Peninsula, skunks, beavers and so, so many racoons in Nova Scotia. Most of them dead on the side of the road, but one adorable family was alive and well and looking mischievous.

Herons, pelicans, common gannets, cormorants, yellow finches, wild turkeys, peregrine falcons, bald eagles, quirky puffins and of course so many angry Canadian geese mixed in with a few million squawking seagulls.

We got some glimpses of whales and porpoises but have to go back because Kirk is dying to see a whale breach and that didn’t happen on this trip.

Vannessa did amazing. Far better then we ever imagined a 1981 Chevy Van would ever do. Other then adjusting a few things along the way, lots of oil top ups and a new wheel bearing, she preformed flawlessy. I mean, her window leaks a bit and the furnace cover won’t stay on, but that’s ok.

Oh. And she’s a guzzler. But we decided early on we weren’t going to worry about addressing her drinking habits right now as she is still able to function at a high level despite her indulgences. Her next family can host an intervention if they want her to change. We just practice harm reduction and love her as she is. She lost four out of five of her top front light covers, a fender, some trim pieces, and a sewage hose, but
don’t worry, Karma sent us another one that Kirk actually fished out of a dump station.

That’s my man.

As I was writing that last paragraph, we heard a pop, and the sound of sprinkling glass while barreling along the flat roads of Saskatchewan. The top front window took a rock from the grain truck ahead of us, and shattered, raining glass all over the bed and onto Levi at his spot at the table. Spoke too soon.

Good thing we only had a few more hours to go. A piece of scrap melamine and some duct tape and we Red-Greened it good enough to get home. Phew.

To sum:
35 days

9 Provinces

14980km with Vannessa + 2750km with a rental SUV for a total of 17730 km.

(If we include our BC trip in April, our total is 10 provinces with an additional 2500km for a grand total of 20 230km, or half-way around the world.)

17 hours on three different ferries.

A 4 hour bus ride

5 people in 147 square feet.

More $ in fuel then we ever imagined with prices ranging from 1.25/L in Michigan to 2.10/L in Northern Ontario and Vannessa guzzling 24L/100km. We aren’t even going to bother with that calculation.

Countless bags of Spitz.

One long playlist.

One big country.

One pretty great family.

How do you train for a 240 mile race?

The short answer is: You can’t.

The long answer is much more complicated. And it’s full of a LOT of unknowns. I read up on every bit of training theory on multi-day runs, watched a couple documentaries on 200’s and followed the Moab 240 Facebook group to glean some wisdom from previous finishers. Then I thought long and hard about what kind of experience I wanted to have leading up to the biggest race of my life and very quickly decided that there was no one right way to do this and I was just going to enjoy the journey.

What was my ultimate goal with training? Get to the start line feeling happy and healthy.

I’m just a few days away from toeing the line and am so happy to report that I’ve done exactly that.
Getting ready for this race has been years in the making, ever since we spent a few days in Moab on the way to run Rim2Rim2Rim of the Grand Canyon. I was enamored with the Mars-like landscape and wild canyons and of course had to Google “Trail Races in Moab”. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when Moab 240 came up. I knew immediately where I wanted to set my sights.

At the time I was training for my first 100 miler at Sinister 7 in 2019 and lacked the confidence needed to even think about something as big as 240. But as I sat at the finish line at Sinister looking at my newly earned belt buckle I asked myself if I could turn around and do another 100 miles. My answer was an unwavering yes.

Moab up next.

We all know there was a lot about the next few seasons that didn’t go as planned. And although I technically got into the race for 2021 off the waitlist, it was only a few weeks before the race and I wasn’t even sure how covid regulations would impact my trip so I passed up the spot and hoped to get in on the lottery for 2022. I did a couple more 100 mile (plus) distances and lots of high volume and was pumped to get in for this year.

I settled on a training plan that felt very manageable, and similar to what I had used for training for 100 milers. High volume is important to get your body adapted to the high stress needed for race day, but pushing too far has diminishing returns. Eventually you spend more time trying to recover from big training efforts and you are no longer building your capacity, and may even be overtraining. I liked that this plan had a few big days and weeks built in, but that overall I just needed to be consistent and stay
healthy. There was also a lot of flexibility within each day for how long I should plan to run, dependent on recovery needs and time constraints, which meant that some weekdays days, if all that I got in was a 6k, instead of a 16k, that was ok, at least I got out. Most days I aimed for the big number on the plan, but it was also really important to me to recognize that the body doesn’t count miles, it counts overall stress. And with a full time job, three kids (with their own busy schedules), a masters degree (nearly done), race directing Run On, co-leading Trail Sisters, and a cute dog that demands snuggles, I have plenty of other things to juggle on top of training.

I worked in a few races and big mountain days during my training to make the journey more interesting and because I love getting out with my incredible run family. I also had to somehow work in a five week hiatus to my training right when I should’ve been building, thanks to another once in a lifetime journey this summer with our 35 day road trip across Canada in Van-nessa. (Worth it!)

So, how did it look? How do we answer the unanswerable question about how to train for a 240 mile race?

I averaged about 100km weeks of running, and aimed for 1500-2000m elevation gain. My peak weeks took me closer to 150km and maxed at 4000m elevation gain. I worked in one speed session per week to build aerobic capacity, and had one or two days a week with double runs to build volume, which was pretty easy to do thanks to shorter runs with my son’s afterschool run club and 5-7km Thursday sessions leading Trail Sisters. I cross train with road biking, either on the trainer in winter or bike commuting
when I can once the snow clears. While I still maintain strength sessions as best I can, I generally struggle to find the time for weight training when I’m already spending so much time running. So instead, I focused on mini-strength sessions throughout my day with things like lunges after a run or a couple sets of core or upper body before bed.

My longest run this training session was 100km at Klondike Ultra in June, but I made sure to build on that by following up with a 120km bike in Banff the next day to simulate long days on tired legs without burning out with high impact.

I also had plenty of big back to backs, like Iron Legs Mountain Race on Saturday followed by leading a Trail Sisters mountain summit on Sunday.

Or Assiniboine Pass followed by a brutal road run early the next morning.

The best simulation for a multi-day was at Golden Ultra Stage Race which had me feeling faster and better with each day of the race and was a nice peak to my training for Moab.

While my training plan was 20 weeks on paper, my actual training has been going on for years. Muscle and cardio strength can develop quickly but soft tissue strength is a much slower process. The body needs a long time to adapt to withstand high volume without suffering soft tissue injury. Thanks to years of consistency and bit of good luck, I have avoided injury leading up to this race and have generally maintained good energy levels. I say ‘generally’ because I did struggle with loss of my period and fatigue at times last year, however a couple diet and lifestyle changes helped me get my period back and have kept my energy levels high throughout these last six months.

But enough about training theory and numbers. As always, I’m far more interested in the other side of this ridiculous sport called ultra running. Or in the case of Moab, mega-ultra-ridiculous-can’teven-wrap-my-head-around-that-distance-‘running’. The enormity of 240-miles is mind-blowing to me even though I am the strongest I have ever been. As I pour over the race manual and study the map, I can hardly fathom how I will hit Shay Mountain Aid Station at 120miles (193km) at my longest distance
yet, and will only be half way done the race.

Half. Way.

I will likely see four sunrises, maybe even five.
Will climb the equivalent elevation gain of Mount Everest (8800m) and cover the distance from
Edmonton to Canmore (383km). I will go 12 or more hours between seeing my crew and will encounter weather conditions ranging from blistering exposure in the desert basin (hitting 30’C) to snow and extreme storms in the La Sal Mountains (as low as -7’C). All while carrying minimum 3L of water, and a few pounds of food, clothes and safety gear on my back.

There is a reason the race manual says “This is an Endurance Run, not a race. As such this is not considered a competitive event, but rather a life accomplishment”.

And it’s way to much to think about all at once. Whenever I do, it all feels too overwhelming. And that is where the psychological side of this training comes in. It is too easy to let self-doubt swallow you whole. I guarantee that every single racer that will stand at that start line on Friday
morning will struggle with imposter syndrome. Who am I to think that I can do this? I’m not some elite athlete, I’m just some soccer mom that likes to run. Easy to think I have no business being there. That is just one of the many lies I combat every time I think of the magnitude of 240 miles.
Instead of giving into self-doubt, I am choosing strategies that strengthen me and will propel me forward. A lot of those strategies require the acceptance of dichotomies.

Both/And.

I worked hard for this and deserve to be there.
AND this is an incredible privilege I am not worthy of.

I am strong.
AND I am devastatingly fragile against these harsh elements.

I can choose an attitude that rises above the discomforts of the moment
AND its gonna hurt like hell and be a constant battle to ignore the pain.

I choose to remain curious, humble and embrace each stage of the journey.
AND I need to be vigilant and aggressively solve problems as they arise.

I will enjoy the beauty in the people and scenery around me.
AND I will want it to end so I can be done and return to comfort.

Other strategies are to break it down to make sections feel more manageable. That may require thinking of the race in chunks, breaking it down by days, sections with pacers, or between aid stations. Or even smaller if needed and tackling each kilometer, distance between trees or even by seconds. Like Amy Alain said, ‘you can do anything hard for 60 seconds’ The crazy thing is, time passes at the same rate whether I am sitting on my couch watching Netflix or if I am running 383km. I can go without the Netflix, but I don’t want to miss a thing out there on the trail.

The strategy that is already bringing me the most joy, and I am certain will carry me through some dark hours, is the incredible support around me. In addition to the messages and encouragement from friends who may think I’m crazy, but still think its cool, I have a phenomenal team joining me.

This would not happen without them.
I don’t even think I fully asked Nolan, he just unhesitatingly said yes when I said I could use some help for the hardest section of the course. An accomplished runner himself, the timing felt right in his life to join us to experience an event like this.
I didn’t formally asked Denise either, she was just always a given. Unwavering in her
commitment to the sport and her friendships, I know she is 100% dependable and the perfect companion for a long time on the trail.

And of course, Tania, cause it would be weird to go on an adventure without her. Even though this is a huge ask from her, and for her support system that fills in for her, she seems so excited to be joining and I know she is exactly who I want out there with me for the experience.

Holding all this together is Kirk, crew chief and rockstar husband that has not only been fully supportive of my training, he is now taking the time out of his newly (and unexpectedly) rearranged life to get me there and take charge of the incredibly difficult job of keeping me held together and moving forward.

This definitely wouldn’t have happened without him. Thanks hun

The best part is that we are planning to have him pace me for the last section, about 30km to the finish line. It will be at an agonizingly slow pace. But together we will shuffle to the finish line where my kids and parents will be waiting. This is their race too, they’ve all put in work and sacrifice to support me to get here and they all get sweaty hugs even though they will squirm away and tell me I smell terrible.

I’m ready.

I can never be ready. Another dichotomy.

I’m excited. I’m terrified.
At peace. A bundle of nerves.

It’s kinda like those days towards the end of your pregnancy, where all that hard work of pregnancy is behind you, and although there is so much unknown ahead, you are ready to get on with things cause you know the journey is going to be amazing.

I wanted to write this ‘before’ because I know that once its all over, I will see everything so differently.
Those days in the desert will change me. Kinda like how becoming a parent changes you. Parenting is far more incredible, and far more difficult then you could ever begin to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.

I suspect running 240 miles will be a similar experience

I’m ready.
Yep. I’ll leave it at that.

101 hours, 22 minutes, and 57 seconds. 240 miles of forward motion.

When asked what it felt like, my only answer is “Everything”. It felt like everything jammed into 4 days. All the joy and all the misery you can imagine. All the beauty, laughter, exhaustion and awe. All my strength and all my overwhelming weakness. All the incredible highs and all the crushing lows had me curled in the fetal position on sharp desert rocks. And the views. Oh, the views. It was everything.

Everything in 101 hours, 22 minutes and 57 seconds.  

Time expands and contracts out there, sometimes crawling as slowly as my painful shuffle and other times flying by as quickly as the moonrise over the dessert.

The timer started at 6 am on Friday morning. 250 of us, standing at the start line, reciting the “Destination Trail Pledge” that states “If I get hurt, lost or die out there. It is my Own, Damn, Fault.” A volunteer zip-ties the spot tracker on the shoulder of my pack, as if they are locking down the restraining device on a rollercoaster to say, “Hold on for the ride of your life.”

I smile at the woman beside me. Her name is Lucy from California, and she too is nervous, even though she has done an impressive number of 200+ mile races before. She tells me it is incredible, and totally worth it.  I hope she is right.

I wave bye to Kirk in the darkness, and we are off, weaving through the town of Moab before heading up the mesa that towers over the sleeping town. I enjoy those early hours, the ‘free miles’, passing them with easy chatter with a woman named Linda from Toronto, who did her PhD in Edmonton. We know several of the same local runners and toss around stories of our run community back home. The sun rises and we come to the first aid station where I lose Linda, don’t see her again until after the race where we met on Facebook. This becomes my story. Connect with others, the lose them just as quickly, weaving our journeys at our own pace.

I share some miles with a young guy, who tells me he plans to finish in 48 hours as the youngest racer to complete the race. It is his first ultra race, and he is confident he can maintain the pace needed to blow the course record away. He asks if I have any advice. I tell him, “Stay humble. Stay curious. I wish you all the best”. I think I see him several hours later sleeping on the trail, and I’m sad to see he is listed as DNF. This distance has a way of keeping you humble, no matter your age.

At about 27 km I get to see my crew for the first, and last time on day one. I can’t find Kirk and Nolan in the chaos, but instead focus on what I can do until they get there. I debate continuing without seeing them, but thankfully, Nolan comes running across the parking lot, my recovery drink in hand. He grabs my pack, frantically apologizing for being late, citing a glitching spot tracker and heavy traffic. I tell him its ok, this is a long game, not a Nascar pit stop.

The day heats up on the next stretch to Basecamp. My phone fills with excited selfies of me and another cool rock, but each time I’m disappointed that the photos don’t do it justice.

So I settle in to enjoy it anyway, taking it slow and loving that the miles still feel easy. The last thing I want is to get heat stroke on the first day, and my strategy to stay covered, (with my super dorky desert hat and beautiful arm sleeves) seem to do the trick as I never once felt the sun-baked raw skin I feared.

Basecamp aid station fills with runners sprawled out in small patches of shade, many of them nauseous from the heat. I stop briefly to admire the giant tortoise that lives there, watching as he moves slowly through the sand, impervious to the heat. He too knows the secret to surviving the desert; go slow, pace yourself.

I pass some miles with two Wall Street executives, who tell me that many of their colleagues are also drawn to extreme sports. I love collecting these tidbits of information from each racer I pair with. Peter’s wife taxidermized a racoon, Sean makes the concrete forms that surround a casket in the ground, Jared has two cats that are 18lbs and look like leopards. You need to run on John Park’s right-side cause he can’t hear from his other ear thanks to years at the gun range and John Duncan Clark got his middle name because his mom loves Dunkin Donuts. Nikki once slept behind a Dollarama while doing a 350 mile ultra by Lazarus Lake and Dexi is running in memory of her dad; she got her adventurous side from him. “He would love this” she tells me, and a lump forms in my throat. Even though we are a rare breed of ultra-runners, we are all painfully normal humans, just out for a run in the desert.

A medic waits at the bottom of the Jackson’s Ladder Descent as we carefully pick our way down the mesa wall to the bottom of the canyon, and I realize I am slightly off course. I make a self-deprecating joke to a man nearby wearing bright shorts with rubber duckies on them, it’s John Dunkin Donuts Clark, and we will end up spending several more hours together after the sun sets, but for now, I put in time alone, appreciating the dropping temperature and drinking in all the desert views.

When I pause to help a runner that has run out of water, I match up with John again and we stay together through the Oasis aid station and onto Indian Creek, about seven hours to end the first day.

We don’t pause long at the Oasis before I pull John away from the snack table and back into the night. There was something about the way he sprinkles the conversation with ‘dear’ and easy laughter that made the night pass effortlessly, and before I know it, we are at Indian Creek where John was a true gentleman and let me use the tent with the toilet bucket first. Classy right? Unfortunately, this is where I lose him as my excited crew pulls me to the truck to regroup before the next section. We peel off my socks to examine the toll the glass-sharp sand had taken on my feet. To my dismay there are several blisters already formed and I know this will be my nemesis for the rest of the race. I have never struggled with blisters before, so this is uncharted territory. I entrust Nolan to clean, dry and tape them up and then sleep for an hour and a half. Kirk wakes me with his bright headlamp, telling me it is time to go. I’m completely disoriented but remembered the mantra I’ve rehearsed for this moment.

“Keep starting”.

Nolan’s fresh energy is contagious as we leave Indian Creek, and we spend the first few miles getting caught up on what had transpired so far. As the sun rises, the trail has us weaving through the Canyonlands, past chimney stack rocks and through washed out valleys with difficult to follow paths. I am thankful for Nolan’s GPX on his watch keeping us on the right path and we rescue several other runners that have missed turns. No one needs bonus miles out here.

By mid-morning, we make it to the Island aid station where I down a huge plate of bacon, eggs and hashbrowns while a young volunteer medic named Conner fixes up my feet. He and his sweet dog, Pepper are from Wyoming, and he tells me it is his birthday. I ask what makes him want to spend his birthday fixing up people’s disgusting feet. He smiles, and just says he loves it. Pepper sticks close for snuggles, hoping for some dropped bacon even though his dad says it’s not allowed. I beg for Pepper to join me to Bridger Jack, and Conner just laughs. He doubts my sincerity.

Leaving the Island, we begin the long, slow ascent to Bridger Jack along a narrowing canyon wall that ends with a stunning view to appreciate how far you’ve come. The day was scorching, so we keep it slow and steady, taking in lots of salt tabs and water to stay ahead of dehydration. It’s common to pass other runners laying in small bits of shade under a rock, trying to find reprieve from the heat. Some look in rough shape, so we always check in; getting weak smiles and waves in reply, dismissing our offers to help. This is just part of the journey, and the strange human that willingly signs up for this seems to embrace the suffering without complaint.

Bridger Jack aid station means we have hit the 100-mile mark and were about to begin a very challenging section of the course heading up to Shay Mountain. (For my Alberta friends, picture running Sin 7 and THEN starting Leg 6). I make sure to take my time with this re-group, eating two burgers, re-examining my feet and enjoying the giggles of a little girl volunteering with her dad. It’s getting harder to re-energize with each new start, but I rally with a smile and pull myself out of the chair yet again.

Keep. Starting.

Mercifully, the sun was losing its power and we begin a descent into a lush valley with technical winding trails and all new terrain yet again. Moab is full of surprises. Of course, to add further challenge to my day, my nose starts to bleed, dripping down my hands and mixing with the orange dust on the road, making it difficult to breath for the rest of the race as my nose fills with dried, dusty blood.

A long, wash out section with next to no flagging and lots of creek hopping has us both frustrated at how our progress had slowed. Nolan paused for a pee break and takes a wrong turn, leaving me on my own for about 45 mins as the trail grows dark. I trust he will find me again, and indeed he does, apologizing profusely. Thank god I don’t have to go into the night alone.

Knowing that the ascent up Shay Mountain is brutal helps me steel for the climb ahead. Thanks to encouragement from Nolan, I dig deep and power up the long and technical trail. I turn on my playlist, but to my dismay realize that only a few songs out of 12 hours of music have downloaded, leaving only a handful of songs on repeat. Oasis, over and over in my head:

“All the roads we have to walk are winding”.

Exhausted, I sit down to eat a handful of candy and my whole-body screams ‘Lie down’. Nolan scrambles to find a softer place, maybe pull out my bivy sack. But I told him no. “Right here. Right now. Just like this. Wake me in ten.”

 “There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know how…Afterall, you’re my Wonderwall” My body rests but my brain does not.

The break is enough to renew my push up the trail to the summit. The cruel and unusual reward of climbing a mountain at night is you never know what you should be seeing. All I knew was the trail took a downward turn and the hardest part of the night is over.

There comes a time in an ultra where you have the choice to hold your emotions in or keep moving forward. You can’t have both. So, as we crested the top of the mountain I start to cry. I choose forward motion over suppressed emotions. Nolan is at a loss, checking that they were happy tears “Yes, of course” and gives me a quick hug.

My brain struggles to fill in the complicated gaps in sensory input I am unable to process. Hallucinations creep in to confuse me; a rock morphs into a chicken, a stump becomes a teapot, people and creatures jeering at me from the trees, shifting position as I pass. Even though I keep reminding myself it isn’t real, I still have to ask Nolan a few times for confirmation, each time his answer a patient “It’s just a rock”.

I had been warned the descent off Shay was followed by another relentless gravel road climb up to the aid station that was more than a little heartbreaking, and indeed it was. So, when I reach the aid station, after nearly 20 hours on the trail with Nolan, I cry again as Kirk, Tania and Denise meet me, the girls in cute onesies after volunteering for hours already that night. I wasn’t the only one who was bleary eyed and exhausted.

I had been told the race started and ended at Shay. If you could get there, you would finish, but your position meant nothing until you got there. I congratulated myself on making it halfway, resisting the nagging thoughts that I was already 11 miles past my previous furthest distance, and I was still only half way. While I slept for a few hours, warm in the truck, Kirk sat outside in temperatures below zero and shivered so I could get some rest; sacrificing his own comfort for my race. He was nearly hypothermic as he helped me and Denise (my next pacer) get ready to go. Nolan long ago showered and back at our cabin in Moab, fast asleep.

Half. way.

I had already hallucinated, bled, roasted, froze, climbed, descended and surpassed my furthest previous distance, all on blistered, bandaged feet.

Zero thoughts of quitting.

I just had to put everything I had already done behind me, start fresh and do it all over again.

And fast. The clock keeps on ticking.

Read the rest of the story here.

I pull myself out of my warm sleeping bag in the back of our truck and say goodbye to Kirk in the freezing night air. Here we go again. Keep starting.

Denise was the perfect pacer for the next 50km section after the difficult push to Shay Mountain. We giggle our way down a windy rocky trail while the sun rises over the desert below.

Our humour matches the absurdity of the trail finds along the way; a head of lettuce, a smiling tarmac bunny, a foot.

As the day heats up, we pass a kid sitting in the small patch of shade under a scraggly tree in the middle of nowhere. He announces that there is a joke sale happening today and wonders if we are interested in a joke. We enthusiastically agree, nervous that we have not brought any money for such a timely sale. He points down the trail and says his sister will provide us with the joke; he is just the salesman. A girl, about 8 years old, in a chair near an equally scraggly tree with a sign that reads “Joke Sale” and another one she flips over to say “Go Girl!”. She again, asks if we would like a joke. The suspense is killing us. Deadpan, she delivers.

“What happens when you go running behind a car?

You get, EXHAUSTED.”

We die laughing. She remains deadpan. Her mother waves from a trailer 20 meters away, a knowing smile on her face.

We make good time on the flat gravel road to Dry Valley and again, beat our crew there by a few minutes. But there was no way I am leaving before they get here, I have been looking forward to this moment for days. My parents and kids had come to Moab the day before and were spending their time exploring, playing in the pool and waiting to see me. I had a deal with my mom that no matter what she saw, she was not allowed to ‘mom’ me and tell me to stop. She doesn’t. She brings her usual unconditional love and beaming smile. They are as excited as I am to reunite, and their hugs bring renewed energy. Katie tells me that my dorky desert hat is actually a trend and she knows lots of kids that wear something similar. Wait, what?!

I check in with a few friends, John the cop and Lucy from the start line, and hug my family goodbye before Denise and I continue down the hot gravel road again. I realize I forgot to thank Kirk and regret it for many hours. I can see he is stressed over crewing responsibilities, and I suspect he has slept less then I have so far. Taking care of someone running is as exhausting as running. I know this from experience, and I don’t take him for granted, but I know I didn’t show my gratitude well at this last busy stop.

Our laughter continues, helping mask the pain in my swollen feet as the road turns from gravel to pavement, the day growing hotter by the minute. Thunder crashes in the distance with a storm cloud over the La Sal mountains, but no reprieve comes our way. As we come within view of the Needles Aid Station many hours later and I pick up my speed to a quick run, amazed at how good it actually feels to shift out of the usual shuffle. We come up behind a fellow runner named Elliot, whom we had been playing leapfrog with for hours. I playfully yell that it’s a race, and he clearly understands the assignment, picking up his pace to sprint the last several meters into the aid station, all of us in full laughter, high fiving and jostling to get to check in first.

Nolan and Tania wait for me at the Needles Aid Station where they have volunteered for several hours, both to help out and to get another chance to see me and trade off pacers. Tania gets ready to join me for the next 50-mile section and it is time to say goodbye to Denise. Love her.

The Needles isn’t considered a sleep station, but they have a few cots in the medical tent so I hobble over to get my swollen feet up in the air. Someone brings me a burger, my meal of choice, and I start to shiver, even though the day is roasting. Tania helps cover me with some blankets. The lovely Conner and Pepper from the Island appear. I joke that he looks older and wiser then from the last time I saw him, and he just smiles and offers to check my feet. Pepper hops on the cot with me and Nolan comes to check my pulse to make sure my vitals are still ok despite my uncontrollable shivering. My eyes grow heavy and his face becomes blurry. I feel the burger slips out of my hand and Pepper jump down to follow it. Connor quietly announces he is done tending to my feet, his kindness as comforting as the blanket I am wrapped in.

But this is not a sleep station and there are only two cots that are reserved for runners needing medical attention. I can sense another runner hovering, waiting for a cot. I forced my eyes open and throw off the blanket, mumbling that I was just leaving; they could lie down. Keep starting.

I was off with Tania, each new start slower than the last as my right Achilles seems to tighten up ever since the ascent up Shay. But we are so excited to finally get some time to catch up; conversation comes easily as usual. I apologize she wouldn’t be getting much running, that most of my movement is as fast a march I can muster, with only a few bursts of running here and there. My energy begins to fade about halfway through the section to Road 46 even though it is not a difficult stretch. The sun starts to set on my third day out there. She opens her phone and shows me a hilarious video some friends back home had sent. I start to cry. Partly tears of joy at their support, but also because I feel so overwhelmed. Here we were, extremely remote and alone. And yet hundreds of people who are watching my location knew exactly where I am. I worry they will wonder what is taking me so long, or why I am not moving faster.

“All the lights that light the way are blinding” Ah, that British angst still propelling me forward.

I wish others can see what I am seeing. The way the full moon rises so quickly, or the way each strange red rock is surprisingly unique. I want to share this beauty with everyone that bothers to check my spot tracker location. And yet, I wouldn’t wish the pain in my feet on anyone. That is mine alone. You only get this after putting in the time.

Road 46 Aid Station has a Canadian theme, including Thanksgiving dinner fixings to celebrate the holiday I am missing back home. We beat our crew again by a few minutes, thanks to a quickened pace at the end, so I grab soup and sit down around the fire with other racers. The circle is quiet; tired runners with tired smiles, sharing stories and offering kindness. We hear the truck pull into the parking lot, so I take my soup, wish them well, and hobble to my crew. Another nap, this time a solid 90 minutes, and I wake up starving. Kirk hands me coffee and a big bowl of oatmeal with a smile and says “Good morning”.

It’s 11pm.

I’m happy him and Nolan will get to go back to the cabin for a full nights sleep as I know Kirk is exhausted and I hug him extra long, thanking him and apologizing for not showing my gratitude at Dry Valley. Tania and I head off into the dark, cold night again for the hardest section of the race. It will be nearly 20 hours before I see them again.

The night brings the long slow ascent to Pole Canyon as we head to the La Sal mountains. I assume the view is beautiful in daylight, but all we get are stars and a full moon. The temperature drops dramatically as the elevation increases and we scramble to put on every bit of clothing we have packed with us. I worry it is not enough.

We pass the time by playing ridiculous counting and alphabet games to keep my mind sharp against the effects of sleep deprivation. “I’m going on a trip and taking Asphalt, a Baby, some Cutlery and Doritos” building on each topic until each repetition eats up several minutes of concentration. We switch to telling stories of first loves and high school sweethearts; the ones that got away. How strange to hear those long-forgotten names float through the desert air. We get passed. Again. This time by Wilco from Halifax. We chat briefly and our pacers gain ground, the difference in our energies noticeable. He wishes me well and catches up with his pacer and I hit a new low. Cold, exhausted and near tears, I tell Tania I need a rest. We pull out my bivy sac and I crawl in, oblivious to the cold rocks below me. Tania slips me a Tylenol and a caffeine pill, sets a timer for 15 mins and I disappear. She is frozen. I can’t imagine the agony she endures while watching the clock, wanting to give me rest but also wanting to move to stay warm. She wakes me and we are both shivering. I stand and wrap the bivy around my shoulders like a shawl. we keep marching. The gradual ascent continue.

The sky begins to lighten and we notice a significant change in the environment. Colourful deciduous trees replace cactus and desert shrubs. Welcome to the La Sal mountains.

Our timing could not have been more perfect as we hit the east side of the south mountains just as the sun peaks over the horizon at Pole Canyon Aid Station, lighting the sky and allowing us to see a mama deer and her two babies guarding the entrance to the tent.

I collapse on the medical cot and a kind volunteer hands me a breakfast sandwich I manage to stuff into my face before falling asleep for a half hour. I wake up to find Tania sitting around the fire, my pack ready to go. She hands me a coffee and invites me to sit to chat with Seana and her dog Daphne. We’ve met at an earlier busy aid station, but now we are the only runners here and her full attention is on us. She asks me my ‘why’ and I start to cry, telling her about those I’ve lost and how one day, two years ago I nearly lost my own life. She then asks me why I’m still sitting there instead of going to see my incredible crew and family. Good point. Bye Daphne. Thanks Seana.

Its daylight now and I’m refueled and ready to go to Geyser Pass, the hardest section of the entire course. Massive aspens, golden leaves, and an unforgiving rocky trail for hours and hours on end. We continue telling stories about people we know with alphabet prompts. L for Lehman, N for Nikki. S for Scott. Our pace is agonizingly slow despite my best efforts. Hours pass without seeing another soul and the race starts to feel surreal. Were we even on course anymore?

Tania tells me later it may be the hardest thing she has ever done. So slow. So beautiful. We crested at over 10 000+ ft (3200m). And were rewarded with views of the whole course. Arches, Canyonlands, Shay in the distance and it’s hard to believe how far I have come. Even harder to believe how far I still have to go. We get cell reception and a text comes to Tania from our friend Thomas so she calls him. He gets me laughing and I offer him my own joke sale for the day. Totally nailed it.

I ask him to ask how far I have gone and he obliges. Both of us are incredulous at the answer. But then it hits me. I have nearly 100km still to go.

The narrow and overgrown trail makes using poles impossible but not using poles feels even more impossible. I sit down on a log and burst into a deep heartsob. Tania gives me a snack, and lays me down on the side of the trail for another 15 minute reprieve.

It helps. Just. Keep. Starting. We get passed, again and again. Sometimes by people I assumed were way ahead of me. Sometimes by people I’ve never seen before. I give up caring about my finishing time. We didn’t account for this. No one could prepare for how the trail, the elevation and the distance would impact my pace.

The relentless trail finally spits us out onto a gravel road. A guy named Jared hits the road the same time we do. I will get to know him well soon enough, but for now, he pushes past me, says it’s a half mile to the aid station and time to move. He is wrong. It’s nearly two miles, and a steep climb up the road, but I find a new gear and push with renewed strength. Grateful for easy footing and steady climb. Tania drops back, frustrated and exhausted. I’m sorry.

I don’t know where this burst came from but I’m going with it. I just want to see Kirk. The truck drives by, cheering. My throat closes with emotion but I’m still breathing hard so it comes out in wheezes. Kirk runs back to walk me in the last few hundred meters and I can hardly talk, can only pet the dog that has come to say hi. I check in, thankful for a proper outhouse and another burger. Tania emerges from the bathroom and we share a long hug. That was hard, but that’s nothing compared to the journeys we have shared before. I couldn’t have done it without her.

I lay down for another 45 minutes but I don’t sleep. I can hear my crew outside the truck, it’s too light out, and I’m too jacked up from hitting 200 miles. I channel my frustration into checking out of the aid station and marching down the road to take on the next section with Nolan again as my next pacer as the sun sets on day 4. I hope Tania can get some rest after our long journey; I feel we have a lot to process to figure out what happened out there. But for now, Nolan and I hit some single track and I’m surprised at how good the climbs feel. We pass the glowing eyes of cows and deer, watching us from just off the trail and I am thankful that big predators are rare here. “Hi Cows”.

The trail ends onto a gravel road descent where I maintain good energy and even manage to run a fair bit (although I’m sure Nolan might feel differently about my definition of ‘run’ at that point!). I am happy with my progress, the stars and the views of the La Sals behind us. The end feels in sight.

Ahead I see a cluster of headlamps on the side of the road. I’ve seen this scene before when I have come up to a runner out of water, fixing their feet or pausing for a break while other runners stop to offer help or share comfort. This is the 200-miler attitude.

But this scene is different. Packs are ripped apart and the contents on the ground. The runner Jared, from Geyser Pass, and his pacer sound urgent, and they tell us “This is serious. Breathing emergency” Nolan jumps in “I’m a paramedic” and I’ve never been so relieved he was along with me. The other two have military experience and seem to know what they are doing so I stand back, leaning on my poles, taking in the scene and letting the severity of the situation sink in.

His name is Mark, and his airway is closing thanks to an allergic reaction. It is a pre-existing condition that has chosen the worst possible time to flare up. He is still talking and is leaning forward, saliva dripping from his mouth and calmly explains that the disassembled sunglasses arms can help keep his airway open, or the white plastic object on the ground can be used for an emergency tracheotomy.

What?? My mind explodes. I want out.

And yet I want to help. I stand, paralyzed outside the circle feeling like I have nothing to offer and reeling with my own re-lived trauma from a life threatening incident. Nolan is doing all the first responder things, asking the right questions and checking the scene. I can’t get a straight answer from Jared if they have contacted Race HQ or 911. Yes, they have, someone is on the way, but no they haven’t. Jared keeps trying to call and gets cut off. I watch as he hangs up, over and over. He tells me to call 911. But they have already confirmed that help is on the way. I’m confused. It occurs to me that Mark must be too. He must be terrified.

Co-regulate.

I can do that. I drop my poles and grab an emergency blanket strewn on the ground. I introduce myself, struggle to stay calm, wrap the blanket around his shoulders and sit close. Uncomfortably close for a stranger, but he doesn’t flinch. The healing power of touch is the best I can offer. As long as he is still talking and responsive I am happy to keep engaging.

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Genet”.

“Do you have kids?”

“4”.

“We will get you home to them”.

We call his wife. She sounds lovely and I advise she stay at Race HQ instead of trying to go to Porcupine Rim; a narrow 4×4 road she would never make in the dark. She agrees to wait in town to hear where he is going.

“Help is on the way, You are doing a great job staying calm.” I share some funny stories from the day with nothing to do but wait for help to arrive; distraction is a powerful tool. I joke about his 60 000 unread emails and offer to delete them for him, he says ‘Go ahead. Unsubscribe’.

I can see texts pouring in from his family. He is loved. He needs to get home to them.

His airway shifts and breathing becomes more difficult so Nolan secures the sunglasses arm down his throat and has him clench it between his teeth to keep his airway open. ‘Come on help, what is taking you so long?’ I wrap the blanket tighter when I see he is shivering a bit. Miraculously I’m not cold. I always get cold when I stop but not tonight. Help arrives in a speeding SUV and there is a flurry of activity. He asks for Nolan to go with him and I beg for the same, but the vehicle is jam packed with gear in the backseats and there is no room, so Mark climbs in the front seat, sitting backwards, saliva dripping onto the seat as he struggles to breath. I can’t imagine how terrified he must be, but he seems to remain calm. I reach out one more time through the window to wish him well, tell him I’m honoured to have met him. A part of me wants to climb in the seat with him. Not just for his comfort but for my own as well. The full force of the fragility of life hits me and I desperately want to feel safe. Somehow the front seat of that SUV feels like that safest place for both of us. I realize afterwards how much that activated my own trauma of fighting for survival in the backcountry. How quickly things could have turned for the worse. But I don’t dwell on that now. Instead, we pack up and keep marching with our new comrades Jared and Matt as Mark and the medic race to the waiting helicopter that will take him to the nearest hospital. I find out later he is on a ventilator for several days, but makes a full recovery.

We stick with them, chatting, debriefing, being sort of ridiculous for hours back and forth before their headlights disappear out of sight ahead. I am fading very quickly, falling asleep while walking and barely coherent as my adrenaline tanks. I’m seeing things in the trees again and force myself to stare at the ground at the squished dead snakes because everything in my peripheral vision feels too scary and overwhelming right now. I’m thankful for Nolan; his energy is still high. He is patient and considerate, wanting to help, counting down until I can have another regular Tylenol, even though that does nothing to touch the pain. In hindsight, I should have stopped to sleep again. But Porcupine Rim feels close (it wasn’t) and I am excited to see Kirk. He alternates between a thoughtfully downloaded playlist with many of my favourite artists, and conversation prompts to keep my mind busy. At one point I whisper “Nolan, I can’t talk. I’m sorry” I don’t need distraction, I need to ride this wave of pain to Porcupine Rim within myself, Mark still heavy on my mind. The night doesn’t feel safe and I want it to be over.

Illuminated ghosts hang in the trees, following me with haunted eyes, but this time it is real. We are only a few hundred meters from the last aid station; Porcupine Rim with its Halloween themed decorations. I keep my eyes down so I can only see the glow of my headlamp resisting the urge to stop and examine each ghost to make sure it isn’t actually following me.

We arrive at the aid station where Kirk has been volunteering and he is ready to pace me for the last section. I tell him I will need some time to rest before we go. I am thankful to make it there, but deep down I am still feeling a strange mix of scared and brave. I think I thank Nolan for getting me there and his expertise with Mark, but all I can think about is drifting off for my last short sleep before the finish. Forty-five minutes later, I ask, “What time is it?” Kirk says 3:45 and I stare at my watch and say “No, that is how far I’ve run” He says, “Its both” and Denise laughs her infectious laugh. Let’s finish this beast. I start for

the last time.

I down some noodles and my crew puts on my heavy pack one last time. Denise is beaming at me and reading me funny things from a group chat from our run family. Nolan is pumped, so excited to see me off. Kirk is ready and I realize later this is his longest distance ever and this world of required gear and headlamps is new to him and yet he doesn’t complain once. In fact, he has a lot of fun, making friends along the way; he is well loved, as always.

Before we leave, I stop to use the outhouse and scream at the giant purple glittery spider placed near the seat; a cruel joke to my fuzzy brain. The volunteers and Kirk laugh at my expense, but I tell them it is still better then using buckets from other aid stations and I don’t really care. Mostly I just like to hear them laugh.

The descent from Porcupine should have been easy since it is all downhill from here. It is literally one of the most beloved downhill mountain bike routes in the world with stunning views and techy descents. As the sun rises I can see the whole course I have just completed; the mesa, hidden valley, canyonlands, Shay mountain is barely visible on the horizon. Was that even real?

I can see the long stretch of desert with a joke sale (and probably some bodies) buried somewhere out there, and the towering La Sal mountains that seem plucked from another world and plopped in this otherworldly desert. And now here I am, picking my way down the quintessential Moab descent to the Colorado river and the finish line. I want this moment to be more enjoyable. I have envisioned this for years, ever since I first dropped Kirk off there three years ago so he could ride this descent. But yet here I am, and every step is agony. My feet are raw and the loose rocks on the descent fry my nervous system with each screaming step. Moving fast feels impossible and yet I am so frustrated to feel so slow at yet another section of trail. My goal of finishing under 100 hours disappears quickly, so I embrace a new goal. Just. Finish.

Kirk is attentive, reminding me to eat, drink, helping me adjust layers as the sun comes up and the day heats, pointing out views and taking pictures.

The Colorado river comes into view but still seems impossibly far down, and yet, like anything that feels impossible, if you keep moving forward, it gets closer. And soon it feels like I can reach out to touch that river. I can hear the roar of the highway and even see where the mountain bike trail meets the paved bike trail, but with a cruel twist of fate, there is one last canyon to navigate. Its huge boulders have me scrambling on all fours just to get past. If there is one thing that 200’s have taught me it’s this: Stay humble. I crawl and whimper my way down the last canyon, about as humble as I’ve ever been.

We hit the pavement for the final 5km bike trail back to town and I miraculously get a new burst of energy. This feels easy, so I drink it up. Running sub 6:30 kilometres at times and it all felt amazing. Weirdly, I am using muscles I haven’t used in awhile and the pain in my feet no longer feels so sharp on the pavement. Kirk, not as used to running, is frantically texting while running to see if people are at the finish line, letting them know I am coming in much sooner then my tracker has projected now that I have sped up.

With only a 100 m to go. Nolan comes running towards us, ecstatic, but says he doesn’t know where Tania and Denise are.

I stop briefly. I don’t want to finish with out them. Thankfully, they meet me at the corner, trying to run in flip flops on tired feet. I round the corner to the campground at the finish line and I see my parents and kids holding signs and blowing noisemakers. I can’t stop smiling and my heart rips apart and explodes in a million pieces.

I see the finish line arch where I stood four days, 5 hours and 27 minutes ago; a different person. I throw down my poles in excitement and suddenly it’s all over.

That’s it.

I grip my knees and look up to see my pacers and crew coming up behind me. This was my dream, but it would be foolish of me to think I did this alone. I dish out sweaty hugs and cry my way through my “After” mug shot.

I had mentally prepared myself for the journey, but not for this. Not for the end. I want to pause it all and sip slowly from this moment. Candice Burt calls me over to pick out my belt buckle but it feels like an impossible decision. A belt buckle means both nothing and everything after what happened out there.

Everything.

 Everything in 101 hours, 22 minutes and 57 seconds.

And a freakin cool belt buckle.

Missed part one about the first half of the race?

Read it here.

This same conversation has played out countless times.

Someone gushes, “Congratulations on finishing Moab 240! What a huge accomplishment”

“Thank you. It was incredible”

But my answer falls flat, like I’m doing a disservice to my experience by struggling to find an adjective big enough to encompass what happened out there.

Even a long post, telling my story in sequence, doesn’t begin to capture the intensity that comes with 240 miles. But that’s ok, it’s mine to wrap up and keep for myself. No one else needs to understand it.

However, I find the curiosity from others still engaging and even I am still trying to find answers to the questions others have. So here is my best shot at sorting through those questions.

Yes, I slept. About seven hours total. Three hours at once at the half-way point, and the rest broken into tidbits in the back of the truck or trail naps on the cold desert rocks.

Yes, I hallucinated. Nothing too severe since I slept frequently enough, but my mind played games with me, for hours at a time. Making me question each rock and the shifting shape I was sure I saw on the edges of my peripheral vision. A chicken. A teapot. Dogs and people. Illuminated ghosts, skeletons and purple sparkly spiders, but those were real. I think.

Yes, I ate everything. For the first time ever, I was able to maintain my caloric consumption strong until the finish. At least 8 burgers, two breakfast sandwiches, three stuffed quesadillas, two bags of baby potatoes, two bags of mashed potatoes, four servings of ramen, two bowls of oatmeal, a whole box of Seven Summit Snacks of bars, sugar coated gummy candies, sugar-coated cashews, dozens of applesauce packets, fruit I wished had 500 calories in it, a whole box of Science in Sport isometric gels and nearly three bags of F2C liquid nutrition (maltodextrin for the win!) and half a bag of F2C Recovery shake mix.

When I finished, I crushed a beer

I didn’t throw up and only felt a bit nauseated once. I stayed annoyingly hydrated and I apologize to everyone that saw me pee on the side of the trail.

The temperature swung from -2’C at Shay Mountain to at least 28’C on the first day in the Canyonlands. I wore the same incredible, custom-made shorts and arm sleeves from Earthgroove Activewear the entire time, adding layers once the sun set. I often had a toque and sunglasses and a headlamp on at the same time because that was the only way to stay prepared for everything when you are out there so long. Twice, I went 20 hours without seeing my crew and I’m sure my pacers got real sick of me.

The altitude of the course went from 1200m to 3100m, taking me higher than I have ever been in our Rockies back home, and giving a total elevation gain of 8800m, or the equivalent of Mount Everest. Much of that was done in two major climbs, first up Shay Mountain and then ascending into the La Sal mountain range to Geyser Pass where we were treated to completely new terrain and sweeping views of the entire course, Shay a tiny speck on the horizon, making me question if I was ever actually there.

The climbs were hard, but I had trained for that. It was the descents that were brutal and had me moving at a frustratingly slow pace. Particularly on the plummet down the famous Porcupine Rim mountain bike trail at the end where I was wincing with each step on raw and swollen feet.

Many people have told me they followed my tracker, checking in over Thanksgiving dinner and from hot tub parties, toasting my progress with five consecutive morning coffees and four evening wines. My pacers read me messages, showed me videos of well wishes and even called up friends for encouragement when we got into cell service. My favourite was the steady stream of jokes sent in and relayed to me as I pushed through the dark points with laughter as best I could. Humour is an incredibly powerful antidote to pain.

“What do you get when you run in front of a car?”

“Tire-d”

I kept my mind busy by counting to 100, playing games, telling stories, focusing on only the Km I was in, remembering loved ones and remembering my ‘why’. I rejected the analogy of a ‘pain cave’ and instead embraced it as a ‘pain wave’; knowing that the pain would rise, crest and fall and I would be ok. At times it would feel unbearable, or return at an alarming rate, but I always knew I could ride it out. This is the price of admission. You can’t have the fullness of the ultrarunning experience without accepting these lows, waiting for them to pass.

Although I hit some pretty emotional lows, I also hit a lot of highs, and I never once considered quitting. I wished that sections of trail would end or that aid stations would materialize quicker. I swore a lot and cried a few times and at times could no longer muster conversation. The lowest points were remedied with a cry, a snack and a nap, as though I was a toddler, but without fail I pulled myself back up to keep going.

My two favourite parts of this race were the views and the people. Believe me when I say the pictures don’t do it justice. Moab is incredible for the variety and novelty of its landscape. Every turn seemed to bring something new, whether it was a gravity-defying rock formation or the biggest vibrant yellow Aspens I’ve ever seen, I never got bored of the views and they kept me motivated to keep moving. Even though half of the race was spent in the dark, it was still spectacular thanks to a full moon and bright stars illuminating ever-changing rock formations on the horizon.

And of course, the people were amazing. I’m a true extrovert and being mid-pack meant I was in the party the whole time. The crowd that is drawn to 200 milers are a bit different than those I meet at most ultras. I was surprised how many people are addicted to the 200 distance and have formed their own supportive community that races together multiple times per year, many of them doing it without outside crew or pacers. The support and comradery out there is exactly what I adore about this sport and I was thankful Nolan and I could contribute to helping another runner while he had a breathing emergency from a pre-existing condition at mile 210. It meant some terrifying moments that ended with him being air-lifted to a nearby hospital to spend a few days on a ventilator, but I am grateful we were able to offer some comfort at such a crucial moment.

My favourite people out there though? Were my people. My pacers Nolan, Tania and Denise kept me safe, moving, laughing, entertained and engaged for nearly 150 miles, and even though they each only got a sampling of the whole experience, my race became their own, with their own unique challenges and experiences.

And of course the ultimate support was my husband Kirk, out there for the entire time, with minimal sleep and juggling the logistics of keeping me sorted, meeting me on time, delivering pacers, hot-tubbing, getting our kids and my parents to an aid station and even volunteering for several hours at the last aid station so he could complete the final 18-mile section with me. It occurred to me that this was his longest ‘run’ ever too, made all the more impressive that he did it on minimal sleep, with a 4 am start, on technical trail, with a heavy pack, and finished it off with what probably felt like a grueling 5k when he hit the paved bike trail and I was able to actually run at a normal pace to the finish line.

At the risk of sounding like I’m accepting a Grammy; ‘Thanks hun, I couldn’t have done it without you.’ But seriously, these things require a lot of support.

My quickened pace at the end had him frantically calling friends and family to make sure they were waiting at the finish line on time. My kids threw together a gorgeous poster and my pacers were running in sandals from the parking lot as I rounded the corner to the finish line where I was feeling all the love and intensity of the last 101 hours, 22 mins and 57 seconds.

A race like this is doable thanks to a generous cut off that allows you to move slowly or take breaks as your energy levels change. Sleeping, even for short stints, makes this a very different experience then 100k or 100miler races and I truly believe that a distance of this magnitude is within reach of many people. And it’s definitely an experience I highly recommend.

This sort of summary barely scratches the surface of my time out there. The full story, in sequence can be found here and here, although even that cannot capture the depth of the experience that can only be found when you push those limits for so long. In the meantime, I suppose this will have to do. I mean, the belt buckle helps too.

I have found trail runner paradise. The Disney land for dirtbags, the candy store for grown ups with an insatiable sweet tooth, the ultimate all inclusive luxury vacation for people who would rather chase summits, then go to the spa. TransRockies is the ultimate Summer Camp for Trail Running Big Kids.

I’ll be honest, I always looked at TransRockies as one of those things I would only do if I ever won the lottery, but not something I ever had on my race season radar. It’s a premium event with a premium price tag that didn’t feel within reach while raising three kids and shelling out for a master’s degree. But when Tania won a team entry through a social media contest and asked me to be her plus one, the lottery dream went from fantasy to reality. A quick check on the calendar showed that it coincided perfectly with finishing that degree, and was perfect training peak week before The Divide 200. Even better, there was several of our friends from Edmonton already on the roster. All the stars aligned.

Getting there was brutal. And I don’t mean the hours getting lost in the rain on a dirt road in the Colorado backcountry before finding our AirBnB before the race, although that was wild too. I mean the weeks and months leading up to getting on that plane were a grind. I started my degree in Counselling Psychology as a Covid project when time felt a little freer. But as life sped up again, navigating coursework and meeting deadlines became its own ultra. And for the last eight months I was also juggling an unpaid internship, my regular paid employment and busy kids schedules. Its an absolute privilege to earn that education and intern experience, but nothing about it felt easy. So when I hit submit on my final project, I felt like I had really earned a week of playing in the Colorado Rockies.

And wow, did I ever get to play.

Six days, 120 miles, 6000m elevation gain, 400 new and old friends, the best teammate, incredible catered meals, coolers of beer on ice, and a team of volunteers to make sure the whole thing runs smoothly. I was completely offline for 10 days other then a few check-ins with the family and didn’t spend one second thinking about work or school for the first time in years. I even read a novel. For fun. This is my absolute paradise.

Each morning buzzes to life with a hundred Garmin alarms and the sound of sleeping bag zippers. People shuffle to fill their run packs and prepare for the day. Tania and I were lucky enough to be there with several of our other run friends we affectionately call our Run Family from Edmonton. Jim, a Run Family member and one of the finest humans I know, leaves us coffee outside the tent.

We eat a delicious hot breakfast, throw our gear in our luggage, hit the potta potties and queue up at the start line. The song, always “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC to countdown and get everyone hyped to go. There’s nothing quite like the buzz of a start-line. Everyone adjusting their packs and chatting, shifting from side to side with nervous energy. Now imagine getting to do that day, after day, after day, with the same incredible people, for six days in a row. What a time to be alive…

The gun goes off and so do all 400 racers, to tackle between 20-40km of running, each day taking between 4-6 hours, with lots of stops for pictures, high fives and the occasional shot of liquid courage.

The course on Day 1 takes you through the scrubby, desert-like hills of Buena Vista with a couple of good views and adorable cacti that make this northern girl smile every time.

Every other day had us running through forests and and mountain trails more reminiscent of our Rockies back home in Alberta. A major highlight for me was on Day 2 going over Hope Pass at 3800m, a place I had wanted to go since I was nearby a couple years ago when helping a friend at Leadville100. Gandalf guarded the passage up top, and a volunteer passes me a shot of fireball before the stunning descent through Interlaken to Twin Lakes.

Bucket list item: A new highest elevation for me.

Day 2 ends in the iconic mining town of Leadville, a place almost exclusively kept alive by bike and trail races these days. Dinner is in the old gym, a sacred piece of ultrarunning history, and the start line the next morning takes us through town before heading up and over the mountains to the most beautiful camp spot of the week called Nova Guides by the abandoned military base called Camp Hale with rows of empty concrete bunkers used years ago for the 10th Mountain Division, now being reclaimed by nature and graffiti artists.

We got to spend two days at Nova Guides; each morning watching the fog roll over the lake, and at night, sitting around the campfire listening to live music and watching the stars come out.

Earlier that day, while out on the trail, Tania had shared a story about her late husband Trevor, how he used to sing a lullaby to their babies at bedtime “Rock me mama like the wind and the rain, rock me mama like a southbound train. Hey…mama rock me”. This trip was Trevor’s bucket list. Something he and Tania had talked about doing together one day. The woman with the guitar at the fire starts singing the song, as if she knows the story, as if Trevor whispered “Sing It” it to let Tania know that he was there too. I realize that I am a stand-in teammate for someone else’s dream. I am reminded again at the fragility of life and how nothing is permanent. Grief is not permanent. Neither is beauty. Not even that perfect moment under the shooting stars in the Colorado mountains. The moment passed too soon.

On Day 4 we end in another tiny town called Red Cliff, aptly named for how it is nestled in…you guessed it, some red cliffs. The finish line is set up just outside a bar called Mangos where a taco buffet and margaritas wait for us, in case we need another excuse to sit around and celebrate being alive.

Leaving Nova Guides and Red Cliff for Day 5 takes us over a mountain range and on to Vail Ski Resort. The chairlifts hang awkwardly strung across the bare slopes waiting for snow to fall, but for now, there is no free ride, we have to work for those same views.

We pick our way across the ridge to hit the aid station, the town of Vail below us. Tania was a ways behind me, and as a team we aren’t allowed to pass checkpoints without each other so I sit down and wait. This has been the story all week, but I don’t mind. I’m excited. It’s not a hardship to wait on the top of a mountain. Smiling and chatting with every other racer out there, whooping at the views, dancing with the volunteers.

Tania, on the other hand, is not able to enjoy her time out there as much due to pretty serious pain in her knees. She reaches the aid station and I can tell her smile is forced, but we continue together anyway, starting a long descent to the finish line. An especially dramatic fluffy weed catches my eye. It looks like an oversized white dandelion, its seeds begging to catch in the wind. I yell something ridiculous over my shoulder about the floofy weed as I’m flying down the hill but Tania doesn’t answer. I stop to look for her and see her farther up the mountain; hunched over on her poles. Miserable. In tears. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Not from her. We’ve been through so much and she has always been the strong one, the one that maintains a positive outlook and forges ahead with a resilience that only comes when you’ve already been through the worst. And yet here she is. The last few years have been a rollercoaster of knee pain, recovery and rehab for her, and taking on something as big as TransRockies was a bit of a Hail Mary move for her. Back-to-back long days are especially difficult if you have an injury because any inflammation that is happening doesn’t have time to dissipate or do its job to heal the problem area. And here she was on Day 5, really feeling the cumulative effects of it all.

We stop for a moment to regroup and of course everyone that passes us checks in to make sure everything is ok. Like always, she rallies, but I can tell she is ready for the day to be done; remember how nothing is permanent? That goes for pain too. Vail is in sight, but there is still a whole lot of descent to go before we get there. The sky opens up and we are quickly drenched by the storm clouds that have been building all afternoon. Lightening strikes a little too close for comfort, one more reason to celebrate being alive, and we both pick up the pace to finish quickly. Soaked to the bone. Completely and ridiculously alive.

The last day excitement felt exactly like the culmination of summer camp from when I was a kid. Tania was feeling a lot better and we cruised over 1400m and 36km in good time. The finish line buzzed with all the hugs and emotions of six days of running coming to a close. For many people, finishing TransRockies is a lifetime achievement far beyond what they once thought possible and the finish line feels were real. The party didn’t stop there though, the final night hosts a phenomenal banquet up the hill at Beaver Creek Resort and an after party that had us shutting the bar down with our new friends.

The trip left us physically tired but mentally and emotionally refreshed from the complete break in responsibilities. TransRockies takes care of every detail for the whole week, allowing you to really relax and enjoy the best parts of life; friends, nature, movement. For Tania, it was a finally realized dream started years before we ever met. For me, it was a bonus adventure to celebrate the huge milestone of finishing school and the perfect training week for my next endeavor. Stay tuned for The Divide 200…

When Alberta race director Brian Gallant announced that Sinister Sports was starting Western Canada’s first and only 200-mile race I was completely powerless to say no. Take all my money.

10 months later I was clinging to a relentlessly technical trail above Window Mountain Lake at 2 am, cursing Brian’s name, yelling ahead to my pacer Matthew that I would never give Sinister Sports another penny of my money ever again.

Such is the rollercoaster of multiday races.

When I first worked up the courage to attempt a 200 miler at Moab 240 in 2022, I thought that would be a once in a lifetime adventure. The time, effort, money and sacrifice needed to take on big races can feel pretty overwhelming at times, but what I didn’t account for was how much I would love the whole experience. I was barely recovered from my first multiday race and had already signed up for another.

The Divide 200.

A new race brings a lot of unknowns, there are no race reports to read, no videos, no previous finishers to stalk and question. Just a website and a course map that wasn’t even finalized when the race was first announced. But one thing I knew for certain was that I have what it takes to do it.

After a few weeks recovery following Moab, I spent much of the next year putting in the work to maintain my fitness and stay healthy. I don’t know if I saw dramatic improvements in my performance, but I know I can handle high volume and that I’m pretty consistent. I also had a perfectly timed peak week at Transrockies, so when September hit, I felt totally ready to go. Everything about this race felt more manageable than Moab 240 because I knew what to expect in a multiday race and I’ve run enough in the mountains of Southern Alberta that the trails felt familiar. The pre-race meeting felt like a who’s-who of the Alberta ultra running scene along with a few familiar names from big American races. I was feeling so lucky to know so many volunteers, racers, pacers and staff at this race, and I leveraged that throughout the week.

Spoiler alert, I almost quit at 180km, but knowing I had people all along the course ahead, waiting for me to come through, was enough to keep me motivated to finish this beast.

And it was truly a beast.

325km and 12000m elevation gain meant it was shorter, but had a lot more climbing then anything I’d done before. It also had a lot of trails that were far more technical then anything I’ve seen during a race before. Thankfully, the unpredictable September weather worked in our favour and we were gifted with clear blue skies and mild temps all week, making it pretty easy to manage the elements. But even with perfect weather, it was plenty tough out there.

We had been warned that the first 70km were going to be difficult, but it proved to be far more wild then I had envisioned. We climbed to La Coulotte Ridge where we spent hours and hours of up and down following the ridge. I was with my friend Samantha, another Edmonton runner, who had done that part of the course before and when I asked if we were almost done with the technical stuff; she laughed.

It went on forever, before giving us some easier trails to gain some time, and then the trail took a hard right and we were back at it again, headed up Table Mountain for more ridge running.

By now the sun was starting to set and I was getting worried about how the rest of the race might go. I could tell that I was already really behind on calories and hadn’t seen my crew yet to address the blisters I could feel forming on my feet. The first aid station was so early, and crowded that I really didn’t stop, and the second aid station after La Coulotte ridge didn’t offer the kind of real food I had been hoping for, nor did they have any foot care supplies. So by the time I got to see Kirk for the first time I was starving, my feet were in rough shape and I had already been on the trail for 14 hours, already a few hours behind schedule thanks to the very technical and slow trail. Maybe some people are better at it then me, but steep shale descents and sections of trail that require both hands and big step ups to get over had me moving pretty slowly. And the primal part of my brain that remembers fall trauma keeps me pretty cautious on any area that feels like unstable footing. On top of all that, I somehow made the rookie mistake of having a woefully inadequate headlamp. I’m not sure if it was the batteries, or if it was because the moonless night felt so dark, but we spent the rest of the race struggling to solve that problem.

I ran into Kirk’s arms at the first crew spot at Beaver Mines, announced I was absolutely starving, and spent the next 20 minutes stuffing my face with all the bowls of real food Kirk had waiting for me. Ramen, potatoes, a burger, perogies. I couldn’t get it in fast enough. Kirk refilled my pack and then we pulled off my shoes to see what was going on. The areas I had pre-taped looked ok, but new blisters were forming on my big toe and heel, so we put some more tape on, changed socks and shoes and hoped for the best. This has been a frustrating experience I’ve only encountered in 200’s, so I’m not even sure how to prevent it because I’m not even sure what the problem is. On day one in Moab I blamed the sand for causing blisters, but that was certainly not the issue here. I guess I’ve got some learning to do.

With a full stomach and a fresh headlamp, I set out with Samantha for the next leg, happy that this next section was easy and ended with another crew access point within a few hours. Neither Sam, nor I wanted to spend the first night alone out there, so we stuck together leaving the aid station and were quickly joined by two other guys also looking for overnight company as bear insurance. Our natural pace separated us into two groups and while I was relieved we both had company, Sam with our new friend Josh, and I was ahead with new friend Ben, I was disappointed Sam and I didn’t stick together that night, and it definitely came back to haunt me several hours later.

After chatting with Ben for a bit, I realized who he was, and jokingly asked ‘why you slummin it back here with us?’ He is an elite athlete from Utah that has all the big races under his belt, and had come with the intention to podium finish. And yet here he was trudging along with me in mid-pack position. A stress fracture from earlier in the summer was forcing him to DNF at the next aid station, sad for him, but it worked out great in my favour when he offered to take a look at my feet and fix me up at the next stop. So while his wife and crew buddy Michael McKnight (winner of the Triple Crown of 200’s) looked on, Ben performed blister surgery with a touch of magic at CP4 and quite possibly saved my race. I took notes to learn how to do this better for myself in the future as foot care seems to make a huge difference in these events.

With my blisters freshly popped and the tape superglued in place, I sent Kirk to see if Samantha was ready to go and I laid down for a minute while he looked. He came back to say she left about 20 minutes ago because she couldn’t find me. I was horrified. I didn’t realize she didn’t have crew there, so although I was watching each new runner that came in from my spot in the back of Ben’s camper, she must have only made a quick stop, not come to the crew area and headed out alone. Ugh, this was exactly what I feared would happen. I threw my pack on and headed out as quick as I could to track Sam down, although by that time she had a pretty good head start on me. It was already about 4 am, but there was still a few hours of darkness left, we were a few kms apart, both running scared of wildlife. So many runners had dropped already and I didn’t see any other runners on the long road leaving the aid station. So here I was; alone.

Early that morning at the start line, I was talking to my friend Dave Proctor, a strong athlete with multiple running world records, and he asked if I packed my courage. I laughed and told him:

“Always!”

But now, I was testing the limits of those words. Being out there alone in the dark leaves a lot of room for an out-of-control imagination, so instead I spent the next 3.5 hours until sunrise fighting to stay focused on the next step, the climb ahead, the small patch of ground illuminated by my headlamp. I kept yelling, whooping, calling ‘Hey Bear’ as reassurances to both myself, and anything else out there, that I was coming through in full force, and bringing every ounce of my courage with me.

Other then a spooked deer that went crashing through the bushes, the night passed without incident. As the day started to crack, I was incredibly proud of myself for making it to day 2, still feeling so good and still holding a decent place in the race. But I definitely was not feeling good about missing Sam, so when the trail spit me out onto a dirt road the last few km before CP5, I was pretty excited to see her ahead, and picked up the pace to catch her. She looked tired, and said she was planning to sleep at the CP5. I knew that was going to be the last I would see her for awhile. I felt great and was determined to keep moving while I could. Her parents were volunteering at CP5, so while she got ready for a morning nap, I reloaded my pack and set out alone again, this time with the morning sun warming me for the climb to Willoughby Ridge ahead.

I spent the early part of the day back and forth with a few other racers, each time checking how they were doing and enjoying the company, but most of the time I was on my own. I was feeling the effects of missing a night of sleep, but overall I was managing pretty well with the difficult climb. A tricky descent towards Coleman off the ridge was a bit disheartening, but I knew that soon enough I would get a pacer and could take some comfort in knowing that I had someone else out there in case something went wrong.

Comfort.

Ha.  That’s a dangerous word. And a word that has no place in a race like this.

Just outside of Coleman I heard a loud crash in the trees to my right. I couldn’t see anything, but it sounded big and it certainly didn’t spook like the deer had earlier. Instead of passing, I decided to give whatever it was a lot of space and wait for the next runners to join me so we could pass together. Safety in numbers, right? I hung back until two guys from northern Alberta came up behind me. I explained that I had heard something and didn’t want to pass alone, and we all moved on together, making a lot of noise and banging our poles together, much to the amusement of the big…scary…black… cow, that was standing on the trail ahead of us. You would think that I have run enough events in the area to know that cows are frequently mistaken for bears out here, but I’ve also spent enough time out there to know that bears are also often mistaken for cows. An honest mistake right? Doesn’t matter, I made some new friends, and other then a half hour of time, not all was lost. We showed that cow who is boss and I took my damaged pride and my hairpin trigger adrenaline and kept trucking to CP6 near Coleman.

Finally, I could pick up my first pacer, and head out on a full stomach. By now, it was mid afternoon on day 2 and Matthew’s energy was high, giving me a much needed lift for the next difficult 66km section ahead. However, we were just outside of Coleman when I got hit with a severe case of sleepiness and told Matthew I needed my first nap “give me 15-20 minutes”. Seventeen minutes and 30 seconds later he told me it was time to get moving again. You’d be surprised how much of a difference that little break made and we set off towards the most northern part of the course.

A beautiful sunset with the unmistakable silhouette of Crowsnest and Seven Sisters mountain, paired with our easy conversation made the first part of that section pass by quickly. But as the cold of the night settled in, I was really feeling how difficult the last 100 miles had been. Although my blisters were not getting worse, my feet were pretty sore and I was pretty fatigued, slowing our climb and making the cold more difficult to tolerate. I knew that I had several friends, including Tania and Amanda, volunteering at the next CP, and looking forward to hugs from them was a huge motivator. We kept powering onwards.

We got to the check point just as the new volunteers were coming in to relieve Tania and Amanda from their shift and the energy was high as I came rollin in, so happy to see familiar faces. A 45 minute nap and whatever food they could offer me (again, a noticeable lack in ‘real’ food made these long stretches without crew very difficult), and a minute around the fire and Matthew and I were ready to head out again. It’s always sad to leave an aid station because that also means you are leaving whatever shreds of comfort that place could offer. It’s a place to put your feet up even if only for a minute, and to share some stories and be cared for by someone else, and leaving into the dark night takes a lot of fortitude.

I would need dig deep for a lot more of that fortitude to make my way through the next section of course. I thought the most technical trails were done on the first day, and here I was standing at the bottom of what looked like a rockslide, trying to make out the trail ahead in the small beam of my headlamp. “There is no way we are going up there” I thought, but yep, there was the reflector tape, waving in the wind at us, to head straight up an impossibly difficult section, only to again take us down an equally steep section of rocky trail. At least the descent had switchbacks. Hardly a solace at this point in the race.

And for the first time ever. And I mean EVER, in all the years I’ve been running, I had thoughts of quitting. The trail felt too impossibly difficult to navigate on such tired legs and only one hour of sleep in two days.

The trail levelled out and I dismissed those thoughts, hoping that the really difficult sections of trail were done.

But again, those reflective ribbons took us on trails that I no longer believed I could safely navigate. From what I could tell with my dim headlamp, it looked like we were dangerously close to some steep drop offs and I didn’t trust my footing. My emotions got ahead of me and I was fighting back some pretty big feelings that I channeled into curses at the race director and half hearted attempts at jokes with Matthew. He too grew silent and I kept fighting for each step as best I could. We got passed by a duo that seemed to be moving impossibly quickly and I could barely even say hi, much less share a friendly word as they passed. Truthfully, I was furious with them. Not my usual reaction to other people, and I should’ve recognized my current state, but it took me another hour or so before I accepted how unstable I actually was.

I called to Matthew ahead. “I need a nap”. We both pulled out our emergency bivy’s and we lay down on the trail for ten minutes, like two foil wrapped burritos waiting to be bear lunch.

The nap helped, but I was still plagued with thoughts of a DNF. I couldn’t fathom what it would take to get to Coleman, and then still have to complete a 50 miler and a 50k before I could finish, especially if the trail continued to be so challenging. I was clinging to promises I had heard that the last sections were much easier; did I even hear someone say it was a ‘downhill gravel road’ to the finish? But even those lies weren’t enough to keep me motivated. I started to calculate how quickly I could contact my parents and kids and tell them not to bother coming, and wondering whether my last pacer, Marty had left his home in Saskatchewan yet. But then I remembered that my next pacer, Brad was already waiting in Coleman for me. Shit, he already took the days off work, drove all that way, was patiently waiting for me. Ugh, and my parents already booked a really nice place to stay at the finish line at Castle Mountain.

I called ahead to Matthew “I don’t think I’m going to finish” hoping he would agree, call a helicopter and coordinate an emergency evacuation. He stopped. Looked back at me, expressionless. “Oh yeah?” He turned back to the trail and continued onwards.

I sort of wanted to throw my pole at him.

But really, that was exactly the right response for the moment. There was nothing I could do about a decision to quit right then anyway. I still needed to get myself to Coleman. No helicopter rescue coming for me.

The sky warmed from an all encompassing black to the golden flush of early morning with the stunning awakening of the forest around us.

Suddenly, the trail didn’t feel so daunting.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so despondent.

Suddenly, I entertained the thought that I could keep going. Just maybe.

After several km of beautiful single track, now on the other side of Seven Sisters from where we started, we rolled into CP8, feeling a little battered. The other runners sitting around the fire agreed that the night felt impossibly long and challenging out there and I found some solace knowing I wasn’t the only one. The next section took us through field of cows and some familiar sights from the Sinister Seven course, before returning through Coleman to CP9.

The course went right by the AirBnb that my pacers were sharing, and Tania came running out when she saw me round the corner in town, shuffling in flip flops and yelling that my tracker had died at CP7 and she was so glad to see me still moving. She yelled “How are you feeling?” and without an ounce of inhibition I yelled back “Everything! I’m feeling everything!” and gave some sort of sound somewhere between a laugh and a heart sob. I was so happy to see her, to feel sunshine on my skin, to know that the hardest parts were done and I could take some time to sleep and regroup with a new pacer and the next 80km.

I was disappointed to learn that Kirk was on a volunteer shift much further along the course, and had taken our truck that had my bed set up in the back. At first, this news felt disproportionately devastating, but I quickly reminded myself that these little disappointments are no reason to derail a race. Adapt, flow, shift with the changes. I would be ok. And indeed, a nice 90 min sleep in the back of Tania’s SUV was just as good as my truck.

Leaving an aid station during the day is always much easier then leaving during the dark night, and saying goodbye to Matthew and picking up Brad was a great energy boost even though I was still feeling calorie deprived and some pains (hello right knee!) were really bugging me. I’ve known Brad for a few years but not all that well, so I was really looking forward to getting to know him a bit more, and hoping he didn’t get sick of me over the next painfully slow 50 miles we were about to share. Brad is a very strong runner, with aspirations for his own 200 adventures soon, and was a very welcome addition to the team after all three of my original pacers had a change of plans last minute. Turns out, Brad was an excellent choice. The afternoon and evening 40km passed easily, with gorgeous single track trails meandering towards the Kootenays through vibrant meadows.

As dark settled in, we were dismayed to find several unavoidable creek crossings just before CP10. While the water felt great on my feet, I could feel the cold making it difficult for my over tired body to regulate, and the water slowly loosening the meticulous tape job on my feet. I came into CP10 to be greeted by my friend Keri who was volunteering. She presented me with not one, but TWO cheeseburgers (and fries!) brought all the way from the McDonald’s in Banff. It sure helps to have friends out there.

I pounded back one of them, before stumbling to the truck to lay down for another short nap in the back. 45 minutes later and Brad and Kirk threw open the tailgate, blinding me with their headlamps and announcing my time was up. I was shivering, in full body shivers, but was familiar with this feeling. It happened at each stop in Moab too and I wasn’t concerned. I leveraged it to be good motivation to keep moving. Kirk carried me to the front of the warm truck like he was carrying me over the threshold and let me warm up a bit and get my shoes on. Brad climbed into the drivers side next to me and froze, a look of horror on both our faces, as the safety clip to the bear spray bounced onto the ground. One wrong move and he could’ve detonated the bear spray into the truck. Kirk helped him put it back on and we both breathed a sigh of relief. That could’ve easily been the end of my race, but no, the bears, nor their spray shall not win today.

I knew that there was a tough climb ahead to get over North Kootenay Pass, but I was excited to get going, packing my second burger for the climb and some 7 Summit Snack bars as my reward for getting to the top.

I don’t know if it was the sleep deprivation, or that Brad and I share the same ridiculous humour or maybe it was the hallucinations, but damn that climb was fun. Unfortunately, it was also in the dark. So no views for us. But still, it was pretty exhilarating to stand at the top and know we were on the continental divide. Yes I peed up there to see which province it would flow to.

My fortune reads: I’m an Alberta girl.

Speaking of flowing, before this race I wanted to embrace a concept that I could use to help me through the rough patches out there. At first I played with the idea of being a rock, or fire. But both of those felt too harsh, too unforgiving. Instead, I loved the idea of flowing like water. Moving with the path of least resistance, shifting shape to adapt to whatever lies ahead.

Relentless. Powerful.

Ok, so I know water doesn’t flow uphill, the metaphor isn’t perfect, but its not the uphill I usually struggle with. It’s the downhills. And the downhill that followed the crest of North Kootenay Pass presented a pretty big challenge. Ridiculously steep and rocky, it was overwhelming to my frazzled senses.

“Flow, Janelle, keep flowing”

The steep descent took a hard left onto a “trail” that looked like someone took a machete to the day before. It was barely visible and seemed to meander without direction or purpose.

I started to feel the same rush of discouragement I felt the night before with Matthew after CP7. I’m too close to quit now, so instead I called ahead to Brad that I needed to sit for a minute. He disappeared to leave me have my moment. I hung my head in my hands and closed my eyes, losing consciousness almost instantly as a wave of sleep shut my thoughts down for a few seconds. Clearly it wasn’t enough to flush the hallucinations from my senses, because when I opened my eyes I saw the face of a hipster Jesus illuminated on the ground below, staring back at me in the light of my headlamp. I laughed at the absurdity of the moment. Stood up. Let’s just see where this trail takes us. Jesus take the wheel.

Before long we found ourselves on a wider trail with a gentle descent; a welcome relief. The day started to lighten and I knew I could look forward to the next CP where my friend Faye was waiting. She picked the remote aid station after I told her about the difference a volunteer can make in those last stages of a long race, how their words and kindness could be enough to propel a runner forward for many hours. She welcomed me with a big hug and rushed to help fill my pack and get me whatever food she could offer. I wanted to linger around the fire, hear about her experience out there, enjoy the morning as it warmed, but I also wanted to get moving, especially knowing the next section was a relatively easy one.

Bye Faye. Brad and I continued on our way with my mood improved, our conversation light. Singing ensued.

You could say we really took that show on the road.

The end felt in sight. One more pacer, one more section to go. I set the intention to receive my finisher belt buckle before the day ended.

Check point 12 was bustling in the mid-day sun. Crews, racers, volunteers everywhere stood in sharp contrast to the quiet of the last checkpoint. It felt jarring. After 20 hours with just Brad, Faye and orange glow eyes of a lynx near the pass, this last major CP felt overwhelming. I sit down in a circle of tired racers and fresh faced pacers, including my next pacer, Marty, a friend that came all the way from Saskatchewan to experience the world of 200’s before he takes on his own race at Bigfoot 200 next year. He had already made friends with everyone there, and his energy felt unrecognizable next to mine.

I loved it. I love how even though I was the one that signed up for this, my experience becomes intertwined with everyone else’s out there too, taking on a life of its own. The sum bigger then the parts. Tania buzzes around helping other racers and checking in with friends she’s made this week. Kirk shares stories of biking and 4×4’ing to get to his volunteer shifts in remote locations. Brad tells me he had a great time out there. I’m kind of sad our time is over and we say goodbye.

One ultra to go.

I can’t get enough of the cheese quesadillas that a young volunteer keeps handing me, and I keep eating until a wave of sleepiness hits hard and I shut my eyes for a minute. The busyness around me disappears while I float above my sore feet and aching body for just a minute.

It doesn’t last long. Might as well keep moving.

Marty and I start off down the road, Kirk and Tania walking us out the aid station for a few hundred meters. They have barely left me and I reluctantly tell Marty I desperately need a nap. I can feel that I’m wobbling, incoherent and barely able to respond to his attempts at conversation. He graciously helps me get settled into my bivy sac and sets a timer, probably impatient that we just got started and here he is already having to babysit me.

As he describes it, I emerge a different human. Ready to go again. The day is warm and the road we are on is exposed and dusty, but still a welcome relief from the more difficult trails behind me, and time passes quickly. I’m delusional with sleepiness but moving along, slow and steady. We spend a long time with Cameron, from BC and I enjoy listening to him and Marty chat. Along the side of the trail we pass a guy named Stuart, someone I met on day 1 on the climb up Whistlers mountain. He is lying on the trail, trying to catch a nap, but he jumps up as we pass and eagerly throws on his pack. He admits he is exhausted, but also lonely, and would rather the company then a nap, so he joins our entourage.

Within a few kilometers our conversation turns to sleep strategies we have employed over the last few days. I casually throw out to the group that I could go for another nap. Cameron says he is feeling good and plans to keep moving to the end. But Stuart looks over with a huge grin on his face, the look of pure joy, as if he was a kid and I just offered him ice cream for dinner. With chocolate sauce. And rainbow sprinkles.

We both flop down on the trail. Poor Marty, left to supervise again.

Refreshed and ready to keep trucking, we keep marching towards Middle Kootney pass, the final climb of the race. As the sun begins to turn everything around us into gold, we marvel at how the seasons have changed during the course of the race; that’s how long we’ve been out here for. It’s a perfect picture, and we are love drunk in the moment.

I know to savour this, because even though I’m tired and my feet are on fire, I also know what will happen after the final climb. I will pick up speed to push to the finish, and though the kilometers will still feel impossibly long, they will pass, and I’ll cross that finish line, and this incredible journey will be over. I’m not quite ready for that. Instead I soak up every second of that sunset, and watch the stars come out as we start the climb. We push up the pass, Marty out front, me in the middle, Stuart still all tired smiles every time we check on him. The trail becomes so overgrown we have to walk with our arms out front to push the branches back so we can pass. It’s impossible to see your feet through the thick bushes and every kicked rock is excruciating. We finally get above the treeline and feel the wind pick up. There are still reflectors way up ahead, but the climb feels good so I enjoy it. Marty and Stuart come up with a plan to stop at the top to turn off our headlamps to enjoy the stars, however Marty has also calculated that I am close to my goal of a Friday finish, so while the boys get comfortable star gazing at the top of the pass, I tell them it’s time to go.

I have a deadline. Unfortunately, we lose Stuart on the descent. He tells me later he was too exhausted to keep up and stops for another sleep while Marty and I picked up speed. The descent felt impossibly long, but eventually flattened out onto a trail that would take us back to Castle Mountain Resort where I knew my family and friends were waiting for me. I felt bad that it was getting so late, and pictured my parents and kids shivering in the cold; up past their bedtime. Good motivation to keep hustling. The trail started to look familiar from four days ago where it doubled back on itself near the start/finish line and my pace kicks up another notch. I pass two other racers. Now I am euphoric. I can see the finish line and two people on bikes come towards me. Its Kirk, and my son Levi, and they are shocked to see me, saying they expected me to be coming in much later. They turn and race back to the finish line to alert everyone else that I was coming across very soon.

I know it sounds crazy, but I was completely outside my body. All the pain in my feet, my tired legs, my fragile energy vanished. I was floating. Flowing? I dunno.

Whatever it was, I wish I could capture it.

But these things are inherently impossible to capture. So much happened out there, that the week became its own lifetime. The experience transcends description; it feels disingenuous to even try.

I cross the finish line to see my kids, and parents, Kirk, Tania and Matthew. A few other people are waiting for other racers, some tired volunteers. Brian the race director. I told him he was mean for putting together such a tough course. We laugh.

That’s ok, he may have my money.

But now I have his belt buckle.

We went to Waterton after the race to celebrate with our favourite ice cream

When rumours passed through some run related media outlets that Taylor Swift trained for her Eras Tour by singing her entire set list while on the treadmill, I knew I had to try it out. I just needed to find a treadmill, and an empty house (cause no one wants to hear me sing).

So, when Tania went out of town, I asked for access to her house for a couple hours and hoped her cat would be a gracious audience.
Not only was it the perfect way to rise out of the Lavender Haze of this magical week between Christmas and New Years, but it was also the perfect counterpoint to several days of a lot of food and family.

‘Tis the damn season right?

I picked one of the many playlists on Youtube that had the complete Eras Tour setlist with lyrics and started running. Faster for up tempo pop songs, slower for her more relaxed ballads, but I kept it at a decent run pace the entire time, and aimed to sing every word with as much fortitude I could muster. And let me tell you it was not easy to balance holding those long notes, or fast lyrics while struggling for enough oxygen to not drop like a mic on the treadmill.

The workout starts with a bang with the Lover era, and while I typically nail the Cruel Summer bridge flawlessly every time it comes on while I’m in my car, trying to belt it out while on the treadmill belt was a pretty big fail. “I’m so sick of running as fast as I can”, but The Man has always been a favourite run song so I was quite happy to pick the pace up and fumble my way through that one, but it mostly left me pretty winded.

“I’m just like damn, it’s 7 am. You need to calm down”.

So I did, for Lover, before struggling through the relentless repetition of the Archer. Seriously, how does she do this? I get it. They can see right through you. Let’s move on.

Ok, one album down. And one thing is for certain. I’m a much better runner then singer.

Zadie agrees.

Dammit, young Taylor’s lyrics from her country albums are fast and wordy and I don’t know them as well so I had to work so hard to stay on top of things. But still, “I don’t know how it gets better then this, take my hand and drag me head first, fearless”.

There was definitely some air guitar happening for that one.

Thank god for those moody, covid-era ballads of Evermore and the chance to slow down a bit. Folklore and Evermore are my favourite T-Swift albums and the reason I started listening to her in the first place.

Those lyrics got me through some tough times, and also sparked a love for her music in my oldest daughter. Katie has since turned into a dedicated Swifty and is the biggest reason Taylor is by far the most played artist in our home. I’m not complaining. It’s a fun way for Katie and I to connect. We sing her music together in the car, we went to the Eras Tour movie together, I hope we can get tickets to see her live one day. I probably would not have become much of a Swift fan beyond Folklore and Evermore if it wasn’t for Katie’s enthusiasm.

Ah Evermore. So much emotion. So much easier to sing while running. Things got real dramatic on that treadmill and I watched Zadie Tolerate It before disappearing upstairs.

“This is for the best. My reputation’s never been worse.”

And the tempo picks way up again as we move onto the next album…

“Are you ready for it?…Baby let the games begin.”

For these few quicker songs, I bumped the speed up to a 5:00/km pace, which is a decent effort for me at the best of times, but to do that while trying to control my breathing enough to still sing was almost impossible. Rumour has it that Taylor walked and jogged during these training sessions, so I don’t think that she hit this speed. Or maybe she did, that girl is super talented so I wouldn’t doubt it.

Either way, my attempt at it was bad. There is a reason I did this little experiment in an empty house with no video evidence.
I slowed it right down to a recovery pace for Enchanted. Afterall, she spends the whole song standing still and wearing a ball gown (even the pros take breaks once and awhile) but it doesn’t last long. Speak Now doesn’t get a whole lot of love before the party starts again for the Red album. By this time, I was definitely feeling more like 42 than 22, but I was definitely red faced and sweaty sparkly, and Red is a really fantastic album so I still enjoyed every minute, especially the whole 10-minute version of All too Well.

That’s like a 2 km song.

FOLKLORE! I could die happy with this album. And death was maybe not too far from the truth by this point of my run. I’ve run enough ultras to know what it’s like to cry while running, sometimes moved by emotion, sometimes by beauty, sometimes by pain. Listening to Folklore, remembering the season of my life it played soundtrack to, struggling to control my breath and pace, all while serenading sweet Zadie who had returned to bear witness, made this era a tough and beautiful one. By this time, I was
well over 23km in and bracing myself for two more albums of pop hits.

While Style, Blank Space and Shake it Off are probably some of her biggest hits, I don’t really care for them. And now that I’ve tried to sing them while running race pace, I’m quite happy to never hear them again. Too bad her songs from the vault off this album didn’t make the tour, Is it Over Now?

The finish line is in sight, I’m well glucose-d and ready for the last few songs off Midnights. While Taylor is all seductive and sexy sparkly, I was decidedly un-sexy on Vigilante Shit, but I stayed strong. (Best believe I can still make the whole place shimmer.) Karma is the breeze in my hair on the treadmill as I cooled it down to Long Live as the outro just like in the theatre, looked Zadie right in the eyes and with my whole heart I sang “I had the time of my life, WITH YOU”

She swatted at my laces as I stepped down.

At 3 hours and 13 minutes of showtime, I ran 31.5km at an average of 6:08/km pace, singing 45 songs and ending with tired legs and a sore throat.

I love how many ways there are to be athletic. Some of us run really far, some lift heavy, some dance, some kick a ball, and some sing. Next time you watch someone preform, consider the training that goes into it to make it look easy. Taylor Swift is definitely an ultra endurance athlete to pull off a show and
tour schedule like that, under so much pressure, and with so much style.

In heels. And sparkles.

This ridiculous experiment was a really fun way to meld together some of the things I love. Running, singing (poorly), beautiful lyrics, bizarre athletic challenges, and writing about it so that anyone that cares enough to read this far can chuckle at the thought of me trying to hit the high notes in Wildest Dreams while at a full run.

Thanks Taylor.

Oh, and thanks Zadie.

I admit, when my parents first invited me to join them on a sail and cycle tour of the Croatian islands I had to do some googling to figure out where in the world that was. But as soon as I solved that mystery (hint: across the Adriatic from Italy) it didn’t take long to become completely enamoured with photos of sparkling blue water and lush mountains. Despite my busy home life, the answer was a pretty obvious and enthusiastic “YAAASSSS”

My parents and aunt and uncle had already booked the trip way in advance. But when my cousin who lives in Belgium expressed interest in joining, I became the obvious plus one for her cabin on the boat. Travelling with my parents doesn’t happen all that often and there’s no guarantee how many years we have to do this.

Life is short. Do it now. Do it now. Do it now.

So we did.

Croatia is a pretty small country but boasts about 1200 island-ish rock things, with 48 of them inhabited and waiting to be explored. The quiet, meandering paved roads on the bigger islands are absolutely perfect for cycling, making a sail and cycle tour a beautiful way to see the country.

The boat we stayed on was a family owned, refurbished ferry, with a dozen rooms and a top deck for sunning yourself on. We were pretty early in the season so temperatures weren’t quite swim and sun-tan friendly, but apparently summer gets really hot, and given that I left, and returned home in a snow storm, I was happy with any temperature above freezing.

Every morning we would sail for at least an hour to a new island, then hop on our bikes for a couple hours of riding. Most people on the cruise were on e-bikes, and only about 6 of us were on ‘classic’ bikes. I sometimes hear people complain about how e-bikes make biking too easy or won’t keep people fit enough, I would argue that providing an e-bike option on a trip like this creates opportunities for a whole new range of people to get out and explore. My parents are the perfect example. Biking together was a favourite family past time when I was a kid, but over the years it became too hard for them to keep up with their kids and grandkids. They had essentially given up biking for good.

That is… until they got e-bikes. It totally changed the way they get around. It keeps them active, outdoors, having fun and seeing the world in ways they couldn’t if they only had regular bikes. They would never have considered a trip like this, yet now my mom is smoothly cruising past me on the uphills while I sweat and work hard for those same climbs. We get to enjoy the same thing, just in different ways.

I flew into the coastal city of Split, an adorable town made up of cobblestone streets sprawled at haphazard angles around a 3rd century Roman palace. Even though I was there for a bike trip, it was important to me to still get some decent running done, so I started my first morning with a beautiful run around a peninsula before we boarded the boat and headed to our first island of Solta. It quickly became apparent that Croatia was much hillier than expected. Not that I’ve ever been afraid of hills… but it was still a surprise.

And every hill was worth the work to gain those beautiful views of lush hillsides, olive groves, villages made of stone and terracotta, and that deep blue water.

Our group stuck together, and included plenty of stops to enjoy the scenery or get a cappuccino when we passed through a village, making the whole experience a perfect mix of movement, nature and people. The holy trinity of happiness. As my cousin Kendrah put it, “I think the happiest moments of my life include a bike or Ice cream”

We raised our gelato cones with a contented ‘zevjeli’ before they started to melt on a warm afternoon in Hvar. Yep. This is one of those happy moments.

Solta, Brac, Hvar, Vis, Korcula, Mjlet, Sipan. Each island promising both a blur of the same routine (sail, bike, coffee, wander, eat) and a fresh sense of adventure and view I will never get sick of. The countryside was covered with patches of farms with olive groves, vineyards and the occasional citrus trees. There is also a lot of Lavender but unfortunately we were slightly too early in the season to see it in bloom. However we hit poppy season and the ditches were filled with vibrant red.

No trip would be complete without plenty of exploring through running, so I tried my best to get out most days. Kendrah runs a bit when she is at home in Belgium, so was happy join for a few adventures, including a proper trail run over rocky hills with a stunning blue lake peaking through the trees below.

When we arrived back to the mainland after six days of island hopping, I set out alone, hoping to get a solid final tempo run before my upcoming marathon, but thanks to crowds and narrow roads it was nearly impossible to maintain a decent pace so I settled in to enjoy the views instead. Running past mid day diners as they enjoyed a glass of wine overlooking the sea, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to experience this incredible corner of the world.

A final day wandering around Dubrovnik, touring castles, petting city cats, a circumnavigation of the old city on top of a narrow wall, and brief stop to walk the edge of the sea to pick up sea glass was the perfect end to a quick trip.

Oh. And although we didn’t have our bikes anymore on our last day, we made up for it with not one, but two rounds of ice cream, just to make sure we were living our absolute best life.

I sent my friend a screenshot of my registration: “Hey guess what? I signed up for BMO Vancouver Marathon!”

They quip back, “You know they do this event on a road, right?”

Ha. Yep. Time for something a little different. I knew that doing another big multi-day trail race was out of the question for this season due to other summer plans and financial constraints, but I was still looking for some kind of challenge to keep me learning and growing as an athlete. And since 2024 is the year I turn 42, a 42.2km road race sounded like an appropriate way to celebrate.

It would also be only my second marathon ever. My first marathon was in Edmonton when I was 24. I had no idea what I was doing, slogged out a 4:41 finish time, and swore I would never do anything like that ever again. So I didn’t. Until now.

I didn’t run for over a year after finishing that race because I got pregnant shortly after and suffered from such extreme nausea that running felt impossible. Over the next 6 years I ran sporadically, usually training for a half marathon between each of my three pregnancies, mostly with the goal of weight loss and regaining lost fitness. I enjoyed running, but wasn’t in love with the sport yet.

Then in about 2016, while training for the Lululemon Seawheeze half marathon in Vancouver, I discovered trail and ultrarunning and never looked back. I love all that ultrarunning has given me, and I am in no way done with big distance and chasing views, but I was also curious about what else I was capable of.

It started when a few women I had been running with in the mornings were inviting me to weekend long runs with texts like “I have a 20km at a 5:20 pace on my plan, you interested?”

This was different from trail runner invites that are more like; “Hey, lets do a mountain day, maybe a couple summits? Bring snacks and bear spray”

I realized I had no idea whether or not I was capable of running 20km at that pace or not. I had never really tried. At first I declined those invites, thinking there was no way I could do that, but after trying on my own a few times I realized that I could, and even started to wonder if I could put down a decent marathon pace, maybe even qualify for Boston Marathon. So I started asking different questions to my road runner friends, especially my friend Sonya who has a lot of experience (and a sub-3 marathoner!). She sent me some workouts to follow and coached me through the process, geeking out with me over heart rate data, pace times and hormone cycles. She joined me on several of my tempo and long runs, pushing me to sustain paces that were completely outside my comfort zone. Spending 2 years focused only on 200 milers doesn’t exactly prepare you for the pain of an 18km tempo run. It’s not necessarily harder, or easier, it’s just different.

It turned into a very cool experiment on how the body can adapt to whatever you throw at it.

So on Sunday, May 5th, I stood at the start line, with 7500 other people, waiting for the start gun to signal that it was time to throw something different at my body. I admit, I felt out of place. I’ve grown so accustomed to smaller mass starts and packs stuffed with safety gear and snacks, that this super-shoe wearing crowd felt foreign to me. I also found myself questioning if I should be in the second corral. What if I didn’t seed myself right and I spent the whole race getting passed?

No time to ponder. Off goes the gun and thousands of footsteps descend into chaos. I knew those first few km would fly, and probably a more experienced marathoner would know how to conserve at the start and go for a negative split, but I like to think that if it feels easy, it is easy, and that is a gift you should just accept. So I enjoyed every km that came in under 5 mins and did my best to hold my place or pass others in the crowd.

I had been warned that it was a ‘hilly’ course, with 250m of gain. And even though that is nothing compared to 12 000m of gain at The Divide, I also knew better then to underestimate how hard it was to do those hills at a quick pace. Turns out it was fine, and when I heard people around me say that the hills were done, I could relax a bit. To be honest, I didn’t even notice them. It felt easy and that was a gift I was happy to accept.

Around 18-20km I was still feeling pretty good, but was noticed some cramps. So I stopped at the porta potty and to my dismay, realized I had gotten my period. Talk about terrible timing. But it takes a lot more then that to derail my race, so I flew out that porta potty and got back to my steady pace.

The 30km marker passed and I tried my best to do the math to figure out if I would hit my goal time. According to my watch, I was at a good place to do so as long as I maintained pace around the Vancouver Seawall, the most beautiful part of the course, but also where a lot of people struggle.

At around 38 km I realized that there was a pretty significant difference between the distance shown on my watch and the number on the km marker signs along the course. When I recalculated, I started to question if I would actually hit 3:40 or not. By 40km, it became clear that was not gonna happen. I wasn’t upset about it. I knew I was close and I was doing my best.

Honestly, it’s pretty tough to be upset about anything when there are hundreds of people lining the course for the last few km cheering you on. This is another thing so different about road marathons. Unlike ultras, where you may have less then a dozen people at the finish line, and usually half of them are your family, it was so fun to have crowds cheering, holding signs and even calling encouragements to you by name (as they read it on your bib) as you passed.

I crossed the finish line with a chip time of 3:41:17. 1 minute and 17 seconds off of a Boston Marathon qualifying time. Afterwards I checked my Garmin stats. It showed I had 1 minute and 16 seconds of idle time. The time in the porta potty. Which means, my period cost me a qualifying time. Yay for being a girl.

No, but seriously. I’m not upset about it at all. This whole thing was to explore a curiosity I had about new ways to experience a sport I love. It was also a part of rebuilding after two years of 200 mile training to get stronger and faster. A part of that process was to make sure I was fueled and recovered enough to keep my hormone health in a good place. I’ve struggled to maintain regular periods in the past, due to overtraining/underfueling, and so in a way, getting my period while running the fastest race of my life was pretty cool.

Some people have offered consolations like ‘you’ll qualify next time’. But I’m not convinced there will be a next time for the road marathon. Maybe. But I also still have big goals in ultrarunning and only so much time and money. There were also a few things about supporting an event like this that felt uncomfortable to me. The whole thing was very slick and corporate; in stark contrast to the grassroots charm of most trail races I do. There was also a sickening environmental impact to the whole event. Mountains of single use cups, clothes, gloves, gel wrappers thrown along the course and headed for the landfill. (I think they donate discarded clothes, but even that is such a problematic contribution to the very harmful ‘disposable clothing’ textile industry). Not to mention the sheer volume of race shirts, swag and promotional flyers. They did offer a ‘green option’ to register with no race shirt, which was nice, but still, there was a lotta shirts produced for that event. So thank you very much to the very nice Bank of Montreal employee who handed me a pair of ugly branded socks. I will reluctantly take them only because my daughter happens to love ugly socks. I still don’t approve of your corporate greed-fueled efforts to win me over with your promotional swag.

Either way, it was a great weekend away, full of spring trees in full bloom, lots of family time and some beautiful bike rides with the kids. I’m thrilled with my time, and the things I learned along the way. I’m especially grateful to Sonya, and the many incredible athletes who kill it out there on road with crazy fast times. I’m absolutely in awe of what some people are capable of.

What now? Time to get back to climbing some hills. This time they will be steep enough I’ll notice them for sure

After a few years of prioritizing big races, I decided to take an easier year to give my body a break and to focus on my new career as a psychologist. Last year, I won a Sinister race entry while running a leg on the top women’s relay team at Sinister 7, so I decided to use my entry to run Canadian Death Race this year. I hadn’t been to the race since 2019 when I ran on a relay team and crewed for Tania when she soloed, so I was excited for a new course that would feel like enough of a challenge to keep me interested, but not so much of a challenge that it would leave me exhausted like running 200 milers do.

I was feeling a little underprepared for the climbs on this race because I had not gotten the kind of elevation training I had hoped for following my spring marathon in Vancouver. Other than a mountain day with friends and Sinister 7 50k, I had mostly been running Edmonton trails and riding my bike (to Manitoba! but that’s a very flat story for a different blog post).

But mostly I was excited to be toeing the line with so many run friends from our incredible run community, and having Kirk, our two youngest kids, and our new puppy Yukon along for his debut to the world of crewing.

I’ve raced enough to have learned that there is no point in getting overly anxious about the start line, but I also knew that I should not underestimate how difficult this race would be, so I had the appropriate amount of buzzy energy as the gun went off that morning. All in all it was shaping up to be an incredible day chasing mountain summits.

Five years ago, I ran Leg 1 with Tania to start her off on her solo day out there before crewing for her for the rest of the race. Fast forward, and here we were, in reversed roles, starting out on Leg 1 together again. We couldn’t help but reminisce as we ran, about how much things had changed, and about how some things hadn’t. Tania joked that my hair had been through a lot but now was back as long as it was before the accident and we both shared a sense of nostalgia about what newbie ultrarunners we were in 2019, and how there was something enviable about that first time feeling neither of us will ever experience again. The good thing about not being a newbie runner anymore was that I was feeling fully confident I would finish the race and enjoy the day. Instead of feeling stressed at the start of the race I got to spend it chatting with Tania, although perhaps that shows we weren’t working hard enough?

The transition area after Leg 1 is absolute chaos and I could tell Kirk was a little frazzled having to juggle four kids, a puppy and get my race bin ready to get me out on Leg 2 as quickly as possible. Sunscreen, watermelon, Yukon snuggles and off I went to climb Flood mountain. The course is still pretty busy at this point thanks to all the relay teams, soloists and all the people doing the Near Death Marathon, so I seemed to find friend’s to run with for much of Leg 2, including when my friend Matthew caught up to me before passing me on a climb. The view from Flood mountain was gorgeous and the day was heating up. Racers slowed as everyone scrambled down Bum Slide on the descent before heading over to the second big climb of the day up Grande Mountain. I had done this section of the trail once before on a training weekend with friends so I knew what to expect. I remembered struggling with the very steep descent off of Grande Mountain, very unoriginally named ‘powerline’ (because…well, it’s obvious isn’t it?) but the steep grade and loose rocks that were a struggle for me the last time, weren’t an issue for me today. I was feeling pretty confident and was able to trust my shoes would keep me upright. My toenails probably won’t last, but at least I didn’t bite the dust on that section.

Leg 2 finishes back in the town of Grande Cache, making it much easier for crew. Kirk and Tania were looking relaxed and happy this time, the kids were busy swimming at the pool nearby, and Yukon was tired out from the hot day.

Matthew came in a few minutes after I did, and after we both loaded up on ice to combat the heat, we set out on the easy Leg 3 together. By now the course was quiet because we had passed the 42 km mark and those doing the Near Death Marathon were done. A quiet course means a greater chance for wildlife encounters, so I was so happy for the company, in fact, we both agreed we would be a good match to spend the rest of the race together which honestly was a huge relief to me to not have to worry about bears or cougars. Apparently, the people on the trail ahead of us saw a cougar towards the end of Leg 3, which means I assume the cougar saw us, but as long as I survived the one-sided encounter, ignorance is bliss and is just fine with me.

At the next transition, Kirk proudly presented me with the most perfect grilled cheese sandwich I had ever seen, winning him the gold medal in the “crewing mediocre ultrarunners” event. At least one of us is winning these things.

Even though I’m not new to the Alberta ultrarunning scene, I have been missing out on a pretty legendary piece of the culture; the climb on Mount Hamell. It lives up to its reputation of being the toughest part of the Death Race with a long, steady climb through the trees, until you pop above the treeline and can see the summit, still a long ways away. My lack of elevation training was showing as I slowed considerably as the climb wore on, which was a little frustrating, but a great reminder that you can only get out of a race what you put into it. The truth is, I didn’t put enough into this training cycle and now it was showing, but at least that didn’t take away from the stunning view, getting the Death Race coin to use as passage to cross the river, stopping for a minute to honour the prayers on the prayer flags in the perfect lighting. These are the moments that make the tired legs worth it.

The sun was setting on the cruise-y descent and we were both still feeling good as we hit Ambler loop, a 5km loop trail that seems a little pointless but also gives you access to the aid station twice in a short amount of time.

I’m not one to complain about bonus snack access. Especially when that loop is followed by a 7km gravel road with an easy downhill grade. We made up some good time even though I’m not sure either of us felt like running quickly by that point, but it felt like when it was that easy, we should probably take advantage of the opportunity.

We were pretty happy to get into the transition after Leg 4, and I naively believed that Leg 5 was an easy 19k with a fun little boat ride to the finish line. I thought a sub 20 hour was within reach. Nope. I was pretty wrong about that. There was a lot more climbing and single track then I thought and a couple minutes lost because a young guy on a relay team in front of us thought he heard a bear beside him so he turned and ran back. Buddy, the first rule of bears is don’t turn and run. No worries though, we bunched up as a group of four and passed the alleged bear without incident. Through the famous Split Rock, and finally, we reached the aid station at Sulphur gates. The trees opened up enough for us to look up and get a good view of the incredible northern lights overhead. Yep, how lucky are we, to get northern lights like that on the night we happen to be up all night running.

A short trail from the aid station to the river where Charon was waiting to collect your Death Race coin to allow your passage across the River Styx. Ok, it was actually my friend Rob and two guys in a boat across the Smoky River under Sulphur Gates, but still a pretty iconic experience. I think Rob was supposed to stay in character and hold out his hand for the coin in silence, but he couldn’t help but pipe up “Oh hi Janelle! Hi Matthew! Good to see you guys!” in his usual cheery voice, not death-like at all. The boat ride was too short, and I was disappointed we were back on the trail and climbing again. I was tired, and getting frustrated that now that all that fun stuff was done we were still climbing. I was ready to be done, but that means nothing out there.

I don’t get to adapt the course to my will, instead I have to adapt to the course. Be flexible. Keep going. Channel that frustration into forward motion.

I said goodbye to a sub 20 hour finish as the trail dragged on and on. And that final gravel road climb back into town? That felt sort of cruel. But then, as all difficult challenges do, the climb ended, we were in town and there was Tess, Matthew’s partner, wrapped in a blanket and waiting for us on the sidewalk in front of their AirBnB which happened to be on the course, less then a km from the finish line. She cheered us as we passed, then hopped in her car to meet us at the finish while we picked up the pace for those amazing last few minutes out there on course.

So many friends, my middle daughter, and Kirk waited at the finish, (but no Yukon, he was back in the tent with my son, tuckered out from his long day of new experiences) as Matthew and I crossed under the arch with big stupid grins on our faces. What an honour to race such a keystone event on the Alberta ultrarunning scene, with such perfect weather, a great race partner and a show of northern lights to light the way.

A few hours later, I got to join the line of all the previous Death Racers as they welcomed new finishers to the club. A lot of people were surprised I had never done this race before, yet there I was, being welcomed by so many friends, and finally able to call myself a true, Canadian Death Racer.

There was so many beautiful northern lights pictures taken by others while I was running!

I couldn’t resist. The lure of 4 days of backcountry, blisters and blinding headlamps is where I feel alive; where I belong. I knew that I didn’t want to tackle the entire Divide 200 again this year because I needed a quieter year to be with family, focus on my career and give my body a much-needed rest. And yet, I also knew I wanted to be a part of the magic of a 200-mile adventure, so I was pumped when I was asked by a couple people to pace them on their journey.

For those who don’t know, a ‘pacer’ is allowed to accompany a runner during a very long race. Usually, the racer is allowed to pick up a pacer after they have covered about 70 miles or so on their own and then can complete the race with company until the end. The role of a pacer sounds simple enough; keep your racer company and don’t get lost. But let me assure you, from someone who has paced, and used pacers many times, how important that role is. I am sure I would not have finished some big races if it weren’t for my pacers.

I was asked to pace my friend Matthew, who paced me at the Divide last year and ran the Canadian Death Race with me this year, and Stuart, a friend from Saskatchewan I met last year at the Divide where we shared some pretty magical and definitely delusional hours together towards the end of the race.

It was also important to me to volunteer while I was there because I know how hard it is to cover all the shifts required for such a long race. It worked well to coordinate my volunteer shift with when I knew I could start pacing with Stuart. I also know how important volunteers are when you are racing, how meaningful it is when they offer you something hot in the middle of the night, or help you fill your water so you can sit for a minute and tend to your feet. Some are even brave enough to help peel your shoes off to uncover the most horrific foot care situations imagineable. Again, I knew that I wouldn’t have finished my big races without the help from volunteers on course.

Unfortunately, after a tough first day out there, Matthew pulled from the race, cutting my pacing duties in half. He was sleeping on the couch in the AirBnb when I snuck out at 5 am for my volunteer shift on the second day of the race. He apologized that I came all this way and wouldn’t get to pace. It’s all good. These things happen. There was still a lot of adventure waiting for me out there.

I drove to a pin drop location after following a relentlessly rutted road, and parked. There was no one in sight, no aid station supplies, and no cell service. I waited in the grey morning air until other volunteers emerged from the fog. Still no supplies. We chatted instead, swapping stories of other races, eager to get going. Hours later a truck shows up with a trailer full of gear for us to set up, and I am blown away by the sheer logistics of putting on a race of that magnitude.

One of my concerns after completing the race last year, was that the remote aid stations did not have adequate food, making long stretches between crew spots very challenging. So I was happy to see the menu had improved considerably. However, now on the other side of the experience, I saw how much work it was to provide meatballs, quesadillas, burgers, sandwiches etc. and I felt a flush of shame for complaining. Everyone works so hard to make sure the racers are cared for, and yet I was complaining I didn’t have warm soup at 2 am at a remote aid station that is only accessible by a 4×4 vehicle.

Now, here I was, on the other side of the experience, tending to racers as they came through, rushing to fill packs, serve food, asking what else they need. I loved to hear other crew and volunteers speak with such awe about the racers; everyone united with the common goal of shuffling those few hearty souls onwards to the finish line. Some said they remember watching my tracker last year, even though they didn’t know me, they were rooting for me.

I had no idea. I mean, I knew that my crew was supportive and that some friends back home were following along. But I had no idea that the Sinister staff, volunteers and even other crew members were so invested in other racers’ success. What an incredibly humbling experience. How often in life are there others working tirelessly to contribute to our success without us even knowing? And how often do we have the privilege of doing that for someone else?

After a long and soul-filling day at Check Point 7, Stuart came through at about midnight, ready to continue into the dark and rainy night together. Off we went. My energy level much higher than his, but that big smile I remember from mile 180 last year was just as bright.

The night was cold, the rain continued. The slow but steady hike had me worried about us staying warm enough, so I pulled out my emergency rain poncho to put over my down jacket. Stuart laughed at how ridiculous it looked. It was worth it though, it created a nice little sauna for me and kept me warm and dry. After a while, he relented and put his poncho on too and we laughed at the absurdity of our cheap plastic bags over layers of expensive run gear.

The night eased into the low clouds of morning as we headed south towards Coleman. A rockslide echoed across the otherwise eerily silent air, stopping us in our tracks to marvel at the sheer power the mountain unleashed and I was once again reminded of how fragile we are against the wildness around us. I was thankful I wasn’t alone.

A particularly difficult section at Window Mountain Lake that I remembered from last year, was once again difficult even with fresh legs and daylight. Stuart was handling it flawlessly, still smiling his tired smile, still moving really well for being 125 miles in but as the familiar outline of Seven Sisters and Crowsnest mountain came into view, I could tell his fatigue was setting in. At that point in the race, the prospect of how far you still have to travel can feel soul-crushing. I did my best to validate, comfort, distract and be patient. I encouraged him to eat, to enjoy the stunning view. I didn’t even notice what was going on for me out there, all my effort went into keeping him moving forward and navigating the rollercoaster of emotion that came with it; whether that was keeping him in good spirits, or staying there with him for the lows. I thought of the countless times my pacers did the same for me. Just be there. Isn’t that what we all need?

That is what has me absolutely enamored with this sport, especially 200 milers. The comraderie that comes from knowing you are out there with so many other people, journeying for the same purpose. In your own way. At your own pace. But connected in a way that can only come from struggle. From triumph.

It’s a beautiful metaphor for the way we journey through the rest of our lives. Often feeling like the only ones in the wild, sometimes travelling with someone that can help us feel safer, always knowing there are other brave souls soldiering on even if we can’t see them. Do we realize the number of people out there checking on us? Cheering for us? Waiting in that same wild for us to stop by for something warm and some encouragement as we pass?

I finished my pacer section after about 15 hours on the trail with him and said goodbye. I went back to the AirBnb to shower and climb into a warm bed while he continued on for another 30+hrs after I left, in worsening conditions on difficult trails. Even though I have done it before, I couldn’t fathom how it was possible for anyone to complete something so massive, so formidible. And yet here I was, on the other side of The Divide, cheering with all the other volunteers and support crews, to will those trackers to inch forward along the map, moving ever closer to that finish line where they will stand, knowing they are different people then they were 200 miles ago.

I admit, there was a few times I questioned if we were in over our heads. Was this trail too hard? Too long? Our packs too heavy? Were the kids still too young to take on one of the most difficult treks in the world?

The children of an ultra runner who knows no limits, and a mountain biker who knows no fear, get dragged on all kinds of adventures their peers would never dream of, but there were moments I questioned if even we belonged out there on the rugged coast with our kids.

Just the thought of packing enough food for six days on the trail to feed five athletes was overwhelming. And indeed the weight of all that food felt crushing as we shrugged our packs on and walked from the Parks Canada office at the Gordon River trailhead, to the boat that was waiting to escort us to the gruelling south end of the world renowned West Coast Trail.

The first camp site is an alleged 5km in, but we were warned it took people from 5-10 hours.

“What?” I scoffed, “How can anyone possibly move so slowly?”

How quickly I was humbled.

Clearly, years of ultra running has distorted my perception of distance, but a 40lb pack brought me back to focus as the reality of ladders, roots, rocks and mud on the meandering trail took us over 5 hours to our first spot for the night. Just over 1km per hour.

How are we possibly going to cover another 70 “WCT” kilometres in 5 more days? I use quotation marks because we started to qualify the distance we covered each day by “WCT” kilometres vs the much longer distances recorded on our Garmin. Garmin told us we went closer to 90km over the week instead of the 75km the maps showed.

The first night was chilly and the tide was rolling in as we quickly set up camp and devoured our first dehydrated meal at Thrasher cove. By midnight, the tide had risen so high I was peeking out the tent to check if the waves were going to sweep us away because it sounded so loud. I struggled to quiet my mind about all the potential disasters we could face this week and toss and turned all night, while the waves retreated and an otter family skittered around our tents.

Day two brings one of the pinch points where timing of the tide becomes crucial for safe passage. From Thrasher Cove we needed to cover 3 km of scrambling over boulders to get to Owen point by low tide at noon. Given our painstaking pace the day before, we weren’t sure how realistic it was.

Scaling massive boulders and climbing over driftwood cedars, we made it to Owen’s Point in decent time, and even opted to eat lunch there to kill time and allow the water level to drop a little more to make passing the point easier. Noodles, Whale watching and soaking up the warming sun, thinking maybe we would be ok.

Thankfully the kids were proving to be absolute rock stars about the challenge, and were navigating the terrain with bravery and positive attitudes all around. A ways past Owen’s Point, we saw the hanging bouys in the trees, signalling that it was time to go from the beach back to the trail where it seemed like we entered an alternate moss-covered universe where time slowed down and distance warped into unmeasurable units.

After another long day, at what felt like an impossibly slow pace, we took a cable car across a river and popped back onto the shore at Camper Bay, a beautiful camp spot tucked away amongst towering trees.

We had been warned that Day 3 was the ‘Ladder Day’ and we would need to get our arms ready to work hard. There had already been plenty of ladders to climb, in addition to bridges, cable cars and boardwalks that help make the trail a possibility amidst such dense vegetation and so many creek crossings.

Unfortunately, it appeared that there had been little to no trail maintenance done on any of the infrastructure since the last time I completed the trail in 2004. Many of the boardwalks, especially on the south end, where the forest is especially dense and boggy, are completely rotted and reclaimed by the mud. Some of the ladders have loose or missing rungs, and several of the bridges are collapsed, forcing hikers to traverse sections by balancing on fallen logs several feet off the ground. Trail maintenance issues have been an ongoing part of the tension between Parks Canada and First Nations groups the trail passes through since the trail first became popular for hikers in the late 1970’s. It’s a complicated situation where issues of colonization, environmental protection, recreation and indigenous sovereignty collide. Sadly, the complexity of the issue has resulted in a world class trail (which hikers pay a lot of money to access!) turning into a safety hazard, and even an embarrassment and environmental tragedy in areas where the forest is being trampled to avoid hiking though huge boggy mud pits. I’m not suggesting the trail should become a 75km boardwalk with no element of risk or challenge, and I think most hikers would agree that the difficult trail is part of the allure of the adventure. However, in the interest of continued environmental protection and safe passage for hikers, I hope the issues are resolved and much needed maintenance continues.

Day 3, the ‘Ladder Day’ was a minefield of dilapidated infrastructure , mud, mud and more mud. It was the only day of our whole trip with a little bit of rain, but the soggy spring so far meant that the sun had not had a chance to dry the trail up at all.

It was starting to take its toll on the kids. At one point, Katie stood over a huge bog, struggling to balance on a slippery log, and whispers through her tears of frustration that she wanted to go home. Tegan and Levi were also getting frustrated having to navigate so many difficult sections and so many long ladders, getting us down and then back up sections of the rugged coastline. Kirk and I looked at each other across the bog, shrugged, questioning what the heck we were doing.

Another element of the trail is a few places you have to jump over a surge channel, a narrow inlet in the rocks that the ocean waves slam into, sending the water up and down the channel with incredible speed.

The mandatory safety video warns you to undo you backpack clips in case you fall in so it won’t pull you under. I watched as each of my kids leaped over the channel, each expressing various degrees of fear, each doing it anyway. All of us proud as we made it to the other side.

We were rewarded that night with the most spectacular campsite all to ourselves at Bonilla point. It featured a waterfall, creek, a fern covered cave and a campsite that fostered the fantasy that we were shipwrecked on a deserted island.

That became the tipping point for trail difficulty and we knew we would make better time on Day 4. With a nice dose of beach walking and less trail sections, we covered 27km that day, including a much anticipated stop at Nitinaht Narrows, the only glimpse of civilization along the trail. Continuing on the trail requires a short boat ride across Nitinaht Lake, and at the boat launch is a small canteen that offers fresh crab, potatoes, grilled cheese and other snacks. We arrived late in the afternoon, worried we would miss the last boat and so exhausted that if we had, we probably would’ve happily paid the exorbitant fees to camp at Narrows campsite. Instead we used our cash to buy loaded baked potatoes and a freshly caught crab-to-go.

A couple more difficult kms on trail and we arrived at Tsusiat falls as the sun was starting to get low on the horizon. We scrambled to set up camp and start cooking, so we could enjoy our meal (there was never enough food in the pot!) while the sun set. We shared a fire with some other hikers and climbed into bed to the lullaby of waves rolling up the beach.

We had been told that a dip in the pool below Tsusiat falls was an absolute must before we packed up and carried on, so even though the sun was barely gaining warmth, and the water was freezing, we dove in to swim behind the falls for a very refreshing couple of minutes. Giggling and shrieking the whole time.

Day 5 was our last full day and night on the trail, the challenges of the south end of the trail were forgotten, and spirits were high as we set off for a gorgeous day of clear skies and a lot of beach walking.

Grey whales spouting to our left, bald eagles overhead, lush forest to our right. Our packs were lighter, our legs were stronger. I felt like I was watching the layers of societal pressure and anxiety peel away from my kids. Flakes of self-doubt shedding, falling to mix with the sand, waiting to be absorbed by the sea. Hair tucked into messy braids, skin salty, nails gritty, those girls have never looked more beautiful.

How can we capture this feeling so we can mix it into our lives back home? Why does it take 5 days of no cellphones and schedules before our nervous systems settle to the rhythm of the sun and waves? Must it take a heavy pack and impossible trail for them to see just how strong they really are?

We end the day early, setting up camp while the sun was still high and pushing temperatures into the 30’s. The extra time allows us to explore a bit, the kids disappear together to find driftwood for a fire and Kirk and I are left at camp, watching grey whales roll in the shallow water within 40 feet of shore, scraping barnacles off their backs in a dance of rolling fins and tails.

Kirk starts yelling, pointing at the water. A pod of orcas racing and jumping as they travel by, slowing briefly as if to give us a better look. We start running down the beach, yelling to get the kids attention to look out. They are already staring, mouths gaping, the significance of this moment is not lost on them.

A national parks conservation officer was camping nearby to monitor bear activity in the area, and she was nearly bursting with excitement, telling us it must be a transient pod, an extremely rare sighting, and that they are likely on the hunt.

The rest of the night passes with us sitting around the fire, watching the grey whales continue to roll among the quiet water. We are mostly being ridiculous together; my favourite way to be, and a few moments of silence as we soak it all in. Driftwood smoke floating like thoughts unsaid between us. That’s ok. Not everything needs words.

The next morning, Kirk snuck out and packed up early to tackle the last 12km at a quicker pace so he could catch the mid day shuttle bus back to the truck at the south end, and could leave the kids and I to slowly make our way out.

We took full advantage of the morning, laying around in the sun, enjoying the last moments of beach life, before packing up and heading onto the trail. The last 12km is the easiest of the whole trail. Well manicured and dry; a real walk in the park.

Lunch was at Carmanah lighthouse where the friendly lighthouse keeper came out to say hi and to share stories of his solitary life.

A short and entertaining visit to the sea lions covering the rocks nearby, and then back to the trail to finish the day.

More ladders, even though we could see Pachena Bay where the trail ends. Patience was running out.

And then, just like that, the trail was done. The trail head hut was closed for the day, so we plopped our bags down on the picnic table out front and pulled out our last, carefully rationed snacks. A few Mike N Ike’s and a handful of Skittles shared between us. A couple hours to kill before Kirk would make his way back to us on the windy forestry roads.

We had barely finished our candy when a mama black bear and her two cubs popped out of the bushes, about 50ft away from where we were sitting. I quieted my own mama bear instincts once I saw she wasn’t too interested in us, and we picked up our bags and relocated to the beach a ways away to give her lots of space to do her thing.

We sprawled out on the sand and dozed off for a couple hours, getting up only to dip in the water and to find ice cream at the campground nearby. We were still pretty far from civilization, so we’re pretty grateful for the little campground convenience store and the cash I had tucked into my backpack.

Kirk arrived with the truck at about 8pm and we made the 1.5 hr drive to Port Alberni where we found some burgers for dinner and an absolutely adorable hostel that thankfully had enough beds for us.

This trip was years in the making and hopefully represents a core memory for the kids, a permanent reminder of the strength they already have, and the beauty that’s worth finding even if it’s a struggle.

I also hope the trail continues to be cared for in a way that can keep it wild enough to maintain the element of adventure, but protected enough that hikers don’t destroy this incredibly beautiful place. And wouldn’t it be cool if one day, the next generation gets to experience the trail for themselves in another few decades.

“Because it is there”

The alleged famous last words of the British climber George Mallory when he was asked why he was so determined to climb Mount Everest. In many ways, that logic is absurd, especially now that we know he died on his third attempt to summit. And yet, I totally get it. Of course he wanted to do it, simply because it was there. The challenge invites a response.

When a couple friends told me that there was a new race happening called Climbing for Change, I was all in: Challenge accepted. My own version of Everest.

I was immediately in love with the event and knew I wanted to be a part of its inaugural year. The challenge was to climb the equivalent elevation of Mount Robson, Mount Kilimanjaro, or Mount Everest, and you could compete as a soloist or on a team, and here’s the best part: the race was free to enter, and offered a fundraising platform where you could raise money for the charity of your choice. Since the event was right on the heels of Run On in support of Amy’s House, that was an easy pick for me to keep the fundraising momentum going to help families going through cancer treatments.

One problem. I wasn’t exactly well hill trained.

Meh. Lets see what happens.

The race was hosted at Rabbit Hill Ski Club. A place I have been many times before when we were first teaching our kids to ski, but as the sun rose on the very chilly morning of the race, the hill was looking like a whole different beast. A small but mightly group of us gathered around Luke, the race director, as he welcomed us to the first ever Climbing for Change. Our breath visible as we all shuffled to stay warm while he talked. The rules are simple. Climb until you reach the elevation of the mountain you set out to climb. Timing mats tracked laps, and each lap earned you about 66m of elevation, the only metric that mattered. Total estimated distance to reach the goal of Everesting was 100km (each lap was about 750m) and 134 laps. In the end, it was more like 80km, and over 138 laps. Not that I cared about distance. All I had my sights set on was reaching that elevation goal of 8848m of up.

Off we went, up and down the ski hill, the first few laps a welcome way to get warm and settle in to enjoy the beautiful late September day. A race format like this is a great way to make new friends, unlike a regular mountain ultra where you could end up alone for hours, each climb up the hill was a chance to chat with someone. I was also lucky enough to be well supported out there. With an aid station (with the BEST homemade treats) at the bottom of the hill, and a few friends who were gracious enough to help keep me well fueled and hydrated, I gave my husband a pass on his regular crewing role. He helped me get set up in the morning, and then came back in the early hours of the next day to shuttle me home, but other then that I was out there as a team of one.

There were only about 6 soloists and 2 teams that attempted the elevation of Everest. Everyone else out there was doing one of the smaller mountains. Energy was high for most of the day, we crawled like ants in a line, up, then back down, then again. As each new team member traded off a tired partner, they would push up the hill with fresh legs and I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty envious of that. Even though I felt great for most of the day, the reality is, this is a really tough challenge and I was getting tired. I had a few moments where I felt pretty sorry for myself, but I practiced something I work on with clients all the time; when you feel that big emotion coming, don’t be afraid of it, sit with it, turn towards it, and allow it to move on, and get back to doing whatever it is that will get you where you want to go. When the thought of how many laps I had left to complete felt overwhelming, I leaned into that fear. I recognized that of course something that big was going to feel scary, and got back to doing it anyway.

The smell of BBQ wafted up the hill around lunch time so I paused for a burger, a favourite mid race snack, and just enjoyed those sunny hours when energy was high.

I spent some time chatting with Luke, the race director and fellow Everest soloist. He shared that he has a vision to create Everesting events like this all over the country, facilitating climbing dreams and fundraising goals at the same time. Over the course of the event, his first one ever, we raised over $40 000 for 24 different charities. Can you imagine how much more will be raised for charity as he grows this event?

Don’t you love it when the spark of an idea turns into something so big? I can’t wait to see the impact Climbing for Change is going to have all across the country.

As the sun started to lose its power, we were given a stunning golden hour, the river valley all vibrant yellows in September light. The hill began to feel a bit quieter as a few teams and soloists doing the smaller mountains reached their goal and packed up for the day.

By dusk, a DJ sets up at the bottom of the hill, a jarring shift from the peace of sunset as the lights and dance mixes keep us entertained for the next several hours. Up and down, up and down. This time with bass and catchy sing-a-longs. Running through the night in ultras has a similar feel to those young and reckless party nights. That same feeling that you’re out making memories while the rest of the world sleeps, completely oblivious, missing out on a night for the books.

But noise bylaws had the music shut off by 11 pm and the mood shifted again. This time to a quiet acceptance.

Up and down.

Most people had finished their race goal and gone home by now. It was just us Everesters left, constantly calculating how many laps remained.

The last Everest team finished around midnight, and a few of the other soloists had disappeared, accepting a DNF. Understandable. This is a tough challenge.

It was down to four of us, quietly gaining precious meters on the climbs, grimacing at our trashed quads on the descents. Sometimes chatting, mostly nodding as we passed each other under the glow of the ski hill lights.

This is my favourite part of a race. When things get quiet. Gritty.

Just the sound of your breath. A quiet mind.

It started to rain a bit and the hill grew a bit slippery.

Brad finished first. packed up and disappeared after wishing me luck on my last few laps.

Luke and the other soloist sat at the bottom, wrapped in blankets to take a break with some other friends who came out to cheer. I could hear the friends joking around, laughing louder, and it felt out of place to where I was at. I was ready to be done.

With a very underwhelming finale, I stopped half way up the hill, and stopped my watch when it finally read 8857 meters. Yes. I did a few extra meters just to be sure I reached the full height of Mount Everest.

Luke clapped. His friends cheered. Kirk showed up just as I descended that hill for the last time. Drove me home after nearly 20 hours of hill repeats.

So what was all that for? I dunno. But I love that thanks to the support of our friends, Brad and I raised a couple thousand more for Amy’s House, and now I can say I climbed the equivalent of sea level to the highest point on earth, and back down, just cause it’s there, (and because I can).

A text comes in from my friend Shelley “what are you doing March 7-9th?”

She calls me immediately, giggling, and I can hear she’s not alone. She’s in the car with Julia and Jenny and they are bursting with excitement. Shelley announces that Jenny had won a race entry for Moab Run the Rocks but wasn’t able to use it, so she gave it to Shelley instead. But then Shelley won an entry for herself, and how lucky am I that she chose me as her plus one.

“But I don’t want to steal you from Tania!”

That problem was short lived as Tania quickly bought an entry for herself.

Cue adventure planning.

Shelley went all out and booked 4 hotel room options and wrote out all possible flight configurations and I pretty much went into shut down mode. This ‘free’ trip was getting pretty costly, especially once you factor in the brutal exchange rate. Then the chaos south of the border and pressure to boycott all things American had me questioning if this was a good idea.

But it’s Moab. And Moab doesn’t feel like it’s a part of this planet, much less a part of the dumpster fire of American politics. And then an even better travel plan began to take shape. We would borrow my parents new camper van named Thor and make it an epic road trip, eliminating the need to spend money on flights, rental cars, accommodations and expensive meals out. I’ve always wanted to be a camper-van-trail-runner and as Shelley and I set out early Wednesday morning before the race it looked like that dream was about to come true.

Usually I get chauffeured around by Kirk who loves to drive (while I nap) but this time I was behind the wheel for most of the 22 hour drive down there. We broke it up with a short couple hours of sleep outside Salt Lake City which was followed by a harrowing snowy drive over the pass after Provo. I’m not usually phased by winter road conditions, but this felt pretty sketchy driving such a heavy, 2 wheel drive beast.

Needless to say it was pretty exciting to make it safely to Moab and of course I fell in love all over again with that town. I’ve been lucky enough to be there twice before, once with the family to mountain bike before running Rim2Rim2Rim of the Grand Canyon and once for a completely spiritual desert experience while running Moab 240. Both those experiences were so incredible that I sort of wanted to leave those memories untouched, and never come back. But here I was, ready for a whole new way to experience the place that has shaped a part of who I am. There’s something about that orange dust that just sticks with you.

We stocked up on groceries, sure to do our best to only purchase non-American products as a part of our own quiet political rebellion, and then drove Thor to the tiny airport outside Moab to pick Tania up from the airport (she couldn’t get away early enough to drive with us).

We spent the rest of the day traipsing all over those desert rocks, hiking around Dead Horse Point and finding Mesa arch. The sky was moody grey. So different from the usual clear blue over orange rocks I’ve only ever known. We were having such a great time we opted to skip the pre race meeting and happy hour. It was just too intoxicating being out there, barely a soul in sight, knowing we had the freedom to stop wherever we wanted to sleep for the night.

Once the sun set, the clouds cleared and the wind died down, and we parked at the campground that was the start/finish line, also known as ‘Chillville’ in TransRockies lingo.

All three of us had plenty of room to sleep because the bed can be made up as a king sized and we are all petite women. And damn was that ever handy to get to sleep in, avoid the long line of cars trying to get to the race, and stumble out of the van all ready to run.

We met up with Edmonton friends Jen and Soren at the start line. They were both running the ‘full pint’ with me. For each of the three days of the stage race, there was a ‘full pint’ option (19k, 39k, and 22k) or a ‘half pint’ option (14k, 28k, 12k). Shelley and Tania were doing the half pint, and started their race a bit later then I did. The tried and true TransRockies formula we knew so well from running the six day stage race in Colorado in 2023, was happening again. This time surrounded by millions of strange rock formations instead of the Rockies. The start line energy was intoxicating as ‘Highway to Hell’ sent us off into the desert, the sun gaining power even though the air was quite cold.

The distance passed too quickly that first morning. I was so excited to be running those trails again I didn’t want it to end. The La Sal mountains were in full view in the distance and I couldn’t stop gushing over how beautiful it all was. I crossed the finish line minutes after Tania did and she came rushing over to pull me towards a new friend she wanted me to meet. “Kevin wants to meet you! He ran Moab 240 too and wants to talk about it”

I get it. I want to talk about it too. Even though this weekend is a completely different type of event and I wanted to be fully present, I couldn’t help but stare out at those mountains and remember what it was like to climb Geyser pass, over 3000m, after already covering 200 miles, and know that I still had a long ways to go. How deep I had to dig to keep forward movement, to maintain singular focus for 101 hours. Of course I wanted to talk about it. And as we both stood there in the busy crowd, music pumping and beer already flowing (was it even noon by then?), I immediately recognized someone else who was as enamoured with those La Sal’s and the whole experience as I was. But it felt out of place to be nostalgic, and there was plenty of good times happening all around me that I was also pretty pumped to start making new memories.

“Great to meet you Kevin. Enjoy this very different desert run”

Back to Chillville.

We stuck around to cheer on our other friends finishing up their races, and our Edmonton crew and Marty and his boy band from Saskatchewan, left the good vibes of Chillville to find more adventures at Arches National Park.

If you’ve never been, it’s an absolute must see. I’ll just leave these pictures here so you can decide for yourself.

After happy hour, the race meeting for the next day and watching the race video highlights from the morning, we found a hot tub and then steered Thor to the start line for day 2.

Day 2 is the biggest day with some decent elevation and gorgeous views. Unfortunately I was struggling to feel good. Every now and then my heart feels off. I don’t know how to explain it (and yes I’m getting it checked out) but some days I just don’t feel right. Day 2 was one of those days. I struggled to settle into an easy rhythm and my heart rate felt high the whole time. Nevertheless, climbing over the mesa and towards the trails of Gemini bridges was a stunning way to spend the day.

I made a few friends out there and even caught up with Tania at the aid station where the full and half pint distances converged. She was ready to go when I got the aid station and told me she’d start and I’d catch up. Nope. That girl took off like a shot! Running back up the mesa much faster then I could, and by some miracle, her sometimes problematic knees felt good enough to bomb down the other side towards the finish line. We were both pretty happy with our performances that day and sat around the finish line to watch the Chillville party unfold and wait for Shelley to come in.

Just another day of living the dream.

We were tired out after a big day and opted to limit our adventures to the scenic drive up highway 128 for views that leave you feeling kinda small as you stare up at the massive canyon walls on either side of the Colorado River. We finished the afternoon with a stroll through the town of Moab.

Happy hour, video re-cap from the day and race briefing for tomorrow. TransRockies sure knows how to keep that ship running smoothly.

Once again, we parked Thor at the start/finish for the next days’ race and enjoyed a delicious dinner and the starry skies.

The full pint runs 22km on day 3, and it actually turned out to be my favourite course. Instead of mesa climbs and windy trails around lil cacti, this time it took you across slick rock and very technical trails that felt like parkour at times. Also brutally hard. Like, not ‘difficult’ hard, but hard like concrete, that left my lower legs and feet feeling beat up by the end. The frequent cheer squads and fireball shots helped and before I knew it I was crossing my last finish line for Moab Run the Rocks.

Chillville was in full swing as most of the half pint racers were done well before the full pinters, but this time I was struggling to get into party mode. I was feeling overwhelmed with all that sensory input and was at a total mismatch to everyone else.

Sometimes that just happens. Meh.

The party wrapped up quickly and we sadly had to take Shelley to the tiny Moab airport. She had to fly home early because she couldn’t miss her flight to Mexico. Yes, she is very hard done by.

Bye Shelley. We will miss you. We were having such a blast with our little trio in Thor, it just wasn’t the same without her.

Tania and I had time for one more adventure before tackling the long drive home so we said goodbye to Moab and drove further to into the desert, through Goblin State park to Little Wildhorse Canyon. I knew about it because my husband and two of my kids hiked it after I ran in 2022. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to join them because my feet were so sore and blistered I couldn’t even put on shoes, much less hike the 15km of the canyon. I sat at the trailhead for hours and watched the sun set instead.

But their pictures and trail stories made me add it to my bucket list, and am I ever glad I did.

We pretty much had the place to ourselves as we hiked, scrambled and climbed our way through the slot canyon. The trail goes up Little wild horse canyon for 5 km of narrow trail, with towering canyon walls and rocks wedged into them. I did my best to not think about that movie ‘127 hours’.

Then you can follow a connector trail to Bell Canyon, an equally impressive slot canyon walk back to the trail head.

I highly recommend this adventure. It’s an easy introduction to canyoning, and out of the way enough that it doesn’t have big crowds other canyons might.

Another trailhead dinner in Thor and just another evening watching the sun disappear and the stars come out over that vast desert.

I didn’t want it to end. But we both have plenty of reasons to get home, so we steered Thor northbound, back to the country I love more and more everyday, and of course back to my family and very full and beautiful life I’ve built there.

We made it home without incident, and 100% fully convinced that van life is going to be in my future.

While it wasn’t a race I had on my radar, Moab Run the Rocks once again proved that TransRockies race series has done a fantastic job of perfecting the stage race experience. Gorgeous location, great party and of course so many incredible people we got to share the experience with.