RACE REPORT

ALFERD PACKER TRAIL CHALLENGE
  BY  DANN FISHER


In the state of Colorado
In the year of seventy-four
They crossed the San Juan Mountains
Growing hungry to the core.
Their guide was Alferd Packer
And they trusted him too long:
For his character was weak
And his appetite was strong.
They called him a murderer, a cannibal, a thief;
It just doesn't pay to eat anything but Government-inspected beef.
Along the Gunnison River
An Indian camp they spied.
An Indian chief approached them,
To stop them he did try.
He warned them of the danger
In the snow that lay around,
But the danger was in Packer,
For his hunger knew now bound.
They called him a murderer, a cannibal, a thief;
It just doesn't pay to eat anything but Government-inspected beef.
Two cold months went slowly by;
Packer came back alone.
"My comrades they all froze to death,
I'm starving," he did moan.
The Indian chief knew how he lied,
He spat upon the ground,
For Packer's belly hung out all over his belt:
He'd gained some thirty pounds.
They called him a murderer, a cannibal, a thief;
It just doesn't pay to eat anything but Government-inspected beef.
Well for nine long years he ran away
But finally he was tried.
He claimed he didn't kill them,
He only ate their hide.
That County had six dem-o-crats
Until that man arrived.
Well only one lives on today:
He ate the other five.
They called him a murderer, a cannibal, a thief;
It just doesn't pay to eat anything but Government-inspected beef.
Eighteen years he stayed in jail,
It was a dreadful fate,
For he suffered indigestion
Every time he ate.
Still, it's hard to blame this hungry guy
Who went searchin' for the mines,
 

For when he ate his friends
He'd never heard of Duncan Hines.
-- By Phil Ochs

More than 150 runners braved the bright, brisk Denver morn of March 11 in search of a fix for their trail running habit. The "Ballad of Alferd Packer" to the music of Gilligan's Island) gave an indication of what the trail challenge had in store for us. Race director, Scott Weber, joked with me before the race that he should just tape a cell phone to a tree near the finish line so that we could call him at the IHOP to report our times upon finishing.
Unfortunately, this was not far from reality. Although the course was extremely well marked, aid was sparse but the entry fee was steep, almost as steep as the first hill to begin the race.
The first 1.5 miles of the 13.1-mile loop saw a series of three very steep grassy, cactus- and yucca-covered hills.  After the hills came an easy mile that resembled a routine cross country course through any city park. I told Fred Hampel that I was still waiting for the challenge.  It soon arrived in the form of a marsh thicket. As we tromped through the marsh with branches snapping against us from all directions, I could hear the screams of the first brave souls to enter the water. The first crossing of the Platte River was dead ahead. 

Dropping down a steep, muddy, three-foot bank, I was quickly immersed to my thighs in bitter cold water. The streams bottom was rocky and slippery. It seemed to take an eternity to reach the other side. My first few steps as I scrambled up the far bank that led back into the dense marsh thicket were a struggle. The pain was excruciating as my feet moved from numb to cold.  We stumbled along through the brush, making another cold, but shallow water crossing before beginning a series of five very steep sandy hills over the next mile. Each timed we crested a hill, we would drop back down the side of the bluff to the lake below. The sand was loose making the footing, both up and down, treacherous.

The second hill in the series was nearly straight down. Much to Fred's delight, I took this hill with reckless abandon, thrashing through the dense brush at the bottom. Fortunately, I did not crash, nor would I fall anywhere on this course -  probably my only  real achievement for the day.

After surviving the hills, the trail became gently rolling for the next couple of miles through the middle of the park. This section was open, and the wind was directly in our faces. It was not blowing hard during the first loop, but it would pick up intensity as the day wore on.  The openness made the distance
seem to stretch on forever, but it did provide a spectacular view of the mountains as they spanned the horizon in front of us.
We finally hit an aid station at about 7 miles. Two jugs of water, one with no lid that had allowed it take on some of the surrounding environment, was all that greeted us. Fred moaned upon realizing there were no cups, so we shared a drink from my water bottle. Leslee Hampel who was running just a couple of minutes behind us, indicated that the runners near her were

using cupped hands in an attempt to ingest the precious liquid. The aid station was apparently devised for those who had been training at fraternity parties, but neither Fred nor I had any desire to lay on the ground under the spigot, so we headed down the embankment toward the next crossing of the Platte River.

The frigid water was about knee deep this time. As I struggled up the bank and onto a dirt road, my feet felt shattered from the cold. We quickly turned off the road, slopped through several yards of ankle deep mud, and prepared to cross the darn Platte River again. At this point, the river was broken into two
forks separated by a rocky, ankle-busting median.  Upon reaching the other side, I stumbled up a steep hill. The next stretch of trail was a bit overgrown with desert-like brush jabbing at legs and arms. I fully expected a poncho-wearing, stogie-chomping Clint Eastwood to come riding along at any moment. We soon crossed another ankle deep stream and headed into a wide-open marsh. The mud was frozen over during the first loop. We would not be so fortunate later. At the end of the marsh was an abandoned cabin. I was hoping Alferd Packer wasn't waiting for me inside. By the third time I passed
it, I didn't care. We made a pass around a small pond with the course marked along the bank's sand.  I found the footing better in the edge of the water.  Gee, I would hate to get my shoes wet! Besides, it helped to wash off some of the mud that had accompanied me from the marsh.

I began feeling a sharp pain on the outside of the big toe of my left foot. I assumed that running in the wet shoes and socks had produced a blood-blister that had decided to burst. I didn't want to remove my wet gear to find out, so I chose to ignore it. It was an annoyance the rest of the day.

After another low water crossing, we ran through a densely covered marshy area that contained several large shoe-sucking mud holes. The loop finished with a couple of easy miles on a gravel road that seemed to go on forever. I finished the first loop in 2:15. Fred came in shortly after that in 2:17:04, trailed not far behind by Leslee in 2:21:42.  Fred, the non-runner, was beaming, clearly enjoying the whole experience. Leslee seemed to enjoy it too, proclaiming that she had fallen three times. Fortunately, she was no worse for wear.

After a short bathroom break, I snacked on a few cookies, refilled my water bottle, changed into cooler clothing, and headed back up the hill for the second loop. The run quickly became lonely as most of the runners called one loop enough. I passed two marathoners in the next 5 miles. I wasn't sure if
it was fatigue taking hold, but the water crossings seemed higher. The course was definitely muddier as the marshes thawed.

I had not been comfortable all day. My low back had been bothering me, the residue of a two-week long battle with my chronic bladder disease, Interstitial Cystitis. I also worried that the lack of water on the course, coupled with the altitude and

my bad bladder, would spell doom for me later. But for now, I ran on. After the roller-coaster hills of mile five, I joined forces with Eric Szabo until the aid station. Eric had moved to Colorado from Michigan so his wife could pursue her career as a professional mountain biker.  By the time I finished the second loop, my low back was a mess.  Shannon had departed for the hotel and some more sleep after we finished the first loop, but Leslee and Fred met me at the finish area. Leslee helped me stretch my back and hamstrings. I was tight, but still had normal range of motion, confirming that the pain I was feeling was radiating from my bladder.  The day was warming, so I further lightened my clothing, downed a can of Ensure Plus and a few cookies, took a dose of MSM to help with the IC pain, filled my water bottle and struggled up the hills. The hills didn't t help my back any. I was happy to see them come and go.

By now the runners on the course were few. I would not see another runner for 10 miles. As I crashed down the slick embankment into the Platte River, I was alarmed to find the frigid water reaching past my waist. Hello! Fred and Leslee met me on the other bank. Fred informed me that the dam had been opened so the water levels were rising. As I slogged through the marsh, I came to a water crossing that I remember being no more than ankle deep mud during the first two loops. I took the first step into the murky water, sinking in mud up to my
knee. With the next step, I sank even deeper with the freezing water cresting at chest level. I struggled to pull my feet loose and swam for the bank.

Safely ashore, it was time to tackle the roller-coaster hills. The traffic of the first two laps had loosened the sand, making the footing tricky. I had to crawl on all four up the first two hills, running cautiously down the other side. The sand on the third hill was very churned up.  As I reached the halfway point of the nearly vertical slope,  the sand gave way, resulting in my riding a wave of sand on my stomach back to the bottom of the hill. I dusted myself off and crawled cautiously back up what was left of the hill. As I ran down the other side, Fred and Leslee were waiting for me, finding humor in my landslide
story.

Fred ran and walked the last hill and the next couple of gentle miles with me. His company helped immensely as I was getting a bit stir-crazy.  By the time we reached the aid station, Fred had had enough and I was beginning to wonder if I
had too. The aid station had added several two-liter bottles of Pepsi, but still no cups. Later I was wishing I had taken one of the bottles with me. I quickly filled my bottle with what I thought was murky water only to find in the middle of the water crossing that I was consuming pineapple juice, the kiss
of death for someone with IC. Leslee ran back to the aid station to refill the bottle with water.  Fred returned it to me just before the swamp. I was on my own at this point, and I had a water bottle that still smelled like the disdained juice. I cursed the race director.  I barely had time to accept my smelly dilemma before I nearly did the splits in the ankle deep mud. This fin