Crater Rim Run

What a disaster!  This was one of those races where nothing seemed to go quite right, but I had a fantastic time running it!

The problems started early in the morning.  Due to my usual lack of pre-race organisation, I left home later than planned (to comfortably make the race start) and in enough of a nervous-running-late-jitter, so that I failed to locate race HQ on a map prior to departing.  We made it to the race start with about 5 min to go, and I rushed to secure my race number, and then dashed off to find the loo, for what I hoped was going to be the fastest pre-race-nervous-wee in history.

I multi-tasked my way through my bathroom pit-stop, my race number was pinned to my chest, ipod securely wedged into my lug-holes, Camelbak organised....I was cutting it pretty fine, but I was ready to go. THE BLOODY TOILET DOOR WAS STUCK!  I wrestled with the stupidly tiny lock, that was stubbornly jammed.  Good god, after all of this, I was going to miss the race, while I was stuck in the toilet!

Finally I broke free of my lavatory prison, and rushed towards the start line, fumbling with Camelbak straps and GPS watch.  The start line was stomach-twistingly empty.  I had missed the race start.

Officials smiled pityingly at me, and pointed me off along the street: "you're about five minutes late".  How embarrassing!  Still if I ran really well, I might be able to make up some time, maybe even recapture the tail-enders.  I charged off up the hill.

It was a beautiful morning to run up the Port Hills.  The air was crisp and cool, and the city spread out below me as I climbed, looking fresh and white in the early morning sun.  After pushing myself fast up the hill (even I felt impressed by my effort), the tiny figures ahead of me, were still disappearing into the distance, I didn't think that I had gained at all.

At the top of the climb, the course started to follow mountain biking trails, and headed west around the crater rim.  I cannoned off, absolutely loving the undulating single trail that bounced and wove around the hill side.  The course crossed the road and continued on a second trail.  At the next intersection, I reasoned that the course must re-cross the road, as I could see no runners on the trail ahead of me.  I crossed the road, and ran on.  For quite some time, I saw no signs of other racers.  After about a km I came upon a man walking his huskies, I inquired if he had come across any runners, he replied that he had seen the race - taking part on the trail on the other side of the road.  Expletive. I was running the wrong way.  I had gotten lost in the middle of the race.  Could this race go any better?  If I hadn't been enjoying the run so much, I would have felt quite defeated.

The kind man took pity on me, and gave me directions back to the race.  I back tracked the km I had run, and resumed the race.  (I took some solace later on, learning that others had been confused at various junctures where the race course was not as well marked as it could have been).  I plunged on.  The trail rose and fell a little more now, and there was more than one intersection where I was required to use my detective skills and logical reasoning (my higher brain function is never at its strongest in the middle of a run) to ensure that I kept going the right way.

The day was warming up, so I welcomed the cool patches of forest-shaded trail that led me towards the Sign of the Kiwi.  I will still running fast, and still had no sign of runners a head of me.  At the sign of the Kiwi, smiling race officials handed me icy water (appreciated), and directed me to the next part of the race.

The course climbed again for a while, before regaining the rim.  Heaps of other cyclists, running clubs, and walkers were out using the trail and it was lovely to be surrounded by people making the most of such a brilliant day, and enjoying their various outdoors pursuits, especially when so many of them offered kind words of encouragement, and warm-hearted smiles.  Thank you Christchurch.

It was about this time that I saw the first runner heading back towards me, he screamed past, second and third place tightly in tow.  These guys are seriously fast and accomplished!  I knew that at the best of times, I am a long way off the pace of the leaders, so on this slightly disastrous day, I couldn't take the front runners presence as an indication that I was somewhere near half way.

As I ran on, more and more runners came back in the opposite direction.  The trail wove through some dense scrub, breaking out on the crests of the hills to reveal brilliant views of Lyttleton harbour (blue and picturesque) far below on one side, and the city and plains on the other.  This race was one of the first times that I have been running so hard that I have had little time to appreciate and absorb my surroundings, but I remember a multitude of sun-bleached tussocks, a brilliant blue sky, and the rusty-muddy clay of the track.

A litttle further on, I knew that the lat runner in front of me had just come back in the other direction.  I had to be close to the turn around now.  Those runners in front had been walking up a reasonably shallow incline, and I was running all the time, so surely I might catch up with one of them.  Stumbling up a rocky outcrop I fell down and cut open my knee (thankfully that one that hasn't been nursing an injury).  Blood seeped down my leg - war wound).  Then out of no where, I came to the half way point.  Yahoo.  Now I could have a serious go at catching those in front.

I downed a Mule Bar and gel and upped my pace.  Hurtling back along the course, I could see the officials were closing the course behind me.  At every intersection, and checkpoint, a small crowd of the same people cheered me on, congratulated me on my pace, and encouraged me to keep it up.  I couldn't tell if their support was out of pity, but because I felt like I was going hell for leather, I hoped that it was because I was doing well.  After a while I began to pretend that my little entourage were my team of coaches etc. and that I was an elite athlete, closing in on a world record (I have quite the imagination).  It was nice to be so far behind that I could pretend I was in front.  It was thrilling to pretend that I was actually good and fast, it might just have given me a little more speed.  My imagination is obviously good for my running esteem.

Back at the Sign of the Kiwi I expected the route to continue following the same trail in reverse, but instead the trail took the path on the upper side of the road.  A multitude of hitherto unexpected steps greeted me.  I slogged upward and plunged on along the ridge.  The trail undulated through bush, providing some sublime shade against the building heat of the day.  I still held out (a dwindling) hope that if I ran fast enough, I would catch a runner ahead.  So I was really pleased when rounding a sharp corner I happened upon not one, but two runners.  I dashed past and up the next hill.  More bush, more shaded trail, then a silver-haired walker pulling up their pants after seeking an emergency comfort stop in the middle of the trail. Nice.

The course rejoined the original trail, a mountain bike track, that lead back to the final steep descent.  By now there were plenty of mountain-bikers gasping their way up the rise.  And despite the fact that there were signs clearly stating the presence of a running race, and requesting that runners be shown courtesy, biker after biker made no attempt to accommodate me on "their" path.  I thought that I would be kind and step off the trail to run so that bikers wouldn't have to stop.  No one smiled.  No one offered thanks.  No one even really acknowledged my existence.  Maybe they were tired.  Trail runners are so much nicer.

I let gravity take control of the final steep descent, and although racing down the hill was making the joint of my sore knee clash together like the osteo-cymbals from hell, I couldn't help going as fast as I could, trying to make up all the lost time possible.   By the bottom, my legs felt pretty wasted, but I still had a short jaunt on the flat (and excruciating) sealed roadway to the finish.  I pounded along, pushing hard all the way to the finish.  My time was 3 hours and 10 min.  Not too bad considering I put in an extra couple of kms and started late.

I would like to think that I have learned my lesson about organisation and race-preparedness.  I definitely hope that I never start another race that far behind the pack.  I had thought that I would cover the course in about 4 hours, so I am really pleased with my time. Would I have run as hard if I hadn't started late and gotten lost?  Who knows.  But I feel inspired to push a bit harder in future races.  It is nice to think that my running just might be improving.  But more important than all of that, I had one hell of a great time running this disastrous race.

The Circumnavigation of Mt Somers

Sunday morning dawned grey and close, only the foothills visible under a dense blanket of cloud.  I had decided that I was going to run regardless of the weather (but dependant on wind conditions being calm enough that I not get blown off the mountain).  I had been keen to have a crack at the entire Mt Somers circuit since the last time I had run at Staverly, but this was to be the first time in a while that I would be running in grey weather, so I was excited and nervous about what the day would bring.

I have taken to filling out intentions forms when I go out into the mountains.  The form I use is online at Adventure Smart is quick and easy to fill out with route and ETA information, and the website automatically emails copies to your “trusted contact”, who can monitor your return and duly notify the authorities if you don’t return when expected.  I think that it is important to be smart when I am venturing into areas where I am vulnerable to the conditions or the terrain, and the intentions form provides a little peace of mind to everyone.

The peak of Mt Somers was hidden from view, but the cloud base seemed reasonably high when I left the car park at the Sharplin Falls access point of the track, so I figured that I might have some good views as I ascended.  The first part of the climb (that I had struggled with most recently) seemed infinitely more runable that it had on the previous occasion.  I attributed this easy-ish start to the cooler weather and the enormous breakfast I had consumed before setting out.

Before I reached the top of Staverly Hill the cloud started to close in, the view below growing more indistinct as I gained height.  It wasn’t long before I was running along the ridgeline, the burnt oranges and yellows of alpine plants at my feet, drifting white all around me.  The air was comfortably cool for climbing, but all the foliage was wet, and my arms were soon saturated from brushing past moisture laden leaves.

I soon reached the track turn-off for the summit, and followed the ridge a little while longer before plunging back into bush.  The track became increasingly wet and swampy as I progressed, and for long stretches I was running through ankle deep water.  The track traversed the mountainside; the bush opening out from time to time to reveal giant land slips which disappeared from the track edge into gully’s obscured by cloud.  Signs on the track warned of Avalanche Flow Zones, and advised against stopping.  Although no snow was visible, I kept a nervous eye over my shoulder as I crossed the wide and open stream beds that I assumed any avalanche activity might follow.

The river-like nature of the track made foot placement unpredictable, most of the time I was just splashing through surface water, but occasionally a foot would plunge unexpectedly into thick mud, eventually covering both legs to the knee.  On more than one occasion, my ankles found bruising and grazing objects concealed in the murk, this was run shaping up to be quite a challenging adventure.

As the track began to descend the bush changed again, dense foliage opening out into what felt like more ancient forest.  A brilliant green moss carpeted the ground, appearing to glow in the eerie, misty, cloud-filtered light.  The descent steepened, and the trail became more of a water fall, the footwork joyously technical as I negotiated a myriad of sharp rocks and slippery tree roots. 

The trail regularly dipped down to stream crossings, and I did my best to navigate my way through variously swift and lazy water flows, the soggy nature of my foot wear negating any real need to further avoid stepping in water. 

Shortly the forest opened out onto what I imagined was the true South Face of Mt Somers: a long sloping expanse of alpine landscape stretching far down to the plains below.  The cloud lifted enough for me to make out the farm land on the lower slopes, and afforded me great views of the slope I was running across.  All manner of sharp edged plants clawed at my legs and obscured the track.  I was pleased to note that said sharp plants were cutting my shins to shreds (although that description may have invoked a little dramatic licence), but I was definitely cut enough to be bleeding.   I always feel that any activity that draws blood during a run, somehow further legitimises the ruggedness of the achievement.

The very tidy Aclands Shelter appeared, and I spent a few seconds looking around it before continuing on my way.  The track persisted in being very wet, and I wondered if the mountainsides of Mt Somers consisted entirely of swamp.  After a while (and many more stream crossings), the track turned inland again and started to climb.  The landscape became more tussocky, and cloudy, and vision was restricted to within a few metres in any direction.  The track traversed billowing hills between the streams, and as the cloud shifted around me I caught glimpses of the trail behind me, some of which looked quite steep.  I pressed on into the cloud.

Running through such dense cloud in an unfamiliar landscape is quite unsettling.  I had little concept of my progress, and felt rather alone and isolated in my little world of tussock and cloud.  Needless to say, it was quite a relief whenever I came upon track signage (which was seldom), and the track information at the Rhyolite Ridge intersection was extremely welcome, although a little disheartening as it predicted that Woolshed Creek Hut was still some distance away.  I ate some muesli bars to bolster my spirits and ran on.

After some more climbing, the cloud curtain drew aside long enough for me to make out Woolshed Creek Hut in the distance.  It didn’t really look that far away.  The track started climbing again, which seemed odd, as the hut looked quite a way below me.  The ground changed again, tussocks supplanted by an alien, rocky moonscape.  I found myself surrounded by steep cliffs and bluffs, a seemingly impassable maze landscape.  The track continued to climb.  Enormous rock formations and caves greeted me as I toiled upwards.  I scurried under a ledge (tonnes of rock suspended above my head always makes me nervous), and discovered the Bus Stop sign that had been hilariously attached to the rock race.

 I seemed to have reached the top of the climb, and traversed a couple of impossibly narrow ridges, before scrambling past a river of rock polished smooth by the water flowing over it.  Everywhere I looked rugged cliffs menaced, sheer and impassable.  I was impressed and pleased that some intrepid soul had managed to forge a track through this wilderness, because if was painfully beautiful.

The hut once again came into view, much closer this time, and I sped over the shifting redish stones, desperately trying to keep one eye on the ground and one eye on the track markers.  I lost the trail only once.

Just before reaching the hut, a very narrow swing bridge appeared, traversing what from a distance, looked like quite a deep gully.  Nearing the edge, did little to make the bridge look less like a tightrope laced across a canyon.  I don’t normally have a problem with swing bridges, although they are pretty weird to run across, but this one was dwarfed by its landscape, and looked flimsy enough to make me seriously consider climbing down to the stream below, and splashing through instead.  I bravely crossed the bridge, images of the famous bridge collapse scene from Indiana Jones filling my head the whole way.  A short run (and further stream crossing) brought me to Woolshed Creek Hut.

Quite a narrow bridge - HAPPY FACE!

Woolshed Creek hut is nestled in a valley of bleached tussock, and surrounded by rolling hills, and rocky cliffs.  A cloudy stream winds its way across the valley floor.  The whole scene reminded me very much of Central Otago, and the hut looked sparkly and new.  I took the opportunity to fill my hydration bladder, and empty my human one.  Three other trampers were enjoying lunch and the view from inside the hut.  We exchanged progress, and they seemed confused that I had made such good time.  I had covered the South Face track in less than four hours, but the trampers were determined that I couldn’t possibly have managed that.  But I did.

The track climbed steadily out of the valley (and included some more river crossings).  I figured that I still had about three hours of running to go.  I passed signposts pointing out caves and other interesting geological features, but I pressed on vowing to return for further exploration in the future.  Enormous rocks and volcanic-looking rock falls littered the narrowing valley, and I had soon climbed out of its shelter and back into cloud, and for the first time, wind.  I was getting really cold, so stopped to layer up, putting on everything I had bought with me (extra thermal layers and a wind/waterproof jacket).  I was feeling pretty isolated, a bit tired, and a little sorry for myself.  The unreasonable part of my brain suggested lying down and resting for a while, but the still dominant and slightly more sensible part of me over-ruled, insisting that I press on.  I ate three more muesli bars, and started to feel better.

The track continued to climb for a while, but the dense fog meant that I had no concept of altitude or landscape, although I sensed that I was quite high.  After following a ridgeline, the trail began quite a serious descent, and I spent several sections sliding down on my bum (which I always figure is better than falling head-long on my face!).  Despite being quite slippery and just a little treacherous, I was quite enjoying the run through this section.  Having no concept of my progress, and not being able to see what lay ahead was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

Impressive rock flows carved by water

Seemingly out of now where, the sharpest and blackest looking cliff-peaks suddenly loomed out of the fog, slowly resolving into a precarious edifice under which the trail was forcing me to run.  I sped up.  I reasoned that such impressive rock formations were deserving of the Pinnacles title, meaning that I must not be too far from the Pinnacles Hut.  Sure enough, after a brief descent into bush (and probably about three more stream crossings), the smell of wood smoke preceded the hut itself.

Pinnacles Hut looked cosy, rustic and was framed by bush.  Several trampers were taking refuge from the wind and rain, and I chatted to a few before heading on.  A little further down the track I met a couple more trampers sweating their way upwards.  They enquired about my progress, asking if I had run the whole circuit, I answered that I had, and said “nearly at the end”, the tramper cryptically replied: “could be”.  What did he mean?  Was the end of the track affected by some sort of space-time continuum or worm hole that made reaching its end unpredictable?  Maybe he thought I was querying his progress?  I chuckled to myself.  Or maybe there was a really long and treacherous way to go, and he thought I was delusional.  The next chuckle had hints of nervousness to it.   I figured I had an hour to an hour and a half of running to go.  I hoped so, I was cutting it dangerously close to my ETA for return.  I didn’t want to have the emergency services called out.

I really loved the next section of the trail, a very runable and slightly technical undulating single trail, led me lower and lower.  It was raining quite heavily now, but I was sheltered by the dense bush.  Everything was dripping and lush, reminding me of Milford.  A multitude of further stream crossings greeted me, I was becoming quite the expert at fording my way across.  I could hear another waterway ahead, when rounding a corner, to my delight and surprise; I saw a waterfall coasting elegantly from a rock overhang, the track passing beneath.

Waterfall cascading in front of trail

The track descended to a river, and I wondered if this was the water that fed into the Sharplin Falls.  If it was, then I was running on the wrong side of it.  From here on the quality of the track deteriorated.  Land slips and fallen trees forced the trail to the river bed, and there was more than one occasion where I lost the track all together.  There were a few tense moments when I wondered if I would have to attempt a river crossing through what I would describe as nearly a raging torrent (a million stream crossings would not have been preparation enough), but further exploration revealed evidence of trail further down on the same side.  I plunged on, fancying that my tracking skills must nearly qualify me as a detective. 

A little further on, a second flimsy-tightrope-like-swing-bridge crossed the river.  I bolted across, joyous because now I was on the right side of the river to be getting quite close to the end.  The track followed the river for quite a while, and involved a lot of rock hopping and boulder scrambling (excellent practice), before climbing steeply away from the river.  This last climb was really hands and knees stuff.  Tree roots provided hand holds and I inched my way along a track that only accommodated the toes of my shoes.

The higher I climbed, the better the track became, and before long I was able to run again, although the climbing did go on for what seemed like a lot longer than necessary.  I was impressed that I was still running uphill at the end of a long day.  The descent was very welcome, but also very steep, and it felt like an age before I reached the turn off for the track to Sharplin Falls.  I was nearly there.  I had only a few minutes of very well graded and very gentle trail to cover before I reached the car.

I made it back to the car, and back to cell phone reception with less than half an hour to go before my intentions form ETA would have lapsed.  I felt really good.  I wasn’t all that tired, and my legs weren’t sore.  I was looking forward to eating something that wasn’t a muesli bar, and I was glad that there were no more streams to cross on the way home.

As I left Mt Somers, still shrouded in cloud and rain behind me, I marveled that I had run for seven hours and covered 33km and I still felt energetic.  Had I blacked out in the car park and hallucinated the whole experience?  Or am I just getting a little bit fit?

What an amazing run.  There was so much variation in landscape, foliage and environment, I think that Mt Somers is one of the most incredible places I have ventured into...And most of it was obscured by cloud!   I look forward to practicing this route more often, especially on a blue sky day when more of that incredible landscape will be revealed.