After I ran the Escarpment Trail Run in the Catskills and the Western States 100M in California, I thought I knew trail running. Wrong! A couple of weeks ago, somebody asked me how the footing in the Escarpment run is and I responded – non-existent. Well, forget that answer. If you are ready to really challenge your boundaries - go to Montana and try to tackle the Bridger Ridge 20 Miler, while disregarding the word “run” altogether. This run has been organized by the Big Sky Wind Drinkers Running Club in Bozeman, Montana, which runs along the ridge of the Bridger Mountains. And it’s no trail running either. There is no trail. Not because you have to look for it – it is pretty impossible to get lost out there, since there is only one way to go, on the edge of the ridge, from one end to another. With talus sliding under your feet, and sharp rocks (medium, big and huge size) pointing up, there is practically no place to place your foot safely. What a fun way to spend a day!

Lets backtrack a couple of months and come to the middle of June, the time when I was awaiting for the WS100: injured, under pressure to perform well (mostly from myself but also from some other people), exhilarated, and anxious. The new issue of Trail Runner comes in. I open it – and smack in the middle, is a picture of high mountains, along with the remark “the longest 20 miles, ever”. The article, written by Garth Sundem, warns loud and clear, it is not for fainthearted. This approximately 20 mile race goes on top of a knife-edge ridge, climbs steeply, drops abruptly, has 6800 feet of ascent and 9500 feet of descent and a high point at 9665 (more than half of the run is above 8500 feet).

Everybody knows by now, I am a nut case. So to keep my mind off the upcoming task to run WS100 I sign up for Bridger and start planning. After the Western States, I did some pace work at the Vermont 100, then finally running the Escarpment. Also, a couple of long runs with Ellen McCurtin made me foolishly believe that I was prepared to run it and may (just may be) place in top 10. Hey, I love trail running and consider myself much better at it than road running! So August rolls around, and Friday, the 13th, I am on the plane to Bozeman. Every first timer is obligated to attend a meeting where race director David Summerfield shows a movie, pictures, tells most likable mistakes and gives us topo maps and a final warning to back away. No way! I flew all the way here with God knows how expensive a ticket, and was not leaving unless I was carried out on a stretcher! Boy, that was a darn close statement to make…

Next morning, we get our numbers at Fairy Lake, and eagerly wait for the “go”. Nikki Kimball shows up (this year’s winner of WS100, ex-resident of New York, who just moved to the Bozeman area) and I make a prediction of a course record. We steadily climb up Sacajawea Mountain, the highest peak, for 2.3 miles, and almost a 2000 foot gain. The air is not there. It’s that simple – no air. No breathing. This first part is almost easy, as we ran up gentle switchbacks, but without air, not much speed was possible. 55 minutes – the top and aid station. One inhale – and the real fun begins. You make a turn and see what is ahead for the downhill. It was pure vertical. Down we went on the sliding talus and sharp volcano rocks. I take a careful side-step walk, only to discover a girl on the side crying over broken ankle. The word passed back, I slow down even more, and in another 5 minutes meet another straggler with sprained ankle. OK, let’s reevaluate the run and make it a hike.

My main goal was to come out uninjured and alive. Especially since I am scared of heights, and have a gut feeling that if I start sliding, I’ll just go all the way down. I readily let locals pass with only one problem – to have them go by, I need to step aside and there is not that much “aside” on the ridge. It wasn’t all like that – in the 20 miles we had three relatively flat (what we on the east coast call “rolling terrain”) sections: miles 4-6, 7-8 and 16-18. Those were the places you could try and stretch your legs. After running along the tree line, we made our next sharp climb back to the ridge, 1000 feet in about 0.5 mile. It was so steep, I couldn’t lift my leg high enough for a step and kept going an inch at a time. Once on top, I snuck a peek of the view in front (under no circumstances lift your eyes off the ground!), and then continued the roller coaster for the next 8 miles, up and down, rocks and edges, finding it hard to find places for my feet, grabbing rocks to jump or pull, and still breathless. Those views that I did manage to see were absolutely gorgeous, and nothing I’ve ever seen before – and I had seen lots of views. Finally, at 15M, at the Baldy Mountain I felt a sharp guilty feeling for not running and such freshness in my legs (which haven’t been abused at all due to slow motion) I decided to start putting some effort. Next couple of miles I ran pretty hard (as much as my lungs allowed) and began passing people (who were honestly working from the beginning of the run). Last 2M section – the famous “suicidal drop”, 2000 feet, sliding small rocks and dirt under your feet. I jammed my toes into Montreal, thanked my quads for staying alive and turned on the gas. It was a feeling of flying, really. Luckily, at this point - if I did fall - I would probably only take off lots of skin but survive, so I just kept pushing. I passed over a dozen people, and came to finish in 5:44 (can you believe it? For 20 stinky miles?)! And this is why I love trail running and ultra running – time doesn’t matter. I was overjoyed with the feeling of an amazing accomplishment at the finish line. I kept smiling. Granted, Nikki came in at 3:53 (and 14 minutes under old course record, as I promised), but my only regret was of being so freaked out in the beginning. Next time…