For most of my twenties, I was a die-hard cyclist in Seattle. I let my driver's license expire after college because well, a car in the city just felt like an expensive burden. What started as a scrappy, practical way to dodge traffic and skip the parking nightmare slowly bloomed into a full-blown obsession with fixed-gear counterculture that happened to serendipitously fit perfectly with my deep love of the punk rock ethos.

I think that's exactly why I've fallen so hard for mountain sports. There's a shared, unspoken resistance to the mainstream, a pull toward something rawer and realer that draws people to rock climbing, backcountry skiing, and trail running. A way to escape, exhale, and return to the dirty, simple life we all came from. It's a little rebellious. I'm here for all of it.

My running journey started with backcountry skiing. (I wrote a whole blog about that odyssey- find it [HERE] if you haven't already.) A couple of years ago I rekindled an old flame and finally tried ski touring. I was absolutely, madly in love from the very first skin track. But as the season unfolded, I had a humbling realization: I was going to need to get seriously fit if I wanted to keep up with the mountains.

So I did what any reasonable person does and started down a research rabbit hole that landed on trail running as the answer. And just like that, a new obsession was born.

I'd dabbled in running on and off since my Seattle fixie days, but the mountains? The trails? Those were uncharted territory that I had often dismissed as too hard for me. It wasn't until after my first ski touring season that I finally experienced the pure, unadulterated joy of moving through the mountains on foot and honestly, I was a goner.

The love affair escalated quickly. (I regret nothing.)

My first big mountain run was the CCY loop: three 13ers (Chapin-Chiquita-Ypsilon) linked by rocky single track not far from Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was the hardest run I'd ever done, and the views and wildlife did not disappoint. I go back to this one often. It's just such a good time.

A good friend and I tackled this one together, Long's Peak. A prominent 14er on the Front Range that I'd been eyeing since moving to Colorado in 2018. We left the trailhead by headlamp at 3am, hitting treeline right at dawn. The route weaves through everything from steady single track to Class 3 scrambling in the final stretch, topping out at 14,259 feet after 7 miles - then 7 miles back down to the car.

The trickiest part? The boulder field. About a half mile of chunky talus climbing up to the infamous "Keyhole", the gateway to the wild, exposed other side of the peak where the real scrambling begins. 10/10, would absolutely do it again.

Another friend and I ran the Decalibron: four 14ers linked by single track and rocky saddles: Mounts Democrat, Cameron, Lincoln, and Bross. We went counterclockwise, starting with a brutal climb up Bross (2,000 feet of vert in the first mile- yep, you read that right), then it smoothed out into pure ridgeline running, peak to peak to peak. Still one of my favorite days in the mountains, full stop.

I ran the Chasm Lake trail alone on my dad's 69th birthday. I started in the dark and hit treeline right at dawn, the same trail as Longs Peak, but breaking left at mile four toward the lake.

I had lost him earlier that spring.

I brought some of his ashes with me to leave somewhere beautiful and it was. It was, somehow, my first time hiking alone in the dark since I was a teenager hunting with him. We used to start together then break off to go to opposite sides of the family farm to get in our blinds before dawn. I have to say: it was peaceful. A little scary, but deeply peaceful. I felt him with me the whole way. This one lives in a different part of my heart than all the others.

In September 2025, I went out for what felt like a modest 7-mile run with some friends with about 1,400 feet of vert, nothing crazy by my recent standards. My body had other plans.

The knee niggle I'd been casually ignoring for a month finally said we need to talk, loudly, and with authority. It was like my body had grown completely fed up with my stubborn refusal to listen and finally put its foot down. (Pun absolutely intended.)

So I took four full months off running. I did my time with boring rehab exercises. I walked. I hiked. I slowly, humbly added back elevation. And I learned the hard way what I should have already known:

Listen when your body tells you something.

In January 2026, I finally came back healthy, patient, and smarter about it this time. I've been slowly ramping up the right way, cross-training on my new gravel bike (which has genuinely been a game-changer), and for the first time in my life, I can actually run uphill instead of just power-hiking and suffering through it.

Progress feels so good when you've earned it.

I'm setting goals for the year. I'm planning to stay healthy, keep improving, and one day hopefully sooner rather than later, toe the start line of an ultra.

Trail running crept into my life quietly and then transformed it completely. Moving through the mountains has become my favorite way to exist in wild spaces. I feel most like myself out there, whether I'm grinding up a brutally steep climb or gleefully bounding down a descent, bobbing and weaving through the trees like a kid.

I feel so privileged and fortunate that my body can do these things. Trail running has taught me to slow down when it feels right, to listen to my inner voice with intention, and to show up, even in the dark for the things that matter most.

Here's to many more miles.