Trip Report/
Black Mountain Ultra Traverse: Unsupported Trail Race/
By: Ultra Adventures, Inc./
Date: First Weekend In October/
Where: Burnsville, North Carolina/
Trip: 10hrs15mins (CR), 1st Place Overall/
Course Overview
The Black Mountain Ultra Traverse course is a wonderful thing.
A 3am start from Albert’s Lodge ushers you along South Toe River Road for 6 miles, to enter the Mount Mitchell State Park. A sharp right onto Buncombe Horse Range Trail marks the long ascent up Mitchell. At roughly half-way to the summit, there is a water source and a momentary reprieve from climbing. A couple miles of fast running along fantastic double-track finds a hard left onto Old Mitchell Trail followed by a quick right onto Alice Camp Trail; the first truly steep pitch on the ascent. Only a half-mile long, Alice Camp can take a solid twenty minutes before its termination at Mount Mitchell Summit Trail. Summiting Mitchell (the highest point east of the Mississippi River) marks 15 miles into the race. Still in darkness, a descent through the visitor parking lot, down the stone stairs and through the picnic area spits you out onto the Black Mountain Crest Trail; some of the most technical, pitchy and beautiful trail running in North Carolina.
Up next, a traverse of the entire Black Mountain range; a slow-going 11-mile journey from Mount Mitchell to Bowlens Creek.
A 3.5-mile, 3500ft descent drops you through the trees to the turnaround. Crossing the old Bowlens bridge, you punch your bib and utilize the water source there.
Then, a deeply mental return over the Black Mountain Range.
One eternity later, a rise through the picnic area and up the stone stairs returns you to the Mount Mitchell visitor’s parking lot. Instead of summiting again, a veer south along the perimeter of the parking lot takes you to Balsam Nature Trail which connects you to the Mountains-to-Sea Trail/Commissary Ridge Trail. Surviving the 7-mile technical descent to Black Mountain Campground (by stopping half-way down, where Buncombe Horse Range Trail and Commissary Ridge Trail diverge, to refill at the last water source) brings you into the Black Mountain Campground proper. A quiet exit over the bridge shuttles you left on to South Toe River Road. A 2.5-mile run puts you back at Albert’s Lodge.
~47 miles. ~11,000ft.
Report
I was drawn in by the mystery of The Black Mountain Ultra Traverse (BMUT).
Having recently returned home to North Carolina from a month-long van trip through the West with my partner, Carina, I noticed a vestige of wanderlust remained. If left unattended, the restlessness could have spilled over into other avenues of life.
So I decided to do something about it.
One night, I brought up the BMUT race page for the nth time. Nearly 50 miles through North Carolina’s Black Mountain Range, including a summit of Mount Mitchell. I found a report from the previous year, downloaded the route, visualized my feet moving through the terrain as it was described.
About 40 entrants. Strong runners from Virginia, Georgia, North Carolina. No aid stations. No fanfare.
Yes, please.
After not racing for two years because of the pandemic, this ominously hushed event was the undeniable lodestone; I watched as my cursor travelled across the screen and clicked on the green button titled, “Register.”
I think the race spoke to my values as a trail runner. From a distance, BMUT presented as an event for self-reliant individuals with a deep appreciation for the puzzle of traveling efficiently through technical, mountainous terrain. Ever since the pandemic illustrated the impermanence of normalcy, living by a personal code, pursuing what feels aligned or true has been a prime cypher through which my ultra choices pass.
It seemed as though BMUT could provide a different sort of racing experience than a typical ultra event; one that would provide space to explore a shifting competitive mindset and an appreciation for North Carolina’s wilderness areas.
I was impressed by the route, the culture, the general tone that the race organizers had cultivated.
Jennifer and Chris Moroch (Ultra Adventures, Inc.) were able to secure access to Forest Service roads, horse trails and the summit of Mount Mitchell during leaf-peeping season. The price of a couple tanks of gas, the entry fee was well worth the deeply rich opportunity, even as a self-supported event. The amount of work that went into getting permitting, insurance, building relationships with the Forest Service and other relevant entities—it is often a thankless process done by diligent directors. All of these procurements inform the price tag of ultramarathons, especially when the spaces that we get to run through are protected and important to the state’s recreation economy. I recognized my participation as a privilege not to be taken lightly.
The first runner to arrive at Albert’s Lodge (Burnsville, NC), after checking in, I set up my campsite beside the river and took a quiet moment to gaze up at Mount Mitchell.
It loomed over the valley like a clockface.
I made some food and became very tired. Laying down with the intention to nap resulted in some fiction reading and some reviewing of the course. Half-asleep, I listened to the tent-pole symphony of other runners arriving and filling out the makeshift campground. A couple hours slid by and then it was time for the race briefing.
A small group of runners congregated on the lawn adjacent to the lodge.
Race Director, Chris Moroch (Ultra Adventures, Inc.), stood on a tree stump and corralled our attention. After a brief welcome, he got straight to the point. “It is entirely on you to be safe and take care of yourselves. We are not going to help you. When you get onto that ridge, it gets treacherous and remote. At times, you are really out there. No one is coming to get you if you stop on the ridge; get yourself off of the mountain. This is a self-supported race. That means—there are porta potties up there near the summit of Mitchell—do not use them.“ [laughter] “Do not accept outside aid from anyone. However, in the spirit of this race, we make one exception. Look out for your fellow runners. If they need something, help them. If one of you is bad off and another one of you has a large pizza in their back pocket, spare them a slice. When you see water, fill up. I cannot stress this enough. Water sources are few and far between. When you see water, get water. If you do think you will drop, drop at the summit of Mitchell or at the Bowlens Creek turnaround. If it is not your day, you can Summit Mitchell and then come down Commissary Ridge for a ‘fun run’. My phone number is in the race materials. You must contact me or Jennifer to say that you are dropping…The Black Mountain Ultra Traverse is modeled after the self-sufficiency I found in the culture of hard Winter ultras….I expect every single one of you to be responsible, respectful and accounted for by 9pm tomorrow night. Good luck and have a great race.” A smile had spread across my face. Other than an FKT Project, I had not raced in over 2 years. But in that moment, I knew I was right where I needed to be.
And then Chris added one last thing.
“Oh yeah. I spoke to the course record holder this week. He said there is still time left out there and y’all could not have gotten a better weekend, weather-wise.” This last comment set my competitive juices to flowing but I quickly tempered myself: I was there, first and foremost, to enjoy a long, self-sufficient day in the mountains. To run in service of my values and the values implicit in The Black Mountain Ultra Traverse.
—
3:00am. 3…2…1…
Into a long, dark morning, the race began.
A constellation of headlamps funneled out of Albert’s Lodge and stretched through the cool morning vapors.
I found myself cruising South Toe River Road in second place. I was surprised by my position but equally surprised to see first place clicking off low 7min/miles—pulling away from me. At 6 miles, we hit the Buncombe Horse Range Trail. I stopped to pee and tucked back in to 3rd place.
The climb up Buncombe came at a pitch that had me shifting between a run and a hike. Overgrown, double-track switchbacks opened out to a wet, wildflower meadow and then closed up to steeper, wooded single-track. I hooked back in with second, then with first, then took the lead for a brief moment. However, I knew that the first water stop was fast-approaching.
It was the first time I had worn my GPS watch in over 2 years. Though I could smell water in the air and I knew there was a water source at the 10.2-mile mark, I was pretty sure that the mileage on my watch was inaccurate. Unfamiliar with the trail, I did not know what to expect in the way of streams. I had made a commitment to take good care of myself; to stand for principles I preach in my work as a running coach: I would take the requisite time needed to utilize every water stop, I would adhere to my nutrition plan despite any mental balking. I would problem-solve early and often as issues arose. And most importantly, I would have a ton of fun.
I came to a thin vein of water that drooled off of the side of the trail.
A graceless clamor through thick branches had me at a shallow, brown pool beneath the trail. I refilled my bladder and soft flasks like a clumsy cave troll. This took quite a while as the access point was techy and the cambered rocks proved unstable. The first and second place runners did not stop. By the time I had finished refilling, their headlamps were long gone. I laughed to myself when, not 50 feet further down the trail, I came to a wide creek that flowed like angel tears across the course, babbling in mockery of my efforts. Ah, well. Onward!
A couple miles further up Buncombe and the ascending pitch leveled out to faster running. Bounding along double-track and still super fresh, I recognized an opportunity to lengthen my stride and get some turnover going. During this brief stint of careening through the lamplit dark, I had a lucid appreciation for a small moment in the gait cycle.
At the near-end of the deceleration phase, when the swinging leg has driven through and then pulls, down-and-back, to the ground; that fleeting instant when every muscle is given a moment of deepest relaxation—just before a stable contact. For me, this is a strangely beautiful feeling of safety.
With enough running in the legs at this point to start sculpting a general picture of effort, I was happy with where I was settling in. I had started to find the shape of the edge that I wanted to nurture through the first half of the race—headlamp spotted ahead.
Having stepped off the trail for the bathroom, second place came back to me. I passed and continued on to the Alice Camp Trailhead. Without proper studying of the route, this would have been an easy turn to miss; a sharp right onto a steep slope directly after a significant creek crossing.
Alice Camp is amazing. A burly and root-dizzied ascent. So damn steep and densely wooded. It was the first true opportunity to deploy hands-on-knees hiking. I love the feeling of a mean, uphill pitch. Something about +20% grades feels like the purest incarnation of healthful locomotion. Like every stride is troweling dirt behind you.
Despite my honest efforts on this ascent, I noticed that the switchback-winked headlamp of first place was not coming back to me easily. Whoever this dude was, he was a strong hiker.
A half-mile later and Alice Camp Trail hit the paved road which leads up to the summit of Mount Mitchell. As I came around the bend, first place was descending back towards me. “Incredible work, man!” I said.
“You too, man! See you in a little while,” he replied. Nice guy, I thought.
Summiting Mount Mitchell, I tagged the red, elevation sign and thanked Chris for being there. After having escorted us on bike for the first few miles of the race, Chris climbed the 7-mile ascent up Commissary Ridge to station himself at the summit. He was there to confirm that every one of his runners made it to the top of Mitchell safely and that there was no cheating.
This race has soul.
15 miles down, ~32 to go.
Through a thick, roiling fog, from the highest point east of the Mississippi River, I descended through the visitor’s lot, passed the museum, snaked through the picnic area and shot out the back, onto the infamous Black Mountain Crest Trail.
The honeymoon phase was over. It was time to settle in and get to work.
The eastern descent down Mitchell was a dirge of fog and wind. It was not long before the first place runner came back to me. He was struggling, rightfully so, to move well down steep pitches with our vision so handicapped. Passing him, I said, “This is ridiculous.”
“Yes, such bad visibility!”
“Yeah this is rough, be safe.” I said it as much to myself as I did to him.
The darkness in the proceeding miles was profound.
Still a couple hours until morning light would reach us up here, lumbering over slick rocks and logs, my headlamp served more to reflect the moisture in the dark morning air than it did to illuminate the approaching trail. I adjusted my headspace to meet the circumstances on their terms. This was comically difficult terrain at an early stage of the ridge traverse and here I was, leading the race.
A voice in my head whispered that I would be wise to push harder. Build a gap between you and second. It was right here that the mindset training really came online.
In the last few years of east coast ultra racing, pre-pandemic, I have experienced a few standout performances. The beneficiary of a self-imposed, upward creep in expectations, one day, I realized that I had inadvertently hijacked my enjoyment of the sport. Oops.
For a long, dark time, I had trained and raced thinking that I was an imposter in the game. That, in order for an imposter to do well, they must sacrifice enjoyment for performance. Clinch your shoulders, set your jaw and grind it out. It was the only way for me to stand a chance of reaching my potential, or the podium.
But there, in the early stages of my traverse, I chose to go about things differently.
I took a deep breath, dropped my shoulders, loosened my jaw and checked back in with the edge that I set out to respect through this whole experience. The day before the race, I had gotten very clear with myself: I would rather have honored a mindset of flexibility in the service of my values than relinquished a sense of safety and executed a race based on intrusive habit and impulse.
In other words, I would rather have enjoyed losing than endured winning.
Confronted with the first attack on this mindset, I chose not to push, nor did I choose to wallow.
I struck a balance; ascending the hills with a powerful but measured hike and making swift footwork of technical descents. Travel well, I repeated to myself. The terrain was treacherous and extreme, but as the ridgeline scrolled beneath me, my mind and body normalized to the cardiographic ridge.
Densely wooded scrambling blurred into high-meadow slopes which blurred into razor-edge cliffs which blurred back into forests, back into cliffs, back into meadows. And then, as morning’s first light spread through the canopy, the trail abruptly plummeted into the trees.
This must be it, I thought. Unheralded, it began: the 3.5 mile descent to the Bowlens Creek turnaround.
Dancing between overcooking my quads and giving up the ghost, I made steady work of the endless downhill, stopping once to confirm that I was going the right way. It couldn’t be this long, right? Having downloaded the course map to GaiaGPS, I pulled my phone out of the breast pocket of my hydration vest. Unfortunately, I had not put it in a ziplock and so the moisture rendered swiping up on the screen impossible. Wiping the thing on my shirt only moistened it more. A fern frond? No. My cheek? That’s cold. A rock? No, you dummy. A finger-shaped rock? Hopeless! A mossy tree trunk? Voila! The phone finally got dry enough to let me in.
I would use moss to access my phone a handful of times throughout the race, whenever I doubted my position.
Pro tip: use phone-towel moss on the Black Mountain Crest Trail to access your sweaty phone (or use a ziplock bag, whichever you prefer).
Ok, yep, on course. Onward.
15 minutes more of descent and a volunteer came into view. I crossed the old Bowlens bridge, thanked them for being stationed at the far end of the race, hole-punched my bib and went down to the creek to refill my bladder and soft flasks. After filling one flask, I drank it down and refilled it. I had traversed the range on 2 liters of water so I wanted to make sure that I was narrowing any deficit before I left Bowlens. Water refilled, I climbed up the bank, over the bridge and without hesitation, started chipping away at the Bowlens climb.
This climb has the potential to make or break someone’s traverse.
On the one hand, there is a strange relief only ultrarunners know; to have a ton of hike-justifiable terrain in your future. On the other hand, the outbound traverse by itself is a kick in the teeth. Turning around at Bowlens with an exact idea of what lies ahead—it can be dispiriting. One tactic that served me very well was to anticipate this mental low and insert a reward for myself.
On the outbound traverse, I stuck to Justin’s Almond Butter packets and Pro Bars. Slow-burning, high-calorie fuel. But when I hit the turnaround, I promptly sucked down 2 Cold Brew Gu Roctanes. In no time, the caffeine and sugar was coursing through my veins and boom! The Bowlens climb morphed from ballad to banger. 15 minutes of strong climbing and down came second place on his approach to the turnaround. “You’re crushing it man!” I yelled.
“I will see you at the finish, man!”
“Hey, what’s your name?!”
“Bushan, yours?”
“Bushan? Nathan. Have a great race Bushan!”
“You too, Nathan.” We both meant every word. It was a moment that really solidified the tone of the day and the culture of this race. This sweet guy, Bushan, whose strong hike and persistence struck fear in a part of my mind, was courteous and genuinely empathetic towards my race—all while suffering the challenges of his own traverse. As long as I remained loyal to my edge, if Bushan were to reel me in, pass me, take the win—good on him. He would simply be having a great day and would deserve every bit of it. Same goes for any runner out there. At this point, I was filled with an excitement to see each runner come by me as they finished up their outbound traverse. Such a remote and harrowing strand of trail, our dispersed organism of camaraderie would be a cool thing to experience. Onward.
20 more minutes of climbing and, like a swift arrow, a woman shot down the hill in third place. I later learned her name to be Marisa. She looked fresh and calm as she passed me. I was equal parts impressed and afraid. The terrible master (my brain) started in on some math equations to figure out how much of a gap I had—maybe 35 minutes—I redirected my thoughts to the trail. Again, the terrible master went to the chalkboard. If you can push harder—no. I redirected my thoughts to the trail. When faced with time-based or measurement-based thinking, I redirected.
Oh, the psychological whack-a-mole.
Time started to pass, unnoticed. I had the watch for navigation but looking at it would only threaten the thought-palace that I was set on building. So I stopped looking at the watch. I knew I was on course so I kept my eyes on the trail. Kept my thoughts in the trees. Kept my arms swinging, producing lift.
Muscles contracted. Perceived effort rose. I ate a gel. Perceived effort dropped. Muscles contracted. Perceived effort rose. I ate a gel. Perceived effort dropped. How much furth—return to the trail. Keep your thoughts close. Willful blindness. Stay with your edge. Stay here. Be with it.
Hours passed.
In a near-psychedelic state, I crested the Bowlens climb, careened through the high meadows, cheered on runners as they passed, optimized lines up and over boulders, along cliffs, down pitchy slopes, wove in and out of evergreen stands, and stole breathtaking glances at the Blue Ridge Mountains.
More time passed.
I brought my gaze up from the oncoming puzzle to see a strange metal square in the middle of the trail.
What is that? I moved closer.
What could that be? For a moment, I thought that I was looking at some strange stove pipe to a subterranean house in a remote place of the Black Mountains—
—a grill!
The realization that the metal box was in fact a grill confirmed that I was re-entering the picnic area at the top of Mount Mitchell.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
I rose out of the picnic area, up the stone stairs, and shoved off into the grass along the south side of the parking lot. Day-visitors looked at me with…concern? At this point I was drenched, smelly, running almost entirely with my arms; swinging those darn things around like chicken wings; eking out every last drop of lift in hopes of syphoning the burden, up, from my legs.
I tried to nod and smile to a group of chaperones and students but it probably looked like I was having a manic episode.
I yanked out my sweaty phone and wiped it, professionally, on a nearby mossy tree trunk. One of the chaperones asked if I knew where I was going. I said, “No, I don’t. But don’t help me. I can’t ask you for help!” I blurted. The chaperone looked at me blankly. I added, “Thank you, though!” This did not serve to assure them of my mental health. And why was I yelling?
Balsam Nature Trail, just ahead somewhere…I was on course! “Here I am! I am here!” Blink. Blink. “Have a good day, y’all!” I continued through the grass and found signage for the trailhead. How bad could a nature trail be compared to the Black Mountain Crest Trail?
7-miles-of-technical-descent-on-smooshed-legs bad.
Years ago, I did the climb from Black Mountain Campground, up Commissary Ridge to the summit of Mitchell. So eventually, I recognized where I was and the challenge that awaited me. I started cackling like a banshee. It was really here, at this point, that I let the gates to the thought-palace down and let in thoughts of time and measurement.
I had been running for 9 hours, most of which, remarkably, transpired in a state of mindfulness. It was the most enjoyable racing of my life. I had shown myself that I am not beholden to habit and impulse. So if my head needed to rebel a bit now, if it needed a hit of math in the final stages of the race, well so be it. In a way, it had earned it.
Go ahead brain, bring on the controls. Those performance-inhibiting constructions of time-remaining, projected pace, and finish-line fantasy. The demoralizing fear of being overtaken, the fear of being a fraud, the fear of letting everyone down, the fear of fear of fear of fear. Have at it!
Hmm, that’s strange. Letting my guard down felt about the same as having it up.
Rather plainly, I carried on, wiping my phone on trees, eating gels, stopping at water sources like a good mammal.
Eventually, I bottomed out to Black Mountain Campground and ran quietly across the bridge, returning to South Toe River Road. Along the last 2.5 miles, I picked up a few plastic bottles, paper cups, and a rubber doorstop and brought them along with me to the finish. Much to my surprise, the last few miles were around an 8min/mile pace. I think, because I was able to “smell the barn” at this point, the not-so-terrible master released some hidden reserves from the coffers and as a result, a bit of pop returned to my stride.
An effortless descent back onto the grounds of Albert’s Lodge signaled the sound of cowbells. A small group of people stood about a quiet finish line.
I passed through the corral and high-fived Chris.
It was a massive day for me. A good day. I think that I learned a lot about myself.
I showered, ate a meal, sat by the sweet-smelling fire and watched the rest of the runners come in until after 9pm.
As each successive runner came in from their traverse, the cowbells rang and our circle dilated around the crackling flames. We had shared in a day-long journey at different paces and the result was this surreal opportunity to meet one another for the first time, despite feeling bonded already by shared suffering.
I met Bushan and Marisa, who had worked together in the second half to finish one second apart. I met Jason, who had raced an incredible amount of ultras in a short span, having podiumed or won each one of them. I met Paul, who told of how he cut a mile-loop with 500ft of gain into the side of the mountain in his backyard and how he ran a 50k on said loop, through the night, on a whim. I met Joe and Andrew, got to re-meet Marc and ask him about his record 10 Grindstone 100 finishes (!). I met Mae, a super-kind, super-tough woman who also happened to be pumping milk for her newborn while out there on her traverse. No big deal. I got to know race directors Chris and Jennifer better and we all listened to each other’s war stories and heard about upcoming races.
It was, without a doubt, my favorite part of the entire experience.
I came to The Black Mountain Ultra Traverse to explore a shifting competitive mindset; to respect the wilderness; to build community. I had a good day and finished in first place. This adventure has helped me move passed a fear-based headspace. I am pretty proud of how I handled myself out there. How I comported with others and they with me. I did not allow compulsive rumination to hijack my traverse nor did I rest on my laurels. In short, I think I travelled well.
I learned more about the healthy edge of effort, both mentally and physical. And as a result, I have never been more entranced by the sport of ultrarunning.
Deepest gratitude to Chris and Jennifer for the opportunity. To fellow BMUT runners who I now consider friends. And lastly, to the Black Mountain Range
for kicking my teeth in.
nt
