Mingus Mountain to Jerome Aid Station (Mile 125.3)
(17 miles w/ +1750ft of gain and -4,428ft of loss)
On paper, this is a runner’s dream. A little up and a lot of down. But I had done my homework and knew that this was a section that many runners described as one of the hardest on the course. Still, with that much down? There had to be some reprieve?
Wrong. After leaving Mingus Mountain Camp aid station, I ran to the end of the road where the cell towers were. There was the skydiving platform where I stopped and got a strong breeze and could see a few lights coming from the homes in the valley. I knew that from this vantage point, had it been daytime, you could see the red rocks of Sedona and the full sweep of the Verde Valley, but in that moment, everything was obscured by a weighted darkness.
I took a left onto the trail and then another left onto an even steeper trail. There were roots and rocks and more rocks and fallen trees and branches and steep, sudden switchbacks. I wanted to believe that this would be easier in the day, for the runners that came before me or would come after me, but it was unrelenting. I kept kicking rocks and stubbing my toes. I would get a flow going for a few hundred yards and then have to crawl under or over a tree trunk. I kept getting my poles stuck in the thick brush on either side of me, causing me to trip and fall, not once, but several times. All of this while moving steeply downhill. The pain from kicking rocks and falling on rocks was intense.
“The only way out is through,” I kept repeating to myself.
I was in this dark tunnel both literally and spiritually. I kept trying to eat little bits of food because I knew I needed fuel, but each time I chewed anything my entire body would rebel. I took a few sips of my electrolyte mix and started to pray. I asked God to guide my steps, to walk with me and before me, on this journey. It was dark. A deep darkness. I felt scared from how sick and weak I felt. I kept going downhill for miles without seeing another soul. When you take 270 runners and spread them out over 250-miles and then have at least a 1/3 that drop out? It’s not really a lot of people per square foot of trail.
17-miles didn’t sound like a long way, especially when looking at the elevation chart which just showed a line moving steadily downhill. But when you’re over 110-miles, in the dark, on steep, technical terrain with only a headlamp to guide you? Each mile felt like its own journey. I kept thinking that there was no way in hell people hiked this. I actually questioned if it was a real trail? One that existed on a real map? Or was it just a random bushwhack down Mingus that someone had flung some markers onto?
It was the type of trail where there was no easy part. I kept waiting for it to come. As brutal as the downhill was, there was a point, when I actually had to start climbing up again and that’s where I fell apart. I grabbed ahold of a limb of a pine tree and started vomiting everything I had in me. Up came gels and pretzels and the bitter taste of coffee. The vomiting became so violent that I ended up on my hands and knees dry-heaving. Despite the cool temperatures my body was on fire. Sweat was dripping down my back and neck and I wanted to strip all of my clothes off but I couldn’t move.
After I felt like I had exorcised the devil in my system, I crawled up the trail a bit more and started crying. Not a big cry. But a sad, weary cry. I knew I would keep going but I also knew that it would require me to go to the well and I already felt like I had exhausted so much of my reserves. I hadn’t even gotten through day 2 yet. I pulled out my phone and saw a bunch of supportive texts but I instinctually reached for my mom’s number and texted her, asking her to pray for me. I told her that I was not in danger and that everything was okay, but that I was just hurting. Then I texted my best friends, Amy and Kristen and said that I needed them to stay close to me. To walk with me. They said that they were and that they would and that they loved me. It was 3-hours later out east so they must have been up for work. I tried to find a spot on the trail to lay down and just shut my eyes for a few seconds. As I went to lay my head down on my hands, I saw a huge pile of fresh bear scat. There are lots of black bears where I live and I often see them when I’m out running. It’s not that I ever get used to seeing a bear, it’s always startling, but I was less scared of seeing a bear in that moment, than I was having another dry-heaving episode. Nothing makes me feel closer to dying than that. But I did want to shimmy up the trail a bit more and away from the bear poop to try and rest my eyes. I curled up into a ball and looked briefly up at the stars and just asked the universe to help me. I knew this was going to be hard, but knowing something is going to be hard and being inside of the hard are totally different things.
“You can do this,” I said to myself. “Everyone who loves you is with you. God is with you. Your grandmothers are with you.” I had to talk to myself in a soothing voice. I closed my eyes and prayed for a few minutes and then I got up, dusted the dirt and pine needles and bugs off of me and placed my hands on my knees. It was straight uphill. I took about 10 steps and then my heartrate felt so high that I had to stop and put my head between my legs. How was this so hard, so early on? Not that 42 hours of running and climbing and hiking wasn’t a long time, but I still had so far to go. I think I expected the really low-point to come later. Not now. It was too soon to feel this bad.
I heard some shuffling behind me and the sound of poles clicking along the ground. Soon I saw a faint light coming towards me. I heard, “Hey Erin, you doing, okay?”
It was hard for me to think how I knew this person and how he knew me and what in the hell we were both doing here in the middle of the night. Then I saw this shorter, stocky frame and his name on his bib. It was James, from the training run. We had pretty much gone the same pace the entire time and kind of ran it together without really running it together. We were always slightly ahead of or slightly behind one another and we had a nice chat at the Crown King Saloon when it was over. I remember telling him how strong he was on the up hills and he, in turn, told me he was trying to keep up with me on the downhills.
“Hi!” I said. “I’m struggling right now but I’ll be okay. How are you doing?”
“This section is tough,” he said.
I nodded in agreement.
“Do you need anything?” he asked me.
“No, thank you,” I said. “Keep up the good work!”
“You too. See you at the aid station,” he said and then kept shuffling on.
When you’ve been vomiting on the side of a trail and trying to take a nap next to a pile of bear scat and feeling like you’re alone in the enormity of the night in the woods, seeing someone that you know, even just the slightest bit, was such a comfort. It helped motivate me to get up the rest of the hill, which in my state was no easy task. My body felt like a shell of itself and I could not get my legs to work. Each step felt like a Herculean effort. At the top, I crossed Highway 89A and then turned onto some jeep roads that were made of rocks. So many rocks. Baby-head rocks that each had a different shape and various points and they were loose and made any sort of travel excruciating for the arches of my feet and the blistered and battered ends of my toes. I truly believed that all of the rocks in all of the world had been gathered and placed on this course by Aravaipa Running just to test us. And I was being tested.
The sun began to rise and that helped. The landscape slowly became less sinister and I could see the Verde Valley stretched out beneath me. The sage bushes turned this pale green, almost like we were underwater and the scrub oak looked like they were glowing from the inside. The entire mountain and valley pulsed with this new life and color and sound. There were birds chirping and little creatures scampering about in the desert grasses. It gave me a bit of sustenance and hope that I needed. I started to try and pick up my pace and I believe that the lower I got, the better I felt. Although 8,000ft is not high for most of the runners out west, for me it was a gut punch. I took a few pictures and a video and welcomed the new day. Each step I took got me closer to Jerome and Seamus and Kip and a chance to sleep and eat and rest.
I kept winding my way down the rocky roads for miles until I could finally see the huge Verde mine. In the far distance I could see a bit of Sedona. Despite being able to see better and having some “runnable” terrain, the miles felt elastic. Each one kept stretching beyond what I thought was my breaking point. Even getting down to the Verde mine felt like it took another 20-miles and there were so many cars and people and ruckus as I got closer that I thought this must be one hell of an aid station. It took me a while to realize that this was the start of the Sedona 125, another Aravaipa race that was slated to go off in a few minutes and run along the second half of this course. I tried to pick up my pace as I hit the road, but I could not outrun the countdown to the start of the race. People started flying past me and saying ‘good work’ and ‘good job’ and I was clapping and giving them thumbs up as well. I loved that start line energy. It was infectious. They turned up one road in downtown Jerome and I turned the other direction towards what looked to be a town hall or community center. I actually had to walk up a paved driveway to get there but soon I saw Seamus and then I saw the van parked under a tree in the shade and I saw Kip. I was so happy to see them that I felt the bottom fall out of me. I just wanted to hug them and cry but I knew that I couldn’t. I had to sleep and get myself together. Jerome was a beautiful little town and unlike any town I’d ever seen before. It was built into the side of a hill with some interesting architecture and houses that seemed to defy gravity.
Seamus asked me some questions as he videotaped me coming in. He had taken over my Instagram account where he would post videos of me coming into and out of aid stations or cool things that he saw, or just pictures of himself. It was definitely entertaining and it helped my friends and family be able to follow along. I was so grateful that they were there, that they had come all this way to help me and support me. I couldn’t stop hugging them. Kip had the curtain pinned up so that I could change and he got me a fresh cup of water and handed me a toothbrush and toothpaste because my mouth felt so rancid. I said I needed to sleep and that I would eat when I got up. “Where will you two go?” I asked. Kip said not to worry that the aid station also had a museum in it all about the history of Jerome and that they’d go hang out there and walk around. I needed to know that they were close but also doing something fun and not just waiting for me to wake up. I was so ecstatic to have my shoes off and wipe myself down. After I got cleaned up, I put on my dollar store eye mask, plugged in my earbuds to listen to my white noise app and the cool, dark cocoon of the car. It had been a long night. It had taken me much longer than I could have imagined but I had made it to the halfway point. Mile 125. Now, It was time to rest.
— Erin Quinn
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