Oklahoma women running far: Camille Herron sets a 24-hour record, and Bevin Ver Brugge claims a 100-mile first

Camille Herron

A couple of Oklahoma women decided this past week was a fine time to to make their mark. And by making their mark, I mean doing things no one — man or woman — had ever done.

First up is Camille Herron, of Warr Acres, Okla. Camille is a well-known ultra runner who last year set the U.S. record for a 100-mile race at the Tunnel Hill 100 (12:42:39, a stunning 7:38 per mile pace). That record was broken this year, but not one to stand still, Herron broke another record this past weekend, tallying 162.9 miles in a 24-hour period at the Desert Soltice Track Invitational (8:50/mile pace). And by breaking a record, I mean breaking a world record. In doing this, she also broke the 100-mile track record.

Next up is something more local, but also impressive. In Tulsa, runner Bevin Ver Brugge took on a very personal project: that of doing her first 100-mile run on her local trails.

Bevin created a loop at Tulsa’s Turkey Mountain Urban Wilderness that, when done eight times, would give her that 100-mile total. She set about doing it on Dec. 1.

A hundred miles is tough no matter what, but doing this at a place like Turkey Mountain is particularly difficult. The elevation changes aren’t as severe as you get in more mountainous states, but the trails themselves vary from mellow and runable to highly technical, riddled with rocks and roots that make for slow going. Compounding that is the presence of a bunch of fallen leaves, hiding all those tripping hazards.

She completed that task in a bit over 36 hours. But the time is not the record here. While Turkey Mountain is home to plenty of races (including a few 50Ks), it’s believed that she’s the first to run 100 miles there in one go. In doing so, she also picked up more than 9,000 feet of vertical gain — not too shabby in the middle of the Southern Plains.

Watch this video of the emotional finish at the trailhead.

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A pursuit of excellence: My biggest takeaway from Alex Honnold and ‘Free Solo’

Alex Honnold was the subject of what many consider one of the best climbing films ever, “Free Solo.”

When I went in to see “Free Solo” on the big screen, I had high expectations. Alex Honnold’s feats in big-wall rock climbing are incomparable. Given the filmmakers involved, including pro adventurer Jimmy Chin, I figured the production quality would be somewhere on a “Meru” scale, which is in my eyes, pretty damn good.

We all knew Honnold succeeded in becoming the first person to free-solo El Capitan. That’s news from awhile back. But seeing it unfold on the big screen? That’s a whole other thing.

The film delivered. I got sweaty palms watching it unfold. I was given his backstory. All of it was beautifully filmed, expertly told and compellingly arranged. You don’t have to be a hard-core climber to enjoy “Free Solo.”

But there is something else I got from “Free Solo” that I wasn’t expecting, and in my eyes, it was probably the most revealing part of the movie: Honnold is driven by a desire for excellence.

I think it’s forgotten by most of us just how much preparation, practice and study it takes to do what he does. “Free Solo” makes sure you know.

There is a montage about midway through the film in which Honnold is shown reading from one of his climbing journals. Every entry is about a specific part of the Freerider route he planned to climb, sans rope, from base to summit. It’s loaded with climber jargon, route locations and descriptions of specific obstacles he’d have to work though to finish the route. Each step is detailed, complete with what sort of technique and move he’d apply. There’s nothing colorful or emotive about his writings. It’s all business.

His meticulous attention to detail is matched by the hours he spent “practicing,” or in other words, time spent climbing the route over and over again. He climbed Freerider a number of times in the traditional roped style while also climbing big walls elsewhere and hitting the climbing gym often.

Pro athletes are seen spending hours in the gym or on the practice field, and hours more in film rooms, and hours more still hitting the weights. It’s no different for Honnold, except when it’s game time for him, the price of losing is fatal. To succeed – which is to live through it – is to be as close to perfect as a human can get. Getting yourself ready to be perfect is an exercise in discipline and work ethic that’s hard to fathom.

I left the theater wowed, just like everyone else. But more than that, I walked out hoping that in some fashion, I’d reach a level of excellence in something – anything – that Honnold achieved when he topped out on Freerider in the spring of 2017. It won’t happen in climbing for me, and in reality, it probably won’t happen in anything I do. But if it did, we’re talking about Hall of Fame/Pulitzer/Nobel-level stuff. Maybe climbing doesn’t have the gravitas of all that, but if you want to see what being the best at something looks like, watch the film.

As it turns out, the dirtbag climber community has more to offer than high stoke, big views and an adrenaline rush. The best of them can show us what it takes to be great. Or in Honnold’s case, the greatest.

Bob Doucette

Race recap: Running the 2018 Route 66 half marathon

Cruising along, wondering, “What’s over there? Tacos?”

At the end of last year’s fall race season, I was not in a great place. I’d worked hard to train for the Route 66 Marathon’s half marathon race, hoping to substantially improve my time. I was on my way to doing that, but an illness two weeks before the race left residual junk in my lungs that made it a fight just to shave 30 seconds off my previous year’s effort.

After that, my head was not in a good place when it came to running. I’d drive by places where my long runs would go and think to myself, “Glad I’m not doing that anymore.” Months passed by and still no itch to run more than a few miles at a time. Between that and a bout of plantar fasciitis in the spring, I was wondering if maybe this was the year I’d sit out of all fall races and do something else.

But around that time, a friend of mine from Colorado started asking questions about good races in the Tulsa area. After a few online chats, he decided he was going to run the Route 66 half and wondered if he could couch surf at my place.

Man, I could hardly host a guy from out-of-town for a race and not at least try to get ready for it myself. So once again, as August drew to a close, I drew up a plan and got to work on half marathon No. 7.

TRAINING

I used the same plan as last year, but with a few tweaks. First, I took my rest day when the plan said so: on Thursdays. Weird, but yeah. And it worked. I’d ride a bike for a specific amount of time on Sundays, run a short route on Mondays, a medium-length run on Tuesdays and then do speed work (either 400-meter intervals or 3-mile negative split runs) on Wednesdays. But the time that was all done, the Thursday break was a blessing. I’d chill at the house or go for a short hike in the woods. I looked forward to those Thursdays.

Fridays would include a shorter route, and then Saturdays would be the weekly long run.

I continued to lift weights, but backed off considerably from years past. I did three full-body workouts a week (Monday/Wednesday/Friday), and no lift lasted longer than 30 minutes. I knew I’d lose some strength, but that happens every time I jack up the miles anyway.

The plan itself was a modified version of the Hal Higdon Intermediate 1 half marathon program. You can check it out here.

To be frank, August and September sucked. It wasn’t blast-furnace hot, but still hot enough and unusually humid. Heat indexes were regularly over 100 degrees, and those mid-length to long run days were brutal. It was a major downer to slog along at slow paces and see very little improvement.

October started getting better, and the last Saturday or the month is the day of the annual Tulsa Run. It’s a great tune-up race for Route 66, which is held on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. I feared this would be my slowest 15K (based on long run times), but in fact, it was surprisingly better than expected. Nowhere near a PR, but not too bad.

And then, the switch got flipped. Every training run after that race saw better times, stronger running and a general feeling that my conditioning was coming around. It was the same last year (I peaked at the Tulsa Run last year, running my second-fastest 15K before that cold bug got me), so my hope is that my fitness arc would peak on race day Nov. 18. And hope no one would get me sick before then.

Cool part of the race where we’re actually running on old Route 66. And is it just me, or is the guy to the left stalking me? He looks fishy to me.

THE RACE

Weather is always a key variable at Route 66. November in Oklahoma can hit you with 70- to 80-degree days. It can also hit you with 18-degree days. Rain, snow and ice — or bright sunshine — are all possible. What we got were temps in the lower 30s, a little drizzle and a stiff north wind. It was the kind of cold that goes right through you, but not the worst I’ve seen on race day and totally fine once you get moving.

The course was changed slightly, too. Construction at a new park forced race organizers to reroute a portion of the course through a neighborhood that included a long, low-grade climb that can wear you out. Now that the park is open, the course went back to Riverside Drive, a long, flat stretch between Mile 7 and Mile 10 that’s a welcome relief after facing a hilly section from Mile 2 through 6.

If I were to give advice to anyone running this race, I’d tell them to not blow yourself out running that early stretch. The Maple Ridge neighborhood is scenic and interesting, but it’s full of hills. If you’re not careful, you’ll wind up gassed by the time you get to Woodward Park 5 miles in. Not good when you’re not even half done (and if you’re doing the full and feel bad at this point, good luck to ya. It’s gonna be a long day).

Last year, I knew 3 miles in I was in trouble. This time, I took it in stride. It was tough once again, but I was careful to breathe deep on the downhills and slow my heart rate down before the next incline showed up.

Once you get through Mile 6, the course mellows considerably. Last year, I hoped to recover here, but never did. This year I felt great cruising through Brookside, then getting ready to make the northward turn back toward downtown.

But boy, did we get a fun surprise making that northbound turn: a biting wind right in our faces. The trees in the neighborhood shielded us for those first six miles, as did our southbound trip through Brookside. But now we got a good 4 miles of running into the teeth of it.

Surprisingly, it didn’t bother me that much. The miles ticked by, and then we took a quick out-and-back on the Southwest Boulevard bridge before going back into downtown.

For the half marathoners, this is the crux of the race. You get two good-sized hills back-to-back as you gain elevation into downtown (Tulsa’s central business district is on top of a long ridge overlooking the Arkansas River), and this is the place that always bites me. It did again this time. I was gassed, slowed for a brief walk break, then got going again. One of these days I’m going to blast all the hills. Just not this time.

At the top of that second hill is a sweet, blessed, oh-so-needed downhill pitch that goes for about seven blocks. It’s here where the full-marathoners turn east to start their second loop while the rest of us head into the Tulsa Arts District toward the finish line. It’s here I always ask myself if I regret not doing the full. So far, four straight years of “nope.”

Earlier in the race, I was just behind the 2:10 pacer, but I consciously decided not to make a thing of it. “Just run your race,” I told myself. If I saw her close to the end of the race, I’d catch her with a final sprint to the end. If not, no biggie.

Yeah, I was not anywhere close enough for that. So I just cruised into the Arts District, rounded the corner and sprinted the last three blocks toward the end.

Checking the clock as I ran in, I knew I’d run faster than I had the previous year. And I was right: 2:13:41, just shy of 50 seconds better than a year ago. No PR (I still need to trim 2 minutes off that time to get there), and I’m far from my gold-medal goal of breaking 2 hours. But my thinking is I was faster than the previous year, that’s a success, even if just a modest one.

Sprinting it in to the finish.

POST SCRIPT

I’d say I’m satisfied, overall. Had I not let my conditioning slide over the summer, I could have done much better. But the training program worked. This is now three years in a row that I’ve been faster. Not a bad thing to get faster as I get older.

There was also something else that worked for me. During that first month, I was griping to myself that I wasn’t as mentally tough as I used to me. It became too easy to bag it. Sure, I’d get all the miles as prescribed. But in terms of performance, pretty meh.

To combat this, I’d play mental games. I’d say “Go this far before you slow down” or “see if you can skip that water break coming up and push through to the next one.” Little things that were a tiny bit harder than what I did the week before, or the day before.

That helped me on race day. I got out of the aid stations much faster than in past years, and even though my 10K and 10-mile splits were slower than last year, the final 3.1 miles to the finish was considerably faster.

But here’s the best part: Unlike last year, I don’t hate the idea of going for 60- to 90-minute runs. I don’t feel the need to back off my training. I look forward to upcoming races. Mentally, I’m in a much better place.

It’ll take a lot (keeping my base, trimming some weight) to get my sub-2 hour goal — shaving a full minute per mile from my current pace. But it seems doable with time, effort and planning. In late 2017, such thoughts were far from me.

Now I’m looking forward to more weight training, but also getting in “mountain shape.” I want to show up in the Rockies in great shape and not suffer at altitude. When next fall rolls around, maybe my base will be strong enough that I can blow past this year’s time, crush my PR and maybe even crack that 2-hour mark. And then see what happens from there.

Bob Doucette

Previewing the 2018 Route 66 Marathon

The Sunday before Thanksgiving is quickly approaching. For a bunch of us, that means running the Route 66 Marathon.

This race is where I cut my teeth on the marathon, and I’ve run the half marathon a number of times. So of course I’m running it again, as are thousands of you.

What you’re going to get is the same great event as always, But there are going to be some course changes, and from what I see, they are for the better.

So the purpose of this is to go over the course, and maybe give you a few observations before you toe the line on Sunday.

The marathon and half marathon follow the same initial loop right up into the 13th mile, when marathoners head out of downtown for their second loop. Here are some things you need to know…

Don’t be fooled by that first mile. It’s mostly downhill, so it’s fast, and the excitement of the race will amp up a lot of people’s paces. Soon after reaching 15th Street, you will meet a really big hill. You’ll climb part of it, then turn off into a neighborhood by Maple Park. Then it’s back east on 21st and a sizable hill. It will be the biggest incline you face until you hit Mile 11.

The hill gives way just before Utica Avenue, but the hilliness of the course won’t stop for a while. Running through the neighborhoods near Woodward Park is scenic, but there is a lot of up-and-down between Mile 2 and Mile 7. Pace yourself accordingly.

The hills will relent as you go through Brookside, then turn west on 41st Street. Turning north on Riverside will remain flat. The big change in the course happens here. In the past few years, the course ducked back into the neighborhood and a long, gradual climb on Cincinnati Avenue. The detour was made because of construction at the Gathering Place park. The park is open now, and so is Riverside Drive all the way to downtown. Runners will enjoy a flatter stretch through the park, and that should help with people’s times. It will also help you save some energy as you get ready to head into downtown and into Mile 11. And then it gets real.

First, you’ll turn west and cross the Arkansas River on the 11th Street bridge, a stretch that is part of the historic Route 66. At the end of the bridge, you’ll turn around and run back into downtown.

At Southwest Boulevard, you will begin the climb back into downtown, and it’s not small, lasting the better part of a mile, comprising of two hills. Just past Mile 12, you’ll turn north at Denver Avenue and start heading north and downhill toward the Tulsa Arts District. Marathoners will turn back east at Second Street to begin their second loop while those doing the half will continue north on the last mile — one more short climb, then a mostly flat finish.

For those going the full 26.2, it’s another trip out to midtown, but in different areas. You get to avoid the hills of 15th Street to start, instead eventually making your way south on Peoria between Mile 13 and Mile 15. Here, you’ll turn back east on a familiar road, south past Utica Square, but then farther east into different neighborhoods. I’ve found these areas not as hilly as Maple Ridge, but that will change soon enough. The mellower grades continue from Mile 15 through Mile 18 as you head north toward the University of Tulsa.

You hit one small but steep climb on 21st Street, then a long, gradual uphill slog toward the university between Mile 18 and Mile 20. The uphill continues through the school, then relents a bit as you leave and go back south on Delaware.

And then, my friends, comes the biggest mental test of the full, at least in my estimation. Just before Mile 22 begins, you hit 15th Street (also known as Cherry Street), and its sizable hills. Between Delaware and Peoria, they are big and somewhat steep.

Just when you think another huge hill awaits, you turn north back on Peoria (between Mile 23 and Mile 24) to start the trek back downtown. Fortunately, the hills of midtown are behind you. If you have any gas left in the tank, you can make some time here. If you don’t, at least gravity won’t be devouring you the entire way there. A slight grade up takes you from Mile 24 to Mile 25, then a gradual downhill on First Street to Denver Avenue lets you coast.

If you want to do the Center of the Universe Detour, it pulls off the course in the middle of the First Street stretch. It’s a party up there, and they give you a commemorative coin for your trouble. Back on the main course, you go downhill fast on Denver Avenue, under a bridge, then one last, short uphill climb to the Tulsa Arts District and the final, mostly flat portion of the course to the finish.

Marathon starting line stoke: It’s real, man. (Kirk Wells/Route 66 Marathon photo)

Last few observations…

First, I hope you did some hill training. Though only a few of the hills are big and there are some sizable flat spots, this is not a flat course. At all.

Second, expect good course support. Organizers have lots of aid stations along the way, well-stocked and well-manned.

Third, watch the weather forecasts. It’s going to be a cold start, with gun-time temps about 28 degrees. The high is expected to top out at 42 degrees, and it will be cloudy with a north breeze. Dress accordingly, and keep watching the forecast. Weather in this state can be fickle.

Fourth, the start corral has a different format. It will be a spoke corral to work around a construction site on Main Street: A and B corrals will be on Main Street south of Fifth while the C and D corrals will be on Fifth Street on either side of Main. And I’ve been told to tell you all that you have to enter each corral from the back – no hanging out at the roundabout fountain at Fifth and Main and jumping in another corral will be allowed.

Last, enjoy it! I’ve run this one a few times, and it stacks up well with any race I’ve done. The course is scenic and challenging, which always makes for a good time.

Bob Doucette

A snapshot of the fall race season

Those fall long runs.

I do this thing every year when once the summer mountain trips come to a close, I get more serious about running and start training for fall races.

It usually goes down like this:

Step 1: I create a training schedule. It’s usually a mashup of something Hal Higdon has built, customized with a few things I think I need, and studded with weight training workouts. I wouldn’t advise following my lead. I’m not a running coach and am a confirmed midpack runner. If you really want to be successful, hire a coach. Or experiment like me and see what happens. The former is probably going to have a higher rate of success; the latter will be more interesting.

Step 2: Spend the first month of training bitching about how out of shape I am, bitching about the heat, and bitching about being too heavy, too beat up and too old to do this anymore. But I do it anyway because the thought of quitting a training program for any reason other than injury is abhorrent to me.

Step 3: Gradually peel off a few pounds, get more miles under my belt, see slight improvement in my running and continue bitching about the heat because autumn in Oklahoma is weird like that. Sometimes we get 80-degree days in November.

Step 4: On the last Saturday of October, toe the line at the Tulsa Run 15K. Up until then, I’ve felt too roly-poly to race, but I feel compelled to do this one. And then I realize that once it’s over, I can actually run a longer distance at speeds that don’t resemble a zombie shuffle. I wasn’t all that fast this year: 1:35:56, which isn’t my slowest 15K, but definitely not my fastest. If nothing else, it tells me that I can kick it up a gear or two when race day arrives.

Step 5: Suddenly reap the benefits of cooler temps, higher mileage volume, speed workouts and the mental edge that seems to appear every year after the Tulsa Run. The hill climbs aren’t as daunting, the flats breeze by and I bomb the downhills. Everything feels like it’s coming together. And maybe that half marathon at the end of November won’t be so bad. Maybe I won’t totally suck. That’s pretty much my goal for the Route 66 Marathon half every year: Don’t suck.

And so it goes. Running is funny like that. I’m a man of routines, so training schedules and daily rituals dovetail nicely into how I do things, and every fall I emerge fitter, faster and leaner than where I was in the summer. It shouldn’t be this way, of course. Ideally, I’d be in peak condition when I’m trying to will myself to 14,000 feet. But again, routines. And a not-so-productive affinity for tacos, barbecue and brews.

I’m looking forward to this year’s race, but I also recognize that I need to change the way I do things. I can’t destroy myself in the weight room for nine months of the year and expect to remain uninjured. My personal history alone tells me that. And I can’t eat everything in sight while dialing back my training. I mean, it’s great fun and all, and an awesome way to build a gut and love handles if that’s your thing. It’s not my thing, though sometimes I wonder.

Anyway, I’m less than two weeks out from my fall goal race. Knock on wood, I’m feeling good. The plantar fasciitis of the spring seems to be gone. So is the weird hip pain I’ve been nursing for more than 18 months. Once that race is done (however it turns out), I’ll need a new plan. Let’s just see how that goes.

Bob Doucette

Pics or it didn’t happen: Would you climb a mountain without posting pictures?

Hiking and photography go together. But will you hike without posting pics?

I asked a question on Twitter and got some interesting answers to this: “Would you climb a mountain if you couldn’t take or post pictures?”

The question itself was rhetorical. But people answered.

“Absolutely. My camera is my least important piece of equipment. If I did not carry my phone for navigation I would likely take even fewer pictures than I do,” one responder said.

Another: “Definitely, though I think I’d still want some way of recording the experience to remember it later, probably some scribbled notes.”

And another: “Do it all the time.”

I believe these folks, as well as the others who more or less said the same thing. Based on what they’ve posted, many of them are pretty serious about their outdoor undertakings. They hike and climb for the sake of the activity, not because they want to be able to say that they’ve done it.

But I also know that there are those who probably would not climb mountains if they couldn’t take photos, or share the experience on a blog or via social media. In fact, many of them are trying to get new images for the sake of keeping those platforms stocked with new things for people to look at, comment on, or hit “like” or whatever.

I also know the nature of the question (and the responses that followed) probably discouraged these folks from answering that no, they wouldn’t climb if they couldn’t share. To admit it would seem shallow.

That’s the part I want to break down, because I think there are a couple of reasons that push people toward this side of the outdoor world.

For some, it really is a question of meeting demand. Many hikers, climbers, mountaineers or whatever have websites that need new posts. They’ve got social media channels that need fresh photos and videos. Sponsorships might be part of the deal, or perhaps a larger prize down the road that will pay off if all these online efforts showcasing their adventures hit some sort of critical mass. So yeah, that’s pressure to get out there more, push harder and provide new stories to tell online audiences.

For others, it’s simpler. They’ll hike a mountain, or climb a pitch, get a dramatic photo, and post it. Soon thereafter, folks are double-tapping that image like crazy and their phone is blowing up with likes and comments from enthralled followers. It’s a symbiotic stimulus-response reaction between the person and their audience. For the followers, it’s a matter of expressed appreciation. For the poster, it’s validation. And validation is a powerful drug. A numbers game follows where the tally of likes and followers drives these folks to see what image will garner even greater numbers.

Most of the time, this is pretty harmless. If it floats your boat, you do you, man. While there are examples of people trying things in places where they get in over their heads (sometimes with deadly consequences), those are rare exceptions.

I asked the question following a trip to Colorado for a family wedding. I had a day after the ceremony where I could head up into the mountains and maybe hike a trail and bag a peak. Might as well, right?

But it had snowed pretty hard in the high country, and I’d left my ice axe at home. I read a report that a hiker had a near-miss with an avalanche in the Indian Peaks Wilderness. And someone else lost control of their car at Loveland Pass, with icy conditions sending them down the mountainside. I took a pass.

And yet, part of me regretted not going up, especially after seeing some friends’ pics in the hills at the same time I’d planned to go. Was it fear of missing out? Or fear of missing the opportunity to take a bunch of photos of snowy alpine scenes, writing a trip report, and posting fresh images on the IG?

And that brought up a deeper question: What’s my overriding motive?

I’m a storyteller by nature, be it with words or pictures. I enjoy it. But I’d hate to get to the point where every outing has to be justified by fresh content for all the interwebz to consume. Worse yet, I’d hate if it turned into something where I planned all my trips on the basis of what new thing I can publish.

In other words, I needed to check myself. Hence the question.

I can say yeah, I’d climb a mountain if I couldn’t take pics or post about it. I have before, and I enjoyed the experience just fine. I’ve done plenty of hikes without snapping a single shot. Those were good, too. And so were the ascents and hikes where I took dozens of photos.

But I don’t want to get to the point where I’m hiking for the approval of others. I never want to make the hike akin to a job, where it must be done and documented or it’s not worth my time. That would signal a loss of the love for the outdoors, and that would be far more tragic than not seeing a bunch of affirming notifications pop up on a hand-held screen.

My next hike ought to have no photos taken. Or at least I should give myself that option.

Bob Doucette

Let’s get on board with the fact that mountain goats are pee-lapping weirdos

Majestic. Wild. Weirdos.

To most people, seeing a mountain goat is to view something majestic, powerful and wild.

I know better. These creatures of the rock are just plain weird. And it was confirmed after news got out that a bunch of mountain goats were being airlifted out of Washington’s Olympic National Park because, for starters, there are too many of them. And also, their growing throng has as unnatural attraction to human urine.

You read that right. Some online headlines are proclaiming these horned lords of the crag are addicted to pee.

You might be thinking, “What in the name of Bear Grylls is going on here? Pee? Really?”

Really. As far as these guys are concerned, all you hikers making a pit stop on the trail for No. 1 may as well be playing the role of Heisenberg, dealing yellow-tinted meth in the A-B-Q.

This requires some explanation.

Like most animals, simple hydration with water is nice, but not enough to sustain proper bodily function. You need electrolytes. Salts, to keep it in layman’s terms. And urine contains, among other things, plenty of salts.

Humans have long known the worth of salt. During the days of antiquity, salt was more valuable than gold. It was mined extensively in North Africa, building the riches of civilizations there for generations. Today, we sprinkle the stuff on our food to add flavor and add electrolytes to our sports drinks to keep us performing on the field and the court.

We even put out salt blocks for our cattle during the winter so they get enough of the stuff to keep them happy.

But I guess what separates us from the animals (except for the aforementioned Grylls, or maybe Aron Ralston) is the fact that we don’t piss on our food or tip back goblets filled with the fruit of our bladders.

Then again, survival in the wild is something almost none of us can contemplate, at least not in the way the creatures of the wilderness do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and when every waking moment is consumed by where you’ll get your nutrition, well, that sounds pretty desperate to me. The goats have found an answer to their salt problem.

And they aren’t alone. Marmots will gnaw the sweat-stained handles of your trekking poles just to get a nip of that salt your hands deposit on them during an arduous uphill hike. Pikas and mice will steal your gloves for the same reason. And deer have taken a liking to your pee just like the goats.

About nine years ago, I was camping in the Uncompahgre National Forest of Colorado, and while eating some grub with my campmates, I noticed a healthy doe rooting around the dirt not far from my tent. I was wondering what on earth was so interesting to that deer, and then it dawned on me: That’s where I was relieving myself in the middle of the night. Eww, I thought. But when you really need salt, you get it where you can.

You do you, Bambi.

Lounging weirdo.

But the deer wasn’t weird about it, at least not beyond the innate weirdness of lapping up the piss-soaked dirt a few yards from my tent. But mountain goats? They’re weird about it. Really, really weird about it.

Let me take you back a few years to another pristine slice of alpine heaven in Colorado’s southwestern corner. The place is called Chicago Basin, a remote but popular backpacking and peak-bagging destination tucked deep inside the Weminuche Wilderness of the San Juan Mountains. It’s an impossibly gorgeous basin flanked by jagged peaks and has to be one of the most scenic places I’ve ever been. The snows in the ‘Nuche are typically deep, and the summer monsoons tend to dump heavier and more frequently than elsewhere in the Rockies. The result is a lush mountain landscape that defies the semi-arid reputation of the Rockies.

The downside to this place is three-fold. First, you’re likely to get rained out of any climbs at some point during the summer. Second, the flies. Dear God, the flies. They are everywhere. And last, are the mountain goats. They are drawn to humans and can be quite pesky at camp.

They’ll follow you around, stalking you like fluffy, horned paparazzi. They’ll monitor your every move, and the males can be a little, er, assertive. It’s not that they’re curious. They’re just slavishly thirsty for your little yellow drink.

While at camp, one of my friends decided to do an experiment. Being the funny guy that he is, he thought it would be hilarious to take a leak on a bush just to see what happened. And so he did.

He spent a few seconds watering a lonely sapling bush with his golden bounty, and the goats couldn’t wait. They were practically tripping over themselves to get there, then proceeded to denude that shrub in a matter of a minute. I think all the leaves were gone before he had finished. It was the funniest and most bizarre thing I’ve seen in years, and I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my days. But to paraphrase Will Smith from his “Men in Black” days, the Great Shrub Massacre of 2014 just about broke the needle on my weird-shit-o-meter.

I suppose the conservationist in me should say something profound or important about the pitfalls of frequent human contact with wild animals, maybe even with a tone of solemn concern. But I just can’t. Mountain goats are majestic, amazing creatures.  But they’re also really damn weird.

Seriously, dude. Get off the pee-pipe, ya weirdo.

Bob Doucette