Green Corn Moon Orienteering

Great Seal is only the second venue I've ever gotten a second crack at. The first was Bass River, and I did pretty well on that one both times, but that second effort there was an even better one.

Last year at Green Corn Moon I came back in hurting, tired, and turned around enough on the way in that I started wondering whether I'd have to pull out my phone to get myself home, or come in embarrassingly late. I've had a year to think about that. I knew the map. I knew the hills. I wanted a rematch.

The plan was south first, with a cheap checkpoint slightly out of the way before the first big climb — the kind you grab just to tell yourself okay, I'm in the race, I've got one, now let's go.

The second one cost me. I took the wrong spur, even though it was plainly southwest of my attack point... I kept putting the compass on southeast. Alright -- get your head in the game with the headings. I never made that mistake again all night.

The third cost me too, and differently. Hillside, south side of trail. I walked right past it. It was sitting on the ground in the greenery and my eyes were at eye level, because that's where flags hang. Okay. I see you. They can be anywhere. Which is exactly why I found the fourth one, on the ground next to a boulder, without breaking stride.

(And took a handful of candy sitting below it in a cooler as a bonus -- thank you, course setters at Lost Arrow Sports.)

After that I was dialed in. Never lost, never guessing.

So of course fate had lose your headlamp bag without noticing queued up. More on that in a moment.

Bones

The map had a riddle on it. Bones went to the ruin near the Ruin Road water stop, but tumbled. It'll be a hard climb back up.

The ruin was wooded over and off the trail, but I found it. And then it was simple: if he tumbled, he's downhill. Straight downhill. So I went straight downhill, and there he was, lying in the leaves under an orange and white flag.

I thought it was worth 100. It was 120. Even sweeter.

The bag

I was on my way to 62, moving well, and it was getting dark enough under the canopy that I reached for my headlamp. Down to where the bag had been swinging and knocking against my left elbow all night.

Gone. The carabiner was still clipped to my vest. The bag and its drawstring were not.

I was crestfallen. You don't go deeper into those hills without a light — they're hard enough with one. My race was over. I turned around and started back toward HQ, two hours behind me, hoping to beat the dark.

That walk felt quick and took about thirty minutes. I was pissed. I was having a good race and I was about to turn in a four-hour waste of an evening. I paid for this. I drove down here. I trained for it. And something stupid took it away.

Tony

Tony was where Tony is. He'd been parked at the water stop on Ruin Road all evening with his banjo, playing for everybody who came through, the same as he did last year. I'd already gone past him once half an hour before, in even broader daylight.

The second time, I came up behind him and said, "Play that sad music, my race is over. I lost my headlamp bag."

He said, "Hold on." Then he walked to his car and handed me his own backup headlamps, the ones he'd brought for a friend, along with a set of spare batteries.

That's the whole reason there's a race to write about.

What it cost anyway

I cut the entire southwestern loop. Two, three hundred points, easily. I didn't know his equipment, I didn't know how long those batteries would last, and I'd already promised myself ninety minutes up north for the controls I'd skipped last year. There was a 90-pointer off Ruin Road I left too — a steep drop through dark woods to a trail, and I wasn't bushwhacking that in survival mode.

The climb back up to the water stop was a real incline and I felt all of it. That was the low point. Temporarily, mentally defeated.

The turn north

Then I turned north and something came back. I wasn't going to repeat last year. I followed the trail and the junctions to a T, and I picked up a re-entrant control on the way — supposed to be 60, but the RD had put an 85 out there — and I got it because I caught the reflector off my headlamp from the trail. That one told me I knew what I was doing this year. I wasn't going to let the hills and the trails decide how I felt.

With just under two hours left and thunderstorms clearly visible from the ridgeline, I made the call to swing out and take the cluster off the junction near HQ. If the lights failed I was close enough to the main road in to be fine. No compromises once I've decided.

Somewhere in there the sky opened. I pulled the camera out to document it when it started, and you can hear exactly what I thought of the timing: "Cue the rain!"

Then the thunderstorm arrived properly, and both sets of batteries died in it. The first during a brief reprieve in the rain, the second in the middle of the downpour.

It turned out fine. By then I was on the wide grass trails they cut through the trees for regular people to walk, and after five hours at 84 degrees the rain was a welcome cooldown. The lightning was genuinely useful light. If I'd still been up in those hills it would have been a river underfoot, and I'd already gone down a couple of times up there with my knees complaining on every descent.

I came in 52 minutes early, about the 6th person back. I told the Lost Arrow crew the whole story and told them not to look at my score.

And then the woods caught fire

While Tony was announcing winners after the race, he mentioned he'd had to call 911. The storm had hit a tree somewhere off in the distance, and from where he was standing he could see the forest burning.

So that's the night. I lost my headlamps 2 hours out, borrowed the race director's, played it safe through a thunderstorm because I couldn't trust the batteries, and the storm that killed them set the woods on fire.

The number

930 points out of 2250. Eleventh of 18 solo men, 21st of 34 overall. Five hours seven, and no control mistakes.

I'm disappointed, and I was disappointed right there on the ground and again on the drive home. I left points out there because of a piece of equipment. I wanted redemption at this place and I had it in my hands.

None of that is Lost Arrow's fault. The course was excellent, the controls were placed well, the race was run tight, and there was a skeleton in the woods worth 120 points. That part was an A.

I know this venue now. Without all that, I do better.

But that's what adventure racing is all about, I suppose. What do you do when the race smacks you in the mouth?

I continued, and I finished the race.