Stomping Rotten Snow & Other Spring Stories
Mountain running gets a late but beautiful start this year
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Many of us trail runners are fortunate to have a go-to trail close to home, the route as familiar as your house’s interior. We run there when short on time or desiring a plain-vanilla run, no planning required.
My go-to trail on public land crosses the hillside next to our property, the trailhead only about 200 meters from our driveway. Switchbacks zigzag up a moderate slope for a half mile, so I hike the steeper curves and jog the straight-aways as a warmup. Then, the trail forks and offers two possibilities: a delightfully flat couple of miles along an irrigation ditch in an aspen grove, or more switchbacks up to a ridge, with vistas of the San Juan Mountains ringing the region. Higher up, both ends of the trail loop back to meet each other, and one branch continues all the way to town.
But my go-to trail goes into hibernation for the winter, under layers of snow. On Sunday, with an eagerness not unlike the anticipation I feel when my adult kids return home, I decided the hillside looked melted-out enough to run up the switchbacks. Was I right, or was I early?
I love this trail network the way some people love the neighborhood roads leading to their childhood home. From the trail, I can look down and see a rectangular log cabin with a rust-streaked metal roof that my dad built when I was only 4, in the early 1970s, where my brother now lives, each glimpse of that cabin stirring memories or present-day thoughts of family. Often, I spot elk herds, too, or sheep at certain times of year. I can study the throne-like mountains called Sunshine and Wilson Peak and gauge the season based on the amount of snow streaking their couloirs. I also can monitor the season by the sprouting, growth, and browning of the meadow grass; the budding and coloring of the aspen leaves; and, frustratingly, the resurgence each summer of monstrous, invasive purple-headed Canada and musk thistles, which we bug the US Forest Service to fight with spraying.
I ran to the trailhead and hopscotched over puddles. The earth underfoot felt spongy with moisture. The trailside vegetation still looked brownish gray, leftover from the prior year and trampled from the blanket of snow, but here and there, bunches of thin blades of green grass emerged.
A swath of snow covered the second switchback, and I could tell that other trail users had walked around it, leaving footprints in the mud where greenery should grow. I slowed to a hike and began punching steps through the crusty snow, to speed the melting and to mark the existing trail, thereby encouraging others to use it rather than detouring. The old stubborn snow was so sharp, it stung my shins. Then I broke into a run on the next little stretch of dried-out dirt.
Higher up, at the start of the flat stretch through a northeast-facing aspen grove, thick snow still covered the whole way. Darn, I thought. I’ve got weeks more to wait to run the ditch path without slipping and sliding. So, I headed up the second set of sun-exposed switchbacks. Some parts of the dirt singletrack welcomed me back, but big chunks remained hidden under snow.
Hiking again, I punched through more layers of rotten snow to break trail, my legs acting like chainsaws clearing downed trees. I didn’t care anymore about getting in a good, steady run, I just wanted to open the trail to the spring sun and speed the thaw. The trail condition made me think of my husband’s homemade sourdough when we pull a loaf from the oven a bit early, impatient to make toast for breakfast, and we discover a too-doughy inside upon slicing. This trail needs to bake a week or more longer.
This still-snowy and muddy trail lies at only 9200 – 9700 feet elevation. Monday, closer to town, I ventured on another singletrack trail under 10,000 feet that I hoped would be dry enough because it’s south-facing. Some parts were. Yet sections through the trees and slopes that face northward remained covered in ankle-to-calf-deep snow. I finally gave up and turned back when I could no longer make out the trail through what still looked like a winter wonderland.
Of course, this is a nice problem to have—a late-spring melt filling rivers and delaying wildfire risks. But I predict it’s going to take at least a month, maybe two, for the high-country trails above tree line (~11,500 feet and higher) to be passable.
What does this mean for high-altitude ultras in the San Juan Mountains whose routes climb above 13,000 feet, most notably the San Juan Solstice 50 on June 24 and the Hardrock 100 July 14? I bet the races will go forward, perhaps with reroutes, but runners will face a lot of snow-slogging in shady and north-facing areas. I hope the melt does not reveal significant avalanche debris, blocking trails or access to aid stations, as happened in 2019 and prompted Hardrock’s cancelation that year.
This post’s chart shows the snowpack is not quite as much as 2011 or 2019, but it’s up there.
I can’t help thinking that not getting picked for Hardrock this year may be a blessing in disguise because of the snow fields. I do not like postholing through snow or gingerly stepping across snow bridges over creeks, holding my breath while wondering if my foot will break through and land in the water.
Mostly, I really do not like traversing snow fields where a slip-and-fall can lead to sliding down a slope where the swath of snow ends abruptly at a drop-off shaped like the eaves on a roof. Several times, I’ve experienced the feeling of my feet going out from under me on a snow traverse, landing on my backside and sliding on my butt, triggering panicked thoughts of self-arrest! self-arrest! as I try to roll onto my belly and dig a trekking pole or claw my fingers into the snow.
In June of 2021, when I was solo and crossing a snowy stretch that buried part of a lesser-known trail between Ophir Pass and Columbine Lake above Silverton, I slipped and slid, not a soul around to witness or help me, and self-arrest did not work. In a split second, I decided to aim my body into a mass of thorny, scratchy bushes with branches that stabbed but thankfully stopped me. It was better than the alternative—picking up speed and landing hard on the rocky earth many feet below.
Remembering that incident, which could have ended badly, restores my patience to run the lower-elevation dry trails and dirt roads around here until the trails higher up shed their layers of sun-cupped white snow with dirty-brown streaks, which look like the tops of giant meringue pies. I’m also reminded how much the seasons and its weather dictate mountain running and life in general here.
Ermines—the white weasels I spot in winter poking out from their homes under a layer of snow—transform their coats to brown and hunt for voles. Marmots scamper on rocks and whistle hello, elk calves follow their mamas to find a part in the fence where they can crawl under instead of jump over, and Rocky Mountain bluebirds splash blue across my field of vision. I love all these harbingers of spring, even more so when they’re late to arrive.
The start of May for me also means the start of a new training block following lower-volume unstructured weeks since the Antelope Canyon 50 in mid-March. It’s time to ramp up for summer races—the Silverton Alpine Marathon/Kendall Mountain 12 double in mid-July, the Telluride Mountain Run 40 in late August, and the big goal of Run Rabbit Run 100 in mid-September.
I hope I still have enough of the fitness gained from doing the 50-miler two months ago to carry me through a long, special excursion planned May 15—a modified Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim run/hike in the Grand Canyon with a group of female friends. It’s modified because the North Rim remains closed until June due to late-season snow and trail damage. We’re planning a route from the South Rim to the turnaround at the closure on the north side, then adding a spur out and back on the westward Tonto trail on the way back, for around 40 miles total.
I’m starting to carefully add mileage and more intentional workouts, along with maintaining strength and mobility, compared to the past six weeks when I took a run-by-feel-and-if-I-feel-like-it approach to training. It feels good and motivating to regain some structure.
Plus, I need to schedule running more thoughtfully now that I have my second sport and love back in our daily lives—the horses. We brought Maverick and Cobalt home last weekend from their lower-elevation winter boarding pasture. Their care and exercise once again structure my days. Feeding, grooming, mucking out the manure, and riding take at least one, usually two, hours daily.
I’ve been wondering how and when we’ll take care of spring chores on our list, on top of regular work. We need to patch the pasture fence, put protective fencing around the young trees that the elk ate last year, weed and mulch the landscaped strip around the house, find a hay seller and fill the hay barn, clear and open the irrigation ditch … the list goes on. Plus, we want to camp, bike, and get the golf clubs out of storage to hit balls at the muni course in Montrose.
We want to do a little bit of everything this spring and summer, including simply sit on the chairs on the deck, watching the dogs watch the birds.
How will this happen? Partly by letting go of some obligations (for example, I’m stepping down from a time-consuming volunteer position I’ve held for three years, and my substitute teaching will go on summer break). And partly by planning and scheduling. Mostly, though, I think we need to go with the flow and sometimes act on whim or impulse to make the most of these glorious days.
It always amazes and encourages me how busy lives can expand to make time for things we truly love and want to do. Having the horses back seems magically to make the days longer and fuller. I cut back elsewhere, surely, but I don’t feel or notice the compromise.
I’m reminded of a poem I read three days ago by
, because I subscribe to her poem a day. (Also, last night, I attended a moving, inspiring talk by her in town, on the occasion of her new collection of poems.)Her poem is called “Timeless,” and she notes it’s inspired by Ruth Stone’s Train Ride.
There are not enough hours to walk by the river,
not enough hours to work and make soup
and dream and sit and do nothing at all.
Is it true there is not enough time?
There is time for every word
you have written, every petunia you’ve planted,
for every path you have walked,
for every lover you’ve kissed
and kissed and kissed there is enough time.
No. Not enough. Not enough time for reading
the tall stack of books on the desk.
Not enough time for making the pie crust
from scratch. Not enough time for wandering
in the forest with the soft green hanging moss
until you, too, remember you are a tree.
And yet you have read tall stacks of books.
Many, many tall stacks.
You have made cherry pies and rhubarb pies
and pumpkin pies from scratch.
You have wandered for hours through dappled glades
and draped your hair with moss.
There is enough time for everything you have ever done
and for every moment spent doing nothing at all.
How is it you feel such lack?
Here is the moment. Open it.
One last note: I’ll host a monthly online meetup for paid subscribers on May 17 to chat about our Grand Canyon adventure and to swap travel advice. I recently sent a bonus post to paid subscribers with some life lessons inspired by the Camino de Santiago. Please consider upgrading your subscription if you’d like to receive bonus posts and be a part of the monthly Zooms.
“The trail needs to bake a bit longer..” perfect!
Ben and I keep talking about doing an "order of operations hike list" this year based on what'll be open and when. I see a lot of weekend trips to Phil's World in my future this year 😂