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SRRC Race Reports
Crown King Scramble, Crown King, AZ—Sat., March 17, 2007
by
Phil Holt
The Sonoran Desert has been called 5,000 square miles of silence. As we left the starting line, the vast quiet blackness overwhelmed the few runners' bobbing headlights and seemed to mute the occasional snatches of conversation. It was 5:30 a.m.—the early start—and we were headed north along a sandy unpaved road into the desert toward the town of Crown King in the Bradshaw Mountains, where we would finish one of the most challenging 50K races in the country: the Crown King Scramble.
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| * A slice of the Sonoran Desert |
The field spread out quickly, and soon the running was solitary. The course seemed forgiving at first—even and smooth with some rolling hills. The spray of stars across a cloudless sky provided just enough light to make out large shapes on the landscape and reveal the edges of the gravel road. With the temperature in the high 60's, the air was as cool as it would be all day. The mercury had topped 100 degrees the day before, and the forecast was calling for more of the same.
With a 200-runner limit, Crown King is not the sort of race that has music pumping behind water-stops every two miles. Running 31 miles through the desert wilderness presents certain logistical challenges—the geography is remote, aid is limited along the course, and conditions can be mercilessly harsh. Runners are required to carry at least one 20 oz. water bottle. A hat, sunscreen, and salt capsules are indispensable. The final race instructions illuminate the difference from typical road races:
- If Lost or you believe that you may not be on course, DO NOT attempt to find your way across country.
- If sure of your route, backtrack to where you last saw a course marker. Look for course markings.
- If unable to find your way. Stay put!. Wandering randomly may take you further from the course and reduce your chances of being found alive.
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| * Sunrise . . . |
First light began as a purple glow topping the black deckle edged silhouette of the rugged hills toward the east. As the sun began spilling across the tops of the mountains, color flowed into the terrain, and the desert seemed to come to life. Giant saguaro cacti loomed in the morning light. (The saguaro is the state flower of Arizona.) It’s the distinctive cactus we typically associate with pictures of American deserts—15 to 20 feet tall, covered in spines, with large branches that look like arms. A massive plant can be more than 200 years old. Many of the saguaros we passed had been clutching the rocky desert floor since before American independence.
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| * Miles to go . . . |
The first 16 miles of the course followed rolling and occasionally steep hills on dirt and gravel county roads. Because of a persistent drought, any water crossings were more like puddle crossings, so my shoes stayed dry all day. Prickly pear cactus and small plants like creosote bushes dotted the landscape competing for the scant moisture. This patiently gradual ecosystem was a constant reminder that I was really just a guest. The desert holds a lot of stories, among the worst of which I heard involved a single red high-heeled shoe. The aid station at mile 8 waited around a bend beyond a sign announcing “Runners Welcome” and “Bandits will be Shot”—more reminders that it was best to stay on course and be polite . . . .
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| Aid station . . . |
Aid stations at ultras are stocked differently from typical races. Here they provided water (of course), some ice (no guarantees), Heed (an electrolyte drink), Coca-Cola (the real thing), Clif Bars, Hammer Gel, boiled potatoes (with salt), fruit, cookies, M&Ms, gummies, salt caps, and crystal ginger (probably for nausea). I was quickly on my way after drinking a couple of cups of water and some Coke, swallowing my first salt capsule, and getting my water bottle refilled.
The sun started to beat down during the stretch from mile 8 to mile 16. I probably should have carried some extra water. Running 8 miles in the desert with a 20 oz. bottle provided few alternatives—go faster, need more water, run out too soon; or go slower, spend more time on the road, need more water, run out too soon. I chose the latter figuring that the energy I saved would help during the second half of the race. By mile 15, my water bottle was empty. I felt mighty dry over the last mile to the aid station, where I could get a refill. We had sent a drop bag ahead to this station, so I could look forward to lunch, too—plenty of bland calories in a delicious bottle of Ensure. I met up briefly with both Harland and Steve along this stretch as they blazed past me among the stronger runners from the later start.
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| * Looking back toward the start . . . |
The second half of the course is almost a different race. The harsh desert conditions persisted, but we began a 5,000 foot climb into the mountains. As the elevation changed, we gradually climbed out of the desert into mountain chaparral, where the landscape took on the color of scattered scrub oak and pine. The hills between mile 16 and 24 became long, rocky, and steep. Unlike Pikes Peak, where switchbacks helped level the trail a little, the Crown King course matched its description: “very rugged, un-maintained (4X4) trail through the high desert and mountains with lots of significant climbs and descents sometimes with rough footing.” The footing was never as treacherous as the Appalachian Trail, but some of the ascents were so steep that I was climbing the road on tip-toes.
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| Rocky and dusty . . . |
The sun had been climbing steadily for a few hours, too, and was now functioning as an efficient natural broiler. To my surprise, I didn’t seem to sweat very much, but I had developed a greasy, spaghetti-western glow. I was dusty all over, and borders of salt began to dry on my clothes and skin. Grey-brown dust coated my shoes, socks, and ankles obscuring almost any trace of color. Dirt bikes and quads would roar by periodically, their drivers waving and giving us the thumbs up, and inadvertently kicking up more dust to collect around my eyes and nostrils. I wasn’t particularly fatigued, but the sun was beginning to cook the life out of me, so whenever I could, I ran close to whatever would cast even a little bit of shadow over me. Even the tiniest bit of shade felt good.
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| One more hill to climb . . . |
The steady uphill grind had me following a run/walk strategy—running where it was relatively flat; walking where it got really steep. As I passed the 24 mile aid station, it all became steep. It seemed that I could run a few yards at a time before being stopped dead again. It was hot, and my ration of water was disappearing too fast. Just as I was getting to the end of the bottle, I could see the canopy of the mile-28 aid station perched way up on the next peak over, probably a quarter mile in a straight line from where I stood. Unfortunately it was a slow 45-minute uphill trudge along the trail. By the time I got there I had to sit down for a few minutes, take some more salt, and drink about half a dozen cups of water, which quickly revived me. From here it was two miles up, then two miles down to the finish.
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| On the road . . . |
After cresting the mountain, the course heads downhill into the tiny town of Crown King. Getting back into the groove of running a mile in less than about 20 minutes was a comfortable relief. I didn’t worry much about water now because I could see signs of civilization—cabins, vehicles, and other humans. When I rounded the last corner and headed up toward the finish I could see Steve and Harland waving, and I could hear the announcer calling out my name. I was hungry enough by this point to waste no time getting into line for a burger from the barbeque pit behind the saloon. The woman ahead of me asked for extra grease on hers. Believe it or not, it looked better than it sounds, but I passed on that embellishment and stuck with slaw and beans on the side. A little later on, we made our way from the saloon to Harland’s cabin, where after we’d each gotten a shower and into some clean clothes, we adjourned to the deck to stare out over the trees into the Arizona mountains. We ran the race in conversation a dozen more times before we sat down for a St. Patrick’s Day feast of Beef and Guinness Stew.
As sleep finally began to overtake me that night, I pulled the woolen blanket up around my neck and wondered how I end up involved in these things. Difficult as the event was, the Crown King Scramble ranks right up with my best race experiences. It felt like the desert welcomed me for a visit with the gift of hours of quiet solitude. It also reminded me vividly that the only way to complete such a tough course is with the aid of dedicated, friendly, and understanding volunteers and the support and encouragement of friends whose advice and good wishes were right there every time the hill started to feel awfully steep. It’s in those moments that the same answer keeps coming up—the best places to be are rarely the easiest ones to get to.
March 2007
* Note that clicking on a couple of the images will bring up high-resolution versions that can take a while to download over slow links. If you're patient, though, some of the scenery is dramatic.
The SRRC would love to hear about your running, racing, or crewing experiences! If you would like to submit a race report, to be posted on the SRRC website, please email srrunner@srrunners.org.