​Last week was the kind of week where I am under the illusion of youth. I think I can work a bursting-at-the-seams massage schedule, prepare my place for houseguests, run and teach Essentrics and strength-train - and do it all on very little sleep.

My parents, daughter and her boyfriend were visiting for the weekend to celebrate my mom’s 80th birthday (yay!). Squeezing four other people into my small living space was requiring a lot of organization and creativity. By Thursday night I was sleep-deprived and looney-tunes, hanging artwork in Charlotte’s room while watching the video on how to install those darn new-fangled picture hangers and standing on a memory foam mattress trying to use the tiny level to ensure the art was hung straight. (It isn’t.)

A noise caught my attention. It was dark out, and I thought maybe one of the family that I rent my place from was on the driveway. I walked to the hall and out of the corner of my eye saw movement. I looked toward the kitchen. One part of my brain computed “Bear!!! Big, Large, Huge Bear!!!!” while another part computed “but we are inside!” and it wasn’t until the startled bear was running back out the sliding screen door it had walked through that the two parts of my brain came together and I started screaming. I remembered that you should scare the bear off so I yelled “get outta here.” Pretty sure the bear called back over its shoulder, “I’m already outta here, crazy lady.”

Once I got up the courage I slammed the sliding glass door shut and locked it. The screen was pulled off the frame probably as the bear walked right through it. I’m guessing the bear didn’t even see the screen, just opportunity.

A kitchen inspection yielded nothing unusual - nothing taken, no damage - no muddy paw print or bad smell. It hit me how lucky I was.

In an effort to vent my freakout adrenalin, I texted some friends and wandered around my  apartment pretending to get stuff done. I decided some chocolate would help. I walked out to the kitchen counter and that’s when I discovered it. My bag of Ghirardelli chocolate chips was gone! That rascal! Good thing I had a back-up bag. I snarfed down chocolate chips and eventually my anxiety ebbed a bit. I had a lot more work that night to do, so by the time I went to bed I was too exhausted to be kept awake by scary bear dreams.

The next morning I checked, and just outside my sliding door, in the grass off my deck, was the empty chocolate chip bag. That bear must’ve sat right there eating the chocolate chips, like it was enjoying popcorn at the movies, watching me run around my house freaking out. Sheer entertainment. I hope the bear enjoyed itself. 

*****
I was really so fortunate. The bear could have refused to leave or have been aggressive towards me. 
We have a higher incidence of bear activity this summer due to dry conditions in the higher country. Bears are smart and looking for food. Keeping car doors locked and car windows rolled up all the way, locking house doors and windows as well are crucial. If my sliding door had been closed and locked that night the bear wouldn’t have had its Ghirardelli fix. 

Please see this Steamboat Radio article for more info on bear activity and how we can help keep bears and ourselves safe.

​Growing up in Huntington Beach California in the 70’s, we had a woodburning fireplace. The logs gave out bright robust flames, and we had a screen for the sparks that sometimes shot out in tiny little explosions. Resting on the brick hearth was a metal mesh basket with a sliding lid on a long handle that my parents used to pop corn over the fire. One long weekend my cousin was with us for a Sunday night sleepover. We all four played Monopoly, drank hot chocolate (made with whole milk and Nestle Quik in a pot on the stove), and ate popped corn in front of the crackling fire. The warmth, the banter, and the joy of no school the next day all make that night one of my favorite memories.

We moved in 1980 to a home whose fireplace sported a tile hearth. We still had cozy fires, but I more clearly remember the smell of woodsmoke in the neighborhood - a smell that I associated with apples, pumpkins, Halloween and piles of raked leaves under our big willow tree. During the summer our fires were at the beach. We’d gather with friends and family around one of the many concrete firepits along the sand for a beach party on a weekend evening. We’d roast hot dogs and marshmallows. In the early days if you ran out of firewood a neighboring party would happily give you a piece of theirs. As the sun set, we’d inevitably end up bundled in a sweatshirt and pants - even thick coats and hoods as the ocean breeze could be chilly. Getting closer to the fire to warm up worked great until the wind shifted and you were enveloped in smoke. 

The nights around those fires were merry celebrations. Wind-whipped hair, bare feet dusty with sand, faces talking, laughing, looking into the fire that made their cheeks glow orange and their eyes sparkle. 

*****
Growing up close to the ocean meant I was oblivious to the other facets of fire. There was a phenomenon that occurred each year called the Santa Ana winds. The hot dry wind would blow, bringing the smell of smoke - but not fireplace smoke. This was wildfire smoke. And sometimes ash would cover the cars in the neighborhood. I was clueless as to what that might mean for the wildlife and people in the vicinity of the actual fire. The Santa Ana winds and the fires they stoked didn’t mean danger or loss - I could still associate the scent brought on the winds with special times. For me, the Santa Anas meant that fall had officially started. 

When I moved to Steamboat in the early 90’s, wildfire in Colorado wasn’t on my radar. It wasn’t until the 2000’s, living in the Front Range, that fire began to mean something very different. We experienced several smokey seasons, but the one I remember most was the High Park Fire in June 2012. We were living in Longmont at the time, and it was hot. Really hot. We didn’t have AC, and keeping the windows closed against the smoke made for a stifling indoors. Our normally exuberant dogs were in slow motion on our walks, as if we were under water, even in the early morning. They’d look at me with a question and expectation in their eyes: “Why in dog’s name were we out here? When would we go home?”

A Longmont neighbor told me about a friend’s home during the Fourmile Canyon Fire above Boulder. A story that stayed with me. The outer structure of the beautiful home survived the fire - it was built of stone. However, the intense heat of the burning flames exploded the windows; thus the fire found its way in. Sadly, the home was destroyed from the inside out. 

When I moved back to Steamboat in 2013, wildfire went off my radar again. Surely it would never threaten Steamboat itself. But things had changed. There were more fires - hotter fires. The top three largest fires in Colorado history (Cameron Peak, East Troublesome, Pine Gulch) occurred in 2020. Last year’s Lee Fire in Meeker is the fifth largest in Colorado history. And then we had the winter of 2025-2026. One of the lowest snowfalls in recorded history. Way too much of the wrong kind of history-making.

I once remember thinking how horrible it would be to live under the possibility of evacuation. And now, we are facing that very thing. We should all have a plan. A go-bag with the essential stuff (clothes, toiletries, meds). A box for the irreplaceable photos and documents. A designated place to meet up with family and/or friends. An alternate route out in case one route is closed. These are grim plans to make. But crucial.

Fire is mesmerizing, brings warmth and pleasure, gives light in the dark, cooks our food, eases us with its subtle crackling. But when it grows quickly, escaping boundaries, it is insatiable. It is an elemental force of nature, and just as wind, water and earth are a vital part of living on this planet, when these elements go unchecked, we see the incredible and awesome power of Mother Nature. Tornadoes, hurricanes, tsunamis, mudslides, wildfires. 

It is fire that is front of mind these days. I walk under a milky sky, feel the irritation in my eyes from Utah - smoke from six hours’ drive away, smoke that first stung the lungs of my daughter. Strong stuff. I look up at the lurid orange ball that is the sun, lending an unnatural glow to the eerily silent evening.  

Resources

• Sign up for Routt County Alerts to be alerted about emergencies, weather events, evacuations, etc.
• Watch Duty app - download to your phone so you can stay on top of current fires and be notified of one in your area.
• Routt County Wildfire Mitigation Council website - mitigation tips, info on how we got here, evacuation planning guide, and a Wildfire Risk Viewer from Colorado State Forest Service. Much of Steamboat is in the red - highest risk.

​(Read Salida Trail Marathon Part I: One Step At A Time
and Salida Trail Marathon Part II: The Best Day )


I look at the rush of water that is Fish Creek, in such a hurry to get to the Yampa River and then the Colorado. I just want to say to it, slow down and stay awhile. You won’t make it to the Sea of Cortez anyway, you’ll just peter out in the Sonoran Desert. I wish I could hold the flow here longer.

Despite the un-winter with little snow and plenty of unseasonably warm temps, the spring melt still manages to make a low roar, filling my head, and I smile. It is a treat to trot alongside this waterway as it splashes up against and pours over the many rocks along the way.

Happy to be running on a trail, I climb the half-mile of switchbacks and head back down, then turn around and do it again. It is quiet, there’s no one around this morning, for which I am grateful. I can enjoy the peace and don’t have the worry that I’ll encounter someone who will silently agree with me that I’m moving very slowly. Not that, in reality, they’d even notice.

But I notice. I think back to my Run Through Time finish just a few weeks ago, on March 14th, the completion of my first trail marathon, and it isn’t exactly pride that I feel. When I think of my daughter running it - and running it well - I feel a swelling in my chest that is pride and love and even joy. But my own run? That feels…complicated. There’s the finish time difference - Charlotte’s 4:35 to my 7:06. And there’s the age difference - her 19 to my 58. But the numbers don’t tell the whole story. 

It took everything I had to get through that day. Mentally and physically I started with what felt like nothing, and yet somehow ran up and down hills for 26 miles. While on the four-mile trudge up bleak road, I was so sure I wouldn’t make the time cut-off at the top it seemed pointless to continue. Yet somehow I kept pushing myself to keep going, striving for what speed I could muster, the stress of not being fast enough driving me forward. When I made the time cut-off, relief or elation weren’t on the table, because I still felt the pressure to make the second cut-off. In the last few miles the warmth and fatigue were really taking hold, and yet somehow my brain and body maintained - and summoned a sprint (for me) to the finish. It did feel terrific to be done and to be with my daughter and friend. Re-reading this paragraph, I feel gratitude and a bit of awe for how my body and mind performed on that day. But that’s still not the whole story.

I also have questions. Why was I so low energy, why was there so little in my muscles that I was doing the death-shuffle right off the start line? Why did my legs feel like concrete the entire day? Why, with all the hill climbing and heavy lifting I did in my training, did that not play out in increased power - even slightly? Why did I used to be capable of decent running speed but now my 30-second sprint pace is the pace I used to run an entire road marathon in? 

Last summer when I was toiling up the Colorado Trail for the fourth day in a row alongside Charlotte, who was not toiling, I said “I can do anything if it is just for one day.” This was the phrase that resulted in us signing up for the Salida trail marathon. I believed that with dedicated training - running and lifting - I’d improve my speed and power. But speed and power have not shown up. I’m not talking about huge improvements in my paces so much as the sensation of speed and power. A sensation I took for granted until it disappeared a year or two ago. 

It is so easy (and disheartening) to look back over the decades of rowing, running,
​triathlon-ing, backpacking and cycling and remember how fit and capable I felt doing those things. When I trained, I got stronger. A logical equation with mental and physical results. But right now, that equation is broken. I train, but sometimes the results are diminishing returns - low energy, weakness, mental exhaustion. This is not easy to accept. 

The official name of the race is the Run Through Time Trail Marathon. The name refers to the course which travels through old mining territory. I love the name of the race - in fact it is one of the reasons we signed up for the Salida trail half-marathon last year. Now that name resonates in a more profound way: a run through times past.

Times past - 58 years of experiences crammed into the nooks and crannies of my mind. Because these times are past - long gone. There is a sense of loss, and of longing. For older family members, my daughter’s childhood, for the days when you didn’t have to wait in a lift line on a powder day. The loss of how I thought my life would look from the perspective of my twenties and thirties. The loss of a myriad of moments: sitting on the floor between shelves reading a mystery book in the single-room library (the Graham Annex) I rode my bike to; backyard crab feasts thick with Baltimore accents in the humid air, game contests, beers in hand, piles of steamed crabs and wooden mallets and so much laughter; my young and tough Charlotte, running up the hill after me in her pink Boggs snow boots, determined to go where I went. 

But isn’t that simply life? We all have the losses, the longings, for the experiences that fill up our senses and brains until there’s hardly room to squeeze in one more. This really is the stuff of life, and it’s so good, but it can also be so heavy when the loss outweighs the freshness of new experience. Running through time, just as running through historic mining areas, is about perspective. We see the times past from here because we are no longer there - but dang isn’t it awesome that we had those times at all? 

The thing is, and maybe this is the key thing: I’m still running. It might not look like I think it should look. And some days it definitely does not feel like I’d like it to feel. But I am running. It is a powerful connection I share with my daughter. Sometimes I even get to run with Charlotte and we talk. Well, she talks, I pant.  There are days on the trail where I feel incredibly, gloriously alive, surrounded by all that sumptuous nature. I am very very lucky.

So, complicated feelings about my Run Through Time experience and all, what is next? 

I think next is about looking forward. About my new starting line being from age 58. About where I can go from here. The possibilities ahead rather than pining for the past that is behind. About running with the wind in my hair, and not worrying about time at all.
​

​(Read Salida Trail Marathon Part I: One Step At A Time)

One foot in front of the other and I’m just about to the top of this four-mile uphill bit of Type II fun. I see some folks standing in front of the 12.5 mile aid station - they direct me to continue on up the hill for another half-mile before returning to the station where I get off the road and onto some rolling double track. These volunteers do not pull me off the course - somehow, I have made the first time cut-off! 

But there’s no time for celebration. I’m not off the hook yet for the second cut-off. The promised wind has picked up, and despite passing another runner or two, the next portion feels desolate. The climbing is more varied but we’re still gaining elevation. Some stronger gusts take me by surprise, and I barely save my hat more than once. I’m in automatic mode, staring down at the dirt, when I come around a turn and a large meadow opens in front of me, with a stellar view of the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo mountains. For the first time today, I relax a smidge. I remember that I love being out on the trails, running through trees and meadows, reveling in vistas to the far-off horizon. 

I soak that in, and then it’s on to technical, rocky terrain that doesn’t allow for viewing anything but what’s right in front of me. All along I’ve been diligent about eating and drinking. My hydration vest is bulging with a plain water bladder, two soft flasks with a strong electrolyte mix, and tons of bars and chews. It was bulging so much, in fact, that I had to switch jackets this morning because the first one wouldn’t fit over all my fuel. Every few minutes I take a bite of a bar, eat a couple of chews, wash it down with plain water, take a few sips of electrolyte, wash that down with plain water. It is not easy to continue taking all that in, but my body responds well to this method so I keep doing what works.

As I approach mile 19.5, the aid station and second cut-off, I’ve picked off another runner or two and realize that I can let go of the time cut-off worry. I do some fuzzy estimates and conclude that Charlotte has finished by now - still hoping that all is well with her, but figuring I would have heard something if there was a problem. Plus I think the warm temps, wind, climbing and technical demand have taken the edge off my anxiety. I grab some water at the aid station and keep on truckin’.

For the next few miles, I move along at a consistent pace. I’ve been trading passes with a couple of young women in their early twenties - I pass them, they pass me, and so on. At around mile 23 as I pass them again, I can see that the heat has gotten to one of them. I also know that this is where my old lady endurance kicks in. Being young, they don’t have that edge, so I’m pretty sure they won’t pass me back again. (They don’t.)

The last push is a climb up Spiral Drive, where you pass by the “S” lights on Tenderfoot Mountain which overlooks Salida. I am mentally prepared for this, and though it is tough at the end of a long day, it feels kinda good, especially knowing how close I am to finishing. Coming down from Spiral Drive into the last aid station I am feeling decent. I grab some more water and take off, when the volunteers start yelling at me - I’m going in the wrong direction. Oops. I see them watching me so I pull myself together and try to look like I know what I’m doing. Not sure they are convinced.

I know from doing the half-marathon last year that the last mile of this race is a heartbreaker. You can hear the cheering from the finish at Riverside Park across the river as you switchback your way down the front side of the S Mountain. You get to the bottom and think it is just a hop over the railroad tracks, a skip over the river bridge, and a jump across the timing mat to finish. Nope. You get to the bottom and there’s a white arrow (created from flour) pointing you east. At the next possible turn, there’s another arrow - straight.. You keep heading east and just when you think you will never ever see the finish, there’s a right turn!! White arrows, pink flags, and to the finish you go. 

I run (am I actually running at this point?) across the bridge and a young girl sitting high on a huge boulder at the entrance to Riverside Park cheers me on. “Thank you!” I say, and she cheers louder, energized by acknowledgement. I try to pick up my legs for a finish push but the Frankenstein effect has set it. Then I see and hear Charlotte and Lynn! I am so happy to see them! They are simultaneously cheering and running with me to the finish. Lynn says to Charlotte, “well, she’s running better than us!” I guess Frankenstein can move when the end is in sight.

I cross the line with a time of 7:06. I finished! Maybe not my goal time, but I completed my first trail marathon even though I started the day with concrete legs. 

It turns out that Charlotte not only held up just fine, but performed well - she placed 1st in her age group and 7th woman overall! I’m so proud of her, and very happy for her. As much as I love running, I don’t think that even at her age my body would have consistently performed the way hers does. 

It feels both surreal and satisfying to hang out in the park post-race with Charlotte and Lynn, cheering the final finishers in. White puffy clouds move across the azure sky. The sun on my skin gives just the right amount of warmth, and the wind is more gentle now as it blows through the leafless branches of the huge old trees. The Arkansas river flows just a few yards away, and the three of us chat away. There is nowhere else I’d rather be.

Charlotte and I move through the Salida streets at a quick walk, making our way to Riverside Park. Today is the Salida Run Through Time Trail Marathon (26.2 miles, 3800 feet of elevation gain), which we set our sights on last July. We are both nervous. Charlotte is experiencing a couple of nagging spots since running RUFA two weeks prior, and she’s worried about her body holding up for this race. Understandable. At RUFA, she ran 48 miles and climbed 18,000 feet. On our drive to Salida I asked her if she remembered how difficult of a day it was when we climbed Mt. Yale a couple years ago. We climbed/descended 4500 feet  - so her RUFA run was like climbing Mt. Yale four times in one day!!!

I’m dividing my stress between worry for her, and worry for me that I won’t make the time cutoffs today. There are two of them - at miles 12.5 and 19.5, and I am not feeling confident. If I don’t make either cutoff, I’ll be pulled and driven back to the finish area at Riverside Park.  

The actual start is across the river from the park. The runners gather and we make small talk in dim light before the 8:00 start time. The sun isn’t up over the mountain yet, so we shiver with our dear friend Lynn who has driven here from the Colorado Springs area to cheer us on. Though it is chilly now, the day is supposed to get into the 60’s with significant wind, especially at the top of the course. 

Lynn moves off to the side and everyone joins in the countdown: “Five, four, three, two, one, GO!” All 250 runners competing in the trail marathon move forward as one, our index fingers poised above our watches/GPS devices, punching the start button as we cross the timing mat. And we’re off!

Charlotte, sweet girl, wants to run the first bit with me, but a few yards down the flat road and my heartrate is in the red. The anxiety is taking its toll. We wish each other good luck and “I love you!” and she is out of sight in roughly six seconds. A high-end sports car for sure.

I slog on, my legs full of concrete, and realize that my get up and go has gotten up and went. The first couple miles are a loop on a fairly flat road with a relatively small climb and I’m trying to get my heartrate back into this stratosphere. When I shuffle back by the start before heading up onto the mountain trail, Lynn cheers me on - but she looks concerned. 

The next few miles are for me a stress soup of pushing myself to run fast enough to make the first cutoff, finding the neon pink flags and ribbons to be sure I don’t go the wrong way, trying not to fall on the rocky terrain, and worrying about Charlotte. I keep sending messages to her body to hold up for this race. I’m just about in last place, but the bonus of that is peace and quiet on the trail. That way I can be alone with the screaming thoughts looping through my brain: “Hurry up! Watch it, you almost went down there! Oh, I sure hope Charlotte is okay.”

I come into the aid station at mile 8 to the blaring of the Rocky theme song and much cheering. The happiness quickly evaporates as I start the next leg: a four plus mile climb up a dirt road baking in the sun. I’m about a mile up and check my pace - at this rate, better to walk and save some energy. I also begin to come to terms that I’m probably not going to make the cut off, but decide to do two things: 1) try as hard as I can to make it; and 2) no crying if I don’t. Having squared that with myself, I put my head down and walk-shuffle my way up the climb. 

The sandy dirt road keeps climbing, and there are just a few spots where it is less steep so I get in a few running paces. The air is dry and warm, and there is no distraction of a gorgeous view, just scrubby, scraggly high desert flora. These four miles will never end. 

Then I remember the great Pam Reed, who twice was the overall winner of Badwater, a 135 ultra marathon from the inferno of Death Valley to the chilly elevation of the Mt. Whitney Portal. She wrote that she never sets out to run 135 miles, or 75 miles, or even 10 miles. It is only ever one mile at a time. So, one step at a time, I make my way to the top.

​(See Running Up For Air Part I: Stars Shining Over Malan’s Peak here)

According to the race tracker, Charlotte and Charlie are in 1st and 2nd place at the summit for their first lap! Charlotte is planning to run five laps - at this rate we might be getting some sleep before the night is done!

We whoop as they sprint into the trailhead area. Shannon and Amelia have a lineup of clever signs, different ones for each lap, and they make Charlie and Charlotte giggle. Our intrepid runners are feeling good. They pull up to a table and rifle through the food bags as volunteers refill their bottles and we catch up on the details. The microspikes are key for the icy part, and Charlotte was having heart pains when they started up the steep incline, but she is fine now. (?!) They had a blast chatting away through their six miles and meeting other runners. The two of them have decided to do eight laps. I worry about sleep (for her and for me), and I worry about her body handling that mileage. But I remind myself that this is her race. I am here to support her in whatever way I can. So I pull my worries to the back of my mind.

The two C’s take off for their second lap, and we supporters find our own rhythm for the night. Take video and cheer loudly when they come in from their lap. Snap a pic of them holding up fingers for which lap they’ve just done. Tend to what needs tending (nourishment, refill bottles, clothing changes, blisters, tape) while they warm up near the heat lamps. Take video and cheer loudly as they leave for their next lap. 

I get in plenty of my own laps walking back and forth to where I’m staying. There’s no sleep because I’m checking the tracker. I try to get work done, make hot tea, and when I see that they’ve summited, it is back to the trailhead to await their arrival. I am learning that if Charlotte needs something between laps, she’s more likely to accept help from someone that is not me. As much as she appreciates me being there, I’m still her mom. I’m so eager to help that it isn’t easy to back off, but I do my best to background myself a bit in the support duties. 

At 11pm, awaiting the end of their third lap, I stand at the trailhead, no one else near for the moment, and stare up. The inky indigo sky is dotted with cloud puffs moving across the gibbous moon. The quiet and lovely night is made more so by the feeling of everyone else at home, asleep, while we - this small band of runners and supporters - are vibrantly alive under the bright moonlight and velvety sky. I am happy to be here, awake.

It is now close to 5am and we’re waiting for Charlotte and Charlie to come in from their 5th lap. The breaks have gotten longer, the laps a bit slower, though they are still maintaining an impressive and consistent pace. Headlamps wink in and out through the darkness along the trail up the mountain; we’ve learned to look for the two headlamps together, as have the folks at the timing tent. They know these two and their numbers: “Here come 2403 and 2404!”

C and C arrive, and they are tired. Time for a little sleep. Planning to reconvene about 7am, we head to our accommodations and get about an hour of sleep. After a snack and some hot tea we are back at the trailhead. I’m amazed that Charlotte is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the morning sunshine brings a new perspective: “We’ll actually be able to see the trail now!” The two warriors head off for their sixth lap, we three on the support crew clamoring excitedly. We definitely know how to do this support thing!

For lap seven, both runners have taped knees in the hopes of easing some soreness that has cropped up - understandable, since with six laps under their belt they’ve completed 36 miles and over 13,000 feet of climbing and descending. Ouch!  

Shannon yells “run faster this time!” Apparently this advice backfires, as it is their slowest lap. When they arrive, they are at a walk and Shannon’s sign reads “You okay?” It seems Charlie’s body has decided that he is done. After some discussion, Charlotte asks him how he’d feel about her doing the eighth lap on her own. She doesn’t want to make his not doing the eighth more difficult. But Charlie is the real deal. He is behind Charlotte 100%: “you’re the sickest person I know.” (“Sick” = “amazing” in Gen-Z speak.) He gives her a hug to send her on her way, a hug that speaks volumes about the people they are and the friendship they share. And Charlotte is off. Her summit time is the fastest since their first lap. When she comes down the final section into the start/finish area she is flying. And she’s done! The race director, Tara, walks over and hands her a donut. Charlotte sinks her teeth into that sweetness, a big grin on her face. 48 miles, 18,000 feet of climbing. The donut definitely made it all worthwhile.

*****
Being a part of this event was humbling. I watched runners accomplish incredible feats of mileage and climbing with no drama and much fortitude.I watched their camaraderie, through the night and all the next day, and I saw respect, and humor, and empathy. 

I watched volunteers stay up all night supporting the runners; some of those volunteers worked through the night and then raced in the morning - the 12 hour, 6 hour or 3 hour events. I watched kids and dogs frolicking, and everyone cheering on folks they didn’t know - rooting for them to run that next lap, welcoming them back on the return. 

I watched my daughter run her first ultra marathon adventure with her dear friend, overcoming the times of physical fatigue and mental challenge, and keep on going. I watched her smile, her determination, her confidence in what she can do.

This Running Up For Air event (RUFA: Malan’s Peak) raised $15K for air quality solutions. It brought people together in the best ways of athletic challenge, support and fun. I can’t wait for next year.

My toes curl in, trying their best to avoid the wet. Squelch, squatch, splosh. What’s falling from the sky is an indeterminate mix of rain, sleet and snow - but it is very definitely some giant’s spilled slushie that I’m plodding through. Every time a vehicle drives by I jump to the side to avoid the worst of the splashback. I’m thankful to reach the quiet road leading to the trail but here the slush is so thick and fluid it feels like I’m trying to skitter across a lake. The trail itself is slightly better, but when I start up the climb I slip-slop-slide with every step.

Why the heck am I out here? Several reasons: fresh air and outdoor running being preferable to the gym treadmill, getting in the last few days of mileage before the mid-March Salida trail marathon, where I will run 26.2 miles and climb 3800 feet. 

This sounds formidable - at least it did before my daughter signed up for the 24 hour RUFA (Running Up For Air) race in Ogden, Utah on February 27-28. Participants will do laps up Malan’s Peak: 3 miles up and 3 miles down, 2200 feet of elevation to ascend - and descend - with each lap. My daughter plans to run 5 laps (30 miles), and neither of us know what to expect. What will the mountain conditions be like? How long will it take? Will we stay up all night or grab a few hours of sleep? 

I also don’t know what to expect as I support her, but I do know that I’m stressed which is another reason I’m out here on this sloppy morning. I’ve watched videos to learn “how to crew for an ultra race.” I’ve checked in with Charlotte about the different foods she might want. I settle on some basics to bring: cinnamon rice cakes, a tub of peanut butter, gluten-free peanut butter and honey sandwiches, the entire bottle of honey, gluten-free pretzels, salty mini rice cakes, organic ginger ale - 2 boxes. Energy chews and bars, extra electrolyte mix. First aid: athletic tape, bandaids, pain reliever, Aquaphor. Sleeping bag, long coat (for keeping warm between laps). My shoes with spikes (for icy/snowpacked trail). Extra gloves, hats, rain shell, socks. A camp chair. And two headlamps, fully charged. This is just the stuff I’m bringing. She also has her own gear and food bag. I am hoping they’ll have a wagon or a donkey I can use to get all this stuff to the start area.

RUFA got its start when ultrarunner Jared Campbell was training for the Barkley Marathons, an extremely demanding 100-miler held in Tennessee, where the start time is signaled by the race director lighting a cigarette, and participants end up climbing the equivalent elevation of Mt. Everest (29K feet), trail-find to navigate the course, and even rip pages from books planted randomly along the way. In the winter months, as Campbell ran up and down Grandeur Peak in Salt Lake City to prepare for the grueling Barkley, he was climbing up through the inversion layer of pollution to the warmer, clear air at the summit. Eventually these training runs led to the Run Up For Air series, to bring awareness and raise money for air quality. 

Charlotte’s start is 6pm on Friday. She’s running with her good friend Charlie, whose longest distance to date is a half marathon. Joining me in support crew duties is Charlie’s twin sister Shannon and her friend Amelia. Being night shift nurses in Reno they are perfect for this role.
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The winter here, just as in Colorado, has been unseasonably warm with very little snow. No worries about how to stay warm tonight, and the trail is mostly packed dirt/mud with a short icy section  - not the usual snow-packed conditions. The trailhead area sitting right at the base of Malan’s Peak is bordered with tents housing tables and chairs, coolers with water and Gnarly electrolyte replacement, and a warming tent with chairs set up under heat lamps, and a full spread of food: chicken nuggets, fruit, hot broth and coffee, and various forms of sweet and salty carbs. The timing tent is situated right at the trail start, and runners are directed to check in and out with that tent for each lap. 


​Golden sunset light settles around everyone. Kids, dogs, partners and friends surround the runners in the minutes before they take off. There are lots of smiles, upbeat banter, and the easy friendliness of everyone from runners to supporters to volunteers. The race director yells “GO!” and they are off! 

We watch the runners head up the trail, falling into a single-file line in the last light of the day. The first mile is rolling; it is miles two and three where they gain most of the 2200 feet in elevation. We plan to keep an eye on Charlotte and Charlie’s summit time to determine when to be back to greet them. Shannon and Amelia head off to grab a few supplies, and I head out for a brisk walk to warm up. 

As I move through the peaceful and dark neighborhood streets, I think about Charlotte, and wonder how it is going. How is that icy section where she’ll need her microspikes? Will the more technical parts of the trail be really difficult with just the headlamp? I’ll get my questions answered when they come in from their first lap. In the meantime, we are both moving forward under the starry sky.

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We cannot tire or give up. We owe it to the present and future generations of all species to rise up and walk!
-Wangari Maathai

Wangari Maathai planted a lot of trees. Over 50,000 of them to be exact. 

Professor Wangari Maathai was the founder of the Green Belt Movement in Kenya in 1977. She saw planting trees as a means to address issues women in many communities were facing: food scarcity, lengthier walks to gather wood for fuel, and streams drying up. The women could plant seedlings and earn a small amount of money, and the resulting trees would provide food, firewood and shade, and retain soil.

Eventually, the Green Belt Movement trained over 30,000 women in forestry and other skills, giving them agency and a way to manage the land in their communities. Tree nurseries were created to expand the availability of seedlings. Through small grants, Green Belt was able to pay the women when their seedlings survived for six months. 

Teaching women skills and giving them meaningful work went against cultural mores, and Professor Maathai was publicly ridiculed by members of parliament, verbally abused by the president, physically beaten by government police and hired thugs, and jailed several times. Yet, she persevered.

Early on in Green Belt’s formation, a huge order of seedlings arrived but Professor Maathai had nowhere to put them. She ended up filling her yard and house to the bursting point with the trees, much to her then-husband’s dismay. Later, when the Green Belt Movement was more established and had a large number of employees, the ruling government party Kenya African National Union or KANU, sent the police to kick Green Belt out of their office. Professor Maathai set up shop in her small home, cramming dozens of people into the tiny space. 

Professor Maathai fought for decades on behalf of women and planting trees. She served on political committees within Kenya, and was recognized globally for her work, serving as the United Nations Messenger of Peace and awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004. 

She believed that empowering people to take action within their communities, working for the common good, and to stand strong together, was the path to true democracy. Planting trees was an integral part of this work, and also was a way to promote peace and goodwill. 

Professor Maathai rallied people to plant trees to call attention to the planned destruction of Uhuru Park, a major city park in Nairobi. She also rallied a large group of women to protest political prisoners - this peaceful protest lasted for over a year. When KANU was secretly instigating violence between rural villages, Professor Maathai disguised herself and at great risk traveled to those communities to understand what was happening. She encouraged the people of battling villages to plant seedlings together as a means to mend the rifts between them. 

Wangari Maathai never gave up. By showing up to plant trees even in the face of violent opposition, by voicing the truth and encouraging people to speak up in the face of government injustice, and by teaching women the skills to benefit themselves and their communities, she planted seeds of dignity and of hope.

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Sources/Learn More

• The Greenbelt Movement
• Unbowed, A Memoir, by Wangari Maathai

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Originally published January 2025

​Walking along a trail, whether concrete or dirt, your feet will at some point bring you to a tree - one or several. You might pass right by, mind elsewhere. Or you might notice the distinctive scent of evergreen. You might feel tempted to touch the dark knot perfectly framed by white aspen bark, or the drip of sap running down the rough conifer trunk. You might gaze upward, marveling at the height - imagine being that tall - and smile at the squirrels leaping through the branches in their acrobatic games of tag. You might see a woodpecker drilling for its next meal, or hear a songbird brightening the day with its tune.

What would it be like to be up high amongst the sturdy boughs, cradled by the green giant? To be nestled within thick foliage, unseen from below and able to gaze far across the landscape, enjoying the bird’s eye view. To feel the breeze move your hair as the leaves rustle. To breathe in the dusty earth smell on an afternoon in August , or the cool wet of a drizzly October morning.

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An arboreal abode, a home in the trees, a tree house. How I longed for a fort in the trees when I was growing up, and that longing continued when my own daughter Charlotte was young. We made do with reading the Magic Tree House books by Mary Pope Osborne. The stories were terrific, but more about the fantastic adventures the tree house transported Annie and Jack to, rather than the tree house itself. The Sorcerer’s Crossing, a favorite book of mine, involved a character who lived in a tree in order to become more self-aware. The first night she moved into the tree house there was a violent thunderstorm  but she was safe in the little tree house while the tree thrashed about.

Spending time in trees, and nature in general, we know is beneficial for our health. Though we all can’t take part in the tree house experience the way the Swiss Family Robinson did, we can look into biophilic design. Biophilic refers to love of life and all that is alive. The design concept consists of three parts:

1. Utilizing direct nature: bringing trees, plants, water features indoors.
2. Utilizing indirect nature: specific use of materials and images.
3. Utilizing the space itself to create feelings one has in nature: secluded spaces for privacy and peace, partially hidden spaces to create a sense of exploration and wonder.

An example of this design is found in greenscrapers, or vertical forests, where trees and shrubs are integrated into the outdoor spaces of a many-storied structure. The overall effect transforms the building into a spectacular oasis, human-made straight edges and sharp angles softened with verdure. 

Biophilic design can be found in office spaces, upscale city apartment dwellings, and even low-income housing. The greenery of the buildings, as well as parks and dedicated green spaces, not only provides a connection to nature for those who live there, but can also cool the environment, as cities become “heat islands” with all their concrete and asphalt.

Living amongst the trees isn’t just a childhood fantasy - it is a very real way to connect mind, body, environment and good health with nature.


Sources/Learn More
Optimist Daily: Architects embrace trees to bring nature in and redefine home design
Green Oasis: What is Biophilic Design?

The humid evening air is warm and gentle on my skin. The last of the golden light overhead fades to darkness under the trees. It’s summer in the 1970’s in a small Maryland town, and I’m with my family - mom, dad, grandma, and my aunt, walking to my great-grandparents’ home just up the street. My grandpa drove, not because he had to, just because he could. Across a large lawn, tucked under some low-growing trees and against a lush hedge, my grandma points out little flickers of light. I run over (no fences keeping me out) to see, floating all around me, tiny lanterns that glow bright, go dark, and light up again. Fireflies, or lightning bugs. They are elusive, delicate, and mesmerizing. I am entranced. 

Fireflies are actually a type of beetle. Their on-again, off-again glimmer is the result of bioluminescence, caused by chemicals in the tail-end of their bodies (called the lantern) that create light. This luminescence can be used to attract mates or to ward off potential predators. Some savvy females even use their light to snare unwary males from different firefly groups in order to devour them. The firefly’s largest meals however, are consumed in the larval stage after hatching from the egg (in July or August), in which they eat their fill of soft-bodied invertebrates such as slugs, worms and snails. They snug down into the ground or under tree bark in order to survive the winter. 

I haven’t yet seen fireflies in Colorado, and assumed they only existed in more humid climates. But fireflies can be found here, near areas of fresh water such as creeks, rivers, lakes and hot springs. They can be best seen at night after 9pm in forests, meadows and fields near these water sources. Unfortunately, firefly populations are threatened due to loss of habitat, pesticide use, and light pollution which confuses mating fireflies. 

Since 2017, researchers at the Butterfly Pavilion in Westminster, Colorado, have been rearing and studying fireflies in order to understand more, and with the end goal to help boost the firefly population. This is painstaking work - so far just a few fireflies have been successfully raised. Recently, one female went through the entire life cycle - she hatched at the Butterfly Pavilion, and went through each successive stage through adulthood, when she herself laid eggs. 

There are ways to get involved: you can become a community scientist to help track firefly populations in Colorado or you can take a firefly tour. And ways to protect: support land conservation and habitat restoration, don’t capture fireflies, and turn off outdoor lights in wetland areas June through August.

I hope to someday take an evening walk near a wetland area and catch a glimpse of the magical fireflies once again. 


Sources/Learn More

• The Butterfly Pavilion: Firefly Lifecycle Project
• The Butterfly Pavilion: Colorado Firefly Watch
• Colorado Gardner: Fireflies and the allure of light