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Donnas to Gressoney –  51.6 km (200.3 km total)

(Click here to go to Section #1 of our 332.3 km TDG adventure)

Section #4 - Donnas to Gressoney

Section #4 – Donnas to Gressoney

“You can hurt more than you ever thought possible, then continue until you discover that hurting isn’t that big a deal.” – Scott Jurek

When I reflect on the Tor Des Geants, I still marvel at the fact that I left the Donnas life base and continued on. I now believe that the key factor in my continuation was fear of being a drop-out, fear of admitting that I couldn’t do it, fear of disappointing myself, Bruce and my supporters. Those fears were greater than the agony in my knee, my confusion due to lack of sleep and the frustration with the sheer difficulty of the route. It was easier for me to carry on than to admit defeat.

Donnas is the lowest elevation of the entire route at 322 m (1050 ft). We now faced a 6400 ft climb over the next 20 km climb to reach the first of many high passes in this segment. Knowing that this would be a six hour endeavour, our goal was to reach Rifugio Coda before needing our headlamps. Luckily, hiking uphill was my area of strength since my knee gave me no grief while climbing.

While we were sleeping in Donnas, another big rain storm had passed over but it had cleared off by the time we hit the trails at 13:30 and the sun was bright and warm again. The trail was very urban here and took us on a long, circuitous, uphill route through suburbs, backyards, vineyards and town-connecting trails. We were always in view of houses, streets and man-made structures. An archway of espallied peach trees had recently been harvested but I found one lonely ripe peach as we hiked along. There is nothing as tasty as stolen fruit!

The urban trails around Donnas led us steeply up beside homes, orchards and yards.

The urban trails around Donnas led us steeply up beside homes, orchards and yards.

And then we were sent down again through somebody's vineyard.

And then we were sent down again through somebody’s vineyard. When you see the buildings, streets and cars below, you get a feeling for the perspective. There was no elevator available.

Above Donnas, we crossed the famous Pont St. Martin and were treated to a delicious local pastry (torteccini) at a refreshment station in Perloz.

This bridge is famous because the townsfolk tricked the devil. he built the bridge for them in exchange for the soul of the first to cross it. A mongrel dog was the first.

This bridge is famous because the townsfolk tricked the devil. He built the bridge for them in exchange for the soul of the first to cross it. A mongrel dog was the first.

An italian pastry twist called Torteccini di St Vincent, local to the Aosta Valley. So delicious! I had two or three at the aid station.

Finally, we left the villages and entered a true trail. Bruce and I chatted about many things as we hiked along and there was an unhurried feeling between us now.

Here is our first Alta Via No 1 marker. Arriving in Donnas, we had completed the southern Alta Via No 2 route and would now be on the Alta Via No 1, running on the northern side of the Aosta Valley.

Here is our first Alta Via No 1 marker. Arriving in Donnas, we had completed the southern Alta Via No 2 route and would now be on the Alta Via No 1, running along the northern side of the Aosta Valley.

But for much of this climb, I silently mulled over my decision to drop out at the next life base in Gressoney. The ramifications of dropping out weighed heavily on me:

How would I face my running buddies? Would everyone knowingly nod and say sympathetic remarks? What about all those other Canadians who were on the waiting list, desperately hoping to be selected for the race? What would they think of a person who dropped, not because of medical issues but because it was too hard?

This last point strongly resonated with me. Being on the waitlist is such a disappointment in itself but to stand by and witness racers drop out due to ill-preparedness or lack of desire is beyond frustrating as a waitlisted runner. This year’s TDG filled to 700 entrants in less than 10 minutes and the remaining 2000 were waitlisted. To me, that meant that thousands of others wanted my spot and each would be angry that I was squandering an opportunity. This thought motivated me more than any other.

As we passed through the lower forest, we were treated to the sight of a farmer herding his cattle up to higher ground for the night. With huge cows eyeing us on either side, we passed straight through the herd unscathed.

A cattle farmer was moving his herd to their evening grazing grounds.

A cattle farmer was moving his herd to their evening grazing grounds.

Who is in whose way?

Who is in whose way?

Rifugio Coda remained a long way off, giving me more time to ponder my imminent DNF.

Why was I finding the TDG so hard? In Donnas, Bruce reminded me that I knew it would be hard. But this was far more difficult than I had imagined. There was no comparison.

And somewhere on this climb, I came to terms with it all. Like a light switch being turned off, I realized that I had to shut off my thinking. No longer would I analyze the steepness, the rockiness or the terrain in front of me. No longer would I process the world around me, either for its immense beauty or retched ugliness. No longer would I take in and absorb the sights, smells or stimuli I came across.

I will hike up until I reached the top. Then I will hike down. I will repeat this process again and again without questioning. I will keep doing this until it is over.

So from here, my memory becomes foggy, clouded or completely absent. This is what it took for me to carry on. Perhaps it is a demonstration of my strength or my weakness. Perhaps it shows the extent of my fatigue. Whatever it was and however it looks in hindsight, I kept going until it was over, never again entertaining the idea of dropping out.

Rifugio Coda came into view as daylight was fading. It sat high and alone on a treeless ridge, beckoning us from across the basin. Although it was in sight, we still had to wind our way up along the ridgeline and headlamps were necessary for the final twenty minutes. Inside, the building was humming with activity. One floor was a sleeping loft; one floor was a restaurant for paying customers and the basement was for humble racers like us. The cramped quarters made it difficult to get to the food tables and, once seated, we were constantly blocking someone else. But this milestone had been achieved and we savoured the fact that we had travelled more than 100 miles and were approximately halfway done.

Back outside, we headed into our third night which quickly enveloped us in a four-hour rainstorm and the worst muddy trail conditions of the entire route. As we descended into the muddy depths of Lago Vargno, I was seething with frustration and anger. The lights of this rifugio had been briefly visible but it took about 90 minutes of slip-sliding down the steep descent in over-the-shoe mud before we arrived. Finding the inside of the rifugio too hot, too noisy and filled with too many people, I stationed myself outside and ate my bowl of hot pasta alone. Eventually I moved undercover to a tent with the time check crew where I listened to their contented Italian babble. Although I understood nothing, I was absorbed with their happy chatter and found that their positive mood pushed away the blackness of my own.

Col Marmontana, Col del Vecchio and the col in between (which is significant but not named on any map) were all passed in the depths of that third night. It was hard going and slow going and I have no memory of any of it. I know that Bruce broke two trekking poles during the night in separate situations, making his descent all the more difficult. When we finally were able to pack away our headlamps the next morning, we were descending a treacherously slippery trail with unavoidable puddles. I had been trying to keep my shoes and socks mostly dry so as to protect my taped-up blistered feet but there was no way to do so here. We trudged calf-deep through puddles of muck, never knowing if our shoe treads would hold.

From Rifugio Coda all the way to Niel, we had to negotiate mud like this. Slippery, greasy, sticky mud. In the dark.

From Rifugio Coda all the way to Niel, we had to negotiate mud like this on steep slopes. Slippery, greasy, sticky mud. On the side of a mountain. In the dark.

By the time we reached Niel at 8:20 am, we were both exhausted beyond frustration. The sunny patio was a lovely place to sit and people-watch. There was a delightful English couple in charge of the timing booth who bickered endlessly at each other under their breath. There was both hot polenta and pasta of which I ate plenty. We rested for too long and eventually headed back up the trail towards the next col.

Looking fine and refreshed, Bruce stand above the thriving metropolis of Niel

Looking fine and refreshed, Bruce stands above the thriving metropolis of Niel

Not even bothering to stop for a photo op, I am on a mission to get on with the next assault.

Not even bothering to stop for a photo-op, I am on a mission to get on with the next assault.

Col Lasoney was a true highlight of the course for me. Having just experienced the worst conditions imaginable, it was an absolute treat to be presented with a gentle, grassland climb.

What a welcome sight! The climb and descent around Col Lasoney was the most lovely by far!

What a welcome sight! The gentle climb and descent around Col Lasoney was the most lovely by far!

On the other side, the wide open prairie carried us gently down beside a river and I was actually able to run. It felt like we were running in the Sound of Music opening scene. Since I had stopped studying maps or elevation charts (why bother, I thought), I had no idea that this was the beginning of a 8 km gentle descent to the next life base. As we ran, a man flew his videography drone around Bruce and me as we ran. It would have been fabulous footage to see. This lovely runnable section was punctuated by a wild aid station of volunteers who were completely drunk and totally hilarious. It was amusing to see them stagger around, ringing dozens of loud cowbells and hollering encouragements but we couldn’t get away from the noise fast enough.

The trail into Gressoney became more challenging as we entered the steep, pine forest and once again I was only able to manage a painful hobble.

Steep and rocky (and terribly painful)

Steep and rocky (and terribly painful)

More rocks. Even steeper.

More rocks. Even steeper. And yes – that is the trail. You can see the marker on the other side of the rockfall.

Relief wafted over me as we entered the town limits and, once again, I entered the life base in tears. As usual, our routine was to eat, drink and sleep so we set about reloading our packs, eating a substantial meal with beer/red wine and grabbing a three-hour nap.

Indulging in a pre-nap beer, Bruce scoffs down his potato-tuna mash.

Indulging in a pre-nap beer, Bruce scoffs down his potato-tuna mash.

Looking better than I feel, I still maintain my non-food mixing strategy so that my pasta doesn't touch my salad.

Looking better than I feel, I still maintain my non-food mixing strategy so that my pasta doesn’t touch my salad. Can you see my huge cup of wine beyond the beer can?

But as I headed into the women’s sleeping quarters (the only time there was separation of sexes), I spied the medical and massage area and decided to have someone work on my knee. A doctor spent about 30 minutes using a deep massage technique to realign my patella. The source of my pain was deep inside my knee joint and it felt amazing to have it worked on for such a long time. I was sent off to the sleeping area with ice packs taped to my knee and advice to visit the doctor at every life base afterwards.

I gave up about 45 precious minutes of sleep time in order to get that medical treatment and then I was treated to a very poor sleep. Trying to sleep in a racquetball court is almost impossible, even if no one is playing. Every person’s movement was amplified and, even though there were only 10 beds in each court, the noise echoed enough to keep me just at the surface of sleep. When my alarm sounded, I dragged myself out and met up with Bruce as planned. We left Gressoney at 19:27 pm.

Section 4  – 51.6 km in 23h 55m

Gressoney Life Base – 5h 54m

Cummulative Total – 200.3 km in 75h 33m (+5h 54m in Gressoney LB)

Total Life Base Time = 17h 9m

Total sleep = 8h 15m

The saga continues here: Section #5 – Gressoney to Valtournenche

Scorched Sole 50 miler

In June 2009, the RDs of Scorched Sole extended their race repertoire to include a 50 mile distance.  At the time, I considered signing up for it but ultimately decided to run the 50 km.  I wanted to save my 50 miler comeback for Stormy 2009.  As I watched the 50 mile runners cross the finish line, I decided to sign up for the 50 mile course the following year.

A year later, I toed that same start line.  We headed up through Okanagan Mountain Park and west towards Lost Lake.  No sooner had the run begun when Wendy and I, in a moment of inattention, saw some sweet single-track and unintentionally headed off course.  It took us some time to recognize our mistake and retrace our steps.  When we were finally back on track, we discovered that we were last.  Even though the field was only 37 starters, it was a little disheartening and we both seemed to change our focus from Race to Run.  We eventually caught up to a few runners, including George Forshaw, as we hiked up Little White.  The 50 km runners began to overtake the three of us, having made up the hour difference in start times.  We counted them off and told our tale of woe to Bruce as he flew up the trail.

As our threesome continued our climb to the summit of Little White, we were still in good spirits and moved at a fairly strong pace.  We passed the aid station volunteers who were still packing in supplies for aid #4.  When we arrived at their destination, we found a number of water jugs but no snacks.  We continued up, up, up to the summit and began to see the first 50 km runners running back to us, having reached their halfway point.  The last kilometre of the climb was patchily covered with spring snow but it wasn’t too difficult to navigate.

We reached the summit and found that there were water jugs, but no aid station.  In 2006, we climbed a similar route and there had been a few hardy volunteers with some food for us at this point.   I had expected the same this time since the map had been marked ‘minor aid’, not ‘water only’.  We topped up our water bottles continued on the 50 mile route, which carried on along the summit ridge before we would descend to the halfway point.  The summit ridge was deep in spring snow.  We trudged along from ribbon to ribbon in calf-deep slush.  This section went on for a long time.  Once again, I had misinterpreted the course description.  I was under the impression that the snow had mostly receded, but the truth was that the route included about 6 km of snow, which we would cross twice.  We came across two rope sections as we headed down.  These would have been quite treacherous without the ropes and we all slid at roller-coaster speeds before running into the tree securing the rope.  This is where our group mindset began to falter.  My shoes were water-logged, my feet were frozen, my hands were rope-burned and I was famished.  I was carrying plenty of gel but I always count on some real food at aid stations.  Those 6 km took a lot out of all three of us.

We eventually descended enough to find dirt and we were able to get some downhill running in.  The trail descended steeply and, although I love a downhill trail more than anything, my negative mindset was stuck on the return trip.  This was a huge descent and the climb back up would be really challenging, especially with all that snow.  Ugh – the snow.  It was George who spoke first, but he spoke for all three of us.

“There better be a pretty big bus at the next aid station to take us all home.”

We all chuckled for a second but then we were silent.  It had been said out loud.  It wasn’t just me who was hating this.  There was an out.  I wasn’t the only one considering it.  The end could be in sight. I was in control, after all.

I have never been down the DNF path before.  I have always wanted to complete what I started.  I wasn’t injured.  I wasn’t cramping.  I wasn’t really even hungry – although a grilled cheese would have hit the spot.  I just didn’t want to do THIS any more.  I was placing blame in all sorts of places.  I felt that I had been misled by the course description, even though I knew that there would be snow, ropes and a big mountain to climb twice.

Ellie Greenwood came into sight.  She was on her return trip up the switchbacks, leading the race.  She stopped to chat, echoing our feelings about the toughness of the course.  She didn’t stop for long though because Steve Russell was hot on her heels, not wanting to be chicked.

We finally hit the forest service road and Wendy and I took off.  I was surprised how well we were cruising along.  I began to analyze the idea of dropping out.  I knew that it was the wrong choice since I was still feeling strong.  I knew that I could complete this run if I could get my brain back in gear.  I knew that I simply needed some real food and I’d be ready to climb out of there.  We rounded a corner and the aid station tent was visible.  I immediately filled my water bottles and emptied the contents of my drop bag into my pack.  I surveyed the table for food but found that potato chips were about the only thing available.  I ate the crumbs in the bottom of the bag and tried to save a few morsels for George.  We told the volunteers how tough the course was and joked about stopping.  The women instantly said,

“There’s plenty of room in the pick-up truck if you want a ride back.  You’re one of the last runners, so we’ll be packing up quite soon.”

And that was it.  It was too easy.  I made one effort to say that I would continue on, but I couldn’t follow through.  I helped put the food away and load the drop bags into the car.  I found a comfy place to sit in the bed of the pick-up truck and we drove about 30 minutes back to the start/finish area.

At the time, I didn’t regret the decision.  I couldn’t imagine climbing back through the slushy snow, using the ropes to climb up to the ridge line.  I knew that my finish time would have been around 13 hours, if all had gone well.  I didn’t sign up for that.  That was the dialogue in my head.  No regrets.  I’ll do a 50 miler another day.

But, I cried on the drive home.  I completely regret not finishing that race.  It wasn’t impossible.  It was tough, but so am I.  The DNF feeling is something I hope never to have again.  It is the reason I started this blog – to remind myself that I don’t want to go there again.

Upon much analysis, I would say that I was overly concerned with ‘the group’.  I was part of a group and that group was struggling.  The group wanted to stop.  If I had been on my own, I would have had the same experiences, but I don’t think I would have quit.  Time will tell.

The Happy Wanderer

My Paths on Strava

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