Antelope Canyon Race Report

Seeing a slot canyon had been something that I always wanted to do. Social media is full of photos of these remarkable geologic formations. I am lucky enough to live in a state that has them. But like many of my goals, I think about them, but don’t act on them. Then depression sets in because I am bored. Signing up for a trail half marathon would  break me out of my inertia.

New places are great to see, but the planning, expense, and getting there is not. Travel is stressful and sometimes doesn’t seem worth it. Endless hours are required to figure out what to do with the cat, how to get there, where to eat, where to stay and what to bring. Packing takes forever. I lack someone to travel with and I drive alone, eat alone and deal with unplanned obstacles alone. Usually, I am happy afterwards, when the memory of all the hassle fades.

I had never had the urge to run a trail half marathon before, because training would entail running on trails for two hours or more. It’s exhausting with the hills, irregular terrain and the rocks waiting to trip me. My pace is slow as hell, my legs get tired and a tiny rock can catch my toe and violently send me slamming into the ground. The bruises take weeks or even months to heal. Two falls in the past had required stitches in my knees. Yet I still do this foolishness.

The finish time cut off was a concerned. We had five hours to be done. When I signed up a year ahead of time, I was injured and hobbling through my runs. Gradually, it seemed possible after some long runs. My joints still hurt, but the ache was manageable. The prospect of accomplishing a trail run of this distance was an intriguing challenge.

The race information claimed that the terrain was smooth singletrack with rolling hills and about 900 feet of elevation gain. That amount of climbing was more than the usual pavement half marathon, but I had done it before. The other distances of 100 miles, 50 miles and 55k had “sandy doubletrack.” I hoped that the half marathon didn’t have sand, but this hope would be dashed. The area was a sand farm, with wind and water breeding deep pockets of it from the rocks.

The half marathon route didn’t include the scenic features of the other routes like slot canyons, but it did have views of the Colorado River and Lake Powell. Canyons are best viewed at a leisurely pace, anyway.  Any distance other than thirteen miles was impossible to me, because suffering that much was not appealing.

The drive north was about four and a half hours, made more boring because my phone would quit playing music or play the same song over and over in the remote regions of the reservation. Why doesn’t anyone use MP3 players anymore? I longed for one because this stupid phone failed to entertain me. The local Navajo radio stations were not likely to offer alternative rock music.

 I worried about and felt guilty about leaving my needy cat with a new sitter. She would meow piteously and no one would serve her every want. She would have no ice in her water, be alone and hate it. She couldn’t go outside and drink water out of the dirty plastic container that I leave for the birds. She had to cuddle.

My usual fear of my old car breaking down on a road trip wasn’t an issue because I had just invested lots of money replacing the struts, whatever they were.  The weather was good and the traffic light with few annoying drivers. Late in the afternoon, the clouds took on colors of the rocky sandstone.

When I arrived in Page, my hotel looked like it was built recently. It was more upscale than the usual cheap Flagstaff hotels that I stay in. The room had a microwave and refrigerator, as advertised. It even had a real coffee maker. I didn’t need mine, although I still needed real coffee grounds because hotel coffee everywhere is unacceptably watery and weak.

As a bonus, the hotel was a quarter mile from a scenic view, oddly enough called “Scenic View”. The gleaming ribbon of the river could be seen hundreds of feet below and the Lake Powell Dam was to the north. I walked down and took pictures in the waning light. The rocks had a golden glow.

Going out to find a restaurant, I got lost and was headed on the way to Utah. I turned around and went out to a tavern. I had a real nice dark beer that seemed stronger than the five percent alcohol they said it was. This small town maybe wasn’t so bad if it had decent beer.

The next morning was the Lower Antelope slot canyon tour starting from a nondescript building south of town. The entrance was a short walking distance to the canyon, and required a climb down a steep ladder. The flowing rock formations were mesmerizing, catching the light with different flowing shapes. My phone camera wasn’t capturing the light well, but Photoshop would make up for its failings. The guide noted areas that were frequently photographed and would hold our phone cameras in the same spot. He pointed out formations that looked like animals or people. It was fascinating.

Looks like an eagle.

Occasionally, the wind would blow sand down the canyon. Sand rain was unexpected. The guide said that animals sometimes fall into the canyon as well. Hopefully, it wouldn’t rain random creatures as well. Fishing a cow out of this hole must be a feat.

After an hour, we came out. The ordinary surface concealed the fairy land of rock below.  

The next day, I got up early to get to the race.  Finding the entrance in the dark was a concern because it was hard to find in the daytime, but they had police cars and a guy with a light. It was a chilly 43 degrees. At least it wasn’t windy. When the sun rose, the distant plateau turned pink. I jogged to warm up to be able to function and stave off the cold. Once the sun came out, it would be much warmer, so I had to decide what to wear to avoid having to carry for thirteen miles. Since it was going to be a sunny day, I erred on the side of having less on.

The first 2.2 miles were a shock, edging on despair. The soul sucking loose sand was like running on a beach, but without the joy. The route culminated in a steep uphill to the first aid station. Once on the plateau, the path was firmer, which was good because thirteen miles of sand was intolerable. The high desert  plain stretched a long ways below. I took off my over shirt, then my bike arm sleeves. Just the beginning, and already I thought this is really hard. The rolling terrain took a hard effort to run on.

The path narrowed and runners clogged the way. I had to slow down even more, if that was even possible. Most of the miles were about 14-15 minutes. Not exactly blazing, but  my expectations were low. The breeze was cold and I put back on my over shirt. It stayed on the rest of the race.

At mile 5.5 the path narrowed more. It was little defense against a sheer, bare, enormous drop off. The slope had little to stop a person who stumbled or slipped. A women in front of me freaked out. A nice guy guided her forward. I nervously stepped carefully as it looked like 500-1000 feet to the bottom.

The path finally didn’t look like imminent death and I had to stop and quickly take pictures. Time was relentlessly passing. The blue ribbon of the river was below.

The numerous selfie-takers were irritating, though they stayed out of my way. They would pass me, then slow down to take pictures. Stopping and starting for thirteen miles was idiotic. It was a struggle just to go at a slow, steady pace.

My energy flagged until the 7.2 mile aid station. I refilled my water bottle and ate one of my last remaining Powerbar gels. They aren’t made anymore, and Gu gels just doesn’t seem as energizing. Running out of water worried me, since a twelve ounce bottle only lasted me about an hour, but the day was cool enough not require constantly sucking down water.

Down a hill, and then a four lane street had to be crossed with no light or crosswalk. We were on our own. The cars stopped, but I wondered if they ever didn’t.

At some point, I realized that my shoes were full of sand. Taking them off and dumping the sand out was too much effort. My toenails would pay for it later turning colorful shades of purple and red..

I got a second wind. This part of the course was suburban boring, passing by a golf course. This  was exciting new territory after nine miles–the longest ever trail run, training or racing. So far, I was surviving and didn’t feel terrible.

I chatted with a guy who followed me. This was his first race at this distance, trail or pavement. This was ill-advised , but I can’t judge, having done stupid things as well. Most of the population thought any running was crazy, but a small portion of us thought doing physically hard stuff was “fun.” Trail running, though, was a whole new level of insanity.

The terrain reminded me of Clay Pits in McDowell Mountain Park. The ground was sun-baked, hard-packed bare dirt and fairly smooth, which was fine. The evil sand awaited again.

We had to cross the same street again. It was un-nerving.

The last aid station was at mile 12.6. The guy following me passed, but it didn’t matter since this race was mere survival and not a competition. With more water, I faced my doom.

 

Running down the hill was fun, like a giant sand dune from my Midwestern childhood.  Tripping wouldn’t matter because the sand was so soft. The fun soon turned into misery, with rolling hills of hell. Running turned into mostly walking because I had nothing left. 

The final section to the finish line had a metal ramp, which required a climb up a rocky hill to get to. Are you kidding me? Around the big rock was the finish line. What a relief. I had made it. Total time was 3:41, though that includes stopping at aid stations and taking pictures. I probably actually ran about 3:25.  The Wildflower half iron run was about a thousand feet, but none of my other half marathons have  come close to that amount of climbing.

Though a trail half marathon is relatively short for ultras, it was a whole different animal than shorter trail runs. It was mostly endurance and not speed. The distance was not easy, but the difficulty still surprised me. The 4,000 feet elevation and the very dry climate might have had  an effect. The weather was cool enough not to over heat, but strangely chilled me for the rest of the day. This is unusual for a pure running race, especially in Phoenix.

The better runners probably blasted through the sand, but to me it very difficult. It was 3.3 total grinding miles, with the start being 2.2 and the end being 1.2.  It was incomprehensible to face that after doing a longer distance. I would cry. 

In the end, despite the stress and hassle, it was unique to run in this strange, austere landscape of rocks, sand, plateaus and river. Discomfort can bring happiness. I saw a slot canyon, Horseshoe Bend and ran a trail marathon. My legs hurt but my usual fog of depression lifted. 

 I might even do another half trail marathon, though not if it has a lot of rocks. Or sand. Or hills.