The Journey from Crown King to Whiskey Row Mile 77.3
Crown King to Arrastra Creek Station Mile 53
(16.4 miles +2,838ft of gain and -3,222ft of loss)
I had left Crown King after about a 45-minute pitstop. It was 5:31pm and it was hard saying goodbye to my crew. I knew it would be a long night without them. I had changed into my white KETL sun hoodie and new socks and had gotten wiped down and cooled off and some food in me. So, I felt fresh and ready to tackle the next section. The cooler temps were a balm to my running soul and I ran through the roads of Crown King admiring the signs that the school children had hung along their fence, wishing the runners good luck. There were some interesting cabins and bungalows and even some fancier chalets up in the woods.
The rugged road began to climb towards Towers Mountain. I had to settle back into a power hike. But I was energized and my goal was to make it to the next crew stop, at Whiskey Row, in downtown Prescott, by morning. It was 32 miles from Crown King and that’s where I hoped to get my first sleep. I would push through the night as best as I could and utilize the two aid-stations along the way for fuel and sustenance along the way.
There were a few runners here and there, but mostly I was on my own. The sun was dipping lower and after the two miles of steep climbing the road hit a crest and the Bradshaw Mountain range looked like a cascading watercolor of rolling hills out to the left. The mountains began to turn into a musky blue and then an eggplant purple. The sun kept dipping them deeper into color like each was its own egg being held into the food coloring kit. I put my arms out like a bird and started to gently run down the road as if I were soaring above the mountains. This is why we do this, I thought to myself. This is why we run. To get to these magical places on our own two feet. Would this sunset feel as magical if I hadn’t had to climb up 37 miles of rocky trails to the top? Would it feel this personal if I had just driven up in a car and looked out the window? This view was earned and I felt more apart of the landscape than I did something separate from it. I felt so good and I thought that it was possibly all the calories I had gotten rom those Spring Energy smoothies. Spring Energy was supposed to have large amounts of calories and carbs in each packet and they were sponsoring Cocodona. I had plenty of their gels stuffed into my pack and they tasted like applesauce so they were easy to get down. Only later would I learn that the company had lied about the calories and carbs and we were all only getting in about ¼ of the nutrients they advertised. But, just thinking I had packed in so many calories made me feel strong. Placebo effect was working like a charm.
There was a man that was walking and running at about the same pace that I was. We’d walk a bit and then break out into a run and we did this easy enough that we could strike up a conversation. His name was Aaron, and he said this was his 4th year in a row running Cocodona. That got my wheels turning. “Are you one of the Fab 5 that have run this every year since its inception?” I asked. I loved that there was this tiny handful of people, an exact handful, that had done the race since its inaugural year in 2021. I knew all 5 were signed up to run it again this year. They included, Andy Glaze, Wes Plate, Jose Cosa, Jeff Garmire and this guy, Aaron Fleisher. He said he was and then wondered, how I knew about this obscure piece of race trivia.
“I’m a student of the sport,” I responded. “I’m also a journalist and wrote a preview of the race.”
I asked what brought him back each year and he said, “this” and gestured towards the sun setting over the mountains. He had a calm confidence of someone who has done this many times before. He seemed to just move across the landscape with ease. A rugged durability. While he did not seem to be in any rush, every step was efficient. I tried to channel that same effortlessness, but within only a few minutes I tripped over my poles that I had picked up at Crown King.
“But ask me in another 50 miles and I might tell you that I made a terrible mistake,” he said and laughed. We picked up some other runners as we made our way towards the aid-station. All I remember was feeling good along this stretch. It was a gentle downhill on a gravel road with views that energized the spirit. The air had cooled down. I was moving well. I knew I had eaten a decent amount and hydrated and my night gear was all packed. There was also some pride in knowing that I had gotten through that first section without any issues. I was so grateful for that. There were a million ways for that initial 37-miles to go south but it hadn’t. And now I just had to make my way through the Bradshaw’s to Prescott. Just a hop, skip and a jump, right?
I remember being happy that I was running a lot of this section, as it rolled into Arrasta aid station. By the time I got there my headlamp was on and I had a light windbreaker because it had gotten windy along the ridgeline and those last few miles continued to trend downhill. The aid station was just off the side of the road and I saw a bunch of runners sitting in chairs by a fire. I did not want to stop. But I also knew that I had to keep up on my nutrition and so I grabbed a few turkey and cheese wraps that were cut into mini rolls. I also filled one of my soft-flasks with Coke. I could never pass up an opportunity to drink Coke. I thanked the volunteers and kept moving down the road. I was making great time. I might even get to Whiskey Row before the sun rose if I kept this pace up. I was smiling, amazed that 53 miles into this race! It was going better than I could have imagined.
Arrastra Creek to Kamp Kippa 62.4 miles
(9.4 miles w/ +2,992ft of gain and -843ft of loss)
I was still on the double track trail, deep into a pine forest when an occasional ATV would come through and scare the living shit out of me. But I just kept talking to myself and running, trying to eat bits of my turkey wrap while watching my feet so that I didn’t trip. Everything was going well until we hit the Yankee Doodle Trail. It was a single-track trail that we jumped onto and it went straight up. All of that forward momentum I had came to a grinding halt. For whatever reason, this 3-mile climb felt like it took me forever. People were constantly passing me and I had to keep stepping off the trail to let them pass or vomit or catch my breath, or all three in some awful combination. I just kept muttering ‘good work,’ to the runners as they passed me. It was demoralizing but also a bit frightening. Had the turkey sandwich been bad? Did I drink too much Coke? Was the heat of the day finally catching up to me? Were we at altitude? I believe someone told me that we were close to 7,000ft. That was plenty for me to get sick coming from sea-level. I kept trying to catch my breath and sip on Coke to stop the nauseous but it was a slow, painful, crawl up this goat path.
I had to talk to myself and calm my body down and try and take in some liquid and keep pressing forward, however slowly I was going. “Neither the highs, nor the lows will last forever,” I counseled myself. “This too, will end. Just keep putting one step in front of the other.” It felt like I was on that 3-mile trail for eternity. I was so nauseous and spent by the time we got to the top that I couldn’t even run the downhill into the aid-station. I would run a few steps and the nauseous will hit me again and I’d have to slow to a walk. I had been excited about this section because the name “Kamp Kippa” sounded so pleasant and happy, but I did not go into that building feeling so hot. I just stared at the aid-station fare which was all great stuff, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything. I believe I tried to sip on some ginger ale and then I lay my head down on a table for a few minutes and closed my eyes. It was too early to sleep and this was not the place to do it. There were people coming in and out and I needed to be one of the people that was on their way out. I thanked the volunteers and headed back out into the night. I didn’t feel good, but I felt better than I had going up Yankee Doodle, which was not saying much.
Little things annoyed me like how long it took from the aid-station back to the trail. Why did that matter? I kept checking my GAIA app to make sure I was on course as everything suddenly felt very dark and confusing. Whatever calories I had gotten in had come up and so I was back to just sipping on water. As motivation to get moving with a little more pep, I told myself that if I needed to, I could take a nap and the next aid-station. It would be the 70-mile mark which seemed like the right place to take a siesta, so I needed to get moving. I had a drop bag with some socks and underwear, a caffeinated drink and a back-up charger for my phone and my watch.
It was less than 7-miles to the next aid-station. You can do this Erin. Let’s get going. I followed pink dragons and checked my location on my phone and began to walk as fast as my legs could take me towards Camp Wamatochick, which I forever referred to as Camp W because there were too many ways to screw up that pronunciation.
Kamp Kippa to Camp Wamatochick 69 miles
(6.6 miles w/ +615ft gain and -1,638ft loss)
This was deep into the night. I have almost no memory of this section. I just followed the markers and would check in with the GAIA app on my phone when I was unsure. Otherwise, I tried to take little sips of my water, eat some chews, and keep plugging forward. I do remember running into the camp because there was a cross lit up. I took a few pictures of it to send to my best friends at home, Amy and Kristen. I always joke with them that I may become a Jesus freak at any moment and particularly during one of these races when you’re brought face to face with both God and the Devil. Between these stretches and then Mt. Mingus, there were several Christian camps along the Cocodona route that they kindly offered up for aid-stations.
I moved towards the cross and eventually into the large cabin which may have been a theater for the camp because it had a sunken area in the middle with a large stage on the right-hand side. There were about a dozen runners sitting around various tables looking more like they were at a last call at a speakeasy than they were in the middle of a 5-day run. Or maybe those two looks are interchangeable. I looked as rough as anyone there and then I saw Wes Plate and I was so happy that he was doing better. He said it was a struggle but that he had gotten himself out of the hole. That was good, because I was about to crawl into one. I just starred at the food at the aid-station table with no idea what I could stomach. I think I went for pretzels and a peanut-butter and jelly square. Then I fetched my drop bag that was in a pile with the other drop bags by the wooden stairs to the stage. Above the stage was a large-screen TV where they were playing old MTV videos from the 1990’s. That was my jam right there so I decided to lay down and put my head on my drop-bag and wrap my buff around my eyes like a blindfold to keep out the light. I plugged in my air-pods and turned on my fan-noise app and set my alarm for 30-minutes. I needed to shut the system down because I was not making great progress at this point.
I’m not sure if I slept or not, but I when the alarm went off, I took out my air pods and saw that the TV was now broadcasting the Cocodona Livestream. I could hear AJW’s (Andy Jones-Wilkins who was doing the live broadcasting of the race with Chris Worden voice talking excitedly about Jeff Browning taking over the lead and making his way up Mt. Mingus. I looked up at the screen and there he was, charging up the mountain with his poles and his pack like he was out for a Sunday ruck.
I knew he was one of the most accomplished ultrarunners of our time or any time, but how could he be all the way to Mt. Mingus when I was still at Camp W? Basically, he was well over mile 100 and I was at mile 70 and we hadn’t even hit the 24-hour mark. I think I just starred at the TV screen and said “Holy shit! Giddy Up!” A few people applauded behind me and I wondered if they were thinking what I was thinking? That despite us all being in this race together, running the exact same course, starting at the exact same time, that the leader could be 30-miles ahead of us in a 24-hour time period on foot? It was just wild to wrap the mind around.
I couldn’t help but to root him on. It was going to be a barn burner out there with all of the previous race-winners vying for the podium and now Browning in the mix. Anything could happen but at this point, Bronco was flying up Mingus like he had a jet pack on. I asked the volunteers what female was in first and they said, Mika Thewes. Another accomplished ultrarunner who had set the course record at Destination Trails’ Big Foot 200.
The sun was creeping through the pine trees on the livestream which meant that I needed to get moving. I quickly gathered my things and grabbed a few snacks from the aid-station to try and fuel me for the next push to Whiskey Row where I would see Seamus and Kip and be able to take a nap in the back of the rental car. That was the motivation I needed. I thanked the volunteers and headed out into the barely rising-sun. The birds were singing, there was a fresh smell of pine needles and the cross was still lit. Jesus was on my side and I was ready to make my way to downtown Prescott.
Camp Wamatochick to Whiskey Row 77.3 miles
(8.3 miles w/ +581 and -1,634)
I left there with a surge of energy, post-nap & refueled and started running down the paths, following the markers. I remember thinking to myself how amazing the course-markings were for this long of a race. They confidence markers at Moab 240 were quite sparce in comparison so I appreciated seeing these orange and black polka-dot tape and flags every couple 100ft or so. I followed one flag and then just slid in behind a woman who was running just up in front of me on a smooth dirt path that led across a pine grove in the cabins and then out onto an inter-camp road. We were both moving well but after about a mile she stopped and said she thought we were going the wrong way. We both checked out phones and we were going the wrong way but it was difficult to figure out where the right-way was. She was calling her pacer and getting angry and then going into a tirade about how badly her blisters hurt and where in the hell were the directional flags?
I thought it best that we figure this out on our own so I kept running towards what I thought was the path we were supposed to be on. I kept climbing up a paved, private-drives that would dead-end and then I’d go back and climb up another one. Finally I found a road that did not dead-end and hit a what looked like a trail that took me to a major roadway. All of a sudden this felt completely wrong. When I looked at the GAIA app, I realized that I was so far off-track and had no idea how to get back on track. All of that energy I had leaving Camp W began to drain out of me. Panic began to rise up inside me. Not that that I was in danger, but just that I had made an error that could cost me deeply. Getting lost in an ultra is its own brand of screwing up. Just the thought of having added on extra miles to an already mind-bending amount of miles has a flavor of exhaustion that tastes like sulfur. It’s hard to swallow and even more difficult to shake off. I kept telling myself not to make it worse. To just stop and get my wits about me. That’s when I remembered that they had put Race Headquarters number on our bibs in case we got lost or had an emergency. I texted the number and soon someone called me back. I gave them my bib number and they could use the spot-tracker to identify where I was. They were very kind and gave me a set of directions that I tried very hard to remember and they told me to text them back if I had any problems. It took about 2 more miles for me to link back onto the route but at least I hadn’t made it any worse. 4-extra miles sucked but it had happened at every ultra I’d ever been in so why break my bonus-mile streak now? The relief I felt when I was back on the trails with the Fred Flintstone-colored markers made me so happy.
This section had some beautiful single-track trails that were smooth and felt soothing on my feet and soul after so many rocks the first day. I would pass or be passed by a runner here or there which was actually comforting to know that I was in the middle of the race with other human beings and not completely alone in this quest. Just as I would get a nice rhythm going the flowy trails would dump right out into a residential area where I had to focus and pay close attention to markers and my phone so as not to lose more time and add more miles. Just when I was starting to lose steam in the residential area, an marker pointed to a patch of woods and I was back on this fun, soft path for a few miles where I could run and hope over little streams and eventually get to a much larger creek and a path the led right into another residential area. This one was populated by dog-walkers and golfers and manicured lawns and there was one home that had a little folding table and bottles of water for the runners which I thought was very kind.
The pavement was a rough transition but I kept telling myself that I was only 2.5 miles to Seamus and Kip. It was a long, suburban 2 miles and then finally a turn into what appeared to be the heart of downtown Prescott and the infamous Whiskey Row. It was starting to get hot out again and I kept trying to find any patch of shade along the sidewalk that I could. As I made my way from one crossing sign to the next I heard Seamus’ voice. “How we doing?” he said with the camera on me. I asked him if he had the shots lined up at Whiskey Row so we could bang some back? He laughed and said they were all ready for me. He ran alongside me and we got onto a crowded sidewalk along the main drag which had runners and pacers and crew and volunteers and residents and tourists and all kinds of campers and Sprinter vans and activity. I was tired and overheated and I remembered overhearing someone saying in the very beginning of the run that the last time they had run this course, there was an excellent ice-cream shop right next to the Grand Highland Hotel, where the aid-station was located. Seamus asked me what I needed and I just said that I needed to use the restroom, get some ice on me to cool me down and any type of shake or smoothie would be amazing. “There’s supposed to be an ice-cream shop near here,” I said. I checked in with the volunteers and they cooled me down with sponges full of icy water and soon I saw Kip who led me to a shaded parking spot they had found near a pocket park along the street. I got out of my nasty clothes inside the rental car and Kip had it all set up for me to sleep with the air-condition on. I put on some clean shorts and a t-shirt, ate some yogurt that Kip had for me in a little cooler, put a sleep mask on and did my best to sleep for an hour and a half. Maybe 2. When I woke up, I could overhear Kip talking with another crew who was parked next door, comparing their setups for their runners. Seamus had a smoothie for me that tasted like heaven. I drank it as he read the upcoming sections to me. I had a Sharpie marker that I would use to write down how many miles to the next section or two. I was excited to see the Granite Dells. The pictures looked beautiful and I encouraged he and Kip to go check them out after I left. I was so happy to see them both and to feel cooled down and refreshed that I wasn’t sure how I was going to leave and head back out into that brutal midday sun. Kip had some ice that I used to pack in my neck bandana and my jog bra and underneath my hat. Anything to keep my body cool for as long as I could. I put sunblock on and made sure I had some in one of my vest pockets. My hydration vest was all filled up and my watch and phone charged. I was good to go. Only I didn’t want to go.
Just start. I told myself. You’re doing great. The Granite Dells are waiting for you. They’re going to be magical. Take those first few steps and your body will do the rest. You’ll see Kip and Seamus again soon. You’re already 80-miles in and the hardest part is over. Let’s go! I waved to them and told them I loved them and then started to shuffle down the sidewalk. Regular life was happening all around me but I was inside my own head, thinking about those beautiful, rounded rocks that formed like marshmallows in the dells coming up. I just had to get there.
Coming into Whiskey Row (Mile 77.3)
— Erin Quinn
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