Speed bumps of heavenly intent or accidents of nature, there are plenty of land mines everywhere that can bring the path plodder to his or her knees. The toughest trail I ever ran was the Escarpment in the Catskills of New York State. This was an 18-mile race through Rip Van Winkle country, routed through boulder fields, across angular juttings of granite and along a path with an unrelenting barrage of roots, rocks and mud, all of it hidden under slick leaves and dangling nettles. It was like a bad video game, only longer, and, well, more real, yet the race director had no trouble filling the field, year after year.
"We've had sprained ankles," he warned at the start, "and sometimes you get a flesh wound that opens up and needs some stitches. We've had broken sternums, we've had broken arms, we've had busted-up knees. And if any of you have a problem with that, now's a good time to bow out."
No one did.
The difficulty of it, after all, or at least the "wild" of it, is the point. We're not seeking pain and trouble, but we know it's there. Falling is only one problem we face when we're released on our own recognizance, fending far from the madding crowd. We may see deer, rabbits and hawks, and feel delighted. But the wildlife spectrum can roar quickly down the line without warning, past the photogenic to the perilous. Rattlesnake, cougar, bear.
"Don't worry," a ranger at Glacier National Park in Montana once told me, "Grizzlies will only attack if you surprise them, invade their territory or come between them and their cubs." Three things, I explained to him, that a runner could do without realizing it. And then I went for a run, right where the bears were known to frolic.
I ran unchewed that day, but I've talked to one runner who suffered a grizzly-bear mauling in the Grand Tetons. He survived, and, after months of surgical reconstruction, managed to run again. But I know of others who weren't so lucky. Serious bodily harm on the trail is rare, but risks are real.
Most trail dangers, of course, are more mundane, like falls, twisted ankles, ticks, poison ivy, dehydration. More mundane, yes, but often with particularly nasty downsides. I know runners who have suffered a tick bite and ended up with Lyme disease. I'll take an angry moose any day.
And then there are the human predators. You may not be stalked by cougars on the trails in your neighborhood, but there could be something worse hiding behind the next tree trunk, something that speaks your language. There's no telling what you might encounter on the road less traveled, so remember: Be prepared, scouts. Blaze your own path, but pack water and a few friends to boot. You are responsible for yourself out there, unhooked as you are from the electronic drumbeat of modern life.
But that, of course -- the disconnection from today and the reconnection to ancient, unplugged instincts -- is the reason you're there. To explore unknown territory, the way a cat will when the door opens to the little-used attic or basement. Just to get a good look around.
And it's those views that entice us back. The spectacular ones that unfold like cinema, when you suddenly round a bend and the green curtains open, revealing waves of mountains to the horizon, ghostly cumulus clouds, the sweep of valley, a roiling waterfall. And the more intimate ones, too, of heron perched on rock, purple and yellow wildflowers in the grass, a turtle meandering midpath, a stand of aspen aging golden. No wonder our ancestors wandered. There was so much to see.
Trail views are earned, not given. You've proven your commitment through sweat and tired hamstrings, and the sight is sweeter for the effort. Yes, you can enjoy some great panoramas from your car window. But they don't belong to you.
It's not surprising, then, that the bond between runner and landscape seems mystical, a connection to the infinite. We travel ancient paths, ones our progeny will inherit. Landforms seem eternal, infused with spirit. Sacred ground.
My daughter once laughed when she heard I went to church in the woods. It was a metaphor, but her 10-year-old imagination quickly went to work, and she giggled.
"I can see you, Dad," she laughed, the image just too funny, "going to church with the squirrels and the rabbits and the chipmunks..."
I always liked that image: Pastor Dopey presiding over his congregation of critters, full speed ahead.
The image I like best, though, is of my pack of friends, out on our favorite trails once a week, telling stories and occasionally pushing ahead at full force. Testing to see who wilts first in the forest. Scouting the territory. A process, old as the hills.
And that, I guess, is why fall is the time to celebrate trail running. In winter, after the woods start to fill with snow, erasing the pathways, we are squeezed back to asphalt and concrete. We must once again spar with automobiles for territory. And that just ain't natural.
For now, then -- while you can, where you can -- enjoy the passage of dirt beneath your feet. Surround yourself in green. Sweat the good bullet. Be alert. Drink in the pastoral, the arboreal, the mythical views. And by all means, do not resist the urge to break out in song.
