Superior Fall Trail Race 2025

Photo by Tone Coughlin

I wanted this so bad, then i didn't, then i did again.....

Being 100% Healthy is hard.

I had trained hard this year with World’s Toughest Mudder in England marked as my “A” race. Then three weeks before it, my appendix decided it was time to go. Surgery knocked me completely out of WTM, and suddenly Superior was the only “A” race left on the calendar.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing — I love Superior — and I came in shooting for finish number three. Training had gone reasonably well considering I’d been managing metatarsalgia in the pad of my right foot the past few months. During what should have been my peak week I got sick and lost seven days of running, but otherwise I felt ready enough.

Traveling to Minnesota added another curveball. My infant son gifted me his cold, and the night before the race he barely slept, which meant I barely slept — maybe three hours total. By the time I got to the start line I was fighting an upper respiratory bug, exhausted, and honestly didn’t even think I should be starting. It’s crazy to think how I went from wanting to race this event so badly for months and months to waking up on race day and thinking about dropping. There was a lot of shame in those thoughts. Michelle convinced me to at least toe the line, telling me to feel it out for the first twenty miles and see if my spirit changed.

The start line energy was there, but I didn’t feel it. I faked my best smiles for the cameras, even though I was drained and far from the version of myself I hoped to bring. It was a cloudy, cool morning with a chance of rain — perfect running weather on paper — but no fiery orange sunrise over Lake Superior this year. Maybe the weather matched my mood.

This year i was running along side my pacer (Steve) from the previous 2 finishes, plus Andy and Colleen whom I've been attending these stupid endurance events with for quite a few years.

All Images above by Scott Rokis

Early Miles

Due to trail work near the Split Rock River, this year’s race started differently. Instead of kicking off from the Gitchi-Gami State Trail, we wound through Gooseberry Falls State Park on rolling snowmobile trails before intersecting with the Superior Hiking Trail a few miles earlier than usual. The result: all miles on trail this year, and according to my watch, once again 105 of them.

This year I was joined by three friends — Steve, Andy, and Colleen — all taking on their first Superior 100. They’d each shown up in incredible shape, and I was excited to share an experience that’s impossible to fully explain on paper (though I try) with more people who understood what it meant to step onto this course.

Steve took off like a rocket, leaving us in the dust, while Andy, Colleen, and I stuck together for about the first ten miles. Having run this before, I do think it provides a bit of an advantage — knowing when to push on the easier sections and when to hold back before the trail inevitably humbles you. Just before the first aid station there was a long downhill, and I pulled ahead of Andy and Colleen. I wouldn’t see either of them again for the remainder of the race.

Years of training put me into a groove that felt like second nature. I kept telling myself I’d probably quit at some point, but for the moment I was content picking away at the miles: past Christmas Tree Ridge, across questionable bridges over a beaver pond, through incredibly technical boulder sections, and finally over Fault Line Creek and Ridge. I descended into Beaver Bay ahead of my splits from previous years — and once again, just as thirsty. I downed an entire regular-sized Pedialyte, waved to my crew — my family, my wife, and now my ten-month-old son — and was back out on course.

Not long after leaving Beaver Bay, I felt a bit of a bonk and clipped a rock hard with my right toe, sending myself sailing. Somehow I landed in what I’d call a successful D&D acrobatics check roll (for the non-gamers: imagine a clumsy trip that somehow turns into a surprisingly smooth tumble back onto your feet). I came away with only a softball-sized bruise on my hip, and thankfully, it was my only fall of the race.

I slowed my roll after that, working to bring my heart rate back down and recover from what had been a faster-than-planned opening twenty miles. Rolling into Silver Bay, I downed another full Pedialyte — about 64 ounces between the two aid stations. I swapped running packs, ate like a pig, and kept moving.

Photo by Tone Coughlin - Mile 6

Silver Bay → Tettegouche → County Road 6

The stretch from Silver Bay to Tettegouche was pleasant this year. It’s arguably one of my favorite sections — the views are incredible, the climbs are tough, and it always feels longer than it looks on paper.

Somewhere in the second half I fell in with what we started calling a “conga line,” about five of us moving together as we cruised up the big climbs, over Round Mountain and Mount Trudee, and eventually through the endless forests of Tettegouche State Park. The miles closed out with that long, runnable access road section, and spacing out on that descent dropped me right into the aid station.

This aid station has the best quesadillas — wrapped in tinfoil so you can take them on the road — and I happily carried mine out as I kept moving. I was still running, still out there, but still holding onto the thought that I might stop at County Road 6.

Along the way a hot spot and blister started forming on my heel. I took one quick pit stop to apply some lube, then kept climbing. Rain rolled in, bringing wind with it. In just a t-shirt my arms were cold, even as my core stayed hot and sweaty. Running the downhills felt like charging through a carwash — wet leaves and overgrown brush slapping across my face again and again.

Glancing at my watch, I realized I was actually going to get through this section before dark — a first for me — and the thought lifted my spirits. It pushed me to keep moving with purpose. Compared to previous years, I was surprised by how many overlooks and steep drop-offs I could see in daylight. At night you don’t realize you’re only a few steps from plunging off a cliff. In the light, you’re very aware. It made the whole section feel different than I remembered.

Rolling into County Road 6 in daylight felt like a reward. The TRECs (Trail Runners of Elm Creek) were there — friends from my time in Minnesota — and they gave me some of the best pep talks (and pizza) I could have asked for.

Photo by Anastasia Wilde

Photos above by Scott Rokis

Photos by Scott Rokis

Photo by Michelle Haupert

County Road 6 → Finland

At County Road 6 I made the decision to do a full clothing change. After hours of rain and cold arms, it felt like the right time to reset. More importantly, this was where I picked up my first pacer — Shannon. I had enlisted two pacers this year, each taking half of the remaining distance. Shannon would cover the night shift, and my second pacer would bring me home.

It turned into a slightly longer break than usual — swapping out gear, layering fresh clothes, and regrouping — but the tradeoff was worth it. With Shannon by my side and sixty miles left, we headed back out into the woods, making our way toward Finland.

This section always feels different because so many runners pick up pacers here. The trail seemed more alive, filled with headlamps and voices. We fell into the rhythm of leapfrog — passing, getting passed, then passing again. Somewhere along the way I crossed paths with Mel and Elliot, who I’d run a large section with before CR6 last year. Elliot was deep in the pain cave, battling stomach issues, and though I said a quick hello, I pushed on, still bouncing around with a handful of other runners.

At one point we came upon a campsite where a bunch of college kids were partying in the middle of the woods. They cheered wildly for every runner that came through, and it was an oddly uplifting scene in the dark.

Another runner caught up and told me I was the “greatest speed hiker” he had ever seen. I’m almost positive he had me mistaken for someone else, because power hiking is not one of my strengths — yet he seemed convinced, despite the fact that Shannon and I were mostly jogging along.

By now the blister on my heel was really starting to bug me, but we kept moving and eventually rolled into Finland. I grabbed some grub and refills, got to see Michelle for the last time that night, and then we turned back into the darkness.

Finland → Sonju → Crosby Manitou

The night at Superior is always a grind for me. By this point my feet were aching, and the fatigue had fully set in. Shannon was there to chat, which helped, but most of my world had shrunk into the beam of a headlamp — a small box of roots, ruts, and rocks.

As we moved toward Crosby Manitou my mind wandered. I thought about how much I wanted to sleep, how badly I just wanted to stop moving. Each time those thoughts came, so did waves of guilt. This was exactly what I had wanted to do. I was lucky enough to get into this race, lucky enough to have the privilege to do what others cannot. There were runners injured, runners that were more qualified and not selected, and those that would never dare. And here I was, out in the middle of the night, walking in the woods but also mentally battling with the demons in my own mind.

As much as I wanted to quit, having pacers and having crew was enough to keep me moving — even though sixty-some miles in, I still wasn’t convinced I wanted to start, let alone finish.

Conversation with Shannon helped pass the miles. At one point she went on about these elusive pink knee-high socks with the word beer printed on them. To me, they just looked like crappy cotton socks that belonged in the trash, not on someone’s feet during an ultramarathon. But Shannon swore they were the perfect blend of comfort and compression — the greatest socks that had ever existed. The problem? The company that made them doesn’t exist anymore (probably because they sucked 😉). Still, if anyone knows where to find a pair, let me know!

I recall one of the night aid stations serving vegan fried rice, which Shannon was stoked about. I couldn’t even tell you what I ate at these stops, though I do remember slowly picking away at an entire bag of Peach O Rings over the course of the night. The cool damp air made it easy to keep moving but hard to stand still. Each aid station stop was short — long enough to refill and get out — because the moment I stopped I felt the cold sink in.

Crosby Manitou → Sugarloaf

As we left Crosby, I warned Shannon: “this is the most difficult section of the course.” I don’t know if it truly is, but hitting it in the dead of night, right before sunrise, always makes it feel that way. Every steep, sharp climb up comes with an equally unforgiving descent.

Early in the section we dropped down a very steep slope to a wooden bridge that crossed a small river. The bridge wasn’t flat — it sat angled, lifted on one side. As we crossed, my foot slipped on the slick wood, throwing me downhill into the railing. At the same time, the bridge itself shifted and started to tip toward the river. Luckily, a large tree stopped it from flipping completely. The railing stopped me, the tree stopped the bridge, and we both jolted awake. It was a close call and an eye opener in the middle of a long night.

Once across, the trail shot straight up what felt like a rock wall — one of those climbs that spikes your heart rate whether you want it to or not. The pattern repeated: up, down, up, down. Eventually a faint glow crept across the horizon.

My fatigue peaked here. My eyes blurred the roots and rocks into indistinguishable shapes. I needed caffeine, and I had forgotten to bring any through the night. I was furious at myself for the oversight. By the time we staggered into Sugarloaf, I was a zombie.

The first thing I did was try to bargain with Shannon and Dan for a nap in their car. They weren’t having it, and the aid station workers just laughed and told me to get back out there. So instead, I asked for coffee — and thankfully, they had it. I downed three little cups in about two minutes, and the fog began to lift.

Now’s a good time to mention just how hardcore my pacers were. Both Shannon and Dan weren’t just pacing — they were also volunteering. Dan had been working the Sugarloaf aid station all night, and here, seventy-two miles in, he and Shannon swapped roles. Shannon handed me off, Dan grabbed his gear, and off we went as the sun rose on the way to Cramer. Their commitment — pacing and volunteering on zero sleep — was nothing short of incredible.

Sugarloaf → Cramer

I struggled to keep up with Dan on the way to Cramer. He was happy to escape the aid station after volunteering all night, while I was still dragging myself out of a pretty big low. The section itself isn’t overly technical, though we had to hop over a fair number of deadfalls. Compared to other stretches of the course, it was straightforward — but my legs and my head were still heavy.

Before long we rolled into Cramer, ahead of the 26.2-mile start. The aid station crew suggested I wait ten minutes before heading back out so the marathon runners could pass through — otherwise I’d be stepping off the trail every few seconds to let them by. I obliged and sat for a moment, which turned out to be a blessing. It gave Michelle, Desmond, and my dad time to reach me after getting caught in the marathon traffic. I think being crew, and then also trying to manage a 10 month old adds a whole additional layer of complexity to CREW (Cranky Runner Endless Waiting).

The blister on my heel had gotten bad, and my crew dug out a pack of blister patches I had never tried before. We cleaned it up, patched it, and within minutes I wished I had done it twelve hours earlier. It made a real difference.

Leaving Cramer, something finally shifted. Up until then, I had been running almost entirely on spite — seventy-seven miles of not wanting to be there, not wanting to start, not convinced I would finish. But with the sun up, my family nearby, my heel patched, and Dan at my side, I finally flipped the switch. For the first time in the race, I truly wanted to be out there. For the first time, I was certain I was going to finish.

Cramer → Temperance → Sawbill

Cramer to Temperance is what I like to think of as the sneaky section of the course. On paper it looks downhill, but the trail throws in a surprising number of climbs. You snake along the beautiful Cross River, having to remind yourself this isn’t yet the Temperance River and you’re not at the aid station. The trail trends toward Lake Superior with a handful of ups and downs, rocky washouts, and long stretches of hard iron ore rock. Eventually you reach a bridge that crosses the river and then kicks you back uphill, followed by rolling ridgeline that keeps faking you into thinking you’re about to descend, only to send you up one more rise.

Finally the real descent comes, and it’s a quad-busting, toe-crushing drop. This year I felt good enough to really open it up. I think I was pulling away from Dan on that downhill as we hammered into the Temperance aid station. At Temperance, I finally remembered I had brought trekking poles and decided to grab them — silly me to wait this long! My family was once again there cheering us on, which always brings light to a sleepy spirit.

From there, the course follows the Temperance River south into the state park, showing off some of the best scenery northern Minnesota has to offer. After crossing the river we turned northwest and began the steady climb up toward Carlton Peak. This stretch is always a mix of curious looks from park visitors and the knowing nods from those who understand what kind of madness is going on out there.

As the grade increased, we found ourselves in a conga line of 100-milers and 26.2 runners, bobbing and weaving like ants on the move. About an eighth of a mile from the top, a sharp stinging pain lit up my calf. “F***!” I yelled, loud enough to concern those around me. I hadn’t seen or heard the culprit, but a bee had stung me right through my calf sleeve. Being mildly allergic — with past stings that affected my ears and throat — I was instantly worried. I actually carry Benadryl in my pack for this exact scenario, but I knew if I took it I’d melt into a puddle. I decided to monitor it and keep climbing.

The boulders and steep steps near the top of Carlton Peak took their toll on Dan, and we paused for a few breaks before finally cresting. After that came a long downhill — not especially runnable, not especially pleasant, but at least it wasn’t more climbing. Dan and I debated which aid station had the long wooden boardwalk leading in. I thought it might be Sawbill, but I don’t know if we ever came to a firm conclusion.

Sawbill → Oberg

At Sawbill I sat for a moment while Michelle refilled my bottles. My dad casually mentioned, “Steve came through about twenty minutes ago. He didn’t look great — he wasn’t his normal happy self.” A big smile spread across my face. I looked at my dad and asked, “Do you think we can catch him?”

That single question lit a fire. My desire to move came back quickly, and before I knew it Dan and I were heading back onto the trail. I’d been in this situation before — years ago at Afton 50K, Steve’s first ultra. He had taken off like a rocket, only for me to reel him in and pass him on the last hill. This surely couldn’t be happening again… could it?

Fueled by that spark, and somehow feeling decent for a guy who had already run nearly ninety miles, Dan and I hiked the climbs and jogged the runnable downs with purpose. Somewhere around mile 91 or 92, on a gentle downhill stretch about three miles shy of Oberg, there he was. Steve, with his wife Tammy pacing him, wasn’t moving fast.

Overcome with joy, I broke into the biggest grin and shouted, “Tortoise and the Hare!!!” It was one of those surreal race moments — the four of us together, checking in to make sure Steve was okay (just struggling, as we all do out there), and offering a few words of encouragement: keep moving, you’ll still beat the sunset. Then, for the first time all race, I passed him.

Soon after, we rolled into Oberg, the last aid station. I grabbed some pot stickers, gave Steve’s crew a quick report on how he was doing and how far back he was, smiled for a few last photos, and then it was time to head out on the final stretch. (P.S. after getting back from vaction i did manage to mail Steve a nice new nighttime story book below. )

Oberg → Finish

I’ve never run this final section actually feeling “good” before — but this year, I did. Good enough that the miles were starting to slow my pacer, and he was fighting to hang on. It’s a good problem to have at mile 100: still running.

The big climb up Moose Mountain felt surprisingly easy, and though the sharp downhill on the backside wasn’t kind to knees or quads, it went by quickly. Then came the endless switchbacks up Mystery Mountain, with their zigs and zags that turn you around until you lose all sense of direction. Colleen told me later she’d hit this section in the dark and saw faces in the rocks — trolls, ladies in white dresses — but in the late afternoon light, I saw none of it. No visions, no illusions. Just a laser focus on the finish line and the promise of a chair, shower and bed.

This stretch always takes longer than you think. It’s more than 7 miles, with two big climbs, and it drags. But eventually you cross the bridge over the river, drop down a long stretch of wooden decking, and spill out onto a dirt service road.

That road has haunted me in past years. Downhill or not, I was too wrecked to run more than twenty steps at a time. But this year was different. We ran the whole damn thing, all the way to the concrete curb at the base of the Village Restaurant, where the trail cuts left back into the grass. Around the building, past the chairlift, through the new twist that ducks under the road and behind the condos.

I braced myself for some cruel final hill that never came. Instead, as we approached the finish, I told Dan we had to sprint. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but in good spirit he went with it. Together we sprinted those last twenty steps, and with that, I finished my third Superior 100 — almost ninety minutes faster than my previous time, and this time with the sun still up.

When I look back, what stands out most isn’t just the finish line but the people who got me there. My crew, my pacers, my family who spectated and watched our son, my friends who ran and their support crews, the volunteers who gave endless energy at every aid station, and the people who put this event on. Superior is a beast, but it’s also a community — and I am deeply grateful to everyone who made it possible for me to chase this finish for a third time.

THANK YOU ALL!

If you made it this far, this is what i ate during the race:

10 Tailwind packets

2 33oz Pedialyte

3 Body Armor drinks

12 GoGo Squeez applesauce pouches

2 packs Honey Stinger chews

2 Honey Stinger waffles

2 mini apple pies

2 Pop-Tart packets (2 pastries each)

1 bag Peach O Rings

1 Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup (2-pack)

1 cup chicken noodle soup

2 tortillas with cheese

3 fried potstickers

3 small pancakes

2 Muscle Milk (20 oz)

2 Red Bull (8.4 oz)

3 small slices pepperoni pizza

2 Coca-Cola (8 oz cans)

1 Ginger Ale (12 oz can)

Plus lots of water, pickle juice shots, black coffee, salt/etc.

Totals (estimated over 33.5 hours):

Calories: ~8,370

Carbohydrates: ~1,675 g

Protein: ~156 g

Fat: ~133 g

Anyways, it looks like an absolute pile of garbage food, and you're not wrong however it was the best I've felt nutritionally at an Ultra. (no nausea, and continued to eat the whole time averaging about 240cal / hr, which is harder than it sounds.)

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