The 2019 High Lonesome Love Note
Rewind to July 27th, 2019 around 8:30pm…I was sitting down on the deck of our rental cabin/2019 HL100 BASECAMP. There I lounged, basking in the final rays of that glorious Sawatch sunlight, surrounded by my friends, family, and colleagues. In my hand was a glass of 6-year Laws Whiskey, my belly full of Parnigoni Lasanga, and upon my oft-dreary soul settled one of the warmest, coziest, and happy blankets I’ve ever experienced. It’s hard to describe, but as I sat quietly absorbing the moment, my mind kept flashing back to this point after the 2018 race.
The dichotomy between the two moments is about as stark as they come. Just how stark? Here’s a snippet of what I wrote after last year:
As I stood there, surrounded by the energy that you only find at the end of a 100 mile race, I felt mostly exhaustion. I remember being congratulated for another good year...and I remember just wanting to sleep.
It was an odd feeling, and not the one that I'd expected. The end of the first High Lonesome was one of the best moments of my life. I cried, filled with so much fulfillment and joy...but not this year. This year I felt exhausted, drained and depleted to a point that I could barely summon the will to smile.
The next morning I woke feeling a little more human, but the feelings of emptiness hadn't left. I'm ashamed to say, but I began to feel resentful. I felt entitled to the feelings of joy and fulfillment that I'd experienced last year. And, in their absence, I felt betrayed, and I didn't know how to handle it.”
I spent a long time processing and coming to peace with the 2018 High Lonesome. In the end, I made peace with my own failings and the sadness, at last finding the peace and joy I’d been hoping for. Coming into the 2019 High Lonesome I resolved to not repeat 2018. I owed everyone, myself included, better.
And let me tell you, 2019 was magic fairy dust on steroids. 2019 was what I started High Lonesome for. It was what I told myself would come during those countless nights working until 2 in the morning. It was the dream I repeated when I drained every one of my accounts and maxed credit cards to pay for things. It was my mantra I repeated when people - and even my own self - doubted the dream.
But let’s go back to that evening on the deck.
As I sat there reveling in the moment, I was filled with such a feeling of pride, contentedness, and happiness. Our team KICKED. FUCKING. ASS. Each person owned their role and executed it with quiet competence. It was incredible. Kelsey, Jon, David, Whitney, Janetta, Kevin, Andrew, Jacob, Adam, Nikki, our captains, the volunteers, everyone…they were all amazing.
I get a lot of credit for the race, but it’s not mine. It’s this team and our community that makes the soul of this race. It’s the countless hours Kelsey spent methodically dialing in the aid stations so runners have the best change of finishing. It’s the way Jon knows the course like the back of his hand and puts 1300 course markings AND gets them back. It’s the magic that Janetta and Whitney pull to be seemingly everywhere making sure every runner is safe and healthy. It’s the masterful jigsaw of volunteers that David builds so that every role has the man power to succeed. It’s the eyes-in-the-sky of Jacob, Adam, and Nikki watching our runners and never loosing them. It’s the party, celebration, and community that Andrew orchestrated at our finish line. It’s the 150+ people who gave their time, energy, and love to see total strangers try their hardest. It’s Daisy who flew from Seattle to be the guardian angel at Lost Wonder Hut, it’s Shawn who has more volunteer shifts than anyone else AND drives from Kansas City each year. It’s Zach running the race he helped build. It’s our Georgia boys who fly out each year and support the shit out of each other. It’s Blake sharing a cocktail at the finish line. It’s Chris coming back 3 years in a row to finally earn that damn buckle. It’s Eric getting his USFS crew on the course cutting out the trails buried under all the avalanches. It’s Laws Whiskey House coming out and making sure we all have the libations needed to celebrate or commiserate.
And you know what the best part is? I could keep typing about a hundred people, deeds, and events that make this race.
Proud? It doesn’t even begin to summarize how I feel. Despite the blizzard of shit that is swirling around the world, despite the inherent idiocy of running 100 miles, we’ve manifested something beautiful in this world and I love you all for it.
I wish there was some way to adequately thank each of you. I wish I could sit over a campfire, drink in hand and hear your story. I wish I could do more than shake your hand at 4am when we’re both bleary-eyed and drinking coffee like freshman college students. To each of you, thank you. You’ve helped make my dream into reality and for that I owe you more than I can ever repay.
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I’ll leave you with two more memories. The first is a tradition of recognizing the journey and the second is a toast to our loved ones lost.
Each year, before we recognize the finishers, we call up everyone who didn’t finish. Why? Because we believe that how you get somewhere is more important that the goal. Journey over destination. If we define the value of our experiences by whether or not we finish a race, we limit ourselves and our journey. Getting to the starting line of the High Lonesome is a magnificent accomplishment and no one can take that away from you. We call our DNF’s up not to shame or commiserate, but to celebrate their journey. It takes courage to come to the finish line, it takes grace to cheer your fellow runners to the finish you couldn’t have, and most importantly it allows our community to rally with each other and lift each other up. So to each of you who toed the line but didn’t cross it, I’m proud of you. Come back and join us again.
Our second memory reminds us that life is for living. It’s the memories of Hannah and Peter that remind us that life is so much larger than we often remember. I’ll never forget the day that Hannah died. I was in Silverton when Nikki called me and said two devastating words….”Hannah fell”. A year later, I sat in a chair listening to a community grieve the loss of Peter. I don’t know why the people we love die in the places we love, but I know that their lives never fail to remind me of the finest things in life.
So here’s to those who can’t join us. To Hannah, Peter, and those that move us - fuck the darkness and here’s to more stars in the heavens.