Resurrection Pass DNF

This year, I returned to the place where I finished my very first 100-mile race. Resurrection Pass. But this time, I didn’t finish.

And that’s okay.

I started the race with the same familiar nerves, the same excitement to be back on the trail that’s now a part of me. The rain fell steadily as I made my way through the early miles, soaking the ground and my feet. It was just me out there for long stretches…there was no one, no noise, just the sound of my breath, the rhythm of my steps, and the hush of the wilderness.

I refilled my water at the creeks, grateful for the cold, clear streams that always feel like little lifelines. Around mile 22, things started to change. I became really nauseous and couldn’t keep food down. I didn’t eat for the next 20 miles.

That’s not ideal in a place like this.

Still, I kept going to get to the first checkpoint. You can’t just dropout out there. I passed a couple of runners at the pass, but they caught up to me after dark. After a while I told them to go ahead. I was moving too slow, and I knew it.

I took a couple wrong turns. One detour at Bean Creek Trail was short. I realized quickly and turned back. Another time, I ended up taking a longer loop that thankfully rejoined the main trail.

At one point, I caught the scent of a bear and immediately remembered the exact spot where I encountered one in 2020. That flashback hit hard. The land remembers. So do I.

Then came something I didn’t expect—construction. It looked like someone was building into the wild, carving into the land and soil. It made me sad. This trail has always felt like sacred ground.

Eventually, I made the hard but smart decision to drop. My body wasn’t fueling, and pushing through 50+ more miles on an empty tank didn’t feel smart. I chose to listen to my body.

Even though I didn’t finish, I covered 43 miles with over 4,000 feet of elevation gain. That’s no small thing. It was still a good day in the mountains. I was still out there, moving through land I love, retracing steps that changed me.

Sometimes we don’t need a finish line to call something meaningful.

Sometimes, just being there, feet on the trail and heart wide open, is enough.