2026 Bighorn 100 - My Breakthrough

 

A race to a 100-mile finish line is naturally measured in units of distance. There’s the 100 stinkin’ miles, of course. There’s the distance between aid stations, the bite-sized chunks you use to break up the course. There’s also thousands of feet of climbing and even more thousands of steps to be taken.

An ultramarathon can also be measured in decisions; thousands of them, big and small, that move you closer or further from your goals. There’s a decision to be steady or patient; to eat when your stomach has already turned; to run when your legs want to walk; to hold on to your last reserves of hope when you’re in the lowest of lows. Just as much as the miles covered, the totality of these many decisions bring you to the finish line.

Before the start of the Bighorn 100, I’m making my first decision— an answer to a rhetorical question I whisper to myself amidst a sea of runners at the start line.

“Are you open to this?”

It’s not the catchiest of phrases. I’m not even sure it makes sense. But, I find myself saying it with full sincerity. I’ve had a tough time at my past few races with pre-race nerves, sleepless nights, and legs that feel off far earlier than they should. This was the result of the headspace I put myself in, a new-found anxiety from putting pressure on myself to perform and achieve a certain time that might validate the work I’ve put in or a certain way I want to feel about myself. 

Simply put, I’ve been putting too much emphasis on the destination instead of the journey. This time around, my biggest goal for the Bighorn is to run with openness: to separate from the time goal; to be present in each mile; and to let in all the ups and downs, all the pain and joy, that’s inevitable to the journey.

I cast my gaze from my feet towards the sun-soaked canyon ridge towering above, take a deep breath, and decide— yes, I am open to this. There’s nowhere else I would rather be. Let’s fucking send it.    

The Bighorn 100 is one of North American’s most challenging and beautiful 100-milers. It’s an out-and-back course through the Bighorn National Forest in northern Wyoming with about 20,500 ft. of climbing, technical terrain, and mud. It’s wild, rugged and also completely unpretentious and cowboy. It’s an atmosphere I enjoy racing in.

There’s no fancy starting arch or sponsor's tents at the start line of this race. Before we are sent on our way, a race organizer climbs into the back of a truck, holds a flag out like a human flagpole, and the National Anthem is sung. Every second that passes I feel my excitement grow until a countdown reaches 3… 2… 1… and we’re off! 

Our first mile is flat and on gravel, as easy as they will come. Around the first bend is a scenic view of “The Needle,” a rock formation almost like an arch high up the canyon wall. The Needle is on the race logo and the belt buckle we’ll be given if we finish. I think to myself, “Man, we’re being spoiled to get this nice of a view this early into the race.” But, it’s only a glimpse of the scenery to come.

After a short distance, we enter the Tongue River Canyon and leave the road behind. I did my shakeout run on this segment yesterday and am excited to be back on it. It’s stunning in every direction with technical trail next to the rushing Tongue River and high canyon walls on both sides. The Bighorn trail races started in 1993 (the 100-mile distance wasn’t added until 2002) originally as a means to stop development and preserve this canyon for recreation. I’m glad the race achieved its objective and I feel privileged to be on this trail. 

The runners enter a conga line on this section, but I’m impressed with the field so far. We’re all moving together very efficiently and there’s no major logjams. Quickly, we’re climbing further above the river, slowly leaving the canyon behind with each step towards the mountains. We arrive at our first major obstacle of the race; a climb of more than 4,000 ft. over 6 miles. This section is hot and exposed with several false summits.

I’m feeling the first positive signs that I’m about to have a good day. I look to the top of the climb and feel completely unthreatened— it looks just like the climbs I did at Green Mountain and Bergen Peak on many, many training runs. I’m firmly in the mid-pack, but I am moving efficiently and breathing easily. The higher we get, the grander the view behind us becomes. It’s hard not to stop and look back at the canyon we came from, mountains in all directions, and scenery that must extend 50 miles out in all directions.

Without as much pain as I expected, we’re at the top of this climb before being sent down a short, punchy descent to an aid station. Next, we’ll travel some runnable terrain on forest service road, meaning runners can spread out a bit. Before long we’re passing campers out in the backcountry and quickly approaching our first crewed aid station, Dry Fork Ridge, at mile 13.5. 

The first crewed aid station always has a great atmosphere. With runners close together, there’s a lot of crew at this stop and people are lined on both sides of the trail to cheer. I smile and give a high five to a guy wearing a t-shirt with “RUNNING SUCKS” in large font across the front. I’m vaguely aware that I’m ahead of schedule and I don’t see Emily yet. It quickly crosses my mind that I might have beat her to this spot. 

I don’t panic as I arrive at the aid station and a pile of drop bags laid out on the grass. I have everything I need and I’m in good condition. Originally, I was focused on getting ice for my bandana at this aid station, but it’s partly cloudy and the conditions are ideal for running. I grab ziplock bags of gels out of my drop bag, fill up my water bottles, and head out as quickly as possible. This early in the race, there is no need to waste time.

My only worry is for Emily; that she has a flat tire or that she’ll be disappointed to have missed me. I’ll later find out that Emily hung around at Dry Fork for a while before looking into my drop bag, noticing my gels were missing, and realizing I had already been through. She looked at the time stamp of my departure and missed me by only a few minutes. As a crew of one, I know Emily has a big job and will be important later in the race. 

I’m used to having a bigger crew for these races. My mom and dad crewed both of my first 100-milers. Since this race would’ve been a hell of a long drive from Iowa and only has three crewed aid stations, I told my parents to skip it. There’s a part of me that’s nervous about that— when things go wrong, the prospect of seeing my parents at the next aid station is a huge lift to my spirits. But, I am excited to work on my self-sufficiency and find out what I’m made of. Most European ultras don’t have crew or pacers. I tell myself, if they can do it, then so can I. 

After Dry Fork, we head down some jeep road and then singletrack with running, rolling terrain. We’re in Big Sky country with flowers and sweeping views all around. I feel like I’m in “The Sound of Music.” I dip my hat every time we reach a creek crossing to cool off. If my brain gets a little too active or a negative thought pops up, I ask myself the same question: are you open to this? Each time, I take a deep breath, soak in the view, and re-orient myself to the present. It’s a soothing technique that seems to be working.

There’s a burn scar around us for several of these miles. Lightning ignited the Elk Fire in 2024, burning more than 100,000 acres in this area. The forest floor has recovered, but plenty of burned trees line the scenery. We enter a wooded, remote area of the course with two unique aid stations: Kern’s Cow Camp and Bear Camp. Aid station supplies here are hauled in by horseback, adding to the cowboy feel of the race. I’m near a runner who has let out a big yell each time he arrives and leaves an aid station. I’m assuming it’s his first 100-miler. His enthusiasm is so fun and I feel like a giant party-pooper for wanting to say, “Hey, come 4 a.m., you might be wishing you saved some of that energy.”

Every now and then, I check in with myself, looking for any warning lights on the dashboard. I’m sticking to my fueling plan, my breathing is easy, and my legs feel fine. There’s no check engine light on, and I tell myself to feel confident about that. When we leave the woods, another larger-than-life view is visible. We can see tree-covered mountains all the way into Montana, and the view of “The Wall” is becoming larger with every step. The Wall is a dramatic cliff face visible from many miles away lining the Little Bighorn River.  

After Bear Camp, we traverse a steep, quad-busting descent down technical terrain for several miles. I’m not the strongest on downhills and I can feel the breaking forces with every step. I make a mental note to myself: remember what we go down on the way out, we have to go up on the way in. 

Next, we arrive at Sally’s Foot Bridge at the end of the big descent at mile 30. I’m happy to get to this point; it finally feels like we’ve made progress. Sally’s is a major aid station with crew and drop bags right along the river. It’s only accessible to lifted, 4-wheel drive vehicles, so I’ve told Emily to skip this one. When I check in, the volunteers already have my drop bag waiting for me. This is an aid station that knows what they’re doing. One mistake newer runners make is getting lulled into the safety of aid stations and spending too long lingering. I want my aid stations to take only as long as needed to re-fill gear and solve problems, and not a minute longer. With no problems, for now, I’m in and out quickly.

Next up: the most formidable segment of the race. The climb from Sally’s to Jaws Trailhead, the turnaround point, is long and unrelenting. The Climb to Jaws; even the name sounds intimidating. Over the next 18 miles, we’ll climb nearly 6,000 ft. to the highest point of the course. It’s a segment that’s notorious for breaking down runners and leaving them begging to DNF when they finally reach their crew.

The sections between aid stations here are further apart, meaning I have to fill three water bottles at each station to carry enough. My fueling plan involves 90 grams of carbs and about 30 oz. of water with 800 mg. of sodium per hour, nearly two full water bottles an hour. Judging by how frequently I step off the trail to pee, I know I’m not dehydrated and am sticking to the plan. One benefit of the homework I did to carry three water bottles is that I’m not dismayed when it’s taking a long time to reach the next aid station. The distance on my smart watch has been off all day. So, I judge my arrival based on how much water I have left. For instance, if I still have an entire bottle left, I know it’ll be at least 30 minutes until the next aid station— not quite there yet.  

The climb starts with rocky, technical terrain. “The Wall” and its steep cliff face are off to the right of the trail, and the Little Bighorn River is rushing powerfully and loudly to our left. It’s as scenic as it is challenging. My poles are getting plenty of use before I finally reach Spring Marsh aid station at Mile 40. It’s on a flat grassy area in the middle of the climb and looks a bit like a house, or aid station, on the prairie. A young girl volunteering at the aid station gives me a good luck clothes pin. “I ♡ PAIN” and “Learn Forward” are painted on both sides of the pin. I chuckle and clip it to my hydration vest. It would be bad luck not to accept the pin, I think; like an alpinist not stopping at prayer flags to ask for safe passage on the way to Everest. 

Some time after Spring Marsh, I spot the leaders charging towards me, having already made the turnaround. First place is flying and second place is hot on his heels, only a few steps behind. These guys are going to set the course record, I think to myself. Indeed, with perfect running temperatures and minimal mud on the course this year, the winner would cross the line in 17:58— the first time someone has ever gone sub-18 here.

In addition to the scenery, the Bighorn is best known for its shoe-sucking, or soul-sucking, mud. It’s not unusual to face long sections of mud where you take one step forward and slide two steps backwards. It’s absolutely a factor in what makes this race so difficult. With a small snowpack this year, mud isn’t the villain it usually is. Even though “there’s no mud at the Bighorn this year,” I’m still encountering more mud than any race I’ve been in. You have to laugh at it; what the Bighorn quantifies (or doesn’t quantify) as mud is quite different than most.

The final climb up Jaws requires slowing down and careful foot placement; getting your shoes muddy and feet wet is a sure-fire way to develop blisters. Dusk is starting to set, further proof that I’m still ahead of schedule. I expected to arrive at Jaws in the dark. Finally, we enter a clearing and the top of the climb at nearly 10,000” elevation where campers have fires going and cars are parked along the road. There’s still about 1.5 miles (longer than you would think) along the road and fence line to the aid station, but at least we get the occasional cheer from a spectator.

I arrive at Jaws and spot Emily; she’s front and center with a chair ready for me and all my supplies laid out on a blanket. We smile and hug; I’m relieved to see her and know she’s not stranded on the side of the road, and she’s relieved to see me and know my race is going very well. Emily wastes no time getting to work. She tells me to put on a coat before I get cold, hands me some plain noodles to eat, and sets off to refill my vest with all the supplies I’ll need. She’s an experienced crew chief. 

With each minute that passes, the sunset is turning brighter with brilliant shades of orange, pink and red. Between bites of noodles, Emily nudges me to look at the sunset and a powerful wave of serenity and calm rushes over me. It’s a nice break from the stress of racing. I pull out clear safety glasses and eye drops, two of the most important things in my drop bag. At Run Rabbit Run last year, my eyes dried out overnight and I developed a vision problem (ultramarathon-induced corneal edema) that derailed my race. 

It’s time to go, I tell Emily. I walk stiffly over to the official aid station tent to check out, but a volunteer thinks I’ve only just arrived and beckons me inside. I tell her I’m already leaving, and she jokingly shoves me out of the tent and says “fine, get the hell out of here” with a smile. This break was exactly what I needed, and I feel ready to head off into the night alone. It’ll be my first time running through the night by myself without pacers.

After a mile, I turn on my headlamp and carefully retrace my steps through the muddy, wet section. The race has spread out and I run mostly by myself back down the climb, reaching Spring Marsh. Aid stations take on a different vibe at night. They’re a beacon of light in the dark, sometimes a giant party in the middle of nowhere, and a place to repair runners mentally as well as physically. With a string of blue lights ushering runners towards the tent, helpful volunteers, and a giant Christmas tree, Spring Marsh is a perfect example of the helpful weirdness of night time aid stations. 

Later, I stop to tie my shoes at a few picnic tables in the middle of nowhere. From the next table over, I hear a runner softly crying. She’s still on the way outbound, and I hear her tell someone that she’s been throwing up all day with stomach issues. I feel awful for her and it’s a reminder about how hard what we’re trying to do is; despite all the training and no matter how bad you want it, this distance can chew you up and spit you out. As bad as I feel for her, I also feel lucky that I’m not suffering yet.

A few miles later, a runner with a bluetooth speaker and loud country music emerges from the dark and passes me. I can’t help but picture this runner as a nighttime trucker with nothing but the radio and miles of empty road lit up in front of him. It’s nice to break up the silence of night with music and I think about catching his tail. But, I’m not ready to push this early and want to run my own pace. Slowly his music fades out until there’s nothing left but the patter of my footsteps.

My headlamp is dimming far quicker than it should with a charged battery, and I’m glad that Emily stuffed a spare into my kit. I pull it out and the trail is lit up even brighter in front of me. After several hours, I reach Sally’s— another oasis of lights in the middle of the night. They have buckets of water and washing stations for muddy feet at each chair, and again I am impressed by the professionalism of this aid station. Unlike last time when I left quickly, this time I slump into a chair, wash my feet, and fully change socks and shoes from my drop bag. When I leave, I’m in 44th place. I’ve slowly moved up in the field, having started in about 70th place. But, that’s more of a reflection of holding steady than speeding up. 

You remember that section from earlier where I said what comes down must come up? Well, it’s here, and it’s even steeper than I anticipated. From Sally’s to Dry Fork, we’ll climb another 5,000 ft., the last major climb of the course. This particular section is as steep as they come, maybe a 20% grade, in the dead of the night. Momentum comes to a screeching halt here and each step takes huge effort. I’ve been following a runner with a Minnesota outline tattoo on her calf for several miles and finally she breaks the silence. “God, this section is fucked up.”

I try to keep moving— both poles forward, step, step. Both poles forward, step, step. All the way to Bear Camp, one of the cowboy aid stations. It’s nothing but a table and a campfire in the woods. At the campfire, a runner is glued to a chair, staring intensely into the fire. He looks lost, somewhere far, far away from racing. I think his race is done. 

Onwards I move. It’s the summer solstice and darkness only lasts from 10 p.m. until about 4 a.m. Slowly, day break is on the horizon and birds are starting to wake up. A lot of runners feel emotional at the sunrise of a 100-miler. Some even cry. The light is like a baptism, bringing a renewal of hope and rush of psychological relief. I’m not one of those runners, though. I like running in the dark through the stillness. It’s almost like under the cover of darkness, any pace forward is an acceptable pace. But, when the sun rises, it can expose an uncomfortable truth— a new day is starting and you’re a long way from home.

I’m still moving oddly well, though. With every mile forward, it dawns on me that I’m not falling apart. By this time in the Black Hills 100, durability and muscle degradation had left me hobbling all the way to a delayed finish. And at Run Rabbit Run, I was really starting to struggle to keep moving. I set out to run this race in 28 hours, which would be nearly a 2-hour personal best, and I feel like I’m ahead of that. At mile 77, I reach Kern’s Cow Camp— the bacon station. The volunteer here tells me he’s been up since 2 AM and has cooked more than 100 pounds of bacon so far.

I pass through quickly, knowing the next aid station is Dry Fork, a chance to see Emily. The new day has brought overcast skies and more ideal running weather. After several miles, way off in the distance and on top of the climb I see vehicles… that must be Dry Fork! I settle into a rhythm with my poles until I’m finally approaching spectators and crew that have had an early morning waiting for their runners. Some are still sleeping in their camp chairs, and the vibe here is much different than when I passed through yesterday to raucous cheers. Emily greets me and tells me I’m still ahead of schedule, and we settle into the familiar routine of a pit stop. 

You’d think the longer you rest and recover, the better you feel. But, this late in the race, the opposite is true. While sitting, my body is starting to think it’s done running, and isn’t too happy with the condition it finds itself in. I’m getting stiffer and feel a cold shiver setting in. I need to get moving, I tell Emily. My body feels like a plane stranded on an Arctic runway after an emergency landing. As long as the engines keep turning, everything works. Shut them down, and the cold starts tearing things apart. 

I say my goodbyes and hobble off. It takes a minute to spool the engines back up, but finally I am moving well again. During this section, I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for the calvary to come charging by just like they did at Run Rabbit Run. But, no one is catching me and I get the feeling I’m moving up in the field. I’m looking for one final climb; my course scouting has a note here— one last sneaky climb. Finally, I punch up the climb and then drop down to Upper Sheep Creek aid station. All of the 20,000 ft. of climbing is behind me now, and there’s just a half marathon left. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for… PUSH! 

I make the decision that I’m ready to run everything that’s not uphill, and I make my final assault on the course. We’re running down the mountain we climbed yesterday. I see a figure of a runner down below me, real him in, and create a gap. And another. And another. I know I could take it easy and still finish with a good race, but it feels deeply important to me to push and do something I’ve never done at this distance— finish strong.

It’s not going to be that easy, though. I jog upon an odd figure, clad in all black, sitting cross-legged next to the trail with a witch’s hat on. My hair stands up and I slow to a walk and then a complete stop. “Hello..?” I ask the eerie figure to no response. A few steps forward and the figure morphs into a burned tree stump. Holy shit, I think to myself, I’m hallucinating. Hallucinations aren’t uncommon after sleepless nights in ultramarathons, but it’s the first time it’s happening to me.

Next, from below me down the mountain, I see the top of a port-o-potty and I feel relieved to be near an aid station. A few steps forward, and the port-o-potty morphs into a boulder. My sleep-deprived brain is playing tricks on me. Later, I see the top of a pop-up tent canopy. This has to be the aid station. But a few steps forward and, you guessed it, another boulder. Fuck! 

Finally, I reach Lower Sheep Creek aid station. I’m weary of optical illusions until a volunteer reaches out to fill my water bottle. Now, it’s time to head back into the canyons and I’m beginning to feel the pull of the finish line. I reach the trailhead of the canyon and the beginning of the road. Although this race started only two miles away, it finishes in a different location in the town of Dayton, meaning there’s still five miles to go.

After a few miles, I stop for a mere second to look behind me and soak in the Bighorns. It’s hard to believe I just came from there, running 100 miles through the mountains. My legs start to lock up a bit and I think to myself, “shit, you better keep running or you might fall over and DNF right here!” This gravel road is extending out endlessly and just like always, the last few miles feel like ages. I’m desperate to see Dayton. I’m tempted to check my watch and know what time I’m fighting for, but decide not to. I’m going to empty the tank regardless. Finally, I spot the bridge I need to cross… town and the finish are just a few blocks away! I run into town, cross the road and take a left, and see Scott Bicentennial Park, where the finish is.

Just like every ultra I've run, I’ve watched every YouTube video possible of the race beforehand. I’ve seen countless runners enter this park and run towards the finish, and have envisioned myself doing the same hundreds of times. Now, it’s my turn! It's finally here! I enter the park and waves of goosebumps rush over me.

There’s a few children playing at the park entrance. They stop what they’re doing and reach their hands out for a high five. After I pass them, I leave my hand out for a moment. I imagine I’m high-fiving all the different younger versions of myself that failed so often at sports: the version that was the only player not to get off the bench in a sixth grade football game. My dad took me out to Village Inn afterwards and I tried not to cry between bites of pancakes; the version of myself that was on a fastbreak in basketball with my hand up, until a pass hit my back with a thud and the crowd laughed at me; the version that got pinned all the time in wrestling; the version that failed so personally at the one thing I cared about (golf) that I felt ashamed of myself; even the versions of myself that got their asses kicked at Black Hills and Run Rabbit Run.

“It’s okay,” I’d say to those versions of myself. “You’re not the loser you thought you were, and I’m sorry you ever felt that way. I swear so many cool things are possible when you learn how to show up for yourself. You’ll see that one day, and it’ll be okay.”

Maybe that’s what I’m running for; maybe that’s what all these miles are about.

I round the corner of the park and come into view of the finish line and spectators. Someone shouts “runner,” letting the world know to get ready to cheer. All of a sudden I hear Emily hollering and see her spring towards the trail with Shasta and Jasper in tow. “You’re so fast,” she yells, and I know that she didn’t expect to see me this soon— I’m well ahead of schedule.

The finish line is like a magnet pulling me forward and I pick up speed with each step until the last once crosses underneath a big banner with “Finish” across it. There’s smiles, hugs and a kickass belt buckle handed out. I still don’t know my time yet but I hug Emily and tell her I was burying myself out there for sub-27. “Sub-26,” Emily corrects me. Hol-eee shit! 

I ran the Bighorn 100 in 25:52, placing 29th out of the 232 runners who set out to finish. Sub-26 at a tough mountain race is a time I’m damn proud of. It’s my breakthrough. It’s years and years of training, failing, and moving forward. It’s one of the proudest moments of my life. 

~~~

Even in an individual sport, an endeavor this big isn’t possible without the people that support you; people that check in on you and wish you luck; people that say they’re proud of you; people (Emily) that work around your training schedule and follow you to all your races. 

Thank you Emily for being a kickass crew of one. Without Emily encouraging me to sign up for my first 50-miler, I’m not sure this journey ever gets started. Thanks mom, dad, and Keelie— when I’m running, I know you are thinking about me, and it keeps me moving. Just this week, my dad retired after nearly 40 years of working as a carpenter with the schools. He showed me what work ethic looks like, and I’ve always tried to embody that whether I am working or running. Congratulations, dad! With three years of working together, my coach TJ David has helped me learn from every setback and given me every tool I need to be successful. 

With love and gratitude — on to the next one!