What my dog, a friend at Hardrock 100, and a long run taught me about presence, loss, and trail magic.
The Trail is A Teacher
Anyone who’s thru-hiked, section-hiked, or even just read about the Appalachian Trail or the Pacific Crest Trail has some notion of what trail magic is. On those long routes, it often looks like a trail angel, an anonymous donor, leaving supplies along the path for grateful hikers in need.
To me, trail magic has a different meaning when it comes to trail running. It’s not just about unexpected aid; it’s about the unspoken moments of connection. Trail running is a conduit to breath, to nature, to parts of ourselves we don’t always meet in daily life. And while I love running alone, I’ve also found that some of the deepest human connections I’ve made have happened on the trail.
A Friend on the Hardest Course
Today, my thoughts are with a friend of mine who is running the Hardrock 100—a grueling 100-mile loop through the San Juans with over 33,000 feet of climbing. There’s smoke in the air from nearby fires, and not a cloud in the sky. The sun is relentless at altitude. And on top of that, he’s carrying the fresh grief of losing his dog; his trail partner and, in many ways, his source. And yet, I can almost guarantee he’s out there today with an ear-to-ear grin, a sharp-witted remark, and the best attitude on the course.
We first met a few months ago while crewing at the Gorges Waterfall 100k. Between aid stations, we laced up for a “chill” 15-mile trail run. Let me humbly clarify: chill for him. Keeping up with his relaxed pace was anything but chill for me. As we climbed alongside the spray of Tunnel Falls, our conversation quickly veered out of small talk and into the terrain of shared experience, past failures, hard-won lessons, and the paths that led us here.
He told me how trail running started for him: during a low stretch in life, he moved to Colorado and rescued a dog. Dogs need exercise. Colorado has mountains. Hiking filled the space. And soon enough, hiking turned into running, where uphill trudges were followed by wild, joyful descents. His story is not mine to tell, but what he learned from his dog in those mountains has stayed with me ever since.
Four Paws Ahead
When I heard the news that she had passed away, I sat in stillness for a moment. Then, just for a breath, I imagined what it would feel like to lose Bridger, my own trail companion. The thought took the air out of me. My chest tightened, and tears welled. I stopped to rub her belly and thank her for being my trusted companion. Feeling the weight of her presence brought relief and gratitude.
So today, trail time with Bridger hit different. She bounced ahead, tail high, weaving between roots and rocks like she was dancing. Seamlessly, she tucked in behind me when we came upon another trail user. I caught myself smiling when she skidded to a stop just to bury her nose in a patch of elk scat. Normally, I might rush her along, but today I paused, too, letting her have her moment, while I let myself have mine. On the descents, she moved like water, effortless and free. I marveled at the curve of her spine as she flowed around a boulder, and I thought: I hope I never forget this.
Moving together amongst the trees, I realized that I wasn’t thinking about my friend’s loss anymore. I was thinking about what it means to be present with your grief, with your dog, with whatever the trail brings.
Trail magic doesn’t always look like aid stations, shared gels, or random gifts. Sometimes, it’s an unspoken moment with your dog. Sometimes, it’s someone else’s grief reminding you how much you still have. Sometimes, it’s just the silence of the trail and the steady sound of four paws running ahead, reminding you to breathe.
