Trail running provides solace, community, and a sense of personal strength. It encapsulates so many things, and yet it is so simple. All that’s required is an open heart and a pair of trail shoes.

The Benefits of Trail Running

Trail running offers a variety of benefits, ranging from physical to mental. If you’re unsure whether or not trail running is for you, hear us out. It offers a greater connection to: 

• Nature

Trail running allows you to see so much in such a short period of time, and demands your attention to avoid things like roots and rocks—a great form of escape and mindfulness.

• Self

Trail running is a transformative experience: running varied terrain can enhance your agility, endurance, and overall strength. It’s also been proven to offer a variety of other health benefits, like elevated cognitive performance, endorphin production, and stress reduction, to name a few. Recent studies have shown that running has effects similar to those of meditation.

• Community

Trail running has a way of creating bonds between people, no matter if you’re passing another runner on the trail, shopping for new shoes in a store, or part of a run club. In fact, it’s not uncommon to see trail runners slowing down during races to help competitors. This mentality builds community around becoming your best self and pushing personal limits, not beating the runner next to you.

It’s Easy to Start

Trail running is simple, straightforward, and easy to get into—there are no requirements or classes you need to take. And it’s inexpensive. All you need is the right shoes and you’re good to go.

It Can Be a Solitary or Group Sport

Trail running is an activity that can be done solo or with others. Unlike with rock climbing or backcountry skiing, you don’t need a partner.

It Gives You New Perspectives

Whether you’re running on a new trail or an old favourite, you get to see both yourself and the terrain with a fresh set of eyes. To run trails is to say yes to adventure and exploration.

It Does Not Discriminate

Anybody can run trails—no matter your body type, age, race, experience, or identity. Trail running is an activity that anyone can start, stop, or pick up again.

Ultimately, trail running isn’t about the distance or pace; it’s about the experience and being outside. So however you choose to take on trail running, know that it will take you places near and far—mentally and physically.

Sometimes you meet someone who is an inspiration.

When you meet John Cairns today, the first thing you notice is that he radiates positive energy, smiles with his whole face and is genuinely happy to spend time with you. Even if you just met, he’ll waste no time jumping into conversation.

So why is John is a true inspiration? Maybe it’s because he climbed to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, or hiked to Base Camp at Mount Everest, or ran the Terry Fox Marathon, or that he’s an entrepreneur and motivational speaker. Oh, he also founded a charitable foundation.

Impressive right? Well, there’s more to the story. A quarter of a century ago, John took the last step he would ever take with his right foot. In 1993, John lost both his right arm and his right leg in a workplace accident when he stopped a runaway rail car headed for a crew working on the tracks.

 “Every other step is still a leap of faith”

John went through weeks in intensive care, months of rehabilitation, and suffered with bouts of depression as he faced his new reality. One day, John realized “this is not the end, it is a new beginning.”  With that, he was able to confront his situation and through effort, determination, and positivity, he’s been able to accomplish feats that many people can only dream of.

In 2016, John climbed Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa, one of the Seven Summits of the World.  He followed up with another climb in May of 2018 when John summited Everest Base Camp.   All along the way, he thanked his supporters for their encouragement to allow him to share his life’s purpose of demonstrating: living life to the fullest potential, despite any circumstances.

In the time since the accident, he’s taught himself to scuba dive, play squash, and even snowboard.

There are no small steps.

John’s accomplishments aren’t just physical. He is also the President and Founder of the Wheelchair of Hope Foundation, a not-for-profit committed to changing the lives of people by giving them access to mobility devices. As a motivational speaker, business-owner, leader, and friend, he’s left an indelible mark on the community at large.

John continued to take on new challenges as we embarked on a trip to the Lyell Ice Field high in the Rockies of British Columbia to test the limits of our Vibram Arctic Grip collection.

Learn more about the great work done by Wheelchair of Hope here.

“People are nice. That’s the good thing about humans, but after awhile you’re like ‘I know if I had two legs you wouldn’t treat me this way’.”

Dan Kosick is a nice guy. A super nice guy. But as an adaptive athlete since the age of 15, when he lost his leg to cancer, he doesn’t always love it when people are too nice.

“I don’t think it’s really fair for me to say that I don’t want people to hold up for me because I’d probably wait for someone in my shoes. That’s just human nature.  You want people to hold up if they notice someone is struggling or could use some extra help. So I can’t get mad at somebody for wanting to slow down and help me out, but internally I’m just always going to feel like I don’t want want that to happen.”

Compassion and competitiveness. These two forces define Dan.

The former fuels his work as a social worker, lacrosse coach and world-class father. The latter has driven him to lofty heights, like competing against the world’s best as a US Paralympic skier and serving as a Tough Mudder ambassador.

But when it comes to lofty heights, no endeavor has taken him as high–or tapped into his  competitiveness and compassion–as much as his most recent achievement.

“The big thing about Cotopaxi is that it’s almost 20,000 feet, which is an elevation I’ve never experienced,” said Dan, two months out from the summiting expedition he and 15 other amputees would attempt on behalf of the Range Of Motion Project (ROMP), a non-profit organization established to help underserved populations gain access to prosthetic services.

“It’s going to be a huge challenge, but the whole idea behind the climb is to show the world that you’re not disabled by an amputation, but by the lack of a proper prosthetic.”

And show the world they did. On September 28th, Dan, and the ROMP team, successfully reached the summit of Ecuador’s second tallest mountain as the sun was just cresting the eastern horizon.

“It was incredible. It wasn’t easy climbing in glacier boots with crampons and a prosthetic at 20,000 feet,” recalled Dan. “I almost felt tired…almost.”

Dan, of course, was joking about the post-climb exhaustion he experienced, but all kidding aside, he credits committing to a focused training plan for the successful outcome.

“My whole mindset leading up to Cotopaxi was to train as if I was performing, so when I performed it was like training.”

Specifically, Dan relied on a regimen of functional fitness exercises, indoors and outdoors, knowing he would need to rely on his entire body to get him up and down the mountain.

“To me functional fitness means fitness you’re going to use,” noted Dan. “There are so many different ways to workout and train, but if you’re training and working out in ways that you’re just not going to use everyday, or for specific purposes and goals, then it’s not functional.”

From weekly sessions gripping, grappling and grinding up and over obstacles at a local OCR course to more structured training sessions at his local gym, the challenges of Cotopaxi remained the focal point of Dan’s training.

“I think the idea is that everybody should approach training with a goal or a focus. It might not be climbing a mountain, but just having a goal in general forces you to come up with a plan of how to get there. For me, at 20,000 feet, climbing Cotopaxi on one leg meant I was going to need to be able to do 20,000 step-ups over some really tough, uneven terrain in thin air,” said Dan. “Just knowing this gave me and my coaches something to focus on and build a training plan around.”

When asked if all his training and preparation eliminated any sense of doubt leading up to the climb, Dan simply responded, “I’m not afraid of falling. I’ve fallen a lot in life. I fall everyday. Most people don’t know how to fall, so they’ve never embraced it. But I’m a professional faller and I know how to fall good, so if I fall on Cotopaxi I will just have to figure it out when I get there.”

It’s unclear how many times Dan fell, or if he fell at all, but what is clear is that he and his fellow ROMP climbers figured it out when they got there.

To help Dan and his efforts for the Range Of Motion Project, please consider donating at ROMPglobal.org.

Set amidst a rolling sea of green, Mongolia is a landlocked nation with a rich cultural history. Renowned for its expansive steppe terrain, it’s landscape beckons those with an insatiable wanderlust, and it’s no surprise that its vast grasslands fostered a nomadic, herding tradition that was responsible for the growth of the Mongolia Empire in the 13th and 14th centuries.

I first visited Mongolia in 2013 to film an episode of Boundless. That trip was spent in the north of the Country on Lake Khovsgol, and as we were focused on the 100km race, I didn’t have an opportunity to explore much of the country, or the culture. I left feeling like I didn’t get a true Mongolian experience, but I was intrigued by one thing in particular – the lack of fences in the countryside.

I was looking forward to finally having the Mongolian cultural and natural immersion I wanted back in 2013. One of the first things I noticed upon leaving the airport in Ulaanbaatar (UB) was how much the city had changed. Gone were the roads so potholed that I figured departing Soviet soldiers had just randomly tossed grenades from the back of their troop carriers for fun as they rolled back to the USSR. The traffic was still buzzing as we drove north to meet the team in Gorkhi-Terelj National Park, and along the way I saw a snapshot of Mongolia today – traditional gers occupying greenspace alongside the busy highway, but mixed amid high rises and modern looking sub-divisions. I could see Russian era coal fired power plants – logically numbered 1, 2, and 3 – completely encircled by residential and commercial buildings, belching black smoke to provide energy to this growing city.

As we left the city behind, a more traditional, and iconic, Mongolia appeared on the horizon, with gers, livestock, and herders going about their afternoon completely uninterested in the cars and SUVs that sped along the highway beside them. Once in the National Park (just called Terelj by the locals), we stayed at the comfortable Ayanchin Lodge – which would serve as our hub of exploration, and the only reliable wifi in the region.  Terelj is a large park known for several main attractions – a deep glacial lake, a popular hot spring, rock climbing, and a buddhist monastery.

What really made Terelj unique to me, was that Mongolian herders are permitted to live within the park boundaries and have formed several small villages of gers and livestock. I appreciated the effort that the government was making to balance tradition and coexistence with conservation. I learned from our guides and translators that much of Mongolia is still strongly rooted in the nomadic tradition and most Mongolians, even those living in urban areas, maintain very strong ties to their animals and the land.

I experienced this firsthand when we joined a local woman at her ger to “help” her milk her cattle and yaks. After the milking was completed, we watched her prepare the milk into a yogurt and perform her daily prayer with the milk prior to eating that morning.

Despite living within an hour drive of the capital and having two daughters in university, this woman was the antithesis of modernization. She was ~40 years old and didn’t use Instagram or take selfies. Her property held a traditional ger, a very simple three-room brick house, some animal corrals, and a small barn.

She milked her cows, herded them, and shoveled their waste into the body of an old van to be used as heating fuel in the winter. Her’s was, by our standards, a very basic but difficult life. I’m sure she could have found a way to make a living in UB if she wanted to, in order to be able to enjoy some of its modern conveniences and luxuries, but it seemed to me that this life was the life she and her husband chose to live.  All of it drove home the first world nature of most of my problems, which admittedly, come from excess, not deficiency.

Most had beautifully run-able approaches that often involved dodging livestock, and when the grasses gave way to forest, I found the bushwhacking easy and enjoyable (save the one branch that split my lip). The scrambles required to reach each summit felt like the right degree of technical difficulty to tackle them alone, and without ropes, with the granite rock providing incredible traction and grip, and a low risk of flaking or crumbling in hand, or underfoot.

Most had beautifully run-able approaches that often involved dodging livestock, and when the grasses gave way to forest, I found the bushwhacking easy and enjoyable (save the one branch that split my lip). The scrambles required to reach each summit felt like the right degree of technical difficulty to tackle them alone, and without ropes, with the granite rock providing incredible traction and grip, and a low risk of flaking or crumbling in hand, or underfoot.

Playing alone on mountaintops comes with a certain degree of risk, and while I’ve always considered my personal safety while moving in the mountains, my risk tolerance has definitely changed since becoming a husband and father in the last year and a half. It’s not that I won’t tackle technically difficult objectives, it’s just that I realize that there is a lot to lose if I make mistakes now – so I factor that into every mountaineering equation. I’ve found that it means that I spend more time considering my options, and various factors such as weather, rock quality, my energy level, equipment, and preparation a little more seriously than I did in the past, when I figured that my fitness and skill would carry me through.

Of the mountains visited, both alone and and with our new friends from the UB hiking club, Zorgolkhairkhan was the most spectacular. One of Mongolia’s sacred mountains, this peak sits alone in a vast steppe, a mountain range rises behind it – separated by a wide valley. After driving several hours outside of UB, on both paved and dirt track, it felt like we were a world away from civilization. As we set our campsite at the base of the mountain, we watched a few Mongolian men pass us to retrieve water from a nearby well, riding a cart pulled by a camel. Their life seemed so simple – and almost purely subsistence based. There was something enviable about that. The mountain itself pulled at me to climb it. With exposed granite sloping upwards to the summit at an angle that seemed runnable, I was eager to begin our sunset hike. Once moving with the group, I was pleased to find that it provided a sustained but enjoyable climb, with ample opportunity for scrambling grippy granite slabs, and getting up close and personal with the rock.

Urok, our UB hiking club guide showed us a well known cave near the summit, with a soot blackened roof dating back to time immemorial where Mongolians and their predecessors would have prepared a meal over a campfire – possibly dung fuelled, as wood is hard to come by on the steppe. The team pushed on to the summit where we were rewarded with spectacular views, and a summit festooned in prayer flags, something which I had come to expect after visiting several peaks around Terelj. From the summit, Urok told us the story of how Chinngis Khan (the Mongolian pronunciation and spelling of the English version Genghis Khan) spent a season camped near the base of this mountain with best friend, Jamukha, before he began his historical military campaign and rose to become the great Khan (Fun Fact – it’s estimated that as many as 16,000 million men on Earth have a DNA link to this infamous ruler). Around the base of the mountain lay ancient burial sites, most, if not all, long since looted, but all still representative of a different time – perhaps the time of the Great Khans.

Sitting atop a mountain, thousands of feet above the steppe below is a place for introspection. Golden eagles sore below you, occasionally catching a thermal to rise up in front of you – hoovering for a brief moment, before either being carried higher, or plunging below the horizon again. The wind blows – erasing any sounds from the valley below – and centres you in that place, and moment in time. If find that these moments are rare in life, and when you can recognize them – they are worth fighting for. These moments brought the entire Mongolian trip full circle for me, as these were the simple times, where schedule, and work demands only existed at the base of the mountain. On the summit, was time for meditation, deep thought, appreciation and gratitude. Gratitude that there are still places on this planet where we can escape our insane calendars, and reconnect with the important things – the simple things. What I value most about these trips and cultural immersions is how they make me think about my life, my priorities, and the things that I let stress me. They remind me about what matters most – which is family, health, and maintaining a deep appreciation for the natural places that help us find our centre.

By Ambassador Simon Donato

I’m a late bloomer to the outdoors. I only started hiking and camping about six years ago. The longer and more challenging my trails got, the more, “lost” I wanted to become. Backpacking was a natural next step, but there have been things that have held me back. For some of us, there are barriers to the outdoors like representation, access to actual outdoor spaces, money for gear, and the ability to take time off of work. (I talk about these issues a lot on my blog and @UnlikelyHikers, an Instagram community for the underrepresented outdoorsperson.)

With the help of some generously donated gear, I finally gave backpacking a shot!

In preparation, my partner, Brie, and I spent a lot of time watching YouTube videos of people filtering water, cooking on ultralight stoves, and packing backpacks. We practiced in our kitchen before heading out and honestly, I felt really prepared — ready for anything. Well, ready for anything except what was going to happen….

I picked a trail I know well, the Salmon River Trail in the Salmon-Huckleberry Wilderness on Mt. Hood. It’s in a beautiful, old growth rainforest just an hour away from my home in Portland. I knew from my day hikes there were many places to camp and get water. My objective for the first time wasn’t miles, but to get a feel of moving with a pack and trusting everything I needed was on my body.

We got a late start because I lead a group hike that morning. It was pouring rain, but we were prepared for it. Busy as I am, there was simply no way to reschedule it for later. We were going.

We hiked a couple of miles in the rain to a great campsite, set up our tent, and hung out inside all night. My excitement about backpacking trumped the rain, but I do not recommend starting your first trip in bad weather. Even after just two miles, everything that wasn’t protected was soaked and there wasn’t exactly a place we could hang things to dry. Still, my sleeping bag was super warm and a hot meal cooked on our little stove for the first time in the vestibule of our roomy tent felt nearly luxurious. I slept relatively well, but I always find the first night on the ground to be the roughest. Also, the inflatable pillow I treated myself to deflated a few times even though Brie’s was fine all night. Not fair!

We woke to sunbeams filtering through ancient Douglas firs and dreamy moss. No rain. I was grateful to wake up in this incredible place, knowing my body took me there.

Brie got coffee going and I made us breakfast. We ate as our tent and rainfly dried in the patches of sunlight moving through our campsite. We packed up and hit the trail again. Our only goal was to hike more than two miles, further than we’d ever gone on a day hike. As I hiked, my pack felt surprisingly good. Full with food and water, it weighed 28.7 lbs. and it took only that first night to recognize things I didn’t need.

We got to a creek and set up to filter water for the first time, not counting practicing in our kitchen sink. We also had some back-up water treatment drops just in case it felt sketchy. The filter was so ridiculously easy to use it feels suspicious. The water tasted amazing. Brie, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure and used the drops in addition to filtering, making hers taste like tap water. Strangely comforting.

As our trail started to climb, it became clear we’d made a solid goal. Those couple miles took over an hour each! We took a long break at the viewpoint that normally signifies our turnaround spot for a day hike. It had gotten hot and we were already halfway through our second bottle of water. We also really needed to eat. We were a mile and a half from our next water source and we discussed finding a place to camp just past it. We soon found a spot near a gorgeous meadow. I started making lunch while Brie set up our tent. We were talking about how happy we were and how well we were doing, making jokes about being real backpackers now. I was hooked already.

Lunch was ready, so Brie came over and we started eating. That’s when it happened. A gust of wind. Everything changed in a second.

Our tent blew over a cliff.

(You read that correctly.)

Brie got distracted and didn’t stake it down. It was up for only a few minutes and then it was gone. We slept in it one time and it was gone.

I know it probably sounds funny at first, but please, imagine yourself in this situation: Hungry, tired, almost out of water, ridiculously happy about this new experience and how well it’s going. And the tent just blew over a cliff.

We could see it lodged between some trees, but it was a vertical drop. In our disbelief, we both tried thinking of ways to get it, but honestly it was crazy talk. There was no way.

My ego could not handle this failure. I was so sad, angry, and fearful of how this would look to all of the amazing people cheering me on. How am I going out like this on my first backpacking trip?! It all felt like too much. Yes, I was mad at Brie, but I couldn’t help but see what an honest mistake it was. Possibly one I could make, too. I also knew how horrified she was feeling and that in telling this story I’d have to say what she’d done.

As we stood there in shock, reality continued to flood in. It was after 4PM and some of our previous miles took more than an hour. We packed up and got back on the trail, not talking the first couple miles. I was too beside myself to say anything that mattered anyway.

We made a huge mistake. A huge mistake in a long list of successes. Brie pointed out how we’d actually done everything we came to do, besides sleeping a second night. We even covered all of our miles — maybe not how we planned, but how often do things really go as planned? No one was hurt. No one died from trying to retrieve a tent from the side of a cliff.

Is this an Unlikely Hiker story, or what?! There was another thought I kept having as I processed all of this and I knew this thought mattered more than anything in the grand scheme of it all:

When can I do this again?

On July 14th, 2018 I embarked on a journey around and through Rainier National Park with two friends, Sam Ritchie and Erik Sanders. The experience was one of the more challenging and memorable days in the mountains that I’ve ever had.

Dreamed up by the late Chad Kellogg, The Rainier Infinity Loop is an all encompassing ultra-mountaineering adventure that takes you on a journey through Rainier National Park, climbing to the 14,411’ summit of the glaciated peak of Mt. Rainier not once, but twice, and circumnavigating the entire mountain by way of the iconic Wonderland Trail.

The adventure begins on the John Muir Steps at Paradise Trailhead. Start by climbing the south face of the mountain via the Disappointment Cleaver Route to the Summit of Mt. Rainier then descend to the North East via the Emmons Glacier to White River Trailhead. Once at White River, run 30 miles clockwise back to Paradise Trailhead. Climb Mount Rainier again via the same routes as before, then finish the loop by running the remaining 67 miles of the Wonderland Trail counterclockwise back to the John Muir Steps, effectively tracing an “Infinity Loop” around Mount Rainier National Park. The Mount Rainier Infinity Loop covers 135+ miles and has over 47,000 feet of elevation gain.

Looking back on the experience, here are 4 things I learned while etching the infinity loop:

1) Pick The Right Gear

This was tricky. To tackle the Rainier Infinity Loop in a self-supported style, we stashed gear at Paradise (starting and ending point) and White River, a trailhead and campsite on the other side of the mountain. Utilizing this style we were able to break our gear into 4 categories: Mountain Kit 1, Mountain Kit 2, Running Kit 1 and Running Kit 2.

The running kits were fairly easy to compile. We filled running vests with enough gear to get us through some cold and precipitation, but we spent almost the entire Wonderland Trail in shorts and t-shirts. I used Merrell’s medium cushion and drop trail running shoe, the Agility Synthesis Flex. The mountain was a little more challenging when it came to decisions. For the first lap up and over Mt. Rainier I used a light mountain boot rigid enough to be compatible with a semi-automatic crampon and warm enough to deal with any weather that might move in while we were up there. On my second lap, I used a more robust mountain boot with a toe bail and heel welt. I feared our fatigue and poorly functioning metabolisms so late in the adventure could have us wanting warmer layers on the 2nd lap up the peak in 24 hours. Even though I used proper mountaineering boots for the summits of Mt. Rainier, I carried light trail runners (All Out Crush 2) with me so I could run dry trails below the glacier.

2) Some Sleep is Better Than No Sleep

The first time The Rainier Infinity Loop was completed it took just under 100 hours. Prior to our effort, the fastest known time was completed in 66 hours by Scott Bennett. Going into this challenge, I wasn’t completely sure what headspace I needed to be in in order to be successful when it came to sleep deprivation. In the end I chose to try and complete both summits of the classic volcano before attempting to sleep. As I ran the final 5 miles of trail towards the White River campground, all I could think about was how good it would feel to lay down in my sleeping bag. 25 hours prior, I had visited the White River Campground and reserved a site. I set-up my tent, inflated my sleeping pad and rolled out my bag. Erik and I discussed a sleep strategy and we carved out 4 hours for this pit-stop, easily enough time to enjoy 180 minutes of shut-eye.

We got to camp, changed into more comfortable clothes and re-fueled the best we could. My head hit the pillow about 20 minutes after we ran into camp and I was out. I awoke feeling a little sweaty from the midday heat, but rested. I glanced at my watch – it had been 15 minutes.

I tossed and turned for another hour watching Erik’s still body, wondering if he was counting sheep. For the next 40 minutes I readjusted the down jacket that served as my pillow, but never found perfection. After being in camp for 2.5 hours, Erik rolled over and asked me if I was sleeping. At this point, neither of us were. We decided to cut our break short and start to mobilize.

We gathered our gear for the final 67 miles of trail, ate more food and took off counter-clockwise down the wonderland trail. Strangely, we felt great.

Although neither of us achieved any real sleep, the long break gave our minds and bodies the most rest they’d seen in days. It may have been mostly psychological, but the rest made that final section of the Wonderland Trail much more enjoyable.

Minus the 15 minutes of slumber I was awake for about 65 hours straight, which certainly made The Rainier Infinity Loop interesting.

3) Stay Positive and Keep on Moving!

Big adventures like the Rainier Infinity Loop certainly require a technical mountaineering skill set accompanied by some long, ultra distance experience. Most importantly, when it comes to an objective of this nature, the hardest distance to navigate is the 6 inches between your ears.

The magnitude of the Infinity Loop is big. It requires you to strategically breakdown the journey into digestible sections, while demonstrating voluntary ignorance of what’s to come. As with all big endurance outings there will be psychological and physical peaks and valleys. However, I knew that with this particular mission the highs could be huge and lows massive. To avoid the destructive sways from peak to valley we kept our strategy simple: Stay positive and keep moving.

As a team, we ate at the same time, moved at a pace that was conducive to finishing near our goal time, and most importantly we kept on moving forward. If one person would descend into a mental or physical low, they would be placed in the “penalty box,” a literal sandwich between the two other runners who would work to stabilize the pace and boost the moral of the runner in the pain cave. With an effort to foster positive conversation, proper fueling and relentless forward progress, the penalty box never had residents for very long.

4) Share the Experience

The Rainier Infinity Loop was one of the most challenging and memorable outings in the mountains that I’ve ever had. The amount of distance traveled, the broad scope of terrain, so much stands out from this adventure. However the most significant memories I have from that trip came from experiencing The Infinity Loop with Sam and Erik. The long stories we shared, the delirious babbling conversations we were able to somehow carry on with each other, the shared adventurous dynamic that seemed to fire on all cylinders for the entire journey. Most importantly being at peace in the silent sound of collective suffering in the final 10 miles to the John Muir Steps at Paradise. The Infinity Loop is an incredible outing in and of itself, but the ability to embark on this shared experience with two other great adventurers is what made this outing truly memorable.

In the end, Erik Sanders and myself reached the Muir Steps at the Paradise Trailhead, the official starting and finish line of the Rainier Infinity Loop after 59 hours, 21 minutes. We did achieve the fastest known time for this endeavor in the process, but most importantly we learned a lot about our own limits of human potential.

“You can’t train to not feel pain, so I train so I can tolerate it. To me training is part of the journey and a way to experience the world. And I do it as hard as I possibly can so when I’m in a race, I won’t have to say to myself, “I wish I had…’”

Ultra-marathoner Katie Kubont has no off button. Her friends call her the Energizer Bunny. They say she’s relentless, crazy and has NO idea how to relax like she’s some sort of perpetual motion machine. Does she deny any of it?

“I never tell myself that I cannot, I always tell myself that I can,” Katie said recently.
“That may sound fake, but it’s true. Anyone can do anything. Is it that you can’t, or is it that you really just don’t want to?”

Great question. Especially for a “Yooper” from Northern Michigan where summer’s short and winter brings six months of ice and snow. Training never stops, though, so Katie’s lucky to have found a best friend and training partner as crazy about hitting the winter trails as she is: her Australian Shepherd named Noque.

“I love Noque’s desire to make me happy and proud. I’d researched running dogs and came across Australian Shepherds. I saw her fluffy squishy face come across my Facebook page and just knew I had to have her,” Katie said. “Her personality is very unique and goofy and she’s always trying to make me happy and proud.”

Katie named Noque after the Noquemanon Trail Network where they can be seen training together no matter the sun, snow, rain, ice or fog. The network starts right outside downtown Marquette and has more than 150 miles of trails. In the summer, they’re popular among families and college kids. In the winter, they access some of the most desolate places in Michigan. And it’s usually just Katie and Noque out there!

“On the trails, Noque’s off leash and trained to stay with me. She ignores other people, dogs, squirrels and distractions,” Katie said. “She slicks back her ears to pick up speed and will look up at me from time-to-time with this look on her face that is saying, ‘How am I doing mom!?’

Noque is always pushing Katie. The two have a true connection and feed off each other to complete the challenges of the trail together. To Katie, training is the evidence of progress. When she’s able to run further, run faster, become less fatigued and recover quicker, she knows the training is paying off. Plus being outside and getting to do it with her best friend is icing on the cake.

“Noque’s been on some intense runs with me where we broke numerous course records, but what I love most about trail-running is the opportunity to get off of the grid. Noque, too. She hates road running, but on the trail we hurdle over logs together, hopscotch rocks and limbo under trees.”

Ultramarathons tend to attract obsessive people. It’s not unusual for a person to spend five or more hours a day on the trails training alone. Sometimes it can get lonely, your body hurts, you’re alone in your head, but with Noque by her side, it’s never so bad. Michigan is a gym all its own.

“My favorite part about being outside is seeing so much of the world that so many people may never see. The world has its own playground, treadmill, stair-stepper and its own weight room. In one run, you can see different trees, feel the different terrains underfoot, feel the different temperatures on your skin and see a wide range of wildlife. My favorite is the different nature-like smells. Probably Noque’s, too!”

Marquette is a very active community with road bikers, snow bikers, hikers, climbers, skiers, trail runners, you name it. And the UP is one of America’s best kept secrets when it comes to winter training. You’re living on the edge of nature and taking on its challenges every day. Katie’s learned to embrace it and use it to push her training to the limit.

“I hunger for the adventure, the unknown, and the changes nature can bring from day-to-day.  I enjoy the climbs up mountain tops gasping for air, legs screaming and my hair matted to my forehead. Pushing myself to exhaustion is the most relaxing and rewarding part of the day.  Getting dirty, soaked from the rain and having icicles on my eyelashes from a snowstorm, make me smile. Not to mention running in thunderstorms, hail, 70mph winds and higher, rain, scorching heat, ice, puddles, mud, rivers, the list goes on! I love it when nature adds extra challenges.”

To us it might sound brutal, but to Katie it’s why she calls Michigan home. And the good news is, she’s got a buddy by her side who thinks of the world of her and wants to be out there as much as she does!

The old adage goes that third time is the charm. I’ve never given the phrase much thought, but as I danced along an alarmingly narrow ledge, with daylight rapidly fading, I began to wonder if my third visit to Oman’s Musandam peninsula would be our jubilant swan song, or if I would come up short – again. I certainly wasn’t feeling like we had luck on our side at that very moment. I had left Mike Chambers, a fellow Merrell Ambassador and mountain athlete, to finish rigging our second rappel of the day in order to notify the team that they needed to don their harnesses and prepare to abseil. We had run up against yet another cliff band that had become a major impediment to our progress that afternoon. We were five days into our Beyond Roads expedition on Oman’s Musandam Peninsula and had made it further than the previous two expeditions. If we were to succeed we would need to figure out a way around these cliff bands that we were currently clinging to.

Oman is truly a land of mystery, beauty, both in the natural and cultural sense. The middle east has always had an exotic appeal for me, so when I had the opportunity to complete my grad studies near Muscat Oman, I jumped at it. After three field seasons exploring coastal lagoons for evidence of ancient tsunamis, I felt as though I had only scratched the surface of what this country had to offer, and felt a pull to Oman’s rugged and desolate mountains that touch the sky. I needed to find a reason to explore them, to learn their secrets, and to go where others dared not.

The Musandam region first caught my attention while I was reading through some old Royal Geographical Society manuscripts about Oman. In terms of access, the Musandam is the end of the road – literally and figuratively. The mountainous peninsula is the most northerly point in Oman, and forms the Southern portion of the Strait of Hormuz – an important waterway since ancient times. Very little scientific research has been conducted in the region – primarily due to accessibility. In 1971 a British led expedition explored the coastline of Peninsula and all it took was a single sentence in their final report to capture my imagination and set the Beyond Roads project in motion:

“The steepness of the hills imposed a further limitation on which would could be undertaken in a relatively short time. Local inhabitants, who were at all times most helpful, referred to old sites in the mountains but it was not possible to visit them or ascertain their precise nature.”

Miss B. de Cardi, Secretary of the Council for British Archaeology (1973)

The Musandam (Northern Oman) Expedition, 1971/72

Seven years, three attempts, and one broken ankle later, I was back to tackle the Musandam – hopefully putting this obsession of mine to bed – once and for all. Our goal since 2011 was to complete a 60+ mile (100 kilometre) north-south traverse of the roadless and mountainous peninsula in order to identify and describe archaeological sites located in the highlands along this rugged route (In 2016 we partnered with a local group to search for evidence of the critically endangered Arabian leopard in the region). This trekking expedition would be the first of it’s kind in those mountains. Our inaugural visit was eye opening to say the least, with the terrain being far more difficult than expected, and the limestone bedrock so sharp that my trail runners were destroyed on the first day of the expedition. We learned a lot, but didn’t make it very far – stopped by the terrain. We returned in 2016 and again, were stopped short by the terrain and an injury.

This season, we were back with the support of Merrell and Adventure Science (my organization which pairs athletes with researchers to conduct scientific field projects in remote locations around the globe www.adventurescience.ca), and a well-chosen team possessing the technical and physical ability to move quickly and safely through this terrain. In addition to mountaineer Mike Chambers, our team included archaeologist Gino Caspari, adventurer Jim Mandelli, athlete Gemita Samarra, and photographers Luis Moreira and Chris Shane. We were also field testing a purpose built shoe – the MQM Flex on this expedition with the theory that if the shoe could survive a week of trekking through this terrain, then it would survive anywhere!

The geographical location of the peninsula in the Persian Gulf has made it a historically important region, and mariners have plied the water for millennia—transporting everything from frankincense to crude oil. Despite this, very little known about the history of the people of the Musandam, especially those who once lived in the remote, and difficult to access highland plateau. Our discussions with local Kumzari people (those thought to be most closely related to the former farmers of the highlands) didn’t provide much insight into the timing of their occupation beyond their belief that it ended several generations ago. We know that in past centuries, seasonal grain farming occurred in the highlands and that a drying climate ultimately forced these populations down to the coast permanently. While there has been archaeological study of sites south of Khasab, there is little published about this region, making it an archaeological frontier. Gino and I were responsible for documenting the archaeological sites we had previously discovered, as well as anything new that we encountered. We documented all sites by taking GPS coordinates, describing the site in our notebooks, and using a drone to photograph important sites to allow for a novel 3D-mapping.

We structured the team and daily transects in such a way that allowed the athletes to move quickly, exploring for sites which Gino and I would rapidly survey before moving on to the next. While the larger sites tended to correspond with cleared agricultural areas and were visible on satellite images, we were surprised to discover a number of ridgeline cairns of various designs. We also came upon a number of small farms in unexpected locations with what appeared to be defensive features, likely dating to the time of the Portuguese expansion and occupation of the region, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. During our three field seasons, we have recorded over 50 sites scattered throughout the highlands. Our current thinking, based on architecture and pottery observed, is that most of the sites are contemporaneous with each other, and date within the last five hundred years, although we have suspicions that one particular style of cairn discovered on this expedition may date to an earlier period. Our hope is that the subsequent analysis of the data collected during this expedition, coupled with the 3D reconstruction of several of the sites visited will aid in refining our ideas surrounding the timing of occupation in the highlands. Our survey method worked exceedingly well in this terrain and we learned that in this region, its hardy past inhabitants built a vast network of farms and villages in the highlands, and left traces of their presence in all but the most vertical terrain.

Our previous two expeditions had been self-supported. We would hire a boat in Khasab (the last town before the road ends) and drop a number of food and water caches along the coastline before finally dropping our team in the most northeasterly part of the peninsula to begin our trek. We would be self supported, and carry very heavy packs. which slowed us greatly. This season we decided to hire a traditional Omani fishing dhow to provide a floating base camp. This allowed us to move significantly faster than we had been able to in our previous expedition and in the span of four days, we were able to speed through terrain that had previously taken seven to traverse.

By the fifth day, we had reached what we deemed the crux of the route. We were entering new terrain and no longer simply retracing our steps from previous expeditions. The objective of day five was to figure out a way to overcome Jabal Letub, at 3000 ft (915 m) the tallest mountain in the Musandam, and negotiate the three subsequent peaks that towered over the coastal village of Sibi. If we could negotiate these peaks, we knew that we would have broken the back of the traverse, as the remaining kilometres that led to Khasab were on much gentler terrain. Until our forward progress had been stalled by this steep cliff band, we had moved steadily and efficiently, summiting Jabal Letub early in the day and dispatching several other challenging sections as the afternoon wore on, yet here we were, so close to success, yet still so far away. We had the right team, the right gear, and the right plan – but it’s always the mountain’s decision whether they let you through, and at that moment – we were at the mercy of the Mountain Gods.

Mike and I worked quickly on the cliff edge, ferrying team members down, watching one after the other unclip at the base of the rappel and begin their downward trek in the twilight of dusk. As the last member of the team shouted “off-rappel”, I felt awash in relief. The Musandam had presented it’s final significant challenge and we had overcome it safely. Two days later, we became the first westerners (and possibly humans) to complete this entire route on foot, reaching Khasab on the seventh day of the expedition—achieving a goal that began in 2011, but more importantly, our survey work has contributed to the archaeological discussion surrounding this poorly understood, but fascinating and beautiful region. Most of us only learn through doing and despite my many years of adventure racing and leading Adventure Science projects, this project taught me something new each year. Ultimately, the keys to cracking the region for us was persistence, knowledge of the terrain, moving light and fast, using the right gear and footwear, and bringing the right team. For me, these projects are always as educational as they are fun, and my big take away from the Musandam is that while it’s always nice to nail something on your first try, sometimes it’s just not in the cards. Failure is only failure if you walk away, and in sport, and life, persistence does pay off when chasing goals. It did at least for us in the Musandam.   

48%. Those are the odds of a newborn seal surviving its first year on the coast of Maine. Maine, as ruggedly beautiful a place as it is, poses enormous dangers for seal pups. For the 20,000 seals born a year, each pup faces predators, abandonment, disease and sickness. And, they face fishing lines. They face climate change.

Founded in 2011, The Marine Mammals of Maine (MMOME) is a non-profit triage center for native seals, located in Harpswell, Maine. The only center of its kind in the state, seals and other marine life receive life-saving measures for up to 96 hours before being transported to a long-term facility. This year the center is in on pace to treat over 80 seals and will perform and assist in over 100 rescues and deceased animal standings.

They cover a coastal maze of 2,500 miles, the equivalent distance from New York to Los Angeles. And, it’s all done by two women, five college interns and generous volunteers from the local community. All this in a metal-clad facility originally built to house lobster boats. They work against the elements, they fight against the odds.

Lynda Doughty, Founding Executive Director, founded MMOME in 2011. Unassuming and soft spoken, fantastically gifted with purpose and unwavering resilience (also a fan of 80’s music). “I knew as a kid this is what I always wanted to do. I knew. I just didn’t know how to get here,” Linda reflects. “My Mom was literally calling around asking how to get me involved. It all started with volunteering.”

In 2014, Dominique Walk joined Lynda full-time, serving as an Assistant Stranding Coordinator. Together, they oversee all the clinical and operational aspects of the center. Interns––the engine of this organization––are continually mentored and guided by Lynda and Dominique.

A rare and immensely valuable experience for students looking to enter the field of marine science and research.

Days are long at the triage center, beginning at 7AM for the first feeding, ending 13 hours later. Pups are treated, nourished, bathed, tested and monitored. Interns clean and sterilize, again and again. There’s a rhythm to the day, but it’s anything but a routine.

Cries from the seal pups echo off the sheet metal walls, a language you understand all too easily.

Asked what the greatest challenge facing MMOME is and Dominque offers an immediate response: “People. Human intervention in the field with seals is our greatest challenge. We operate on a first come, first serve basis and only have spots for about 10 seals. A seal that has been intervened with runs the chance of us not being able to care for an animal that is naturally injured or sick. We had a recent case where a baby seal was removed from a beach and we found the animal in a backyard hammock, being fed hot dogs. That part of our work gets frustrating because it can be prevented.”

Lynda works her phone all morning, arranging transportation to Chebeague Island where a seal pup has been reported stranded. Whatever it takes they will get there: by boat, by kayak, by truck, by quad-runner, by foot. A local friend and Maine Marine Patrol officer, Chad, offers to transport the team. It’s a solid hour boat ride from the town of Bath to Chebeague.

The search goes on; the June sun tracks west. A baby seal carcass is found. Maybe it’s the seal they are looking for––maybe not. In the wild Mother Nature rarely gives up the truth. “It’s a fine line we walk,” Dominque offers on the journey back. “When should we intervene and when should we let nature take its course?”

 Back at the center, volunteers arrive for the evening feed­­––an older retired couple, a young boy and his Mom. Education is an important element to the mission and impact of the organization. Lynda goes over each of the pups, who gets what and what meds. “The sooner we can educate young people on how to care for and protect these animals, the better. Responsibility for wildlife favors them longer. We’re also hoping to help educate the parents, too,” she smiles.

Lynda checks her pups one last time before leaving. “We don’t put a dent in the seal life population,” Lynda freely admits. An honest admission. “We don’t focus on numbers. We focus on lives. There are so many people out there that want to help stranded animals and we are someone they can call. They want a good outcome for the animal just as much as we do. These animals are just a part of this community as we are.”

Lynda climbs into her truck, another day fought and won. Journey’s popular hit ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ plays out the windows. She certainly won’t.