Day 36: Veni, vidi...vici

Day Thirty-Six: Veni, vidi...vici

7/16/11:

On July sixteenth, Joe, Quentin and I tried to kill ourselves.

A week earlier, I had (quite stupidly) projected my intent to run the entirety of the Bill Williams Mountain Trail. Upon hearing this, Quentin and Joe both jumped at the opportunity to test their mettle against our friendly neighborhood mountain.

But let’s review the facts of my statement:

Bill Williams Mountain Trail runs from the Williams Ranger District (base of the mountain) to the Bill Williams Watchtower (peak of the mountain).

The Bill Williams Mountain Trail rises 2,200 feet, changing from 7,000 feet of elevation to 9,200 feet.

It does this in three miles.

Of course, we weren’t planning on bumming around on top of the mountain, which meant that we’d be running those same three miles back down.

Like many things I have done in my life and later regretted, it seemed like a great idea at the time. I had, after all, been running regularly; I had, after all, adjusted to the Williams elevation; I had, after all, run to the two-mile marker on the Bill Williams Mountain Trail before, which was two-thirds of the way to the top.

How bad could an extra measly mile up and an extra measly mile down really be? (Cue evil cackling.)

Well, the first two miles weren’t so bad. Quentin took off like a shot, which given his competitive bike racing career wasn’t entirely shocking, while Joe and I labored on within sight of each other. I passed the two-mile marker and fervently wished I’d bothered to apply some sunscreen as I could practically smell my own flesh frying, but regardless, I pushed forward.

Then came the switchbacks. I was huffing, puffing, and feeling fairly weak in the knees, and it wasn’t because of the shirtless sixty-year old hiker asking me if I was doing okay. Frankly, had the sounds of Joe crashing along the trail behind me not echoed forth, I probably would have called it quits right there, plopped down on the trail, and waited for my head to stop feeling like a highly pressurized tomato.

But if I am anything, I am a creature of pride, and dammit, I was not going to wimp out on my own goal while Quentin and Joe completed it.

After frantically gulping the kind gentleman hiker’s water, I trudged on, my legs screaming profanities. (I was to later learn that along this part of the trail, Quentin had discovered a rare botanical wonder, and galvanized by its beauty, had skipped merrily up the mountain.)

With an unearthly gasp, Joe surged by me at the bend of a switchback. Actually, he shambled by faster than my limp, but still, he propelled himself onwards. I watched him go without feelings of shame. This had quickly evolved from a (wo)man vs. man conflict to a (wo)man vs. nature one, which meant the mountain, not my fellow Kaibabites, were the foe.

The last bit of the Bill Williams Mountain Trail hooked up with the mountain road, which meant it wasn't much shaded, but it was made of hard packed dirt and a smoother rise.

About four-hundred meters from the end and a few moments before Quentin and Joe broke into speed-inspiring song for me, an overly-done woman sneered at me and proclaimed, “They beat you!”

If I hadn't been minutes away from exhausted collapse, I undoubtedly would have unleashed the fury of my eyes on her; instead, all I managed was a strangled garbling noise before rounding the corner, seeing my fellows, and stumbling up the last few feet of the mountain.

Oh goody, I thought cheerily, we're halfway done!

We rested for a bit, I clambered up to the watchtower with the sole purpose of mooching water off the lookout, and we headed back down “together.”

Quentin, the wee mountain goat that he is, set the pace, and Joe and I fell in closely behind. About a mile down, I started to lose my controlled stampede and hurtled forward on legs that may or may not have been paying any attention to what my mind was telling them to do. I was getting that tight feeling around my temples and my head felt absolutely empty.

As we passed a group of hikers, I missed a step and ate it, sliding on my knees and hip. There wasn’t much to say about it; I was dusty and bloody, but I’d fallen more than a few times before while on runs, and we kept going. I’d never fallen twice on any run in my life though, so stupidly I kept my same pace, taking the early wipeout as insurance that I’d not have another.

Wrong.

About a mile farther, I crashed down again. I got up, blinking, waving Joe and Quentin on as I tested out a slow jog. Ahead of me, Joe went head over feet, his flailing legs rolling into the air.

I may have laughed at the sight. Just a tiny, tiny bit.

As I passed him, the look on his face was of complete and utter pain. Under normal circumstances, I considered myself a decently compassionate and empathetic person. And yet today, I did not give a flying fuck. I had a shiny new goal, borne from the blood of the last two falls: I wanted off the mountain.

I slid by Joe and down the last leg of the trail, back in familiar, oft-run territory now. I could make out Quentin up ahead as I pushed down a switchback. I came up to him on the final flat, and we dead sprinted to the end: me out of sheer desire to please let this be over NOW, and Quentin out of exuberance for such a wonderful little jaunt.

Joe followed soon after, and stinging from my knees to my elbows, we walked back to North House. Quentin, remarking on the lovely weather, inquired if either of us would like to join him on a bike ride shortly.

I do not believe my answer was in the form of any coherent language. Back at North House, I labored to scrub the grit out of my road rash. I’d torn a nice little chunk out of the palm of my hand, scrapped up my knees and hip, and lost a five-inch piece of skin off my arm.

The whole six miles had taken us two hours. As a limp and unmoving body in bed soon afterwards, I was undeniably proud to have mastered my goal, but more than anything, I was glad that the ordeal was definitively over.

I got a few hours of recuperation time before I was packing up my backpack, stuffing my sleeping bag into its itty bitty case, and walking out the door. Quentin, Joe, Noah and I were heading for Fossil Creek by way of the Coconino National Forest. For dinner, we slurped up delicious Mexican food at Tacos Los Altos outside of Flagstaff; back in the car, Joe and I sang along to the music and attempted to drown out the sounds of Quentin and Noah’s cribbage game. Yes, the cribbage fiends had broken out their travel board.

Venturing into the Coconino a few hours later, we made camp right quick, and while los hombres took in a lovely starry night, I took my bruised, beaten (but not yet defeated) body to my tent.

I'd gone, I’d seen, I’d almost died…but yes, I’d conquered. 

Photos: 1., 2. & 6. Bill Williams Mountain Trail 3. View from halfway up Bill Williams 4. Not Quentin's special flower, but a flower on Bill Williams nonetheless 5. View from Bill Williams Lookout Tower 7. The travel cribbage endureth