How I Fell in Love With Running in the Woods

It was spring along the Deschutes River. I stopped after 17 miles; that was my goal for the day. Seventeen miles. Good lord. It was the longest I’ve ever run at once. I was running on the Deschutes River Trail that day, which is flat and exposed, but beautiful in a kind of rugged eastern Oregon way. I had encountered some pretty serious wind the last couple of miles as I was reaching the halfway/turn-around point. Like, wind to blow away my vest that I had taken off and set on the ground, and potentially knock me off my feet. I screamed like a 6 year old. And recalled that I had been thinking of buying some kind of tiny GPS/satellite phone thingy. Good idea.

The sensation in my legs was one I have never experienced before….they felt kind of like rocks, or petrified wood? I was exhausted. And sore. And smiling. And feeling really freaking proud of myself.

I was never really athletic in high school and college, with the exception of one period of circumstances-induced gym frenzy at the end of my junior year of high school. (I was Grounded For Life at the time and only allowed to leave by myself to go to the gym. So I did. Often, and with gusto). That exception aside, my teenage years mainly consisted of me eating lots of fast food, being very angry, sad, and generally quite unpleasant most of the time, smoking cigarettes, being a misfit theater weirdo (drama class was super helpful here….thanks Mr. and Mrs. Siler!!!), and, you, know, just generally wallowing in my own pit of despair. It was a good look.

I started running on a regular basis when I was 23 years old and living in Bolivia as a Peace Corps volunteer. As in many cultures, people show their love by feeding you; also, the Bolivian diet is not one that is generally considered to be conducive to maintaining one’s current pant size. One day, I realized that I actually could not button many of my pants. I was displeased with the idea of shopping for all new clothes in a foreign country, and I had noticed that many of my Peace Corps peers went jogging on a regular basis, so I thought maybe I could try that. Turns out, it did double duty as an anti-depressant, and a tool for working through the weirdness and loneliness that can come from being incredibly far away from home, in more ways than one.

I tried training for a marathon a couple of times in my 20s and 30s, but knee pain and other issues got in the way. By my early 40s, I was experiencing this ongoing, nagging knee achiness most of the time, and although I continued to go for a short runs on a regular basis, I had accepted that long distance running was probably out of the cards. Fortunately, I managed to get that under control (ask me how if you’re curious!), and I started thinking…maybe I could do a marathon after all? Alternately….if I can run 26.2 miles, why not just make it a 50K, which is only a few miles more? And then I get to call myself an ultra runner? Which sounds really cool, and carries way more street cred? This choice seemed obvious.

I should mention that it was the middle of winter at the time (typically not my best time of year, mentally and emotionally speaking), I had just gone through a fairly uncomfortable and unfortunate ending to a relationship that I was in, and there’s really nothing like physically destroying yourself a little (in, like, a crazy health nut kind of way) to make yourself feel better after a breakup. Right?

I started doing longer runs. Once a week, I would do a progressively longer distance, and after 13.1 miles, every week I was running the longest distance I’d ever run in my life. Then, I started really hitting the trails in earnest, in order to prepare for the 31 mile trail race I was training for.

Once a week, I would do a long run in the woods, spending 3-5 hours on the trail each time. Full disclosure…trail running does involve walking; it is considered totally acceptable to walk up steep hills. I spent a lot of time during this training period on the Pacific Crest Trail near my house on rocky, technical trails with lots of elevation change.

I am almost always by myself on long runs. I bring a Garmin sat phone, bear spray, a knife, a headlamp. Water, electrolytes, snacks. I am sore and tired after finishing. And I smell terrible. But, the feeling of spending hours on the trail, pushing yourself and getting stronger, is irreplaceable. I had a moment when I was running last fall on top of a hill that was completely socked in with fog. It was a craggy, exposed spot, and sharp, large boulders jutted out next to the trail. I felt a bit like I was in a dreamscape, or had been transported to an alternate universe. And then I came down out of the fog. Moving myself through a space and moment in time like that on my own tired legs is something worth treasuring.

I completed the Wild Woman 50k trail race in Trout Lake, Washington last June. I did another 50k a few months later. And I’m training for another in July of this year.

I’ve had some issues with hip pain along the way, and am unsure how far I will continue to go, and how long I will be able to continue this hobby for. I had a patient in her 80s the other day who told me that she continues to run 4 miles a few times a week. Obviously, I found this incredibly encouraging.

I am not fast. I am not winning anything. I would not describe myself as being naturally athletic, nor competitive. But I’ve found a sort of peace and meditation in running for hours in the woods by myself. Balm for the soul, if you will. And the purest way of running from your problems.