Mountain Running Season

Cruising along the Continental Divide, Anaconda Range, MT

Carefully navigating an exposed rock face, Anaconda Range, MT

            The days of sitting in coffee shops staring into the espresso-filled depths of a hot mocha are finally over. I spent many snowy mornings this past winter picking at the chocolate chips of day-old scones while eagerly opening my computer . Multiple mapping applications would appear on my screen, still open from the last time I used them. As caffeine pumped into me, my eyes would scan trails jumping topographic lines that seemed too close for comfort. I spent months losing myself in maps, a ritual that let the waves of topo lines and tantalizing curves of trails stretch my imagination into the warmer times to come. Times when those two-dimensional renderings would jump from my computer screen into startling reality. Inevitability, nothing would be as it seemed on a computer. It would be steeper, rockier, hotter, colder, snowier, and scarier. It would be mountain running season. And at long last, it’s here .

            A few weeks ago, I picked my way through the crowds of Bozeman’s popular M trail. I eclipsed the hordes at the top of the M. Most people ended their hike there, but my fun was just beginning. Another 1,000 feet of climbing, and I couldn’t help but smile at the familiar burn in my calves and quads. The trees became less prevalent, and I watched the big, lazily-flowering balsamroot trickle away. Replacing the swaying yellow blossoms were the smaller, delicate, yet somehow hardier tiny white lobes of phlox. I felt the change underfoot, too, as the single-track ribbon I ascended became less and less packed dirt, more and more scree. The loose rock slipped out from under my shoes during every hard-fought footstep. Inch by inch, I ascended some 4,000 feet to the bald summit of aptly named Mt. Baldy. 

The Bridger Range north of Mt. Baldy, Bridger Range, MT

I did not stay long, but pushed further up the ridge. Hopping along a jagged edge of crumbly Montana limestone, I couldn’t wipe the big, stupid grin off my face. A snowfield dropped hundreds of feet off to my right. To my left, a cliff band plunged to a steep grassy and snowy slope below. And there I pranced, clad in nothing but short shorts, dancing alone along a fin of rock jutting out atop the ridgeline. The spine of mountains stretched for miles before me, a patchwork island of snow and rock floating above the civilization sprawled out below. My progress was soon barred by constant post-holing as I sunk to my hips in snow. With my naked legs taking a beating from the icy snowpack, I conceded to the mountain’s wishes and decided to turn back. 

But first, I paused and noted the lack of a breeze, the familiar vacuum of alpine air filling my ears with the sweetest silence. 

This. This is what summer is for.

For waking up too early to run, climb, and crawl to the top of mountains. Of course, all accomplished while somehow never bringing enough food or water and burning the outline of a running vest onto your back. Summer is for watching a landscape change as you ascend, leaving “real life” thousands of feet below. It’s for throwing the idea of running out the window and replacing it with some attempt at efficiency in the mountains. That is what summer is for. For smiling and sweating. Summer is for mountain running. The season is upon us, and I couldn’t be happier. 

Enjoying some above tree-line trail, Anaconda Range, MT