Bighorn 100: White Shorts Were a Choice, Huh?

"Oh I thought I knew what love mud was 'till I met you"

 —Tom Odell

On paper, Bighorn doesn't look like a particularly tough hundred miler. It has somewhere between 16,000 and 20,000 feet of climbing depending on whose watch you believe, none of the climbs are very steep, and the altitude isn't a huge concern. So why is it a Hardrock qualifying race?

In reality, there are two major factors that make this a burly course: weather and mud. Depending on the year, there can be 90°F+ heat or freezing rain (or, potentially, one and then the other). This year we seem to have gotten lucky as the highs were around 70° and only a light drizzle fell on day two. However, the mud... Dear lord, the mud.

Enjoying some remarkably mud-free miles

Listen folks, I'm from the northeast. We're no strangers to love mud. I've done plenty of runs through the Adirondacks, the Catskills, and the Green Mountains in "mud season." Hell, I ran Tough Mudders before I became an ultrarunner. This was the worst mud I've ever seen, and there were miles and miles of it. Forget shoe sucking mud; this was soul sucking.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The Course

The Bighorn 100 is an out-and-back route through the (you guessed it) Bighorn Mountains in northern Wyoming. The route is remote and the trails are sparsely used by humans (Based on the amount of cow dung on the course, it does seem to be extensively used for grazing though.).

The course can be divided into three major climbs and descents, with a major aid station at the start/end of each one and many smaller ones along the way.

Bighorn 100 elevation profile
Major aid stations in bold

Of the major aid stations, Dry Fork (mile 13 and 82) and Jaws (48) are easily accessible to crews, but Sally's (30, 66) requires a long drive down a poorly maintained dirt road which had also recently experienced a landslide earlier in the summer. Needless to say, I asked my very pregnant wife to please not drive out to Sally's in the middle of the night.

Start to Sally's

Much to my delight, Bighorn has a civilized start time of 9am, and I got the best night of sleep I've ever had before a race. I drove to the start with Girl Alex (the pregnant one) and Boy Alex (not pregnant). You might remember Boy Alex from his pacing gig at Fat Dog 120. This year, we decided to race each other and drag our wives along for the ride. Alex was aiming for 26 hours and I thought 28 hours might be in the cards if things went well.

I got to the back of the race field just as the starting gun sounded, which was perfect timing in my mind. I get anxious standing around before races.

Sandstone formations in the early miles

The first mile was along Tongue Canyon Rd, which allowed the runners to spread out a little before being funneled onto singletrack. A few miles in, we began to climb in earnest. The first eight miles of the course would take us from the mouth of the canyon at 4,000 feet up through a forest to a broad plateau at 7,500 feet. This section would be our first taste (sometimes literally) of the mud that we would see for the next 90-something miles. Snowmelt combined with record breaking spring rainfall had saturated the soil in the Bighorn Mountains, making the conditions treacherous for runners and volunteers alike.

A slightly muddy section of forest service road near the course, taken shortly after race day
Photo from The Sheridan Press

I tried to keep my heart rate in check as I struggled to gain a foothold in the mud, but I ultimately had to red-line a few times to stay on my feet. I had left the snow baskets on my trekking poles for extra floatation, and I made liberal use of them on this climb. After some very slow miles, we emerged above tree line and were greeted by a stunning alpine meadow.

Worth the mud

I reached the Dry Fork Ridge aid station about 20 minutes behind my 28-hour schedule, but feeling pleased with how my lungs and legs were holding up so far. I could feel myself naturally slowing down from the altitude but thankfully didn't experience any headaches or nausea for the entire race. Alex helped me restock on food and water and sent me on my way.

In my element and feeling good

We spent the next 10 miles or so traversing through more alpine meadows and muddy forests. During this stretch we passed by Kern's Cow Camp, which had been relocated from its planned site because the muddy access road was impassible to the pickup truck carrying supplies.

Random conversation I overheard in this section:

Man: "You know how you can tell the difference between deer poop and moose poop? If you can fit it in your nostril, it's deer poop."

Woman, spotting a pile of large pellets: "So that's moose poop then."

Man: "How can you tell? You didn't even try."

At the end of the traverse, the course dropped more than 2,000 feet down a section that is appropriately known as The Wall. As I picked my way through a particularly wet section of The Wall, I plunged my trekking pole deep into the mud, and when I pulled it out the entire bottom segment detached. Not ideal with 75 miles of race left to run. I spent a minute looking for the missing piece but it had sunk too far down to be retrieved.

I tested out the pole and found that it still offered a little stability on firm ground but sank straight into the mud since it was now just a hollow aluminum rod. I would later have to tape the remaining segments of the pole together since the bottom piece is crucial to holding the whole thing together.

I'm not one of those people who can disguise my feelings, evidently

Equipment malfunctions aside, I made it down to Sally's Footbridge aid station (mile 30) in a little under 8 hours, having lost another five minutes from my anticipated splits.

Sally's to Jaws and Back

Sally's will always have a special place in my heart for two reasons: First, they had a foot washing station composed of small plastic tubs of water and towels set out in front of camp chairs. This was a godsend since I had planned to change my mud-soaked socks here and needed to clean all the grit off my feet first. Second, they had a tray of McDonald's burgers at the food table. I'm not a big fan of fast food but a greasy burger hit the spot in that moment.

The next section would be an 18 mile, 4,500 foot climb through the dark. I downed a cold brew coffee, grabbed a headlamp, and stashed some warm layers in my pack. After a quick 5-minute turnaround I was back on the trail.

I quickly met up with a local runner named Mario who had done Bighorn in 2022. He warned me that there would be a treacherous river crossing coming up with just a rope strung across a deep and fast moving section of water. A few minutes later he let out a celebratory howl as he saw that there was a brand new bridge spanning that section.

Mario and another runner crossing the surprise log bridge

At Kern's Cow Camp, an 8-year-old volunteer (Eva, I think?) was handing out Balsam Root wildflowers to all the runners. I figured it couldn't hurt to add some more color to my ensemble, so I tucked it behind my ear for the rest of the trek to Jaws. Mario spent a little longer at the aid station, and I ended up doing the rest of the climb almost entirely alone.

I feel pretty

As the sun began to set, the weather rapidly cooled. I layered up and strapped on a headlamp for the long night ahead. The trail continued to pass through muddy, slow sections, but the golden hour views more than made up for it. Elks bugled in the distance just out of sight. Just after dark, I started to see the first runners heading back.

Can't get enough of these meadows!

The last few miles to Jaws had shin-deep standing water. At 9,000 feet up, with the temperatures now just below freezing, this was an unwelcome development. I reached Jaws at 10:40pm, now back on my target splits despite the tough conditions. Alex was waiting for me in the giant heated aid station tent, and the next ten minutes were a whirlwind of sock changes, adding layers of clothing, grabbing hot food, and of course getting a kiss to keep my spirits up (perks of having your wife crew you!).

I walked out of the aid station still munching on some warm quesadillas. The short break from running had left me chilly and my movements were stiff and slow. I slogged back through the shin-deep water section, soaking my new socks. It was going to be a long descent back to Sally's.

The 18 mile climb to Jaws had taken just under six hours (20 min/mi). In my race planning, I figured that the descent would be much faster, ideally about 4.5 hours (15 min/mi). This seemed conservative since I'm typically a good downhill runner and the grade of the descent didn't look bad on paper. What I hadn't accounted for was the mud (have I mentioned the mud yet?).

When all was said and done, I rolled into Sally's after well over 5 hours of descending, once again well behind schedule. The mud, the cold, and the dark had conspired to activate the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-my-life lobe of my brain, and I was feeling very sorry for myself. But I still had to get back to Alex at the finish line, so there was no time to sulk.

I changed out of my Speedgoats and into my ridiculously plush Glide Max shoes. It was just after 4am, and the sun would be out soon. Despite the mental low, I was certainly going to finish this thing.

Sally's to the Finish

Once again, Sally's delivered a world class aid station experience, and I left while munching on a sausage McMuffin. During my ascent of The Wall, I would periodically pull out this greasy cylinder of hyper-processed factory-farmed organ meat and nibble on it for motivation. Then I would jam it back into my sweaty running vest like Napoleon Dynamite squirreling away his tater tots. This must be what people mean when they talk about a runner's high.

Glorious sunrise!

The sun finally came out and we were greeted with another day of mild weather. With the power of a thousand emulsified animals coursing through my digestive tract, I hammered up the wall at a blistering 28 minute per mile pace. I was now back on top of the ridge and had only a few short climbs and one massive descent left.

Somewhere in this section I linked up with Dandelion, another Wyoming runner whose parents, she assured me, were not hippies. She was one of those all-around mountain athlete types, and we spent a few hours talking about her rock climbing, skiing, and mountaineering adventures. Somehow, my two favorite things to talk about during an adventure are past adventures and future adventures.

Once again I must mention how pretty the views were

Shortly after I passed through Dry Fork, the 18 mile race started from that aid station. I have mixed feelings about how the next few hours played out. On one hand, it was a huge pain in the ass to pull over for the faster runners and to get stuck behind the more timid runners who slowed down in the mud while I wanted to just plow straight through. On the other hand, it was nice to have some people to talk to who weren't all sleep deprived zombies.

Portrait of the author very much in his feelings

I slip-slid my way down the final descent feeling more like a drunken skier than a trail runner, making sure to take in the last few alpine views. At some point in here I slipped and attempted to brace my fall with my hands, only for them to sink into the mud up to my elbows. This is fun. We're having fun. I rinsed the smelly goo off in a stream, trying not think about the amount of cow shit I had seen in prior mud patches.

Still worth the mud

The last five miles were entirely on roads and descended at a mellow grade. I had envisioned trotting through this at a nice leisurely 12 min/mi pace, or perhaps in a final burst of energy, hammering some 8 minute miles. On that particular day and time, all my legs could manage was a pained 14-15 min/mi shuffle. As a matter of pride I maintained a running cadence, but a very friendly 18-mile runner was able to match my pace while power walking.

Mud literally from head to toe

I crossed the finish line a little after 2pm after more than 29 hours of running. Alex and her baby bump were there to greet me. Boy Alex had finished two hours earlier, also an hour behind his time goal. We decided that our race execution must have been perfect, but the course must have been an hour slower than normal because of the trail conditions (I am not interested in investigating this further).

Ryan, Alex, and future Emily celebrating a successful adventure

Final time: 29:18:34 (63rd of 226 starters)

Strava

Official results

Epilogue

We often turn my destination races into week long vacations, and in this case we drove out to Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks after the race. If you are considering running Bighorn, these are ideal places to visit while recovering from an ultra. There are tons of views, geothermal features, and wildlife that are visible from the side of the road. We even managed to do a little alpine scrambling despite my tired legs and Alex carrying a small human in her belly.

Good way to end a trip!

Bighorn was equal parts spectacular and awful. The views and the aid stations were among the best I've ever seen, but the mud was unrelenting. I doubt I'll ever race it again, but I'm glad to have done it once. Thank you to all of the event organizers and volunteers and of course to my wife and daughter for supporting me!