The Last Trail is ALWAYS the Longest

My country mourned over a great tragedy yesterday when a madman burst into an elementary school and murdered twenty young school children and several adults.  Though we all mourn, this event, like other similar tragedies, divides us as a nation as we all weep for the poor families involved. We argue about gun control, public school responsibilities and mental health laws.  I have my opinions and in my sadness have expressed them. 

Today, I merely wanted to get away and run.  Rain fell down upon my windshield as I drove under darkness to Modjeska Canyon.   I had planned on a group run.  After waiting 15 minutes at the trail head, no one showed.  That’s okay.  I needed to get away.  In fact, I felt a little relieved that no one showed.   I felt a great urge to exist in The Now without interruption.  Though my mind travelled to the terrible happenings of yesterday, I forced myself to bring it forward to the present.  And though my mind travelled to the future, as in what should we do????  I again forced my mind to The Now.  And I ran 24 mountain miles for the teachers and children who were murdered, and their families.

The first 12 miles were up hill.  Some slight down hills existed, but overall, it was a 12 mile, cold grind. 

Harding Truck Trail:

At the top of Harding Truck Trail, I came upon one of the thousands of  “Four Corners” on Earth.  It had spectacular views of snow covered mountains from afar.  From there, I took one of the 4 paths, The Main Divide, toward Modjeska Peak, and ran upon crusted snow and ice.  When my feet hit, I could hear the crackle of broken ice crunch down – a delightful, delicate sound.  Often I had to run into the bushes, around giant frozen puddles.  I also needed to concentrate on a strong footing, else I slip.  So much time had passed since my last run to Modjeska Peak from this direction, that one false summit fooled me. (I just love false summits,” said no one ever!)

Four Corners:

Running up The Main Divide toward Modjeska Peak:

At about mile 12, I HAPPILY reached Joplin Trail.  I’ve only run Joplin Trail once; that was UP Joplin.  And I’ll tell ya, if I had come upon a sword during that trip, I would have thrown my self upon it.  Running down Joplin was a chore no doubt.  I ran on snow covered ground.  Though I could not pick up my pace much running down Joplin, the experience was joyous.  Rocks tumbled beneath my feet.  Moss grew upon the boulders.  I fell only once landing on my butt, and my hand slammed down on a jagged rock (that wasn’t so joyful).  I hopped over a spring that was not flowing on my last visit to Joplin.  And I even came upon crazy men struggling on bikes to make their way up this trail.

Just like when I ran up Joplin, I had to grab onto branches running down Joplin, else I fall flat on my face.  After my fall on my butt, I tripped hard once and nearly twisted my knee.  Best of all (besides the glorious snow covered single track), I ran beneath a gigantic tree that had fallen and created a sort-of-bridge over the path.

Eventually, I made it to “Old Camp.”  Here I took off the warm clothing and took out some fuel to consume.  As always when I stop, I turned off the music so that I could hear EVERYTHING.  I heard two men down by the stream.  After several minutes, I noticed that they noticed me.  And then oddly, one of them walked off, not assuredly, looking back at me, toward Joplin Trail.  He wore a pack on his back.  But he wore long pants and was obviously a hiker, not a runner.  Oddly, the other guy disappeared in the opposite direction.  And I had the sinking feeling that he was going to flank me, that is, make his way around the stream and come up behind me.

I got out of there quickly, and began running up toward Santiago Truck Trail.  On my way up, I looked down onto Old Camp, and SURE ENOUGH, that guy, had come around to what have been the back of me.  He looked up on to the road as I ran past.  And I continued running all the way to Santiago Truck Trail.  Though I got an odd feeling about those men, I’m going to believe that the first guy went off ahead because the other guy wanted to explore some more.  Still, I am very cautious and pay attention to everything.  I wasn’t going to take chances.

Joplin Trail:

Old Camp:

I felt great relief upon reaching Santiago Truck Trail.  It was however THE LONGEST TRAIL IN THE WORLD.  Isn’t the last trail always the longest?  I judged “how much longer” by the flag overlooking the vulture crags.  I knew when I came upon the U.S. flag, I had only about 6 1/2 miles left.  It took, of course, much, much longer than I imagined.  I was overjoyed when I finally spotted the flag from afar.  Still, I had about a mile before I actually reached it.   

Next anticipated spot was the trail head to Santiago Truck Trail.  It took flippin’ F O R E V E R.  I wasn’t overwhelmingly tired physically.  I was just tired, more so mentally.  When I finally spotted the trail head, it took me TWO  miles to reach it.  Then I ran another 1.5 miles back to my car.  I was moving pretty slowly in the end.  But it was all worth it, WELL WORTH IT.  Still, I couldn’t wait to get home to hug my boys. 

Santiago Truck Trail:

Easy in a Hard Way

After dropping the boys off at school this morning, I ran my short run – a 6.5 mile out-and-back to Top of the World in Laguna Beach.  I got in some hill work.  But I got in hill work even during my “rest while running month.”  Hill work is not my focus – hills are my strange addiction.   My focus today was to recover quicker than I have been, after conquering a hill.  West Ridge has plenty of rolling hills, and some tough hills to work on picking up after recovery.

You see, while inadvertently training myself to run slowly, I realized that after conquering a hill, I often run in a recovery pace on the flats and downhills.  Today, I allowed only a short recovery, then using my garmin to judge, forced a pace increase after every uphill. 

Overall I felt strong today.  What a joy!  It’s been a long time.  I’m tempted to write that this hilly run was easy.  Yes, it was easy.  It was easy in a hard, sweaty, grueling way. 

Running down into Wood Canyon:

The lovely long and windy road ahead (West Ridge):

Looking down on the Pacific Ocean:

Top of the World:

Heading back to the truck with a view of The Saddleback Mountains:

The profile:

Lost Lady

Currently I’m in the midst of a nightmare phase.  As a child, nightmares periodically plagued me.  As an adult, years (sometimes many) pass between nightmare phases.  This current time of nightmares has been hanging around for several months.  Sometimes they’re filled with fear, other times extreme anger.   This morning I dreamt that I came upon a stream and noticed a body sinking to the bottom.  I remember that he/she was draped (almost wrapped) in flowing white clothing.  I rushed to the water and reached beneath, urgently trying to lift the person out before he or she drowned.  I don’t recall anything else. 

Hubby notices my moods after nightmares and comments, “It was only a dream.”  And they are only dreams.  But they affect my mood.  When I wake angry or frightened I find it difficult to start the day off smiling.  This morning I woke for an early run, walked out to the living room and went straight to sleep on the couch.  I began my run 3 1/2 hours later than planned.

Today’s running goal was to get my legs used to a faster turnaround.  I run so many hills, that when I reach a flat,  I find I keep running in recovery mode.  My legs don’t pick up the pace.   Inadvertently, I’ve trained myself to run slowly. 

So, I went for a 15 mile flat run today.  I didn’t try and race it.  But when I glanced at my garmin, I purposely picked up my pace and tried to keep it up.   I ran down to the beach first, and hopped onto The Bike Path (which I call The River Walk) and ran it into San Juan Capistrano.  I ran like a trail runner, that is armed and with a pack, so I probably stuck out among the many walkers, runners and bikers making their way along San Juan Creek.  (By armed I mean, pepper spray in my pocket and a knife inconspicuously clipped to my pack). 

Picking up The Bike Path where San Juan Creek meets the Pacific Ocean:

Trabuco Creek just before connecting to San Juan Creek:

I love this bridge!:

I ran off The Bike Path and ran through the Los Rios District – a lovely historic neighborhood.  It was crowded with people eating in the diners, shopping the antique stores, perusing the adobe museums and even waiting for a train.   Memories of any nightmares had vanished as I ran on through, at one with the festiveness.

I caught Trabuco Trail after running through a long grassy park filled with tall trees turning autumn colors.  Trabuco Trail was empty.  I crossed Trabuco Creek, ran past orange groves.  Then I crossed beneath the road and ran to Arroyo Trabuco Trail where I turned around and headed back. 

I continued picking up my pace every time I glanced at my garmin.  And it looked like I was going to run a negative split for the first time in a long time. As I ran Trabuco Trail along the orange groves, my ear buds humming music in my ears, a man approached me.  He was yelling, but I couldn’t understand at first what he said.  “Help me, please!” he pleaded.  “I can’t find my wife.”  He seemed on the verge of tears.

Of course, my first reaction was caution.  I stepped back as he approached me, his hands out, his face full of fear.  Looking him over, I listened while assessing.  All the while, I watched for a lunge or any quick movement on his part.  It is after all, a common trick that killers use.  They pretend to need help before grabbing their victim.  I took quick glances around and noticed a couple people no more than a quarter mile off.  Not only that, I believed the man. 

Problem was.  He spoke Spanish and knew very little English.  I speak English and know very little Spanish.  He was frantic and spoke quickly.  We used a combination of gestures and broken-English/broken-Spanish to communicate.

I learned this:  His wife was on this trail not too long ago.  Now she was gone.  There was a white man standing where we were standing when this desperate man last saw his wife.  She had gone off to pick some oranges. 

“Could she have gone back to the car?” I ‘questioned.’ “Is that the elderly white-haired man there in the mustard field?”  “You go look in your car and ask the man, and I’ll look through the grove.”  I asked also what color she was wearing, he responded, “colorful.” 

He ran off turning back to me, “Please, please help me find her.  Don’t leave!”

I went into the grove where only a few trees still had oranges.  I concentrated on those trees with the oranges.  I looked for a mass of color at the bottom of those trees in case the woman had fallen or something like that. 

Assured that the woman was not in this orange field I took to the trail again and ran toward the equestrian parking lot hoping to learn that man had found his wife waiting for him there.  I found him running on the trail back toward me.  She was not at the car.

Oh, how hard it was for us to communicate!!  He kept saying, “Oh my God!  Oh my God!”  There was no way I could leave him without him finding his wife.  Using our gestures and broken-English/broken-Spanish, I learned her name, where he had last seen her, and that she was 65 years old. “Oh my God, I have to call my family,” he said.  Somehow we communicated that we would split up on our search. As I left him he was weeping on the phone, communicating to someone in Spanish.

I assured him that I would return and took off toward more orange groves, and more importantly, TRABUCO CREEK.  Though I never thought it outright, in the recesses of my brain, I feared the creek. 

I hollered out her name and listened closely for any responses.  I looked through the fields, focusing on the orange trees.  No one!  I continued on running toward the creek, when a gray-haired lady wearing a pink sweater, walked quite slowly over a small hill toward me. 

I called out her name.  She looked at me questioningly.  “Como se llama?” I said. 

The woman gave me a different name.  She had a peaceful, serene look on her face, as if she was enjoying her walk immensely.

She spoke only Spanish to me.  Confirming with gestures, I was able to determine that she was there with her husband who was waiting for her at the car.  “How old are you?” I asked in English.    “65,” she answered back in English.

“Come with me,” I said and held out my arm.  We began to walk, but oh so slowly.  I couldn’t stand the thought of her husband going through another second of pain, so I looked the woman in the eyes and said while pointing down to the ground, “You keep walking on this path!”  She smiled and nodded and continued walking in the same direction as I took off running to find her husband.  I found him within minutes running toward me.  When he saw his wife, he broke down weeping.  He thanked me over and over and hugged me.  He also apologized over and over again.  I told him, no need, everything’s okay.  I also told him that she gave me a different name.  He said that’s the name of her child.  And then again through gestures and broken-English he communicated to me that his wife had recently endured heart surgery.  Since then she has had bouts of dementia. 

The man was overly thankful for my aid and continued weeping as he spoke lovingly to his wife in Spanish.  He continued to put his arm around me, thanking me, apologizing, though I felt like I really didn’t do much.  I merely came upon his wife. 

I can still picture him perfectly, his pain and his joy.  I doubt I will ever forget him or his wife.  I took off running after the husband and wife reunion, and I didn’t even get his name.  I know her name, and her daughter’s name.  But I will probably never see the man again, and oddly, I feel like we are friends now after going through this today.

The remainder of the run was light, stress-free.  It was on my way back that I remembered my dream.  I’m certain it had nothing to do with today’s event.  HOWEVER, if I hadn’t started my run 3 1/2 hours late, I would not have come upon the man, we would have never met and become friends for about 20 minutes.

Some pictures from today’s run:

The Los Rios District:

Downtown San Juan Capistrano:

Headed toward Trabuco Trail:

Trabuco Trail:

Arroyo Trabuco:

Take Two

Today’s run ended my “rest while running” time.  I thought it apropos to end my “rest” by attempting the run that seemed to set the downward spiral in motion during my training last September. 

I set out running Bommer Ridge in dense fog this morning headed for Old Emerald.  I took a wrong turn last time, which resulted in pure HECK.  This morning I accidently took Bommer ridge down to Willow Trail, which I do every single time.  That was no big deal.  I just had a short uphill run to get back on track.

 

I came upon one other runner on this lovely, yet eerie morning.  He turned around and joyfully hollered a greeting.  Bundled up from head to toe, I couldn’t tell right off if I knew the man.  I mean, he kind of looked familiar.  “Do I know you?” I asked.  (I say that more than ever now that I’m a trail runner).  Turns out we didn’t know each other.  My friends and family who don’t run trails think that this sport is small.  And it is.  BUT to me, it’s a huge sport.  I constantly come upon people at races and on the trails that I’ve never seen before. (And I stay in my own state!)

Anyway, a thick gray coyote looked on at me through the mist as I ran onward searching for Old Emerald Trail.  I felt certain I missed it last time because it was not marked.

I focused off to my right for an unmarked single-track.  Eventually, I found a distinct single-track.  Unmarked.  It didn’t look familiar.  But keep in mind, when I run Old Emerald, I run up it.  I ran down Old Emerald just once. 

So, I ran that single-track down the hillside and told myself firmly, “If you get into trouble, TURN BACK.”   I noticed bike tracks, no footprints.   Nothing looked familiar.  With the fog so thick, I could not make out my surroundings very well.  Then finally, I noticed a ledge down below that could probably give me a good view.

From the ledge, I could see the meadow I was aiming for, way, way off in the distance.  Problem was, there was a ridge between me and the meadow.  I was on the wrong trail.  It’s pretty much a straight shot to the meadow from Old Emerald.  I would definitely remember having run over another ridge.

So, I ran back up that single-track, a little proud of myself for not taking the trail anyway, just to see what would happen. 

Back on Bommer Ridge, I came upon another single-track.  I ran a short distance of it, to the edge, before its descent.  I could still see that ridge.  Wrong trail.  And so, I continued onward, confident that I would find Old Emerald because here and there I could see an outline of the ridge that separated the canyon from my meadow.  Sure enough, soon after the other ridgeline sloped down to nothing, I came upon this trail:

Unmarked?  It may seem so.  I felt vindicated.  That is until I turned around and saw the trail marker, clear as day on the left edge of Bommer Ridge.  I ran down Old Emerald with great focus and renewed energy.  At the bottom, I ran probably twenty-five feet before I came to Old Emerald Falls Trail.

Entering Old Emerald Falls:

The meadow!

The climb out of Old Emerald Falls was a chore.  It was single track, and in places technical, which took my mind off the difficulty.  From there I caught Moro Ridge and ran it all the way to the ocean (well, I had to take a couple other trails).  I saw these two, seemingly tame deer as I made my way down B.F.I. Trail:

Running beneath Hwy One for a view of the grand Pacific:

From there it was all uphill, a lovely, cool uphill.  The last run of my “restful running” couldn’t have turned out better.