Back on the Island

I've been absent. I'm sorry. I have really good excuses. I'll tell you all about them soon, I just need to acknowledge something first.

Antelope Island Buffalo Run 25kMarch 21, 2015

So that happened. I tried not to view the repeat distance as the consolation prize for not being able to do the 50k like I had hoped. I went it to it not nervous, and with no goals except to be honest with myself, respect my body, and finish with a big fat smile on my face.
I started slow. Really slow. On purpose. Around a mile in I settled in next to a girl who was obviously limping and struck up a conversation. Her foot was acting up and she knew it would be a long race, but she had started anyway. I encouraged her, told her my story, and assured her that if I could finish on hardware and scar tissue, she could do this. Then I ran ahead.
A few miles later a new conversation, a new friend. A woman in her sixties who had just begun trail running a few years before. Inspiring. Not long after, my limping friend ran past, killing it. I shouted to her and she yelled, "You're my inspiration!" and sped off. We would leapfrog a few more times through the race. This race quickly became about the people. I spent the entire 16.7 miles in awe of the dynamics and fortitude of the people around me. Everyone has a story. I'm learning that most of us can amaze each other if we just take the time to listen.
The miles ticked away with the scenery. I was often without a running partner, but never without loads of pleasantries and encouragement from every person I came across. Some I knew, many I didn't, but the camaraderie on the trails is just the best. I did my best to reciprocate the encouragement. It has been long enough since the race that I can't give exact mileage, but somewhere along the way, I heard my name, and looked up to see my girl Renee looking fab with a big fat grin on her gorgeous face. I threw my arms wide and we ran into a hug. She had been volunteering, but needed to leave soon and didn't want to miss me. "I came looking for you! I want to run with you for a little while."

Photo Credit Renee: Happy Girls!

There was never more welcome company. I was feeling surprisingly good for being 4 or 5 miles in and 8 months out from a shattered ankle. But I honestly can say what it meant to be watched out for by a friend who knows the depth of the hole I've climbed out of- and helped lower the ladder down to me. It was just everything.

Renee ran with me until we hit her turnoff to head out. Then I took on a gnarly climb with gusto. A short while later I reached the Elephant head aid station where my Wasatch Mountain Wrangler fam was running the show.  It was like showing up at Cheers. Everybody knows your name. I hugged all of them and couldn't stop smiling. Filled my water bottle with Heed, took a swig, dumped it out and refilled with water. Heed was a bad move. My stomach would protest that swig for the next 5 miles. I snagged a few chips and M&Ms and took off, optimistic about my time and how I felt. I bit of half a ginger chew as my stomach started to turn and tried to keep my attitude up anyway. I rocked the switchbacks that killed me last year, and was on my way back toward Elephant head when my ankle, calves, hammies and hips started getting grouchy. Tummy was still not loving it, it was getting hot out, and my smile had faded a bit. When I finally hit the Aid Station again, I needed a Coke and a hug, and my friends obliged. Jennilyn snuggled me while Lane, Kendall and Matt got me drinks. They were busy little rockstars who took the time to take care of me in true Wrangler style. I was grateful and in a few minutes I was ready to roll on. A few more miles out and my hardware was on fire. The fact that my legs weren't well trained for this race was very apparent and I found myself limping along, cheering on runner after runner as they passed me. I'd choke back all the feels now and then, and remind myself that I was grateful to be there "running" at all. Then I'd tell myself that it would hurt like hell whether I ran or walked, but running would get me done faster, and I'd pick up the pace again. I pasted a smile back on my face and started loving it. Just a few more miles. The last few miles are the longest. So. dang. long. But as I neared the finish line, I heard my friends cheering my name. I couldn't smile any harder, and my entire being was flooded with gratitude. I sobbed through my grin and I crossed the line and fell, crying into the arms of some pregnant stranger who asked me if I was okay and handed me over to my big brother Steve, who knew exactly where all my tears came from.

Sobbing through my cheesy grin

Me and the pregnant stranger... collision in 3...2...

Friends and family who had just run longer races themselves got me stew and drinks and blankets and chairs. (Special thanks to Nan and Steve and Craig who wandered all over trying to find my car and get my things.) I settled down for my very favorite part- the afterparty. It wasn't long until Aaron was finishing his 50 miler. We cheered a steady stream of dear friends and acquaintances across the line for hours.
I had finished in 4:17. Around 45 minutes slower than last year. And I didn't care. I was more satisfied with this race than last years. This year hurt more, and my training was not there... for obvious reasons, but I ran the entire thing with gratitude and love. That made all the difference.

Seasons Change

I have a very full schedule. Yuck. I hate schedules.
As mom, wife, teacher to four kiddos, part time therapy aide, house keeper, cook, chauffeur, nutritionist, nurse, friend, sister, athlete, etc. it's easy to get overwhelmed. I should say, it's almost impossible NOT to get overwhelmed.
The more complicated my life gets, the more I realize how much I crave simplicity.
When I was down and out with my shattered ankle and employed in nothing but healing and raising kiddos, I got a little carried away with future plans. As I came out of forced rest, I took on my part time job (which I still love!), and looked forward to more running, more adventures and more yoga- even promising my former students that I'd be back, and soon. I added karate and other homeschool activities to our weeks. I didn't take into account what would happen when I tried to put my "normal" activities back into our everyday lives.

They don't fit.

I find myself faced with hard decisions. I'm in dire need of simplification. My time is so jam packed with really good things that I can't move. I spend whatever free time I have exhaustedly trying to tune out all of my other responsibilities and letting things slip through the cracks. My body is out of balance and drained from constant stress. I'm in major spiritual disconnect. My kids are upset that I'm gone so much, and I don't think it's because I'm physically gone that much. I can't go out for a run without a major guilt trip that I'm not taking at least one of them with me. I bought yoga passes that I haven't used yet because it's just one more night or day that I'd have to leave. But what good is it that I'm home if I'm not really there? I need to recharge. I need head space, physical exertion and a sense of accomplishment. I need trail runs and yoga classes. I need time to unravel this tangled mess and to believe in myself again. I need not to jealously guard my free time from the very people I would normally choose to spend my free time with.
My house is a wreck. My head is even more so. I find myself waking up each morning wanting to quit everything, empty out and sell my house, wipe the slate and start over.
I want freedom.
It's amazing how much work that takes.
So do I quit a part-time job that I adore, and let down the people whom I love working with twice a week? I am loyal to a fault. I feel horrible walking away after just 3 months. But that's what I'm doing. When given the choice of sacrificing my side job, my kids, or my mental health, it's not even a question which gets cut.
I forget sometimes that being a homeschool mom is a full-time job, because no one sends me a W-2 every tax season- well, because I don't make any money.  But it is. It's an extremely hard, wonderful, amazing, all-consuming, difficult, full-time job that is more important to me than pretty much anything. I'm neck deep in it. I'm committed to it. I can't fathom sending my kids off to public school every day anymore.  And I'm starting to realize why everyone I talk to at work who finds out I homeschool my kids, or every homeschooler that finds out I work part-time, looks at me in shock and awe. This isn't sustainable and I know it. I'm walking away from a job I love, in order to take care of the kids I love more and the sanity I desperately need to tend to in order to care for them.

I'm so grateful to Brian. He could be really upset with me for backing away when I've only just really gotten the hang of everything. He only guilt tripped me a little (actually I think I may have done my own guilt tripping). He offered to keep me on the call list to fill in when they might need someone. I accepted. I'll be on the schedule for another month or so while they find a replacement.

I know this is the right thing to do. But it still hurts. I've beat myself up plenty over it. Here I am, the Kakes who never sticks with anything, failing, letting people down again. At least that's what pops up when the mean and nasty inner voice starts rambling. She's a witch.

I need this. I need to step back, gain perspective, and breathe.

6 months

It's been half a year since my talus exploded and dropped me in my tracks. If I could have seen then where I would be now, I wouldn't have been nearly as distressed. I also probably wouldn't have fought nearly so hard to get here. I've still a long way to go. But today, I am grateful. For geocaching hikes and a Turkey Trot with my littles. For Elephant rock and miles of laughter with Katie. For thigh-deep snow and moose calls with Aaron and Matt. For an Antelope Island date with my love. For sunshine and magic in Moab with Jlyn, Jenna, MVH, Kenzie, and Cherri. For giggles and goofing off with Aaron in Farmington Canyon.  For every single step. For everything that raw vulnerability has taught me. For hope. For determination. For friendship. For love. For Faith, with a capital F.

In the end, this injury will have cost me relatively little. The pain, the difficulty, the depression, the struggle, while a deep, relentless and horrible hell of their own, pale in comparison to the precious, priceless gifts I've been given. Gifts I intend to collect on for a lifetime to come.

In a few weeks when anxiety has come knocking, and my everything hurts from hard work and rehab, my rotator cuff injury is still healing, my ankle still hurts and swells, I'm still slow, and still hard on myself, and I come here feeling sorry for myself to vent, someone do me a favor and point me back to this post. I can get through it. Time ticks by, wounds heal, the snow melts, people keep on loving, and I will laugh again.

Thank you my friends, from the bottom of my heart and soul, for your love and support.

When You Ask For Magic

Dear God,
  Please. Please. Let me feel something bigger than myself again. I choose to believe you are there. I have seen so much evidence, but haven't really felt your presence in so long. Where is the spiritual high? Where is that comforting feeling of accompaniment by the grandest companion there is? I've felt like I've been on my own for far too long. Silence from the warmth. So much noise from the cold and dark. So much pain. Isolation. Please Lord. Allow me some magic again. Please.


Jennilyn had had enough of the bitter cold and grey. She needed red dirt, sunshine and space. She planned to go alone. Moab. "Don't you think someone else might want to go with you?" She almost brushed off Ben's inquiry, but put the word out to a small group of friends that she was going- alone or not. A Sunday day trip at the end of the holiday break. I wasn't on that list. My husband was.
Saturday morning he told me about it in a "that would be fun, but it's not likely possible" kind of way. I needed to go. I asked my primary teaching partner if she could handle the first Sunday with a brand new class without me, I apologized to my daughter for leaving on my first day as her teacher, held her and wiped the tears from her brave little face, and told Jennilyn I was in.

The list of friends was perfect. Jennilyn, Jenna, Kenzie, MVH, Cherri. Most of us had been struggling for months. Physically, mentally, emotionally, all of the above. It was the trip of the depressed and convalescing. A group of people who desperately needed to feel alive and strong again. They were exactly who I needed. I packed my bags and fought my anxiety. I almost dropped the whole idea multiple times. I woke up 30 minutes before my morning alarm to let my snorty chihuahua out in the penetrating cold to pee. Then I crawled back in bed and dreamed that I woke up at 8:30 in a panic that they had left without me. When the alarm went off at 4:45am I was thrilled! I hadn't missed it! I dressed and kissed my Aaron's sleepy mouth, then I packed my things to the car and headed out into the dark.
Kenzie and I met MVH in the empty grocery store parking lot. We loaded in his party van and headed south to gather the rest of our little gang. J-Lyn and Cherri in yet another quiet lot, and then 7-Eleven hot chocolate and coffee, and last of all Jenna. "Butt rock" and good conversation made the long drive shorter. Somewhere in the middle, just before sunrise, the temperature gauge in the van dropped into the negatives. We kept on, still hoping at least for sunshine if not warmer temps. The sunrise blushed across the sky.

Car selfies!

By 10 am we were nearing our destination. Sand Flats Road and the end of the Kokopelli trail. "I don't know if it will be scenic," Jennilyn warned, "But we'll get some distance here on the dirt road and then hike some prettier stuff later."
When we piled out of the van, gasping in the frigid air, there was sunshine. And scenery. There were patches of snow on the ground, but plenty of beautiful ruddy dirt to be seen. I felt like everything I needed was there for me if I could figure out how to take it in. I started to feel the inklings of life again. Space. Time.  Room to breathe and think and work and FEEL. 

Cherri, Jennilyn and Kenzie. Ready for some action!

We geared up, used the pit toilet and headed off into the open space. We agreed that spreading out would happen naturally. Jennilyn wanted 20 miles, I wanted at least 10. Jenna settled in along side me at an easy pace and conversation picked up without effort. We spoke of family, friends, injuries, faith, struggles and insecurities. She was my therapist and my friend. Things I'd been trying to shake for months seemed to skitter off behind us on the cold dirt and I got lighter as the miles ticked by. Layers of clothing came off as the sun, our laughter and our movement warmed us. We stopped now and then to take pictures. To appreciate details. To climb rock formations, feast on the views, and build a cairn. We had no agenda but to heal.

Two very happy trail girls

#WimmerTree!

Cairn building with Jenna. Photo cred Jenna.

Texture and blue skies

Jenna and the wide sky

We had a visit from Matt on his way back to the car. He joined us on a rock to appreciate the view, and then said he'd see us later when he'd drive by in the party van.

MVH taking in the view

Jenna climbin' on rocks

Life is good. Photo cred Jenna.

Cherri, with her beautiful, wide smile dropped back to walk and chat with us. Every once in a while between the view, the sun, the dirt and the company, satisfaction would hit critical mass and one of us would throw her arms up and throw out a joyful shout to echo through the redrock. It just felt SO GOOD! Ice formations, rock formations, cloud formations, friendship formations. All were abundant and absolutely beautiful. It all felt so real. Nothing but the pain had felt real to me in a very long time. I savored every second.

Cherri and the view

Eventually we spotted the van at the top of the next hill, and two little spots running our direction. Kenzie had made it the entire way out with Jennilyn and I was so happy for her! We met where pavement began again, gathered and touched base, and 4 of us headed back the way we came while Cherri hopped in the van to keep MVH company. I needed 2.5 more miles to get my ten. Jenna had had a big mileage week, but decided to hang with me anyway.  I'm not fast, and I could never dream of keeping up with speedy little bodies, so it was pretty rad to run and walk with Jennilyn and Kenzie for a bit.

Jennilyn, Kenzie and Jenna just cruisin'.

Just a steady downhill slope and views for miles. When I had to walk on the uphill, Jenna stuck with me. Jennilyn and Kenzie forged on ahead while the two of us laid on our backs in a patch of snow and made snow angels, gasping and laughing at the burning chill. The van pulled ahead to wait for us at the 10.5 mile mark and we gratefully climbed in to savor the ache of 3-4 hours on the legs. A little while later, Kenzie decided 18 miles was good for her, and she joined us in the van to meet Jennilyn at the parking lot for 20 miles. Bathrooms were used, wet clothes were stripped and changed out for warm dry hiking apparel, and we set our sights on our next quest: FOOD.
After much debate and a need for at least a stop at the grocery store, we discovered the local grocery had great salad bar, and once we loaded up on deliciousness, we were on our way to Fisher Tower.
Everything tastes better after a long run. My impromptu Greek salad with dolmas, chicken and berries was to die for! I was so engrossed in it that I barely noticed that on the drive to Fisher Towers, the skies had turned cold and grey. When we arrived at the trail head, I pulled on my tights, all my layers, a beanie and my Altra LonePeak 2s. I'd be thankful for the traction. The towers were majestic, but the lack of good lighting made us all a little unenthusiastic. But it was "only 2 miles", so we left our packs in the car, took a group pic, and set off.

Cold and gray. Happy nonetheless.

  I didn't realize it was 2.5 miles one way. We wound in and out of the snowy red rock canyons and along cliff edges, hugging the base of the towering formations. The snow was littered with big cat prints. My idea of a "hike" obviously didn't match up with anyone else because I was constantly running to catch up. I found myself fleetingly grateful that I'd downed a couple of ibuprofen with my salt tabs and salad. My hips and legs were screaming and my ankle was starting to cry for rest and attention. A couple of the others were feeling the distance too, and we contemplated heading back to the car, but we didn't want the others to worry.
We trudged on. Those who still had battery life stopped to take pictures of the brink of sunset that peeked beneath the cloud cover. We crested a lookout area that led to the end of the trail to find our 3 friends screaming, shouting and charging toward us. At first I thought they were encouraging us, and then as we got closer I began to make out their words. "Turn around! LOOK!! TURN AROUND!!!!" I turned.... and gaped. The Fisher Towers and Titan formations were on fire. I've never seen an alpenglow so spectacular!  A yell tore from my throat. We couldn't contain ourselves. Jumping, running, screaming, hugging, yelling. You would think we had won the Superbowl, the World Cup and the lottery all at once.

MAGIC. Photo cred Jenna.

We took pictures. We oohed and aahed. And then we stood in silence.

Moments that make you whole. Taken by MVH with Jenna's camera.

They came to this chapel on a sabbath day, the broken, the pained. To worship. To feel. To commune with something so much larger than themselves. The rocks were their pews and nature herself their pastor. And their souls feasted.

With my hands on my head and tears streaming down my face, I stood in complete wonder. The stifling bag that had wrapped itself around me in a stranglehold, tore open. I could see clearly. Feel clearly. Something clicked. Something I hadn't felt in months and longer. And there was MAGIC. Jennilyn tiptoed to kiss my cheek and wrapped her arms around my waist. Soon we were in a group hug. We stayed to watch the light go, and the shadows spread. Our group spread out as Kenzie threw her arms wide and shouted, "THANK YOU GOD!!" The sentiment was repeated enthusiastically by others. "Thank you, God," I whispered over Jennilyn's head, holding my friend all the tighter for a moment. We stayed until the fire turned to blush and the shadows of the alpengow fell. Then just as we though Mother Nature was finished, she decided to show off some more. The spectacular fiery glow peeked and teased along the horizon and transformed oh, so slowly in a richly colored heavenly caress.
We knew our time was limited. Only one of us had brought along a headlamp from our packs, and the temperature was dropping quickly. We moved as quickly as our tired legs would let us. The trail was getting slicker. I nearly lost my footing time and again as I caught myself turning to take in the ever unfolding sunset. I regretted using up all of my camera batteries. It got better by the minute. MVH hung back to take pictures and Jennilyn lagged back to wait for him. She handed me her headlamp with a quip about ninja training and I kept on ahead, knowing that they'd catch up to me in no time. I was grateful for the light. At times I lamented the inflexibility and the lack of agility in my rebuilt ankle, as I paused to bum-scoot down spots I'd have hopped down easily otherwise. And then I pushed those thoughts away with the gratitude of being able to run at all. To spend a day running in the wild with some seriously respectable athletes was beyond what anyone had expected for me. The echoes of spread out group conversations bounced through the washes and canyons. Every once in a while I had that prickling feeling of being watched. With the cat tracks around, I didn't doubt that it was true, but in a group of adults like ours I was fairly confident we didn't make for good prey. As expected my friends behind caught up to me. My ankle was fully irritated now and I swear I could feel my hardware. I kept my pace up as much as I safely could, which isn't saying much. They didn't pass me as they would have in daylight, but accompanied me to the end with encouragement and good conversation. Nearing the car, we caught sight of the others, and we all mounted the steps to the van just as true darkness closed in.
We piled into the van, a heap of sweaty clothes, dirty shoes, hungry bodies, and happy faces. Jennilyn immediately expressed her deep need for a burrito. Kenzie shared her Coke. (I have to mention that specifically, because it was kind of a big deal.) The frenzy of layer-stripping and clothes-changing began anew. Snacks and leftovers were offered and passed around. We plugged in phones and cameras, looking for treasures to share from our screens. 
Eventually fatigue set in and everyone settled. Jennilyn still needed a burrito. We drove through Price to find a Del Taco, but on a Sunday night, it was dark and abandoned so we settled for a 24 hr Betos. The food was awful. We were on the road again shortly. The drive home seemed to stretch on forever. As much as we had loved each others company and the incredible wonder of the day, we were ready to be home in our beds and with the families we'd left behind. We made our way through the drop-offs along I-15. Cherri took over driving when Matt faded. I envied that Jenna would be in her bed before I even made it home. Jennilyn and Cherri were let out, then Kenzie took over driving for the final push. We made conversation to keep each other awake. And finally we pulled in to that once-again-empty parking lot in the dark. With sleepy hugs we said goodbye. We were home before midnight, but only just. As I stepped into my darkened house where my family slept, it felt like I'd been gone for a week. Or maybe months. All I knew was that I'd never be able to accurately express what had taken place. I was not the same person who had left that morning. I was more whole. And I was so grateful.


HAPPY ADDITION: Our bestest MVH clipped together what little footage he got of our trip just for lil' ol' me. Thank you Matty!!

Post by Matthew Van Horn.

Moving on (A post for a new year.)

Last year I made two New Year's Resolutions.
The first was to practice some physical form of yoga every single day.
The second was to run a 50k and earn my Ultra Runner title.
I was optimistic. I was signed up, committed, and in habit already. I thought completion was inevitable. I didn't complete either.

The first 6 months of the year were pretty darn incredible. So many adventures, good friends, mountain tops, physical feats, and joy. So much joy. So much wonder, play and laughter. Light and happiness were prevalent. I fought my demons every once in a while and mostly in private. A good run or yoga practice would set me straight when the darkness came knocking. A dose of the outdoors was always just what I needed to take me out of the pit of inadequacy and expand the breathing space around me.

 July 18th happened. A freak accident. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't fall or land wrong or take too big a risk. It just happened. I hate that it's my excuse for everything. I try not to rehash it over and over in blog form, but it dumped me out of my car on the roller coaster ride and left me sitting alone on my sore behind and in shock. So my goals turned from "thrive" to "survive".  From conquering a 50k to learning to walk again. From playing with friends and reveling in the magic, to mustering the courage to function on my own while the world went on around me.

Five and a half months later I'm still working to "get over it." I'm realizing that this is something you don't get over. There is no over. No closure. It's something you learn to live with. Something you assimilate and adjust to. And as much as I soldier on and push toward the positive, there are always reminders. Some of them I can ignore. Some I can push through. But there are always some that pin me down and make me cry "uncle" and admit that I'm hurt. Broken. Lost. Life popped my bubble. I feel out of place in my own life and all wrong in my own body. The psychological scars are deeper than I care to admit. I'm so disappointed in myself- that I'm not a more cheerful survivor. Guilty that I'm not what my family and friends want and need me to be. Frustrated that I could so easily allow myself to fall into a victim mentality. My poor little ego is sore that everyone went on having fun without me. The world still turns. I feel so insignificant.

The process is long and unsteady. It's not my first rodeo. I've come back from major injury and trauma before. When I was young, healing was fast, change was prevalent, parents were in charge,  and what was taken away from me wasn't something I had consciously earned in the first place. Ignorance is bliss.
It won't always be this way. I'll feel so much better. And worse. And then better. Eventually I'll find even keel and enjoy life more consistently. If only for a while. I wish for some gentle soul to take my hand and lead me kindly to the things, places and people that I need for healing. At very least I wish for some warm, understanding hugs.
But I'm a big girl. This one's on me. I have to be my own hero. I must trust myself enough to try and keep trying.

For this year- this inconsistent, exhausting NOW that I'm living in,
I can't bring myself to make goals or resolutions beyond survival and keeping hope.
I need to find a way to extend some love in my own direction. Some acceptance. Some confidence. Some sweetness.
I guess I could say I'd like to trust life again. To find my sense of wonder again. I'd like to feel the magic. I miss the magic.

Heaven Sent

Antelope Island.
Depending on the time of year, it can be a buggy, nasty, smelly mess. Or it can be a stark, dynamic, beautifully unique piece of heaven.
I have missed it.
It is so serene and remote, in the middle of the Great Salt Lake, less than half an hour from home.
Had I not shattered my ankle, I'd have run my first 50k out there in October. As I did shatter my ankle, the island and I have unfinished business. I love it out there. So when I signed up for this years Secret Wrangler Exchange, and I listed Salt Lake County and Davis County (including Antelope Island) under the places I was willing to go. I was mentally begging to be sent out there.
Larry must have heard my mental pleading.
The email came with a list of clues. Links to be exact.

Hint #1

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=S92bWBB0ymo

Hint #2

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CSxGHve60E

Hint #3

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAfNbpsP94k

Hint #4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FzWfyTD-8e0

Hint #5

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6HiIOYQpfVA

Hint #6

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTSc2m0e8es

Best hints ever. I was already thoroughly entertained, nervous, and excited. 5 miles out meant 5 miles back as well. I'd not gone more than 7 miles on my hardware, and I was itching to try.
I had worked a busy 8 hours on my feet the day before, and my legs and ankle were sore. But Aaron agreed to go out there with me, so we made it long-needed date, and headed out on the late morning.
The first mile on the ankle is always a little uncomfortable. It just so happened that we were also being scrutinized my large land mammals during that mile, so there was motivation to keep up the pace.

Hello Buffalo!

Once we got in the groove, rock hopping, taking pictures and playing around, it started to feel good. Really good. For the first time in a long time, it started to feel light and loose and playful. No ankle rolling, not a single thing in 9.8 miles that I had to stop and sit out for!



My leg muscles began to burn long before my ankle did. The island swallowed us into its little time warped world and took all the pressure off, soothing my frazzled brain and my battered soul. Dirt, sun and laughter. In the middle of the winter desert, on an island, in December, with snow-blanketed mountains in the near distance we lost ourselves to the landscape and the weather. It was just awesome.

We arrived at the old wild horse corral and with a little effort found my hidden gift, divided it into our packs and headed back the way we came.

When we came within view of the car, we realized there was a herd of bison directly in the trail in front of the gate between us and it. Thankfully, they were feeling lazy and just sort of moved along as we moved in. After a few nervous minutes, we made it to the car.
I can't say my legs were sorry to be done, and my ankle would probably agree with them, but the rest of me could have stayed out there for days!
Beautiful day with my favorite guy!
9.8 miles
1018 ft of vert.

Count them where you can

I can't stay here. Sad and lonely in a world full of joy, beauty, support and love. I've never planned on it. I've been fighting in surges to climb my way out. I promise. I have never intended on quitting. Believe me, every excuse as to why I have been down this many times and this long has scores of possible solutions and adjustments that I'll never stop trying. It doesn't have to be big and dramatic. But sometimes it is. In my life, a little drama comes attached to big passion.

I went out yesterday. Aaron was out running a new peak with friends. I "let" him go again. He always asks me before he plans adventures. As if I would draw the line and say no, and sentence him to live within my physical limitations. I appreciate his sensitivity, but I know what it's like to wither in the absence of things you are passionate about and I'd never ask that of anyone else. Lest I wallow too drearily in jealousy, I made my kids breakfast and then put on my luggiest running shoes and some layers. Then I ventured out in the drenching rain that played on the verge of snow. Simple. Park at Davis Creek, hop on the BST North and run or walk, or whatever my body will let me do 'til I feel like turning around. Old stomping grounds. So familiar I could almost do them blindfolded. My ankle hurt from the first few steps. I kept hearing Brian's voice in my head, "Know when to shut it down. Know when to pull the plug." But I needed this so badly. Nothing was so severe that I'd do damage. Run to Steed Creek. Cross the stream and up the hill. I stepped wrong and my ankle rolled. Walk it off. Nothing serious. It rolled again. It's weak. Just be more careful. My face screwed up in anger and the tears began to fall. I'm so tired of crying. "Please!" I called aloud. "Please! I need this! I need a good one. Please!!" Walk it off. My entire foot ached with every step. It's so familiar now, the pain.  The bully in my head began to pick on me. "Idiot. Drama queen. Wimp. People do this crap all the time, and you're gonna cry about it? What makes you so special that you're aloud to whine about it? Why do you even try? What is the point?" I hiked over the rise to a flat spot and picked up the pace, careful to land just right. "Stop it. Just stop it." I spoke aloud. "You would never be this mean to anyone else. You'd never stand for anyone else to be this mean to someone, let alone yourself. This is not okay, and it has to stop, now. " Bah-pah-pah. Bah-pah-pah. One elephant. Two elephant. I fell into my hard-trained 180 running tempo that Brian was so impressed with when I'd run on the Alter G. The pain faded as I settled into the groove and let my mind drift. "You are amazing, Kristyan Williams. Do you know what you are doing? You are winning. Everyday. Give yourself a little credit. You are amazing." I gave myself the pep talk that everyone else has tried to give me for months. The one I couldn't hear through the muffled cloud of depression and anxiety. Up the hills, down the hills, One elephant, Two elephant. I've never been able to run up the hills consistently, but there I was, running. My hat brim was dripping. I could taste fresh winter on my lips as the rain and snow collaborated in their drenching, driving slush. Sweat on my flushed skin beneath all the layers. The cold stung my face even as my body core radiated heat, and I was alive. My nose caught the startling scent of wild sage on the trail side, and I smiled softly in pleasant surprise. I was vaguely aware of the watch beneath my layers, ticking away the miles, until suddenly I was at Farmington Canyon.  I tagged the gate posts on either side of the road with my flushed fingers and turned South. One elephant, two elephant.  The rain was coming faster and harder, steadily drenching and re-drenching my clothing. I began to be able to pick out individual ice clumps against the mountain backdrop ahead of me as the misty snowline danced on the mountain just above. "Do it. Do it. Do it!" I called to the raindrops, daring and cheering them to turn to snow. I reached Steed Creek again. Cross the stream, up the hill. Half a mile to go. The ache in my ankle was nothing compared to the searing in my glutes, thighs and calves. It burned so good! It was strength, it was growth, it was the feeling of non-surrender. I crested the hill to see my mom-van waiting below, just as the slush finally made the transition to actual snow. As I trotted down the slope, I mentally licked a finger and made a tally mark in the victory column.
I have to count my victories where I can. In the swampy mire of this struggle, I need these little beacons. Gold stars. I'm a good mom, a good wife, a good friend, a fair athlete, a fighter, a lover, a passionate soul. I cannot and will not let this snuff me out.

5.25 miles