The following Rocky Mountain High piece was written by trail runner Sarah Barber and is excerpted with permission from the book, Summer Camp for Big Kids.
Rocky Mountain High
Providing Support, Exceeding Expectations . . . Together
The TransRockies Run. It wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t on my bucket list. It wasn’t even on my radar. In fact, I always thought maybe TransRockies was a mountain bike race in Canada.
But a few years ago, one of the members of the Boise Betties, a women-only track club in my hometown, texted me a link to TRR with the words, “Would you ever be interested in doing something like this?”
“Hmm … well, maybe,” I thought.
At the time, I was buried in a multi-sport habit like some sort of endurance junkie, focused on figuring out how to peel my wetsuit off faster, become more aerodynamic on a bicycle, and crank out mile splits that kept me in contention for the podium. All this is to say that because TRR was held at the peak of triathlon season, I couldn’t see a way to make it fit.
Meanwhile, the friend who had posed the question was busy racing toward a 1,500-meter PR on the track, which meant miles of high-altitude trail running wasn’t exactly part of her training plan either. And so, her text message sat there, gradually inching out of view on my screen, the imagined possibility slipping out of consciousness.
Flash forward to the spring of 2020. The COVID pandemic was in full force, and the world as we knew it had changed forever. By then, the woman from my track club had become a regular Tuesday training buddy. We traveled to numerous events together, including the USA Track & Field (USATF) Club Cross-Country National Championships and a couple of Masters’ Outdoor Track Nationals. We did a spontaneous overnight camping trip with our dogs and husbands and got together for happy hour occasionally.
But, we weren’t the kind of friends who have a lot of contact. Weeks would go by without so much as a text message between us, and we never talked on the phone. So, when my caller ID showed Cody Sohn was on the line, I knew instantly something was up. After a few minutes of small talk, she cut to the chase: “I need to tell you something,” she said. “I found out I have cancer…”
Cody knows more about what happened next than I do, but she spent most of 2020 and part of 2021 traveling out of state for experimental treatments, losing all her hair, and not running at all. Forget disappearing from track workouts and social media—she pretty much just disappeared.
But then out of nowhere, in the fall of 2021, a text message pinged: “Would you want to do this? Is this nuts!?” And then the follow-up ping: a link to the TRR website.
This time I didn’t hesitate. “You asked me three years ago—why haven’t we done it yet?”
Not long after that, Cody and I sat down in a coffee shop, pulled out our MasterCards, and simultaneously invested down payments in the 15th running of the 3-day solo TRR. Given that it was October, August 2022 seemed so far into the future that it all felt very safe. And by “safe,” maybe I mean “not real.”
But then in March 2022, we paid our entry-fee balances, and it felt like we had suddenly planted a stake in the ground, declared a goal, and committed to something we were still struggling to wrap our minds around.
Several months into the pandemic, my husband and I adopted a Weimaraner puppy. It’s not as cliché as it sounds—her acquisition had been brewing for years, because I wanted a consistent companion for all my trail miles. As such, most of my training runs and hikes were with my dog, Payette, rather than with Cody.
Nonetheless, Cody and I made a point to do several of our longer runs together, and we even did a mini training camp at her family’s cabin in the mountains north of Boise. If our joint runs were infrequent, our text messages were a different story. Gone were the days of a random meme shared on Instagram every couple of months. We had transitioned into a weekly back-and-forth with lines like, “Do we need gaiters? The website says maybe we do.” Or, “No flip-flops in the shower truck…WTF!?” Or, “How steep is a slope that goes up 3,000 feet in 2.5 miles?”
Meanwhile, the temperatures rose along with our weekly mileage. Pretty soon it was the tail end of July, and the countdown to the race was on. A few days before Stage 1, Cody and I flew into Denver, where her parents picked us up and hosted us for a night. It was the first time I met any of her blood relatives, and it was no surprise to me that they’re as fantastic as their daughter. The next day, they loaned us their Subaru with a full tank of gas and wished us safe travels to Buena Vista.
That’s where our next dose of family support came in. My 77-years-young mom met us just outside of town at a tiny house she’d rented for the weekend, and my brother drove up from Golden in his tricked-out camper truck. The two of them grilled up massive ribeyes and then crowded the steaks off our plates with all kinds of carbs, insisting this was the key to TRR success.
Full disclosure: on the way back to our cush hotel in Buena Vista, Cody and I stopped at a grocery store and found sugary, chocolatey confections to seal the deal. Let’s face it, neither of us was going to sleep well with stomachs loaded beyond capacity and nerves like an over-caffeinated guard dog. But we were ready—as ready as we’d ever be.
What happened during the next three days was an incredible shared experience—not just between Cody and me, but also between the other runners, their supporters, the volunteers, and the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. In an unexpected plot twist, instead of being progressively weakened by the fatigue of each long day, I think both Cody and I got stronger.
We went from not really sleeping (and maybe also trying not to cry) during that first night in the tent, to sleeping like our race depended on it (because it did), despite the altitude and chill of Leadville. We learned how to shampoo, shave, and rinse thoroughly in less than five minutes and to be grateful for hot showers. We communicated wordlessly across the crowded dining tables, our eyes reminding each other to PR our one-sitting caloric intake in preparation for the next day. We high-fived the successful early-morning trips to the Porta Potties (which were always super clean and well-stocked with TP—thanks, Houda!).
But there’s more. We figured out how to find safety and comfort in the intimidatingly rugged mountains of Colorado, using every mile to dig it out of ourselves. The first day felt long—so long. Frighteningly long. Because…how was I going to survive two more days of this? I was thoroughly wrung out with absolutely nothing left in the tank when I crossed the finish line. To my surprise, I found out later in the afternoon I was in fourth place among the 3-day solo women competitors.
Another thing I found out that afternoon was Cody had been assaulted by a migraine as she neared the highest point on the course. The incredibly kind and competent staff at the aid station worked with her to combat the symptoms, but spotty vision and dizziness would have been terrible companions in the remote wilderness that stood between Cody and ChillVille back in Buena Vista. Her day ended early.
We were unable to regroup until dinnertime, and in case we weren’t feeling defeated enough at that point, a drenching thunderstorm brought our spirits right down to subterranean levels. The next morning offered up sunshine and with it came a glimmer of hope—also Hope Pass.
The thing about hope is it assumes uncertainty. Outcomes are not guaranteed, but there’s something paradoxically liberating about the uncertainty. It’s an opportunity to become unattached, to truly let go, and to trust things will unfold exactly as they need to in the moment.
All Cody and I had to do was keep moving forward and keep learning along the way. With that approach, Day 2 boosted our collective confidence, and we got to trade summit photos while lounging in the sun-soaked grass field at Leadville.
By Day 3, I was sitting solidly in fourth place in the general classification but had no expectation of even staying in the top 10. I trusted my training, having done back-to-back long trail runs on several occasions. But I had never done a third consecutive high-mileage day, and Day 3 was the longest stage so far.
My legs felt like they’d been pummeled with a meat tenderizer. Even my arms were tired! I was more scared of what might happen during that final stage than I had been of anything else related to TRR. My challenge was to reframe my fear of the unknown. By cultivating curiosity instead of fear, I realized the only way to learn what would happen on that third day was to go run the course and find out.
Cody, on the other hand, didn’t seem scared. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she was going to start the final stage until about an hour before the gun went off.
“It’s like this, Sarah,” she told me. “I’ve never even run 20 miles, let alone 24. I think I’ve seen what this is all about—and it’s amazing—but I’m just not sure I’m ready to tackle it this year.”
After a little more discussion—and probably a lot more inner reckoning—she decided to begin the run with a plan to drop out at the first aid station. The third stage of TRR ended up being my favorite. Everything came together, and with each passing mile, I found myself marveling at how happy I was, how beautiful the scenery was, and how unbelievably well everything was going.
I finished that stage in third place for the solo 3-day event, and for a hot minute, I wondered if I might move up to third in the general classification
as well. That would depend on who came in behind me and how far back she was—not far enough as it turned out.
In the end, though, it still felt like a big win to finish quietly, and anonymously, one step off the final podium. The even bigger win was seeing Cody finish—not in a sag wagon, not in a volunteer’s car, but on her own two feet! Once she started running that morning, she decided not to stop, and by making that decision, she finished the longest run of her life and the 15th running of the 3-day TransRockies.
What did we learn?
One: life is better when it’s shared with people we care about. Cody and I had different goals, different needs, and different plans for this adventure, but we were able to execute them together. Each of us providing the other with support, encouragement, and that undeniable bonding that happens when only the two of you know exactly what you went through in order to get to the finish line.
Two: our bodies are more capable than our brains want to admit. When we stopped overthinking and being scared, we exceeded our own expectations. It’s important to take risks now and then, and to do things that force you to get outside your comfort zone—like, WAY outside your comfort zone.
If you don’t, you’re not really living.
And from that comes the third lesson: aim high—Rocky Mountain high!
About the “I Heart Racing” Series
Soulstice publishing launched the “I Heart Racing” series to celebrate the nation’s most historic, quirky, and tradition-rich footraces. These events motivate people to lace up their shoes for a million different reasons and take part in healthy, fun, challenging exercise with a community of connection. We’ve even included a bumper sticker in each book so you can show your love of TRR.
Soulstice Publishing, founded by professional editors who also happen to be runners, launched with the award-winning 2019 book To Imogene, a Flagstaff Love Letter, which we billed as one town’s long-distance romance with an iconic trail run. That collection of essays, poems, quips, photos, and more was proof of the creativity and commitment of runners who want to express their love for the sport.
The “I Heart Racing” series gives runners the opportunity to share what their favorite destinations and events mean to them. These beautiful keepsake books remind us of the miles we cover and the blood, sweat, tears, and smiles so many of us expend on our running journeys.
About Summer Camp for Big Kids
This isn’t your third-grader’s summer camp. For nearly two decades, runners have shown their grit (and occasionally their wild sides) by challenging themselves to an elevated experience in the Colo¬rado mountains known as the TransRockies Run—TRR.
Summer Camp for Big Kids presents the stories of more than thirty of those participants, plus images from talented photographers that showcase the up-close and personal as well as the vast, inspiring terrain that TRR campers traverse every year.
From Buena Vista to Beaver Creek, over Hope Pass and taking in some well-deserved rest and relaxation in ChillVille, TransRockies tests limits while ensuring camaraderie and unwavering support with a newfound family.
Who says you have to leave summer camp behind just because you’re an adult? Come for the outdoors and the exercise; stay for the life-changing memories and perspectives. TRR—and this book—contain them all.
Price: $US 44.95/$CDN 59.95
ISBN: 978-1-7349899-9-1
Editor’s Note: The 2024 TransRockies Run starts August 12.
