Franklin Mountains Trail 100K

When you greet an old friend on the trail during these disease ridden times, is it best to do a fist bump, hand shake or high five? We’ll try to answer this as we run the Franklin Mountains 100K today (and night) put on by Trail Racing Over Texas. This race, held in the Franklin Mountains State Park in El Paso, TX, usually welcomes runners with a big dose of weather. Cold, hot or wind, but mostly wind —the West Texas kind. Porta-potty tipping over wind! These mountains  create their own energy, channeling the gusts down their slopes, through the accordion folds of the mountain chain.

Well, after many years, we finally have some good weather for the race today, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be any easier to finish. There’s still the jagged rocks, steep climbs and pointy vegetation to contend with; not to mention the waiting around, shivering at the start line. It’s about 40 degrees as I sit in the dark, but should get up to 75 later with skin burning sun and little humidity.

West Texas wind!

The race starts on the west side of the Franklins with a conga line of people climbing the steep Upper Sunset Ridge, a 1.5 mile shin dagger (lechuguilla) lined trail with broken slabs of rock and grueling high steps. I use my trekking poles to help push myself up the scarp and follow the trail of headlamps snaking their way up the mountain. The downhill parts are equally as tough because the rocks underfoot make running almost impossible. I start with my jacket on but, in no time, I’m hot and sweaty even though it’s still dark and cold. 

The start of the 27K on Upper Sunset

My progress is slow, but eventually I run down a slope of solid stone with protruding parallel veins of minerals of some sort where one wrong step will send you rolling down into the park pavilion in a heap of bloody skin and broken bones. Take your time! There’s no rush; I have something like 34 hours to complete the 63 miles, but I hope to finish in around 24.

I reach the pavilion and finish line, but have 30 more miles to go including a climb up to N. Franklin Peak (7192’) and a trip all the way around the mountain chain, and that’s just loop one! I take a left and transition onto Lower Sunset Trail which is much tamer than Upper Sunset. Twilight has arrived and I can almost see the trail without my headlamp. 

Here's a visual for you

I stop to strip off my jacket since I’m hot and then my old running buddy Leo, who I haven’t seen in several years, catches up to me. “Great to see you!” I extend a fist and look down; he extends a hand, so I do a hand and then he does a fist; then I do a fist and then a hand; next it’s hand, fist, hand, fist, hand. We shake on it and then laugh. After chatting for a few, I stow my jacket and light in my new Ultimate Direction Mountain hydration vest which I may or may not talk about later. I also attach my poles to the straps since I won’t need them for this part.

Leo gettin' it done

I thoroughly enjoy the trail since we are descending and the path is quite runnable, alternating between packed dirt and slabs of smooth rock. I run down into a gravelly arroyo and then climb up the other side wending along a slope of tilted sedimentary layers of ancient rock. From a distance the layers remind me of crispy phyllo (filo) dough; like a sheet of baklava sitting at a 45 degree angle. (I must be getting hungry.) 

Texas Parks and Wildlife writes, 

Precambrian rock, the oldest on the planet, is found in several areas within the park. Imagine—picnickers in the Tom Mays Unit eat their sandwiches and chew their energy bars while sitting in the midst of Precambrian deposits formed when life on Earth consisted only of one-celled organisms.

Stratified sedimentary layers in the Franklins

After passing through another deep arroyo and climbing up the steep bank on the other side I run a smooth wide trail and reach the place where we started this morning (mile 5). 27K runners are starting their race; I can see a string of runners along the Upper Sunset Ridge. I cross the main park road and stop at an aid station to fill my water bottles — my new UD soft flask collapsible bottles which I may or may not talk about later. I get my poles out and extend them.

Let the climbing begin! I’m on my way to the peak which is four miles away with a good 2500’ of vert. The route is a rock filled gully at first that transitions to a giant pile of rocks streaming down the mountain. Jagged triangular rocks, ankle breaking trapezoidal rocks, squarish rocks, rhombus shaped rocks. You name it; it’s here. I reach the main scree field and slog over the heap, slowly grinding towards the West Cottonwood Spring.

 

After passing a rusty cattle tank, I leave the scree field and clamber up an extremely steep gully where logs have been placed higgledy-piggledy in an attempt to create stairs. I stop frequently to rest on my poles since my heart is trying to jump out of my chest. A few large flat rocks and tree roots augment the log steps, but erosion has taken its toll and the route is more like a cliff. There are a few benches near the spring so I sit for a minute to regroup and let my breathing settle down. 

Leo catches up to me and we commiserate on what a bitch this part is. How soon we forget, or else we wouldn’t keep signing up for this torture! I continue on, slowly and steadily up to the main Franklin Mountain ridge where I’m greeted by the bright morning sun. I hike down off the ridge’s east side to Mundy’s Gap and pick up a dirt road which carries me down to the Mundy's aid station. I start climbing the out-and-back trail to the peak while front runners are coming back down. I move to the side to let them pass since the trail is narrow and some are really flying.

Runners coming down from the peak

the trail is lined with tall brown grass. Just a few months ago this mountain looked like the Emerald Isle because of a heavy monsoon season. Here in the Desert Southwest, we get most of our rain at the end of the summer. We had a lot of gully washers this year and the flash flooding took its toll on the trails washing away part of the dirt road up to Mundy’s Gap on the west side. It also  brought down a huge pile of rocks and debris which now blocks part of the trail. 

Green Franklins during monsoon season

The east side road to Mundy’s was also in poor shape which created a major headache for race organizers. Supplies and water, which are usually driven up by park staff, had to be hauled up the mountain by volunteers this year. Thanks to everyone who completed this sisyphean task! On the plus side, all the rain created a gorgeous mountain with plenty of wildflowers. How quickly everything turns brown again, though.

Green N. Franklin Peak

I mostly take my time getting to the top of the peak since I will have to do this climb again this evening. I power hike making my way upwards. I know each turn and switchback intimately since I’ve spent a lot of hours training here lately, including a few double peak climbs. Eventually I make it to the top and look around at the cities below —El Paso, TX and Juarez, MX. I can see the entire Franklin Mountain range from here with the Organ Mountains in the background. 

Brown Franklins with Organ Mountains in the background

An old Union Switch and Signal railroad signal base, made in Swissvale, PA where I visited my grandparents as a kid, sits at the top. Attached is a radio antenna which, according to Wikipedia is, “a ham radio repeater and emergency locator beacon receiver maintained by the West Texas Repeater Association.” A torn and tattered American flag flaps from the antenna pole, perhaps a metaphor for how runners feel after their arduous journey to this spot.

A West Texas wind battered flag

I don’t stay long up here since I’m not even half way through my first loop. I grab a summit wrist band, to prove I was here, and head back down as more runners ascend. It’s a long way down with some very rocky and technical parts so I use my poles to help keep my balance. After a few near misses, a stubbed toe and a “JESUS CHRIST!”, I make it back to the Mundy’s aid station (mile 11) all in one piece. I fold up my poles, attach them to my pack and get some water. The rest of the way down is mostly runnable.

Tin mines

The lower I go, the warmer it gets and then becomes down right hot. I pass some old tin mines with grates on top and brown railings around them to keep cows or unsuspecting runners from falling into the shafts. I pick up one of my favorite trails, Scenic Rd which is smooth packed dirt for a long while. The trail follows the contour of the slopes so there isn’t much elevation gain. Sadly it ends on a crumbly caliche (hard pan) laden road leading down and away from the mountain range. There are round baseball sized rocks at first with slabs of uneven cement like bedrock. In a bit I come to a sign that describes the trail perfectly —Rock Shock. It is definitely a shock to my joints and only gets worse the lower I go, ending in a hot mess of rocks and boulders collected in the bottom of an eroded gully. I skirt to the left bank careful not to slip into the chasm.

Typical smooth trail

Once past this obstacle I transition onto a smooth path that meanders along the sandy desert floor, worming its way through shallow dips and depressions along the way. I cross a little wooden bridge that spans one of the troughs and then I see the aid station tent. My energy is waning. It’s almost lunch time and I haven’t eaten much, but a few boiled potatoes and apple slices. I reach the Bowen Roundhouse aid station (mile 18) where some of my friends are cheering and ringing cowbells. This is cattle grazing country after all and you can never have too much cowbell in an ultramarathon. 

Typical gnarly trail

I get some high fives and then run into a long-time-no-see running acquaintance David, an accomplished masters champion and fellow Air Force veteran. “Go Air Force!”, he says. So I say, "Go Air Force!" and extend a hand. I look down; he extends a fist, so I do a fist and then he does a hand; then I do a hand; then it’s hand, fist, hand, fist, hand. We shake on it and laugh. I head into the tent because I have a drop bag here. I slather some sunscreen all over my skin to protect against the relentless desert sun and then grab some food out of my bag. I don’t like to waste time dawdling in aid stations; there’s too many tough miles ahead. I head out promptly and eat while I walk. 

Bowen Roundhouse and aid station

The next section is sandy for a while, but then climbs up to a grassy plateau at the foot of the mountains. The trail follows a long gradual hill with a few steep sections so I walk for a while. The sun is high and I’m sweating, but make steady progress up to a high pass over a side bump of the main Franklin mountain chain. I take in grand views of the peaks in the northern end of the park and then start to run down. The trail makes a lot of twists and turns and is very rocky. My bare legs scrape through thorny brush that has encroached on the narrow trail. 

I get down and pass through a deep cut in the earth where water rushes down the mountain during heavy rainfall. I climb the other side and the trail becomes rough, with half buried ankle breaking red rocks sticking up like the fins of a dragon. I walk for a long while roller coasting along the slopes amongst the disarray of rocks. I reach Hitt Canyon, another deep cut through the desert floor. 

The trail is smoother, so I am able to run along the rim of the canyon. However, the ravine goes on forever and heat radiates from below, creating an oven-like effect. My water supply is running low and I’m sweating profusely. After an eternity or two in a searing hell, I get to where the canyon meets the mountain and am able to cross through a jumble of boulders to the other side. This is the spot where a little garden gnome used to sit along the trail until monsoon rains swept him to his death. Do any of you remember him?

The northern and most remote part of the state park

Anyway, I keep going and reach the backbone of the Franklin Mountains known as the Northern Pass. The view is vast with desert and chaparral spreading out forever with the Rio Grande Valley in the distance. I cross over to the west side of the mountain range. Now the trail switchbacks downward; back and forth, back and forth, again and again. There are a few tricky parts where the route passes over rock outcrops with large steps down. I use my poles to help keep from tumbling off the rocks and then I run back and forth, back and forth. I reach a dirt ranch road and run down and away from the mountain. In no time I reach a wide gravelly arroyo and pick up the dirt road on the other side. I rise up and, just like that, BAM! The West aid station (mile 26) tent comes into view. I run in and quench my parched throat with cold water. 

A lot of runners are sitting around resting and rehydrating, some with sullen looks on their faces. Perhaps they went out too fast or underestimated the toughness of this brutal course. Some are 50K runners who’s course has more vert and is a bit longer; probably 34 miles or so. 

A guy asks, “How many miles till the finish?” 

The aid station volunteer replies, “Eight miles.” 

“WHAT! My gps watch already has 29!” the runner argues. 

“Well, they told us it was eight. It’s better to think it’s more; that way you’ll be surprised if you get there early,”  the volunteer retorts. 

He’s right! Running an ultra is 90% psychological; the other 10% is mental. The 50K runners are getting testy. I, on the other hand, still have 38 more miles to go! BE PATIENT!

A wide wash that turns into a raging river

I take off and run in and out of a bunch of arroyos. It’s really hot down here and my shirt is sopping wet from sweat. Occasionally a cool breeze blows down from the slopes chilling me. It’s a really strange feeling to be hot and cold at the same time. The extremely dry air and full sun causes an evaporative cooling effect. You feel the sun burning your skin until the wind comes and then you are cold from your wet shirt. You don’t get this feeling in a humid climate, you just have a constant hot and clammy feeling. 

In a while I reach a straight flat trail that brings me back up towards the mountain range. I force myself to run as much as the terrain allows because it’s easy to fall into a death march on this section if you aren’t careful.  Anthony’s Nose (6,831’) comes into view and then the Mammoth Rock, so I know I’m reaching the finish line. I keep drinking to keep up with my hydration since we are in the hottest part of the day. I start daydreaming about how nice it will feel when the sun sets and brings some much needed relief from the heat. I try to eat, but my stomach is unsettled from heat and water intake; so I give up.

Finally I run down exposed bedrock which, having run this route many times in races and training, Is my landmark indicating that I’m almost back. I go through a wide gravelly wash and then make the final climb up Lower Sunset Trail. It’s a tough climb in the heat and I'm really quite beat. Only 32 more miles to go, I keep repeating to myself. When I near the pavilion at the top, I see and hear a lot of spectators cheering in their runners. I get a boost of energy and climb the final cement stairs into the finish in over 10 hours. My friend, Kenny is tapping in runners on an ipad which records their time. “Hey buddy, how are you!” I say and extend a fist. He also extends a fist so we do a fist bump. That was it; no hand, fist, hand, fist thing. “Great job, keep it up!”, he says. I wonder if I should I have done an exploding fist bump!

The finish area is bustling with activity so I quickly get my drop bag to get ready for the night portion of my run. I’m feeling a bit confused from lack of food, the heat and having just run 32.5 miles. I realize I have to get out of here quickly before I change my mind and decide to quit. I have to focus diligently so I don’t forget anything important like warm clothes or my big headlamp. I put on a dry long sleeve shirt and tuck another one in my pack. I get my power bank to charge up my gps watch on the trail. I try to eat; I nibble some cold salami and cheese from my bag. Suddenly I realize that I’m famished and several more slices disappear down my gullet in no time flat. The calories boost my mood and I start to perk up. I fill my bottles and check everything. Light, check. Spare batteries, check. Warm clothes, check. Poles, etc. Once I’m confident that I have everything, I blast out of there. 

The last push to the finish line. Lower Sunset Trail

The sun is still up and I heat up pretty quickly, but at least it’s a downhill run for a while. My spirits are pretty high as I go thrumming along the Lower Sunset loop while watching the sun go lower and lower in the sky. By the time I reach the main park road the sun slips quietly and without fanfare, below the horizon. I stop to get my poles out and put my headlamp on when a chill hits me. Desert temperatures fluctuate wildly with swings in the 30-40 degree range. Once the energy of the sun is gone there is no humidity to hold the heat in and the air gets frigid fast. I get to the Trail Head aid station (mile 37) and fill up with water. 

I start the 2500’ climb to N. Franklin Peak for the second time today and my rubbery tired legs protest. I pace myself while ascending the rocky trail and then traverse the scree pile, taking frequent breaks to let my breathing settle down. It’s completely dark now and I can see other lights below me bobbing up the mountain. I just take one step at a time and focus on getting to the big cottonwood tree. I try not to think about the rest of the task ahead of me this evening. I make it to the tree and set the next goal —the ridge. This part is very steep and my feet frequently slip backwards in the crumbly dirt. Two steps forward, one slip back, two steps forward, one slip back, repeat.

I make it to the ridge and look out towards the northeast side of El Paso and the abundance of city lights are amazing; a big box of man made light which marks where the desert ends and the city begins. In contrast, a half moon glows above me with twinkling stars filling the night sky which reminds me of a quote from a book I recently read. In The Oak Papers, James Canton writes, 

And I do wonder what those ancient people, whose feet walked these lands so many years before, made of that vast circle in the sky. They lived in nature so much more than we do now. They felt the nature of the world about them.

The mountain is very peaceful and quiet this evening with fewer runners left out on the course. I enjoy the solitude as I run and reach the Mundy’s aid station. I don’t stop, but keep climbing up towards the peak where the wind hits me in the face on each turn in the trail. Gusts come down over the ridges and through the valleys making it feel brisk at times. I become mesmerized by the oval of my headlamp with nothing in my peripheral vision as I slog up the trail. I stay in the present moment and focus on my breath to help reduce the burning in my quads. Occasionally a runner or two descend the mountain, but they are gone in a flash so I return to my breathing.

After much toil and many breaths later, I reach the last few switchbacks where I’m hit with strong gusts. I stop to put on another shirt for the final push to the summit. At last I arrive and am all alone. I have the whole universe to myself. I pause to take in the vastness of the city lights sprawling for miles in all directions, the outline of S. Franklin Peak in the foreground. The starry sky above, with Venus glowing brightly above the horizon is absolutely stunning. Millions of people are down there, on a Saturday night, watching their TVs and scrolling through Insta-chat and Klik-Klok while I’m up here in a remote corner of the world. Nothing else exists, but this moment —a satori moment. 

S. Franklin Peak as seen from N. Franklin Peak

James Canton writes, 

…when the facade of our normal existence falls and we see beyond, feel the possibility of enlightenment. We live each day of our life feeling, if nominally, in control of our daily journey through life and knowing our regular path in the world. Then, in such moments of wonder, we can only stand and stare. We can no longer see the everyday. We can only feel our presence here as light as air, our feather-like existence upon this earth as ethereal and fragile as a seed head in the wind.

Enjoy a video of the view at night:

Suddenly the chill of the air brings me back down to earth. I grab my second summit wrist band and depart. The footing is twice as tricky in the dark so I take my time. I see a few runners coming up, but can’t see their faces. Leo approaches and recognizes me so we chat for a few minutes and encourage each other. 

W. El Paso. My neighborhood is down there.

I make it back to Mundy’s aid (Mile 42) and know that the worst is over. Just 20 more miles to go! I run down to the tin mines and take a walking break to eat a little; then a friend, Rosalba catches up to me. “Can I walk with you?” she asks. “Sure,” I say. 

We commiserate about how tired and battered we feel and then I begin to run the smooth Scenic Rd Trail. I’m pretty sure she is faster and could probably pass me, but she stays behind keeping me company. The time goes by quickly and then we reach Rock Shock where neither of us has the energy to run over the obstacles so we walk down. At the bottom we run the smooth twisty trail into the Bowen aid station (mile 49). We freshen up a bit, eat some food and then are quickly on our way.

The next stretch is into the remotest part of the park where I never see anyone when I run out here. It can get down right spooky at night when you are all alone.

“Thanks for staying with me,” Rosalba says. “I don’t like running this part alone at night. A guy told me he saw a mountain lion out here.” 

(Rule #1 for running in mountain lion country at night: Always run with someone slower than you. That way, the cougar will catch the slower guy and you can escape while the lion is dining on your friend's flesh.)

So I say, “Well, you are smart to stay with me since you are faster, you should be able to get away while the lion eats me.” 

We are further away from the city lights now and the sky is filled with stars while the moon sinks lower in the western sky. The night drags on forever but we keep plodding along. I grow very drowsy and dream of hot coffee.  Finally we reach the Northern Pass and descend the many switchbacks. We make it to our final aid station on the west side (mile 56.5). 

The volunteer lady is very cheery even though it’s around 2:00am. A young runner is sitting on an ice chest with no expression on his face whatsoever. He looks pale and lifeless; more like a zombie really. No one is home. Rosalba asks if they have any coffee and they do! We each have some which perks us up a little. Meanwhile, the guy comes to life and takes off without a word. 

“He looked like a zombie,” I say. 

“He sure did,” the volunteer agrees.

“I hope he’s ok,” I say.

“Me too,” she replies. “He didn’t take in any calories or drink.”

Anyway, me and Rosalba are ready to take off on our last leg. Literally, on our last leg! The nice lady with the coffee, bids us adieu and says, “If you happen to run into that guy, pick him up and put him back on the trail.” We all laugh.

Our spirits are high since we know we will most likely finish the race short of a mountain lion attack or zombie apocalypse. The night drags on, but we make steady progress alternating between running the downhill parts and walking the hills. We reach the last climb up to the pavilion and I tell Rosalba to go ahead. Utterly exhausted and sleep deprived, I finally finish a few minutes after her in 22:26. It’s almost 4:00 am and all is quiet here with only a handful of people wrapped up in blankets. 

A lady hands me my finisher’s buckle and congratulates me. I’m very grateful to have finished another tough race in the Franklins. It was a great day sharing the trail with all the runners. I’m very indebted to the volunteers and staff who helped keep us fueled and motivated throughout the race. No high fives, fist bumps or hand shakes needed. We are all too weary so I’ll just go home and collapse into my bed.

See you on the trail.