trail running Archives - Running Wild

Aug 24 2018

Lost in the Ocala National Forest

The Appalachian Trail is otherworldly, a window to the soul of nature as it was meant to be, but I live in Florida. That makes any AT adventure, even a short weekend trip as I’ve done before, a long, complicated affair. So with spring break approaching and very little free-time during that week to set aside for a run, I set my sights on a more local destination- The Florida Trail. With 1,300 miles of trail to choose from, and habitat varying greatly from one end of the state in the Everglades to the panhandle, I chose a section that was both challenging and beautiful, wild and accessible; the section that precipitated the formation of the trail back in 1966, and traverses the Ocala National Forest.

From the northern edge near Lake Kerr the trail is unbroken and remote, with the exception of a few brief road crossings, to the southern edge 60 miles south at Clearwater Lake. I planned to spend one night on the trail and pack light, covering 30 miles each day. As the trip approached, however, some challenges naturally arose. First, I had to take my two kids to school in Tampa the morning of my trip. Second, the weather forecast called for freezing temperatures that night so I had to pack a tent and sleeping bag and warmer clothes, all heavy items I was hoping to leave behind. Finally, I had figure out a way to get to the trailhead at the northern section and get home from the southern one. Simple solutions, I know, but still it made for some last-minute drama during the planning stage. I ended up taking a bigger pack, weighing 20 lbs with all my supplies, using Uber to get to the 88 store near Lake Kerr, and starting my run at the peak of the day instead of first thing in the morning, but it all worked out in the end.

I stepped out of my Uber ride, tipped the driver generously considering he drove me to a remote dive bar despite not speaking a word of English, and walked into the store that I thought was a popular hiker supply stop. I felt a bit out of place as two people at the bar barely looked up from their drinks, and the bartender glanced my way as if to say, “are you lost or do you want a drink?” The truth is I felt lost before even stepping foot on the trail. I found a path leading back away from the store and soon enough saw an orange blaze that would send me on my way. I never actually strayed from the trail or even had to consult my GPS for directions but that feeling of being lost stayed with me for several hours. I think in retrospect I needed to find myself deep in the woods before this adventure truly seemed real.

I began with a light jog, feeling the weight of my pack and the soft sugary sand under my feet. My pace quickened as I lost sight of the road and began to embrace the challenge of what lay ahead. My goal was to cover 30 miles while the sun was still up and find a good spot to set up camp, and despite the late start I was moving fast and covering a lot of trail. The northern part of The Ocala National Forest oscillates between longleaf pine and sand pine scrub, and both were equally inviting. The former consisted of towering Pines spaciously arranged with open grassland between allowing for clear views in every direction for as far as you can see. The latter was a different world of stunted and compact trees and shrubs, dotted with small ponds and exposed to the sun’s glare. I ran for several hours enjoying the islands of tall pines surrounded by seas of scrub, and barely felt the weight of my gear or the miles ahead.

A little over ten miles in, the trail emerged from the forest and entered a sprawling prairie ecosystem that seemed too grand and pristine to be hidden so well in the middle of a tourist state. The lakes were very large, but probably rather shallow and the trail lazily meandered around each one for another 10 miles. It was beautiful and peaceful, but there was no hiding from the sun and the miles began adding weight to my pack. I decided at hidden pond, a natural spring with deep, cool water to drink, that I didn’t need to be carrying 2L of water and instead began stopping to drink using a life straw and carrying just a small emergency ration. I decided to camp just shy of the Juniper Prairie Wilderness, at about 30 miles for the day and right on schedule, except the light was already getting dim and it was dipping below 40 degrees, which by Florida standards is almost unbearable. I built a nice little fire, put up my one-person tent, and sat down for a well-earned meal.

Unfortunately, in my zeal for minimalism and efficiency, I had packed meager rations. So far I had eaten two energy bars, and one Epic brand dehydrated meat bar. For dinner, I had packed two more meat bars and a Cliff bar, and for breakfast a small bag of oatmeal with almonds. After that feast, I would have just two more energy bars to last me the rest of my trip. I still don’t remember how that made sense to me in the planning stages, but I wasn’t about to go foraging. My tent was covered in ice by morning and the best decision I made that day was to spend 20 minutes getting a little fire going again before breaking camp. As I slowly hit the trail again, back sore from sleeping on the ground after 30 miles, and 30 more miles ahead with no way out but to keep going forward, I felt truly alive.

The hardest part of this day came relatively quickly as I left the embrace of the prairie and entered Big Scrub, the heart of Ocala national forest and the largest area of scrub in the world. The trail was white sand, the vegetation desert-like and offering no shade, and the rugged but featureless landscape acted like a maze of thorny walls that stretched and twisted for nearly 15 miles. My strategy of saving pack weight by not carrying water seemed quite foolish at this point, but I knew a large spring was somewhere just around the next clump of wild rosemary, so I pressed on. As it turns out, Alexander Springs was about a mile up a side trail that climbed away from my ultimate destination, but at this point thirst prevailed. The two-mile detour left me cleaner, more hydrated, and motivated. Actually, the thought of a fresh brewed cup of coffee was my biggest motivator. Either way, I ran through truly stunning hydric hammocks, and more upland longleaf pine forest until I completed the 62-mile run to Clearwater Lake.

My body was worn but defiant; my spirit was lifted. I had lost myself in some true Florida wilderness and found a resilient and appreciative runner emerge from the scrub. The landscape will likely never make the final cut for a postcard or billboard, but this area of central Florida, dwarfed for attention by Disney and the coastal beaches, offers a glimpse of the beautiful complexity of creation. Every step is an ecosystem in transition, and every step helped change me as a runner.

Mar 13 2018

How to Lose an Ultramarathon

Let me start by clearly stating, or perhaps confessing, that I do not have the experience in distance running, or the ability, to write about how to win an ultramarathon. Consequently, this is not an attempt to outline the missteps or errors in race strategy that can cost a legitimate contender a chance to cross the finish line ahead of the pack. As valuable as that information might to be to a very few select people that can run 7 minute miles for 30 or 50 straight miles, it doesn’t necessarily help someone who, let’s say, signed up for an ultra despite not having run anything longer than the Disney 15k over 10 years ago, whoever that may be. What I desire to share with you, however, is the preparation, execution, and overall mindset that helped me successfully, and thoroughly, lose two ultras this year, with more to come I’m sure.

It is difficult to explain exactly why I decided to attempt my first 50K trail run, but it undoubtedly started with the book, “Born to Run” and naturally descended from there into a labyrinth of ultra-running personalities, such as Scott Jurek, Dean Karnazes, Charlie Engle, and Rich Roll to name a few. Even this incredibly nice and hardworking guy that was part of the crew building my house turned out to be a world-class ultramarathon stud (I’m not making this up; his name is Mike Morton and he has records and wins at nearly all the top races in the US and around the world.) The underlying goal of mine, however, was simply to find remote trails that lead to unspoiled wilderness and be able to run them for as long as I am able: to push the perceived limits of my body while exploring nature in the manner that it was created. The races gave me something more tangible to work towards, and a schedule more rigid and demanding. I had three months to prepare for the first, then two months to recover and get ready for the second. The results, well, they speak for themselves.

I began training in October for a January 1^st 50K trail run in Brooksville, Fl. I was able to carve out one day a week for a long trail run, usually between 8 and 12 miles, and another day to run at the track for about 30 minutes. I made progress but the miles were not enough to suddenly triple the distance my body could cover on race day. As I entered December, one month before my first ultra, desperation overtook common sense. I chose one day a week to run the 10 miles to work at five in the morning and 10 miles back home at three in the afternoon. After three weeks, I felt ready to tackle this beast of a race (and yes, I know it’s the shortest ultramarathon and it is relatively flat and simple.) My race strategy was to run the first 10-mile loop very conservatively, then try to pick it up to my normal running pace for the second loop, before finally gutting out the third loop at whatever I can muster. My goal was to finish without walking.

Everything went swimmingly until at mile one, I noticed I was actually in the lead group with the obvious contenders and quickly opening a large gap between us and the rest of the runners. I also reasoned, very logically, that since the first few miles were on pavement and sloped gently downward, it made sense to allow myself to open up and run fast. I had plenty of time to slow down later. Of course, once we hit the single-track trails, my competitive nature and pride pushed me further and faster than my pre-race strategy had planned. In fact, I was still in the top group, and passing a few people, as I blew through the aid station at the end of the first loop twelve miles into the race. I held my ground, just barely, as I fought through the second loop but at mile 22 my legs, my pace, and my position in the race took an unstoppable nosedive into the abyss of ultra-running. I quickly slowed from 8 minutes per mile to nearly double that, while shuffling through the sand and over roots for the last 10 miles.

Soon after that began the humbling and quite interesting parade of runners to pass me by, all politely telling me how great I was doing. First came the group of leapfrog runners that would fly by at double my pace, then slow to a walk after a few minutes or on the uphill sections, then take off again. It was equal parts frustrating and impressive to watch them disappear into the woods ahead of me using their run/walk strategy. Next to wish me luck on the way by was the slow and steady pacers that both started and finished the race with the same steady gait and relaxed demeanor. I envied their smiles while grimacing through cramping legs and heavy feet. In the end, however, I finished the race without walking, achieving my goal. I gained a feeling of perseverance, a humility beyond anything experienced in triathlons or shorter races, and a unique and valuable perspective on how to lose a 50k ultra.

As I prepared for the second race, another 50k through similar terrain in Ocala, Florida, I considered the three methods utilized by myself and the other non-elite racers. The leapfrog strategy seemed to offer the best chance for me to achieve my fastest time, but slow and steady pacing would probably be the most manageable. To my surprise, truly, I found myself two miles into the race and already passing a dozen people that would, in all likelihood, finish ahead of me again. I kept a nearly 8 minute per mile pace for 24 miles before crashing down to reality, but I was quite content with my sluggish finish. That is simply my way of losing an ultra. We can call it an unrealistic, or even foolish, way to approach a race and I would agree with you. But running hard, pushing the limits, and accepting the results, as humbling as they were, is worth more to me right now than a PR.

My mantra throughout both races proved prophetic and ultimately very useful. I repeated, over and over again, Philipians 4:13 saying, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” What struck me about this verse as I ran is that it is often used by many people, me included, to inspire confidence in achieving greatness. The preceding verses, however, make it abundantly clear that Paul was extolling God’s faithfulness in granting perseverance and endurance through life’s ups and downs. In life and in ultras, I can endure every challenge that comes my way by staying connected to my purpose in Christ Jesus. I can finish the race and be grateful for the beauty of the woods, the difficulty of the run, the accomplishment of reaching the limit of what my body can do. And in that, be content.

Oct 22 2017

Art Loeb Trail in Pisgah National Forest

Total distance: 17 miles Total time: ~3.5 hours Pace: ~12 min/mile

Wilderness ranking: 4.5/5 Ruggedness ranking: 5/5 Enjoyability ranking: 5/5

Wildlife: several deer, birds, signs of bear, one large black dog

Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit.

Edward Abbey

My Greatest Challenge Yet

Every facet of this endeavor was a challenge unto itself. From the logistics to the execution, the planning to the actual doing, nothing was easy. Perhaps that is partly why it meant so much to complete this trail run. But only partly. The run itself was rugged, wild, and beautiful; unlike anything I had ever done to date, and exactly what I have been searching for. It began last august after serendipitously coming across an article in Runner’s World called “The 20 Best Trail Runs in the U.S.” (http://spr.ly/60118vR9d). One of the trails described seemed to leap off the page as it was described as one of the hardest trails in the southeast US. I was in the process of planning a trip to Charleston, South Carolina so my wife could spend a weekend mentoring with a premier newborn photographer. As good as she is already her desire to improve her craft is limitless, and I wanted to run trails while she worked. The Art Loeb Trailhead in Brevard, North Carolina is a mere 4 hours away, but my window of opportunity was only Saturday morning through Sunday evening. I began plotting my potential demise…scratch that, adventure. I left at 5 a.m., arrived at the Hub and Pisgah Tavern for a trail map and my last coffee for about 36 hours, then parked at the Davidson Campground and loaded up my pack and running gear. My exact plan was still uncertain, but I knew that to get back to my wife on time I would have to return to my car by late afternoon the next day. Despite my desire to travel light, my North Face 65L pack was bulging and heavy. Fortunately, the adrenaline and excitedness I felt outweighed the strain on my shoulders, at least for a while, and I darted across the paved lot and down the hard-packed trail towards the Davidson River.

I had decided to hike as far as I could go on Saturday, my sights set on Deep Gap shelter fifteen miles away. This particular section of the venerable Appalachian Trail is not particularly picturesque in its views, but the setting itself is truly captivating. Dense green tunnels of vegetation open sharply to towering hardwoods and rocky ascents. A mere hour from the campground and I barely crossed paths with another hiker for the remainder of the day. In fact, after passing a young couple and their friendly yet somewhat unnerving black dog that leaped out of the woods to greet me, I hiked without any signs of life until coming to a junction at Cat Gap loop trail. A small group of southbound hikers were resting and my antisocial tendencies got the better of me as I very quickly passed by with just a nod and slight smile. It wasn’t until I had descended about a half mile that I realized I must have taken the loop trail instead of staying on the ALT and I had to back track and return to the trail crossing, where of course they were still relaxing. This time I stopped to talk, as a sort of penance, and they pointed out the steep incline where I should have turned to continue my climb. I paused every hour or so for a quick snack, but otherwise hiked continuously and rather briskly for about ten miles, and I admittedly felt quite accomplished for an inexperienced hiker. All that changed as I began to tackle the ascent to Pilot mountain.

I had already breezed through twelve or so miles of trail and several smaller peaks, but the seemingly never-ending climb to reach this summit was harder than I expected. Still, I pressed on and pushed through the tiredness to accelerate to the top, where I was abundantly rewarded by the 360 degree panorama of the Pisgah Forest, Nantahala, and Smoky Mountains in the distance. I lingered long enough for a few pictures and a smoked meat snack, then continued down to finally reach Deep Gap shelter and spring, where I found a nice secluded area to set up my tent. Fifteen miles of constant elevation change carrying a heavy pack was as much as I could imagine doing in a day, so my plan for a trail run finally came into focus. The next morning, I packed up, ate some less than appetizing yet very fulfilling freeze dried granola cereal, and continued on for two more miles up and down one more small peak until I reached the point where the ALT crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway. I left all my gear except a hydration belt, and prepared to run 17 miles back over Pilot Mountain and the other smaller peaks and shoulders down to the trailhead where I had begun the previous morning. I had three snacks, three 8 oz water bottles, and my life straw mini to help refill the water bottles, except I actually didn’t have the water filter. I didn’t realize that omission until I reached the first spring back at deep gap. Luckily, that spring was running very cleanly right out of the mountain so I felt comfortable drinking it unfiltered, but I knew after that I wouldn’t be able to refill anywhere else. I was finally running wild.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of pushing up a mountain, then almost uncontrollably flying down the other side except that every sense you have is both supremely focused yet let loose to simply be in the moment. I ran every step that the trail allowed me, slowing to climb up or down the steep, treacherous boulders dotted throughout. I didn’t travel very fast overall, but it felt great to just keep moving for so long. I never felt truly tired or sore, much less so than hiking the previous day at least, and my anticipation of the accomplishment kept pulling me along the trail. There was less time to take in the beauty of my surroundings and more focus on the task and my purpose, however I felt just as connected to the mountain. It felt great to keep up some speed and it definitely helped that the trail was overall a descent from the peak of Pilot mountain down to the campground. Sometime around 3:00 p.m., much earlier than my deadline, I finally reached that same cold river I had lightly bounded across the day before. This time I stopped, found a good entry point, and waded out for a celebratory ice bath, nature style (fully clothed for the record).

In all I had hiked seventeen miles, ran seventeen miles, camped deep in the wilderness, and emerged from the shallow river about 28 hours after I had first crossed it’s footbridge. I still had to drive up the parkway to get my pack, then make it back to Charleston to pick up my wife so we could drive back to Tampa. I also had to shower before she would even think about giving me a kiss. Upon reflection, it’s difficult to separate the enjoyment of simple immersion in such a pristine area of wilderness and the pleasure of overcoming such a difficult challenge. Perhaps both were integral for me. What I can be sure of is that the experience was simultaneously the climax of my entry into trail running, and a stepping point for everything yet to come.

Jul 18 2017

Between Trails

”God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts to us in our pain: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” C.S. Lewis

I managed to complete my first trail run the day before I left with my family for a week in Alaska followed by a week on Little Gasparilla Island (tough life, I know). When I finally returned home, my farm needed some serious attention, and considering I only had a couple weeks before I would leave for my annual pilgrimage to northern Minnesota, I put aside any hopes of serious running, or so I thought. My wife was making dinner, a very involved meal of roasted pork and vegetables, when I got the urge for a quick run. I threw on my trail shoes and asked how long I had before dinner: 30 minutes- perfect. I ran about a mile down the road, a quiet country road winding between cattle and horse farms but bookended by new housing developments, until I found a trail that led into a massive preserve called Triple Creek. I’ve attempted this trail twice before, with toddlers in tow however, and never managed more than 1/4 mile. I calculated that I could run for about twelve minutes and still make it back before my half-hour cutoff, so off I went. I was running fast to cover as much distance as possible, and although nothing was marked, it seemed like an easy out-and-back trail to follow, that is until I came upon a gorgeous stretch of pine flat-woods with a soft, winding path that looked to curl back towards the entrance. This must be a loop, I thought, or at least pretended to think, as I bounded gleefully down the sandy trail. At the first fork I veered left, then right, then I took the middle path. It didn’t take long for me to admit I had no clue which path to take next in order to make it home in time for pork. The sandy path became a flooded swamp, and a seemingly infinite number of diverting paths left me squinting at the setting sun attempting to navigate my way home. Nine miles later, I stumbled onto my porch, covered in sweat and mud, and peered through the window to see my wife cleaning the kitchen, clutching her phone as she debated calling the police. I truly felt bad, though I have to admit, it was a good run.

About a week later we decided to go out after dinner for ice cream, and I figured it would be the perfect time for another run, this time with my xero running sandals. We drove to Jeremiah’s for some tasty dessert, and then my wife drove the kids home and I took off down the road feeling like one of the Tarahumara, with nothing between me and the road save for a thin slice of hard rubber. At mile three of this eight mile return home, my right calf tightened like a slow cramp that had no intention of ever stopping. I slowed but kept running, feeling the pain and marveling at how quickly my homeward-bound journey had gone from care-free and fun to grueling. I decided to push through the pain, embracing it less as an inconvenience and more like a right of passage. Mentally, that worked, and after a couple miles I was able to speed back up to my normal pace. I finished the run but was left very sore and full of knots. After a couple days of rest and stretching, I decided to run five miles to pick up my bike at a cycle shop and ride it back. To my delight, the right calf felt pretty good; the left calf, however, did not.

This was actually 24 hours before a sprint triathlon I had signed up for a few months prior, and although I had already decided to focus on running more than the tri, I still wanted to perform well. That night and the next morning I could barely walk without wincing, but again, it loosened up after some good stretching. I had the fastest swim time, the third fastest bike time, and the run… a disaster. After thirty or so good strides my left calf grabbed hard and held on tight. I limped through two miles as if I were a soldier still fighting after being shot in the leg. My grit did pay off, though, and I was able to open up and run hard for the last mile plus.

I would have been justified feeling frustrated or disappointed by the painful experience, but surprisingly I did not. Quite the opposite really. I felt more like I was being tested, or perhaps a better word, prepared for something greater. God has been at the very center of this adventure into trail-running, and when God is involved, everything has a purpose. I’m not suggesting that God reached down and afflicted my calf with painful soreness, just that pain is not without its value. Pain shapes our character in a way that nothing else can. It sharpens our focus, hardens our resolve, and yet most importantly highlights our weakness. Pain awakens us to our absolute reliance on the only one that can take away our pain, or at least help us bear it. God doesn’t cause pain, but He uses pain to call us to Him where we will find true comfort. In the end, pain will make you stronger.

Jun 11 2017

Little Manatee River State Park Trail Run

Little Manatee River State Park 5/31/17

Total distance: 13 miles (2 loops) Total time: 90 minutes 5 seconds Pace: 6.9 min/mile

Wilderness ranking: 3/5 Ruggedness ranking: 2/5 Enjoyability ranking: 3/5

Wildlife: raccoon tracks, hog damage, bird songs, barred owl, squirrels, white-tailed doe, pigeon

Psalm 19

The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech;

night after night they reveal knowledge.

They have no speech, they use no words;

no sound is heard from them.

Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,

their words to the ends of the world.

It’s been over four years since I have set out to run anything longer than a 5k. The reason, or I should say the excuse, for this extended drought is my son, who is 4, and my daughter, who is 2. Interestingly though, they are also a large part of my motivation for getting back into running. I woke up this morning intent that the first run of my “running wild”endeavor is to be a 13 mile double loop of a hiking trail I have been eager to explore. It was without a doubt outside my comfort range, but within the scope of my ability. I have always felt that any truly rewarding pursuit should push you beyond what you know, and even beyond what you think, you can accomplish. This run was rewarding in that respect and, as is usually the case when running in the wild, there was an unexpected, more spiritual reward as well.

The trail run itself was not so much remarkable as mere enjoyable. The trail was well-worn, well-marked, and quite tame in most places. The surroundings, however, were quite varied and kept in a natural state. I passed through oak hammocks, scrub-oak forest, pine flat-woods, and some wetland habitats. It was very refreshing to enter into different surroundings every mile or so of trail, giving the impression that I was covering much more ground than time or distance indicated. The highlight of this trail is a stretch that runs alongside the Little Manatee River with numerous clearings and views of sandy banks and slow-moving water. It is serene yet energizing in a way that only a river seems to accomplish so effortlessly. After passing the last views of Little Manatee, a short undulating stretch of soft sandy path leads slightly uphill to the end of the loop and turning point.

My day began at 2:15 a.m. as I had agreed to drive my mom to the airport for an early morning flight, a both wise and foolish decision. I arrived at the trailhead in the dark and waited until 6:00 a.m. to begin running. The day was clear, but still dark as sunrise was about 30 minutes away. The temperature was 75ºF, humidity 87%, and wind 4 mph. I wore my New Balance 10v1 Minimus Trail shoes, a very thin soled and flexible pair of minimalist running shoes that reflect a barefoot running style, and carried a small pack with about a 1/2 liter of water. I didn’t need snacks, trail map, or any other supplies so my load was pretty light and I easily could have left the small pack behind altogether. My pace was slow for the first mile as I ran through dark, dense oak trees with only the first glimpses of daybreak finding the trail’s surface. I will admit that more than once I caught a glimpse of a shadowy Florida panther or black bear that vanished as my eyes focused better. As the day warmed up, so did my legs, and my pace quickened to reach the point of highest return- this is what I call the speed that allows me to push myself hard without leaving myself vulnerable to injury. I was running close to 6.5 minute miles, slowing on rough terrain and pausing for a few pictures. I made the turn-around point feeling good and confident, and soon after found the zone. Every runner longs for the zone, but I can only imagine it feels and works differently for each person. For me, the zone is when my breathing, effort level, and stride coincide so well it seems possible to keep running at that pace indefinitely. I’ve heard it described as a feeling of running in place while the path comes to you, however for me it is as though I am being pulled forward by the path ahead and pushed by a wave of momentum generated by the ground I have just covered. This is when distance running is easy, and it lasted until the last mile and a half- then I lost it. When you lose the zone it is fruitless to try to find it again. Instead I had to fight, grind, claw my way to the end trying to maintain the pace that was so effortless just minutes ago. I managed to run the last gradual ascent and accelerate down the final flat bit of trail to finish in 90 minutes and 5 seconds. I ran the loop counter-clockwise followed immediately by a 180 degree turn and a clockwise loop, each one in 45 minutes. My pace ended up around 6.9 minutes per mile, which included five quick stops for pictures and a brief pause at the turn-around to drink half my water. For my first long run in a long time, I was very satisfied with my pace and how I felt afterwards.

Wildlife was not abundant on this run, but I had a few encounters. First, I ran through about a dozen spider webs that traversed the trail, an experience I am used to from growing up in a log cabin on a summer camp, but still don’t enjoy. I heard many species of bird but only saw a few flying from branch to branch as the sun rose. I had a close encounter with a barred owl that swooped silently about 10 feet above my head, and an even closer encounter with a large white-tailed doe that I startled near the river’s edge. At first taking the shape of another Florida panther, it jumped through saw palmetto bushes just feet in front of me and dashed off away from the river. I ran through some areas with significant wild pig damage but saw no sign of the hogs themselves. I felt a definite sense of connection with the untamed woods in this area, however a few spots come so close to a bordering development that I could see the manicured lawns and houses, which unfortunately stole away the feeling of being lost in nature.

I was able to hear the voice out here, though, which is what I am always searching for. This is not a real voice, although perhaps it has more wisdom than that. It is not God’s voice, or even my voice, so much as it is simply clarity. It is a voice that comes from the wild places and says, “you are right where you need to be; drink it in. It is good.” It is a peaceful voice, and a daring voice, calling you deeper into the mysteries that only nature has left. I never sense this voice when running on a treadmill or around a track, and rarely when running in neighborhoods and roads. It is a calling to be a part of something greater than yourself, connecting you to the past and the ever-present. This is what makes me come alive and why I run in the wild.