Trail 2 Ultra

Crazy Mountain 100 Race Recap

I started running in May of 2022. Later that year I started getting the idea to enter a race. Something long. I was slow. Maybe a half-marathon? One day while scrolling Instagram I came across a post by Cam Hanes, who I knew as a bowhunter. He was running this unbelievable 100 mile race in the mountains of Montana. A race over rugged terrain with 23,000 ft of climbing and descent. In a single go. The Crazy Mountain 100. I was so confused. How? How is that possible? Do they sleep? Do they rest? How do they eat? Carry everything? I went down a short rabbit hole trying to answer these questions. The answer shocked me. They just run. Up the mountains and down the valleys. Until it’s done. Some water stops along the way. No gimmick, no super special technique, just an insane amount of work and will.

That really was crazy and I dismissed it. For a while. What did happen was the idea of running 100 miles became stuck in my head. Casual googling became serious research. Runs got longer, I found a solid coach and started down that road. I ran my first 100 miler in November of 2023, and by that time I knew someday I would stand at the finish line of a big mountain race.

All ultras are special experiences, but some more so than others. My first hundred miler finish was one of those experiences. I’ll never forget the pain, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming sense of victory. The feeling of accomplishing what my mind said was impossible. Crazy Mountain is right there with it. Never before have I gone so hard, for so long. Never have I faced so many problems or had so much discomfort. Never before have I put so much into a race, or gotten so much out of it. This is a story of success on a bad day and a dream fulfilled.

I signed up for the 2025 race on the day registration opened. I had attempted, and DNF’d, another mountain race, the IMTUF 100, the year before. I was determined to get a finish, and felt called to the very first race that piqued my interest in the sport. I had a list of hard lessons from IMTUF, and knew what it would take to for me to actually complete this race. The training plan was laid, and I prepared for an unforgettable experience in the mountains.

Training for the race went well. Living in Texas, giant mountains are hard to come by. Most of my hill training was on a treadmill. I burned through hill runs and practiced fast hiking at high incline. Long runs in the cow pasture rounded out the weeks and the miles stacked up. By May and June I was averaging a little over 50 miles a week of focused training. By July I was doing long runs with a full race kit to get used to the weight and line out equipment issues. Runners spend most of our time talking about the race, but those hours of solitude laying down miles are where victory gets built. But nobody is victorious alone. My wife Jac is my rock, and the best crew chief anyone could ask for. We planned every stop, made pace charts, and tried to prepare for the inevitable chaos of ultra.

We left our ranch in Texas for Montana on Tuesday before the race, which made for a couple of long days in the car. We made it to Lennep the Thursday before the race around 4pm. Packet pickup was well organized and easy. Race swag was pretty impressive with Yeti cups, a nice Rabbit shirt, a custom hat, and some stickers. The race uses GPS trackers for every participant, so bib and tracker pickup was on race morning. We were staying in Livingston, so we skipped the pre-race brief and headed back to the hotel to get some food and sleep.

In retrospect we should have spent more time on the trip up. The race offered free camping at the finish line, which also would have given us some more time to rest and prepare. We had a lackluster pre race dinner in Livingston, a simple error at the restaurant, and settled into bed around 930pm. There wasn’t much sleep, but there never is for me before this kind of thing. I was here, and I was ready. That’s all that mattered.

We woke at 330 for the drive to Wilsall and had no trouble getting to the start line by 445. I ate some homemade buttermilk biscuits for breakfast and started pounding salt water and caffeine during the car ride. The weather was perfect. Clear and calm with temps in the low 50’s. Bib and tracker pickup was a breeze. I have never run with a race provided tracker before, but they were light and easily attached to my running vest with an included velcro strap. I will say the bathroom situation was a little crowded for the people who arrived late, as usually seems to be the case.

Toeing the start line was a surreal experience. I had a vivid flashback to a conversation I had with Jac three years prior. We were sitting in our hot tub at the ranch, and I was telling her abut this crazy race in Montana. I asked what kind of human would, and could, do such a thing? She just sat there with a knowing smile. I’ve never felt so grounded and present. This was the challenge of a lifetime, and I was among the lucky 200 that would test myself against the mountain. Many would succeed, and some would not. Everyone would leave a piece of themselves out on the trail.

After a few words from the Race Director, and a prayer from a Crow nation local, we were off at 600am sharp. The race starts on a dirt road that leads to a well groomed trail up to the first stop at Porcupine. You cover a little over 6 miles and get about 1800 feet of vertical. It’s always hard to stay on pace early and this was no exception. Cool weather and a beautiful morning made the miles fly and I found myself holding back to stay on plan.

Porcupine aid staton is light stop. No crew or drop bags, Just some hardworking volunteers on a wide spot on the trail. I topped off my water bladder, filled an extra high carb drink, and quickly got back in the race. The segment from Porcupine to Ibex covers 13.3 miles with 3300 feet of climbing and 3700 feet of descent. The trail was easy to follow and well marked. There was plenty of interesting terrain to keep you on your toes, but it wasn’t super technical. Tree cover was plentiful with the occasional meadow thrown in. I made great time during this segment and actively held back some energy in preparation for what was to come. At Ibex I got to see Jac for the first time since the start line. Spirits were high and problems were zero. We had a very quick stop, and I got back to work.

From Ibex to Cow camp you get the first big climb. It’s 3600 vertical feet and 12.5 miles. I paced it carefully and tried not to gas out on the climbs. Here I definitely stared noticing the altitude. This section tops at about 9500 feet, which seems pretty high for this Texas native, but I made good progress and was still slightly ahead of schedule at the peak. I had some minor cramping in my quads and decided to turn up my salt intake for the afternoon. The trail was intermittently technical and then very run-able. Rocky sections opened into easy meadows and then bound up hills. The views were amazing and I became very impressed with the biodiversity and health of the ecosystem. This was nature as nature intended, and I was all in.

I rolled into Cow Camp around 200pm with 31 miles and 8800 feet of climbing under my belt. I was feeling good, but definitely aware that the temp was rising. The forecast had called for a high of 89 the day before, and I was already feeling it. Cow Camp is undoubtably the most fun aid station in the race, and you get to see it twice. The crew, dressed in cow costumes of course, were energetic and extremely helpful. They were set up at the river and filtered water into 5 gallon containers for the runners. Everything was packed in on horses. There was hot food, good vibes, loud music, and plenty of fun. Volunteers spirited away my flask and bladder as soon as I had them out of my pack and returned them full and ready to go. I skipped the food, to my detriment, and was back on the trail in about 5 minutes.

The segment from Cow Camp to Halfmoon is both stunning and brutal. It’s an out and back, so you get to run it both ways. It starts with a long steady climb through the woods. The trail follows a river and has plenty of terrain to keep you looking. I reached Glacier Lake around 330 in the afternoon and noticed my first big problem. I had broken a BOA lace on my left running shoe. I needed water and stopped to filter a bottle from the river and evaluate my options. They weren’t great. I was unable to thread the broken string back through the shoe without tools, and didn’t have anything in my pack to help. The way that it broke made my forefoot loose, but the ankle strap was holding fine. I tucked everything in, so that it wouldn’t flap, and got back to work. I was immediately aware that I was compensating. Hitting all the tricky steps with my right foot and its tight shoe. I just hoped I wouldn’t start blisters before I got to Jac.

I continued on, crossing a couple of rivers in this segment as well. Running with wet feet is part of the game here. I expected it and didn’t waste time trying to stay dry. After leaving Glacier lake you begin the climb up Conical pass. The climb is steep, but the footing was good. The trail zig zags up the side of a crushed rock face and is fully exposed to the afternoon sun. The heat really started to affect my pace here and I slowed significantly. The pass is just over 10,000 feet and offers stunning views down both sides of the mountain. There were strong wind currents that prompted a short rest to cool off and enjoy the view for a quick picture. The descent was slightly more technical and certainly no place to get ahead on pace. I was having some intermittent cramping and the trail just seemed to go on forever. During this section I received an alarm on my watch that my heart strap battery died. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that turned back on the wrist heart rate sensor, and started eating my Garmin battery. During the descent I stated getting very sick to my stomach when taking gels. Heat, dehydration, and exertion were taking the their toll. I focused on not puking, and resolved to get some solid food at the aid station. I had a very tight water plan, and couldn’t afford to distribute my fluids across the mountain.

I rolled into Halfmoon around 620pm with 43 miles and 12,000ft of climbing behind me. Not even half way. My broken lace, and uneven gait, was causing significant blisters to form at a couple of different locations on both feet. My nausea was intermittent, but significant. These were concerns, but they were tempered by enthusiasm and energy. Ultras never go to plan. Problem solving is part of the game. Jac was ready for me and I had a few minutes off my feet to get things back on track. It was decision time. My spare shoes were in the car. I had no way to tell Jac I needed them in advance, and getting everything ready would have cost me at least 10 minutes plus the shoe change. She did have some zip-ties in her race ruck and I made the quick decision to make a field repair, with a shoe change the next time I saw her. I got my refills, crammed some food, and told her I definitely wouldn’t be early to the next crew point. My shoes felt pretty good post zip-tie, and I was hopeful that the blisters could be limited.

From Halfmoon you retrace your steps back over Conical pass and down to Cow Camp. This was when the hard work really started for me. The ascent felt unending. Every time I looked at my watch I was disheartened by my lack of fast progress. I just could’t catch my breath, and had to stop and blow regularly. I watched the sunset during the big climb and got ready for the long night. When I stopped in the pass I discovered that both my Garmin and phone were dying much faster than anticipated and got them on a portable charger. Right away I realized that at some point I was going to lose my watch tracking. This caused some apprehension, but I was at the halfway point of the race and I didn’t have time to dwell. I turned on my waist light and started down the mountain.

The descent back down the pass went smooth, but dragged on. My shoes were holding up, but my feet were still taking a beating. I broke my big toenail on rock, and noticed just how big those blisters on my heels were getting. Left and right were equally affected at this point. My legs felt better and temps were cooler, but another issue was brewing. I made my first field bathroom stop around Glacier Lake and was unsurprised that I had significant diarrhea. I would spend the rest of the race dealing with multiple bathroom stops on trail, every one costing me precious time and energy. This was terribly disheartening, and I tried to keep my spirits up as I looked forward to the upcoming stop at Cow Camp. The dark brings a new way of seeing and feeling the trail. The future shrinks down to a few yards in front of your feet. The mountain looms in shadow and promises brutal challenge just beyond the light. You have no way to anticipate the next mile and wonder what lies ahead. Doubt can creep in, but so can life. I looked up to the same stars that I can see from my ranch, and imagined them watching in anticipation. This is what I came for.

I rolled back into Cow Camp about 1115pm, with 55 miles and nearly 16,000 feet of climbing behind me. I immediately felt better. The enthusiasm and energy of the crew was reviving. I grabbed some food, topped off my bottles, and checked myself over. Things were staring to get shaky, but I was in my element now. All the noise in my brain was collapsing to a singular thought. Keep moving. Relentless forward progress was the answer to my woe. There was no way out but through. As I waded through the river outside of the aid station I mentally prepared for what was to come, and headed back out into the night.

The segment from Cow Camp to Sunlight Aid contains another monster climb. Footing was mostly decent with some sketchy sections making an appearance intermittently. Rocks were a constant. Sometimes small enough to slide on, and sometimes big enough to bash toes. I started to slip on pace through this section, constantly having to slow way down just to get enough air into my lungs. For the first time, I questioned the finish. Problems a plenty and the course was grinding me down. I questioned my fitness, my race plan, and the absolute hubris I had when I had signed up months before. I pondered the feeling of defeat, and what it would feel like to go home in failure, having been crushed by the mountains on two consecutive years. In the end I resolved that I would continue on until I was pulled from the course or could no longer move forward. Emotions rolled with the hills, low on the ascents and slightly more optimistic on the decent, but by this time the 36 hour race cutoff was weighing heavily on my mind. I wasn’t even sure I could stay on my feet that long, but I figured I would know by the end. Late in the segment near a river crossing I slipped and broke one of my running poles. The loud pop prompted a sinking feeling in my gut. I had some tough sections ahead of me, and running with one pole sucks. I stowed it in my quiver, put my head down, and vowed to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Sunlight Aid was a breath of fresh air. I took some extra time and made sure to eat some hot food. My repaired shoe was holding, but my feet were getting eaten. I had large blisters on my heels, and multiple smaller ones covering my toes. My stomach was still a mess, and I was very grateful for a port-a-john in the middle of the woods. The next section was overall downhill, and I was hoping to make up some time. The only note I had for the that section was ‘bad footing’, which turned out to be the understatement of the century. I trashed my broken pole and discovered that I had also broken my waist belt that held my phone and gels. Some quick reloading got everything stored in alternate locations and I was ready to move. After 7 total minutes of stop time I headed back out, not exactly confident, but resolved.

Sunlight to Crandall looks like a break on paper. A mere 7 miles with 893 feet of climb and 1377 feet of descent. Easy right? I would really like to see this section during the day. You spend a good portion of it side hilling a steep mountain made of crushed rock and tiny pebbles. The trail is very narrow and requires total attention. Going was incredibly slow, My quads were in no condition to run technical downhill, and it would have been stupid to try. I fell all the way to the ground several times in the first 2 miles. I questioned my shoes, my technique, my attention, but nothing I could do seemed to help. I realized there was no place to make up time here, and I needed to focus on not getting injured.

At some point I came up to a piece of solid rock embedded in trail. It wasn’t steep downhill, but had a hard lean off the edge. In the darkness I failed to appreciate the tiny pebbles covering the surface and the insane drop off the side of the mountain to the left. I slowed down to test the footing and started across. About the time I got both feet out on the rock they both decided to go sideways, and over the edge I went. Total terror. It was steep. Way steeper than I thought. I spread out like a starfish and starred sliding down. My light was on my waist, so I was instantly plunged into total darkness. A large rock rolled by my head and stared a long echoing tumble down. My Garmin stared blaring a fall alarm and tied to call Jac. I was unable to stop sliding for a few seconds and was saved by another runners pole that had fallen off the edge. I arrested the fall with the wayward pole and took a deep breath. It was pitch black and I couldn’t see the edge of the trail up above. My Garmin was still freaking out and I stared mashing buttons to shut it up. I was terrified that I would not be able to reach the trail, and I had no idea what was below me in the dark. It took me a few minutes to belly crawl back up to the trail. I realized I had only slid maybe 8 feet down, but it felt like a mile. Standing back on the trail my whole body stared to shake, looking down over the edge with my light did not show the bottom. I took zero time to rest or consider what had just happened. I swore never to underestimate another smooth rock, thanked the mountain for not killing me, and got back to work.

I rolled into Crandall about 630am with 70 miles in the bag. I was beat. Confidence was low. Finishing under cutoff was possible, but looking increasingly difficult. I still had some big climbs, my feet and legs were shot, and I was still needing a bathroom stop every couple of hours. Jac’s smile outshone the morning sun as she greeted me. She had my backup shoes laid out and a hot cup of ramen noodles ready for me. I sat and ate, and expressed doubt, while she painstakingly removed my shoes and socks, and coated my feet in a heavy layer of cream. I told her I wasn’t sure I could make it. She very calmly told me that I could, but I needed to get after it and make up some time. She reminded me how hard I had trained for this, and how badly I wanted it. The noodles were a godsend and immediately made me feel better. I noted the cutoff times at the remaining stops and stared making mental calculations. I could do this. Probably.

Crandall to Forest lake runs 7.8 miles with 1745 feet of climbing and 1450 feet of descent. The trail was much less technical, but relentless nonetheless. I made pretty good time through this section, high on ramen and my wife’s smile. As I neared Forest lake I did some quick math and started feeling better. I wasn’t that bad off. Goal time was shot, but cutoff was within reach. I was sick, blistered, and banged up, but definitely not beat.

Forest Lake came up at the 78 mile mark and I prepared for another un-crewed stop. The volunteers were helpful and friendly, but my mind was on the trail. Every second stopped felt like an eternity. I was convinced that I needed every minute and wasted no time. I remembered that the climb out of Forest Lake was a huge one, but also the last big one. Leaving the aid station the is a short descent though a field before the climb. It started on a trail up the mountain through the woods. Footing was good, but the trail was stupid steep. Breaking out of the woods I could see a line of runners going up a grassy mountain. They were making slow progress with many obvious breathing stops. There were 2817 vertical feet in this segment and I felt every one of them. I have never been so exhausted in my life. Every time I stopped to blow I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to continue. It didn’t matter. There was no way out of it. I could quit, but I would still have to get my ass off this stupid mountain to do that. Nobody was coming to help me. This is where you find out the ‘why’. You might think you know why you wanted to do such a thing beforehand, but 80 miles in on the side of a mountain you ether really know, or you break.

Breaking wasn’t an option and I rolled into my next to last stop at the Honey Trail aid station at 1240pm. The stop was picturesque. A white tent of hope on a hill. Beautiful views all around. Smiling faces adopted a hint of concern as I approached. I was gassed and I’m sure it was obvious. I was told, not too gently, to have a seat and cool off. A volunteer asked me how I was doing as she filled my water bladder. I told her I was having a hard day, but I was okay. A medic asked me if I needed medical attention, to which I gave a flat ‘no.’ That seems to satisfy her and she drifted off. I knew I needed to move, but a real chair felt like nirvana. I ended up taking 9 minutes at this stop and every one felt like an injury. I could taste the finish, but it was gonna be close as hell.

As I strapped on my vest I gazed out at the ‘last’ climb. It did’t look like much. I said so to the aid worker. She promptly assured me there were multiple false summits and it was harder than it looked. I gave a heavy sigh and she pointed up, smiled, and said, ‘go run the hill.’ I couldn’t say anything but ’sure’. According to the course description that big hill has 554 feet of climb, but after 85 miles and 22,000 feet of climbing it felt like a monster. I had barely started when my Garmin gave a final gasp and went black. Here it was. The moment I had been dreading. Now I had no idea how far I had to go, or how much time I had left. That little source of comfort that assured me I was 85% finished, and my pace was sufficient to make cutoff. Gone. I pulled out my phone and made a note of the time. I did the math 3 times and came up with 3 different answers. I was simply too fried to think straight. I decided it didn’t matter, and I just needed to push maximum effort for the last 15 miles.

The hill did eventually end, and the long decent started. My legs were trashed. I decided I actually liked climbing more than downhill, in a fit of delirium. My pace resembled that of an old man, doddering down a hill that he had no business being on in the first place, but I never quit. Every step led to the next. This was the grind. The hard part may have been finished, but the race was not and the result was far from guaranteed. I allowed myself to imagine the finish for the first time. Based on the time on my phone I should be good. Cautious optimism took a big step towards confidence. This thing was doable, and doable by me.

I staggered into the last aid station at Hunting Camp at 313pm. Jac’s face said it all. She knew I was going to make it. Her confidence stilled all remaining doubt. We had a very quick stop, dropping weight and grabbing some water. It was 6.4 miles of gentle downhill on a dirt road to the finish. I had 2.5 hours. I could walk that, even in my current condition. I could hear the bells ringing at the finish line in my mind. One last push.

The road to Berg ranch was hot and totally devoid of shade. At one point an enthusiastic crew sprayed me down with cold water from the side of the road. I have never been so grateful. A little further along I closed my eyes for just a second and stumbled right off the road. I decided It would be incredibly stupid to break an ankle in a ditch, on a perfectly smooth road, after running 96 miles through the mountains. I sucked up everything I had left and resolved to run every step possible for the remainder of the race. Jac stopped to cheer and take some pictures a few miles from the finish. She was so excited. I vaguely thought I should also be excited, but it seemed like a lot of work with so far left to go. Then I was there. A mile of pavement, and a left turn into a field. The bells. The cheering. Now I could hear it for real. I jogged across the finish line at 35 hours, 9 minutes and 15 seconds. A full 50 minutes ahead of the cutoff that had been stalking me for the last twelve hours. It was done. I was done.

Jac was waiting with that smile and I just melted into her arms. I got ahold of myself and managed to thank the race director as she handed me my buckle. We had some chairs ready nearby. I stumbled toward them while trying to soak up the enormity of the moment.

The post race scene was a party. There were tacos, free tattoos, and a local cowboy hat maker. Yeti had a big tent and provided race swag, as well as coolers for the podium finishers. I was impressed, but really in no shape to do much of anything. We hung around for the awards ceremony and loaded up the car for the long trip back to the hotel.

Post-race I’m recovering as expected. I ended up with some wicked blisters on both feet, will loose about half my toenails, and am still picking the occasional piece of gravel out of my leg. I’ll be sore for a while, but expect to be back running within 10 days.

So what insights can I take from this endeavor? There is an easy list of lessons learned for next time. I had multiple equipment issues and definitely need to work on my nutrition plan for a race like this. But the most valuable insights have little to do with running the race, as a connection with the land is formed from the outpouring of suffering and will. It never fails to give me a new perspective.

As I traveled , mostly alone, for hours upon hours, I was struck by the raw and timeless nature of the mountains. One human, suffering along on a personal journey, is no more significant to them, than another rock on the trail is to me. These mountains have seen more life and death struggle in a week than I will in my entire life. I was humbled, and my grand achievement put into perspective.

However, there is not another animal on that mountain, or anywhere else on earth, that can do what I was doing. I can accomplish more than I ever thought possible. I learned that pain, discomfort and fatigue are just emotions. No different than fear, anger, or hope. Use them when you need them, and be able to control them when you don’t. I learned to never give up, even if the odds are suddenly against you. And a final thing I already knew, my wife’s smile can fix damn near anything.

The Crazy Mountains rate with some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen in my life. These mountains are alive and a river of history runs through them. I consider myself grateful to have been a part of that history for 35 hours…