The Grim Sweeper - Part 2

Who is Mishe Mokwa?

It’s nearly 4:30 in the afternoon and I’m standing in the Sandstone Peak Trail Parking Lot near the junction of two legendary Southern California trails: the Backbone Trail which I have been on before and the Mishe Mokwa Trail. I can’t stop repeating Mishe Mokwa. The name fascinates me and I’m rolling it around in my head, enjoying the sound it makes in my mind, over and over. I had to Google it, but Mishe Mokwa was a mythical bear in Wadsworth’s Song of Hiawatha. I doubt I’ll see a real or imaginary bear out on this trail but you never know. Yes, I have encountered bears in the forest but that’s another story.

Megan, the sweeper who started 12 miles before me, is rolling into the aid station. The cutoff time for the racers is 4:30 and there are no runners with her. I breathe a giant sigh of relief since I will not be escorting anyone. My sweeper duty just got lighter. Megan made the mistake of not having a trash bag to pick up all the trail marking ribbons, so she improvised. Experienced trail runners carry a hydration vest on their back. Think minimalist backpack, more vest than pack. The hydration vest is designed to carry enough water to last a minimum of 10 miles along with enough pockets to carry food, gels, sprays, lotions, and extra clothing that you might need on an extended run (10 or more miles). Some vests, like the brand Megan and I are both using, have front pockets for soft flasks which hold about 15 ounces of liquid, one flask per side. 

She’s giggling because she forgot a trash bag. Her front pockets are stuffed and stretched to the maximum. The vests are rather pricey because the materials used are durable and make the pockets stretchy and form fitting so as not to bounce. Megan’s stretched-to-the-max pockets give her a rather striking profile. Picture more Dolly Parton rather than Olive Oyl. As Megan unloads the contents of her pockets onto the aid station picnic table, she looks like a rapidly deflating balloon. We all laugh at the growing volume of day-glow orange ribbons spilling onto the table top. As Megan’s profile returns to normal, I’m grateful I had the foresight to bring an extra trash bag. No man boobs for me today!

Like the Pony Express of old, it’s my turn to carry on my leg of the sweeper relay. I say, “Great job!” to Megan and to the rest of the volunteers, cross the road, and head on up the trail, trash bag in hand. I didn’t get very far. Within 20 feet of the trailhead, there are about a dozen ribbons lining both sides of the trail. No big deal, I open the bag and start removing ribbons. I soon discover the ribbons are knotted on branches, limbs, and stalks and it takes some effort to free each one. Again, no big deal, I’m the sweeper, no one else is behind me and no one is hurrying me along. Perfect.

Experienced trail racers develop a time consuming skill that keeps our minds occupied: we can do math word problems in our heads. While moving, the factors of the word problem are constantly changing. Here’s my problem. The distance between Buena Vista where I started and my next destination, the Danielson Campground is eight and a half miles. All racers have to be out of Danielson by 7:30. Since it’s about 4:30 I would have three hours to make the cutoff if I was racing. Under normal racing conditions, I would shoot for a 15 minute per mile pace which would give me two to two and a half hours  to complete the distance. That would be plenty of time to make the cutoff. 

I soon realize, I’m going to be doing some more math. There is at least one ribbon on the trail every third of a mile. If there is a point of indecision, alternative directions to go, then there are more ribbons clearly marking the proper trail and direction to take. In addition to tied ribbons on convenient branches, twigs and long stalks there are also staked reflective flags in the ground. These flags are about eight inches in length with long, sharp, lollipop-stick thin metal masts for the flags. Because of the sharpness of these flags, I have to be careful how I am placing the flag into the bag….

I head up the Sandstone Peak Trail toward the Backbone Trail and Mishe Mokwa Trail junction. It has been overcast nearly the entire day, but as I reach the junction, the sun burns off the overcast at the top of the trail and I’m treated with an awesome view of the Malibu Canyon. There are alternative paths to take so the proper trail is well marked and it takes me a while to collect all of the ribbons and flags previously laid out. I do some pace recalculation and realize that I’m now averaging nearly 20 minutes a mile. This isn’t a bad thing since my estimated time of arrival at Danielson Campground will be just before 7:30, giving anyone ahead of me plenty of time to be well past the aid station ahead of the cutoff time.

After five miles of running, stopping, collecting, then running again, my bag is getting quite full. Although I’m trying to be careful when placing the flags in the bag, the jostling the bag is suffering as I’m running has caused some of the flag masts to poke through the bag. Imagine trying to carry a porcupine in a bag and this is pretty much the predicament I’m in. I’ve wrapped the slack section of the bag around itself to make it easier to carry and to protect myself from being skewered. Holding the bag like a football under my arm, being careful not to rip it further and not to hurt myself is not making it easy to get any running momentum. Combine these conditions with the fact that I’m collecting ribbons every third of a mile and it’s easy to imagine that maintaining a herky-jerky, 20-minute-per-mile pace is not so easy. 

As I descend the Backbone Trail from the Mishe Mokwa junction, the cloudy, misty conditions return. The race course has  diverted us around to avoid ascending and descending the Boney Mountain steep peak, but this has added a couple of extra miles to the journey through the Boney Mountain State Wilderness. I’m familiar with this section since I’ve trained and raced here before and I’m anticipating reaching Danielson within a couple of miles. As I reach the outer edge of the campground, I’m getting funny looks from campers who watch me trot by holding my white bag very gingerly, as if I’m hiding a secret known only to me.

About a half mile from the aid station I spot two forest rangers whooping and hollering, and waving their arms as if they’re dancing the YMCA at a wedding reception. As I get within earshot, another volunteer is running out to greet me.

“Yessss! He’s here!!!” The YMCA dancers have arms raised with fists pumping and in unison are shouting, “Steve! Steve! Steve! Steve!” “Bring it in, bring it in!” The other volunteers at the station are clapping me in as I approach the food tables. The volunteer who ran out to greet me has relieved me of the porcupine bag and it’s his turn to avoid being skewered. As I walk up to the tables to check out the aid station offerings, it dawns on me as to why I’m the conquering hero and not the angel of death.

I’m the last one in. They’ve been out here since before dawn. They get to go home. 

“It’s 7:20 and you’re ahead of schedule,” the aid station captain informs me. “And you’ve just made everyone here very happy.” “Take your time, but you can leave whenever you’re ready.”

They’ve already done some prepacking and equipment breakdown before I got there and as soon as I help myself to some baby potatoes and gummy worms and refill my hydration flasks, the well-oiled machine is ready to break camp as soon as I’m back on the trail. I laugh before I hit the road again because I get asked one last question.

“You have another trash bag, right?”

There’s a collective sigh of relief when I pull my spare bag from my hydration vest and all is well.

I have two and a half hours before the cutoff at my final destination, the Sycamore Gate Campground. As I leave the Danielson Campground there are plenty of ribbons and flags marking the way toward the Wood Canyon Vista Trail. This circular trail will add more miles to my journey bringing the total to nearly 17 miles. It’s past sunset as the daylight quickly diffuses to near darkness, but my solo miles are not completely silent. As I wind my way through the wilderness, the stream running through the park is the home for a multitude of very loud, persistent frogs. I soon have to turn on my waistlight to illuminate the path ahead. I can’t see the frogs but their rhythmic, incessant bellowing echoes below in the overgrowth. My light cuts a swath through the darkness and I consider my situation: alone, in the dark, miles away from any human presence, with orange ribbons and flags reflecting off the light I shine along the sides of the trail. No one else is being treated to the choir of frogs.

Occasionally, I see a frog on the path ahead, unmoving, unafraid of my oncoming footsteps. As I continue removing ribbons and flags, I turn in the darkness looking back behind me. Having removed anything man-made, it is totally dark and black behind me. The thought occurs to me, the race director knows I have night running experience, but would she have let me be out here alone in the middle of nowhere if I were a woman, or if I didn’t have that experience? Despite the added challenge of pitch blackness, I’m still maintaining a better than 20-minute-per-mile pace and should reach Sycamore Gate very close to 10pm. 

The journey after Danielson is very similar to the miles previous. But at one of the trail junctions, not only is it well-marked with ribbons and flags but there are two glow sticks on the ground shining fluorescent blue and yellow. I throw the sticks into the bag giving it a very eerie glow from within. Pokey flags are trying to rip their way free from the trash bag and once again I’m struck with the thought that any animal watching this has got to be completely bewildered by the sight of a human trotting through the darkness carrying this glowing white bag filled with orange translucent shapes.  

The fate of my second trash bag matches that of its predecessor. Holes with metal masts poking through, threaten to rip the bag wide open and I’m gingerly carrying the whole mess having folded the excess bag material over the flag-induced holes. As I near Sycamore Gate, I see a headlight in the distance. Could that be a runner? I slow my pace down just a bit and check the time. It’s nearly 10, the cutoff time, and I’m hoping whoever it is beats me to the campground. The slow moving headlamp stays ahead of me as I get closer but I’m gaining on it. And as I get less than a half mile away I notice the light has stopped. I breathe a sigh of relief since I know that whoever that was has reached the aid station ahead of me. The light from my waist lamp is now visible to the volunteers and once again, and for the last time, I’m being cheered in. 

This time, it’s a female voice shouting, “Steeeeeeeeeve!” It’s another seasoned volunteer, Amanda, the aid station captain. Once again, the rangers come out to greet me with grins and eager hands to relieve me of my load. 

“Oh my gosh! We’re so glad to see you,” Amanda greets me with a huge smile. She and the two rangers with her have broken down the site before I arrived and now they’re making the final preparations to leave. Amanda is my ride out of Sycamore back to my car which I left near the Ray Miller Trailhead less than six miles ahead. But once again, it’s going to take more than 45 minutes to drive out of the wilderness on winding single lane dirt roads to get there.

Along the way, Amanda looks at me sheepishly. “I was thinking about you while you were out there.”

“Oh yeah, why?”

“With a couple of other people and myself, we hung every ribbon and planted every flag from Danielson to here. There must have been a thousand ribbons, we were averaging a mile every 45 minutes hanging those things. I honestly felt sorry for you. Great job out there. You saved someone else so much work to clean up everything.”

I smiled broadly at her, “No worries, I didn’t get poked too badly.” We both laugh together.

I know that it took Amanda and her helpers days to complete the trail marking. From my vantage point, I got the easier end of the job.

We both nodded and smiled. Running an ultramarathon is very hard work. Setting up, volunteering, and hosting the event is equally as hard. But that’s what makes this world of ultramarathoning so intriguing and so worth talking about; we all love to do hard things. I know that somewhere down the trail I’ll meet up with Amanda, Mary, Megan, Rich, Kathy, and all of the other volunteers again. We’re “ultras”, we love ultramarathoning, we love this community, and we’ll gladly do it all over again.