Blog – The Crooked Arrow Blog

Racing Dusk – December 16, 2023

(Moose Mountain from Merlin View Trail)

Summer did not go as planned. We had it all figured out. Meet the Minotaur at the end of June, Rockwall end of July, Brazeau Loop (50 miles) towards the end of August. But I went into the Minotaur not healthy, didn’t rest properly afterwards, hurt an achilles tendon doing some ill-advised speedwork (sorry again Del, I would have loved pacing you during the Divide 200), and nothing ever came of another ultra this year. After a few months of tendon rehab, and a busy season with Finn chasing birds all over, things finally started to feel a little better.

Enter the Iron Legs Mountain Races Chasing Dusk “20-miler”, to be held in West-Bragg Creek, in December. Somehow this race appealed, and I figured I’d try some of its loops, to see how the legs felt. After all, I’d not ran more than 10K or so in a long time. The trial runs went OK, I survived the twenty kilometers of two of the loops combined, so a quick click had me signed up. Whatever made me think I should try to run the entire 34K at the pace of the single 14K loop that I tried is beyond me. But that thought just buried itself deep in my brain, and I couldn’t shake it. A sub-five-hour goal would leave me a little wiggle room. I’d just start fast and see where things would blow up. “There is but one pace, and that is suicide pace, and today feels like a good day to die!” Words to live by. If you are trained up and healthy.

(Apparent chaos at the start – runners could depart in both directions)

Conditions were pretty comfortable, with ice-packed trails, a light frost and some sunshine at the start, and after 5-4-3-2-1 we were off. I’d chosen to do the longest loop first, and stuck myself behind a few racers that had a pace that felt good. When we got overtaken by a couple, I hitched myself onto their wagon, more or less, since they dropped me right around the turn-around point. I made good time around the first 14K, just 7 minutes behind the pace of the trial run, which had taken place on mostly dry trails. The climb up Ranger Summit (in the second loop) felt a little harder than I expected, but the descent was great, going at reckless speed. Suicide pace. Back at the start/finish/aid station area in 3h15min, well inside the schedule for a five-hour finish. Only 10K to go!

Though quite tired, I was still harboring some delusional feelings of pushing the pace and seeing how close I could get to 4h30m. However, roughly two kilometers into the last loop the wheels came off. My knee started hurting in that fashion that tells you “OK, we can keep going, but if you push it, you’ll regret it”. The run slowed down to a jog initially, but a few minutes later it deteriorated into a walk/shuffle/hobble forward motion. Any time I tried a genuine jog the pain crept up to that breaking point quickly. The fact that this trail was more snow-covered and softer than the other two didn’t help.

For the rest of the race, I hobbled and shuffled and occasionally jogged for thirty seconds, doing math in my head. A ten minute per kilometer pace should get me to the finish in under five hours, with five minutes to spare. I recalled similar discomfort during the Minotaur, and how the poles had done wonders buffering some of the impact on the joints on the final descent. I had briefly thought about carrying poles, but in a bout of misguided confidence decided that I wouldn’t need them. I regretted that now.

Somehow, I managed to stay under that 10min pace for the last five kilometers and finished under my goal time. It is likely that no coach would ever recommend tackling a race in this fashion. Generally, the idea is to start conservatively, and finish strong. But sometimes you just have to try something different. Given my deplorable training record, blowing up after a fast start was very likely, and it happened. But not until I had kept up the pace long enough to reach the goal. Unconventional perhaps, but loads of fun!

(Looking sharp for the finish photo / empty tank)

Final Rise Summit XT After One Season

A while ago, before the start of the season, Final Rise had a sale. I’d been looking at these vests for a while now, and with an hour to go before the discounts would disappear, after a couple of beers, I impulse-ordered the Summit XT vest. A short will later I received an invitation to review the vest. I emailed Matt (Davis, the owner of Final Rise and brain behind the designs) I’d write him a review after a season of solid use. With the shotgun delivered at a gunsmith’s place for some fixing, all bird seasons here currently closed, I feel more qualified to voice some insights and opinions.

The design concept of all the Final Rise vests is based on the hip belt, which is designed to carry the load, with the aim to create better all-day comfort, even when the vest is a little fuller. The Summit XT is the latest design variant of the Final Rise bird vest series. I’m not going to list all the things that are different from the Summit Vest, Matt does a good job explaining all that on his website, and Youtube channel.

I was looking for a vest with predominantly four qualities: have the ability to carry enough gear to safely do a full day in the high country, be comfortable under load, keep the birds “airy” and not bleeding all over jackets and food, and have flat shoulder straps.

The intent was to hunt for rock ptarmigan in September, perhaps even cowboy camp for a night, and use the vest to carry everything. An achilles injury kept me from doing so, but the Summit XT vest was used during a four-day trip chasing sharptails, huns and sage grouse in Idaho’s backcountry (undulating uneven ground, with occasionally shoulder-high sage brush) three days of hunting pheasants in mixed agricultural areas near Malta, Montana (stubble and cattails mostly), and various weekends and single days hunting huns, sharptails and pheasants in southern Alberta (coulee country, mixed vegetation including more-than-man-high buck brush and gnarlies with inch-long thorns); even a day of jump-shooting ducks. With ten days to go in the season, a weather window appeared and I managed to climb the 3,000’ to a ridge where I know ptarmigan live, so I got to try out the vest with a slightly bigger load of water (that mostly just froze), jackets, microspikes, hiking poles, and food.

Review – Likes

First off, the vest delivers on the promise of comfort. Once you have set it up, put it on and tightened the hip belt, you immediately feel that this vest deals with load better than regular vests. I have a Browning vest with “built-in” shoulder straps and a hip belt, but for me those do nothing to take the weight off the shoulders. Once the Final Rise vest is on, you forget about wearing it, and that is a good sign. I’ve not had it under max load (which according to a Youtube video is more than you would ever want to carry and then some), but I’ve carried four liter of water, all the stuff needed for a day hunt where you won’t see the truck till the end, including rain gear, and some birds, and never felt burdened. That said, it is not a rigid backpack, and the more you load up the back compartment, the more the weight will start tugging on the shoulder straps.

Secondly, the flat shoulder straps are perfect. I’ve seen many packs that I would have liked to try, but all them have moderately or thickly padded straps, or worse, plastic buckles where you need to shoulder the shotgun, which of course is a deal breaker (for me anyway).

Lastly, the vest has the ability to carry a lot of water and have it accessible. Two one-liter bottles on the hip, and the ability to add a two-liter bladder (which I have done), makes for a decent supply. If you need, the two zippered pockets inside the bid compartment are sized to accept another bottle each, all accessible without taking the vest off.

Review – Dislikes

“Dislike” may be a strong word for some of the observations, but there is one area that I can’t embrace, and that is the flaps that cover the side pockets. These are supposed to be held in place with magnets in the flaps and pocket, but try as I may, they don’t stay put for me. The flaps always just kind of hang there, unless I tuck them into the pockets, where they will be held by velcro. The Summit vest has zippered pockets, which I might have preferred.

I chatted with Matt about the flaps, the magnet configuration and the depth of the pockets, and he mentioned a few things. The pockets are as deep as they are to minimize losing things out of them (shells, e.g.) when the flaps are not covering the opening. I have to admit I have not yet lost anything. The strength of the magnets was chosen to eliminate interference with electronics equipment. That makes sense, but for me they are an annoyance, and I am contemplating putting a piece of velcro on to keep the flaps in place.

Though the vest has a variety of smaller compartments, some zippered, to hold “stuff”, I felt the need to add a small bag to the back, to hold my first aid, the dog’s first aid, some food, extra gloves perhaps. Final Rise sells a pocket for that purpose, or you can add whatever you have that has the ability to attach to the molle webbing. You can add pockets to the side as well, if you need more organization. I’ve tried the vest on a late season day in the mountains, carrying an extra down jacket, in addition to wind/waterproof jacket and pants. All the strap options provided will accommodate those. In a pinch you could fill a waterproof bag with some gear and snap it in place inside the bird compartment. It is big enough to hold that and a handful of high-mountain birds. The triangular zippered pocket in the back panel holds some food, but I eat a lot, and it is hard to fit all the goodies in.

Conclusion

I think that the first observation is the most important one: once I have the vest on, I largely forget it is there, and that’s an important endorsement. It’s perhaps an overkill to use for quick jaunts out of the truck, or for a dog training session where all your gear may be right on the tailgate (although you may find yourself using it for those situations just the same). But if you are going for a while, and are not sure how long you will be gone, with perhaps unknown natural water supplies, weather that might change, you need some back-up gear on your person, and the ability to carry birds without them either bleeding over your stuff, or steaming inside a leak-proof bag, the Final Rise vest is a contender.

Additionally, it has the capacity to hold your dog, if for some reason that hopefully will never happen you have to carry it out of the field to get it to a vet as quickly as you can. The straps/buckles are set up in such a way to facilitate getting your dog in place inside the vest. Having recently tried to carry my old 70lbs dog home, after he had a seizure and temporarily lost the ability to use his hind legs properly, I can speak from first hand experience that holding a limp dog in your arms like that is a quick way to a lot of humility about how strong you are.

I hope this review helped if you are on the fence about buying a Final Rise vest. Matt Davis has proven really responsive when I had questions, so give him a shout if you are like me and need to know about all the details before deciding.

Montana roosters

Judging from the departing flocks of pheasants, Finn is somewhere up ahead. Old trees line a meandering ditch, with enough undergrowth to harbour a few dozen birds, apparently. I’m not sure where Bill is, I doubt he’s seeing this bird bonanza. Poor Jack, Bill’s GSP, is trying to work the birds, but Finn has lost his marbles. He busts roosters and hens faster than I can count, and despite a very deliberate forward pace all I can do is watch them sail across the open to a variety of cattail-filled water courses that cut up the stubble fields. Welcome to Montana.

Shortly after returning from Idaho, I received an email from Bill in Missoula, asking if I’d be interested to meet him in Malta, to hunt pheasants for a few days. With some friends he leases the hunting rights on a large Hutterite operation, and only a few of them actually are serious about birds. I consulted the dog, he said “yes”, I consulted my wife, she just smiled and said “go for it”, consulted the boss, he said “sure”, so after a weekend of missing many partridges, destroying what was left of my shooting confidence, we loaded up and drove the four hundred or so miles to a small U-shaped motel in the center of Malta. “Welcome Hunters”. Thank you, happy to be back.

After witnessing Finn’s performance Bill smartens up quickly and suggests we split up for the next act. I’m treated to a repeat performance, with many birds flushing in all directions, without a chance of a shot. Finn is having a fantastic time!

We grab a bite to eat, and hit up some smaller cover on the outskirts of the compound, where it doesn’t take long for Finn to put up a nice rooster, that I manage to bring down with a trepidatious swing of the gun. A few hens followed by a single rooster bust from the cattail-filled ditch a little further down, and only the females escape with their lives. The rooster falls just across the ditch, an easy retrieve for Finn, if not for the icy slush that lies between us and the bird. Finn’s a strong swimmer, and he loves the water, so when he refuses to cross a few times, I take his cues. We’re in for a bit of walk.

Bill and Jack head further up the ditch, while Finn and I double back once we have been able to cross. I don’t doubt his nose, and when we get to where I marked the fallen bird, he pops in and out of the reeds and brings it to hand. Two birds for the day, same for Bill, we head back for a bit of a rest, and an early dinner.

Fewer birds the next day, but what a great place to just walk around, poke through some cover, enjoy the fresh, but not overly cold weather, watch the dogs run, share some stories. We search through an area with high cover, near a hay stock yard, and one rooster manages to fly faster than my pellets. Or I missed.

Last night’s rain has made the trails a little slick, and we decide not to range too far onto the farm, and just hunt where we are. As I push through some cattails, I find two stationary dogs, one up against the reeds, the other quite intently looking in his direction. Is Finn honouring Jack’s point? Twenty seconds later Jack finally stops pissing, and walks off. I release Finn, who takes two steps and locks up again.

All it takes is a few tentative steps in his direction for the rooster to explode from minimal cover, headed for the reeds, his raucous cackle adding to the excitement. Somehow I force the gun close enough to the line of flight, and the winged rooster dives for the cattails. Both Finn and Jack take up the task, but the rooster jumps high and evades capture. The melee disappears, and seconds later Finn emerges on the other side. Shame on me, I doubt him, and think about calling him back to have him search where I “know” the bird to be. He proves me wrong, a short pas-de-deux ensues, dog and bird briefly airborne, but two legs and one wing prove no match for four legs and a mouth.

We change restaurants, this one becomes the scene of a fairly dedicated crowd of pool players. The dining room, like that of nearby establishments is filled with what likely are visiting hunters. The motel parking lot is slowly collecting trucks, loaded with empty coolers hoping to be filled. One party is packing up, disappointed by the lack of big bucks, trying their chances elsewhere. “South Eastern Montana”. Hopefully they get lucky there.

We need to hit the road early afternoon on Friday, to make sure they don’t close the border crossing before we are back on Canadian soil, so we stage a few shorter walks. A rooster makes me look like a fool, as I try to drop a snack, close the gun, throw it up, and find the bird. I find both triggers, the second one fires as a result of my finger slipping off the first one. The bird was not really concerned about any of that.

A little later Bill and I both double at a rising rooster. After some discussion we agree that I shot its tail off. With the wind blowing across the cattails, Finn and I follow the ditch. The bird sailed a long way, but we didn’t see it veer off course. More praise on Finn’s head will make it grow out of proportion, but an undetermined time and distance later he takes a hard left into cover, and the splashing brings a surge of hope. Here he comes, casually sauntering over with the live bird in his mouth. A gentle “hold” has him bring it right to hand. I love that dog. When I don’t hate him for running around busting dozens of birds, out of range, that is.

We find a dozen or so more birds, that earlier we pushed into this area from the same tree line as two days before. No luck getting close to them. A little weary we start back to the truck, and attention wavers. Not for Finn, who flushes a pair of sharptails from a shortgrass meadow. The two birds split up, drawing diverging semi-circles through the sky, one high above me, but in range. Temporarily unburdened by doubt, I swing with confidence and drop the bird at my feet.

We’re done, time to check the dogs, feed Finn a tailgate dinner, change boots, and fill up the tank. One more ninety-nine cents gas station coffee, a milkshake in Havre, and a jolt up to the border across an empty road. I wonder how the Canadian border guards feel, sitting in the same ramshackle building that they sat in twenty years ago when I first passed through here, while the US has treated their staff to a slightly-megalomaniac border facility, that looks totally out of place here in the middle of nowhere.

Perhaps that is why the guard shows no real interest in probing too deeply, and quickly tells me I have to back out of the chute that led to his window, because the overhead door that blocks my view of Canadian soil doesn’t work. We dash across dark highways, and make good time. Bill graciously offered me his birds, so tomorrow by this time my wife will be asking me when I plan to get rid of all the feathers in the garage.

It’s been a good trip. Maybe we can do it again some day.

Dogs, birds and sage bush

Last summer, I promised Finn we’d take at least one out-of-province hunting trip annually. For our first trip, we hunted sage grouse in Montana. This year we got invited to come to Idaho, and we didn’t hesitate long.

Day 1

The hotel in Great Falls looks a little tired, despite the ongoing renovations. Water drips from the parkade ceiling, cheap office furniture that was out of style thirty years ago piled up alongside the unmarked elevator door. The border crossing was uneventful, one twenty gauge side by side shotgun and two boxes of sixes, carried by a tired-looking old guy with a dog no cause for alarm.

We skip dinner, skip the beer, and turn in after a walk through a mostly deserted down town. I need to stop booking these cheap motels.

Day 2

We’re on the road early. In Butte we turn East, instead of following the direct route, taking the scenic backroads. Lewis and Clark, ghost towns, fly fishing shops, new housing developments. The tiny town of Ennis now has three large realtor offices. Descending from the Caribou-Targhee National Forest, we spill out onto the potato fields of Eastern Idaho. Traffic picks up closer to Idaho Falls, we miss an exit and add twenty miles to our trip. Another cheap motel, squeezed in between the highway and a series of silos. Their fans create a background hum all night, accentuated by the horns of the occasional train. Not wanting to drive anymore, I eat a dehydrated meal, washed down with a beer. Finn can’t be bothered with dinner, again.

Day 3

We meet Jacob and June early, and quickly fall in behind their truck, headed for our first hunt. June is a pup from the same kennel as Finn, one litter earlier. Slowly the terrain changes from tarmac and traffic lights to gravel and sage brush. A few more turns and we are on a two track dead-ending on the flats above a cut-up landscape. We are in a Wildlife Management Area; land set aside from agriculture, sparsely planted with crops that benefit animals.

Finn and June get acquainted quickly, and just like that we are off. Several coveys of huns bail off the cliffs like chukars, sailing to the valley below. Finn points, and Jacob gets the first sharpie of the day. Mid morning the sun gains strength, even this late into October. The dogs slow down, but not before Finn scatters a big covey. We follow up. The dogs demand all the water, and we run out. One more detour leads to a long point by Finn. His body language shows the heat, there is no intensity, he just stopped walking. A pair of sharpies flushes a long way out, and I manage to bring one down. We’re done. Two sharpies and a hun each, and lots of more birds seen, it’s been a good morning.

Later in the day we hunt cover for ruffed grouse. Finn finds a few, and I shoot one at the end of the walk, to reward him. We have a great meal of fresh birds, beans and corn. The couple of cold beers taste great too.

Day 4

Finn is limping, so he gets to sit this one out. June nicely works ahead of us, finds birds that Jacob hits, and I miss. Part of a covey flushes towards a saddle, and we follow-up. I get another chance that I squander, and a tight-holding bird in the saddle proves smarter than us, letting me pass within feet and flushing once I’ve passed. At the end of our loop, Jacob connects with the last bird to rise from a covey of huns. Another beautiful morning, in broken, mixed-vegetation terrain, with sage, grasses, occasional sunflower patches, and a few fields of something green. I try not to dwell on the misses.

We relocate to another cabin, an hour and a half North. Beautifully tucked into some trees, near a few large ponds, butting up against some hills at the end of the sage brush desert. The area is winter range for deer, elk and moose, but provides year-round habitat for sage, sharptailed grouse and huns. Where we had rocky ridges and deep valleys before, we’re now overlooking a seemingly endless relatively flat expanse of sage brush of varying density.

Towards dark we head out to walk the pond edges, to see if we can scare some ducks. Finn’s limping is mostly gone, with another good night’s sleep he will be running fit again in the morning. Small groups of ducks start flying, without giving us a real chance. The windless evening, setting sun combined with the yellowing reeds and mirror-like pond surface make for some great photo opportunities.

We sneak up to a small dam, and jump some ducks. Finn and June each retrieve one, but we may be missing a third. We see something move about three-quarters across the pond, a long swim. June goes first, calmly paddling across, making short detours left and right. She turns around not far from what we feel may be a wounded duck. Perhaps it isn’t a duck. Then Finn is up to bat, and takes the same leisurely approach, meandering across the pond, until he turns to go investigate what we hope is a bird. Whatever it is, he bumps it with his nose, and decides it’s not worth bringing. Fantastic swims by both dogs.

Day 5

Birds are scarce this morning. We stopped to take some pictures of a beautiful sunrise behind the Teton mountains. It’s June’s turn to rest up, and we hear her disapproving howls for a long time. A single sharpie flushed out of range early in our walk. Finn works hard, but it is just not a bird-filled morning. Another single sharpie flushes too close to Jacob, and finds his way into the vest.

It’s one of those afternoons where the wind is chilled enough to make a sweater not a luxury, but the sun warm enough to make the dappled shade under a big aspen tree the perfect place to be. For a few uninterrupted hours I read, watch the robins congregate and get ready for their migration, and stare across the sage flats. I can’t remember when I last had such a calm afternoon, with nothing that needs doing, nothing to worry about, and nowhere to go. Just be. Drink a lemonade. Scratch Finn behind the ear.

Jacob’s wife shows up with their ten-month old son, and cooks us dinner. Taco soup, corn bread, a cold beer. I could get used to this life.

Day 6

On the drive to our last morning of hunting, we bust a covey of a three dozen sharpies that we watch sail across the sage, hoping they’ll settle. They don’t. We suppress the tendency to follow these birds on a two mile grunt through waste-high sage, and park further down the dirt road.

Both dogs are running today. As we are getting ready, I sense more than I hear something, across the road. Four big birds sort of levitate out of the green-grey bush, and slowly, silently take off across the flats. Sage grouse! We follow up, but we don’t find them. We cross the dirt road again, and hunt slightly more open country. June and Finn work well, the sun muted by a thin veil of cloud.

Jacob shows me a plant with tiny red seeds that we found in yesterday’s bird’s crop. My internal alarm goes off, I should check on Finn. I find him stationary, tail slowly wagging. Before I can act he takes a few sideways steps, stops again, and four more sage grouse flush. We messed up that opportunity. Sorry Finn.

Not much later we are angling back towards to truck, the wind not great. Finn pops up out of the sage to my left, and freezes. He nicely holds while Jacob moves closer. June runs in front of me, and I softly call her name. She freezes and turns her nose into the wind. Both dogs are steady until Jacob gets in range. Another four sage grouse rise, I guess sage grouse live in groups of four around here. Jacob shoots the biggest one, which turns out to be a sizeable mature male, retrieved by June. What a beautiful bird. And how modest they are. Hungarian partridge flush in utter chaos, each one picking a different direction. Sharpies laugh at you while they jump. A rooster makes enough ruckus to unsettle the calmest dog or gun. But sage grouse just materialize, and almost gentlemanly try to make a silent exit.

Later that morning Jacob manages to pick off the last of a group of three sage grouse, a younger male. We don’t find any more sharpies. The sun starts to burn, the cloud cover gone, and we call it a day. It’s time to pack up, and start the drive back to Canada.

Day 7

We hit the border before nine in the morning. One car ahead of me, definitely a record. The friendly Canadian border agent asks me the standard questions, throwing in a few about the hunt and the role of the dog. We get sent on our way quickly. A five-minute border crossing, this will never happen again. I think I have officially entered the category of travelers that is deemed harmless: older, traveling with a cute dog, friendly, and genuinely surprised when he gets asked about cannabis.

Snow starts falling as we continue North.

Day 8

The return to reality is harsh. The highway is covered with snow and ice and filled with commuters. Sitting in a conference hall with 700 people feels surreal. Flashbacks recur of a sunrise on the sage flats, dusty, rocky trails, running dogs, rising birds, and lazy afternoons.

I may have dozed off a time or two. The conference coffee lacks a punch. Jacob’s morning brew was better.

Summer thoughts

It’s kind of chilly tonight. It’s been an odd day. Smoke obscured the mountain views at dawn, clouds rolled in later on, and a sudden thunderstorm provided “much needed” moisture, again.

Yesterday evening we bumped a single partridge, on top of the hill, an unusual location; and unusual to find a single this time of the year. It’s been hot and dry in June, but now that we need nice weather to create the bugs that the partridge chicks eat, we get cool and daily wet. At least we haven’t had the murderous hail yet. Still I worry about “my” birds.

Something came in the night and killed the chukars. Steadiness training with Finn was put on hold, while I fortified the bird pen. We have a pair of pigeons to work with now. A friend in need is a friend indeed, thank you, Peter. Back on track now, there is still time.

Focus on work is hard to come by these days. The mind wanders to September. It may be hot. Finn doesn’t do well in the heat. But we might hike up late afternoon, find creeks, camp, and wake up before the sun, to hunt some ptarmigan. Or at least hike some ridges, and carry a gun. We found a couple single ptarmigan up high, in barren country, just a week ago. Both were still changing from white into their summer feathers.

I inquired with an outfitter in Alaska. Six days at the lodge, three days of flying into different ptarmigan areas – they have three species up there – and three days of fishing, or looking for forest grouse. Sounded like an awesome trip. Unfortunately, I’m genetically predisposed to frugality, and my upbringing doesn’t help. As a kid, I’d get a buck for a great report card, immediately followed by a finger wag and a stern “don’t you go spend it!”

October may be a good month. Sharpies. Wandering across the plains, in and out of coulees. Maybe a trip South – past the border kind of South. I promised Finn, and myself, one out of province trip per year, going forward. Montana and sage grouse last year. Idaho, maybe. See some new country.

November will be for a few pheasant hunts, and kicking around the foothills to look for ruffies. If the snow is not too deep, maybe another look at those ptarmigan. Day hunts in the mountains are getting more difficult these days. Close to home anyway. Lots of people out there; sunrise hikes are a thing. We’ll need some time to shoot a deer, to make sure the freezer bottom doesn’t show.

December will see the odd snow-loaded hike, with hopefully the odd ruffed grouse flush. It is also too far away to really think about now.

It’s still chilly, I may go inside. Wonder how the partridge chicks are doing.

Meet the Minotaur 2023

Four years in the making. Two COVID cancellations and one stupid back injury, sustained while changing winter tires, kept me from toeing the line in Blairmore, Alberta to tackle what since has become an official Skyrace, part of an international circuit of races where the young and extremely fit battle it out on predominantly vertical and technical terrain. But now I’m here, the night before the race, doing a shake-out walk around Sparwood. Not a run, a walk. Another nagging injury kept me from running for the last ten days. The mood is gloomy, the legs feel heavy, and motivation is at an all time low.

The advantage of my despondent attitude is that I’m not nervous. I fill my running vest with food and gear without much emotion, and I even sleep moderately well. We leave the hotel a few minutes late, and pull into Tim Hortons for a bathroom break with 7 minutes to go till the start of the mandatory pre-race meeting. Turns out we’re not the only ones slightly behind schedule, as we see racers walk and jog towards the starting area while the safety talk is already sounding from the speakers.

I meet a few people I know from the weekly training runs put on by Joanna. As much as there is wrong with social media, it still is a great, low-threshold way to meet people; good for a socially awkward introvert like me. Then it’s “ten – nine – eight” and we’re off. The ab injury nags, I sulk, and the fast crowd zips by towards the first pinch point in the race, going under the highway bridge. There will be many more pinch points on the narrow single track up Bluff Mountain. I look back and figure perhaps fifty racers are behind me. Probably two hundred ahead of me therefore.

The climb is steep and direct, slowly the conga line starts to break, and I allow myself to commiserate a little longer as I contemplate the pace. As the terrain gets rockier, some racers start to take their time negotiating perceived difficulties, creating a harmonica wave of people: bunch up behind the slowest, stretch out when the terrain is easier. Despite my best efforts to take things in stride, it gets to me. With a few mumbled “sorry, do you mind if I pass” comments, I manage to create some breathing space, and I connect with a loose group of racers whose pace is just challenging enough to leave no room for griping. It’s go time.

A quick high-five marks the rounded summit of Bluff Mountain and before there is time to celebrate we’re on the steep soft downhill through the trees, trying to moderate the pace. An hour and half to the top, ahead of any conceived schedule. Briefly Prefontaine’s quote floats up from the pool of possible emotions: “There is only one pace, that’s suicide pace, and today feels like a good day to die.” Cockiness that will come to harm me.

I meet my daughter and overly excited dog near the first aid station. It’s a claustrophobic affair, with trees and ground vegetation, and too many people. A few pieces of bananas, cup of electrolyte and a water refill, and I leave it all behind, my dog barking in frustration that he is disallowed to join me. If next year there is a rule that dogs cannot be present in the aid station area, it’s probably our fault.

Not long into the second climb, the leg cramps start. Perhaps I am paying for the fast descent, even though it hadn’t felt too hard. Brief visions of DNF flash before me. Salt, water, food, shaking out the legs, trying to move differently, it helps a bit. I pass a few people. The false summits are disheartening, and the cramps return. More salt, keep drinking, and finally we crest and turn towards the infamous Shoe Shredder descent. It turns out to be not more difficult than what we have done in preparation.

Not much longer I stumble into the second aid station. My daughter is there again with Finn, who has become even more agitated. Luckily nobody appears to be too annoyed with him, or they are just being polite. I down a few cups of electrolyte, eat some salty chips, break out the poles, and head out for the dreaded third climb.

Cramps continue to reoccur early in the ascent, and I try to focus on keeping my heels down, engaging the glutes. The cramps disappear, but the damage is done. Muscles stay sore. The trail up the avalanche chute is steep, endless, and I love it. Head down, find a rhythm, grind, just don’t stop. Soon the terrain changes, gets technical, a few no-trip ridges. The diversity of the terrain helps take my mind of the quads, it’s gorgeous up here. The third peak comes into view, way the hell out there. Left at the purple rock, down, around up, down, balance, jog a little, climb some more, enjoy the views. Even a sprinkle of rain.

The long way down hurts. The trail becomes lonely, nobody is catching up, and I’m not catching anyone. Legs are empty. Focus wanders, and I trip. On a soft trail, very lucky. Checking the watch, I realize that a sub-nine hour finish is in reach, much better than the pre-race doom had allowed for. The descent seems never-ending, I’m glad for the poles that take some pressure of the legs. A few people pass me, I’m having trouble keeping a good pace on anything steep downhill.

Aid station number three is an airy affair, lots of space, even for a dog that by now has had so much stimulation that he needs nothing to set him off. Poor guy, it’s been a long day for him too. More electrolytes, more chips, and a fill of water for a flask in which I put a Nuun tablet. According to the watch there is four and a half kilometers to go, and fifty seven minutes to do them to get sub nine. Easy.

With thirty three and a half kilometers on the watch I come across a small trailside sign reading “2km to finish”. This race was supposed to be over. I don’t want to walk it in, it’s still a race, so the tired jog continues. The trail runs alongside the highway for a bit, and then through the outskirts of Blairmore. A family is sitting outside their back gate, cheering me on. I pass three more racers on the last stretch. Finish in 8h54 and change, in the anonymity of the back of the middle of the pack. A metaphor for life perhaps.

It is done. The beast has been slain. We get some smoothies at the Cafe Stones Throw right at closing time. Eat some tacos at the food truck. We need to get home, take care of the ailing old dog. A quick stop outside of town for a parking lot shower – my daughter pouring water over my head from a jug, a break at Chain Lakes for ice cream, mango-chocolate; at home nachos and a beer drank from the glass with the Minotaur logo.

Till we meet again, Minotaur… perhaps.

Why? Ultra-running drivers explained in three quotes

Preamble

If you have to ask the question, you probably won’t understand the answer. The “why” question. Why run that far? If you ask me the question, I may not have an answer; but if I do answer, chances are my words will not resonate.

It’s a bit of a cop-out really, that first sentence. It effortlessly excuses the originator from exploring his or her inner turmoil that leads to spending hours and sometimes days on rocky, windswept, winding trails. Worse yet, it suggests the existence of some elite, secretive society, whose motivations are so nebulous that they are beyond the grasp of the average guy on the street. So don’t bother asking. We’re special.

I’ve stood on high passes, legs aching from a long and steep ascent, but only a fraction of the day behind me, overlooking a narrow ribbon of trail cutting its way through rocks and shrub and trees, following creeks and valleys, and up the next mountain; wondering how on earth I will make it to the other side, or around the loop. A little overwhelmed perhaps, with ominous dark clouds climbing up the far side of a barren ridge, as yet still dispersing when whipped by a violent wind at the crest, but for how long? Still a marathon to go. Three passes, three climbs and four descents. No short cuts, no quick exit to the highway, no lodges, no support. I could still turn around. I search the crevasses of my brain for excuses, but find none. And I go, one step downhill, and another, and before I know it the trail sucks me in, and I run. If I’m fast enough, I might beat the building storm to the next pass.

Why run that far? Why do I run that far, when I vow to never do it again, during the last miles, when every step hurts, and I have to alternate between a painful fast hobble, and a slower and only slightly more bearable walk to get some relief from the agony, but a few days later find myself planning the next trip? Why even start the life that leads to these runs that bring glory nor fame? You don’t just lace up and run fifty kilometers, or 50 miles, or more. It takes a bit of doing, will suck up weekend days, and week-day evenings, draw ire from your spouse who thinks you’ve gone mad, makes you miss TV series that everybody raves about. Alright, the latter is perhaps not necessarily a bad thing.

Start with the ugly

So why? Here are some of my reasons, starting with the ugliest. Running long distances gives me a feeling of superiority. Not a very likable reason, but I can’t help it. Every time I encounter someone struggling under the weight of a backpack, destined to take five days for a trip I intend to complete before sundown, I feel like I am better. It’s not a fair comparison, the other person is not even trying to do what I do, and I am not even very good at what I’m trying to accomplish, mediocre might not even describe my skills, yet infallibly this feeling pops up. As quickly as it emerges, I dismiss this childish emotion of a bottom-tier trailrunner, and I hope that over time I become a better person.

Similar, but not the same, since it doesn’t include any comparative notions, is the sensation of ability I get when starting a long run. Ability to tackle big distance, big mountains, big days, with minimal gear, just enough to not starve or freeze, a small kit to deal with eventualities, and the mindset that I can deal with whatever the trail will throw at me. This sense may disappear temporarily as the day progresses, and initial confidence erodes as legs becomes tired and then tiredness is chased off by pain. But it resurfaces as soon as the end becomes palpable, and I can think: “I did that!” I may not be able to walk straight for a few days, but I did it! Pride. Another questionable driver.

Clearly, these first two reasons could apply to any athletic endeavour, or even aspects of life that have nothing to do with sports. Feelings of superiority and pride can become part of an individual that earns a lot of money, or achieves some scientific or engineering feat, or keeps an organized sock drawer. So not very helpful in understanding why an increasing number of runners choose to go far. They are not even reasons or drivers, but more like consequences. So what got me started on the road to running ultras, when sock organizing would have been so much more accessible and instantly gratifying? I think it was curiosity.

“Beyond lies a new valley, a valley you have never seen” R.M. Patterson – The Buffalo Head

So this doesn’t evolve into an epistle of insufferable length, I will jump right into the moment of awakening. I had fallen in with the biathlon crowd in Canmore, the hub of the Canadian Biathlon Teams. Our team of aging athlete-pretenders shared the ski trails and shooting range with the up and comers, the next members of the Canadian national team. One summer day, a Facebook post showed two of them on top of Ha Ling, the fourth mountain of a thing called the Canmore Quad, an astonishing, an at the time rather unimaginable effort to climb the four mountains that frame the town, running from base to base, within a 24-hour period. Fifty-five kilometers and way too much climbing, on this day casually done by two aspiring national athletes, with whom I’ve skied, talked, joked; normal people. It blew me away. It also opened my eyes and triggered a desire. What if one day I could do this? What would it take? A door had been opened and showed a world I knew nothing about. I wanted to learn.

“…because while you think you could maybe face dying, you can’t deal with the idea of one day becoming too old and weak to ramble among these summits any longer.”
D.H. Chadwick – The Wolverine Way

You cannot get away with spending the time required to train up to running past marathon distances, without having a love for the terrain in which you choose to do it. You won’t find me running some big city marathon, simply because I hate running on the tarmac, amongst traffic, with views blocked by buildings. But I sure love being out in the mountains, and did well before I started running. I moved across an ocean and the length of a continent to live near to them. So there’s a driver: I love mountains.

Out in the mountains, attention and purpose become singular. No distractions from screens or phones or people; freedom to do what I want, and go where I want, and freedom from responsibilities. It is refreshing, I come back a better person. That may not last, but at least for a little while I am gentler, more patient, and happier. In a way mountain running replaces therapy.

“Do not go gentle into that good night. […] Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” – Poem by Dylan Thomas

Finally, as I creep towards the ripe age of sixty, and the body is starting to show signs of wear, I feel an urge to disprove the inevitable; that I’m getting old. I still have decades left, I’m fitter than many twenty years my junior, I will die on a high ridge, and not in an old-folks home. Delusional? Probably. Health is fleeting.

Epilogue

“There you have it, sports fans” (a bonus quote). Curiosity, love of mountains, therapy, delusionality. The drivers that keep me going. I am still intrigued by the notion that people can run these distances. I’ve only scratched the surface, having completed three runs of over fifty kilometers. People run a hundred miles in less than a day; two hundred and forty miles in less than a handful.

The big six-oh is coming up. I cannot see myself running a hundred miles. Fifty maybe. The Brazeau Loop in Jasper National Park is a convenient 50.7 miles, covers some of the best mountain scenery available in these parts, cuts through what is presumed to be one of the last strongholds of caribou in Alberta’s National Parks, sees a very limited number of visitors due to a restrictive camping policy, and has no easy outs. Once you are in, you are in. Go back or continue are the only two options. I may just have to try it.

I can’t wait to see the faces of the hikers, when they hear the answer to the inevitable question:

“You are running? How far are you going today?”

“All the way around the loop!”

Without feeling superior of course.

Book Review: Mouthful of Feathers

Upland bird hunting books are not rare. Ranging from how-to volumes to the more esoteric; from accounts of hunting everything a continent has to offer, to state, region or bird-specific exploits; from well-written, thought-provoking essays, to rather unassuming barstool tales. They are all fun to explore, if you are interested in upland bird hunting, but not all of them leave a mark. Some are destined to be consumed and forgotten, providing temporary distraction from the drudgeries of life. Others make you feel something, make you think, create impressions that linger. If you are open to it, “Mouthful of Feathers – Upland in the West” belongs to the the latter category.

If you are hoping to find a raucous read of the “I came, I saw, I killed a limit” kind, this is not your book. In fact, not too many birds get shot in the stories that comprise this volume. If you are after details about guns and gauges, you will also be disappointed, as I think there is only one story that specifically mentions a gauge, when talking about a lost childhood gun.

Eleven stories take you from a stormy rainy day in Alaska, to the desert border country of Arizona; from searching for the tiniest of quail to remembering days gone by hunting the biggest sage grouse. Tales of solitude and simple days on the plains (read the book to find out why I cannot say prairies anymore), with a bag limited in numbers, but limitless in memories. There is even mention of New England, but since this is a book about the West, the author is leaving it behind. In between the chapters, the editor placed annotated quotes, little gems that stand on their own, and reset the mind for the next story.

It’s hard to pick a favourite story, as they are quite diverse in nature. I recognized myself in a few of them, knowing I’d have chosen the same pursuit that day. Even though there was no attempt at making it sound glorious, or even slightly appealing, after reading one tale, all I wanted to do was load up the dog, get lost on a dirt track somewhere and waste time drinking beer, roasting wieners, think deep thoughts about my life and the past and future of our planet. Bird hunting optional. And I don’t even like wieners.

+++

This book was published as en e-book in 2013, and plans to go to print never materialized. I bought it through the Barnes& Noble website, in “Nook” format. For less than the price of a Double Tall Soy Latte with a Pump of Hazelnut you’ll buy yourself a few hours of dream time.

For easy reading on your tablet, you need the Barnes & Noble Nook app. Canadians beware: this app is not available for you. B&N will happily sell you the file access in Canada, but you’ll be stuck reading the online version, which I found awkward to navigate. Also, I don’t like to sit at my desk to read a book. After purchasing and realizing my predicament, I somehow managed to download the file, have my son convert it to Kindle format, and finagle it onto my brand new Kindle reader.

There was only one other drawback to this book: it was too short. The book itself provides the perfect quote: “Lunch was concluded with a foamy mouthful of Pilsner. It was just enough; not so much that I didn’t want another swallow. It’s nice to finish a beer wanting a bit more.” After reading this you’ll likely want just a bit more. Luckily, a print book has been announced with all new material for the summer of 2023. Available for pre-order now. I ordered mine. In the mean time, blog posts on the Mouthful of Feathers website by some of the same and other authors will have to fill the gap.

Crop Science – Addendum

A few snow storms had raged across the foothills, and what was left for berries and greens had quickly been covered. The usual covers of mixed young pine and sapling aspens, which had the undergrowth to provide both food and shelter, no longer provided either. The birds had moved.

Despite the warm-up provided by the Chinook winds further East, closer to the mountains it was still bitterly cold. Unsure where to find birds, I drove a little further West than last time, and started following a rutted trail heading North. Tall spruce trees on either side framed a pretty claustrophobic picture, with only the occasional break in the monotony where small water courses had cut into the hills side, or blow-downs had opened up the canopy. We flushed one early, but I never saw it. Finn found another, a nice male, but it had survived smarter predators. A quick run, and a flush across the trail with the sun at his back, and in my eyes, and he was safe.

We were looking for more mature aspen groves. Allegedly, ruffies switch their diet to aspen buds in winter, which are well above the frozen, snow-covered forest floor. Much of the foothills at our latitude are covered in spruce forests, not the best habitat for good bird numbers. After a while, we circled downhill and worked back South along the base of young cover, with big spruces on our right, and an open valley with lots of low willows beyond those.

We got lucky. A bird flushed from underneath the low hanging branches of a big spruce, and made a dash for a backlit opening up ahead. Feathers slowly drifted down to earth after the shot. The young-of-the-year bird lay in the snow, for Finn to retrieve. As he brought the bird, another one flushed off to our right. I couldn’t help but smile. We had one bird, it was enough.

I opened the crop to see what it had been eating. Aspen twigs and buds, a pretty rough diet, confirming what I had read. I wished the remaining birds in this area a good winter. Time for us to move on, and find some new trails. Still a little time left in the season.

Pheasants anew

Finn had shown much promise as a pheasant dog, last year, all of seven months old. Found birds, pointed birds, pointed birds where other groups with dogs had just before gone through, pointed a “covey” of four roosters, that rose one by one, the young pup staunchly remaining on point, while Kyle and I managed to kill none of them. Expectations for this season were not high, but well above moderate.

The “back 40” partridge coveys had provided good practice material, in early spring, before nesting, and in the weeks leading up to the start of the season, with the chicks flying as wild as their parents. It was not without a bit of pride that I dropped the odd hint about his steadiness. Shooting chukars during training days and a NAVHDA test had honed my skills a bit too, I thought. We were ready to have a great pheasant season!

We had drawn three slots at the Taber Pheasant Festival to kick things off. The first afternoon Finn and I and nobody else, because everybody canceled, overlooked an expanse of cattails, with a few drainage ditches leading in and out of it. I was just going to take it slow, let Finn do his thing, get some good points, work on steadiness, and perhaps shoot a bird. That cockiness was rudely and rightly crushed when the first bird went up. A straightaway, the gimme of upland shots, bird well within range, but wait, Finn hadn’t pointed it. Never mind, I was already swinging and missing. I tried to convince myself I didn’t want to kill that bird anyway, because I was training the pup to be steady, but lying to yourself is rather hard.

It went downhill from there. My notes say I shot seven times, and the limit for pheasants is two. Finn managed two sort-of points, which gave some hope, and I managed a couple of hits, but we flushed more birds without points or shots. Finn worked hard, but got a little flustered by the raucous birds, and so did I.

The next day, Finn’s brother King came out to play, and we managed to put up a fair number of birds. Miraculously I hit two with two shots, but again points were hard to come by. The birds tended to run out in front of the dogs, and neither of them hesitated to snort them up via their tracks. The third day Finn made a beautiful point on a covey of huns, and I promptly missed.

A week later we were out again, found pheasants and sharpies, got a nice point on a hen pheasant, and I double missed a rooster. Twice. Managed to shoot a consolation sharptailed grouse, so the dog kept some faith in my skills.

There was one redemption weekend left in the schedule. Finn could use some solid points, and I could use some solid hits. We started off fantastic, as Finn worked a patch of buck brush along a coulee, and drew to a point. Unfortunately the bird flushed wild before Kyle could get in range. Not much later he pointed again, at the base of some brush in the same coulee, and held till I got close. When the bird flushed, Kyle got a little trigger happy and the close hit pre-tenderized the meat sufficiently. Finn didn’t skip a beat retrieving.

The pup was having a great day. As we were walking back along the opposite side of the coulee, he went back to where we had already passed. “He’ll probably find one all the way down in there”, Kyle said, and as if on cue, Finn pointed. I started down towards him, but was still a little far off when the rooster flushed. It took a second or two before my brain kicked in, but I managed an impressive shot – at least I like to think of it as such – on the quartering bird, leading him by a double body length. Nice retrieve to hand followed.

The following day we hunted another long, wide coulee with lots of cover on one side and along the creek in the bottom, and the odd grove of trees on the opposite side. Finn pointed a bird right off the bat, but broke and grabbed the hen. Luckily he is fairly gentle and we managed to send the bird off flying minus some feathers. Not much further Finn worked a particular spot for a minute or two, breaking off but returning a few times, until finally a rooster emerged and rose above the low brush, quartering away until my shot connected. Two for two for the weekend, and half-decent points, we could have quit and gone home happy right there.

Finn dug up a few more birds from the snow, but all flushed out of my range, or obscured by cover. On the way back, looping through a connecting coulee, he disappeared into some high bush and I lost sight of him. “He may be onto something there”, Kyle yelled from across the coulee, and directed me. I found him on point in thick cover, but my approach was too much of an incentive and he dug in. After a few tries he pushed out a hen pheasant. While not textbook, the length of holding point until I got there was impressive. Best we’d seen all season.

We ended the day, and pheasant season, by a quick snapshot at a hun, that he neatly retrieved. Three for three for the shooter, and some nice points and solid retrieves by the dog. We both need some polishing around the edges, but I think the team has potential.