Running the Rockies

Jenny Tough tackles an unsupported 950 km run across the Canadian Rockies, as part of a solo mission to run across a mountain range on every continent.

My alarm sounds. 5 am. I shrivel in my sleeping bag, hugging the down layers tight around my shoulders. I don’t need to poke my head out of my bivvy to know that it’s covered in frost on the outside. I forgot how cold these Rocky Mountain nights are, even in the height of July. Although, camping at 2,044 m, freezing temperatures should always be expected. The stars are still bright, glittering in full, unfiltered above the vast wilderness.

I resign to the discomfort — I have to get up. I have nearly 900 km in this journey ahead of me, and the longer I sleep, the more nights I will spend in this abominable cold. I delicately unzip the small dome over my face, avoiding any crystals of ice falling onto me, and wriggle out of my bivvy sack. I expertly left my stove and tin mug nearby, so reach an arm out to set some water to boil while I muster the courage to get all the way out of my sleeping bag and delicately tiptoe, in my frozen running shoes, the roughly 40 m to my bear hang — where food and coffee hangs suspended out of reach of bears. I arrived at my campsite well after dark, and in the dawn glow I now inspect my work from last night: pretty terrible, if we’re being perfectly honest. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. I marvel that no wildlife stumbled upon me during the night while I untangle my clumsy rope and let down my backpack, frozen solid but remarkably without any bite or claw marks. 

I dive back inside my warm sleeping bag while I make my ‘cowboy breakfast’ of coffee mixed directly into my oatmeal. Steam rises from my titanium mug, and I lean my face over it, holding the heat close to my skin. As I eat the warmth transmits through my body, while the caffeine massages my sleepy eyes. I check my rations and assure myself that I can have a second coffee after this, buying more time for the earth to thaw while the sun begins to crest over the mountains.

The stars have disappeared now, and the sky begins to brighten enough to turn my head-torch off. The dawn chorus of chirping birds and woodland creatures brings my campsite to life around me, and I feel my legs begin to stir and prepare for the big journey ahead. I breathe a big, deep, cleansing breath. The mountain air. These mountains that I come from. These mountains that I haven’t seen in over a decade. The adventure. The adventure that we were denied since March. The adventure that has become more familiar to me than any part of lockdown. I’ve come home, in more than one sense.

Over the past four years, I’ve been working on a project to run solo and self-supported across a mountain range on every continent. It has become more than a project. It’s become a central pillar of my life. It’s the place where I’m the best version of myself. Everything in expedition life is controlled chaos — but it’s the most sense I’ve ever been able to make of the world. And, finally, I’m back here. And no less, back in the Rocky Mountains. The childhood home that raised me to love exploration, nature, and adventure. The place that, you could even say, made me. I stretch my sore legs underneath my sleeping bag, still clutching the titanium mug of coffee with bits of oatmeal still swirling around, and know that the weeks ahead are bound to be emotional. This was never going to be a straightforward journey.

I smile as I dive into my unusually usual morning routine, packing up my 32 L backpack in the exact order that makes it all fit so perfectly – the system I’ve mastered over thousands of kilometres of doing this. I have everything I need to survive in the mountain wilderness, and nothing I don’t need. It’s life at its utmost simplicity. I’ve always secretly enjoyed the admiration these journeys attract. Viewed from the outside they appear so epic and clever. But I know the truth and the beauty of travelling in this way — that it’s the most simple and pleasurable way to cross a landscape. My daily routine involves nothing but the basic necessities of survival, and running. Running a fairly long way, by my personal standards, but it really is just as simple as that. The past few months have been far from simple for all of us, and I feel palpably lighter to be out here, in this forest, packing up a modest campsite before another day of running northwards along the Great Divide of the Canadian Rockies.

I leave my campsite wearing all of my layers, but the sun rapidly grows in the sky, and within an hour of climbing I’ve shed all of my excess layers and am overheating in shorts and a t-shirt. Snow crunches beneath my feet, the lingering patches still clinging to the high-altitude regions. Navigation is especially difficult when I reach the snowline, as the trail disappears underneath and I am literally wandering on a blank white page.

I fight through branches and crawl over deadfall, hopelessly chasing the direction that I imagine the trail should be headed in. I feel utterly lost — knee-deep snow covers the ground, and the dense forest shrouds me in all directions. Without my compass in hand, I have absolutely no idea which way is which. I know that when I get higher, above the treeline, navigation will be easy. But for now, I can’t see beyond the thick fir trees and can only guess which way will take me above the forest. The branches seem to close in around me, and I can’t find a sensible path in any direction. I am exasperated as I backtrack along my own footprints, hoping a more obvious path will lead me out of the forest. It takes me hours to finally fight my way out of the trees and onto the exposed, alpine pass. With relief, I look back on the expansive view behind me: miles and miles of pure Canadian wilderness. No sign of human influence breaks my vista, only mountains and endless green forest. The air is ominously still, and I feel like the only living thing on earth for a moment.                                                                                                               

Annoyed at the amount of time lost spinning in lost circles below the treeline, I now pump my legs hard up the pass. Today’s route follows a ridge over a total of six Rocky Mountain peaks — the path of least resistance, in comparison to the forest, but in no way an easy day ahead. As I climb towards the sky, I feel the hot July sun reaching down to meet me. The heat is remarkable, despite my shoes still sinking deep into snow banks. Over the course of the day, I make a few snow angels to cool down.

The scree along the ridge slows me to a crawl. The spiny ridge is impossibly narrow, with steep flanks on either side. There is no room for error — one slip and it is a long, long way before any obstacle will stop my fall. My knees wobble as I place each step carefully, scrambling towards the tops and delicately down-climbing each peak.

When I descend the ridge towards the forest once more, it’s already late afternoon. I nearly kiss the ground when I reach a double-track trail, my first easy segment in two days. Finally, I break into a free and easy run, descending for more than three hours at a steady pace until I reach the valley floor.

I finish the day exhausted, sunburnt, sore-legged, and with swollen feet and ankles. I drop my backpack with a thud at my chosen campsite, and curl up on the ground for a few indulgent minutes before going about my familiar routine of setting up camp. Another 37 km have been ticked off, and less than 900 km to go now. It’s daunting, but familiar. Even as my body shakes from the intensity of the day passed, I am delighted to be back. 

To  learn more about Jenny’s ‘Run the World Mountains’ project, or to order your copy of her book, ‘Tough Women: Adventure Stories’, head to jennytough.com.

All photos by Jenny Tough.