Bighorn 100 - 2026

Dayton, Wyoming

"Outwork your doubt"

Why this one? Why solo?

This would technically be my 5th 100, assuming i'd finish. I'd technically gone unsupported once, at Zumbro, but that's a looped course — every 17 miles I was back at my own tent and car, gear and a bail-out always close by. This was different. Bighorn is point-to-point through real backcountry, and I'd never done that unsupported, and never run a true mountain hundred at all. Going in, that combination genuinely scared me.

I'm 42. I have a job, kid and a life that doesn't pause for a training block even with a supportive spouse. And underneath all of that, I'm still, somewhere, the fat kid who never thought of himself as an athlete. I got up to 265 pounds at one point. I've dealt with depression. Running is what turned both of those around. It's the thing that actually works for me, physically and mentally, more than anything else I've tried Every other part of my life has gotten better because I found something that gave me a reason to keep showing up for myself. I came into this race at 195 pounds in arguably the best shape I've ever been in, and Bighorn felt like the right place to ask myself a real question: after all of it, am I actually as capable as I've built myself up to be?

It was a tough location to get to, and asking for crew, or pacers out at this remote location is a steep ask. So no crew. No pacers. Just me, my drop bags, and the Bighorn Mountains, over June 19th and 20th, with about 300 runners toeing the line in Dayton, Wyoming. Whatever happened out there, I'd have to be the one to solve it. That felt like the only honest way to actually test what these years of work had built.... plus it was pretty clear i was supposed to still be home Sunday for Fathers day, so i better not die.

A different kind of 100

Bighorn isn't Superior. I do think they are difficult in the own different ways, Superior is rugged and technical and plenty capable of humbling you, but it's rooted in dense northern forest, close to towns, crosses some roads, and generally is close to help if you need it. Superior's climbs are short and punchy: you're up, you're down, and you're onto the next thing before your legs even register what happened. Bighorn is a mountain race in the true sense. The course carries about 20,500 feet of total climbing and nearly as much in descent, spread across a few very long sustained climbs and drops in the thousands of feet at a time, with no real flat ground to recover on. You're either grinding up or bracing down, and your legs never really get a break either way. The course spends real time above 8,000 feet, out in high alpine terrain with zero tree cover, so the sun exposure during the day can be relentless in a way Superior's forest canopy never lets happen. And if weather rolls in up there, there's nowhere to hide. Argubly, i could not have asked for better weather as it was not a factor in my race.

Other item that made this unique was zero cell coverage. Your phone becomes nearly worthless out there, no coverage along most of the course. There's no quick bail option, some aid stations are packed in by horseback because there's no road access at all. I sort of found the complete remoteness of this one extra intriguing.

Start - Into the Canyon

The race starts with a short mile on a dirt road before turning into the canyon, paralleling the river and climbing from there. The opening section climbs about 3,700 feet over 7.5 to 8 miles, racing along the canyon wall following a gorgeous river up into the Bighorns. The sun was reflecting hard off the canyon walls, and it was hot early, the kind of heat that makes you question your pacing before you've even hit double digit miles. After Lower Sheep Creek aid station around mile 3.5, the trail turned even more upward, really ascending into the mountains, and that's where the tall grass started: a narrow footpath through it, and it didn't take long to realize this wasn't a heavily trafficked course. This was remote, real backcountry.

Somewhere between miles 9 and 11, still in that same tall grass with the narrow footpath hiding whatever was underneath it where the course had leveled and i was back to a jog, I caught a rock I never saw and went down. In the fall I lost my glasses, didn't even realize it until much later. Just one of those things you shake off and keep moving, and I did. By mile 13 I was closing in on Dry Fork, the first main aid station, and honestly feeling good.

Apline, Rivers, Flowers, and the Long Push to the Turnaround Point

Friday afternoon opened up into high alpine double track: dry, dusty, and sunny, the kind of exposed running where you just put your head down and grind through it. The wildflowers up there were everywhere, a real carpet across the meadows: big yellow arrowleaf balsamroot with their sunflower-like blooms, tall narrow spikes of blue and purple lupine, white clusters I couldn't name, and patches of red Indian paintbrush mixed in. The lupine is apparently a nitrogen fixer, meaning it actually enriches the soil for everything else growing around it, which felt fitting for a place that seemed to be thriving in spite of how harsh and remote it was. Around a marathon I happened to join a group of several other runners; and it was nice to have company for an hour or so as we ran through some rolling hills of the most gorgeous countryside I have every spent time in. I descended down to Sallie's Footbridge aid station and although still early, had packed my drop bag in a way I had to make the swap to my night pack, headlamp, warm layers, fresh hat, the whole kit. Along the way I passed through Cow Camp (no cows) and Bear Camp (no bears), followed by a long, steep, toe-hammering downhill into Sallie's around mile 30. From there the trail paralleled a rushing river, however it was warm down in the canyon and the climb out was towards Jaws was tough.

Jaws aid station sits at the 48-mile turnaround, and getting there meant 18 miles and about 4,000 feet of climbing out of Sallie's Footbridge. The climb wove through high alpine meadows and big stands of aspen, through a stretch of bog and mud, up to around 9,000 feet. Up that high, there was no wind at all, just a total, still quiet that got almost eerie the longer I sat in it. No crew waiting anywhere, no pacer's voice next to me, just me and that emptiness. The sky turned overcast in the late afternoon, and we picked up a few sprinkles along the climb. It was on this stretch that the lead runners passed by me heading the other direction, already descending back toward Sallie's at a record-setting pace ahead of sunset. I saw three moose along the way, and runners i had spent time running with at mile 16, which is about as good as trail company gets. By the time I hit the turnaround at mile 48, typical ultra running exhaustion hit me, but things were going well and I was ahead of schedule. The sun set right around then, and headlamps started popping on all over the course.

Somewhere in that stretch, roughly mile 40 to 60, my nutrition hit its rough patch. Nothing sounded good. I'd look at what was in my pack or on the aid station table and just couldn't talk myself into eating it. I kept forcing calories in anyway, knowing a bonk twenty miles later would be a lot worse than choking down something unappetizing now, and eventually it passed and eating got easier again. Outside of that window, fueling went about as well as it's ever gone for me in a hundred.

The Long Way Back

Sallie's Footbridge to Jaws is 18 miles and 4,000 feet of gain, so the return trip meant giving all of that elevation back on the way down. On the descent I ran into my friends Jeff and Brad, still heading up toward Jaws while I was coming down, about 30 minutes behind them, headed the other direction. There's something nice about those brief crossings in the middle of a hundred, a quick wave and word of encouragement before everyone goes back to their own race.

The descent back to Sallie's Footbridge was a long slog. The tall grass had grown in over the trail, so it was heads-down, watch-your-feet running to avoid the rocks hiding underneath. I tried to throw encouragement at the runners still grinding uphill as I passed.

I rolled back into Sallie's Footbridge around 2 AM. My feet were muddy, blisters were setting in, and I needed a real reset. I changed shoes, socks, and my shirt, and took a fair amount of time just composing myself, and eating (a breakfast burrito!) before heading back out. Hundreds don't reward rushing a rough patch. Sometimes the fastest thing you can do is slow down and get your head right; and for me this felt like the spot; i maybe burned 30 minutes during this pit stop.

Sunrise, Bear Camp, and a Guy Juggling Light-Up Balls in the Middle of Nowhere

The race director had warned everyone that the crux of the course was the climb from Sallie's Footbridge up to Bear Camp. It ended up not being as brutal as advertised, at least for me at that point in the race as i am a very good climber, but I could tell it would absolutely wreck runners coming through later in the day.

As I approached Bear Camp, the sun was starting to rise over the horizon. And then I saw something floating and glowing in the air ahead of me. My first thought was that I was hallucinating. My second thought, not much saner, was that I might be looking at a muti colored UFO..... Turned out it was just a guy standing on the ridgeline, juggling color light-up balls in the middle of absolute wilderness at sunrise. We chatted briefly, and he sent me off with some encouragement. You see things in a hundred you can't make up. and this one will stick with me.

My stomach had not been cooperating through the night, hard time keeping calories down, a wave of slight nausea that wouldn't quite let go. Cold potatoes ended up being the move. I never dropped into the kind of dark mental place I've found myself in during past hundreds, no bargaining with myself to quit, no spiraling. Just tired, at times slow, and locked onto the goal. Something about knowing there wasn't really anywhere to bail out to made it easier, honestly. There was nothing to do but keep walking toward the next aid station.

Bear Camp to Cow Camp, and Back to Dry Fork

From Bear Camp, the trail continued toward Cow Camp along a ridgeline that alternated between high forest and open meadow, all of it full of wildflowers. Along the way I met a college music professor who had run both Hard Rock and Leadville, and he told me flat out that Bighorn was one of the harder races he'd done. High praise, or maybe just a warning; he seemed to absoultly love this race. We ran together toward Cow Camp.

Cow Camp is known for its bacon, but I went with fruit instead and felt better for it. From there it was on to Dry Fork again, this time along rolling double track and jeep trail with a lot of punchy little ups and downs. Dusty, dry. Somewhere in there I met a woman from Seattle with a strong accent originally from France, and we paced together and chatted the miles away, which is one of the underrated gifts of running solo without a pacer. The race gives you company when you need it.

I reached Dry Fork again around 9:30 AM, somewhere around mile 75 to 78. My feet were absolutely killing me at that point, a couple of bad blisters after 80-plus miles of punishment. I'd been crashing hard from tiredness right before the aid station, so I took some caffeine pills and perked back up almost immediately. I had to pass a medical check, i grabbed my last drop bag and got a fresh shirt; fueled up and moved on. I was just trying to keep moving as i could now taste the finish, less than 20 miles to go. I unloaded my nighttime lights and cold weather gear from my drop bag to lighten the pack for the daylight miles ahead.

F-You Hill

Leaving Dry Fork, I figured I was done climbing for the day. Wrong. There's a few mild climbs right out of the aid station up to Upper Sheep Creek before the trail finally snakes back down into the valley, where I started mixing in with the 25K runners around mile 85.

That's when I started hearing it: runners up ahead shouting about a hill they'd nicknamed with a phrase 'Fuck U Hill'. There was a steep climb up to that last ridgeline I had honestly forgotten about from the outbound trip. It wasn't a huge climb, but it was steep enough that it was a real burner this late in the course, one that jacked your heart rate, and it did make you want to say exactly what everyone was shouting. I just put my head down, hammered the hiking poles and ground it out.

Seeing that valley from over the ridgeline, knowing it was the same valley that led back into the canyon, was a great moment. But my mind couldn't comprehend the pain train that was about to come in with the descent.

The Decent that Broke my Quads and Knees

What came after was a 4,000-foot descent back down into the canyon valley where the race had originally started, on the same service road. This was, without exaggeration, the hardest downhill of my life. It absolutely hammered my quads. My blisters were screaming, and walking hurt as much as running, so i chose to jog the downhills and try and keep pace with some of the 25K'ers. It wasn't a test of cardio, but it was a test of mental resillance on fried quads. The sun was back out and hot, and by the time I hit the canyon floor and the service road, my legs were completely toast and shredded. I'd been telling myself this descent would be my chance to pick up some easy miles at a quicker pace. (it made sense on paper) It was neither fast nor easy.

Lower Dry Creek aid station had ice waiting, which was a lifesaver given how hot it was in the canyon with the sun bouncing off the walls again. One of the volunteers was out there misting people down with a spray bottle, and it might as well have been holy water at that point as i left that aid station feeling enlightend.

Back to Civilization

From Lower Dry Creek, the course kicked back out onto a dirt road in the canyon, about 5 to 6 miles from the finish line back in town. By this point I was 94 miles and roughly 20,000 feet of climbing into the day, completely exhausted, and just happy to be on something flat. This road was a reward, a offering to reflect on what was just accomplished before the final finish line. I settled into a walk-jog shuffle at a little over 4 miles per hour and let the miles tick by.

The townsfolk came out to cheer, and somewhere along the way someone handed me a cherry freezy pop, which might have been the best thing I ate all race. I wove through town and into the park, where a big, loud crowd was waiting. The amount of support out in town forced me to 'suck it up' and run it in, which included a loop through, around and finishing at the back of the park. I crossed the finish line in 29 hours and 3 minutes, my fastest hundred to date, good for 54th out of 175 finishers, out of roughly 300 who started.

The Finish

I got a really nice finisher zip-up hoodie and belt buckle, and as a hundred-mile finisher, a free meal waiting on the other side: hamburgers, hot dogs, the works. I sat down with a group of complete strangers and traded race stories, which is one of my favorite parts of any hundred. Everyone's out there fighting their own version of the same fight, and there's an easy camaraderie once you're all sitting on the other side of the finish line.

This was a genuinely a hard, wonderful journey. The way the whole town turned out and celebrated the race, and how well the whole thing was organized start to finish, stuck with me. The day after, I was absolutely wrecked, legs and shoulders beat to hell by the course, but really glad I did it. Even now, as i write this, 11 days after my knees still screaming from that last downhill.

I went into this one wanting to find out what I was really capable of, out there with no one to lean on. What I found was that even alone, I wasn't. The volunteers, the other runners, the strangers I crossed paths with for a mile or two, they all carried me through more than I realized at the time. Crossing that finish line in 29 hours and 3 minutes wasn't really about one day in the mountains. It was six months of sacrifice and hard work finally paying off, all at once, in front of a town that came out to cheer for people they'd never met all so i can explore the local terrain for over a day straight so someone can hand me a belt buckle ill never wear. That's what keeps me coming back to this sport. Every one of these races teaches me a little more about who I am, and I love every bit of the journey, the hard miles and the good ones alike.

I did not know how much damage the downhills did to the soft tissues in my knees until several days after. I had to be put on a perscription NSAID, and now almost 2 weeks after im finally starting to feel normal. Worth it, but a painful price to pay as it felt for about a week that my knee caps got mashed with a sledge hammer..... the fun perks of running a 100 miles. Its always a journey, and im here for it.

Below is the Youtube video i made; if you made it this far, and want to watch a video of my journey. (its mostly the first half)

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