T minus 15 weeks

Most of the week was fairly uneventful. Did my training runs. Then we went to Denver for a wedding. As per usual, Steve found a trail for a run. Saturday morning we headed to the foothills in Boulder to run the Mesa Trail. It was a beautiful morning and a beautiful place.

You can see the ridge line between the top of the trees and the mountains. This is where I climbed.

I chased Steve for awhile to get this picture as he was heading into the trails.

I felt the difference in elevation. Kansas is 1390 above sea level. The base of the trail was 4900 feet above sea level. I had a difficult time running across this prairie to get to the base of the mountain to enter the trail. You can see the corner of the observatory, that was my visible location to know where to come out of the trail.

I needed a restroom and when trail running you are like one of the animals. So I began looking for an excluded area. When I crossed a less traveled path, I turned in. It was a small creek with a log as a bridge. I found my secluded area and took care of business.

This shows the line of the creek and the climb above I was about to attempt.

Then, instead of heading back down and across the creek to the main trail that ran paralell to the mountain, I decided to stay on the less traveled one that continued to climb up and toward the mountain.

The trail ran out and I was climbing through prairie grass, no trail, just making my way. But I got it in my head I wanted to see the top of the ridge so I climbed. And climbed. And it got harder. And steeper.

Eventually I picked a stick to use for balance and to help pull me up. And to lean on and rest. I would've liked one without the limbs sitcking out, but couldn't find one and couldn't tear these off.

Closer to the ridge line I had to start rock climbing. It didn't look that hard from the bottom, but I got to point where I would throw the stick up over my head, crawl up on all fours and then grab the stick and climb again.

About 20 yards from the top I stopped to breathe, drink and catch my bearings. No way I was quitting.

I finally made it to the ridge line and saw this.

I couldn't maneuver sideways due to the rocks, and could not have climbed down the other side to attempt the mountain, even if I wanted to. Which I didn't. These rocks ran along the top of the ridge line both ways, and had to climb them for about the last 10 yards to get to the top.

And then I realized I had to go down...

I seriously had the thought, (only in my head it wasn't PG), holy crap, what was I thinking? It took me an hour to climb up and 30 minutes to get down, I had some motivation.

I prayed, walked, jogged, held onto trees, (you do know that when you are sliding down the side of a mountain grabbing a handful of grass will not slow you down IN THE LEAST!) and climbed backward down rocks. When I finally got out of the really steep part with the rocks and trees, I couldn't find the trail. I could see the creek and the observatory on my left, where it needed to be, so I just kept heading down, hoping to find the trail.

And then. THEN! My living nightmare came true. I felt, even before I saw it, a snake wrap around both ankles in kind of a figure 8. He was brown with a yellowish cream colored belly. Probably two and half three feet long. I will never forget what he looks like, so I googled Colorado snakes when I got to the car (and could breathe and quit shaking) and found it, a non-venomous Racer.

My female snake survival skills took over. Blood curdling scream(s) for an inderterminent amount of time and I hurtled myself down the mountain at a breakneck speed. SERIOUSLY could've broke my neck. I felt it stretch against my legs as I lengthened my stride and saw the it fly off my legs . It appeared to be in one piece and there were no snake guts on me so I think it lived. Pretty sure I didn't rip it in half. Wouldn't care if I did.

I realized as I was taking 13 foot strides down a fiercely sharp decline that the snake was probably less dangerous than falling (at this time, I didn't know whether it was poisonous) and I managed to slow down to a jog after about a half mile of fear and adrenaline induced sprinting. I was almost to the creek and I beat the hell out of the grass in an arc on front of me before every step. When I got to the creek, I couldn't cross because of trees down and they were too close together on the other bank. I have no trouble wading through anymore, but that was not an option. I looked down to my left and my original crossing, the trail, was less than three feet away the whole time.

I crossed the creek, dropped my stick, got on the widest gravel trail I could find and ran as hard as I could, shaking head to toe the last mile back to the car.

Steve says its not, but I think the scratch mark on the back of my calf is from fangs. I can't think of anything I did that would have scratched the back of my leg right there, even sliding a little coming down. Those are all on the front of my legs. Besides, it's my story, and if I want fang marks after living through it, I can have them. Because I think they are. (SHUDDER)

I sat in the back of my car and waited for Steve who had a nice uneventful 9 mile run on the trails. I told him I should've just followed him. He said, "Why? You had a lot more fun."

And you know what? I had a blast. I had an adventure. Most 44 year old mom types don't get to have this kind of fun. But hopefully next time Steve will stay with me for the adventure and beat the snakes for me.

Walking on the wild side. That's me.