By Ammi Midstokke
Cover photo courtesy of Ammi Midstokke
Tucked into the folds of the North Cascades, in the Methow Valley, rests a little town between some other little towns, all of them simultaneously celebrating their charm while hoping to remain undiscovered. Home to what is arguably the nation’s best cross-country skiing in winter, the foothills and surrounding mountains have become a mecca for outdoor enthusiasts.
In the spring, those hillsides are buried in—swallowed by, carpeted with—flowers. Fields heavy with golden arrowleaf balsamroot are streaked with sprays of purple lupine and the fiery red of Indian paintbrush. Glacier lilies bob about with their soft hues of yellow, and shooting stars drip pink against the floral canvas.
It is the closest I have ever come to running through a Monet painting.
Every year, Rainshadow Running brings a trail event to Winthrop. It is not easy to get permits, build trails, shuttle runners, or transport aid station crews into these faraway places, but Rainshadow is known for hosting some of the best trail races in the Pacific Northwest. Sun Mountain, as this one is called, is perhaps their magnum opus.
With 5,500 feet of gain, beginning with a several-mile climb right out of the gate, she’s a doozy. This was not what I was thinking at the time. What I was thinking at the time was more akin to, “I thought I trained for this?”
I did, but as luck, stupidity, and taking a karate class with a bunch of 8-year-olds would have it, I tore my hamstring engaging the former and showing off to the latter about a week before the race. My strategy was this: Eat a ridiculous amount of anti-inflammatories and gluten-free Oreos and drag my ass to the finish line. Were it not for the flowers, that may have been my entire race summary.
It was my birthday weekend, so I brought my marital race crew and a running buddy, booked a sweet little boutique hotel room downtown (the Mt. Gardner Inn) with a lovely view, and made a dinner reservation at a place that promised good drink and good food (The Fainting Goat—the waitress assured me they neither sell nor serve them).
I was under the impression there are no bad choices in this tiny town, where all the shops are unique, the small businesses locally owned, and the people on the streets friendly. Winthrop has our nature needs met: The Methow Trails, the Methow River and North Cascades National Park are right there. Paddle, pedal, hike, run, stroll, shop, eat, repeat. Living in a charming mountain town myself, I never think of escaping to a different one. Now I realize that other mountain towns don’t have chores to be done or gardens to be weeded. Everyone knows a “staycation” is a farce anyway.
Before I could get to enjoying any of that, I’d need to slog myself up a mountain or two, and down some others. We were shuttled to the race start on a cool and drizzling morning and launched into the trees of a steep upward slope. The first mile or so was on a fire road, allowing the group to spread out before we found ourselves on single-track that zigzagged up an exposed mountainside. When we started seeing the first flowers, we let out premature “oohs” and “aahs.” We had no idea what was to come.
Rainshadow is known for its commitment to trail joy, creation and preservation, and it showed on this course. More than once, runners were spotted with their arms outstretched, making airplane noises as they rounded perfect bends, elbows above the stretching blooms that waved as they ran by.
The route wound over one hill and down another in ribbons of padded dirt and a few dusty climbs, where local mountain bikers formed arm tunnels for us to run through and cheered. The clouds opened up to reveal the distant snowy peaks of the Cascades—a silvery promise of future adventures. The aid stations somehow got the memo that gluten is out, and for the first time in my racing career, I, too, could gorge myself on junk food under a canopy while thwacking mosquitoes.
But it was the flowers that owned the day. It is a memory now delightfully imprinted on my brain, and I hope that when I close my eyes to die someday, it is what I see. A dark path of soil snaked between the trees, in and out of draws, over hilltops, along ravines, and through fields of flowers as far, far, far as the eye could see. They left my thighs pollen-streaked and my mind in a psychedelic state of awe and wonder. Every time I thought it could not possibly get more magical, some new variety would appear and change the kaleidoscope of color. It was so fantastical, sometimes we would just laugh out loud at it, as if nature’s best humor is in its blooms.
I’ve been on a great many runs, in a great many wonderful places, but this one I will always remember for the way it filled my chest with a bursting of joy so profound it can only be labeled with words like ecstasy and rapture. If you need a reminder of Mother Nature’s resilience and splendor, this is the place to find it.
Ammi Midstokke lives and runs in the mountains of North Idaho. This spring, she’s mostly abandoned the trails to prepare for an open-water swim in Lake Pend Oreille, from Buttonhook Bay to Sandpoint City Beach.
