At this point in the race the oxygen turns thin and the vistas become breathtaking. Most skimo and running races in the U.S. tend to be held at ski resorts due to permitting issues, so racing in this sort of terrain, with distinct backcountry peaks defining the route, is a real treat and a unique experience.
Now it was my turn to suffer. The nordic poles I was using had laughably small race baskets that plunged into the punchy snow with each plant. This, combined with my waxed skins, and questionable skin technique, was making me slip around like a Jerry on his first day out. I was struggling to keep up with Cam, but somehow we still managed to start the first descent in the lead.
The descent was relatively firm and we made quick work of it (Cam didn't have to wait too long for me). At the bottom, we began skating up a snowmobile track to the start of the next climb. Here we ran into one of the awesome volunteers on the course (there were many) who hooked Cam and I up with some warm Skratch and a few Gels. This would be one of two times during the race that Cam and I would actually consume calories; crazy kids.
We were expecting to see Rory and John right on our heels, but they had decided to skin the road that we had skated, which certainly helped us build our lead. We started our skin up the steepest and most aesthetic summit of the day in first, but we were definitely running scared. Thankfully, the snow was firmer on this climb, and I was able to skin with relative ease up the first section. Halfway up, the slope became wind scoured, from here it was a mixture of skinning and booting to reach the jagged, rocky summit. I reached the summit first, but in my hypoxic state couldn't figure out how to open the ammo can. The race uses a rather unique method to ensure that each team reaches the summit; they stash an ammo box at each high summit and have each duo tear a page from a book stashed in it. After a bit of frantic squawking on my part, Cam was able to wrench the can open and off we went, sprinting back down the ridge line.
The ski off East Ball was firm and fast. We basically retraced our steps down the skin track and were able to check our lead on the other teams. We still had a few minutes, but it didn't seem like anything that Rory and John couldn't close with a good hard push. The race was on.
The next climb up Dyer was a big one, at 13,862 ft it's pretty damn high, racing at that sort of altitude is just never easy. It hurts, a lot. Luckily, there were a few awesome smiling volunteers at the base of the hill to dump some much needed liquids into our mouth and provide us with some snacks. The volunteers in this race were pretty darn amazing folks!
This final climb wasn't my finest moment. As we started ascending the lower slopes, I began punching through the snow again and sliding around to the point that I was getting whiney. My desperation was certainly audible, and I apologize to Cam for having to put up with my pathetic moaning.
Eventually we reached more amicable snow and I got it together. We continued to march towards the summit at a pace that seemed comically slow. There was no way we were maintaining our lead, especially with my shenanigans, yet every time I looked back our gap seemed to be growing.
At the summit we took a brief moment to soak in the view and tear out a page before we began our plunge into the breakable crust. The descent down Dyer was ... spicy. Cam and I both took a couple of tumbles as we tried to carve through the crust. The poor guy was forced to wait for me at the bottom after I found my way into a pile of rocks. Skiing skinny sticks ain't easy.
