Finding Leadville Chapter 7: The Trees All Know my Name

Mountain town

I’ve never been, yet

it’s a homecoming.

The fog tipped peaks,

signaling weather over trails

that tuck left and right,

up and through,

and out the tree line again.

Some places

you just belong.

Some places

have spoken to you before,

in photographs, in stories.

Some places

have room for you.

Here I am

in a mountain town

and the trees

all know my name.

The dirt road curved from one side of the historic Twin Lakes village to the other. At one end, the general store was vibrating with customers who exited with coffee cups, water, and snacks in hand. The namesake glacial lakes sparkled, reflecting mountains, paddleboarders, and the smattering of clouds. At the other end, a trail dropped abruptly into the village, welcoming runners to a parted sea of erupting fanfare.

This was the Twin Lakes Aid Station, 37.9 miles into the Leadville 100. I was about to meet up with the Life Time Foundation team and partake in my first ever Leadville 100 experience -- from the sidelines.

My day began in Frisco, my trip’s homebase and a 30 minute or so drive from Leadville. I’d opted not to wake up for the 4AM start and instead took in some much needed sleep before heading out. I arrived in the Twin Lakes area with immediate astonishment. It was my first time seeing the lakes set against the mountain range. A line of cars squeezed against the single road leading into town. I nudged my rental Jeep into the first available opening, pushed the engine button off, and sat still, taking it in. So, this was the Leadville 100.

So much history precluded my arrival. The first shotgun start to this race was back in 1983, five years before my arrival as child number seven of twelve. Forty-four runners took off that morning from Leadville (compared to about 600-700 starters today). This western town, with all its cowboy and mining charm, is the highest incorporated one in America. This marks the Leadville 100 trail run as an oxygen-deprived venture that requires "guts, grit, and determination."

Leadville is an out-and-back course; therefore, what you experience on the way out, you get on the way in. The 100-mile trail leads runners through the forested Rocky Mountains up and over Sugarloaf Pass, Mt. Elbert, and Hope Pass, ultimately turning them around at mile 50 in the almost-ghost-town of Winfield. Each participant climbs about 15,600 feet over the entirety of the race (and, of course, drops just as much, as they take on the same route home).

Much of the race is what's called "runnable." There are portions of paved roads, gorgeous drops down mountain passes, and jeep roads wide and open. It's imperative to begin the race with a steady-enough pace: runners who miss cut-off times at the designated aid stations stretched along the course are promptly escorted out of the competition. Outbound -- heading toward Winfield -- has a much tighter cutoff time expectation than Inbound -- heading home to the finish line. Mental strategy is needed just as much as physical preparation.

I caught wind that the most fantastic place to spectate was the Twin Lakes Aid Station. Sitting at the base of Hope Pass, runners receive sustenance from food and community before disappearing up the mountain. It would be another 20 miles before they would return to this haven. Many runners have a crew, a group of people dedicated to their well-being. Crews can meet their runner at major aid stations to feed them, take care of their feet, and offer a social uplift to an otherwise solo experience. Twin Lakes was one of two aid stations where crews posted up with tents, music, food, and fanfare (the other being Outward Bound at mile 23 and 77).

When I got out of the Jeep, I walked three quarters of a mile up the road into town. On my way, people were loading coolers and piling wagons with supplies. Others were asleep in their front seats, caps pulled over their eyes. The closer I got to the village, the greater the throb of sound and play. People lined the dirt road to the left and right. Many had tents erected complete with folded chairs, tables of food, and collections of cold drinks. Music rolled from a nearby business, Twin Lakes SUP & Cycle, and the employees passed around sloshing solo cups, a bottle of tequila in hand.

Encircling the village and her lakes were the mountains. Lush, each was a mass of rippling leaves and pools of net-caught sunshine. They rose firm and tall, cradling with mastery the humanity roused at their base. The sky opened up in a brilliant blue, barely a cloud and many a bird swooping through it. The party began to melt from my perception. I felt rooted into the dirt road and my shoulders drooped, relaxed. The elixir of wood and dirt and wildflowers surrounding us.

A memory overtook me. Hazy, since memories are but half-truths and snapshots of a life behind us, colored only by the perspective we've got. The bees, the spankings, the whirlwind of growing up in a big family -- and this:

It was the morning before my First Communion, a rite for young Catholics as they received the Eucharist (considered the "body of Christ") for the first time. Hours before the ceremony, my dad invited me hiking. Mom had put rollers in my hair, pulled tight with bobby pins. Wearing an oversized tee shirt, neon bicycle shorts, and scrunched socks stuffed into dirty sneakers, I followed dad.

The day had a specialness to it. It’d be the first time I was able to receive the Eucharist at church, a blessing my parents took seriously. In my endeavor to be a good girl – to feel loved and accepted – the day felt important to me, too. I felt a deep reverence in my 8-year-old body that morning.

Dad drove to a trailhead nearby and cut the engine. Jumping out of the truck, we walked into the woods, dad pointing out all kinds of vegetation and wildlife. This was my favorite version of him: walking on dirt, watching nature unfold, becoming part of a cool bright morning. I like that he knew what type of bugs were under the rocks and how high the fish in the stream could jump. Pressing my hand and ear onto rough tree bark, I listened for a heartbeat I was so sure was there. Sunshine spotlights broke through the tree line, announcing everything my father pointed to. That mushroom – serious. Those birds – special. This walk with my dad – holy.

The upcoming religious ceremony was good and right and important, he told me. He placed his hand on my back and, with a proud chest, began to pray a Hail Mary aloud. If he said so, I believed it.

When you grow up, you can be a mommy or a nun, my mother once told me, my father nodding, cigar between his teeth.

Back home, a lace white dress and veil hung in a closet, waiting for their First Communion moment. Like a bride, I’d walk down the church aisle, wearing the color of purity and carrying flowers. Like a nun, I’d tuck my chin, solemn and obedient to my chest, allow the veil to cover the curls on my head.

For now, in that moment, I got to be a little kid learning how to identify her God in the trees. And those trees all knew my name.

Two decades later, I stared into the mountains at the edge of Twin Lakes. Splashes of light. Special. Serious. The familiar feelings from that walk in the woods swept through me and, to no one but myself, I mentally pointed.

That’s Mt Elbert. And that’s Hope Pass, I noted as my gaze followed the light.

Leaving Minneapolis and boarding a plane for this long weekend, I had an urge for reverence. What is holy to me? I thought in the weeks prior, sorting through laundry and washing dishes and staring out the same smudged kitchen window.

At Twin Lakes aid station, it was a party. Margaritas instead of blessed wine and laughing side hugs instead of the Sign of Peace found at Catholic services. Shades and caps replaced purity veils, and the dirt road down the middle of the village opened wide, a ready aisle for the procession of runners.

Aid stations – especially an aid station like this one – are reminders of how we belong, how we are loved, and how essential ritual is in the midst of hardship. It's church. Families and friends gathered, waiting for their runner. When they arrived, broken and dispirited, their people fly into action. They envelope their runners in bear hugs, shower encouragement with words, refuel with food, massage worn out feet, and pop painful blisters– and finally send them on their way up toward Hope Pass.

This is my kind of holy, I thought as I began to look for the Life Time Foundation crew with whom I was to spend the day.

I began to walk through the crowd. Across the dirt, an icon laughed with her group of friends. It was Courteny Dewaulter, one of the best ultrarunners of our time. She oozed comfort, sliding past the tents, a permanent grin thriving on her face. Instead of robes on a powerful man of the church, here was a woman in long basketball shorts, socks pulled up well past her ankles, and dirt smears on her calves. Her running resume, impressive. Both a leader and an icon.

I observed others notice her too on their own walkabouts. Some folks extended a handshake or a hello, others turned to their companions and gushed. I made eye contact with her, offering a head nod, and slipped our encounter into my pocket for safe keeping.

I wondered what it must be like to be so known, so seen, so respected. Courtney seemed superhuman, divine.

Ah, how easy! I caught my mind as it twirled into thought. How easy it is to misidentify other humans as untouchable. In my experience, Catholicism does this well. Priests (men) seem to be granted immunity, held as sacred representations of God. I had a lifetime of sharing my misdeeds (sins) to priests to ask for forgiveness; as well as Sunday after Sunday staring up at the pulpit, listening to them tell me how to live a pure life. I had learned (falsely) that they were the authority on my life, standing between me and my experience of God. I had learned (falsely) that I could not commune with what was holy without male guidance.

And, in succumbing to that power dynamic, I somehow learned (again, falsely) that I was less than. I forgot how to tune into the sacred experience always unfolding around me. And then, this place, tucked atop Colorado, was waking me to a new reality.

I watched as someone easily approached Courtney. They spoke with their entire body, an easy comfort. My eyes flitted past the pair and scanned the crowded sidelines. This was happening everywhere: hugs, handshakes, conversation. All kinds of bodies, and all ranges of ages. No one preaching or shaming, no pulpits or hierarchy, as far as I could tell.

Possibility swelled in me: I could be an ultrarunner.

An energized throb of celebration rippled through the crowd as the lead athlete ran through, as though sparked, molecule by molecule, creating something enormous. Something bigger than all of us.

This wasn’t just a party or a simple aid station in a 100-mile race.

This is a holy space, it occurred to me.

Then, I felt it more than I thought it: I belong here.