I’ve had the endurance bug for as long as I can remember.
But I’ve always believed endurance is something you earn slowly.
Quality before quantity. Patience before ambition.

After several years of deliberate base building, I finally felt ready to test that belief and signed up for the Crested Butte 50 Miler. I had built steadily, completing multiple 20–30-mile efforts, but never beyond that. I had just moved to Gunnison. The course suited my strengths. It felt like the right way to learn a place.

Then life accelerated.

In April, I found out I’d been accepted into the University of Oregon’s Sport Product Design graduate program. With a background in mathematics, it felt like a best-case scenario dream, one of those yeses that doesn’t require hesitation. The only complication was timing.

I would be moving from the grounding stillness of Gunnison, Colorado to Portland, Oregon. My debut 50 miler was scheduled for the Saturday before classes began.
Run 50 miles Saturday.
Drive 18 hours Sunday.
Start graduate school Monday.

Ambitious, but doable.

Until I learned about zero week. I needed to be in Oregon the week before classes, the same week as the race. After sitting with it, I chose to practice something endurance sports don’t always reward, knowing when to let go. I shelved the Crested Butte 50 for another year.

Not long after, something better appeared.

The Teanaway 54 Miler in Washington was scheduled for the Saturday before zero week. Perfect. I spent the spring and summer preparing for that start line. 5 a.m. alarms, runs before work, and long weekends deep in the West Elks and San Juans. Big days. Big vert. I was fit, especially uphill.

Two weeks before the race, just as confidence settled in, nature intervened. A lightning strike ignited the course. The trails burned. The race was cancelled.

I understood the decision. Still, I was frustrated. I was already uneasy about leaving Gunnison and the life I had built there. This race had been something solid to pull me toward the Pacific Northwest.

After about forty-eight hours of disappointment, I shifted perspective. If I was moving to a new landscape, I could meet it on its own terms. I started exploring Pacific Northwest routes, specifically Portland-area FKTs, or Fastest Known Times, searching for something steep, technical, and uncompromising.

That’s when I found the Four Point Traverse.

A 46.5-mile, point-to-point route across the north side of Mount Hood from east to west. Four major climbs. Roughly 14,000 feet of ascent and 16,000 feet of descent. A route that demanded attention.

I considered going after the women’s unsupported FKT. I was ready to race. But I was also moving to Oregon with a team of company, love and support. I didn’t want to spend the day entirely alone when my parents and my partner, Jack could be there. That felt silly. Endurance is never truly solo. I wanted to lean into that.

The plan became simple. I would run the first 27 miles and roughly 10,000 feet of climbing alone. My parents and Jack would hike in with food, water, and fresh socks. Jack would then join me for the final 20 miles and the fourth and final climb.

This would be my first run in Oregon.

I started at the Tilly Jane trailhead at 5:30 a.m. Headlamp on. Vest full of snacks. Nerves present, ambition steady.

The climb up Cooper Spur was smooth and well marked in the dark. As the sun rose, an orange glow filled the sky behind me, and the towers of Mount St. Helens, Rainier, and Adams became visible in the distance. Just over two and a half hours and 6,000 feet later, I reached the summit. I ate a Rice Krispie, sent an inReach message, and dropped into the descent, steep, runnable, and tempting. I held back. There was a long day ahead.

Barrett Spur was different.

Unlike Cooper Spur, there was no obvious trail. It was steep, loose, and sharp. Progress slowed to careful movement across boulders and exposure. At one point, I found myself on a narrow ledge with thousands of feet of air below. One mistake would have ended the day, or worse. I moved deliberately and kept going.

When I reached the summit of Barrett, I was over 24 miles in with nearly 9,000 feet of climbing. The descent was just as slow, just as tedious. Relief came only when I was safely back below.

The third climb, Ho Rock, was steep, runnable, and busy. It felt strange to re-enter a world with people. At the summit, as I turned to head back down, a man yelled after me,
“You came all the way up here just to turn around so quickly?”

“Yep,” I said, without stopping. I was already eight hours and ten thousand feet deep. I didn’t need to explain the rest of the day.

The descent off Ho Rock broke me.

Seventeen hundred feet in under a mile. Loose dirt. Dead legs. I slid, fell, stood, repeated. At my lowest point, I sat in the dirt and cried, briefly, but honestly. Then I checked the map, saw how close I was to my parents, and stood back up.

When I reached them, they had built a perfect, quiet aid station. Full of food, water, dry socks, calm voices. I sat for a moment. Reset. Handed them my trash. Took what I needed. Their presence steadied everything.

Then Jack and I headed out together.

Yocum Ridge loomed ahead. Five and a half miles. Thirty-five hundred feet of climbing. A proper climb, even on fresh legs. At forty miles in, it felt immense. The trail rose steadily through dense trees, littered with downed logs. These were thick, awkward, and relentless. Each one felt personal. I complained about every single one. Jack listened to all of it, unfazed, steady, exactly where he needed to be.

Eventually, the trees thinned. The ridge revealed itself slowly, like it wanted to be earned. As we climbed higher, the sky began to change. The sun dropped low behind us, and suddenly everything was light, gold, then orange, then fire. Mount Hood rose in front of us, massive and calm, while the world behind burned itself into color. Reds. Pinks. Purples. A sky in motion.

We stopped, not because we were tired, but because we had to.

After fourteen hours and forty miles, standing on that ridge with Jack, time softened. The effort, the fatigue, the anticipation of the last few months, all of it fell quiet. There was nothing to solve. Nothing to plan. Just the mountain in front of us and the day closing behind.

It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen.

Not just because of the colors, but because of what it marked. The end of a long season. The end of a chapter lived in Gunnison. The end of sharing the same town, the same trails, the same daily life, for now. I felt it without needing to say it.

We scrambled the final stretch to the high point of the ridge. Jack took a few photos, quiet documentation, not interruption. We stood there for a moment longer, letting it settle. Forty miles. Four major climbs. My longest day ever. And somehow, still fully present.

Then the light slipped away.

We turned around and began running into the night.

We sang. We danced. I complained. My body was exhausted, but my mind was clear. Gratitude replaced urgency. Each step carried me farther into a place that was becoming home.

Sixteen hours, forty-two minutes, and fifteen seconds after I started, the trail ended.

Technically, the time qualifies as the women’s supported FKT for the Four Point Traverse. I haven’t submitted it yet. I want to go back. I want to do it cleaner. Faster. With intention sharpened by experience.

But in that moment, none of that mattered.

I collapsed into my parents’ arms. They held me without asking questions, full of pride. They were familiar. It was all I needed. Their support had been quiet all day, patient and constant, showing up where they said they would, believing in me long before the finish. That kind of love carries farther than legs ever could.

When I turned to Jack, my composure finally gave way. I tried to thank him, for pacing me, for being there for me on that day, and every day, for everything that he does for me, but the words didn’t land. I cried instead. Not from pain, but from fullness. From the relief of being understood without explanation.

The miles we shared that night mattered. They always will.

We knew distance was coming. Different cities. Different daily rhythms. But we also knew what would stay the same. We’ve proven we can do hard things together, patiently, honestly, side by side. Geography doesn’t undo that. It only asks for intention.

The run closed a chapter.

The sun had set on my time in Gunnison. On living in the same town. On a version of life that shaped me deeply. The next morning, we said goodbye. Jack flew back to Colorado to finish his degree. I stayed in Portland to start mine.

My parents helped me move into my new apartment. They moved boxes. Made the space feel like home.

Zero week began the next day.

I didn’t arrive untested. I arrived supported, loved, fulfilled, and yet, nervous.

I stepped into this next chapter knowing I could do hard things, and I knew exactly who I could count on, no matter how far the trail stretches.