Wapack Wash Out

And so the saying goes, “when it rains, it pours.” It’s been the theme for this past week, and is the continuing theme for this week’s projected forecast in New Hampshire and Massachusetts, where we are under flood warnings and watches. New Hampshire has been declared an official disaster site with flooding that closed hundreds of roads, washed away bridges, and wreaked houses.

When the Race Director of the MAY 13th 2006 Wapack Trail Run expressed concern about the drooling weather, decided upon polling participants, and ultimately didn’t cancel the race, my boyfriend sheepishly arrived at the starting line with me for a 12.3 mile trail run. “Come hell or high water,” I was running this race.

Most parts of the trail held a great deal of rainwater, near ankle deep and some parts well past knee deep. What wasn’t washed out was wicked in its own thoughtful way: stacked boulders too tall to cover except by hiking. We were on our way to summiting four mountain peaks, and a “hill.”

Intermittently, trees had dropped their now-orange-colored needles which covered stagnant water holes, creating the illusion of dry land. It was unreasonable to think anything could be dry; it was raining, and I don’t mean lightly. It was dangerous drizzle. We were soaked within minutes of exiting the bus for the start of the race. We each could have proceeded into a hypothermic state had we not kept our bodies warm from constantly moving forward.

After three hours of running, hiking, and wading through water, my boyfriend, David, was losing momentum. We both anticipated a much quicker pace, but we were faced with the added difficulty that wet terrain provides. I was getting cold because we were slowing down. I took the car keys and forged ahead.

I wouldn’t have left David behind to fend for himself to the finish had I known the series of events about to unravel.

In the last two miles, sighting yellow blazes became paramount indicative of an opening in the trees, multiple trails that intersected one another, and a road crossing. At each possibility, I found the yellow blaze and continued consciously thinking that David would also see the trail marker.

At the bottom of what was to be the last of the inclines, I reckoned that David might think we had gone too far, and that we were now set to complete 21.4 miles, rather than the 12.3 we intended so I waited briefly. Then I hustled into the reverse direction, anticipating that he wasn’t that far behind. Of course I knew he was tired, but I thought that he might be jogging. I navigated several turns back into the woods. I yelled for David, my words suffocating in the moist air. I reversed my direction again, not wanting to get too far from what I thought was the finish.

Saturated, and starting to panic, there was still no sign of David. Did he trip, fall, and break his leg, or hit his head? Did he get lost in the woods after becoming delirious from hypothermia? Did he run out of food or diluted Gatorade? Did he need my help? Separating seemed like a good idea at the time, but with each passing minute, it seemed to be putting a damper on a perfectly good day.

Nearly thirty minutes had gone by. I had calculated that we had less than two miles to travel before reaching the finish. Hoping that he might notice if he were to reach this point where two paths divided, using a stick into the pebbles, I etched David’s name with an arrow pointing to the direction he should go. Onward to the finish I went.

Shaking my head in disbelief, there’s David sitting in a car! He had taken an alternate, but valid route. He had taken the road, where I had crossed to remain on the trail. Since he was cold, and without keys, thankfully he was warming up while waiting for me in a volunteer’s car.

I foiled the plan to stick together. I foolishly averted Plan B to proceed to the finish. Humility doused me. Could I borrow an umbrella? Thanks.