Yellowstone 50 Solstice Fun Run

Loose and steep fun on Electric

 “Damn, now this looks like bear country. HEY BEAR!” Gabe and I repeated this observation for perhaps the 44th time in 44 miles. A few minutes later, a black bear stared at us from the middle of the trail before sprinting away into the dense woods. We laughed at the fact that we kept pointing out that it looked like bear country – we were well aware we were traveling in a part of the Yellowstone backcountry with some of the densest bear populations in the Lower 48. For the one grizzly and one black bear we saw over the course of our 50-mile run, there must have been a dozen more that saw us that we didn’t see. Thankfully Gabe and I babbled incessantly with each other for the entire day and weren’t about to sneak up on any wildlife. 

The two times Gabe Joyes and I have run together, it’s involved bear spray, bivy sacks, and copious amounts of snacks. While we have used our bivy sacks 50% of the time, we have yet to spray a charging bear with glorified pepper spray. That’s a win if you ask me! A few weeks ago, Gabe reached out about doing a big solstice run through Yellowstone National Park. Knowing the kind of fun Gabe likes to get up to, I needed no convincing. We juggled different route options with the confusing Yellowstone bear closures and our educated guesses at what the early-summer snow conditions might be like. One ranger told Gabe “that route is inaccessible.” Another told me “you can summit Electric Peak,” which it should be noted I didn’t even ask about. With comically conflicting reports, we decided we should embark on a 50-mile solstice run through the rugged northwestern corner of Yellowstone. If worst came to worst, we’d end up postholing in snow for hours. Or I guess we might also get mauled by a grizzly. But we probably wouldn’t. Right?

I love peeing in pretty places! #peenicview

Now that’s a nice ridgeline

Electric Peak dominates the skyline in the area around Mammoth Hot Springs. When people were bad at measuring mountains, it was thought to be the highest point in Yellowstone (then people got better at measuring mountains, and realized the highest summits were in the trail-less Absaroka Mountains to the east). We opted to summit Electric at the beginning of our route in order to avoid the highly likely afternoon thunderstorms. People have a bad habit of getting electrocuted on Electric Peak. Can’t seem to figure out why. Our trek to the summit ended up being remarkably snow-free and pleasant. The precipitous scree slopes fell away to rocky ridgelines and loose couloirs. I have written this before and I’ll right it again and again and again: there is nothing better than leaping across exposed rocky ridgelines in short shorts. The frequency with which I make that proclamation brings me a tremendous amount of joy. We traversed a spectacular knife-edge ridge before tossing in a few bouldering moves up a rocky face. After a very loose, slippery plod up a rather steep couloir dressed in fresh snow, we found ourselves atop the dominant summit of northwest Yellowstone and the Gallatin Range at 10,969’. Gabe took a sweet photo of me peeing against a backdrop of the largest intact ecosystem in the Lower 48. Then we nimbly crawled, gingerly hopped, scree-skied, and ran downhill with reckless abandon back to the trail.

 Our sights were set next on seeing if it was possible to get over Electric Pass without finding ourselves in a snowy, posthole-filled misadventure from hell. Gabe’s wife Jenny was kindly watching their two young girls and meeting us at the end of our run. It would be rather rude of Gabe and I if we schlepped through snow for so long that Jenny had to wait even a minute longer than our 10-12 hour expected finish time. To our great fortune (and Jenny’s), it was smooth sailing up and over the pass. Despite tremendous amounts of snow in the surrounding basins and passes, ours was almost entirely snow-free. The snow we did travel over revealed that we were undoubtedly the first humans to pass over it this season. No remnants of old footprints were to be found. At the top of the pass, we stared into a part of Yellowstone that few ever see. The Madison and Gallatin Ranges framed unbroken forests and hills. We descended on runnable snowfields into dense woods that rarely see humans.

Descending a snowfield on Electric Pass

The magnificent Fan Creek meadows

The next 20 miles of our run I thought we’d be traipsing through trees, plodding along our loop, just waiting to go over our next pass. Ya know, a trail through a suffocating green tunnel without neat views littered with downed trees. I have never been so happy to be wrong. We had a number of miles of remarkable forest running before finding ourselves along the stupendous meadows of Fan Creek. Fan Creek was such a sinuous little devil swirling around in a lush, willow-filled never-ending meadow that I swear it had to be flowing uphill at times. Our trail turned into magnificent singletrack that traced the rim of a low bench above the river bed. We watched three moose amble across the creek, saw willows sway in the terrifying “there’s for sure a grizzly in there” manner, and followed wolf tracks larger than our hands. The fisherman in me couldn’t contain my excitement knowing what hefty trout were lurking under each deeply undercut bank in the countless turns of the creek. Gabe was less excited as his gut turned on him. We slowed down quite a bit for an hour or so. We were 30+ miles in and my legs were starting to feel a little tired, so I welcomed the frequent breaks. 

A small climb took us out of the Fan Creek drainage and into the valley that makes up the headwaters of the Gallatin River. Our plan weeks ago had been to go up Fawn Creek, but then we learned it’s indefinitely closed because people keep being charged by grizzlies. Gabe and I had a definitive goal not to die, so we obeyed the trail closure and skipped Fawn Creek. Though, we had yet to see a single human footprint. Instead, we followed bison, elk, moose, deer, grizzly bear, coyote, black bear, and wolf prints. Our trail took us from meadows to trees to willows, which meant that Gabe and I screamed “HEY BEAR” incessantly. We noted how we had to throw our former social conditioning and conversation skills out the window. While Gabe would be telling me a story about his kids, I’d just start screaming “HEY BEAR.” Then I’d be sharing the perils of my dating life with Gabe and he’d yell “HEY BEAR” in between my lamentations about my perennial singleness. I’d interrupt my own stories of awkward Tinder encounters with a “HEY BEAR.” Our throats became sore and we started the gentle climb to Big Horn Pass. 

From the top of the pass around 9,000’, views of snowy mountains and broad valleys prompted the two of us to again repeat the words “incredible”, “beautiful”, “world-class”, and “magnificent.” And “poop”. After Gabe’s gut rebelled that became a frequent one. We stood surrounded by dark clouds and peaks ignited by a brilliant evening light. We settled on the word “magic.” No matter how we would describe this route, our words would fail us. But there was a magic present that negated the eloquence of even the best storyteller. Perhaps it was because of the way we traveled. 

The meadows and forests of the upper Gallatin River

Gabe and I moved unencumbered by the normal hinderances of backcountry travel – we had no heavy packs, no string of pack animals, no clunky hiking boots. We moved swiftly with running vests holding little more than a days’ worth of snacks. We replaced the securities of overnight gear with a profound trust in our experience, problem solving, and physical abilities. All too often, I find myself not appreciating what I’m able to do. Gabe and I made a conscious effort to point out that this thing we were doing – running 50 miles unsupported through the Yellowstone backcountry – was in fact pretty neat. Thousands of miles and thousands of hours spent running and traveling in the mountains brought us here. A shared adoration for wild places and physical challenges brought us here. We were doing a “fun run,” out for a long day of constant motion. Traveling through a place in this manner seems to create a more intense, impactful experience. The grandeur of our surroundings was amplified as we tapped into deep reserves of mental and physical fortitude. 

Heading home after going over Big Horn Pass

 We descended a steep snow field off Big Horn Pass screaming in glee like small children. We skied on our feet and looked like absolute fools. I’m sure the elk whose footprints we followed also looked like fools on the snowy incline. Our route dumped us out of the mountains and onto a gently sloping sagebrush plateau. Storms formed on the pass we’d just come over. The glowing light of the setting sun on the longest day of the year turned a normally beautiful mountain scene into something from my wildest dreams. The only thing more incredible than where we were was the fact that my watch said 46 miles, and I figured we had four to go. Our route initially mapped out at 48 miles, so we talked about running on the road for a few miles to get back to my car and get it over 50 miles. This, of course, was for no reason other than that 50 is really a stupendous number. The final miles ticked by quickly. Jenny and Gabe’s kids appeared at a campground entrance ahead of us. When I got to the car, I stopped my watch and looked down to see it at exactly 50.00 miles. This is perhaps the most impressive feat I have ever accomplished (so impressive that I had a voicemail from a friend telling me how it was the most miraculous thing he had ever seen). Jenny asked how the run went, and all I could think of was the word “magic”. Eleven and a half hours of magic.

Magic. The world magic kept coming up those last few miles. The air was crisper. Our muscles were a bit sore. The contours of the mountains more prominent. Our minds a bit numb. But our ability to appreciate where we were was otherworldly. The world felt alive. We felt alive. I felt so human. The experience was so raw. I celebrated the longest day of the year doing the thing I love so very dearly. It was magical. In those last few miles, I remembered why I run. It’s for the magic.

A last river crossing on the sagebrush plateau in the final miles