Big white snowflakes are falling outside in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. A non-substantial layer of the fluffy white stuff coats everything outside, and the cloudy, blizzardy air of everything looks like I’m watching television static through my outdoor window.
“About 4-6 inches expected,” the weatherman Karl Bohnak said last night on TV-6 during the nightly news in a cool, matter-of-fact demeanor. “Heaviest during the evening hours with lake-effect enhanced blowing possible later in the night.” His words, not mine.
I look at my phone. 11/9/2018 rests on top of the display screen, just below the time.
“I suppose this is the start of winter,” I mutter, looking out over the whiteness and the marshmallow fluff cascading over the brown, gritty earth.
We moved recently to a town 10 miles west of Munising called Au Train. A river runs through the town and flows into Lake Superior. We purchased a small, cozy home on the west shore of this river, with large east facing windows that overlook a big bend in this gently flowing body of water. It’s a beautiful place. Ducks and geese wade in the water and it’s quiet here, almost too much so. We can always hear the waves from Lake Superior crashing into the shore not even a mile north of us, resounding a dull rumbling that is often overtaken by gusty winds that wheeze through the many Red and Jack Pines that surround our house in a cocoon.
As I sit in my house drinking coffee and looking out at the snow disappear as it touches the river, I feel a weird sense of satisfaction.
I never thought I would own a home. It was something that had never interested me in the least and also, quite frankly, scared me. The fear of permanence, of being “settled down” as many people like to say, was something I had tried to avoid for all my adult life like the plague.
“That’s not going to be me,” I would often say. “No way, Jose.”
But now look at me; certified home owner. I even have the fancy deed and monthly mortgage payment to prove it.
But does it still scare me? Well, yeah, but maybe that’s the point.
Exactly one year ago we finished our canoe trip down the Mississippi River, and as I was staring into the void of the Gulf of Mexico at a blue-green horizon absent of any land, I subconsciously knew that this adventure was the last big expedition for a while. It was a peaceful thought at the time. I realized that maybe it was okay to temporarily step away from this kind of life – it was all I had really know until then anyway. I had accomplished a lot, much more than I had any right to by the age of 31, which is maybe why it was easier for me to look at things this way. I still wanted to adventure, sure, but it seemed easier to take a break from that kind lifestyle than it had ever been before.
I had scratched a lot of itches in the past ten years, and I no longer had the immediate urge to scratch anymore. It would return, I was sure, but it was different now. I had set out to do what I wanted to accomplish, and I knew what remained ahead was going to be different, or maybe, had to be different. I was closer to being content then I had ever been before.
There’s a lot of back dirt roads and trails near our home in Au Train. One of these roads goes west for a long time, winding its way through dense woods. It meets up with a snowmobile trail that heads up to a ridge, and from the top of it you can see Au Train bay in the distance. Up on the ridge is a mature maple forest, with large trees that line both sides of the rocky snowmobile trail. Just a few weeks ago all the leaves were royal gold and partially fallen. I ran through this forest on a morning run, leaves crackling as I lumbered slowly on through crisp autumn air, getting caught up in this beautiful corridor of fall color. It occurred to me that this run could only happen once. The scenery, the weather, the way I felt during the run, it all just existed in this single sphere of realty. It could not, and would not, be replicated.
Running a lot makes you think this way. When you run, you exercise not only your lungs and your legs, but your mind too. You learn discipline and control. You learn how to tough it out, ramp it up and learn when to tone it down. It’s a matter of checks and balances and goals; of routine and patience and endurance. It teaches you more than a lot of other things.
Running this summer in my new turf was a lot of fun. From sandstone cliffs of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, to the green tunnel of Hiawatha National Forest, to the rolling hills and rocks of Marquette County, the summer was filled with long hours of running on some of the most beautiful trails my shoes have ever touched. I have never lived anywhere before that has offered so much of what I love to do, and I felt rewarded and humbled a lot this summer. The itch for adventure was close, just outside my front door, and I could head out there and get lost in it whenever I wanted.
I befriended a guy who is crazy like me, and for the first time I had a running partner. Scott and I would hit the trail most Thursdays after work and spend an hour or two careening through the trees. We’d talk about running and adventures and all sorts of other things. He’d run hard and push me to go faster. I never knew what I was missing running by myself all the time.
I did some races this summer. There was a 50k that circumnavigated Grand Island, a large piece of land that looks like the head of a boar that resides a half mile from the main shore in Munising Bay. The weather was crap, lots of rain, and we had to take a boat out to the island in the dark at 5 in the morning to get to the starting line. Waves crashed over the boat and it was cold in July, barely in the 50s, as a few dozen people with rain jackets and headlamps huddled together trying to stay warm. The rain and cold was a catalyst for starting the race out hard, and I set a 50K personal record at 5 hours and 18 minutes.
There was a 50 mile race the month after, the Marquette Trail 50, at the end of August through the rolling hills of Marquette County. The trails there are technical, like running on the Long Trail in Vermont, with too many rocks and roots and sharp ups and downs to navigate. There are four main peaks and each offer views of the hills and of mighty Lake Superior, but you have to earn the privilege to see it. It wasn’t easy navigating the ups and downs through this obstacle ridden landscape, and I was relegated to power hiking often, but somehow 12 and a half hours later I found myself crossing the finish line, fully and utterly defeated. As I crossed, Scott was already there. He had finished nearly 3 hours before me and had taken first place. We celebrated his victory and I celebrated just finishing. I gained a lot of perspective then.
A month after, Scott ran his first 100-mile race, the Marji Gesick, and I crewed him along with his wife and a few other friends. Only one other person in the races’ three-year history had completed the course under the 30-hour time limit. My friend was strong, and I knew he felt confident after his amazing win the month prior, so I was excited to see what he was going to be able to do at this race. Better him than me.
The 100-mile distance intimidates me more now than it did three years ago, when I somehow found the willpower to finish my first race of that distance. There is a different level of misery with 100-mile races that you don’t experience with shorter ultra marathons. It’s a difficult journey that requires a 100 percent commitment to a goal that is higher than yourself. It comes with a lot of patience, practice and self-doubt. You learn how to pick yourself up after hitting rock bottom, and learn how to do that again and again over the course of a 24-hour plus period. I’m not sure I have the will-power anymore to go that far (been there, done that…) but perhaps it would be cool to help someone else achieve their goals.
At midnight and around mile 65, Scott’s wife Natalie and I sat in their black Chevy pick-up truck at a road crossing, waiting for Scott to run through. I put on my running attire in the cold dark by headlamp. Once Scott reached us, he would fill up his water, eat some food, and then we would both head out into the clear, moon-filled night. He and this other runner had been leapfrogging each other since the start between first and second place. In the distance, we could see two light orbs floating through the dark towards us like gigantic fireflies.
“How’s it going, man?” I asked once he reached us.
He shook his head. “I’m getting tired.” And then Natalie helped him get some rations together for the next segment.
I ran through the night with Scott, across snowmobile trails, single track and through city streets where the lamps lit a cool glow over everything. The artificial light of our headlamps guided us through the dark, clean world as we snapped branches and twigs and skidded across roots and rocks.
Near 6 AM, after running with Scott for over six hours, the world started to get a little brighter outside. Black turned to midnight blue as the world had rotated enough to allow the sun to graze the horizon.
“You made it through the night,” I said as I followed behind him. We had been walking more than running for the past few hours. If he cracked a smile I didn’t see it.
Three hours later and with only 10 miles to go, I left Scott to run by himself again. Another friend followed him by mountain bike the rest of the way in. I had done my part by helping him through the night, the mentally toughest part in a race of this length. If you can get through the dark, you can find the power to get to the end.
Scott finished around noon, a little over 26 hours since he started, to clinch second place and become the second person to complete the course in under 30 hours. His victory was our victory. His relief was our relief.
I was happy it was him and not me.
Running on trails is over now for the year. The snow outside has intensified and the wind is bellowing like a person in pain who has just stubbed their toe. I wonder if everything will be white from now until May. I count the months on my hand: December, January, February, March, April, May, that’s six months until the spring; six months of snow and cold, of runs outside on packed ice, of snowshoeing and cross country skiing. There’s a lot to look forward to.
I’m glad Carolyn and I found some time to be outside together this summer. We hiked the Pictured Rocks Lakeshore Trail, she hiked the whole length of the Superior Hiking Trail in Minnesota where I tagged along for a week, and we hiked around Grand Island with some new friends. We did many day hikes around the area too, trying to get familiar with our new neck of the woods. There was certainly never a lack of places to go outside and were able to scratch a lot of itches.
The best part of the summer, without a doubt, was roaming around with Carolyn.
One of my goals this year was to not have too many goals. I often start off the year with a laundry list of things I want to do, races I want to complete, and things I want to get done for the website. But this year, I just let everything fall more naturally. If I didn’t feel like running, I didn’t. If i wanted to just sit inside and watch YouTube videos on a rainy day, I did that too.
I think my running benefited from that mentality, because running never seemed like a chore. When doing something you love becomes a pain in the ass, maybe that’s a sign you need to back off a little.
Days come and days go, and perhaps we are lucky enough to do something in the time between all our responsibilities that puts a smile on our face. Life is an experiment in emotional outlook. We can control some things, sure, but most of the time life just goes on and on without us having any say of what happens.
My coffee is gone in my mug and the snow has seemed to stop for now. Fragmented light skirts the outer bend of the river where tall grass grows just underneath some scattered pine trees. The clouds are low and filled with streaking light. I understand that my life now is very different than it was a year ago.
As I watch a family of ducks wade out in the frosty river, moving slowly against the current, it makes me smile to think about that.
