Cover photo courtesy of Sarah Hauge
By Sarah Hauge
Let me start with total transparency: I am not a trail runner. I have no expertise in this area. I run dozens of miles every week, but almost every one of those miles is on pavement.
That’s not to say I’ve never tried it. I’ve run with friends through Riverside State Park. I’ll veer off the paved loop to forge my own path through a field of flowers in Upper Lincoln Park. But those forays have been a blip in my running life. For one thing, I don’t like heights; my fingertips go tingly and my imagination plays a slideshow of imminent death at the hint of a sheer drop-off.
And truthfully, I love my road runs. I love tooling around the neighborhood, saying hi to friendly dogs, looping through favorite parks, and crisscrossing the bridges that span the river. I love seeing how familiar sights shift and cycle over time, like the slender but vibrant strip of poppies along the sidewalk near my kids’ school that bursts into bloom as a forerunner of summer. Even along the well-paved path, you’ll see a kaleidoscope of wildflowers, marmots snuffling among the shrubbery, or a bison or two grazing in their field.
Recently, though, my family visited my brother and sister-in-law in Bellingham. They live mere footsteps from the Interurban Trail, the former rail trail that stretches from the historic Fairhaven neighborhood to Larrabee State Park. With zero sheer drop-offs and the easy access to their house, I became a committed trail runner…for exactly two days.
It was everything I didn’t know I’d been craving. The tree canopy protected me from the rain, parting just enough to reveal expansive views of the bay. I passed not one, not two, but three waterfalls. I almost always listen to a podcast or audiobook while I run, but it was obvious that for these mornings, the trail itself would provide my soundtrack. My runs were meditative and serene, with chipmunks and birds as my main companions.
As I ran back to my brother’s house the second morning, I felt refreshed and rejuvenated. Energized. I pushed the pace, easily ending my trail experiment feeling strong and powerful. I cruised past a man and his dog and zipped past a pair of walkers, surging toward the open path ahead. It felt good to be in nature, strong and fast and lost in my thoughts.
And that’s when I heard voices from behind me. Not just a couple of voices, but many, many voices, approaching rapidly. Very rapidly. They must be on bikes, I thought, naively. What else could explain my powerful trail-runner persona being so swiftly overtaken?
I’ll tell you what: I was about to be passed by dozens of members of some kind of elite men’s running club. They blew past me, chatting easily, not the least bit winded as they sailed ahead toward a narrower stretch winding down the hill. How far would they go? I couldn’t say. From the looks of it, probably forever.
I was a little irked by the disruption, by their effortless speed, by the subconscious ease and sense of safety a group of young men together exude—which was in direct contrast to my stark awareness of my vulnerability as a woman running alone, anywhere, ever.
But also: I loved what they were doing. A nice long run through gorgeous scenery with a group of friends on a weekend morning? There’s not much better.
I arrived home tired and content, holding on to a few takeaways: 1) Experiment with more trail running close to home. 2) Skip the headphones every now and then. 3) If you’re going to get a small dose of humility, you might as well get it somewhere beautiful.
Sarah Hauge is a writer and editor who lives in Spokane with her husband and kids. She is looking forward to floating the Little Spokane for the first time this summer.
