Front Range Mountain High
White Ranch Park Trail Run Report: Golden, Colorado
I had roughly two hours — between 6:00-8:00 AM — to go for a run and get back to the Marriott Courtyard hotel in Golden before the day’s activities started and I was missed. I had flown into Denver the night before for the funeral of my uncle.
I wanted to run before it all began. Being around death motivates me to live, to remind myself that I'm still Six Feet Over. And don't we all feel alive when we're running? Especially on a trail. So when the decision is whether to stay in bed and watch SportsCenter or go explore a new mountain trail, there's no real choice.
Golden, where my uncle had lived for 20 years, is about 15 miles west of downtown Denver, at the edge of the foothills of the Front Range — smaller mountains that serve as training wheels for the rugged, majestic Rockies just to the west. It’s the county seat for Jefferson County, home to Columbine High School and the Coors Brewery.
After waking at 5:00 A.M. Mountain time, a few minutes before my Timex watch alarm sounded, I plugged my laptop in to the hotel’s Internet connection and Googled “golden colorado trail run.” I came up with White Ranch Park, which had 18 miles of trails on 3,000 acres of open land and was only about 10 miles to northwest toward Boulder. Perfect.
I downed a few cups of rancid Folgers hotel-room coffee and stopped at the hotel shop to pick up a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts and two bottles of lemon-lime Gatorade. Next, I pointed my Subaru Outback (the official car of Colorado) rental west on U.S. Route 6, which, according to the woman at the hotel’s front desk, would turn into Highway 93. From there I would turn left on 56th Ave. and cruise right into the park.
The drive was easy as my Outback mingled with lots of other Outbacks, Range Rovers, and Acuras topped by bike racks. I navigated through at least dozen roadies out for their morning rides and saw one cycling team van carrying about a dozen bikes. Shortly after 6:00 A.M., I pulled into the trail head at White Ranch Park's lower parking lot. The red sun was beginning to peek up over the Great Plains to the east. One SUV with an empty bike rack sat in the lot. Early riser. I wondered how many people would be on the trail the next day, a Saturday.
After using the waterless, composting toilet, I studied a trail map posted on the lot and tried to memorize a few of the key names — Belcher Hill, Longhorn, Shorthorn, Maverick, Whippleberry — and understand how they all connected. I knew I wouldn’t get the trail exactly right once I started running and my brain began jiggling, but I hoped to get the lay of the land and a feel for all the trail sections so I could string together a decent 7.5-mile loop without getting lost.
I was starting at about 6,100 feet and would be climbing to the summit at 8,000 feet. I set out at about an 8:00-minute mile pace, but the thin mountain air and elevation gain spiked my heart rate. After several minutes of heavy breathing, I dialed it down and settled into a slightly slower pace that I could maintain without going into cardiac arrest.
As I made my way up through a series of seemingly never-ending switchbacks for about 50 minutes, the mostly single-track, rocky trail traversed a few boulders that I had to stop and climb like stairs. I bumped into several unruffled deer and rabbits and passed through fields of wildflowers, grassy plains, forested foothills, and jagged rock formations that I imagined must date back a billion years. The vistas toward the eastern plains and Denver were amazing, and I convinced myself that I was stopping only to check out the views when I needed to catch my breath. Eventually, an upper-network trail took me across the hill and to the summit.
There, I just stood and stared, spinning 360 degrees to take it all in. Nothing but nature. And what was that beautiful sound? Complete silence and ghosts of the Indian tribes that once lived on and with this land enveloped me. I didn’t want to turn around (ever, really), but my Gatorade bottle was low and I wasn't sure I knew the way back to the Subaru. If I ended up having to backtrack, it would be a long, thirsty morning. Time to head down.
The downhill trail turned out to be straighter and wider, but plenty nasty, with many rocks and log drop-offs. It’s fun to take a Zen-like approach to downhill running — let it rip and look for a safe landing space while you’re hanging in the air after each stride. I felt like Yoda, guided by The Force: “Find an open spot where you won’t break your ankle, you must.”
During the 25-minute run down a steep, mostly exposed slope, I passed two mountain bikers redlining up. I conceded the smooth part of the trail to them, and each nodded at me. From the looks on their faces — they truly were wearing the mask of pain — it didn’t appear they could speak. Wow. It would take some serious stamina and technical skills to haul up and down that trail on a bike.
By the time I reached the trail head (and said a silent prayer that I actually found it), the sun was strong, my Gatorade bottle empty, and my soul refreshed. My uncle wasn't a runner and he wasn't religious, but I'm certain his mountain neighbors must have had some kind of spiritual hold over him.
Later that day, downing bottles of Coors Light with family and friends after an emotional memorial service, I would find out from a local runner that White Range Park is prime mountain lion and bear country. I know mountain lions don’t typically attack people, but at 7 or 8 feet long and 150 pounds, I’ll consider them a predator.
“You were OK as long as you weren’t there at dawn,” said my new Colorado friend.
“Yeah, well… What do you do if you see a mountain lion?”
“Act bigger. Raise your arms.”
“A bear?”
“Slowly back away,” he said.
Now I know there’s more to watch out for on Front Range trails than rattlesnakes, but such is life. I also learned that if you want to avoid mountain lion and bear encounters, it’s best to go out in groups and to make plenty of noise so you don’t surprise them.
The trail run was cool and gave me the best possible start to a long, draining day. I don’t have much trail running experience to compare it with, but I’ll give the degree of difficulty about 6.5 water bottles out of 10. It was challenging enough to make me work but not so tough that I wasn't loving every step. Running a trail this breathtaking may be business as usual for the locals — like Hugh Grant getting tired of Elizabeth Hurley — but it was memorable for a visiting flatlander. One day I’ll go back under better circumstances, happy to be alive and announcing myself to the mountain lions.
I had roughly two hours — between 6:00-8:00 AM — to go for a run and get back to the Marriott Courtyard hotel in Golden before the day’s activities started and I was missed. I had flown into Denver the night before for the funeral of my uncle.
I wanted to run before it all began. Being around death motivates me to live, to remind myself that I'm still Six Feet Over. And don't we all feel alive when we're running? Especially on a trail. So when the decision is whether to stay in bed and watch SportsCenter or go explore a new mountain trail, there's no real choice.
Golden, where my uncle had lived for 20 years, is about 15 miles west of downtown Denver, at the edge of the foothills of the Front Range — smaller mountains that serve as training wheels for the rugged, majestic Rockies just to the west. It’s the county seat for Jefferson County, home to Columbine High School and the Coors Brewery.
After waking at 5:00 A.M. Mountain time, a few minutes before my Timex watch alarm sounded, I plugged my laptop in to the hotel’s Internet connection and Googled “golden colorado trail run.” I came up with White Ranch Park, which had 18 miles of trails on 3,000 acres of open land and was only about 10 miles to northwest toward Boulder. Perfect.
I downed a few cups of rancid Folgers hotel-room coffee and stopped at the hotel shop to pick up a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts and two bottles of lemon-lime Gatorade. Next, I pointed my Subaru Outback (the official car of Colorado) rental west on U.S. Route 6, which, according to the woman at the hotel’s front desk, would turn into Highway 93. From there I would turn left on 56th Ave. and cruise right into the park.
The drive was easy as my Outback mingled with lots of other Outbacks, Range Rovers, and Acuras topped by bike racks. I navigated through at least dozen roadies out for their morning rides and saw one cycling team van carrying about a dozen bikes. Shortly after 6:00 A.M., I pulled into the trail head at White Ranch Park's lower parking lot. The red sun was beginning to peek up over the Great Plains to the east. One SUV with an empty bike rack sat in the lot. Early riser. I wondered how many people would be on the trail the next day, a Saturday.
After using the waterless, composting toilet, I studied a trail map posted on the lot and tried to memorize a few of the key names — Belcher Hill, Longhorn, Shorthorn, Maverick, Whippleberry — and understand how they all connected. I knew I wouldn’t get the trail exactly right once I started running and my brain began jiggling, but I hoped to get the lay of the land and a feel for all the trail sections so I could string together a decent 7.5-mile loop without getting lost.
I was starting at about 6,100 feet and would be climbing to the summit at 8,000 feet. I set out at about an 8:00-minute mile pace, but the thin mountain air and elevation gain spiked my heart rate. After several minutes of heavy breathing, I dialed it down and settled into a slightly slower pace that I could maintain without going into cardiac arrest.
As I made my way up through a series of seemingly never-ending switchbacks for about 50 minutes, the mostly single-track, rocky trail traversed a few boulders that I had to stop and climb like stairs. I bumped into several unruffled deer and rabbits and passed through fields of wildflowers, grassy plains, forested foothills, and jagged rock formations that I imagined must date back a billion years. The vistas toward the eastern plains and Denver were amazing, and I convinced myself that I was stopping only to check out the views when I needed to catch my breath. Eventually, an upper-network trail took me across the hill and to the summit.
There, I just stood and stared, spinning 360 degrees to take it all in. Nothing but nature. And what was that beautiful sound? Complete silence and ghosts of the Indian tribes that once lived on and with this land enveloped me. I didn’t want to turn around (ever, really), but my Gatorade bottle was low and I wasn't sure I knew the way back to the Subaru. If I ended up having to backtrack, it would be a long, thirsty morning. Time to head down.
The downhill trail turned out to be straighter and wider, but plenty nasty, with many rocks and log drop-offs. It’s fun to take a Zen-like approach to downhill running — let it rip and look for a safe landing space while you’re hanging in the air after each stride. I felt like Yoda, guided by The Force: “Find an open spot where you won’t break your ankle, you must.”
During the 25-minute run down a steep, mostly exposed slope, I passed two mountain bikers redlining up. I conceded the smooth part of the trail to them, and each nodded at me. From the looks on their faces — they truly were wearing the mask of pain — it didn’t appear they could speak. Wow. It would take some serious stamina and technical skills to haul up and down that trail on a bike.
By the time I reached the trail head (and said a silent prayer that I actually found it), the sun was strong, my Gatorade bottle empty, and my soul refreshed. My uncle wasn't a runner and he wasn't religious, but I'm certain his mountain neighbors must have had some kind of spiritual hold over him.
Later that day, downing bottles of Coors Light with family and friends after an emotional memorial service, I would find out from a local runner that White Range Park is prime mountain lion and bear country. I know mountain lions don’t typically attack people, but at 7 or 8 feet long and 150 pounds, I’ll consider them a predator.
“You were OK as long as you weren’t there at dawn,” said my new Colorado friend.
“Yeah, well… What do you do if you see a mountain lion?”
“Act bigger. Raise your arms.”
“A bear?”
“Slowly back away,” he said.
Now I know there’s more to watch out for on Front Range trails than rattlesnakes, but such is life. I also learned that if you want to avoid mountain lion and bear encounters, it’s best to go out in groups and to make plenty of noise so you don’t surprise them.
The trail run was cool and gave me the best possible start to a long, draining day. I don’t have much trail running experience to compare it with, but I’ll give the degree of difficulty about 6.5 water bottles out of 10. It was challenging enough to make me work but not so tough that I wasn't loving every step. Running a trail this breathtaking may be business as usual for the locals — like Hugh Grant getting tired of Elizabeth Hurley — but it was memorable for a visiting flatlander. One day I’ll go back under better circumstances, happy to be alive and announcing myself to the mountain lions.
posted by John at Wednesday, August 16, 2006
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